“_One of the greatest clauses in Magna Carta is that which asserts in
legal form the legal rights of Englishmen to withstand oppression. If
the King broke his promises, he was to be resisted in arms in the name
of the powers which Englishmen held to be greater than the King--in the
name of God, the law and the great Council._”
--_History of the English Parliament_, Barnett Smith.
On the afternoon of the 15th July, a crowd of courtiers, lounging and
chatting in Tom Quad, paused for a moment to glance at the figure of
the State Secretary as he passed swiftly through the merry throng on his
way to the King’s apartments.
Oxford was looking its brightest. On the 14th the Queen had returned,
and on the same day despatches announcing the great victory at Roundway
Down and the relief of Devizes had been received. The church bells had
pealed, and it seemed to most of the Royalists that the King’s cause
was now certain to triumph throughout the land, and that the
Parliamentarians would be utterly crushed. Never had there been more
confident boasting, more light-hearted laughter than on that summer
afternoon, and the sudden apparition of Falkland, with his pale
sorrow-laden face, seemed curiously ill-timed.
“What the plague does my Lord Falkland mean by wearing such dismal looks
on this gala day?” said a boisterous young Cavalier, who was about as
capable of appreciating the philosopher of Great Tew as of recognising
the beauty of a Raphael.
“He volunteered in my Lord Wilmot’s troop t’other day,” replied his
companion. “They say, you know, that he is always thrusting himself into
dangers which there is no call on him to face, because he is stung by
the report that his efforts for peace spring from cowardice.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed the first speaker. “He’s found that in this world
peacemakers have devilish hard times, and always win the hatred of both
sides. I’ll warrant you he will have but a chilly reception from His
Majesty, who, they tell me, is downright afraid of him, and can’t endure
his plain speaking, and that inconvenient custom he hath of scrupulous
truthfulness.”
“He will be ill-pleased that a Council was held last night in his
absence, and the siege of Bristol determined on,” said the other.
A third courtier strolled up. “Did you see my Lord Falkland’s face?” he
said, with a sneer. “Is he grieving over the slaughter at Roundway Down,
think you? or is it, perchance, that he finds his beloved Mistress Moray
is undoubtedly in the last stage of consumption?”
There was a general laugh as the ill-natured gossips made merry over the
State Secretary’s friendship with this good and high minded lady, and,
according to their own foul and depraved nature, judged one of the most
spiritual and helpful influences that can be had in an evil world.
Falkland, perfectly well aware of the way in which his private affairs
were discussed, and conscious of the hostile atmosphere which surrounded
him at the Court, passed gravely on to the King’s apartments, to be
received by Charles much as the courtiers had prophesied, with very
little warmth and no comprehension.
The King in prosperity was never at his best. His arrogance and
narrowness were apt then to become apparent, whereas in adversity his
courage and a very noble patience were noteworthy. The prospect of
speedy triumph, and the unhappy influence always exerted over him by
the presence and counsel of the Queen, made him now more than ever
antagonistic to his Secretary of State.
He was seated in an elbow chair beside the open window, and on the oaken
table beside him was spread a map of the Southern counties, which he
had been studying. On the window seat lay a remarkably fine white poodle
which Falkland noticed with a feeling of annoyance, knowing that the dog
belonged to Prince Rupert, and betokened his near neighbourhood.
“We received yesterday the good news of the victory,” said the King. “I
trust you bring no worse report of Sir Ralph Hopton, my lord?”
“He remains at Devizes, sire,” said Falkland, “and is steadily
recovering from his injuries.”
The King put several questions as to the doings at Roundway Down, and
Falkland having replied to them, was debating how he could suggest that
the victory made this a fitting time for the opening of negotiations
with Parliament, when the King asked what was being done with the
prisoners.
“Some were left at Devizes, sire,” replied Falkland, “but a great number
are being marched hither, and I am anxious that your Majesty should
be in possession of the truth respecting one of Prince Maurice’s
officers--Colonel Norton--who hath been guilty of very gross cruelty
to two of the prisoners, Major Locke, who died last night for lack of a
surgeon, and Lieutenant Harford.”
