Charles the King (11 page)

“We'll have to wait,” he said, and feeling her stiffen slightly with impatience, he pointed towards the window where the autumn sun was shining. “It's still early, my darling—I can't stay mewed up in here another moment. Let's order some horses and go out!”

Henrietta brightened. She was sick to death of worry and discussion and the blight of failure. Much as she loved Charles, there were times when his Stuart propensity for brooding on the unpleasant almost made her lose her temper with him.

“I'll ring for Lucy,” she said quickly. “I can change my costume and bring some of my ladies with me and be ready in half-an-hour!” As she moved away, he caught her suddenly and surprised her by kissing her fondly on both cheeks.

“My sweetheart—what would I do without you? Thank you for everything you give me so constantly that makes me happy. And thank you for being kind to Steenie when he was so low today.”

A new fleet was assembling at Portsmouth. The press gangs were busy from one end of the country to the other, and the King's justices, ignoring his command that only the rich were liable, demanded money from the poor. The troops were unpaid, and they pillaged and stole, inflicting the crimes of an occupying army on their own people. Public protest became a roar in which the Puritan clergy joined, and the London mob attacked a pedlar in drugs and philtres, who claimed the Duke of Buckingham as a client, and tore him to pieces in the streets. The prisons were full of recalcitrants of all classes and the country was under the rule of martial law. But there was not enough money, and the fleet could not sail. Charles had gone too far to turn back and abandon the enterprise; as King of England he would not sue for peace with France and leave La Rochelle to its fate, and the only alternative was the one he had broken the laws of his kingdom to avoid. Even the extremists on the Council like Newcastle and Hyde saw no choice but to follow the advice of men like Essex and the Duke of Manchester and the Earl of Northampton, all of them courtiers and constantly near the King, but who believed it impossible to ignore the constitutional practices of England any longer.

At the beginning of 1628, Charles summoned Parliament to meet at Westminster.

The Chamber was crowded to the walls on that day in March when the King rode down from Whitehall to address them. Sir John Eliot had been released from prison; so had Hampden and Holles and an opinionated Yorkshireman called Sir Thomas Wentworth who was newly elected. There were several new faces in the crowd which watched the King read his speech from the Throne, and the member returned by the Borough of Huntingdon was the local squire, the middle-aged, thick-set Mr. Oliver Cromwell, whose great-great uncle had been a Minister under Henry VIII.

In the circumstances, the King's message to them was not conciliatory. If they expected a confession of failure or any hint of humility, they knew very little about Charles Stuart. He spoke to them as their King, and as their King he made it plain that this time he expected obedience. In return he would consider their lawful grievances. They listened to his demand for money in silence; the Speaker made a formal reply and the House rose politely when the King and his attendants left the Chamber.

Sir John Eliot, the leader of the King's opponents, the spokesman of the Puritans, caught the Speaker's eye and was given leave to open the debate. He was a clever man and an experienced politician; he nullified any possible effect created by the King's speech by completely ignoring the war. For twenty minutes he attacked the rites and ceremonials used by the Anglican clergy and brought the Puritans to their feet with an accusing cry of Popery. Sir Thomas Wentworth had been watching Eliot intently and with increasing suspicion and dislike. The two men were old enemies united in an uneasy truce; he himself had gone to jail rather than pay money which he regarded as an illegal extortion but he had just listened to the King and been moved in spite of himself by his dignity.

Eliot had ignored the real issue for which they had been summoned; he was now pouring out a tirade of hate and bigotry and whipping up passions on the question of religion which did not interest Wentworth in the least. The country was at war, unable to secure a victory for lack of funds and suffering from the illegal and inefficient methods employed by the King; the whole system of constitutional government was threatened, and it was obvious to Wentworth that Eliot and his party had no desire to reach a settlement with the King.

At the end of Eliot's speech, while the Puritans cheered and the moderates and Royalists protested, Wentworth rose to speak.

“My Lords and Honourable members!”

He had a resonant voice and a lifetime of authority behind him as a large landowner, Sheriff and Justice of the Peace. The House quietened and prepared to listen.

“We are summoned here today to discuss matters touching the liberty and honour of the English people and to demand the redress of certain grievances and wrongs. Citizens are in prison without trial; many of us here, including myself, were among them not long ago. The country is under martial law and the war with France has brought us nothing but failure and disgrace. We are at odds with the King, but though he asks much of us, I believe we have a duty to consider it for England's sake.”

