Son and Heir
by Andrew Lee-Hart

 

 

"I will not have a drop of blood spilt for the preservation of my greatness, which is a burden to me." Richard Cromwell

 

“I am the Son and Heir of nothing in particular” Morrissey

 

 

Bruges

 

I suppose that it is typical of a Puritan that in a city as glorious as Bruges, Richard Cromwell, son of the regicide Oliver, and late Lord Protector of England, Scotland and Wales, should choose to live in a squalid building, on a small dingy street, away from all that is joyous and beautiful.

 

A few days ago I met our agent in an inn, and whilst we supped beer he gave me his report.

“He calls himself Prince, ironic that. And he keeps himself aloof from everyone.”

The agent had given me no name, but then names mean little in our business.  He was very tall, particularly amongst the dwarfish Belgians, so that I was scared he would bang his head on the beams above his head, every time he stood up, and he was smartly dressed, so that he had drawn several glances as he entered and sat down opposite me.

 

“He is harmless” the Agent told me, “since he fled England he does not meet anybody, barely goes out, other than to attend chapel. His time in the sun is gone.”

“Perhaps he is playing the long game. Just waiting until we have grown comfortable and then strike. There are many who would fight for him, to return him as Protector.”

“Someone as ineffectual as Prince, or Richard I should say?”

My feeling was that this Agent, had grown over confident. It was as if his Majesty’s return to our shores had meant all our troubles were over…but they were not, and I was quite aware that many in England and on the continent longed for another Republic, and who else but Richard Cromwell could be a figurehead. I was quite sure that Mr Prince, as he called himself, would always be a danger whilst he was still alive.

 

When I saw him in chapel two days later, Mr Prince, looked much older than his thirty or so years; his face tight and grey. He had left his wife and children behind him in Cheshunt, when he fled, where a discreet watch was being kept on them, whilst he sat in the whitewashed chapel staring intently at the Minister who prated away. Richard looked a feeble enough man, one who I could overpower and kill with little effort.

 

When I had had my brief meeting with His Majesty before I left for the Low Countries, he had been ambiguous, as was his wont.

“I leave it up to you; I am told you are an intelligent man. If you feel he is harmless, just a warning should be suffice, but if he is a danger to my beloved country, then do what needs to be done.”

He then dismissed me, and within two days I was in Belgium, unsure, that if I were to kill our former Protector and son of the infamous Oliver, would I be able to return to England. I had fought for Charles to return to England, but I was under no illusion about his ruthlessness and the fact that if need be I would be expendable.

 

I caught up with him as he left the chapel.

“Mr Prince?”

He did not turn, but hurried his pace.

“We need to talk” I told him, I caught up with him most easily, and took hold of his elbow, gripping him tightly.

“Who are you fellow?”

“We have friends in common. And I believe that you can be of service.”

“I am a merchant; I can sell you cloth but not on the Sabbath.”

“I know perfectly well who you are, and I know that we both want the same thing, and that it has nothing to do with cloth.”

 

We walked along the canal, heading out of the city, my hand still holding firmly onto his arm; there was nobody about so that I could have killed him there; a stab in the chest, and then pushed him in, and nobody would be any the wiser. By the time his body touched the bottom I would have left the city. I don’t know why I didn’t; I have killed many worthier men and even women, but I kept my dagger in its scabbard and talked instead.

 

“Well Mr Cromwell, let us there be no pretence between us. Powerful men are backing me; they wish you to return to England. Charles is weak and foolish and the English are already regretting recalling him from the continent. The throne is waiting for you, if you are prepared to reach for it.”

 “If I were who you think I am, why would I wish to return? It is well-known that the son could not manage his father’s role, and in truth he was glad to step down; if there had been a method of refusing it and retaining my honour he would have done so far sooner than he did.”

 

We found ourselves amidst warehouses, where idlers and children hung about. I still felt that Prince would escape if given half an opportunity so I staid alert as we continued to talk.

“God is calling you to your role; you have no choice. You need to save our godless nation.”

“He is doing no such thing. Authority and power is for the Devil; my father was a great man, greater than I could ever be, but even he made the mistake of thinking he spoke for anybody but himself. Now I will hear no more of this, begone.”

In one movement, he pulled off my arm and gave me a push, stronger than I expected, so that I stumbled and by the time that I had regained my balance, he had hurried away and was soon hidden amidst the worthy Belgians, enjoying a Sabbath walk.

 

I spoke to him again the following Sunday, but he did not answer and when I called on him at his lodgings, I was told by the homely maid that he was “indisposed”. In the meantime I made plans.

 

I made acquaintance of Richard’s maid. She was called Marie and was an orphan and had come from Brussels a few months earlier. I think that she was rather lonely, she was certainly easy enough to befriend. I gave her silver and promised her more if she would help me.

