Winsor, Kathleen (9 page)

And
in England the mighty heel of Cromwell came down on the necks of the English
people. It was now a crime to be a member of the aristocracy, and to have been
loyal to the late King was an offense often punishable by confiscation of lands
and money. Those who could followed Charles II abroad, hoping to return someday
in a happier time. A gloomy piety settled over the land, discouraging much that
was essentially English: the merry good humour, the boisterous delight in
sports and feasts and holidays, the robust enjoyment of drinking and dancing
and gambling and love-making.

May-poles
were chopped down, theatres closed. Discreet women left off their gaily
coloured satin and velvet gowns, put away their masks and fans and curls and
false hair, covered in the low necklines of their dresses and no longer dared
touch their lips with rouge or stick on a black path for fear of falling under
the suspicion of having Royalist sympathies. Even the furniture grew more
sober.

For
eleven years Cromwell ruled the land. But England found at least that he was
mortal.

When
the news of his illness began to get abroad an anxious crowd of soldiers and
citizens gathered at the gates of the Palace. The country was in terror,
remembering the chaotic years of the Civil Wars when bands of roving soldiers
had pillaged through all the length and breadth of England, plundering the
farms, breaking into and robbing houses, driving off the sheep and cattle,
killing those who dared to resist. They did not want Cromwell to live, but they
were afraid to have him die.

As
night closed in, a great storm rose, gathering fury until the houses rocked on
their foundations, trees were uprooted, and turrets and steeples crashed to the
ground. Such a storm could have for them only one meaning. The Devil was coming
to claim the soul of Oliver Cromwell. And Cromwell himself cried out in terror:
"It's a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God!"

The
storm swept all of Europe, raging through the night and on into the next day,
and when Cromwell died at three o'clock in the afternoon it was still
desolating the island. His body was immediately embalmed and buried with haste.
But his followers clothed a waxen image of him in robes-of-state and set it up
in Somerset House, as though he had been a king. In derision the people flung
refuse at his funeral escutcheon.

But
there was no one to take his place, and almost two years of semi-anarchy
followed. His son, whom the Protector had designated to succeed him, had none
of his father's ability, and at last the military autocrats got rid of him—much
to his own relief. Immediately skirmishes began between the cavalry and the
infantry, between veterans and new recruits, and another civil war between the
army and the people seemed
inevitable. Despair flooded the land. To go through
with it all again —when nothing had been gained the first time. They began to
think of a restored monarchy with longing, as their only salvation

General
Monk, who had served Charles I but who had finally gone into service for
Cromwell when the King was dead, marched from Scotland and occupied the capital
with his troops. Monk, though a soldier, believed that the military must be
subordinate to the civil power, and it was his scope to liberate the country
from its slavery to the army. He waited cautiously to determine the temper of
the country and then at last, convinced that the royalist fervour which swept
through all classes was an irresistible tide, he declared for Charles Stuart. A
free Parliament was summoned, the King wrote them a letter from Breda declaring
his good intentions, and England was to be, once more, a monarchy—as she
preferred.

London
was packed to overflowing with Royalists and their wives and families, and if a
man existed in all the city who did not wholeheartedly long for his Majesty's
return he was silent, or hidden. And the gradual return to laughter and
pleasure which had been apparent since the end of the wars took a sudden
violent spurt. Restraint was thrown off. A sober garment, a pious look were
regarded as sure signs of a Puritan sympathy and were shunned by whoever would
show his loyalty to the King. The world did a somersault and everything which
had been vice was now, all at once, virtue.

But
it was not merely a wish to appear loyal, a temporary exuberance at the
returning monarchy, the joyousness of sudden relief from oppression. It was
something which struck deeper, and which would be more permanent. The long
years of war had broken families, undermined old social traditions, destroyed
the barriers of convention. A new social pattern was in the making—a pattern
brilliant but also gaudy, gay but also wanton, elegant but also vulgar.

On
the 29th of May, 1660—his thirtieth birthday—Charles II rode into London.

It
was for him the end of fifteen years of exile, of trailing over Europe from one
country to another, unwanted anywhere because his presence was embarrassing to
politicians trying to do business with his father's murderer. It was the end of
poverty, of going always threadbare, of having to wheedle another day's food
from some distrustful innkeeper. It was the end of the fruitless efforts to
regain his kingdom which had occupied him incessantly for over ten years. Above
all it was the end of humiliation and scorn, of being ridiculed and slighted by
men who were his inferiors in rank and in everything else. It was at long last
the end of being a man without a country and a king without a crown.

The
day was clear and bright, brilliantly sunlit, perfectly cloudless, and people
told one another that the weather was
a good omen. From London Bridge to
Whitehall, along his line of march, every street and balcony and window and
rooftop was packed. And though the procession was not expected until after
noon, by eight in the morning there was not a foot of space to be found.
Trainbands to the number of 12,000 men lined the streets—they had fought against
Charles I but were now detailed to keep the crowds in order for his son's
return.

