I find by all the Queen’s and her people’s discourse that they do not desire an agreement between his Majesty and his Parliament but that all be done by force and rail abominably at the Parliament. I hear all and say nothing.
—From a letter written by Elizabeth Stuart, the Queen’s sister-in-law
June 1643
James Whittier looked up from the press to caution his visitor. ‘Careful. The ink may still be wet.’
‘You were there, then? Inside the walls at Reading with Sir Arthur Aston? This reads like an eye-witness account.’
‘I was there. I got through Parliament’s lines just as the bombardment began, but I lost a good horse. I had to trade it for passage downriver.’ His hands never paused as he positioned the small blocks into lines of type.
The leader of the most influential party in Parliament gingerly replaced the proof sheet on top of the stack of papers beneath the drying ropes strung along the wall. ‘Have I come at a bad time, Lord Whittier?’
James shook his head in reassurance and indicated for his visitor to sit on the high stool beside the long worktable. The most important man in Parliament, second only in name to Speaker Lenthall, stared in fascination as James continued picking and placing the lead rectangles: letters into words, words into sentences …
‘Tomorrow’s broadsheet. What can I do for you, Mr. Pym?’
‘It is more what I can do for you, Lord Whittier. I have some news from Parliament and a packet of the Queen’s letters.’ He paused to let the words sink in. ‘Letters that detail treasonous activities while abroad.’
James placed a large square block, a sketchy carving of a cannon, strategically pointed opposite a block of clay etched with crossed lines that, when filled with ink, might transfer into an approximation of a stone wall. Without looking up, he stepped back to survey the effect and muttered, ‘A crude rendering of a city under siege, but it will do to catch the eye.’ Then, looking up at his visitor, ‘Treason, you say. That is a serious charge, Minister Pym.’
The leader returned his bold, direct gaze and corrected him, ‘Charges. Plural. Trying to raise a Catholic army against England. Correspondence and conspiracy with the Pope to intervene in English affairs. Bartering the crown jewels.’ He paused. ‘I could go on.’
James let out a low whistle. ‘Have these charges any evidence to back them up?’
‘There is proof aplenty in the Queen’s correspondence.’
‘How do you know this correspondence is not forged by her enemies in Parliament?’
‘Our best spymaster has authenticated them. They are too specific not to be authentic. And in her own hand, of which we have many samples.’
‘Well, yes. In that case, I think I would like to see them.’
‘All in good time.’ John Pym cleared his throat.
He looked like a man carrying a too heavy burden, James thought. ‘Would you like a drink? Water, or something stronger?’
‘You are very gracious. Water would be good. Herding sheep and goats together is wearying business.’
James didn’t have to wonder who were the goats. Moderate voices had emerged in a parliament already wearying of war.
‘Ben,’ James called to the next room where the boys were busy folding the papers. ‘Could you bring my visitor some water, please.’
Pym looked up when Ben brought him a drink. If Pym noticed his empty left sleeve, he made no comment except to thank him. He sipped his water slowly, giving Ben time to leave the room before he spoke again. ‘I read a pamphlet recently—picked it up in St. Paul’s Churchyard—calling for peace, reconciliation, even concessions, deep concessions to be offered to the King.’ He frowned. ‘A litany of complaints against the hardship visited upon the good people of London, not by the King but by Parliament’s struggle with the King.’
‘Let me guess,’ James said. ‘The embargo on goods from the Midlands. No vegetables from the country. No fresh meat to be found in Smithfield. No coal for the cook fires. What will we do if the war drags on until winter? The merciless conscription. The growing number of widows and orphans.’ One widow in particular crossed James’s mind but he pushed it to the margins of consciousness, where it hovered. ‘And last but not least, the burden of taxation to maintain the army, the navy, and bribe the Scots Covenanters for their “loyalty to the godly cause.”’
Pym’s half smile carried no amusement. ‘You didn’t mention the great number of limbless young men returning to London, unemployable, begging on the street. But I am glad to see that one at least has found employment. You seem very knowledgeable regarding the paper. Did it come from your press?’
James laughed. ‘It could have. Those are the kind of complaints I hear on a daily basis. Parliament with its sequestered, purpose-laden noise may not be aware but in the pubs and markets and shops there is a growing weariness with the war. But, no, I didn’t print what you read. Anything that comes from my press bears my mark.’
Pym raised his eyebrows in question. ‘Which is?’
Whittier plucked one of the carved rectangles from the bottom left-hand corner of the form. ‘This,’ he said, holding it out for inspection.