“What of his duty to us?” Holles shouted.

“His duty is to govern his kingdom properly,” Wentworth retorted, “and it is my belief, my conviction, that His Majesty knows now that he cannot hope to do it without the support of Parliament. The King has come to us, gentlemen, not we to the King. Let us remember that. Let us remember that we are here to save our country and our people from chaos and ruin and defeat at the hands of the French. The King wants supplies; well, I say to you that grievances and supplies go hand in hand.”

“The King promised nothing,” Eliot interrupted, jumping to his feet, but the Speaker rebuked him and he was forced to sit down until Wentworth had finished.

“We know what those grievances are,” he continued. “I move that we draw up a petition naming them all and present it to the King for his assent. I also move that every effort should be made to mend this quarrel within our own kingdom and reach an understanding with His Majesty, without whom we cannot hope to achieve anything. Good will is essential! And if the honourable members expect their sovereign to come and beg upon his knees, then they are not merely fools but traitors! If the King restores our ancient freedoms, then we will vote him all he needs. If he refuses, the House will be right not to grant him one penny. But he will not refuse, unless the ill-will of some among us make it impossible for him to accept. I move that a Petition be drawn up and signed by every member present.”

He sat down and the cheer that broke out announced that Eliot's leadership of the Commons was over. Wentworth had spoken for all but a small nucleus of fanatics when he emphasized that their primary task was to re-establish good relations with the King and restore sane government to the country. The motion was carried, and within a few days a list of reforms was tabulated and entitled the Petition of Right. No Englishman or woman was to be held in prison without a trial. No taxes must be levied without the consent of Parliament. Troops must not be billeted on private citizens and martial law must end.

A week after Easter, when Charles had failed to placate them with verbal promises, the Petition was returned to the Commons with the Royal Assent.

And two days later, Sir Thomas Wentworth received a summons to Whitehall.

Chapter 4

Charles had made up his mind that he would not like Wentworth. Wentworth was determined not to be overawed by Charles; there was little in their tastes or their physical appearance to suggest that they would ever find anything in common. Wentworth was tall and raw-boned, with a strong-featured face and a choleric complexion. He was known to be rude and outspoken and opinionated, lacking in every quality that distinguished the polished courtiers like Goring and Holland. He came into the King's Presence Chamber at Whitehall and tramped up to him like a soldier, stiff and awkward and rather badly dressed, plainly dressed by comparison with the bright satins and delicate lace worn by the King and his attendants. He went down on his knee and kissed the King's hand. He saw Henrietta for the first time and thought what an insignificant little dark creature she was, to have caused so much trouble and made herself so disliked by the ordinary English people.

“Your Majesty sent for me,” he said.

“Rise up, Sir Thomas.”

Wentworth's expression was quite different from that of most people when looking at Charles. He looked the King in the face without fawning or trying to ingratiate himself. He was expecting an angry reprimand as the instigator of the Petition of Right.

“I sent for you, because I owe you thanks for the speech you made in Parliament,” Charles said, and he was surprised to see the rugged face suffuse with pleasure.

“I only spoke the truth, Sire. If it accomplished anything, I'm humbly gratified.”

“Your speech caused much comment,” the King said. “My Lord Bishop of Wells was among many who recommended you to my notice.” He turned to a stocky, grey-bearded little priest standing behind him and smiled.

Wentworth bowed to the Bishop. He was not aware that Bishops troubled themselves with politics, but he liked the look of the homely old man, standing out among the elegant gentlemen and ladies like a sturdy weed in an exotic flowerbed.

“My thanks to His Lordship,” he said.

“I understand that you have applied to the Court for some employment in the past,” Charles said.

In the early days of the reign Wentworth had sought an outlet for his energies in the service of the new sovereign, but he had no influence at Court and his applications were refused without even reaching Charles. He had entered Parliament instead.

“I did, Sire, but without success.”

Charles smiled at him suddenly; he could not help liking the man. It was all too rare to get such a short answer to a simple question.

“Then it pleases me to repair that omission and offer you a place with me now.”

