“We shall speak of this again,” Obadiah promised.
The family arguments were resolved, for the time being at least. Despite the outcome, she sensed in the brothers a feeling of relief that it was over.
And then – strangest of all, it seemed to her – the brothers calmly sat and discussed the coming war they meant to fight against each other.
“London and the east are for Parliament, of course,” Edmund remarked. These were the great Puritan and merchant strongholds.
“Don’t forget, you’ll have all the ports as well,” Nathaniel reminded him. The trading sailors of England had no love of the Stuarts whose friendship with the Catholic powers who were their trading rivals infuriated them; even now, they had not forgotten how James I had cynically executed the sailor adventurer Sir Walter Raleigh to please the Spanish ambassador. “The sailors will never forgive the Stuarts for Raleigh,” he laughed.
“The north and west will stay Royalist, I think,” Edmund said. The old feudal landlords and tenants in the countryside still believed in the sacredness of the king, whatever crimes he committed.
“And Sarum?” Margaret asked.
Like many parts of England, the situation in Sarum was complex. The town, like other cloth towns, was naturally for Parliament. Most of the local gentry were for Parliament too. Even the Seymours in the north of the county had havered before royal appointments and titles had secured them for the king. Other old names – Hungerford, Baynton, Evelyn, Long, Ludlow, fine old families – were for Parliament. These local men, solid Justices, with their English Bibles, their independent customs and increasingly Puritan outlook, had no use for this king with his European ways and Catholic sympathies, who despised the Parliament in which they and other gentlemen sat and expected to be listened to.
“Some of the gentry in Wiltshire country will go with the king,” Edmund said. “The Catholics like Lord Arundel of course; Penruddock; Thynne of Longleat I think; the Hydes.” The large Hyde family, more recently settled near Salisbury, were cousins of the king’s great lawyer, and respected supporters of the king.
But Nathaniel shook his head sadly.
“Arundel’s old; Thynne’s crippled by a lawsuit; Penruddock’s a politician, not a soldier. Whereas, brother, you have Lord Pembroke. Though he’s no commander, the Pembroke influence still weighs in the balance.” For the earl, after seeming to hesitate, had accepted Parliament’s offer of the lord lieutenancy that spring and so effectively declared himself against the king. He had hated both Buckingham and Strafford and his example would be followed.
“Yet,” Nathaniel said with a laugh, “I still have the bishop with me.”
Although many of his clergy – half those even in Salisbury town – were Puritans, Bishop Duppa, a good High Churchman like his predecessors, had been made tutor to the royal princes.
“Much good it will do you,” Obadiah replied grimly.
“And Sir Henry Forest?” Nathaniel enquired. “Which way will he jump, brother?”
To which, for once, serious Edmund allowed himself a smile.
“Why, with the winning side, my dear Nathaniel, to be sure.”
Sir Henry Forest, Baronet, had decided to walk home. It was not far.
He had respected William Shockley and he had not been sorry when, twenty years before, the cloth merchant had bought the fine old farm that lay next to his estate at Avonsford, enlarged the house so that it was almost a small manor, and settled in the Avon valley.
He had a shrewd idea of the arguments in the Shockley family now, and guessed correctly that the brothers would be split apart.
Sir Henry Forest smiled. They did not realise it, but their falling out might be to his advantage.
As for which side he would take in the war with the king – he had not decided.
The time of the Stuarts had been good for the Forest family. After making several lucrative investments in the new tobacco trade with America, Forest’s father had done better still with the recently formed East India Company whose trade in the Far East was bringing all manner of new luxuries to the busy trading island.
It had not only been good for them financially: for it was the Stuarts, as one of their expedients to raise money, who had invented the new title of baronet. By acquiring this dignity a man would be called Sir Henry, like a knight, but unlike a mere knight, pass the title on to his male heirs in perpetuity, like a lord. It was a brilliant idea, perfectly aimed at rising families like the Forests, and Henry had gladly paid the considerable sum into the king’s coffers to see his family ennobled at last. Once on the ladder of nobility, there were higher titles to be had – baron, viscount, earl. Why, to secure his allegiance, Seymour had even been made a marquis, only one rank below a duke! Forest had every reason to support the Stuarts.
But was it wise to join the king when so many in Wiltshire were against him?
“I have no desire to be at odds with the country,” he had told his wife that morning.
By the word ‘country’ he meant not England, but only the county of Wiltshire. But the usage of the day conveyed very accurately the independence of each shire, with its magnates and gentry who administered justice, raised the levies when needed, and usually nowadays – still more than in the previous century – sat for the boroughs in Parliament instead of the burgesses.
“I’ll follow Pembroke,” he decided. “Besides, let them fight a battle first, so I can see which way the wind blows.”
It was as he walked along the path above the river that Sir Henry Forest, turning to look towards the water, forgot the Civil War again.
For there they lay: William Shockley’s proudest achievement – the water meadows: a little masterpiece of scientific irrigation, stretching across the valley bottom – acres of green, rich grazing, man-made, worth a fortune now. They lay next to his estate; but he had no water meadows of his own.
He stared at them thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing.
If those Shockleys fell out with each other, he might have those water meadows yet.
1643:
AUGUST
The first event that Samuel Shockley could remember to the end of his long life took place when he was three.
To him it seemed the happiest of days.
He was riding on Nathaniel’s shoulders and they were entering the cathedral.
The sunlight was catching Nathaniel’s long, fair hair; his uncle’s strong hands held his feet and he leaned over to play with the long silky strands of his pointed beard.
He did not understand what they were doing, but he knew it was important. Everything Nathaniel did was important: he was winning the war.
