Prince Rupert saluted them, touching his hand to the brim of the wide hat shading his face. ‘Go you with God, good soldiers,’ he said, in that West Country accent of his.
‘And may you do the same, sir,’ the leading trooper returned the salute. He was only moderately suspicious. No doubt he had been told to look for us in New Model Army uniforms.
‘Is Charles Stuart not yet gone to meet his maker?’ Rupert enquired. ‘Are we too late to witness that blessed event?’
‘There’s a delay, we’re told. No executioner can now be found to do the deed. Some fear for their eternal souls. Others demand a higher fee! But I heard one had been found amongst the papists, whose souls are already damned.’ The troopers behind him laughed at this. They were seasoned militia and familiar with death. They enjoyed a good black joke.
‘May the necessary blow be struck soon,’ said Nevison. They warmed to us then.
‘Now, now,’ said the captain, grinning.
‘Go you to the City?’ asked one of the horsemen.
‘We go to look at the sights, sir. Thames River, so we’ve heard, is frozen solid,’ said Rupert. ‘Do you go that way?’
I feared for a second they would offer to escort us. But we were lucky. ‘We go to strengthen the garrison,’ the officer told us. ‘Do you go by Thames River?’
We said that we did. ‘Is there something we should know?’ asked Prince Rupert.
‘Only that the most ungodly merriment is practised there,’ the leading trooper replied, ‘with hucksters, mummers, bear-baiting, whores and every kind of frivolous temptation defying the edicts of the Lord. Vanity Fair, indeed! Night falls early and Satan rules it, methinks.’
‘As he rules so much,’ returned Rupert, which I thought was a reckless remark in those circumstances. ‘For the last time.’
‘You speak truth, brother,’ said one of the other troopers. ‘But the Lord of the Flies shall be banished from England from this day on, now that his servant in England goes to justice at last.’
‘Thanks to our blessed general, I’m sure,’ said Nick Nevison, ‘and brave men like yourselves.’
‘We do God’s work, ’tis all,’ said a thickset trooper at the rear. He spoke a little belligerently, a man wishing to reassure himself. ‘As His will be done forever from this moment on.’
‘God speed you, Captain,’ declared Jemmy Hind in a moment of irony. ‘May we soon restore the New Jerusalem in England. We’ll hurry on to the execution in the hope we do not miss it.’
We all touched our hat brims as he rode past. Soon he was sure to run into Marvell and his men and exchange notes. We needed to get to the Thames and mingle with the crowds. With a parting courtesy the nearest trooper called out: ‘If you venture on the ice be careful, brothers. She’s mighty treacherous and London still abounds with rogues taking advantage of this noble day.’
We did not relax until the troopers turned the corner of a tall brick building and disappeared. A minute later I heard them talking to the trooper at the front door. However, they apparently did not stop. We hurried in the opposite direction and were relieved when we encountered no other soldiers. We were still in the palace grounds, passing every type of outbuilding. I began to smell something familiar and could not immediately place it. Then, entering a gate standing half-open, we saw stacked planks and heaps of golden sawdust. A woodyard. Rich as a forest. Were we at last out of the palace grounds? I asked Prince Rupert. He shook his head. His smile was nostalgic. ‘That yard is there to serve the palace,’ he said. ‘It was what I sought, for that’s our route to Scotland Dock. And we must hope Mrs Chiffinch is no longer in residence.’
‘Mrs Chiffinch?’
‘I recall this timber yard is separated from the good woman’s back door by a stand of willows. She was the king’s nurse and confidante and so came by a grace and favour house when a relatively young woman. Mrs Chiffinch taught me all the secrets of the palace I did not discover for myself—’
‘And about the king, too, no doubt,’ said Porthos in a rare lapse of taste, and he blushed. Everyone overlooked this and soon we entered a neatly ordered collection of racks containing planks, arranged according to length and width. The building was open on three sides. A wide variety of carpenter’s tools was arranged on one wall. Everything was ordered by type and size. It was one of the neatest work spaces I had ever seen.
‘It is said the king laboured here himself in happier times,’ Prince Rupert told us.
