London - Edward Rutherfurd [402]
First however, as was his habit, before the meal began Sir Julius reverently brought out a small book. No important anniversary ever passed without his quietly reading from it and reminding his family of their duty, and he did so now.
It was an inspirational little volume. Its title, Eikon Basilike was taken from Greek and meant “The Image of the King”. The simple, moving text was said to be the prayers and reflections of the martyred king; and within three months of Charles’s death it had gone through thirty printings. The Roundheads had indignantly tried to censor it. Then they had engaged the great Puritan poet, John Milton, to write a pamphlet against it. But it was no good: even men who supported Parliament but had doubts about Cromwell’s new military regime might read the king’s book and, finding only sweetness and humble devotion there, begin to wonder if his execution had been just.
For the Ducket family, of course, the issue was not even in question. The book was like a little Bible; the king a holy martyr; and having read a few pages, Sir Julius quietly laid it down and reminded them: “Charles II is our true king; should he die, he is succeeded by his brother James. Remember, we have promised.” Then, with happy faces, they set out their Christmas dinner.
They did not hear the soldiers approach the house and enter the courtyard; and they were completely taken by surprise when suddenly, with a bang, the door flew open and Gideon, together with four troopers, marched in and surrounded the table.
“Sir Julius,” he announced. “You will answer to the magistrates for this.” For the crime which the baronet had committed was not the reading of the little book, which he had just had time to slip into his pocket, nor even his words about the king; the crime of Sir Julius Ducket and his family was that they were having Christmas dinner.
For this was another of the improvements that the saints had wrought. “The great holy days should be like the Sabbath,” they declared: “times for solemn prayer, not heathen festivals.” The English people must be brought closer to God. Anyone caught having Christmas dinner, in the year of Our Lord 1652, was liable to appear on a charge in court. “You have profaned the Holy Day,” Gideon said in disgust, then ordered the troops: “Search the house.”
“Search the house?” Julius demanded. “Whatever for?”
“Superstitious images. Evidence of popery,” Gideon calmly announced.
There was nothing Julius could do about it. For half an hour the Roundheads went from room to room, opening cupboards, chests, turning over mattresses; they even searched the cellar, but they found nothing. Julius was not afraid. Even for a known Malignant, the penalty for eating Christmas dinner would only be a modest fine. Furious at the violation of his home, however, he followed them round, remarking contemptuously to Gideon: “I just want to make sure none of you steals anything.”
He was in an upper room when, glancing out of the window, he noticed the two women. Martha and Jane were waiting by the outer gate, looking in expectantly. Martha he could understand. But why Jane? Why should she be concerned about his business? Then he suddenly understood; turning upon Gideon he cried: “You aren’t looking for papist images, are you? You’re looking for the Wheeler widow’s money.” And Gideon, just for a second, blushed.
Seeing Julius’s wife buy such a large joint of beef in the market had given Jane the idea. They must be planning a Christmas dinner, she had thought. What a perfect excuse. Martha had organized the rest.
By the time Gideon finished, a short while later, Jane had slipped away; so as Julius, white with anger, accompanied him and his men to the gate, he found only Martha standing there. And it was then, enraged almost beyond endurance at what they had done, that he allowed himself to burst out with a cruelty he would never normally have used:
“What a good friend