Virgin Earth

  A couple of times Lord Lambert came from his house at Wimbledon to see any new additions to the garden or the rarities room and sometimes stayed for dinner to talk with the other guests. Sometimes men brought curiosities, or things that they had designed or built. Often at these talks Ashmole would lead the discussion, his classical education and his acute mind prompting him to take the part of host in John’s house.

  ‘I don’t like how Mr Ashmole puts himself forward,’ Hester remarked to John as she carried another couple of bottles of wine into the dining room.

  ‘No more than any other man,’ he answered.

  ‘He does,’ she insisted. ‘Ever since he catalogued the collection you would think that it was his own. I wish you would remind him that he was nothing more than your assistant. Frances knows her way round the collection better than he does. Even I do. And Frances and I kept it safe through three wars, while he was at Oxford living off the richness of the court.’

  ‘But neither Frances nor I know Latin like Mr Ashmole,’ John reminded her gently. ‘And he worked very hard for nothing more than my thanks. I couldn’t have completed the task without him, you know, Hester. And he’s a coming man, mark my words. He’ll do great things.’

  Hester gave John a brief, sceptical look and said nothing more but turned to go back to the kitchen.

  ‘Is Alexander coming downstairs tonight?’ John asked her. It was Alexander’s habit now to join the men in the evening after they had dined so that he could listen to their talk. He wore his gown with a rich robe wrapped round his shoulders against the cool evening air. He was often too breathless to speak but he liked to listen to the men discussing, he liked to follow the arguments especially when they talked of astronomy and the new discoveries of the stars.

  Hester shook her head. ‘He’s too weary,’ he says. ‘Frances will sit with him upstairs.’

  The Normans stayed at the Ark through the summer, but still Alexander grew no better. They all maintained the gentle fiction that he would improve when the colder weather came, as before they had pretended that he would be better when he felt the summer sun.

  When he said he wanted to go home in August Frances did not argue with him, though the summer months were the most dangerous for the plague in the City. She simply sent the garden boy to the river to hail a boat to take them down to the Tower and told the stable lad to harness the cart.

  ‘He’s very ill,’ Hester cautioned her. ‘He’s too ill to make the journey. You should stay here.’

  ‘I know,’ Frances said simply. ‘But he wants to be home.’

  ‘Settle him in and as soon as he is feeling better you come back here,’ Hester said. ‘There’s plague in the City, I’d rather you were here.’

  Frances shook her head. ‘You can see as well as I can that he will not feel better, even when he is home. I will stay with him until the end.’

  ‘Oh, Frances.’

  ‘I knew that this was likely to happen when I married him,’ Frances said. Her eyes were filled with tears but her voice never faltered. ‘And he knew it too. We were neither of us such fools as to think that I would not lose him. We were prepared for this from our wedding day. He warned me of it. I have no regrets.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Hester decided. ‘You’ll need someone to run the house while you nurse him.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Frances said. ‘I’ll want you with me.’

  Alexander died in his bed, as he had wanted, with Hester at the foot of the bed and Frances holding his hand. He whispered something and she could not hear what he said. She leaned a little closer to hear the words.

  ‘What is it, my love? Say it again?’

  ‘You were the sweetest –’ he paused for a breath and Frances leaned a little closer. ‘The sweetest flower in all of John’s garden.’ He smiled at her for a moment, then he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

  Frances buried her husband in the church where they had been married and walked back to her house with her father and stepmother on either side of her.

  Hester had ordered in a dinner from the nearby bake-house and Alexander’s apprentices, his family from Herefordshire, and his friends from the City drank to his memory, ate their dinner and then left.

  The house was oddly silent without the tapping of hammers from the yard and continual rasp of the saws.

  ‘Have you thought what you would like to do?’ John asked his daughter gently. ‘Have you thought where you would like to live? Alexander left you well-provided, and you can sell this house. The sale of the business is already agreed.’

