Treason's Daughter (11 page)

So then we set to searching the coaches that ran between Westminster and York House, looking for popish lords. Of all the luck, Hen, I opened one, and there, fat and furious, sat George Benyon. Benyon has been leading protests against Parliament's raising of the protection monies, but he's also been more and more at our house, of late, since you were away, talking to Father since the elections, which you missed. Do you know that Father's appointment to the Common Council was blocked? And all the elections across the city went likewise, so the moderates and the royalists have been weeded out of Council, and only the godly remain. So now, Mayor Gurney and most of the aldermen are ranged up against their own council, and every day the passions are grown more violent
.

So Father found out I was there, by word of Benyon, and locked me in my room, with an arse so whipped I am writing this standing, still. He told me it was the shame of being defied in public, me on the streets, while his name is ever more linked to the portion calling for peace and unity. And while I was locked up, I could hear and see the passions swelling in the city, though Father unbent far enough to tell me Lunsford has been removed from the Tower. Praise God. Eventually he let me out, but by then all the fun had died down. Though there was a big running battle in Cheapside that night – the 'prentices ranged up to free some of their fellows arrested in the disturbances. Chalk told me as he crept in after, and I helped him hide his bloody clothes. So proud he was of his wounds, but they were paltry gashes, Hen, on my honour
.

So New Year approaches, and we're all of a murther here, and missing you. There's lots been sent out of the city while the troubles rage, though, Hen. I ran into a fellow I know in the law courts,
whose friend Cesario has been exiled to the country somewhere. How this cove raged and said he missed his friend, but felt honour-bound to keep the pain of the parting all tucked up inside
.

So, my Hen, I hope to see you as the New Year turns. I think I am done with schooling now. How I hope Father agrees, although he talks chuff about my rioting, and lack of responsibility, and general ignorance, et cetera. He talks too of ending my lessons in the ménage, but how he hopes I can pass as a gentleman without the art of making a horse skip sideways, He alone knows
.

With all my love
,

Sam

She smooths down the pages to read it again. Sam's handwriting is quick and illegible, slanting across the page in its rush to tell the tale. She understands that for Sam, the principles matter less than the action – the stirring of blood, the threat of danger. She remembers how little he cared for his Greek histories, yet some tales moved him: Alexander and Hephaistion side by side; the Sacred Band of Thebes – the friends with interlocking shields walking unafraid towards the enemy. Chalk makes an absurd heroic companion, though. The thought makes her smile, and she turns back to the letter again.

The day after the letter arrives, New Year's Day, brings her father himself. She sees him stepping out of the coach, and her heart flips over. She hangs back, waiting to see what happens. The last time she saw him, he was calm and precise in his anger – a sure
danger sign that his usual irritated fury had spilled over into something more profound, more lasting.

He scans the family as they pile out of the house to greet the coach, and finds her anxious face. He holds out his arms, and she runs to him, burying herself in his cloak.

‘I'm sorry, sorry. So sorry,' she says, tears choking her. She imagined this scene so many times; she would be all proud defiance and calm dignity. But now he is here, his stubble scratching her forehead and his voice in her ear, she sobs and grips onto him like a little girl.

‘Shh, my pudding. Oh, my Hen,' he whispers in her ear. The family hangs back, and she senses Challoner signalling over her shoulder. ‘Be composed, my pudding,' he whispers. ‘We will talk later, you and I.'

Later, in the quiet hour before bed, they sit alone by the fire in the parlour.

‘I have seen Will,' he says.

She nods, waiting.

‘You know I like the boy, Hen. I do. But that is not enough, as I told you many months ago, if you remember.'

She looks down at her hands as they twist in her lap.

‘A man has no business marrying before he can support a family, and a maid cannot play with such a youth. You do understand that, puss? Come, you have never been faulted in understanding before; you cannot start now.'

‘I do understand, Father. And yet . . .' She trails off.

‘I understand you too, puss, and Will, poor fellow. So, when the anger had gone, I made a trip. To see his parents.'

‘Father,' she says, all shine and hope.

He holds his hands in a gesture of calm. ‘Well now, pudding. I thought that with the little I can settle on you, and a nugget more on Will's allowance, perhaps, perhaps we could wriggle something out. But, and I am sorry, Henrietta, there was no deal to be struck, no contract written. His mother is in a rage with you, child, though she managed to be polite. Ensnaring her firstborn with your fancy London ways. And they are decided that he will not marry until he is a lawyer qualified, and if he does, they will cut him off. Will, being a filial cove, will not go against them.'