“He owes my master money” I told her, “but he refuses to pay. I need to get it back or at least some of it. I am quite sure that he has it hidden away somewhere in his rooms.”

She looked at me bemused, “but he seems such a good man.”

“I am sure he is most worthy, but he has gold that does not belong to him, and I cannot return to England without it, it is more than my life is worth.”

 

She thought about it as we sat in my rooms. She was buxom and young but plain; I imagined that she wanted to be married and have children, to become one of the plump housewives I saw in Bruges market, haggling and gossiping, with a husband as unimaginative and simple as she was.

“Will you promise not to hurt him?”

I assured her that I wouldn’t, feeling surprisingly guilty as I did so.

“I will leave the door open on Thursday night; and you can come in and have your dealings with Monsieur Prince. But remember you have promised not to harm him.”

And she drew me a map, to show me his room.

 

I gave her some more coins and stroked her shoulder. If my taste had lain that way I would have tried to seduce her, but I had no interest in that, and anyway money was enough of an aphrodisiac for her. She pocketed the money and left whilst I wrote a note to the Agent, “it will be done this Thursday.” I had killed before and no doubt would kill again, but still I was nervous and also had some sympathy for Mr Cromwell, who seemed little more than a weak-brained fool, but that was not a capital offence, if it had been the world would be a far emptier place.

 

We had agreed midnight, and at that time I made my way to the house. It was a dark November night, and I shivered slightly with cold rather than with fear. It is odd, because I can usually picture my victims dead before I strike, but not Richard, I just could not see it; he remained resolutely alive in my head. However the front door was unlocked, and I pushed it just enough for me to sneak inside and then gently shut it behind me.

 

The house was pitch dark and silent, and I wondered where Marie was; hopefully asleep, like the chaste young woman she was. And what about the rest of the house? Was anybody else awake; the cook or even Richard himself, praying or reading some book by a Puritan Divine. But everything seemed still as I cautiously walked up the stairs in front of me. It was a tall house with three storeys and Richard was on the middle floor, in what – according to Marie’s sketch - looked to be a large set of rooms. Curiously the house smelt of nothing, not food or the smell of humanity. It was strange, and for a moment I wondered if I come to the right building, but of course I had.

 

Richard’s door was there in front of me, and I took a breath and listened intently; there was no sound coming from inside. I braced myself, grasped the door handle and pushed the door open, half expecting gunfire or the thrust of a sword, but there was nothing and so after a moment, I strode forward into the room.

 

I had expected a bed and furniture, with Richard asleep or looking up in shock after being interrupted in his reading. But there was nothing, just bare walls, not even a carpet or curtains. And then I heard a sound behind me, and before I could turn, there was a sharp pain in my side and something hit me hard on the head…

 

My next sight was the agent, sitting by my bed, picking his teeth. And his first words, “you were set up.”

I struggled to sit up, there was a bandage on my left side and my head ached, whilst a fever racked my body, so I gave up and lay back down.

“The maid is his mistress, and they fled two days ago.”

“Where to?”

He shrugged, “possibly France, or Germany. By the time we discovered that they had disappeared they had long gone.”

“I need to pursue them.”

“No the king has summoned you home. Once you have recovered of course. He does not think that Richard is a danger.”

“But he stabbed me, or she did.”

“No that was the caretaker of the building. He had been warned that somebody was going to try and rob the building and was prepared. There is no point in pursuing it.”

 

I sighed, feeling sore and unwell.

“Come, have something to eat, the king has need of you in England, forget Richard, he is nothing and nobody.”

And he left me, whilst I drank some wine and shortly afterwards fell back asleep.

 

 

Cheshunt

 

The man who called himself John Clarke sat at his desk, writing by the light of a candle. The room smelt stuffy; of sweat and oil.

“Are you a lawyer from my gluttonous Son? Well I have nothing to say to him or to you.”

It had been over twenty years since I last saw him, and yet he seemed to have aged very little if at all; his face was still thin and cadaverous, his eyes humourless and suspicious.  He looked poor; his jacket was torn and stained, whilst his room contained a few books and little else, and yet he was a relatively wealthy man; he owned land and had gold. He was a widower now, his wife Dorothy having died whilst he was abroad. Not that he ever mentioned her in my hearing, so that I felt rather sorry for her; a harmless soul whose life had not been her own and had now been forgotten.

 

“Oh the noise” he muttered, as the sound of hammering from the blacksmith penetrated his rooms, “shut the door fellow, the noise is too much for me.”

He wrote some more, ignoring me. Now that the former Lord Protector had returned to England I had been asked by the King to keep an eye on him. Charles too, had aged since he sent me to Bruges all those years ago, and I suspected that he would die soon. But under that pale glistening skin, the eyes looked at me full of life.