Pym squinted to make out the mirror image. ‘A pair of crossed swords?’
‘Meant to imply impartial news as far as I can glean it. Two swords. Two sides. Something approaching the truth.’
‘And you think you are wise enough to discern truth.’
‘Do you? Think you are wise enough? And what about those partisans with whom you engage. Are they wise enough?’
Pym’s shoulders dropped. More of a sag than a shrug. ‘Some men are wiser or—at least privy to certain pertinent facts, which allow them to more closely discern the truth.’
‘Then shouldn’t all men be privy to these facts and be allowed to judge for themselves whatever greater truth such knowledge may lead to?’
James was surprised to hear this coming out of his own mouth. The idea of common people, anybody who could read having free access to those things which were revealed to only a privileged few was not something he had ever worried over.
But he was not as surprised as Mr. Pym. ‘What an appalling idea. You quite take my breath away. It is—it is a preposterous idea. We would never find peace. There would be endless wars of words.’
‘Wouldn’t endless wars fought with words, informed and sound opinion, wars fought with spilled ink instead of spilled blood be better than what we have now? A free unlicensed press. It might happen. Now that Parliament has abolished the Star Chamber. Might it not?’
A look of satisfaction crossed his visitor’s face. ‘Don’t bet your future on that circumstance, Lord Whittier. It might interest you to know that the day after tomorrow Parliament is voting on the establishment of its own licensing board policed by the Stationers’ Guild and enforced by the courts. Under this jurisdiction Parliament will have the right, dare I say the responsibility, to assure a responsible press. This will include search and seizure of enterprises falling under suspicion and destruction of any publications found to be offensive with the publisher thereof subject to imprisonment and/or fines.’
James stood up straight and looked his visitor directly in the eyes. His hovering hands stilled. ‘Offensive to whom, Leader Pym. Who gets to decide what is “offensive?”’
‘Only God gets to decide that.’ Pym shrugged. ‘And the Stationers’ Guild, of which you are a member I am sure.’
‘And if I’m not?’
‘You are a smart man, Lord Whittier. And maybe a prudent one. I suggest that it might be in your best interest to petition the Stationers’ Guild for membership, if you have not already. Parliament trusts the recommendations of such civic bodies to help provide guidance in matters of governance.’
Then the leader stood up and handing his empty water glass to James patted the left breast of his coat, a reminder, James thought, of the proffered letters. ‘Perhaps, Lord Whittier, we would be wise to reconsider the matter of the Queen’s letters at a later time.’ Then with a brusque nod of his head, he took his leave.
James was not surprised when he did not hear from the Parliament leader again regarding the Queen’s letters. He didn’t need to see them anyway. He was listening outside Westminster on the twenty-second day of June when the charges were read aloud in Parliament. Not knowing the provenance of the letters James printed only the fact of the charges unaccompanied by any damning argument or screaming header of condemnation. He knew full well what his stubbornness would cost him. Parliament would only find a more willing mouthpiece, and he would be frozen out or worse. But if ever London needed a free exchange of opinion it was now. James determined to ride that horse as long as it had legs.
By the middle of June, Henrietta had lost her patience. The King’s nephews, Rupert and Maurice, were too busy fighting in Buckinghamshire to provide safe escort for her and her convoy of gold and arms to Oxford. But what else could she expect from the sons of her hateful sister-in-law and Protestant husband? By some contrivance of the devil—and Charles’s blindness—now Elizabeth’s upstart son was Charles’s most trusted general in the west, who for all his experience fighting with his father in the failed Protestant wars on the Continent was hardly more than a brash boy. Elizabeth and her heretic husband had prejudiced both Rupert and Maurice against her, probably even blaming her because Charles never provided aid in their Bohemian campaigns. Perhaps they even blamed her for their downfall and exile. It was becoming apparent that Rupert was in no hurry to fetch her. He would put her homecoming off as long as he could, if for no other reason than to please his mother.
Then, adding to Henrietta’s ennui and burgeoning resentment, came appalling news that intensified her discontent and heightened her anxiety. Parliament had dared to do what they had threatened. Not only had they impeached her, but—le Diable-emporte-leur-âme—they had charged her with treason. She would not sit here in this dreary northern outpost one day longer. Henriette Marie de Medici, Queen of England, Ireland, and Scotland would not wait for them to come and arrest her. She would meet them in the field with an army of her own.