There were no carpenters there that day. As with almost everywhere else in Whitehall the normal occupants had disappeared. We did not go into the yard but took a narrow path around the building, walking on an incline covered in frozen snow. At the bottom of the incline a stand of willow trees, their bowed, leafless branches intertwined, was outlined against the warm bricks of a good-sized building. A red sun hanging in the slate blue sky behind the house told us it was past noon. For some reason the king was still alive. No bells had rung all day.
‘This is all Mrs Chiffinch’s?’ I peered down through the trees. ‘A pretty good set of rooms.’
‘She has a large family.’ Prince Rupert led us forward. ‘Now we’ll see if the regicides have frightened them off.’
Slipping and sliding he began a descent of the slope towards the willows and the half-timbered house beyond.
Wrapping my cloak tightly around my chilling body, I followed him. The others scrambled behind me, running and sliding down the slope to the relative shelter of the willows. Anyone in the house who happened to glance in our direction would see nine suspicious-looking fellows in wide-brimmed countrymen’s hats slithering and jumping down a snowy bank. We wore still a motley of robes underneath which were parts of Cromwellian uniforms. Roundheads would probably take us for deserters or spies. We had to hope the house was still occupied by royalists.
When we came close enough we saw that a note had been nailed to the varnished oak door. Dusting the snow from his clothes, Prince Rupert tore the paper off, reading it while we dug lumps of ice from our boots, knocked it off our backsides, and waited rather urgently for the door to be opened. I thought my own legs would snap clean off. When he had finished, Rupert passed the note to Nevison who gave it to me, knowing I could read:
‘Mr Coveney, We are visiting our aunt in the country. We shall be there for quite a while we do believe. Your svnt. Mrs Chuffingfinch.’
‘Chuffingfinch?’
‘That’s how she spells it. A harmless affectation. So, she’s not here.’ Prince Rupert frowned. Then he reached to turn the door handle. It opened at once. The prince hurried us into the house and closed the door behind us. The house was cold but had a pleasant atmosphere.
‘As I’d hoped.’ Prince Rupert smiled reminiscently. ‘I don’t think she locked a door in all her life, sweet lady.’ He paused and took a deep breath. ‘Nor would she see the need. She’s fled for fear of the anarchy. Now we have a chance to catch breath before we go another step. Here, follow me into this withdrawing room. See? Through the shutters. Look!’
We bent to peer at a vegetable garden under deep snow, a low wall, also thick with snow, and a stretch of cobblestones on which the snow had melted, having been in sunshine for part of the day. Beyond them lay a half-timbered three-storey building of dark red brick.
‘That’s the king’s storehouse. Old Henry built it. It’s not been filled since King James’s time and Elizabeth was the last to make full use of it. Her pirate captains stacked it high for her. Beyond it is the Scotland Dock. Not guarded, by the look of it. Usually it would be impossible for us to get out that way. But of course with the river frozen over we can get down to it on foot.’
‘Shouldn’t we divide our ranks, sir?’ Duval spoke with the experience of an old highwayman. ‘Aren’t we too many travelling together to be rural sightseers or visiting merchants? We all know where we go, I assume.’
‘Back to the Alsacia I hope.’ Jemmy had not lost his sense of humour. He winked.
‘Aye.’ Rupert ag
reed. ‘My plan was to get us to Scotland Dock and then break up into two parties led by men who know the roads. Myself and the musketeers make one party, Duval and the rest, the other. But first let’s go over to the warehouse. From there you can see Scotland Dock. We should find at least one wooden ladder set in the brickwork down to the ice. We’ll use the warehouse as cover and go two by two until it’s reached.’
From somewhere in the distance behind us came what sounded like a roll of thunder.
‘Drums,’ said Prince Rupert snatching off his hat, ‘they’re taking him to the scaffold at last.’
There was talk of a king’s twin. Jessup’s sudden appearance and his resemblance to the king had frightened off the men who had originally volunteered as headsmen. They saw it as some sort of sign.
‘As soon as His Grace is executed there’ll be a thousand more soldiers free to pursue us. We should make haste.’ Duval prepared himself, wrapping his cloak about him. He wrenched open the door and ran for it.
‘You’ll follow, lad,’ Prince Rupert murmured to me. ‘Go now!’
