Charles the King (37 page)

He turned to Skippon as the door closed behind them, and said quietly, “Shall I need the child's prayers, Colonel? What does your General want with me?”

“The General comes in friendship, Sire,” Skippon answered. He was a fond father and husband himself and he was acutely embarrassed by the scene. He had been constantly embarrassed by the King since his arrival at Newcastle; he was unprepared for the gentleness and resignation with which the King surrendered himself to his custody. He did not for a moment confuse that gentleness with personal fear. Whatever the King's crimes, and his Puritan upbringing had taught him that they were black indeed, he was a brave man himself and he knew another brave man when he met one. If he wasn't soon relieved of this particular post, he was afraid he might begin to like his enemy.

“You'll find a more generous foe in the General than any of those dogs at Westminster,” he said. His feelings overcame him again, and he added a piece of personal advice. “For your own sake, Sire, try to find some agreement with him.” Then he turned away quickly and left the King alone.

A few moments later Charles and the man who had driven him from his throne came face to face. He had seen many Roundhead prisoners and at first there was little to distinguish the big ugly man from any of them. He was plainly dressed in a buff jacket and breastplate, with a heavy cavalry sword buckled at his side and his helmet under his left arm; a second officer wearing the same uniform and also uncovered, followed a few steps behind him.

“Your Majesty.”

To Charles's surprise, the General came up to him and went down on one knee. He took the King's hand, but did not kiss it. He stood up and said, “May I present my son-in-law, Colonel Ireton?”

The younger man moved towards Charles, and Cromwell snapped at him without looking round. “Kneel to the King, sir!”

Ireton knelt and Charles spared them both embarrassment by not giving the officer his hand.

“I have heard a great deal about you, General Cromwell, and about your Colonel, but I never thought that we should meet. As your King, I welcome you, and as your prisoner I thank you for the courtesy which has been shown me since I came into your hands. Rise, if you please.”

Ireton had moved into the background, leaving the King and Cromwell facing each other. He had no idea that the King was such a slight man, or would look so young. He was impeccably dressed in dark blue velvet, with the Star of the Garter blazing on his left shoulder. Ireton turned away from him and stared out of the window; he felt confused and disgusted at the manner in which Cromwell had abased them both before their enemy.

“I am gratified that you have no cause of complaint against the army, Sire,” Cromwell said.

“If I have,” the King answered, “it is only that thanks to them I am your prisoner, instead of you being mine. I must commend Colonel Skippon—he has been a very gentlemanly gaoler.”

“Skippon is devoted to me,” Cromwell said. “I chose him because I knew I could rely upon him to carry out my orders. You must forgive Colonel Ireton and myself for this intrusion and for any ignorance we may show of protocol; we are plain men, Sire, and not used to speaking to the King. Is it permitted to sit?”

“No,” Charles said quietly, “it is not permitted, General. Whatever you have to say to me must be said standing.”

“As you wish,” Cromwell's eyes flickered. Charles could not be sure whether the expression in them was angry or merely surprised.

“Now, General, what do you want of me?”

“Peace,” Cromwell said. “Peace and agreement with the army. I am fully empowered to discuss terms with you and reach a settlement as quickly as possible. That is the desire of Lord Fairfax and all the officers of the army.”

“When you speak of the army,” Charles remarked, “I presume you mean Parliament as well?”

“No,” Cromwell answered, “I do not. Parliament has no part in this discussion. You are the army's prisoner, Sire, and the army alone has the right to make a treaty with you. I advise you not to look to Parliament.”

“I am unlikely to do that,” Charles spoke with some asperity. “I have little reason to love or trust that particular assembly. I am hardly surprised that you too have found them out. What have they done to you, General? Shown their customary gratitude for services rendered by casting you off?”

“They tried,” Cromwell said slowly. “They tried to cast off those who fought and won for them but they have found it's not so easily done … They have no use for us, Sire. And speaking plainly, they've little use for you, either. Whereas we may have, if we can settle the differences between us.”