  ‘I had thought,’ she said. ‘If you would allow it – I should like to come home.’

  ‘To the Ark?’

  ‘Yes.’

  John found that he was beaming with delight. ‘That would give me much joy,’ he said simply.

  Autumn 1658

  In early September John was wakened at dawn by the noise of the rising wind.

  ‘I’m glad I’m not at sea today,’ he said to Hester.

  He went to the window and saw the trees in the orchard and the avenue flailing their boughs at the sky where the clouds raced overhead.

  ‘Come back to bed,’ Hester said sleepily.

  There was a clatter from the stable yard.

  ‘I’m awake now,’ John said. ‘I’ll get up and see that everything’s safe. We’re in for a storm.’

  He spent the day with the lad and Joseph pinning back the creepers and staking the plants which were already rocking in the earth, pulling at their roots. Frances took a sharp knife and went around the garden mercilessly pruning the climbing roses so that the long boughs would not tear the stalks from the soil. She came in for dinner at midday with her arms scratched above her gloves and her hair tumbled about her shoulders.

  ‘Frances Norman,’ said Hester, disapprovingly.

  ‘It’s wild out there,’ Frances said. ‘My cap blew off.’

  ‘I can see that,’ Hester said.

  ‘We’re going to lose half the apples,’ John said irritably. ‘What a foul wind.’

  ‘And the plums,’ Frances said. ‘I’ll pick as many as I can get this afternoon.’

  ‘I’ll come out and help,’ said Hester. ‘I don’t expect any visitors this afternoon, no-one would take a boat on the river unless they had to.’

  John had thought that the wind might drop as night fell; but it grew stronger and wilder, and it started to rain. Hester went round the house fastening shutters but still they could hear the thud of the wind against the leaded panes of glass, and in the rarities room they could see the great panes creaking as they moved in their frames.

  ‘I hope to God they don’t crack,’ John said. ‘We’ll close the shutters behind them, then at least if they smash the rarities will still have some protection. If I had thought I could have boarded up the house this morning.’

  They had an ill-cooked supper. A great gust of wind had come down the chimney and blown soot all around the kitchen. While they ate they heard the clatter of a slate falling from the roof into the stable yard.

  Frances declared that she was going early to bed and putting her head under her pillow, and Hester followed her example; but John prowled around the creaking house for half the night, feeling that his Ark was rocking in high seas and that the master should be awake.

  In the morning there was less damage than they had feared. The Virginian creeper was stripped of its rosy leaves and would make no show to attract buyers, and there were fallen fruit and broken boughs all down the orchard. The chestnuts had been ripped from the trees too early and they might not ripen, and they had lost most of the apple and plum crop. But the house was still standing and the windows were unbroken, and only a few slates had gone missing from the roof.

  ‘I shall go into Lambeth and order the builder to come,’ John said. ‘He’ll be a busy man this day, I should think.’

  He rode Caesar down the lane to Lambeth and thought that the crowd in the market was agog with news of the storm damage
until he drew closer and heard what they were saying.

  ‘What was that?’ he asked, dropping from the saddle. ‘What did you say, sir?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ A man turned to him, delighted to be first with the news. ‘Haven’t you heard? He’s dead!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Lord Protector. Oliver Cromwell. Dead in his bed while the storm rattled the roof above him.’

  ‘It’s as if God himself was angry,’ a man piously asserted. ‘It was a sign.’

  ‘A very odd sign then, and rather late in the day,’ John said crossly. ‘If God didn’t like Oliver Cromwell he had plenty of time to demonstrate that before.’

  An unfriendly face turned towards him. ‘Are you one of his old soldiers?’ someone asked unpleasantly. ‘Or a servant of the major generals? Or one of the damned tax collectors?’

  ‘I’m a man who thinks for himself,’ John said stoutly. ‘I serve no master and I owe nothing to any man. And I am absolutely certain that God didn’t blow the slates of my roof last night to show me that Oliver Cromwell was dying. If He is all-wise, then He might have found a way to tell me that didn’t let the rain in.’