I ran and slid over the treacherous snow and ice. I had no choice. I knew I was making a trail any pursuer could easily follow. But it was growing dark at last. Twilight softened the edges of the day. When I reached the comparative safety of the warehouse wall Duval peered cautiously down at the dock. ‘Nothing there but fresh snow,’ he said in relief. Within moments we were joined by Nevison and Hind. ‘We’re the first four. Let’s make speed.’
‘Should I blame my imagination or is it dangerously thin there?’ I asked.
‘It’ll be thinner until we’re closer to the city, where the water slows,’ whispered Duval in answer to my question. ‘Best go carefully until we near Temple Stairs. The river bends fair sharp at that point and you should see it easily. That’s where the main Frost Fair’s built.’
‘I’m still surprised they let it run today,’ I said. ‘Those people seem to hate any sort of festival.’
Duval smiled. ‘Puritans are hypocrites. They love Mammon better than God. They cannot admit it so are forever confused, thus forever insistent! I blame King James.’
‘How are Puritans his fault?’
‘He commissioned the Bible into English, so now any man can pick through it to find justification for his sins, whether it be murder, theft or adultery. Ordinary people are unqualified. True, the commandments of Moses are published there, but so are the deeds of earlier and later great prophets, giving other views, all of which they say come from God!’
‘Are you an atheist, Captain Duval?’ I was amused.
‘On the contrary, sir, I am a good Catholic and oppose the dissemination of that holy book in the common tongue. This is the result. Chaos, sir! Any man may now give his own interpretation and, as we see, even do regicide in God’s name.’
Jemmy, always laughing, snorted derision. ‘As the pope has done for centuries, eh?’
With the sigh of a man weighed down by the words of fools, Duval ignored his friend. ‘If we’re separated, we make for Whitefriars Old Stairs and meet there. If there’s a fog, we wait for Master Moorcock here to lead us through it.’
‘What? I’m no expert in negotiating fog.’
‘There are fogs and fogs. I’m told the roads are visible to you.’
I wasn’t entirely sure what he meant. ‘The roads?’
He became a little exasperated. ‘The Roads Invisible! The Silver Roads!’
‘I can see them and you cannot?’ I was bewildered.
‘Precisely,’ said Nevison, seeking calm between us. ‘You are blessed with what we used to call “witch sight” in Kent when I was a lad. You can see what they call fairy pathways. Not so?’
‘Possibly.’ I was more than a little bit nervous now. ‘Is that what they are?’ Did he mean the familiar streets by which I reached the Alsacia from my world?
I was uneasy now that Prince Rupert no longer led us. Still, Duval was a resourceful man, no doubt even better at avoiding pursuers than the prince. I could have a worse captain.
We slung our muskets over our shoulders and prepared to follow Duval down the ladder. He called up softly, ‘The ice is holding but it’s a little thin. Be careful where you step.’ He walked away from the ladder looking up at the steep sides of the dock. ‘We’d best stay as wide apart as makes sense. My guess is the ice will improve for us in a matter of yards.’
Nevison went next and warily joined his leader on the ice. I followed. Jemmy was behind me.
As I reached the ice and walked cautiously towards Duval I heard voices above. A single pistol shot told me all I needed. We had been discovered!
A moment later Jemmy’s lifeless body came hurtling down to smash into groaning ice which splintered at the edges. Duval crossed himself and quickly unslung his musket, dispensing with his monopod and firing from his hip upwards at the first Roundhead face that looked over the edge. The man collapsed with a ball in him but did not fall on us. Duval was hissing orders, insisting we leave Jemmy for dead and escape. With some reluctance I obeyed. I wanted to vomit. Cheerful Jemmy was the first of our company actually to die. There was no doubt that here, unlike in the Alsacia, he was decidedly and horribly dead. In the fading light a great scarlet stain spread across the littered ice, and his head lay at a horrible angle.
Another soldier peered over the edge. Nevison shot this time and the head dropped back. I fumbled with the lock of my musket. Duval’s hand pulled me faster. I heard a few more shots. Men talked urgently amongst themselves. I prayed that Prince Rupert himself wasn’t dead.