The sun was warm. Little Samuel always remembered the sunshine that day.
For Margaret, it was a day first of bright sunshine but then of gloom.
How pleasant it was, to ride into the city in the little cart with Nathaniel. Her Nathaniel, in his brightly coloured doublet, his breeches tucked into his boots with their folded tops and lace edgings. Nathaniel gaily wearing his broad-brimmed Cavalier’s hat, and smoking his long clay pipe.
“The best pipes in England are made by Gauntlet of Wiltshire,” he declared, as they drove along, and showed little Samuel the tiny stamp of a gauntlet under the bowl of the pipe that was the mark of the famous maker.
Nathaniel that long summer. Her Nathaniel. As they walked gaily through the close with the child, she could see that people mistook them for husband and wife. “And with Samuel, my brother and the farm to look after,” she thought with a smile, “what would I do with a husband now if I had one?”
The war had gone well for Nathaniel – badly for Edmund and Obadiah. The forces for Parliament were poorly organised and badly led. At Edgehill in the north, the king’s dashing young cousin Prince Rupert had trained the Cavalier squires in the new Swedish tactics of lightning charges and swept all before him. Lord Pembroke had gone to London and the gentlemen supposed to lead the Parliamentary forces in Wiltshire – Hungerford and Baynton – had quarrelled. Everywhere the king’s cavalry and Cornish infantry were winning; one after another, the towns of Wiltshire fell; and in May 1643, Seymour, whom the king had made Marquis of Hertford, swept down to Sarum from Oxford, captured the city, and imprisoned the mayor for three weeks.
Obadiah had gone to London. Edmund was with the Parliamentary forces – Margaret did not know where.
But with the Royalists came Nathaniel.
“And as well for our property that I am here and Edmund is not,” he cried happily, as he first strode into the hall. For with the Royalists in the ascendant at Sarum, the known supporters of Parliament were being fined and plundered.
Thank God for the farm. To the Shockleys, it had always been a place of refuge. By sheer good luck William Shockley had sold up the old fulling mill and the cloth business and moved his young family to the farm just a few years before one of the worst attacks of the plague in centuries had come to Sarum. The plague had missed Avonsford this time and the Shockleys had not only been safe, but had been able to send generous supplies into Salisbury to help the heroic mayor John Ivie in his fight to save the townspeople. And later, being wealthy, he had sent money when Ivie tried to run a brewery for the benefit of the town’s poor – a venture the other brewers soon scotched.
Now, with the Civil War, the town seemed scarcely in a better state. The population was down, the cloth industry sunk in depression, and many merchants had been fined by both the opposing sides. Some of the cathedral plate had also been taken.
But the farm was rich, and as safe from the war as it had been from the plague.
Even such a well-known Parliamentarian as John Ivie himself cheerfully came to call, as he had done in years gone by. For, Royalist or not, it was impossible to dislike Nathaniel.
At first glance the cathedral seemed quiet as they walked up the nave.
It was only when they reached the transept where the great bending pillars soared that one became aware of a small group of men busily engaged.
When they arrived, the four men were briefly resting and drinking beer; but already there was a pile of wooden casing on the ground beside them, and loaded on a small cart, half a dozen long pipes, each with a number chalked upon it.
They were dismantling the cathedral’s great double organ.
“I spoke to the dean the other week,” Nathaniel explained. “I warned him it should be done and I am glad he has taken my advice.” Then he took little Samuel and showed him the great pipes, explaining to him where the air entered and left to produce the sound.
“What are they doing?” Samuel asked.
Nathaniel laughed. “They’re hiding the organ from your uncle Obadiah,” he said. “Obadiah does not like music.”
The dour dislike of the Puritans for anything conducive to human happiness had taken many forms. A Puritan like the famous Prynne could even find it necessary to write a tract denouncing the evil of long hair. And now this dislike had extended to music with the threat of an Act of Parliament to order the demolition of all church organs in the land.
The dismantling of the great organ of Salisbury Cathedral was a wise act of foresight on the part of the dean and chapter. When the Act was passed the next year, Salisbury’s organ was already safely hidden away.
To Samuel this seemed a fine adventure. When they had inspected the organ, Nathaniel carried him back through the close and into the market place, pointing out St Thomas’s Church as they went.
It was here, to his delight, that Nathaniel had discovered that the curate, John King, was a secret Royalist.
“If the news of the Royalist forces is good, he orders a psalm of rejoicing – if Parliament’s won a battle, he calls for a psalm of penitence.” He roared with laughter. “Why I go to church more than ever I did before,” he cried, “just to see what psalm he’ll light on next.”
And though Samuel did not really understand all this, he laughed happily at his uncle’s infectious good humour.
Just as they were leaving the city, they met their cousin young Charles Moody.
Perhaps because old Edward Shockley fifty years ago had warned his grandson William to be wary of them – though he would never be specific as to his reasons – the Shockleys seldom saw their Catholic Moody cousins. But recently Nathaniel’s support of the king had opened communications between the two families. Occasionally now, one of them would ride over from Shaftesbury to discuss the military situation with him; and the most frequent visitor was young Charles Moody. He was a dark, intense boy of twenty who followed both Margaret and Nathaniel about so closely that, as Nathaniel joked, it was hard to tell if he hero-worshipped him, was in love with her, or both. “He wants to fight in the next campaign,” he explained. “I’ve promised he shall ride at my side.”
The party rode back to Avonsford together. Samuel liked his cousin Charles and frequently amused them by his demands to ride with him. “Another Cavalier!” they cried. And though he was very young, he always afterwards remembered the journey as well as the visit to the cathedral. It had been a perfect day.