Rebels and Traitors (59 page)

Still, revolutionaries are often bad at social relationships. Too many believe that all men are born equal — but that they themselves possess special talents which give them golden destinies.

‘You helped my brother put my delinquent uncle in a horse-trough.’

‘Ah Lambert Jukes!’ The easy charm returned. ‘Lambert — such a good fellow!’

A stalwart of Rainborough’s regiment. One of us,’ said Gideon, where one of us’ had particular resonance. ‘True unto death.’ The code-words brought them back to the reason for his visit.

He and his colleague reported their regiment’s eagerness to be involved. Although Colonel Rainborough was still in London, Sexby seemed to have some private information that he would support the soldiers. If Rainborough holds extreme radical views, thought Gideon, he is the only senior officer who does … He saw that it left the colonel dangerously exposed.

They were given a letter to the regiment, a letter that Sexby rapidly prepared, explaining it to them carefully before it was sealed. There are those who would prevent us — Colonel Jackson, who is in the Presbyterians’ pocket, may interfere; we are seeking a way to banish him from his regiment…’

‘If we are captured,’ said Gideon, almost the light-hearted bridegroom again, ‘do we eat the instruction?’

Edward Sexby looked sour. He had passion and energy, but little sense of humour.
‘Don’t
get captured. Keep the terms clear: your boys are
invited
by the Agitators to join with other regiments.’

His fellow-soldier from Portsmouth dug Gideon in the ribs. ‘We understand, sir.’
Sir?
Though he had the manner of an officer, Sexby was in fact a trooper still.

‘We do understand,’ Gideon reinforced it, close to an apology though he saw no reason to fawn on Sexby.

Sexby leaned back in his chair. ‘You are a printer.’

Was, before I came to the army’

‘Do you write?’

‘Not for the public’

We are seeking able pen-men … We need a press,’ Sexby growled fretfully. ‘If a press is not got into the army, we are handicapped.’

While Sexby drummed his fingers in frustration, Gideon saw the point. We must be able to print documents speedily and safely. It needs a trusted printer, with his own press. That press must always travel with the army, so we can react fast to whatever happens. There are many loyal printers in London, but distance is a hindrance. Dangerous too — Parliament can, and will, shut down a press, then throw the printer into prison.’

Walwyn’s group have the means,’ grumbled Sexby, ‘but they are constantly under suspicion. Lilburne and Overton are stuck in the Tower —’ He seemed to know a lot about the Levellers.

Walwyn has issued a great petition, calling for their release.’

Sexby started, surprised that Gideon knew. Gideon let him wonder.

He considered suggesting Robert Allibone as the army printer. Robert behaved discreetly, but he was not entirely invisible from the authorities; besides, Robert was a stay-at-home. Gideon had a brainwave: ‘I know of a press, now silent and ripe to be claimed. We would not need to bring it from London.’

Sexby became fully alert: ‘Where?’

‘Oxford.’

‘Can we get it?’

‘I will find it.’ Smiling, Gideon gestured to the letter he and his colleague were taking back to Portsmouth. Sexby watched him, gangling and apparently so easy-going that he seemed slow-witted — yet, Sexby saw, this blond sergeant was deceptively sharp. ‘Taking your
invitation,
our regiment will march to Oxford, Sexby. I have some knowledge of that city. Oxford was much under observation when I worked with Sir Samuel Luke.’ Gideon was cheerfully exaggerating.

What press is it?’ Sexby’s heart told him Gideon Jukes was reliable, yet he remembered the young man as a nervous bridegroom, destined for bamboozlement by that cold-eyed new wife … Never trust a man who thinks for himself, warned Sexby’s head — Sexby, who also thought for himself.

‘The press the Royalists used for their deceitful propaganda,
Mercurius Aulicus,
’ said Gideon
.
‘John Harris owns it.’ He stood his ground, keeping command of his idea: ‘I volunteer to find Harris and his press. Then I would like to be our printer using it.’

We shall have to pay him for it.’ Sexby’s thoughts raced. He ignored Gideon’s request to become the printer. ‘Promise Harris reimbursement. The officers will approve the money’ A true revolutionary, he was quick to speak for his masters’ funding. ‘Can you do this, Sergeant Jukes?’

