A Corruptible Crown Read online

  Further Titles by Gillian Bradshaw from Severn House

  The English Civil War Series

  LONDON IN CHAINS

  A CORRUPTIBLE CROWN

  ALCHEMY OF FIRE

  BLOODWOOD

  DANGEROUS NOTES

  DARK NORTH

  THE ELIXIR OF YOUTH

  THE SOMERS TREATMENT

  THE SUN’S BRIDE

  THE WRONG REFLECTION

  A CORRUPTIBLE CROWN

  Gillian Bradshaw

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published 2011

  in Great Britain and in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2011 by Gillian Bradshaw.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Bradshaw, Gillian, 1956-

  A corruptible crown.

  1. Great Britain–History–Civil War, 1642-1649–

  Fiction. 2. Blacksmiths–Fiction. 3. Publishers and

  Publishing–Political aspects–England–London–

  History–17th century–Fiction. 4. Levellers–Fiction.

  5. Historical fiction.

  I. Title

  813.5′4-dc22

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-111-8 (ePub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8021-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-349-6 (trade paper)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  All Severn House titles are printed on acid-free paper.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  CONTENTS

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  What Really Happened (and What Happened Next)

  ‘I go from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown, where no disturbances can be, no disturbances in the world.’

  Charles I, 30th January, 1649

  ‘I see that though liberty were our end, there is a degeneration from it. We have engaged in this kingdom and ventured our lives, and it was all for this: to recover our birthrights and privileges as Englishmen; and by the arguments urged there are none.

  Do you not think it were a sad and miserable condition, that we have fought all this time for nothing?’

  Edward Sexby, in the Putney Debates

  One

  The tide was out, and the mud-flats of the Severn estuary shimmered with heat-haze under the June sun. The ships driven aground by the storm earlier in the month seemed to float on the heavy air, and the men struggling to salvage their cargo appeared and disappeared in the haze, ant-sized, grey with mud.

  Jamie Hudson, a blacksmith, stared wearily at the scene and wished himself out in the mud along with the others. The makeshift smithy behind him was hot and close as a baker’s oven, and the poor quality coal he’d been given filled it with acrid smoke. He’d been working with a damp cloth over his mouth and nose, but even so he’d had to come outside to ease his sore eye and aching lungs.

  He dipped his cloth in the water butt beside the smithy, wiped his face, then wrapped it around his head again and went back inside to pump the bellows. The salvage team wanted braces for a cradle strong enough to take off the great guns; they wanted a mattock and three crowbars mended; they wanted two lengths of chain joined together – in short, there was plenty of work waiting for him.

  When the two visitors arrived he at first paid no attention to them. He was busy punching a hole in a glowing piece of iron and drifting it to fit a grapple – tricky work, particularly since the sulphurous vapours from the coal were making the iron brittle. He couldn’t use solid strikes of the hammer; he had to coax the hot metal with a gentle rap-rap-rap that was not only slow but required close attention.

  The metal cooled quickly, though, and stiffened as it did so. When its glow had faded to a dull orange, Jamie returned it to the fire and turned to face the visitors. He’d expected someone from the camp – the carpenter, perhaps, come to ask whether the braces were ready. Instead he found himself facing his elder brother – a man he’d believed to be comfortably the other side of the kingdom. He stared in shocked disbelief.

  The other stared back uncertainly, and Jamie became aware of himself as a shrouded figure, standing in the smoky darkness, hammer in hand. He wished he could stay that way. He had not spoken to anyone in his family since his furious departure from home, six years and a lifetime before. He was altogether unprepared for this meeting.

  ‘Jamie?’ his brother asked at last – then coughed. The other visitor, meanwhile, had a hand cupped over his mouth and nose to protect them from the fumes: in the dim light of the smithy Jamie couldn’t even tell whether or not it was someone he knew.

  ‘Robert,’ Jamie said hoarsely. He swallowed. ‘Aye. We can speak outside.’

  The sunlight was painfully bright after the darkness of the forge. Jamie squinted through it. His brother Robert seemed much the same as ever: a big man in his thirties, with a handsome high-coloured face and long brown hair tied back under his wide-brimmed hat. His chin was stubbled and his clothes were travel-stained; his riding boots were spattered with fresh mud from the road. His companion was vaguely familiar, though Jamie couldn’t put a name to him: a dark, sneering fellow in the red coat of the New Model Army, similarly travel-worn.

  The air, muggy as it was, felt deliciously cool and fresh after the smithy. Jamie unwrapped the damp cloth and wiped his face with it. Robert flinched and exclaimed loudly, ‘Jesu!’ Jamie winced.

  ‘Your face looks like a soused hog’s cheek!’ Robert said, with a mixture of reproach and disgust. ‘Lord a’ mercy!’

  Jamie said nothing. He’d known that his family would be horrified by the ruin of the right side of his face: it was one of the reasons he’d stayed away from them. The war had eaten the handsome young man who’d stormed out their door, and spat out a grim, hulking, one-eyed ogre. Strangers looked at him with real fear; small children hid behind their mothers at the sight of him. Deliberately he called up the memory of his young wife stroking his scarred cheek and smiling up at him, her beautiful dark eyes alight with love. If his face could inspire that, he could live with it.