49
THE FALL OF THE AXE
That was my first prayer addressed to a God I still barely believed in. The exhortation was certainly fervent. In another second I had turned and followed Duval out onto the ice, hoping Prince Rupert had detected the soldiers and hidden. The highwayman was expertly reloading his musket as he ran. Had he seen the prince? He shook his head.
I was anxious to put the big solid beams of the dock between myself and our pursuers. ‘Jemmy’s gone!’ I told Nevison. My stomach was no longer churning. Everything was frozen. Emotionally and physically. As was our world. On the day a tyrant was made answerable to his people, the world was set on a very different course. The idea of the modern democratic republic was born. I nearly died on the ice of the River Thames as a crimson sun dropped below the horizon and suddenly it grew very cold indeed.
A few stars still lit that sharp blue-black sky now invaded by roiling, ebony thunderclouds. Solid as slate, their blackness filled the horizon. Lightning silently flashed from sky to earth, from cloud to cloud. I heard a hurdy-gurdy. Fiddles. Drums. A fife. Singing. And still the Whispering Swarm. Lamps and rush brands and tar-sticks blazed along both banks of the river. To my right, near the Lambeth side, mummers wearing scarlet conical caps in mockery of the Spanish Inquisition roasted an ox. Judging by his still-blazing rags, they’d dressed the ox as a bishop before offering him to the flames. The Puritans and the common people shared many opinions. Thus it was easy for Parliament to forgive a pasquinade or two when the targets were so frequently the same.
So the fair flourished as in the distance Captain Marvell and his redcoats ran rapidly up from behind, the troopers more recognisable in their uniforms than we in our homespun. The world was transformed to lunar silver, bringing a certain lightheadedness to London, even perhaps a sense of relief that the execution was done. Or did we simply witness bravado in the face of coming calamity?
Turning his puzzled head to look at me, Duval’s face was half-obscured by those strangely solid shadows created by heavy clouds drifting across the sinking sun. In spite of his mismatched collection of disguises he still managed to look like a true romantic swashbuckler, his hat pinned back and his hair blowing wild. Before him the Frost Fair came to life with its fluttering coloured lanterns and blazing torches guttering in the growling wind. At that moment the place seemed a paradise in which we might lose our pursuers. Save for the constant noise of the Whisp
ering Swarm.
Then a bell began to toll.
The sonorous sound was taken up on both sides of the river. Every church bell in London swung to tell Christendom that the divine right of kings was challenged by the commons. From that moment no tyrant would sit so easily upon a throne.
I looked back. On the far bank driftwood and seacoal fueled thousands of filthy fires lit against the cold. The night was murky as the wind tossed the heavy smoke back and forth. Demonic shapes writhed against the shadowed sky. Very dimly I made out the figures of three men, conventionally dressed in cloaks and broad-brimmed hats. They led a fairly large troop of redcoat infantry. Could they be St Claire-turned-Marvell and his two cronies? For a moment the wind brought a touch of sweetness from the fair. Duval and Nevison thumped on ahead of me. I hurried to catch up. We were down to two muskets. I was useless with mine; I gave it to Nevison.
Then the fair hit us, washing over us like a welcome wave. The smells alone made me feel drunk. No time to mourn Jemmy yet. In relief we revelled in the change, everyone plunging into that melange of merrymaking. They seemed already aware how little there would be to be merry about in England for the next decade or so. To me this was a reasonable price to pay for Milton. Most artists are part-time Puritans no matter how many wives or lovers they discard on their selfish way through life. But these Puritans were of a rather narrow persuasion, substituting obstinacy for reason. For a while they prevailed. Their bullets had already killed one of us and could easily kill the others.
As the old king’s reality gave way to the new democracy, I knew I was experiencing the last of the mediaeval Frost Fairs. It embraced me with its hot, greasy sweet smells and its bright cheap colours. All around me Londoners restored their spirits and senses with rosewater ice and lavender tea. What remained of London’s wealth was spread out before us. The stalls were piled with sweetmeats and sausages. Pies of every kind. There were gaming rings and shellfish stands and stalls selling beer or hot wine. Pathways of ash and sawdust were ground into the ice. Here and there a boardwalk supported spectators at a bear-baiting or a cockfight or a group of mummers playing out the topic of the day. King Charles had lost his head to a repentant Cromwell and broadsheets were already being sung to the hornpipe and drum.