“You do indeed speak plainly, General.” A slight flush rose in Charles' face but his voice was calm. “And on what terms might I be useful to you?”

“If you will agree to exercise your Royal authority under the protection of the army, we can force Parliament to grant our demands and establish the kind of government for which we fought. You are the King, Sire. As the law stands, you must assent to changes in the Constitution. If you agree to this, the army can see that they are put into effect. Without you, Parliament will continue bickering and trying to cheat us until another Civil War breaks out.”

“What changes?” Charles said coldly. “What are you asking of me besides agreeing to a military dictatorship, General?”

“These, Sire.” Cromwell called to Ireton who opened a despatch case, and handed him a sealed paper. He spread it on a table and stood back as the King examined it. It was a long document, setting forth the grievances of the army, its demands for pay, its demand for yearly Parliaments and adult suffrage, and its violent refusal of a Presbyterian Church system. It was signed by Fairfax as Commander-in-Chief with Cromwell's signature and those of other high-placed officers. It was so revolutionary that for a moment Charles could find nothing to say; he sensed the impatience of the two men, and after a moment Ireton interrupted him.

“These are the things for which we fought you,” he said. “Freedom of conscience and the right of the people to govern their country as they think fit! If Parliament won't give us what we ask, then we'll take it!”

“One moment,” Cromwell said quickly. “These are the terms of the first draft. Look at them carefully, Sire. Think what they mean … An end to the rule of Parliament—is that so hard for you to accept? The rejection of a system which you yourself started a war to abolish. Do you want the Church of Scotland to take root in England? Are they to burn and hang my men because they read the Bible and interpret it themselves? And what of the King's power? Isn't it better to uphold it with the sword than leave it at the mercy of the men at Westminster who don't know how to do anything with it but destroy it? For God's sake, Sire, keep a clear mind and think what this could mean to you.”

“I am thinking,” Charles said slowly. He folded the paper and handed it back to Ireton without looking at him. Of the two, he far preferred dealing with Cromwell.

“But all I see in this is anarchy. Religious anarchy and civil anarchy. It is impossible.”

“Wait,” Cromwell said patiently, “wait before you give an answer.” He gave the paper to Ireton and said quietly,” Colonel, leave me alone with the King. That is an order, sir.”

When they were alone he suddenly relaxed; he took a deep breath and dropped his helmet on to a chair, and looking straight at Charles he said in a friendly way, “That's better. I should never have brought him in the first place. He's a fine soldier and my own kin but he's a hothead. I nearly boxed his ear for the way he spoke to you. Now, Sire, let us come to this business. These are the rough terms as I said. I can use my own discretion how far they are to go or not, as you like. And if I cannot sit; may I suggest that you do?”

“General,” the King said slowly, “you surprise me. You are not the man I imagined you to be at all.”

Cromwell laughed. “Nor are you, Sire. What did you expect? Horns on my head? I'm only a plain Englishman and a soldier. And I do best when I can speak freely.”

“I expected someone like your son-in-law, but worse,” the King said dryly. “I won't embarrass you by asking what you thought to find in me. What is the true meaning of this document?”

“The true meaning,” Cromwell said seriously, “is this. The war was fought between those who wanted their rights and those who wanted yours. As it is now, neither have gained what they wanted. I built the army; I fashioned the best fighting force in the world out of poor working men, and I did it to achieve what I believe is God's Will for this country. I did not believe that the Divine Right of a King was part of God's Will. I don't believe it now. You see how honest I am being with you? Are you offended?”

“No,” Charles answered him, “no General, honesty has never offended me. Continue.”

“I believe, and my men believe with me, that we should have freedom to worship God in our own way, without the fear of your Bishops or Parliament's clergy bringing anyone before a court of heresy. Listen to me, Sire. The army will permit you to worship as you wish. I tried to show you that by sending your chaplains down here. The army won't ask to govern your conscience as long as you don't try to govern theirs. Parliament is trying to cheat us of our rights, and so we turn to you. Forgive and forget old grievances, I beg of you, and join with us!”