For a moment Wentworth was too surprised to answer. In his own eyes he was a Parliamentarian, the author of the Petition of Right which the King had signed against his will. He caught the eye of the Bishop of Wells and was further surprised to see him nodding vigorously.

“Come, Sir Thomas,” Charles said gently, “are you willing to serve me as well as you've served the House of Commons?”

He had never been really at home at Westminster; he was essentially single-minded and honest, and the wranglings and intrigues got on his nerves. He had quarrelled with many of the members during that short session, particularly the Puritan element, which filled him with suspicion and contempt. He had an almost mystical belief in the virtue of authority, and he had failed to find it in its proper form among that crowd of ordinary men, few of them his equal in intelligence and energy.

He dropped on both knees before Charles. There was no-one at Westminster to whom a man could kneel, no-one to follow, and all his life he had been searching for something or someone to serve to the full extent of his capacity.

“I am your servant, Sire, from this day and for all the days of my life.”

“That makes me very happy,” Charles said simply. It was no effort to be gracious; he had a growing, intuitive feeling, all too rare in his choice of friends and councillors, that this blunt Yorkshireman might prove the most valuable servant he would ever have.

“Come into the Privy Chamber; we will talk alone.” Charles went to the Queen and kissed her on the cheek; he kissed her every time he entered or left a room, and often for no reason at all except that he could not contain his affection for her. He was never embarrassed by witnesses; he was so much in love with his wife that his courtiers felt it was almost indecent. To Wentworth, a kindly husband and a devoted father, it made the King seem endearingly human. They left the room together, and the Queen and the rest of the Court dispersed.

They were alone for two hours, but though their voices could be heard the eavesdroppers could not distinguish what they said. At the end of the two hours, Thomas Wentworth backed through the double doors and found an excited and not altogether friendly little crowd of nobles and officers of the Court. He had come to Whitehall as a simple country baronet, and he had left the inner sanctum of the King as a peer and a member of the Privy Council. He could hardly believe it.

The Bishop of Wells came towards him and he stopped.

“I am Dr. Laud,” he said, “And if I'm not mistaken, you are now Lord Wentworth.”

Wentworth nodded. “I am,” he said. “By the King's favour and my own incredible good fortune.”

“Congratulations;” the little bishop smiled. “I took careful note of you, and I told His Majesty very plainly that you were wasted in that rabble at Westminster, and he ought to attach you to himself. I am delighted that he has followed my advice. I hope, Sir, that we will be friends as well as Councillors.”

He held out his hand. Wentworth did not kiss the Episcopal ring. It was typical of him and of Laud that when they parted they shook hands.

The Queen and Lucy Carlisle were playing cards, and as usual the Queen was losing. She had little value for money, and she was too impulsive to be a good card-player; her opponent had an excellent memory and a curiously systematic mind which was concealed by a vivacious, flippant manner.

Lucy Carlisle was one of the most beautiful women in England, and also one of the noblest born. She was the sister of the Earl of Northumberland, one of the proud, troublesome breed of Percys whose power had often rivalled that of their sovereigns in the past. She had thick dark brown hair which was profusely curled and ringletted and fell over her handsome shoulders, delicate features and large bright blue eyes. Only the small, sensual mouth betrayed her; it was mean and thin-lipped and startlingly red. She was full-breasted and tall, with lovely hands and feet, and the range and magnificence of her wardrobe was famous. She was amusing and charming, and men fell in love with her in such numbers that she told Henrietta once that it would have been impossible to accommodate them all. Henrietta was shocked and yet delighted by the gaiety and poise of her friend, her dearest friend, for she had fallen under the spell of a personality that attracted women as strongly as men. She scolded Lucy but she laughed as she did so, and she defended her obstinately to Charles when Charles showed his disapproval. He did not like the Countess. Behind the bright exterior he detected something heartless and cold which utterly repelled him, and he was not a man who hid his feelings. He thought her morals were scandalous and he noticed that she always chose her lovers from the first rank in position and importance. She took whatever was offered and gave nothing, just as she played cards with his sweet, but silly wife, and encouraged her to lose large sums of money to her. Lady Carlisle knew that the King disliked her. She was particularly charming to him, but she hated him because she knew she was not making an impression. She also despised him because he was so ridiculously infatuated with his own wife. She was questioning the Queen skilfully about the appointment of a leading Parliamentarian to the Privy Council.