Rebels and Traitors (84 page)

Before he was removed, Juliana had urged good advice upon him. ‘You have to accept the Commonwealth, Edmund. Do not waste your life with believing the popular song —
“All things will be well, when the King enjoys his own again.
Kings may never return to England. Build yourself a life, my dear. Bow to Parliament and button your tongue. You should marry. Marry for kindness, not money — though I admit, money will help.’

She wanted to add, do not write bad love lyrics to unobtainable women, but she knew Edmund saw poetry as the noble expression of his most romantic spirit.

After he had gone, Juliana considered her own future. If this Commonwealth continued, she wondered whether Orlando would ever return to England. How long would Prince Rupert keep the Royalist fleet at sea? Would Lovell one day settle in exile, in Holland or France? If so, would he send for her? Would it be her fate to uproot herself and her children? He husband’s seafaring gave her some breathing space; she let herself defer worrying.

She went on with her isolated, quiet life, bringing up her sons. The countryside was ruined, bad harvests had increased the price of corn by half as much again and expensive fodder made meat go up twofold. Wood for fuel was in short supply. Work was scarce. But there was one great benefit: it was peacetime.

For some, however, peace was an imperfect state. Three months after Edmund left, Juliana was forced to learn exactly what her position was, as the wife of a known Royalist officer.

It was mid-morning. For an hour or two earlier, she had been sewing in her tiny parlour, lost in her work, though at that moment she had gone to prepare food. She was peeling a yellow carrot. This mundane action was brutally interrupted.

A commotion disturbed her. She walked to her door. Soldiers were throwing open outhouses and shouting at the boys. They pushed past her and began searching her house. Tom and Val were terrified; Juliana was too, though she had to hide it for their sakes. Before she grasped the situation properly, rude men were asking angry, noisy, sometimes stupid questions about her absent husband. They demanded his whereabouts; they wanted to know all his recent movements. They ordered her to name his associates. Finally they told her she had to go with them. With a sinking heart, Juliana realised that she was being arrested.

Given warning, she could have found a safe place for Thomas and Valentine. Alone with them at the cottage, she could not now send them running to the farm; she never let them go so far without her. So, given barely time to snatch cloaks, Tom and Val were taken up with her. Ruefully, Juliana hoped the presence of loudly crying children might help in whatever ordeal she faced.

They were all roughly put upon horses behind hard-faced cavalry. Nothing was said about their destination, though it became clear it was London. Trying to call out reassurance to her weeping boys, Juliana faced the terrible fear that she, and they, were about to be incarcerated in the Tower of London.

It had happened to others. Lady Carlisle had been shown the rack, when she was obdurate in refusing to give details of Royalist plots.

In the event, Juliana was not in penal custody. She was merely brought before the Committee for Investigations at Haberdashers Hall. This shadowy body, mainly composed of civilians, some of them members of Parliament, was much feared among Royalists. It dealt with hard cases — men whose delinquency was considered too serious to be left to local county committees. Men who were defined as soldiers of fortune, subject to firing squad if captured. Men with unforgivable war crimes listed against them. Men of stubborn and recalcitrant Royalist opinions. Men like Orlando Lovell.

‘Has your husband, Colonel Lovell, compounded for pardon?’

‘His particulars were accepted by the Committee at Goldsmiths Hall last year. I handed them his fine myself —’

‘That is superseded. Has he presented himself for compounding since he took part in the revolt in Kent?’

‘He is beyond the seas.’

Juliana knew from news-sheets that Parliament had laid down a timetable for Royalists to compound: the 20th of April for those who lived within eighty miles of London and the 3rd of May for those residing farther away. Delinquents living beyond the seas had to file their petitions by the 1st of June. After giving particulars, everyone had six weeks more to pay their fines. Keeping estates compelled returning to England. Anyone who neglected to render himself for compounding would lose his land to the Commonwealth. Juliana had taken particular note of that rule, because it was added that no further allowance would then be made for wives and children.

Even those whose estates had not been formally sequestered, but who merely suspected — or knew — they were liable, had to present themselves by the 1st of July. There was another rule, even worse for Juliana, that:

Being on a ship with Prince Maurice, harrying Cromwell’s supply lines to Ireland, certainly earned proceedings as a Traitor and Rebel.

At first when Juliana was marched in to be examined, Tom and Val were taken away to another room. Being separated from their mother traumatised them. She, and the committee, could hear them hysterically screaming. Horrified that her two very young children might themselves be asked questions — then even more frightened by what the little boys might innocently say — Juliana’s own distress grew so dreadful, she was beyond answering anything. Not normally prone to collapse in a crisis, she was surprised how quickly she lost her calm and how violent her agitation became.

Permission was given for the children to be brought back. ‘You must sit here very quietly’ she begged them, while they clung to her skirts and squirmed and wailed. ‘When Mother speaks with the gentlemen, do not interrupt and do not cry.’

Tom was not quite six. Valentine was four. Neither of them could understand this.

Juliana had been allowed to bring nothing when she was dragged from home. She felt grubby. Such food as had been given to her had been tasteless and unappetising. She was empty and light-headed. Perhaps her everyday dress would help her. The soldiers who searched her had found nothing worse than the half-peeled carrot in her apron pocket; fortunately she had put down the paring knife on the kitchen table. When they found the carrot, she had snatched it back from them; there was good broth in it, she told them, before they had the grace to grin sheepishly, and even she forced a wan smile. They all had mothers. Some had wives. Juliana’s preoccupation must seem all too familiar.

‘I have nobody to speak for me,’ Juliana told the committee through gritted teeth. ‘I shall answer your questions as faithfully as possible. But I know very little.’ She remembered how Lovell had said it was better if she knew nothing, and how angry she had been about that. Now she ought to be grateful. Being Juliana, she was in two minds. She was not sure how successful a dissembler she could be, but she would have liked a better idea of what she needed to say — or not say. ‘My husband went abroad. I have not seen him, or had letters, for a year and a half. Before he left, he told me nothing of his plans.’