  Spring 1659

  The storm which blew Oliver Cromwell up to his reward in heaven, or down to the devils in hell, did not helpfully indicate his successor. There were many who said that he nominated his son Richard on his deathbed, but John, recalling what his father had said about the succession of kings, remembered that courtiers were never very reliable about deathbed confessions and that the power of supreme government in England might go to whatever man had the courage to seize it.

  The man most fit to succeed was John Lambert, beloved of the army, still the greatest power in the land, and a proven friend of peace, tolerance and reform. But Richard was said to be the heir and a new parliament was summoned to rule with the new Protector.

  They were curiously churlish about the job. Richard was not even recognised as Lord Protector until they were forced to acknowledge him so that he could send the fleet to the Baltic to protect English shipping against the Dutch in February. And then in April, the army, impatient with being ignored while they petitioned for back pay and furious at the increasingly arrogant behaviour of the royalists, locked the MPs out of the Commons, Richard among them.

  He might be a Cromwell, but he was not an old soldier, and the army suspected that the new breed of politicians and leaders had lost the godliness and republican fire of those who had been forced to fight for their beliefs.

  John had promised Hester that he would take her to see Lambert’s orange garden at Wimbledon in the spring. They took a boat to the manor house landing stage and walked through Lambert’s new plantation to the formal gardens before the house. John hesitated when he saw Lord Lambert on the terrace, his wife beside him. Before them were a couple of soldiers with the standard of his old regiment which had been given to Cromwell’s son-in-law.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Hester asked her husband quietly.

  John shook his head.

  ‘Perhaps we should just wave and go back to the plantation,’ Hester suggested tactfully. ‘It’s maybe a private matter.’

  ‘He’s beckoning us,’ John said. ‘Come on.’

  The Tradescants went to the foot of the steps. John Lambert smiled down at Hester with a beam that reminded her poignantly of Johnnie when he had just got his own way in an argument.

  ‘You come at a good moment,’ he said to them both. ‘See. Here’s the standard of my regiment. Restored to me.’

  ‘Restored?’ Hester asked, coming up the steps and dropping a little curtsey to Lady Lambert.

  ‘Fauconberg and the rest are dismissed from their posts, and so my lads have come to restore the standard to me. We’re together again.’

  ‘I’m glad for you,’ John said. ‘Congratulations, Lord Lambert.’

  ‘Major General,’ Lambert said with a gleam. ‘And I’d rather be a major general at the head of the best regiment in the army than a lord at my fireside any day.’

  Summer 1659

  Parliament was dissolved and a new parliament came in, led by a new Council of State, in May. Amongst the new council was John Lambert and he gave his vote to the retirement, with pay, of Richard Cromwell, back pay to the army, the cleansing of schools and universities of ungodly ministers, and the toleration for all religions except for Catholics and those who would bring the bishops back to England. The rule of the Cromwell family was over, England was a true republic again.

  ‘He’s asked me to take care of his tulips this autumn,’ John remarked to Hester as they worked companionably side by side in the Ark’s rose garden. ‘He thinks he will be in Whitehall all this year. It’ll be odd to work at Wimbledon again.’

  ‘You’ll never be his gardener,’ Hester said, astonished.

  ‘No, he has his own gardeners. But I said I would lift the tulip bulbs in the autumn. He wants me to choose the colours for the orange garden, and he trusts me with his dark Violetten tulips.’

  Hester smiled. ‘Not going into service again then, John?’

  ‘Never again,’ he said. ‘Not even for him. I swore I would never serve another master and then the order came from the king for my father and me, and we couldn’t disobey. Anyone else I would have refused.’

  ‘What if Lambert were to become king?’ she asked. ‘He’s the best-loved man in the country. There are many saying that he could be trusted to rule with a parliament. And the army follow no-one but him.’

