London - Edward Rutherfurd [388]
Many of the city aldermen and the richer London families were starting to have similar doubts: “The wards have elected a new common council of troublemakers and radicals.” As if to confirm all their fears, just days after Christmas a great mob of apprentices rioted at Westminster and had to be dispersed by troops. And then, for the first time Julius heard the word he was soon to learn to dread. “You know what the troops called the apprentices as they chased them past Whitehall?” Henry asked him. “They saw most of the young devils had close-cropped hair, so they called them Roundheads.” He laughed. “Roundheads. That’s what they are.”
Within days, five hundred young gentlemen from the Inns of Court had offered their services to King Charles, to maintain order. Even the new common council agreed to call out the city’s armed men to keep the peace.
Yet just when all sorts of influential people were beginning to have doubts about the opposition to the monarch, Julius, sitting over his accounts in the big house behind Mary-le-Bow, was astonished to see the heavy oak door of the parlour burst open and his brother, of all people, announce: “The king has gone mad.”
The actions of King Charles I of England in the first week of January 1642 did not show he was mad, but merely that he had not the faintest understanding of English politics.
On 3 January he sent the sergeant-at-arms to arrest five members of the Commons. The Commons refused him entry. The next day, breaching all etiquette, he turned up himself, and found that the five, including King Pym, and Pennington the Puritan of London, had departed. The Speaker would not tell him where they were – “Your Majesty, I have neither eyes to see nor tongue to speak but as this House is pleased to direct me” – and balked of his prey the king remarked: “I see the birds have flown.”
Kings did not arrest members of Parliament for speaking their minds in the House. It was against all custom. It was a breach of Parliament’s privilege. From that day to this, when the monarch’s representative comes to summon the Commons to the yearly opening ceremony, the door is symbolically slammed in his face. When Charles went to the Guildhall the next day, even the mayor and aldermen, who disliked the radicals, could not help him.
“Privilege of Parliament,” they reminded him. “Privilege of Parliament,” people cried, as he returned through the streets.
Five days later, King Charles and his queen moved to the safety of Hampton Court. King Pym stayed in London.
All through that spring Julius waited. There were, perhaps, tiny grounds for hope. Parliament was at least maintaining the fiction of loyalty. It called for troops, but in the king’s name, saying they were needed for Ireland. But it was clear that Parliament had a much better idea of how to get the city’s support than ever King Charles had. A huge city loan, refused before, was now promptly granted – in return for another two and a half million acres of Ireland.
By April a new militia was being raised: six regiments, no less. “For the king’s defence,” of course. One day, Julius saw Gideon, solemnly carrying a halberd, leading a little troop of apprentices who were marching down Cheapside. Yet still he persisted in believing that common sense must prevail.
When Henry, who had left with the king at last returned, Julius plied him anxiously for news. “Will the king not seek a compromise?” But Henry shook his head.
“He can’t. Whatever his own mistakes, Pym has pushed him too far. You know very well, Julius, we have to maintain order. The Parliament must be taught a lesson.”
“He’ll raise troops?”
“The queen has left for France with the royal jewels. She’s going to pawn them to raise the money.”
He left after only three days and by the time he returned briefly two months later, he informed