The
signs were draped with May flowers; great arches of hawthorn spanned every
street; and green oak boughs had been nailed over the fronts of many buildings.
Garlands looped from window to window were decorated with ribbons and silver
spoons, brightly polished, gleaming in the sun. From the homes of the
well-to-do floated tapestries and gold and scarlet and green banners—flags
whipped out gallantly on even the humblest rooftop. The fountains ran with wine
and bells pealed incessantly from every church steeple in the city. At last the
deep ponderous booming of cannon announced that the procession had reached
London Bridge.

It
began to wind slowly through the narrow streets, the horses' hoofs clopping
rhythmically on the pavement, trumpets and clarinets shrilling, kettledrums
rolling with a sound as of thunder echoing across the hills. The whole
procession glittered and sparkled—fabulously, almost unbelievably splendid. It
passed in a stream that seemed to have no end: troops of men in
scarlet-and-silver cloaks, black velvet and gold, silver and green, with swords
flashing, banners flying, the horses prancing and snorting, lifting their hoofs
daintily and with pride. Hour after hour it went on until the eyes of the
onlookers grew dazzled and began to ache, their throats were raw from shouting,
and their ears roared with the incessant clamour.

The
hundreds of loyal Cavaliers, men who had fought for the first Charles, who had
sold their goods and their lands to help him and who had followed his son
abroad, rode almost at the end. They were, without exception, handsomely
dressed and mounted—though all this finery had been got on credit. After them
came the Lord Mayor, carrying his naked sword of office. On one side of him was
General Monk, a short stout ugly little man, who nevertheless sat his horse
with dignity and commanded respect from soldiers and civilians alike. Next to
the King he was perhaps the most popular man in England that day. And on the
Lord Mayor's other side rode George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham.

The
Duke, a big, handsome, flagrantly virile man, with hair blond as a god's,
smiled and nodded to the women in the balconies who flung him kisses and tossed
flowers in his path. His rank was second only to that of the princes of the
blood, and his private fortune was the greatest in England. For he had
contrived to marry the daughter of the Parliamentarian general to whom his vast
lands had been given, and so had saved himself. Many knew that for his numerous
treacheries he was in disfavor amounting almost to disgrace, but the Duke
looked as well
pleased with himself as though he had personally engineered the Restoration.

Following
them came several pages, many trumpeters whose banners bore the royal
coat-of-arms, and drummers shining with sweat as they beat out a mighty roar.
At their heels rode Charles II, hereditary King of England, Ireland, and
France, Monarch of Great Britain, Defender of the Faith. A frenzy of adoration,
hysterical and almost religious, swept through the people as he passed, and
surged along before him. They fell to their knees, reaching out their hands
toward him, sobbing, crying his name again and again.

"God
bless your Majesty!"

"Long
live the King!"

Charles
rode slowly, smiling, raising one hand to them in greeting.

He
was tall, more than six feet, with a look of robust good health and animal
strength. His physique was magnificent and never showed to better advantage
than on horseback. The product of many nationalities, he looked far more a
Bourbon or a Medici than he did a Stuart. His skin was swarthy, his eyes black,
and he had an abundance of black shining hair that fell heavily to his
shoulders and rolled over on the ends into great natural rings; when he smiled
his teeth gleamed white beneath a narrow moustache. His features were harsh and
strongly marked, seared by disillusion and cynicism, and yet in spite of that
he had a glowing charm that went out to each of them, warming their hearts.

They
loved him on the instant.

On
either side of him rode his two younger brothers. James, Duke of York, was
likewise tall, likewise athletic, but his hair was blond and his eyes blue, and
more than any of the other children had he resembled his dead father. He was a
handsome man, three years younger than the King, with thick well-defined dark
eyebrows, a slight cleft in his chin and a stubborn mouth. But it was his
misfortune that he did not have his brother's instantly winning manner. And
from the first they held in reserve their estimation of him, critical of
certain coolness and hauteur they discovered in his expression which offended
them. Henry, Duke of Gloucester, was only twenty, a happy vivacious young man
who looked as though he was in love with all the world and did not doubt that
in return it loved him.

It
was late that night when at last the King begged off from further ceremonies
and went to his own apartments in Whitehall Palace, thoroughly exhausted but
happy. He entered his bedchamber still wearing his magnificent robes and
carrying on one arm a little black-and-tan spaniel with a plume-like tail, long
ears, and the petulant face of a cross old lady. Between his feet scampered
half-a-dozen dogs, yapping shrilly—but at a sudden raucous screech they skidded
to a startled halt and
looked up. There was a green parrot, teetering in a ring hung from the ceiling,
eyeing the dogs and squawking angrily.

"Dam
the dogs! Here they come again!"

Recognizing
an old enemy the spaniels quickly recovered their courage and ran to stand in a
pack beneath him jumping and barking while the bird bawled down his curses.
Charles and all the gentlemen who followed him laughed to see them, but finally
the King gave a tired wave of his hand and the menagerie was removed to another
room.