‘Trust me!’ Their eyes met. Years later Gideon would remember how even at that moment, deep in conspiracy, he felt their interests faintly jarred.

On the 28th of May, Rainborough’s regiment acted in breach of their orders. They formed themselves up and marched north away from Portsmouth. As Sexby predicted, Colonel Jackson tried to intercept them at Braintree, but they refused to be stopped. Agitator 102 wrote to a colleague:
‘Colonel Rainborough is to go to his Regiment, and it is by Oxford …Let two horsemen go presently to Colonel Rainborough to Oxford, and be very careful you be not overwitted. Now break the neck of this design, and you will doe well…’
The ‘design’ included another mission, even more secret and desperate:
‘not to dally, but a good party of Horse of 1,000, and to have spies with them before to bring you intelligence, and to quarter your Horse overnight, and to march in the night …So God bless.’

He did not sign it.

As soon as the mutiny was reported in London, Rainborough was despatched by Parliament to restore order among his men. He came across most of them at Culham, near Abingdon. Gideon and Lambert reckoned their colonel was sympathetic. They were sure Rainborough had known all about their mutinous march, in advance, and he supported it. He certainly issued no punishments.

He wrote telling Parliament of his troops’ difficult temper, implying that their cramped quarters and problems with local provisioning caused it. While he hoped to prevent further trouble, he could not give undertakings for good behaviour. This was a very odd thing for a commander to say. Rainborough also failed to mention that three and a half thousand pounds intended to pay off and disband Colonel Ingoldsby’s regiment had been commandeered. His regiment and Ingoldsby’s had already seized the artillery and were guarding it at Oxford.

His disingenuous letter was read out in Parliament on the day that the secret horsemen achieved their object.

While Rainborough stayed at Culham, some of his men were deployed in Oxford guarding the artillery train. With them had gone Gideon Jukes, searching for John Harris. Harris came from a vintnering family, so Gideon began in the taverns.

He found Harris. He encouraged this slightly raffish character to see that a new career serving the revolution would be better for an exactor and failed wine merchant than no career at all. We are mere implementers of the word,’ Gideon declared expansively. During the search, he had drunk more ale than he was used to.

‘How much will they pay?’ asked Harris, who was stone cold sober.

‘We can commandeer the press if you do not co-operate.’ Gideon invented this threat, fired up by what he had seen of Edward Sexby’s certainty.

It worked. Harris seemed to think that if he volunteered, at least he might recover his equipment once the revolution was over. He knew the revolution would not last; he was, after all, a Royalist.

It was while he was supervising movement of the
Mercurius Aulicus
press on a brewery dray, that Gideon ran into the horsemen.

There were only five hundred, though Sexby and Chillenden had wanted a thousand. Leading this secret mission was an officer of Fairfax’s Lifeguard called Cornet George Joyce. It was open knowledge that they had come to Oxford after a meeting at Oliver Cromwell’s house in Drury Lane in London. Joyce consistently claimed he had Cromwell’s approval — though Cromwell would keep his own counsel.

Joyce, a Durham man who was reputedly a tailor, held the most junior officer’s rank in a cavalry regiment. Gideon viewed it cynically. Cornet Joyce was an unknown. An easy scapegoat if this expedition went bottom up. Expendable.

Once they had satisfied themselves that the cannon and ammunition were well guarded by Rainborough’s men, the horsemen cantered out of Oxford on the second phase of their mission. Since Gideon still had possession of the good horse on which he went to Chelmsford, he had persuaded Cornet Joyce to take him along. He claimed he knew the best roads in Northamptonshire, and all the quiet byways, learned from his time with Sir Samuel Luke.

They rode for two nights. On the evening of the 3rd of June, this secret band arrived outside an enormous stately home. It had been built by Queen Elizabeth’s Lord Chancellor, Sir Christopher Hatton, in order to entertain the Queen as extravagantly as she thought proper. It was said to be the largest house in England, built around two vast courtyards, with hundreds of windows, grandiose glass being the status symbol of the age.