After he had signed the bill of attainder condemning Wentworth to death Charles had cried like a helpless child, but she had held him to her breast and told him kings had to make hard decisions for their kingdoms. Charles loved her, loved her more than the long dead Buckingham, loved her more than the more recently dead Wentworth. She believed that truly. But was he strong enough to defend her? Did he still love her enough? Had absence really made his heart grow fonder as he promised in his letter? Possibly not. Not with women like Jane Whorwood around to offer whatever comfort he might accept.
She needed to get to him. Now.
Her protector, the Earl of Newcastle, whom she now thought of as a well-mannered gaoler, did not give in on the first day. Nor the second. It took almost a week whilst her spies scoured the countryside for any sign of her impending arrest. The intelligence they offered bought her a few precious days. John Hampden, one of the five Parliamentarians who had escaped arrest, had died within the week of the impeachment action taken against her, thereby providing great satisfaction to her—and welcome distraction for Parliament. But his timely death would not distract her enemies long. So, she began her campaign of alternately pestering and harassing William Cavendish with veiled threats and pitiful tears until she prevailed.
Finally, no longer able to hide his impatience with her badgering, the Earl summoned his son Charles from the battlefield and ordered him to provide escort to Henrietta as well as her convoy of men and arms. The young Cavendish accepted his mission with puppy-like devotion. Unlike his father, he was utterly charming. She might have lingered longer had she not already dispatched her coded message to Charles that she could not bear this separation any longer and was on her way to meet him regardless of the danger to her person.
On the day her convoy headed south, the sun was bright, and a June breeze wafted the royal flags. Refusing the carriage, she said a curt goodbye to her tight-lipped host and mounted her horse, a strong, swift stallion from Cavendish’s own stable. As she rode out of the fortress gate, hope surged. She was surrounded by men at arms, her soldiers—recruited by her—and proud to serve this Catholic Queen. They would fight for her with more enthusiasm than they fought for the Earl of Newcastle. And she was confident that when Charles got her message, somewhere along the way he would meet her, and all would be well again. She longed to see his face when she offered him the chests of gold buried in the provisions wagons.
They rode south for two days. The first night they camped in a pleasant copse of old oak trees. By the second night they had come to the River Trent, where her mercenaries spread their bedrolls in a nearby wood while Henrietta, accompanied by her young cavalier, was well entertained by the lord of the castle. With her treasure wagons and Queen’s Guards secure inside the castle ramparts, Henrietta was tempted to linger in this pleasant place one more day. But at daybreak, which was rosy and fair she gave the order for young Cavendish to summon her troops. An auspicious breeze fluttered her colorful banners in the fine June morning as Henrietta—who was quite enjoying the military role she had cast for herself as leader of the troops—followed the winding river. At midday they approached an already scouted, less conspicuous river crossing. But the fickle June morning had changed its aspect and black clouds were giving chase—as well as rumors of a company of Roundheads shadowing the royal progress.
As they prepared to cross the bridge, young Cavendish reined in his horse at her side. ‘It’s a small force but big enough to cause trouble if they make the crossing. Your majesty, we must ride hard. Can you do it?’
‘Oui. I am ready, Captain. Even le diable could not slow me down.’
Thunder rolled in the distance as he shouted in her ear. ‘My scouts have already strapped barrels of gunpowder to the braces. It will be for them like the Egyptians following Moses across the Red Sea.’
This image made her smile. She nodded enthusiastically.
‘When you hear the explosions, don’t stop. Just keep riding. Hard. The men will follow you.’
She leaned forward, silently blessing the bravery of the young captain as she whipped her horse and prayed that the provision wagons would make it across. The sound of musket fire punctuated the thunder. She could feel the heat from the horse as he responded to the pressure. ‘Mon brave cheval,’ she whispered, then remembering he was an English horse murmured, ‘Run. Run like the wind.’ The horse’s hooves barely skimmed the ground as they approached the bridge. When the first loud boom exploded, he whinnied skittishly. Another whisper from her and a gentle spur from her heels and they were off again.
Exerting all her strength she finally reined him in, then looked back to see the last of her wagons lumbering out of a cloud of smoke. She crossed herself and patted the horse’s neck. ‘Mon brave cheval. You are a French horse now, you belong to me.’
As raindrops began to fall, the young captain trotted up. ‘We should not linger, your majesty. Some of the Roundheads might know how to swim.’
But from her side of the river they looked ridiculous, shouting and cursing like a flock of startled geese, floundering for the shore. She shouted ‘bon jour’ over her shoulder as they resumed their journey. But she was well out of earshot and the sorry looking brigade had already begun to retreat. Henrietta took it for an omen.