“Let me have the particulars,” said the King, coldly. “People are
over-fond of bringing accusations against my nephew’s officers. Scarce a
day passes but I have some idle tale of Prince Rupert’s men, and he hath
but this morning assured me that the men are the best soldiers in our
army, and hath told me of his clemency towards the lady of Caldecot
Manor.”
Falkland’s face was a study. Prince Rupert was not without a certain
generosity, but in the main he knew only too well that the troops
commanded by the two German princes had done much by their burnings
and plunderings and wanton devastation of the crops to exasperate the
English. The people were not likely soon to forget the cruel burning of
the eighty-seven houses in Birmingham which Prince Rupert had ordered in
the spring.
“I will tell you, sire, precisely what I saw last night in St. Peter’s
Church at Marlborough,” he said. And, graphically, but without any
comment, he described to the King what had taken place.
“Bound to one of the church pillars, you say!” said the King, with a
shudder, “and the guard had actually brought him water in the chalice!
Horrible profanation! I cannot endure the misuse of the churches in this
war, yet they assure me they must at times use them for troops and for
prisoners.”
Falkland, with something like despair in his heart, marvelled at the
extraordinary way in which the King missed the point he had wished to
urge, and, in thinking of the church fabric and the communion-plate,
failed to realise what cruelty to man really means.
“For my part,” he replied, “I am bound to own, your Majesty, that the
kindly thought of the guard in fetching the cup of water seemed the one
redeeming touch in the whole miserable business. That and the way in
which he had wrapped a cope about the feet of the dying Major in the
chancel.”
“He had actually used a cope for such a purpose?” said the King. “Well,
my lord, I regret to hear that any cruelty was shown to the prisoners,
but it seems to me you do not the least understand the sin of sacrilege.
’Tis as I ever told you, you care nothing for the Church.”
His brow grew dark as he remembered that, little more than two years
before, Falkland had made a speech in Parliament in which, report
said, he had accused the Bishops of having “brought in superstition and
scandal under the titles of reverence and decency, and of labouring to
introduce an English, though not a Roman, Popery; not only the outside
and dress of it, but, equally absolute, a blind dependence of the people
upon the clergy.”
The King’s reproach had been made before, and Court etiquette forbade
Falkland to justify himself to his Sovereign; moreover, he had long
ceased to expect his position to be understood. The Laudian practices
were hateful to him, but in the narrow dogmatism of the Presbyterians
he saw grave danger to intellectual liberty. He stood aloof from both
systems, but cherished beneath an outer mask of philosophic calm a
passionate yearning for that Church of the future which should be wide
enough to embrace all sincere men who took Christ as their ideal, and
spiritual enough to dispense with those elaborate outer shows which had
so often proved stumbling-blocks.
Stifling a sigh, he caught at the one phrase in the King’s remarks of
which he might avail himself.
“I well know,” he replied, “that any sort of cruelty is repugnant to
your Majesty, and therefore make bold to plead the cause of this young
prisoner who hath been put to physical and moral torture, and hath
claims on your Majesty’s clemency, for he was not taken during the
battle, but on the following day while endeavouring to save the life of
his wounded friend, Major Locke.”
Falkland had used no false flattery, but had appealed to the best side
of the King’s character. Though very limited in his sympathies, and
without any genial love for his people, Charles was far from being
cruel or merciless; the enormous amount of suffering for which he was
responsible sprang partly from his duplicity, partly from his habit of
allowing himself to be ruled by unworthy favourites, and drawn into rash
courses by his wife. He might often from absorption in other matters
fall into cruelty as so many of us do, fatally hurting others because
not actively kind to them; but cruelty such as Norton’s was abhorrent
to him, and he would probably have yielded to the suggestion of his
Secretary of State, had not the white poodle suddenly sprung down from
the window-seat and, with whines of delight, bounded towards the door.
Falkland knew too well what would follow, and there was bitterness in
his heart as he bowed to the handsome young Prince who entered the room.