“See what he is up to, so long as he is content to be a country squire then we need not trouble ourselves about him. Sound him out, and report back to me.”

 

Richard looked up at me.

“So, what has my son to say? Is he continuing in his obduracy?”

“I am afraid that I have not come from your son.”

“Are you not a lawyer?”

I admitted that I was.

“I have so many cases outstanding. Family, other tradesmen. It is so wearying trying to get justice. And I have little money.”

 

“I met you in Bruges, you have not aged much Mister Cromwell, but you have changed your name; no longer Mr Prince.”

He chuckled, “I dare say; I have had more than my fair share of hardship. More than most, and it is best not to reveal too much of myself.”

“I come from the King.”

“Oh that pit of corruption still alive is he?”

“You would do well to speak more politely of your betters.” I warned him.

“He is welcome to me; if he wants me to end my life in a cell then he can take me now. It is little better than how I live now, and I would get decent food and clean linen.”

 

I sighed, and left, slamming the door as I did so, which brought out a scream of anger from the room’s occupant. Chuckling to myself, I walked the streets of Cheshunt, trying to regain my temper.  It was a fine town, picturesque but thriving. I wondered how many former rulers got to live out their declining years in such a pleasing place.

 

Later I spoke to Thomas his landlord.

“You know who your tenant is?”

Thomas pretended to look confused.

“Don’t play the fool, I am from the king. I need to know how he is. Any sign of treason.”

Thomas laughed; “he is too busy fighting with his children to try and do anything so foolish. He is a cantankerous old man, who hates music and laughter, and everything else true and good in this world. At night I hear him praying, but otherwise it is scribble, scribble. If it wasn’t for what he once was I would have thrown him out weeks ago.”

 

“What happened to Marie?”

I asked him, as he walked to church the following morning.

“I am going to my devotions.” He replied waspishly, “leave me alone.”

“What happened to the young woman who saved your life?”

“Why? Someone like you would not be interested in a young woman, no matter how pretty she might be.”

“She saved your life.”

“She did not save my life; I had you worked out from the beginning. She was useful to me, and then she became pregnant, and died.”

“What happened to the baby?”

“It was dealt with, nothing you need worry about.” And he hurried away to his devotions.

 

I rode away, glad to put him behind me, to get back to my work in London, and forget about a man who was both foolish and selfish. And yet…. as before I wondered was he as pettish as he seemed? And whilst I disliked him, I wanted to talk to him further, find out what was really going on within his skull.

 

 

Ware

 

Although I told the king that he need not fear Richard, that he was a rather pathetic old man with no ambitions other than to get money from his children, I continued to visit him, at first in Cheshunt and then in nearby Ware, after he (unsuccessfully) tried to sue his landlord Thomas Pengelly, and was forced to leave his lodgings. He fascinated me and in truth I had more time on my hands, as the King had less and less use for me, as he concentrated on the world to come rather than here and now.

 

At first Richard resented my visits, but slowly he became used to them and we would sit together in his cold rooms either talking quietly or more often than not sitting in silence. Almost despite himself he was interested in the royal family; Charles, and then after his death, his brother James, and he would ask me about them, he did not seem to be seeking scandal, rather, how they lived their lives, how they filled their time, and their dealings with the army and parliament. I wondered if he was trying to work out how he could have been a better leader, after all despite affecting to despise Charles and James, they had remained in power and dealt with the various groups who were vying for power.

 

One peculiarity of his was that he hated music; even his maid was forbidden to sing, and once or twice when I found myself whistling a tune, he glared at me until I stopped.

“The more silence there is, the closer I am to God. When I was king, too much sound drowned out the word of the Almighty, the tongues of flatterers, the demands of the army and parliament, the trumpets and the choirs. No wonder I could not find God in all that; my father in Heaven, who would have led me into the paths of righteousness.”

 

We went for walks near the town, which was mostly agricultural despite the old Roman road running through it. The few people we saw seemed to know him but the most he got was a brief salutation; nobody wanted to stop and talk.

“The birds seem to be getting louder” he told me once, apropos of nothing.

I smiled at him but did not reply, and that is perhaps that is why he was more tolerant of me than most of his acquaintances; I rarely spoke let alone challenged him. I might have to kill him – although that seemed less and less likely – but I saw no reason to argue with him.

 

“I am outliving all these kings and queens” he told me on my penultimate visit, with what can only be described as a malicious tone. “Charles, James, Mary and now William. It as if God is trying to tell them something. Does the new Queen know of my existence?”

“How could she not?”

He laughed, “does she know that you are here?”

“She knows everything.”

 

“Say what you like about my father’s reign, but it was peaceful and less corrupt. Since then there has been decadence and money thrown away. Perhaps I was too weak, but I imagine that most of our ordinary citizens would have me back in a trice…. in fact I often have letters from people asking me to return. I have been promised armies.”

