Spring 1660
In February Lambert turned the remnants of his army south and marched them home in tattered boots. There was no money to buy them provisions or proper clothes. Monck was far ahead of him and marched into Whitehall to be greeted by a stony silence.
George Monck was not a man to be cast down by unpopularity. He put his troops throughout the streets of London, and they were accustomed to doing their duty among a resentful population. London was an easier billet than Edinburgh, and within days there was no-one shouting for a free parliament and John Lambert left on the streets. With a large free feast to celebrate the expulsion of Lambert’s Committee of Safety it was possible to generate an enthusiasm for Monck’s new council of state, run by himself.
By the time John Lambert brought his exhausted army home it was all over. He was ordered to go to his house at Wimbledon and not approach Parliament.
He wrote to John Tradescant from Wimbledon. The note arrived as the family and guests were eating dinner.
Please send me, in pots, your finest specimen tulips of this season to the value of £300.
‘What does he say?’ Hester asked John, hovering over his shoulder to read the note.
‘He says that he wants my best tulips,’ John said. ‘What that means is something different.’
‘It means that he will have to confine himself to gardening and painting,’ Elias Ashmole said cheerfully. He helped himself to another slice of baked ham. ‘It means that the balance of power has swung to George Monck and he will decide who rules the country from now on. And if I read the predictions of the planets aright then he will want a king, or at the very least another Lord Protector.’
Hester looked at Ashmole with dislike. ‘Then God help us,’ she said sharply. ‘For since of all the women in England he chose a foul-mouthed washerwoman to take as his wife, what on earth will he choose for a king?’
Elias Ashmole was not in the least downcast. ‘I should think it a very good chance that he would choose the rightful heir,’ he said. ‘And then we shall see some changes.’
‘Then we shall see the same thing again,’ Hester said bitterly. ‘Only this time the battles will have to be fought without anyone’s heart in them.’
‘Peace, my wife,’ John said quietly from the end of the table. ‘Mr Ashmole is our guest.’
‘A most frequent guest,’ Frances observed sweetly, her head bowed demurely over her plate.
In spring, when John Lambert should have been enjoying the daffodils bobbing and the yellow aconite carpeting the beds of his orange garden, he could see only a small square of blue sky from his window in the Tower and George Monck was the undisputed new man of power in London. Lambert was on trial for nothing, sentenced for nothing. They had imposed on him a fine of such a huge amount that not even a man of his fortune and with friends such as his could meet it. It was essential to George Monck that his great rival be safely out of the way while he discovered, for the last and greatest leap of his life, which would be the winning side this time.
Monck had fought as a mercenary for anyone who was prepared to hire an unprincipled sword. He had fought for King Charles before being recruited by Cromwell to fight for Parliament in Ireland. Thereafter he had fought for Parliament. Unlike John Lambert, who had spent his life in pursuit of a written constitution to protect the rights of Englishmen, Monck had spent his life merely trying to be on the winning side.
In April he decided that the winning side was, after all, the Stuarts and, with a packed house of Parliament men who agreed with him, he sent terms to Charles Stuart at Breda.
‘It is over then,’ John said to Hester, who was seated on the terrace and looking out over the garden where the trees were showing fresh and green and the air was smelling sweet. ‘It’s over. They are bringing Charles Stuart back, and all of our struggle for all of these years counts for nothing. When they write the histories our lifetime will be nothing more than an intermission between the Stuarts, they won’t even remember that for a while we thought there might have been another way.’
‘As long as we have peace,’ Hester suggested. ‘Perhaps the only way to find peace in this country is with a king on the throne?’
‘We must be better men than that!’ John exclaimed. ‘We must want more than a comedy of ceremony and handsome faces. What have we been doing for all these years but asking questions about how men should live in England? The answer cannot be “as easily as possible”.’
‘The people want the diversion of a new coronation,’ Hester said. ‘Ask them in Lambeth market. They want a king. They want the amusements and the entertainments, they want the corrupt tax collectors that you can bribe to look the other way.’
‘But what a king!’ John remarked disdainfully. ‘Half a dozen bastards scattered around Europe already, his tastes formed in Papist courts, and no knowledge of English people at all except what he learned when he was a fugitive. His father ruined us by his devotion to his principles, his son will ruin us by having none.’
‘Then he will rule more easily than his father,’ Hester pointed out. ‘A man with no principles will not be going to war. A man without principles doesn’t argue.’
‘No,’ John said. ‘I think the heroic days are over.’
There was a little silence as they both thought of the son who could not wait to see this day, and that if he had lived to see it then even he might have thought that it lacked a little glory.
‘And what will happen to John Lambert?’ Hester asked. ‘Will they free him from the Tower before Charles Stuart arrives?’
‘They will execute him for certain,’ John said. ‘I should think General Monck can hardly wait to sign the order. Lambert is too much of a hero to the army and the people. And when the new king comes home they will be looking for scapegoats to offer him.’
‘It cannot be the end for him?’ Hester asked incredulously. ‘He has never done anything but fight for the freedom of Englishmen and women.’