She lets herself cry, then, and lets him comfort and shush her.

‘Hey now,' he whispers. ‘Hey now. When the fever takes you, sometimes it is strong. Why do you think, kitten, that I went off to fight in the Low Countries?'

She looks up into his face.

‘Yes. But I forgot her, in time, and I came back and married your mother when I was free of my apprenticeship, and all our families approved of the match. And though it didn't start with a fever, it was full of laughter and joy, and love. Before we lost her.'

Kneeling in front of him, she leans into him and he strokes her hair.

‘Now promise, kitten. I have Will's pledge.'

‘I promise, Father.' She knows that this vow, given in love and in a room free of anger or bitterness, must be kept. ‘I will not see Will again.'

‘It will fade, kitten, this pain. Trust your old fool of a father on
this. It will fade. And in the meantime, we have enough to fear.' He pulls at his wine, drinking deeply.

‘Oh, Hen. Darling girl, darling pudding cat. When I went to fight the papists in the Low Countries, I sailed off, all hope and bragging. Absurdly, stupidly young I was, Hen. And I climbed the main mast. It was a clear day, Hen, and the ship was steady in the water. As I climbed I looked up, as they tell you to, always up. Hand over fist and not looking down. The t'gallant masts were swung up and the royal yards were crossed. Up near the top there, Hen, the ropes that you stand on get thinner, so by the top you're curling your toes like a monkey to keep from falling.

‘I paused then, at the top, and looked down. Such a long way down. At the top, though the ship was steady at the deck, the mast was rolling in great arcs, pitching and tossing. And such a fear rose in my gut that I began to shake. And I thought I would shake myself out of the ropes and fall into the sea. And I stood up there, rolling and yawing, the sea rising to meet me, then falling back, and my legs quivering and my heart hammering at my chest.'

Hen watches him as he relives the great fear. His hand is trembling, and the wine in the glass is cresting up into waves.

‘And now it's like that in my head. I wanted to learn about the world, and how it worked. And then I learn that everything is arsey-versey. The earth goes round the sun. We're not the centre of the universe, little pudding cat. The stars are not fixed in the heavens, but aswim in the sky. Some men believe there are other worlds aswim up there, peopled like ours, ignorant of us as we are of them.'

Hen sits up at this, entranced by the idea. ‘Would they look like us, do you think, Father?'

‘Who knows, child. There's the rub. Who knows? Natural philosophy, it turns out, is not a set of rules as I thought when I left it to other, but a set of hopeful theories, brashly claimed yet each as open to error as the next. What is everything we know, compared to everything we don't know?'

‘But why does it upset you so, Father? Surely that is a reason to be excited? Think of all that there is left to find out.'

He lays his cheek on the top of her head, as if to steady himself. ‘A youth's view, Hen. When all the certainties are gone, what are we left with? Fear. Chaos. We sit here, you and I, and we think we're safe. But we're moving, moving, all the time, hurtling through an endless space. And we're not safe, my pudding. Not safe at all.'

CHAPTER NINE

January 1642

‘W
E ARE HOLDING OUR BREATH, PUDDING. ALL IS COMING
to a head.'

‘How so?'

The coach rattles towards London, and home. Nurse is staying behind to help with the little children while her aunt's confinement approaches, and Henrietta feels unbound. To home, with Nurse left behind. To streets and corridors, rooms and steps that have known Will's tread.

Her father says: ‘It is time for the king to choose. He knows it. We know it.'

‘Father, I am woollen-headed from country air. You banished me, remember.'

‘Disobedient pudding cat. How could I forget.' He smiles, and she is relieved.

If we can laugh at it, we can be friends, she thinks.

‘Here is how the land lies then,' he says, wearily. ‘This much you know – there were riots against the popish lords and bishops.
The bishops, too soft and frightful to brave the mob, stayed at home, crying into their chalices. They wrote a wattle-headed protest. Parliament with no bishops is no Parliament, they bleated, so we shall not recognize it. They forgot, pudding, that Parliament with no bishops means a swing of power in the Lords. Without their vote, the king's party is outnumbered. The Commons can send bills up and get them passed once more. So they used their new power to arrest the bishops.'

‘Arrest them?'

‘They languish in the Tower yet. Treason, apparently.'