Here, for the past four months, King Charles had been a prisoner. Holdenby House had passed to his father and remained royal property. These were civilised surroundings and he was barely restricted.

Though a small man who had had rickets in his childhood, the King had strode through the beautiful grounds at such a brisk pace that his keeper, the elderly Lord Pembroke, had trouble keeping up with him. From this fabulous house, Charles continued to negotiate with any party who approached him, his latest fragile promises being made to the Presbyterians in Parliament who were so set on dividing and disbanding the New Model Army.

Commissioners from Parliament were here with the King. As Joyce and his party reconnoitred the place, the commissioners’ hostility was one of their worries. Another was the soldiers guarding the King, Colonel Richard Greaves’s regiment. Greaves hailed from King’s Norton in Warwickshire; he had led a troop that defended Birmingham against Prince Rupert’s attack. The Agitators doubted his allegiance, because he was a known Presbyterian. They were reassured by learning that part of his regiment had been pulled out, under Major Adrian Scrope, and was away at a place called Papworth. Scrope was personally known to Joyce, who thought he might be a sympathiser, though this could not be relied upon.

On the night they arrived, they made discreet contact with the guards inside the house. Gideon knew some, men who had been in Sir Samuel Luke’s regiment. They reported that Colonel Greaves had made a bolt for it earlier that night. It was bad news. He would undoubtedly bring a rescue party if he could.

At six o’clock, Joyce and his party drew up openly in front of the great main doorway and called for the King to be sent out. Most of the garrison had come over to them. The Parliamentary commissioners who were here to negotiate a settlement might cause problems, though with luck those gentlemen were not yet awake.

The five hundred riders remained on their horses. Gideon found he was clutching the reins in a cold sweat, his hands clammy inside his gauntlets. Three weeks before midsummer, it was already light, though with a weak sun that had yet to evaporate the dew. The dawn chorus had filled the chilly air for several hours, a little ragged at this point of the summer when many birds had established their territories and raised their first batches of young. All the great trees in the Holdenby park were heavy with leaf, unseen wafts of tree and grass pollen irritating the riders’ throats as they waited. A few long-eared red squirrels perched on branches, inquisitively watching them.

The King kept them waiting. Eventually he walked out of doors. Still possessed of servants, the man who had made an art of iconic monarchy was handsomely dressed, his lace arranged, his beard and moustache trim. Even in captivity his brocaded suits were laid up in lavender and clove balls; his long hair was regularly treated with nourishing essences; he washed with warm water and exquisitely scented soap.

Cornet Joyce and his men had performed meagre ablutions in a coppice. They had ridden hard for two days without changing shirts. Most had three days of stubble. ‘When we finally find quarters,’ Gideon reflected ruefully, when five hundred tired and dirty men pull off a thousand riding boots, the whole neighbourhood will recoil!’

As he approached, Charles must have seen the curling breath of their lively horses and the steam off their flanks; he would have heard the restless chinks of harness and weaponry. The men looked anxious, yet determined. The sudden appearance of these heavily armed riders heralded change, but for the King, nothing would ever alter:

Five hundred subjects were here because they did question it.

With a pounding heart, Gideon Jukes watched his sovereign’s approach. This was the third time he had been in the King’s presence. He remembered
The Triumph of Peace
and also how he had leapt onto the step of the royal coach as it came from Guildhall. The same aloof, fastidious figure was here now, viewing the guard party sardonically. If anything, he was more composed than they were. The horsemen were crushed together more raggedly than was elegant. None of them had ever dealt personally with anyone of such high rank.

Calmly, Charles asked to see their commission.

Whatever they had expected, it was not a request for paperwork. Of course they had no warrant. Everyone became embarrassed, until Joyce found the presence of mind to indicate the grim riders. ‘Here is my commission.’

Where?’

‘Behind me.’

The King posed. ‘It is as fair a commission, and as well written as I have seen a commission written in my life!’ he agreed.

He was taken into custody, put on a horse and quickly carried away from Holdenby The plan was to rush their royal prisoner to the army, which was gathering at Newmarket. It meant travelling east through uncertain country, with the risk that the King would be rescued. Now it was Cornet Joyce’s turn to write feverish letters to anonymous friends: