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Authors: Robert Wilton
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, ſ o it may be ſ een that the rebels are both up ſ tarts again ſ t the L AWFUL A UTHORITY and in di ſ chord among them ſ elves. The ſ e are the plagues and pe ſ tilences by which the L ORD do te ſ t H IS C HOSEN P EOPLE in the de ſ arts of their exi ſ tence, before H E do lead them to the greater G LORY that ſ hall be theirs.
T UESDAY , S EPTEMBER 29.
Meantime, all loyal eyes in the Kingdom are turned unto the proud ca ſ tle of P ONTEFRACT , the la ſ t ba ſ tion yet ſ tanding again ſ t the u ſ urpers. General Cromwell, like a wolf, has ſ urrounded the ca ſ tle quite and prowls about it with much noi ſ e and maleficient intent. Conditions among the garri ſ on are, we may a ſ ſ ume, of the dire ſ t, and yet we learn that the ſ e G ENTLEMEN do continue to bear them ſ elves like TRUE and STEADFAST C HRISTIAN S OULS , determined to follow the example ſ et by H IS M AJESTY and re ſ i ſ t the offences of the unworthy. They are now in the fourth month of their confinement.
[SS C/T/48/7 (EXTRACT)]
In proud Pontefract, the gentlemen scurried hunched between the towers. Even on days when they weren’t attacking, Cromwell’s soldiers found it good sport to aim speculative musket balls over the walls, and periodically a patch of stonework would explode in fragments as a cannon found its range, blasting yellow shrapnel and dust over the defenders.
They were thinner gentlemen too, now, and sickly.
‘Halloo! Miles Teach!’ Miles Teach turned, ducked, and scrambled along the parapet. ‘You’ve been in the fray as usual.’
They crouched, heads close. ‘Their usual morning exercise. No trouble.’ Teach nonetheless brushed instinctively at his coat front, and again tried to wipe his grimed face, hearing his breaths coming hard. It wasn’t that he felt ill; just permanently tired. Poor sleep; poor rations. He knew the signs.
‘How do they at the east wall?’
‘Well enough. Buckerfield may be a fool, but he’s brave enough.’ He tapped the other’s chest – easy enough in their clumsy proximity – where something bulged. ‘What news from the world, Paulden?’
‘I’ll show you.’ A dry grin through the dust. ‘He’s written again.’
Teach looked up. ‘Has he indeed? We have a friend in the enemy camp, it seems.’
In those days the old town hall in Newport was still relatively new – Newport itself was already old. The grand grey stones of the town hall squatted complacent by the square, while the smaller lesser buildings around it did their best against the autumn winds, and the rain that had not seemed to stop for a year.
While Charles Stuart, King of England, Scotland and Ireland – though at present holding sway over no more than a relative handful of followers and servants in one suite of rooms in one building in this small town on an island in the far south of one of his kingdoms – negotiated with the representatives of his upstart Parliament, he did so alone. While he fenced with their demands for a restriction of his rights and powers, while he exercised in law and theology and philosophy and rhetoric, while he danced in languages, in Latin that tapped precisely at the panelling and French that drifted among the hanging fabrics, he was allowed no advisers with him.
In that innocent time – while autumn lasted, at least; while there were still stubborn gnarled leaves on some of the trees and green on the hills above the town – one still did not accuse a King. Even criticism was veiled. So the manifold ills and sufferings of the nation were nothing to do with the man at the heart of them – in the eye of the storm, so to speak – but instead ascribed to the evil intentions of his advisers. Wicked designs, wilful lusting for blood, Popery, even treason: any charge could be levelled at the King’s advisers with increasing freedom. The King’s advisers were the offence; they surely could not be part of its restitution.
Besides, Parliament knew Charles
T UESDAY , S EPTEMBER 29.
Meantime, all loyal eyes in the Kingdom are turned unto the proud ca ſ tle of P ONTEFRACT , the la ſ t ba ſ tion yet ſ tanding again ſ t the u ſ urpers. General Cromwell, like a wolf, has ſ urrounded the ca ſ tle quite and prowls about it with much noi ſ e and maleficient intent. Conditions among the garri ſ on are, we may a ſ ſ ume, of the dire ſ t, and yet we learn that the ſ e G ENTLEMEN do continue to bear them ſ elves like TRUE and STEADFAST C HRISTIAN S OULS , determined to follow the example ſ et by H IS M AJESTY and re ſ i ſ t the offences of the unworthy. They are now in the fourth month of their confinement.
[SS C/T/48/7 (EXTRACT)]
In proud Pontefract, the gentlemen scurried hunched between the towers. Even on days when they weren’t attacking, Cromwell’s soldiers found it good sport to aim speculative musket balls over the walls, and periodically a patch of stonework would explode in fragments as a cannon found its range, blasting yellow shrapnel and dust over the defenders.
They were thinner gentlemen too, now, and sickly.
‘Halloo! Miles Teach!’ Miles Teach turned, ducked, and scrambled along the parapet. ‘You’ve been in the fray as usual.’
They crouched, heads close. ‘Their usual morning exercise. No trouble.’ Teach nonetheless brushed instinctively at his coat front, and again tried to wipe his grimed face, hearing his breaths coming hard. It wasn’t that he felt ill; just permanently tired. Poor sleep; poor rations. He knew the signs.
‘How do they at the east wall?’
‘Well enough. Buckerfield may be a fool, but he’s brave enough.’ He tapped the other’s chest – easy enough in their clumsy proximity – where something bulged. ‘What news from the world, Paulden?’
‘I’ll show you.’ A dry grin through the dust. ‘He’s written again.’
Teach looked up. ‘Has he indeed? We have a friend in the enemy camp, it seems.’
In those days the old town hall in Newport was still relatively new – Newport itself was already old. The grand grey stones of the town hall squatted complacent by the square, while the smaller lesser buildings around it did their best against the autumn winds, and the rain that had not seemed to stop for a year.
While Charles Stuart, King of England, Scotland and Ireland – though at present holding sway over no more than a relative handful of followers and servants in one suite of rooms in one building in this small town on an island in the far south of one of his kingdoms – negotiated with the representatives of his upstart Parliament, he did so alone. While he fenced with their demands for a restriction of his rights and powers, while he exercised in law and theology and philosophy and rhetoric, while he danced in languages, in Latin that tapped precisely at the panelling and French that drifted among the hanging fabrics, he was allowed no advisers with him.
In that innocent time – while autumn lasted, at least; while there were still stubborn gnarled leaves on some of the trees and green on the hills above the town – one still did not accuse a King. Even criticism was veiled. So the manifold ills and sufferings of the nation were nothing to do with the man at the heart of them – in the eye of the storm, so to speak – but instead ascribed to the evil intentions of his advisers. Wicked designs, wilful lusting for blood, Popery, even treason: any charge could be levelled at the King’s advisers with increasing freedom. The King’s advisers were the offence; they surely could not be part of its restitution.
Besides, Parliament knew Charles
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