Henrietta sits back in her seat. This is news like a hammer blow.

‘Father, take me to the starting post. Where does each party stand now?'

‘Lord, if I could untangle it I would be feted as a sage. But broadly, taking God from the picture, which one can scarce do, there are three positions forming. Here is the future as the reformers see it: England as a new Venice, with a titular monarch like the Doge, and an oligarchy – Pym, St John and the godly peers, like Saye, Sele and Warwick – pulling the reins. Their king would cede control of the military and government appointments to Parliament. Ranged against them is the king's party, but it splits in two: cooperation or confrontation. Uphold the Constitution or seek retribution – these are the choices before him. Shall he be a monarch bound by a parliament that keeps him on a tight fiscal leash, yet retain the rights to choose his own counsellors, order his own church and run his own military? Or shall he take action to confound his enemies at Westminster?'

He pauses and looks at her, to make sure she understands. She nods quickly.

‘But why now? Why are we holding our breaths now?'

‘Because with no bishops, the reformers control Parliament again. After the elections in the City, the reformers have built power there. For two years now, since the short parliament gathered, the pendulum has swung back and forth – to the king, to his enemies and back again. From the king's triumph in November, when the initiative was his, it has swung back to his enemies. This time, the pendulum seems to be wedged tight. With Westminster and the City against him, the king must act.

‘Digby, the king's adviser, has wriggled like a worm these past weeks to try to suspend Parliament, the king's sorry finances notwithstanding. All the while, Roxburgh, a meddlesome Scot, and that papist, stirring witch who bears your name, are whispering to the king. “To arms, to arms,” they whisper. “Show them who is king.” As I left to come to Oxford, there was a second reading of a bill to take control of the militia from King to Parliament.'

‘He cannot agree to that, can he?'

‘No, kitten, he cannot. A lesser man, or a bigger man, than King Charles could, perhaps. He cannot. So he finds a way out. How?'

She thinks. The coach shudders beneath her. She hears a growing clamour outside the window, and it feels like cobbles beneath the wheels. The smell, too, seeps under the canvas, rancid after her stay in the country. She puts a kerchief to her nose, swallowing against the retching. She will grow used to it again, in a few hours. Those not born to it are maddened by it, her father says.

Hen unpicks the edge of the cover and peers out. Icy rainwater runs down the canvas, onto her fingers, trickling down her arm.
Everything looks so normal. The Thames-side mansions stand stately and somewhat forlorn in the rain; liveried servants cower under overhangs; a man runs past holding his cloak over his head to fend off the rain; a couple of barefoot children stand miserably, lethargically, in a puddle, watching her watching them.

‘I don't know,' she says.

‘Neither does he, I fear. Neither do any of us. He tried a coup in Scotland and it left him with less power than he had before.'

‘Where do you stand now, Father?' She cannot remember asking him so bluntly before.

He sits back in his seat, silent for a long minute. He looks drawn in the dark light of the coach. When he speaks, his voice is hushed, and Hen leans forward to catch his words.

‘It may sound fat-witted, Hen, but I do not know any more. The king twists this way and that. He is hard to trust. He is prickly, vindictive. I dislike his way of ruling, and were he a merchant, he would have been locked up for debt long ago. He invokes ancient customs, and stands on his dignity to wrest money from us. He has shown scant respect for Parliament. Yet Parliament is asking too much, and there is the godly tinge to it all. I support the monarchy, but not the monarch. I support the fiscal grievances, but not the godly zeal. The question I have to ask is this: can my position remain tenable, or does it become so much nonsense in these modern times? Can a man sit on the fence any more, or will his arse burn with the sitting?'

What about me? Hen wonders. What do I think? She knows her opinion does not matter – what place is there for a woman's stance in what is to come? Still, she knows what she believes. That if it comes to a choice between more reform and a return to the
Laudian personal rule, she would choose Parliament. A tiny voice whispers in her heart,
Father or Ned?
Should I survey the heart on matters like this, too, she wonders, or is that womanish thinking?

She says: ‘And all over the city, men like you ask themselves the same question. Can a man play both sides?'

He nods slowly. ‘And now, I will be frank with you, my pudding. This is why I came to get you. You may have been safer at your aunt's. But I want you with me. I want to see your face in the mornings, and at night. Because I'm all afraid of what's ahead.'

‘Should I be so?'