‘I think it must be,’ John said. ‘It’s a bitter, bitter ending to all our hopes. A king such as Charles restored, and a man like Lambert on the scaffold.’
But that very night, John Lambert climbed from his window in the Tower, slid down his knotted sheets, dropped into a waiting barge on the Thames, and disappeared into the April darkness.
‘I have to go to him,’ John said to Hester. He was saddling up Caesar in the stable. Hester stood in the doorway, blocking his path. ‘I have to go. This is the battle that tests everything I have finally come to believe, and I have to be there.’
‘How do you know it is not a story, some ridiculous rumour?’ she demanded. ‘How d’you know he has raised a standard, is summoning an army to fight for freedom? It could be nothing more than someone’s dream.’
‘Because only John Lambert would choose Edgehill to raise his standard. And besides, if I go there, and nothing is happening, I can always ride home again.’
‘And what about me? What about me if something is happening, if a battle is happening and you are in the midst of it and you are killed? Am I to be left here to keep the rarities and the gardens safe forever, with no son and no husband?’
He turned from the horse and came to the door of the stable and took her cold hands in his. ‘Hester, my wife, my love,’ he said. ‘We have lived our lives in some of the wildest and strangest times that this country will ever see. Don’t deny me the chance to fight just once, on the side I believe in. That, in a way, I have always believed in. I have spent my life wavering from one view to another, from one country to another. Let me be wholehearted for this, just once. I know that Lambert is right. I know that what he wants for this country, a balance of power and justice for the poor, is what this country needs. Let me go and fight under his standard.’
‘Why is it always fighting?’ she cried passionately. ‘I can’t bear it, John. If you should be lost …’
He shook his head. ‘I want to go back,’ he said simply. ‘I want to go back to Edgehill where the
king was first defeated in the first war. I was never there. I ran from it, just as I ran from the war of the Powhatan in Virginia.’
She would have interrupted him, sworn that it was not a war, sworn that he was not a man who ran from conflict, but he stopped her.
‘It was not that I was afraid, I’m not saying that I ran like a coward. But there was nothing that I saw clearly enough to die for. I knew the king was in the wrong; but I pitied him. I knew the queen was a fool; but she was a charming fool. I didn’t want to see her driven into exile. I think of her now sometimes, and I can’t believe that she has been brought so low. Many women are feather-brained and yet they don’t pay for their folly as she has had to pay. The cause didn’t seem wholly right to me. It didn’t seem wholly clear to me. Right up to the scaffold when they took him out and beheaded him, it didn’t seem quite right to me.’
Hester would have pulled her hands away from him but he held her fast. ‘You’re talking like a royalist,’ she said hotly.
He smiled ruefully. ‘I know it. That’s what I’m saying. I have always been able to see both sides at once. But this time – for the first time in my life – the first time, Hester! – I have a cause I can truly believe in. I don’t think that Charles Stuart should come back. I do think that the people of this country should govern themselves without a king or bishops or lords. I do believe – my God, at last I believe – that we are a people who have earned our freedom and deserve to be free. And I want to go and fight for that freedom. Lambert has raised his standard, for freedom, for the good old cause. I want to be there. I want to fight for it. If I have to die for it I will.’
For a moment it looked as if she would cry out against him, then she stepped to one side and opened the stable door. Caesar the war horse stepped out, raising his big hoofs delicately over the threshold, and walked at once to the mounting block and stood still, his neck arched, as if he too wanted to go into battle for the rights of freeborn Englishmen.
John smiled to see the horse and then looked at Hester. ‘Are you angry with me?’
‘No,’ she said unwillingly. ‘I’m proud of you, even though this goes against my own interests. I’m glad to see you at last knowing what you believe and going to fight for it. I shall pray that you win. I have always thought that nothing mattered but that we survived these days and it is a change for me to think, like you, that there is something worth fighting for.’
‘You think it’s worth fighting for?’ he asked. ‘To keep the king out, to keep Parliament free? To get justice for everyone in this country?’
Unwillingly she nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And if any man can do it then Lambert is that man. I know it.’
John took her hand again, kissed it and then caught her to him and held her hard against him. ‘I shall come back!’ he said passionately. ‘Trust me, Hester. I shall come back to you. And God willing we will make this country a place where poor men can be free.’
He came back within a fortnight. All three men who had been so powerful in Hester’s life came back to their separate destinations: John Lambert to the Tower on a charge of high treason, Charles Stuart to Dover and the road to London lined with people crowding to touch his sacred hand, and John, head drooping, home to the Ark.
Caesar clip-clopped towards his stable, his ears back, his head low. John dropped off his back in the stable yard and fell to his knees as his legs buckled under him. The garden lad ran to raise him and shouted for Cook. She took one look out of the kitchen door and called for Frances and Hester who were tidying the rarities room.
Hester ran out to the terrace and then round the corner to the stable yard to find John seated on the mounting block, rubbing his stiff muscles. He tried to get to his feet when he saw her, but she went to him and put her arms around him.
‘Are you injured?’
‘Heartsick.’