He was watching Charles intently while he spoke: he had got rid of Ireton and mellowed his approach because he had sensed very quickly that bombast would gain him nothing.

He was an expert judge of character, he could tell at first sight if a man had the makings of a commander in battle or was only fit for the ranks, and he immediately recognized courage and conviction in the King. Charles had heard the offer of the army's protection, and the added bribe of Parliament's overthrow without showing any sign of being tempted. And he had nothing to gain by refusing them, and what vestige of hope or freedom he possessed would certainly be lost. Cromwell remembered suddenly the story of the Scots' long siege against the King's religious beliefs, and he looked at him with something very close to respect. As if Charles understood what was passing in his mind, he said at last: “General, before we go further, there is something I must make you understand. Parliament will never grant what you ask, you know that and so do I. But with all the good will in the world I cannot grant it either. You do not believe in the Divine Right of the King. But I do. I believe it as firmly as you disbelieve. I would not keep any man standing in the presence of Charles Stuart. I would never permit him to sit in the presence of an anointed King. I am what God and my Coronation have made me. And I believe that the government of England does not rest with Parliament or with the army or with the common people of this land. I believe it rests with me alone, or with my son if I am dead. I believe that the true worship of God is to be found in the Established Church of which I am the head. What you call freedom I call anarchy, just as I call Presbyterianism heresy. I know very well what you are going to say. I have lost the war, I am a King without a throne, a King who is only useful as a means of bargaining. But I am not going to bargain, General. If the army is disillusioned with its masters at Westminster, they can always come to me. But they must come as subjects, obeying my authority as God intended it to be obeyed. I will not compromise, I cannot. If you are a man of principles yourself, you will have respect for mine and not press me any further.”

They faced each other for a moment and neither of them spoke. “I do not believe that is your last word,” Cromwell said at last. “I
am
a man of principles but I know that there are times when God requires them to be changed. I swore to overthrow you: I ruined men in my own party who spoke of restoring you after the war with limited powers. Now I come and offer you precisely that. Am I a traitor to my conscience then?” The question was almost a cry, the cry of a man whose faith was increasingly seduced and warped by power. “Am I a hypocrite while you are right? Is God so immutable that He cannot change his command to suit the changes in the battle? How can it be that I see compromise and you do not?”

“I do not know,” the King said quietly. “I don't claim to know the mind of God, or hear His voice. I only know what He expects of me, and that I try to do.”

“We both try,” Cromwell said, and his voice was low. “If you refuse me, I cannot protect you much longer. I don't expect that to alter your decision. It is a warning, not a threat. I'll leave you, Sire, and hope perhaps some change of heart may come to you. Officially I have no answer from you. I genuinely beg you to reconsider.”

“I have a feeling,” Charles said quietly, “that you mean that for my sake as well as your own. Believe me, General, I would be no good to you. I stand for a world which has no place in yours. The war may be over but I have no illusions about peace.”

“Nor I,” Cromwell answered. He looked at the King for a moment. He thought suddenly that Charles seemed very tired and low, not in the least exalted by the triumph of his faith. It was not so with Cromwell or his friends. They drew a fierce and often lyric strength from their beliefs. There was no parallel in his experience with this lonely, drawn man and his sad, reasoned faith.

He felt an extraordinary urge to cry, an urge he had almost forgotten since the war released his energies and liberated his restless soul from its depressed self examinations. It was such a long time since Cromwell had felt what he was feeling then, that he could hardly identify it. His face became dark with visible gloom, his bright eyes were dull under the overhanging brow. He took up his helmet and fastened it under his chin, and every gesture portrayed despair. But it was not only pity, that lost emotion, lost in a hundred battles and countless bloody acts, but despair for himself. The King had refused him, and he had refused more than the army's demands when he did so. He had refused Cromwell's last hope of staying his own ambitions. Now he had no defence against them, and though his disturbance was too complicated for him to understand its nature, his soul was sinking and from now on it would be lost.