‘You'd be a fool not to be. And you're no fool. You must talk to Sam and Ned, too. You've more sense than both together. A family must stand fast in times like these. There is a violent distemper in the body politic, my pudding. And some believe, now, that the only remedy is a blood-letting.'

Later, they are sitting by the fire, just Hen and her father, when a fierce knocking at the door shatters the peace. Hen looks up from her book, frightened. No good news travels this late. Sam and the boys are out; she is yet to see them. She pictures Sam lying broken, a blood crust on his darling face. Harmsworth, rumpled and disturbed, ushers in the visitors.

Tompkins comes first. He is grim-faced but self-important. A messenger. With him is a man Henrietta recognizes as Edmund Waller, the court poet.

‘Apologies, brother, for bursting in on you,' says Tompkins. ‘May I introduce Edmund Waller? Richard Challoner and Miss
Henrietta Challoner.' They bow, and she bobs back at them, aware of her rumpled, informal clothing.

Waller looks at her over his bow, appraising. She finds his gaze embarrassing.

‘So, brother, we're here about the five members.'

Challoner looks blank.

‘You haven't heard,' says Waller, and he looks at Tompkins, as if questioning his judgement.

‘Clearly,' says Challoner, nettled. ‘We returned from Oxford not one hour ago.'

‘God's blood,' Waller snaps. ‘Briefly, then. Earlier today, His Majesty went to the Commons, armed men at his back, and attempted to arrest five of the most pernicious scoundrels.'

‘Who?'

‘Pym, Hampden, Holles, Haselrige, Strode.'

‘From the chamber itself?' Challoner asks.

Hen tries to sink into the background. She suspects that if they remember she is there, she will be ordered from the room. She watches Tompkins nod in answer to the question, and watches the slow dawning of the weight of the news on her father's face.

‘Against all traditions of parliamentary privilege?' Challoner enquires.

‘They lost their right to that when they attacked their master.' She starts at the vehemence in Waller's voice.

She tries to remember what she knows of him. An MP, as well as a poet. She knows his verse, of course. She likes it, even though it is heavy on panegyric. His love poetry is forced and formulaic; but no one can doubt its elegance. A moderate critic when Parliament
opened, severe on the fiscal abuses of the personal rule. Cousin to John Hampden, the ship money hero. He must be one of those who have turned monarchist now Parliament has become rabid, she speculates.

‘And did His Majesty succeed?'

‘No,' Waller says. ‘They fled like rats from a ship.'

‘They were tipped off.'

‘How?'

A shrug.

Tompkins says: ‘The king demanded to know where they were. The Speaker, William Lenthall, replied.'

Tompkins draws himself up. This is clearly a moment of great drama.

Waller jumps in, and Tompkins deflates. ‘He said: “May it please Your Majesty, I have neither eyes to see nor tongue to speak in this place but as this House is pleased to direct me, whose servant I am here”.'

Hen's father whistles, as Tompkins says, too loudly: ‘Exactly that.'

‘How brave!' says Hen, not meaning to speak.

The three turn to her, reminded of her presence.

‘Challoner,' says Waller. ‘Is this proper for soft feminine ears? I do not want to frighten the charming young lady.'

He bows.

‘She's in the right, though,' says Challoner, ignoring him. ‘Brave.'

‘Insolent!' says Tompkins.

‘Perhaps both,' Challoner says.

Waller interrupts. ‘The rats are skulking in the City. Tomorrow,
the king will come to the Guildhall to talk to the council, and retrieve the rats.'

‘We are heading to the City to the king's friends,' says Tompkins. ‘To persuade the moderates of the benefits of loyalty to the king in this matter. Your house is one of the first. Can we persuade you out to talk to some of the aldermen of your company?'

Hen's father looks at her now, and she remembers the conversation in the coach. He must make his mind up. The time has come, too soon. Oh, too soon!

Waller and Tompkins look at him, heads cocked, eyebrows raised. The silence stretches too long. A log falls from the fire and sizzles in the grate.

Her father looks across at her once more, and smiles. Then he turns to Tompkins and Waller, and he says: ‘Of course, gentlemen. Excuse me, while I dress suitably for the jaunt. Henrietta, chase Harmsworth. Wine for our guests.'

They leave the room together, leaving Tompkins visibly pleased with his judgement in coming to the house, and Waller all impatience to be off.

In the hall, Challoner takes hold of Hen, kisses her cheek and whispers: ‘So, my pudding, it begins.'