Silence greeted her declaration. Perhaps it sounded contrived. They must be used to wives denying contact with fugitive husbands. She let the men decide what to ask her.

She lost track of how long she was interrogated. Their questions were many stern and remarkably detailed. Their response to her answers was often incredulity. Much of their interest was in whatever had been plotted from Pelham Hall.

‘We lived there for a very short time only. My husband worked for Sir Lysander Pelham —’

In what capacity?’

An estate manager.’

That was a subterfuge?’

‘No; I believed it.’

‘When did you leave Pelham Hall?’

‘Around August last year.’

‘Why
did you leave?’

‘Sir Lysander Pelham died very suddenly. We had so little connection with that place, that his daughters drove me out without compunction.’

‘Now you live …’ Papers were consulted. ‘In Kent? At cottages owned by one, Carlill?’

‘Of Colchester. A haberdasher. A town very strong for Parliament.’

Juliana managed to keep her face blank. She deduced that, in the manner of bureaucracy, the committee had imperfect information. They did not know that Germain Carlill was her father, nor that he had died. They must assume she was a tenant; how she found money for her rent, or whether she paid at all, was no concern of theirs. She took a chance and, since they did not ask her, remained silent about owning the cottage and orchard.

Questions about conspiracy continued. Juliana maintained she had never known who visited Pelham Hall, never guessed plots were being hatched, never knew her husband was involved. She sounded foolish to herself. Perhaps the men could see how perturbed she felt, as she realised the extent to which matters had been concealed from her. Perhaps they saw her starting to wonder how these things had become known to
them,
and why now?

‘How close was Colonel Lovell’s connection with Colonel William Legge?’

Will Legge?
Juliana grew cold under her shift. ‘Of course I heard of Colonel Legge; he was governor of Oxford when we lived there —’

‘He lived close to you.’

‘In the same street, that was well known. He was Prince Rupert’s friend. We never moved in such circles.’

When did your husband last see Colonel Legge?’

‘See
him?’

‘Colonel Legge helped the late King escape from Hampton Court. He was then involved in the late rebellion in the county of Kent. He was reported to have been conferring with others, including his brother-in-law, Colonel Henry Washington, at Gravesend in Kent, as lately as this April.’

Juliana was truly astonished. ‘This is nothing to do with us!’

‘No, indeed,’ one of the committee agreed, as if she had somehow incriminated herself. ‘For according to you, your husband is beyond the seas.’

Another man said, ‘Colonel Legge was sent by the late King’s son, at the behest of the Marquis of Ormond, to join Prince Rupert’s fleet. His ship was captured. Legge was taken prisoner at Plymouth in July and is currently in jail at Exeter, charged with high treason.’

Did that mean Lovell was a prisoner with Will Legge? Juliana stayed silent. In her heart she was raging at Lovell for never explaining anything.

There must have been no definitive connection between Lovell and Will Legge. The men let it drop. They held a discussion, almost among themselves, about the deputy lieutenants in Kent discharging Delinquents for only minor fines. Clearly it rankled. The powers given to the Kent Committee, the committee’s recent actions and whether they had pursued the correct compounding rules had all been scrutinised by a Parliamentary subcommittee. Perhaps Juliana was only caught up in attempts to bring Kent into line …

When she felt so exhausted she thought she would faint, her interrogators lost interest. Then they revealed what had brought the soldiers to search her small house and garden, what had caused her to be carried here with her children and a wilting carrot in her pocket. One read out to her a resolution from the House of Commons:

Someone had laid an information.

Now Juliana realised that a person, a person probably known to her, had deliberately and maliciously accused her husband.

Possibilities arose, each more upsetting. She hoped it was some anonymous soldier who had served with Orlando. She feared it was not. More likely, it was somebody she herself knew. Someone she had trusted, someone she had liked. Her circle of acquaintance was extremely small. Anne Jukes, or Anne’s associates at the print shop? Anne’s Roundhead husband, that man whose life Juliana had saved? Or one of the Lovell family in Hampshire? Someone closer — the farmer’s wife in Lewisham? The Pelham sisters? Most terrible of all — she forced herself to consider it — was it Edmund Treves?

The timing pointed horribly to Edmund. Had he bartered this information in return for his own lenient treatment? Had Edmund, out of old jealousy over losing Juliana or old resentment of Orlando, done this appalling thing?

Juliana Lovell was released. ‘Thank you — but I have no money and am a day’s journey from home! You brought me here, and my little ones — either your soldiers must take us back, or you should give me the fare!’

She seemed naïve, she was exhausted, she had a shiny glaze of honesty. The committee men were so startled by her fierce request, they dipped into their contingency fund — which was replete with the proceeds of enemy estates and Crown and Church lands — to let her have enough coins to get back home. A clerk made her sign a receipt, for when they had to render accounts to Parliament.

As she struggled home with her whining children, Juliana faced the fact that from now on all relationships were dangerous. Her political predicament might never end. Suspicion and caution would sour her life. For her, as one of the defeated, whose husband would not concede defeat, living under the Commonwealth would be isolated, penalised, poisonous and devoid of all trust.

Only many weeks later did she realise that a likely candidate for giving the information against Lovell was Foulke Adams. He was a Parliamentarian. He knew who Juliana was and where she lived. Edmund’s ‘Merry Uncle Foulke’ might have coerced Edmund to join with him (something she hated to believe), or he might independently have passed on facts he winkled from his unwary nephew. Juliana was able to convince herself that if Adams was the source, Edmund had just foolishly trusted an uncle he had never known well.