  ‘I’d like to see a gardener on the throne,’ John mused. ‘Think of what the palace gardens could be.’

  Hester snorted with laughter. ‘And that’s the main consideration?’

  John grinned reluctantly. ‘The most important, certainly.’

  They heard Frances call from the house and they looked towards the terrace. She was standing with a gentleman at her side. She beckoned to John.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Hester asked uneasily. ‘I don’t recognise him.’

  ‘Perhaps someone with something for sale,’ John said, stepping carefully round the rose bushes, and picking up his basket filled with the sweetly scented pastel petals. He walked to the terrace and gave the basket to Frances.

  ‘This gentleman says he has private business to discuss with you,’ she said briefly.

  John absorbed, as a father can do, that his daughter was deeply offended and determined not to show it.

  ‘The gentleman declined to give his name to me,’ Frances said in the same clipped tones. ‘I’ll take these to the stable yard, shall I?’

  John smiled pacifically at her. ‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ he said.

  ‘The gentleman asked me to fetch him a glass of wine,’ Frances continued stonily. ‘Can I fetch anything for you, Father?’

  ‘No indeed,’ John said. ‘But please ask Cook to serve the gentleman. You are far too busy, Frances.’

  He earned a brief smile for that and then she was gone, her back very straight, her head very high. John turned his attention to the mystery guest who had managed, in so short a time, to mortally offend his daughter.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ the man said. ‘She was so simply dressed I thought she was your housemaid.’ He glanced at John’s own muddy homespun breeches, linen shirt, leather waistcoat and scratched dirty hands.

  ‘We are gardeners,’ John said gently. ‘It’s a dirty job. It rather calls for simple dress.’

  ‘Of course –’ the man said hastily. ‘I did not mean to upset Miss Tradescant.’

  John nodded, not bothering to correct him.

  ‘There are far too many women, young and old, trying to meddle in the affairs of men,’ the man said in an effort to please. ‘You do well to keep her at home and working in her place. The country would be a better place for us all if women were restrained from thinking and bearing witness, and praying, and preaching and all the rest of it. The country will be a better place when the women are back in the kitchens again and everyone back in their proper place
. I like to see a young lady dressed as plain as a kitchen maid. It shows she has proper humility.’

  ‘Your business with me, sir?’ John prompted. ‘I have a rose garden to see to, and petals which have to go fresh to the perfumiers.’

  The man glanced around the empty terrace as if he thought they might be overheard.

  ‘Can we talk here?’

  ‘You can talk anything that is fit and legal,’ John said shortly.

  ‘My name is Mordaunt. I come from the king.’

  John nodded, saying nothing.

  ‘Viscount John Mordaunt,’ the gentleman emphasised, as if John were likely to be swayed by a title.

  John nodded again.

  ‘There is to be a rising. The country cannot be ruled by a council of nobodies and a parliament of nothings. We have been waiting our time, and now the king has named the day.’

  ‘I don’t want to know,’ John said abruptly.

  ‘We are counting on you to secure Lambeth for the king,’ Mordaunt said earnestly. ‘I know where your sympathies lie. You mustn’t think that this is a little conspiracy which will get us nowhere but the Tower. This is to be a great uprising on the first day of August. And your part will be to secure Lambeth and this side of the river. You are to secure the horse ferry, and then extend downriver.’

  ‘I don’t want to know,’ John repeated. ‘My sympathies are with peace and order. I won’t recognise Charles Stuart until he is crowned king of England. I lost a son –’ He broke off.

  ‘Then you will want to be avenged!’ Mordaunt said, as if that clinched the matter. ‘Your son fought for the king, did he?’

  ‘Twice,’ John said. ‘And twice wounded. Never paid, never thanked, and never victorious. I don’t want to know about the uprising. Don’t force secrets on me. I don’t want to be in the conspiracy, big or small. Don’t tell me, and then I cannot betray you.’