It was impossible to conceive a greater contrast than that between the
fiery Rupert, with his soldierly instincts, his rough, over-bearing
manner, his full-blooded, dashing impetuosity, and the grave, far-seeing
statesman ten years his senior. Falkland greeted the Prince with
the quiet courtesy which was one of his characteristics, but with a
disapproval which revealed itself by an indefinable air of strength and
resistance not usually apparent in the singularly gentle face.
“So, my lord,” said Rupert, gaily, “you have returned from the slaughter
of the redoubtable ‘Lobsters,’ and have made William the Conqueror hide
his diminished head! His Majesty will now be able to make short work
of Bristol, and when Bristol hath fallen London will soon follow--eh,
Boye?” stooping to fondle the poodle’s long ears.
The dog licked his master’s hand and whined with delight.
“Boye is more eager to crush the Roundheads than is my Lord Falkland,”
said the Prince, glancing with a smile at his uncle.
“He doth take after his master,” said the King, looking with fond
admiration at Rupert’s soldierly bearing. “You have doubtless heard,
my lord, that a Council was held last night and that we have determined
that Prince Rupert shall join forces with the victors of Roundway Down
and lay siege to Bristol.”
“I had heard that it was so determined, sire,” said Falkland. “Had I
been present at the Council, I would earnestly have begged your Majesty,
after having annihilated Sir William Waller’s army, to offer to treat
with the Parliament. Bloodshed might thus be avoided, and the end of
hostilities might well be hoped for.”
“My lord, you are no soldier,” broke in Rupert, impetuously. “These
rebels must be crushed and altogether subjugated before His Majesty can
be King indeed.”
“You will never crush the national love of liberty, your Highness,” said
Falkland. “The British nature demands freedom as a right, and the only
hope of adjusting our unhappy differences is in recognising those rights
which are in accordance with the law.”
“Law!” interrupted Rupert, who could never endure remarks contrary to
his own views, especially when they came from the Counsellors of civil
affairs. “Tush! we will have no law in England henceforward but of the
sword!”
“My lord,” said Charles, “we are aware that you ever speak on behalf of
peace, but those at Westminster do not desire it.”
“I do not forget that your Majesty’s secret message to Parliament ere
hostilities began proved, unhappily, fruitless of good results,” said
Falkland; “but you will recollect, sire, that since then Parliament hath
made many overtures of peace, and that every overture hath been rejected
by your Majesty. Might it not be the part of true wisdom to take
advantage now of this happy tide in affairs? Surely, sire, this great
victory, and the return of Her Majesty after fifteen months’ absence,
make the present a very fitting time for a gracious offer of terms which
the Parliament could accept.”
“My lord, our determination is already made,” said the King, coldly.
“Your suggestions do not seem to us practical, and we are confident that
our cause is better served by Prince Rupert.”
Falkland bowed gravely. No man could equal him in humility, yet it
cost him a pang to be thus set at naught, and to see how the King
was dominated by the young German Prince of four-and-twenty, who knew
absolutely nothing of the English or of Constitutional law.
Boye, the white poodle, broke the uncomfortable silence which
followed, by bounding to the door and barking furiously at the sound of
approaching steps. A young courtier entered.
“May it please your Majesty, the two troops in charge of the prisoners
from Roundway Down are approaching the city,” he announced.
“They will expect you to see the entrance, sire,” said Rupert, “as you
did when we returned with the prisoners from Cirencester.”
“We will not disappoint our brave men,” said the King, rising. “And you,
my lord, will accompany us,” he added, turning graciously to Falkland,
as though to make up for the snub he had just given him.
Falkland, sick at heart, followed the King and the Prince, and before
long was riding in the royal train to see what he well knew would prove
a painful spectacle.
Hundreds of the citizens were flocking out of Oxford to see the
return of the victors and Waller’s vanquished soldiers. The day was
insufferably hot, and the Court party did not care to ride far on the
road, but drew rein under a clump of trees by the wayside. As they
waited the approach of the troops, the King discussed with Prince Rupert
some of the details of the battle which Falkland had mentioned to him,
and spoke also of Colonel Norton’s conduct at Marlborough.