  ‘Your friend that writ us said you’d lost an eye,’ Robert went on, ‘and some part of your hand . . .’

  Jamie held up his right hand, with the iron brace that now stood for his missing fingers. ‘Aye. As you see, I’ve learned to do without it. Brother, I . . . I’m surprised to see you.’

  Robert snorted. ‘Aye, for you’ve sent us no word these three years, to say where you were and what you were about – apart from that last January to say that you were wed. It were better to
have sent no word than that one! Father was in a rage for a week.’

  Jamie sighed. He’d guessed that his father was very angry. There’d been no word from the old man – but the regular instalments of money that had been coming ever since he was wounded had stopped. ‘I meant him no disrespect. I would have waited for his blessing, but . . .’

  ‘. . . but you had only a brief while, aye, so you said, to settle your affairs before you were obliged to rejoin the Army – but that begged more questions. Such as, why you couldn’t wait til you were clear of the Army before you wed, and why you were obliged to rejoin it in the first place. God have mercy, I learned the answer to that when I went to the Commissary-General to ask what had become of you. Arrested and sent to prison! Locked up like a common vagrant for brawling, and released only because the Army had need of a blacksmith! I haven’t yet dared tell Father!’

  Jamie looked at him sharply. ‘Ireton told you I was arrested for brawling?’

  ‘Ireton?’ repeated Robert, momentarily distracted.

  ‘You said you went to the Commissary-General.’

  Robert shrugged, his lips jutting dismissively. ‘To his office. To his staff. Do you tell me they lied?’

  ‘Aye,’ Jamie said, with quiet intensity. He glanced at Robert’s companion, remembering now where he’d seen the man before: Ireton’s office. The memory was not a pleasant one.

  Robert paused, staring at his brother in surprise. The companion snorted in contempt. ‘You prefer to plead guilty to mutiny and striking an officer?’ he asked.

  Jamie stared at him a long moment. Once he would have contradicted the man immediately, but Time with its many humiliations had taught him to be more careful – and Commissary-General Ireton’s name had come up, which called for a double measure of caution. He asked mildly, ‘What is your name, sir?’

  The other sneered. ‘Lieutenant Isaiah Barker.’ He did not say what he was doing here, in Robert’s company.

  ‘You are mistaken, Lieutenant Barker,’ Jamie said evenly. ‘I am guilty neither of brawling nor of mutiny.’

  ‘You were arrested at Ware!’ replied Barker with sudden vehemence.

  ‘Aye,’ Jamie agreed. ‘But I never heard that a private gentleman was forbidden the place, and I was not a soldier then – as I think you know, sir, for the matter was discussed in your presence. And it’s true that I struck an officer, but I saw him set upon a friend of mine to rob him. I had no duty to stand aside. I went to my friend’s help.’ He looked back to his brother, met and held his eyes. ‘Judge for yourself, Rob! Is it right to stand aside when a friend is being robbed?’

  Neither Robert nor Barker objected that an officer wouldn’t engage in robbery. Most of England had experience to the contrary.

  ‘If this be true, why were you arrested?’ Robert asked suspiciously. ‘Or why could you not trust the law to set you free again?’

  The answer to that was long and complicated, and Jamie was grimly certain that Robert wouldn’t like it. While he hesitated, desperately trying to think how to begin, Barker waded in with the blunt truth. ‘Because he’s a damned Leveller! This “robbery” he speaks of was no such thing! Lieutenant Greenly had been ordered to seize the mutineers’ printing press, but . . .’

  ‘Those were no lawful orders!’ interrupted Jamie. ‘The press belonged to John Harris, his own property and . . .’

  ‘Another damned Leveller!’ replied Barker.

  ‘To be a Leveller is no crime,’ said Jamie, ‘much as some might wish it otherwise! It was John’s press. What right had Oliver Cromwell to take it from him? Last I heard, he was Lieutenant General, not Licensor! And for all you say there was no robbery, your friend Greenly’s man was seizing everything he could lay hands on!’

  ‘Why should he respect your friend’s property?’ sneered Barker. ‘You Levellers have no respect for any man’s property. You’d do away with property altogether!’

  ‘That’s a lie!’ Jamie said forcefully.

  Barker merely sneered again, then slapped Robert’s shoulder. ‘Well, you’ve found your levelling brother: I wish you joy of him! I must be off about my business.’ He strolled off in the direction of the camp headquarters down the hill.

  ‘It’s a lie,’ Jamie repeated.

  Robert, though, was looking troubled and unhappy, just as Jamie had feared. The Hudson family had been divided even over whether Parliament was right to stand against the King; what they’d heard of the beliefs of the Levellers would horrify them. Jamie had imagined their horror many times, just as he’d imagined their reaction to his scars – and here it was, staring him in the face. He would have to try to make Robert understand, but he dreaded the task. He had never been good with words.