‘Hurt in your body?’
‘No.’
‘Your legs?’
‘I’m just stiff. I’m too old, Hester, to ride all day and all night.’
‘Was there a battle?’
‘There was a skirmish. We were hopelessly outnumbered. On the day when it mattered, when it mattered more than anything in the world, there were not enough men ready to stand up and fight for their liberty.’
She wrapped her arms around him and held his weary head close to her heart. She found she was rocking him as she used to rock Johnnie when he woke from a nightmare.
‘There was hardly anyone there,’ John said flatly. ‘Lambert was captured almost straight away. They didn’t even bother with us. It was him they wanted. He would have got away but his horse was tired, we were all tired. And discouraged. Because when it really mattered there were not enough men ready to stand up and fight for their liberty.’
He pulled back and stared up into her face as if she could answer him. ‘Why is it?’ he demanded. ‘Why is it that people can see so clearly when it is a question of their safety or their wealth, or their comfort? But when it is a question of their freedom they leave it for someone else to defend. They don’t see how they come to their freedom. They don’t realise that if the bargees at Wapping are unjustly taxed and the miners in the Forest of Dean are excluded from their rights, if the commoners are driven from the commons and the rich and the mighty encroach, then we are all at risk – even if it is not our own gardens which are taken. Even if it is not yet our rights which are threatened. Why don’t people see it? When governments persecute the sick, the poor, the women, then everyone has to stand up and defend them. Why don’t people see that?’
Hester looked into his angry face for a moment and then pulled him back to her and held him against her heart. ‘I don’t know,’ she said softly. ‘You would think people would know by now that when there is an evil you should stop it at once.’
Summer 1660
Charles Stuart, who was to be known as Charles the Second, came home to a country mad with joy. People wanted to get back to a system that everyone knew, many of them hoped to gain from a change of government: a chance to settle old scores and regain old ground. Quakers, sectaries, Roman Catholics and a number of old women who could be named as witches by spiteful neighbours felt the brunt of popular confidence which expected the new king to restore the old persecutions as well as freedoms. Commoners all round the country helped themselves to firewood, poached from the royal forests and the derelict parks, and there was a great rush of burglary from the empty palaces before the new royal servants came to stock-take.
The new king set up a new Privy Council and the great English cake of rewards and places was sliced up between royalists and their friends; but Charles took some care to see that experienced men and those from wealthy or noble families were recruited to office whatever they had done in the wars against his father. Those who had been party to the trial and execution of his father only lost their places of power and were fined, if they fled England.
‘I think he’ll release John Lambert,’ Frances said, bent over a newspaper spread out on the kitchen table. ‘It says here that the House of Lords seeks his death but the House of Commons wants him reprieved.’
‘Will he be free?’ Hester asked, looking up from shelling peas.
Frances shook her head. ‘It doesn’t say. But if I was Charles Stuart I don’t think I’d want Lord Lambert at the head of a regiment again.’
A month after the king was restored to the throne Elias Ashmole asked and got the place of a Windsor Herald. He came to visit the Ark wearing his new regalia, to suggest that John should publish a new edition of the catalogue.
‘It should be dedicated to His Majesty,’ Elias urged John as they sat on the terrace in the sunshine and looked over the garden which was in full summer bloom. ‘Think, if he were to come to visit! His father did, didn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ John said. ‘With the queen.’
‘I hear she’s coming from France in the autumn,’ Ashmole said enthusiastically. ‘We should have a new edition published by then. I??
?ll pay for it, if you wish. I have some money put by.’
‘I can pay!’ John said, nettled. ‘I’ll compose a dedication.’
‘I have one already,’ Elias said and produced from the deep pocket of his coat a folded manuscript. ‘Here.’
John spread the paper on the table.
To the sacred majesty of Charles the II
John Tradescant, His Majesties most obedient and most loyal
subject in all humility offereth these collections.
Frances, looking over John’s shoulder, let out a little gurgle of laughter. ‘I don’t know if you’re his most obedient subject,’ she remarked. ‘He surely has some servants that didn’t spend the wars as far away as they could get.’
John turned his laugh into a cough. ‘Frances, go about your business,’ he said sternly and turned to Elias. ‘I apologise.’
‘A flighty woman,’ Ashmole said disapprovingly. ‘But if there is any question about your loyalty then you cannot affirm it too loudly, you know, John.’
John nodded.
‘Fortunately you have the record of your son’s service,’ Elias remarked. ‘You could always say he died at Worcester. Or died here of his wounds.’
Hester, coming to the terrace with a tray and three glasses of madeira wine, checked at that and exchanged a shocked look with her husband.
‘We wouldn’t do that,’ John said briefly. He got to his feet and took the tray from Hester’s hands. ‘Look at this that Mr Ashmole has prepared for the printer for me. A new dedication for the front of the catalogue. Dedicated to His Majesty.’
She leaned over the table and read it carefully. To his surprise when she straightened up there were tears in her eyes.
‘Hester?’
She turned a little away from the table so Elias Ashmole could not see her face. John followed her.