“I have met the Colonel,” said Rupert. “He hath a merry wit and a sharp
tongue, and is the very man to enjoy a rough jest at the expense of one
who had crossed his path. He is an excellent soldier though. My lord,”
he said, turning to Falkland, “you must show us this young Lieutenant
Harford as the prisoners go past. The fellow must be worth his salt if
he has dared to withstand a hectoring officer like Colonel Norton.”
By this time the troops were in sight, and loud cheers rose from the
spectators as they rode by.
Then in striking contrast came the weary prisoners on foot, escorted
by a second troop of cavalry. As the line passed by, tied together in
pairs, many of them wounded, and all of them suffering acutely from
thirst, they might have inspired pity in the hardest heart. Falkland
noted, however, that the courtiers around him looked on, either with
utter indifference, or with derisive smiles, as their fellow-countrymen
were beaten and driven along the road like dogs.
“Yonder comes the young lieutenant you bade me point out to your
Highness,” he said to Prince Rupert. “The nearest to us behind the gun,
and tied to a man with a bandaged head.”
Both the King and the Prince glanced at the prisoner.
“In good sooth the fellow is sunburnt till he is the colour of an
Italian!” exclaimed Rupert. “He hath an undaunted air and looks like a
man of mettle though.”
“Copper metal, your Highness,” interjected a shallow-brained fop behind
him with a laugh.
The laugh reached Gabriel; he glanced to the left, and catching sight of
Falkland saluted him, a look of reverence and gratitude lighting up
his tired eyes. His pace had involuntarily slackened a little, and the
wounded man tied to his right arm, had throughout the march been a heavy
drag upon him; a smart blow across his shoulders from the swynfeather,
or spiked pole, of the nearest soldier made his eyes flash, and added
a touch of dignity to his bearing. But his salute to the King, though
courteous, was merely formal, while the rapid, searching glance that
accompanied it had none of that deep reverence with which he had
returned Falkland’s gaze.
He saw for a moment the well-known handsome features, the cold impassive
expression, and remembered how, when he had last looked upon the
King, it had been on that memorable January day, at the entrance to
Westminster Hall, when Charles had been on his way to arrest the
five Members. Now Hampden, the patriot, had been slain; thousands
of Englishmen had fought, and bled, and died, and he himself was a
prisoner, just when the cause he held at heart most needed service.
Something approaching despair seized him as he marched on, with that
vision stamped on his brain--the King in his purple riding suit and
white-plumed hat, his attention divided between the remarks of Prince
Rupert, and the orange stuffed with cloves, which he smelt as a remedy
against infection, as the troops and the long line of weary prisoners
made the dust rise. Was the country again to be at the mercy of a ruler
who so little understood or loved his people?
“Poor beggar!” said Rupert, following the young lieutenant with his
eyes. “I know too well what military captivity will mean to one of his
years. Curse me! if I ever pardon the Emperor who kept me mewed up so
long! I can see, too, that yonder rebel is a good officer wasted, and
with your permission, sire, would fain have the fellow in my troop.”
“He shall be pardoned, and set free on consenting to serve under you,”
said the King. “We depute you, my lord Falkland, to see to the matter.”
Falkland bowed low.
“I will convey your Majesty’s pleasure to Mr. Harford, but I doubt his
acceptance of a post under the Prince, for he is not one of those who
entered into this struggle without grave thought,” said the Secretary
of State, convinced in his own mind that Gabriel would decline pardon
bought at the cost of his convictions.
“Then he must pay the penalty of his disloyal obstinacy,” said the
King, annoyed even by the suggestion that some of his opponents had
conscientiously thought out their position before taking arms against
him. “He hath brought this misery on himself.”
“Look you, my lord,” said Rupert, good-naturedly, “make not the offer of
release till to-morrow. ’Tis but fair the fellow should know what he
chooses if he elects to stay in the clutches of Provost-Marshal Smith.
They don’t pamper Roundheads at the Castle, I hear.”
The talk was interrupted by the huzzas of the spectators as the last
contingent of cavalry rode by. Falkland heard one of the courtiers
mention the name of Norton, and gave that officer a keen, penetrating
glance, perceiving at once that there was a force of character in the
Colonel’s face which would make him a dangerous enemy, and one likely to
pursue the young lieutenant with untiring animosity.