As he spoke I was not sure how serious he was. A rapidly aging man, who flinched at the sound of his maid singing; what threat could he be?

“What they really need is the return of my father” he said after a few moments of thought, “an iron fist and strong morality. Weak monarchs are bad for the country. We need someone, who can enact God’s will. Not these papists and atheists; decadent to the core.”

He gripped my arm, “and when you write to your blessed Queen, you can tell her all this, and tell her that she is a small stream compared to the ocean that was my father and that I will outlive, her and her children.”

“As you wish,” and I left him outside his house, and rode back to London, wondering if I should be visiting this rather unpleasant old man, and should I report that threats, from someone who was clearly deluded and quite probably mad.

 

 

Death Bed

 

Despite what he thought, Queen Anne rarely concerned herself with Richard and as I was getting feebler and concentrating on less temporal things, I too did not think on him either.  I perhaps assumed that he was dead, he had certainly appeared very frail on my last visit, and so many of my contemporaries had died or were dying. However one morning I was woken by my young man with a letter written in a hand that I did not recognise.

“Richard Cromwell, late Protector, is dying. Please come as he is calling for you.”

 

I had drunk too much the night before, and felt as if I too was dying, but I saddled up and once I was on the road to Ware, I felt stronger than I had for awhile. Although it was July there was a brisk, invigorating wind, and the feel of my horse at my knees galvanised me. I wondered how old Richard was; certainly in his eighties I thought, but then I too would be eighty if I lived another year. We were from a previous generation; a generation divided by war and religious conflict. Surely this was a better time, more kindly and tolerant, with less anger and superstition, and I was glad that I had seen it come to pass.

 

It had been almost five years since I had visited Richard last, but I had no difficulty finding where he lodged. The house was silent and as I walked in, his landlord, Mr Pettigrew, spoke in hushed tones as he told me to remove my boots.

“Even the faintest sound bothers him” I was told by Pettigrew, and I was ushered into his bedroom. Richard was snoring gently, his face pale, almost drained of colour. He was alone, and I sat by his bed, glad of the rest and I too drifted off to sleep, my head resting against the same pillow that the dying man was lying upon, a strange intimacy, but which felt comfortable.

 

“So you have come from the Queen?” he ventured, his voice barely audible, “well she will be relieved that I am dead.”

I smiled at him and was about to talk, but he interrupted, “don’t speak; I have heard all that man can say. You can stay, but let me commune with my God, I have much to repent of.”

And so I stayed throughout the day, as he alternately slept or called for water; occasionally he called out to his father, but I was never sure if he was calling to Oliver or to his God.

 

At three in the afternoon he called out, “my son” and I saw tears in his eyes. I knew that he meant the son he had with Marie his maid from Bruges. Had he died in some squalid inn in France or Germany, or was he alive, unaware of his cursed lineage.

“Where is he?”

But he said nothing more and was soon asleep, snoring gently, as his life slowly came to an end.

 

Nobody else visited other than his landlord, who would occasionally hurry into the room, glance at the man on his bed, and then disappear without saying a word, giving the appearance of wanting the whole thing to be over with and for him be rid of his troublesome tenant.

 

And then in the early hours of July 12th, Richard – former Lord Protector of the Commonwealth of England, Scotland and Ireland -, coughed and sat up and then said clearly, “my father”, before falling back onto his pillow.  I bent over him but it was clear that he was dead. I closed his eyes, and kissed his forehead. After a moment of silent prayer, I left the room. His landlord looked at me, and I just nodded before I mounted my horse and rode back towards London, feeling curiously empty but also relieved, as if something dark in my heart had been plucked out.

 

 

Kensington Palace

 

I rode straight to Kensington Palace, and spoke to the Queen’s Secretary.

“Please wait here” he told me, and then shortly afterwards I was ushered into the presence of Queen Anne.  She looked tired and unhealthy, and I felt sorry for her, of all the leaders I had known, she was the one I admired the most, and perhaps even loved because there appeared to be something decent about her, and a sense of duty that her predecessors had lacked, but then perhaps I am getting sentimental in my old age.

 

“So the son of the usurper is dead?”

I bowed “yes your majesty.”

She thought for a moment, “was he a good man?”

And I thought for a moment, “I do not know; but he was never a danger, just foolish and weak.”

“Many of us are that” said the Queen and after a few moments dismissed me. She too I never saw again.

 

And I rode home, through a new and more civilised England, knowing that I soon too would be dead, and would be forgotten, like the man who for a few months had been God’s spokesman on earth, and now was decaying flesh. No better than the rest of his subjects, no better, but no worse.

 

Rate this story.

Copyright is reserved by the author. Please do not reproduce any part of this article without consent.