  ‘Brother,’ he said to Robert urgently, ‘I know not what that man has been telling you, but you should not believe him.’

  Robert shook his head unhappily. ‘I have heard of this levelling faction from others besides him. I am sorry to hear that you number yourself among them.’

  ‘What you have heard is lies,’ said Jamie. ‘Surely you know how thick and fast lies grow these days! I pray you, do not condemn us without even a hearing!’

  Robert was unconvinced, but he grimaced and nodded. ‘I will hear you out, brother. I can hardly do less, after coming all this long way to find you.’ He sighed. ‘You have not asked what brings me here.’

  He had not: he had been too shaken and defensive even to think of it. Looking at Robert now, he realized that it was bad news. He didn’t want to hear it, and wished again that Robert had stayed in Lincolnshire.

  ‘Our brother is dead,’ said Robert.

  Jamie stared at him, shocked speechless. They’d been three boys in the family, and four girls. Robert was the eldest; Nick and Jamie, born only a year apart, had followed three girls, and had grown up inseparable. There had been constant squabbles, with Nick trying to be master and Jamie stubbornly refusing to submit – but they had been allies against all the world else.

  Then came the war. Nick went to fight for the King, Jamie enlisted for Parliament, and they had not spoken since. Something in the back of Jamie’s mind shouted in anguish, He can’t be dead. We haven’t been reconciled!

  ‘Your Army killed him,’ Robert said. His voice was flat, but that your had an edge. Their father George Hudson had abhorred the very notion of rebellion, though he’d been unwilling to risk the family estates by espousing Royalism when all his Lincolnshire neighbours supported Parliament. He had complied with the demands of the county authorities only when he couldn’t wriggle out of them. When Nick went off to fight for the King, he’d tut-tutted in public but had been privately proud; Jamie’s choice had been another matter. Robert had always cast his own opinions and conduct in their father’s mould.

  Jamie started to ask what had happened, but his voice caught. He cleared his throat.

  Robert gave him a long look of appraisal, then nodded. ‘So you haven’t forgotten how dearly you loved him once.’

  Jamie shook his head dumbly. ‘How . . . ?’ he whispered.

  ‘When he heard of the rising in Kent, he went there directly. He joined up with the rebels and marched with them as far as Maidstone. He was killed in the battle there.’

  News of the battle at Maidstone had arrived in the camp by the Severn a few days earlier. Jamie, like the rest of the men, had cheered the victory; like the rest, he’d felt only hatred for those who’d refused to accept defeat, and had started the cruel and bloody war all over again.

  The awful realization struck: he’d cheered his brother’s death.

  Shaking, he cleared his throat again. ‘Do you know how . . .’

  ‘He took a musket-ball in the stomach.’

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ Jamie had seen men die that way. Tears burned his working eye; the empty socket ached.

  ‘He lived long enough to tell the surgeons his name and kin, and one of them sent a letter.’ Robert was silent a moment, then shook his head. ‘I rode down to Maidstone to fetch him ho
me. Father wanted him laid to rest in Bourne churchyard. But by the time I arrived, he’d already been buried. No one could even tell me which was his grave.’

  Of course not – but Robert, Jamie remembered, hadn’t fought in the war, and didn’t know what things were like after a battle. A corpse with ruptured guts, in summer? It had been put in the ground as fast as possible, to keep its stench from the nostrils of the living. Probably it had gone into a common pit. The men who dug the graves wouldn’t even have known the names of those they buried, let alone remember where they put them all.

  ‘I searched for his things,’ Robert went on, his voice suddenly rough with anger. ‘I spoke to the surgeons, and begged for anything that had been his, so that I could take it back to Father, but I was told I’d more hope of finding a particular coin from a purse cut last winter. It seems looters will strip any fallen man to his shirt, and if they miss anything, the hospital attendants make off with it!’

  Jamie nodded. Yes, that was what happened. He imagined Nick lying in the filthy street at Maidstone, curled up round his torn guts, heard him cry out when the looters turned him over, saw him carried half-naked to the surgeons, saw him buried in an unmarked grave. He was still holding his damp cloth, and he pressed it to his face. His throat worked, choking him. He had cheered.

  He would not see Nick again. They would never be reconciled, not on this Earth.

  ‘I did find the surgeon who’d tended him,’ Robert said, anger ebbing into weariness, ‘the one that writ us with the news. He said Nick died well, calling upon Christ to receive him.’

  The surgeon might have lied, of course – but he must be a conscientious man, to have taken the trouble to write to the family of a defeated enemy. It was likely enough that he’d told the truth. Men dying of stomach wounds did call upon Christ. They called on anything that might help them!

  There was a silence. Jamie knew that he was expected to utter some pious hope that Nick was now in Heaven. He did hope it, but couldn’t make his voice work to say so. At last Robert went on, ‘Since I had dealt with the Army so far, I decided to ask after you. At the Commissary-General’s office I met Lieutenant Barker, who said he was bound this way with dispatches, and offered to escort me.’