Marie Brennan - In Ashes Lie

ST. STEPHEN’S CHAPEL, WESTMINSTER: November 11, 1640

If there was one decision that could have made the dissolution of Parliament in May seem an even graver error, it was the choice to summon it again six months later.

There was little joy this time, except of a fierce and battle-ready sort. All over England, supporters of the Crown went down in resounding defeat. And although Antony did not consider himself a King’s man, he was not godly enough, and not sympathetic enough to Pym’s cause, to win reelection easily. Publicly, he said he regained his seat through the grace of God; in truth, he owed it to the fae. Lune had not said one word of complaint when he asked her for aid. It was the only way to keep the Onyx Court represented in the Commons.

So in the bleak days of November, they gathered once more in Westminster Palace, to fight over the governance of England. Damply unpleasant winds blew in through the broken windows of the chapel, causing the men who gathered within to shiver and wrap their cloaks more firmly about their shoulders. The windows had been as badly off the previous spring—victims of the long years when the Commons was disbanded—but no one had minded them then. Now, in the chill grip of an early winter, they added a grim touch to grimmer proceedings.

Arrayed along one wall were the King’s opponents, with their officers all in a row. Antony doubted anyone did not see John Pym as a general in this political war, leading Hampden, St. John, Strode and Holles, Hesilrige and Secretary Vane’s fanatical son, against the Crown’s own disorganized forces. They would cripple the King if they could, paring away slivers of his power until it all rested in their own hands; indeed, they had already begun. Now they prepared for their next move.

Antony watched Pym unblinking from the moment the opening prayers concluded. Without question, he knows what has happened. His intelligence is at least as good as mine.

And if Antony had learned anything about Pym in the three and a half disastrous weeks last spring, it was that the man was a master of timing. Unlike his subordinates, he never let the passion of his beliefs carry him out of the course of effective action. Though Penington was chafing at the bit to attack the bishops and destroy the episcopacy, root and branch, Pym held him back, lest such Puritan zeal alienate more moderate members of the House. But when his time came…

Antony, not attending in the slightest to the debate currently under way, saw Pym receive a message and rise with his hat off.

He must have taken his seat.

Thomas Wentworth, the Earl of Strafford, had arrived in London the previous night. Parliament was nearly a week into its new sitting, but Pym delayed his attack, waiting for his enemy to arrive and take his place in the House of Lords. Now, at last, Pym could move against the King’s “evil councillor”—the man he would make a whipping boy for all the troubles in Scotland and Ireland both, and England, too. Pym could not strike directly at Charles, but he could harry the King like a dog at a bear, inflicting a hundred small wounds to bleed and weaken him of his power.

Lenthall, the weak-willed man who had succeeded Glanville as Speaker, gave Pym permission to speak. “I have something of gravest import to say,” Pym told them all, “and so I call upon the sergeant-at-arms to clear the antechamber, and to bar all doors from this House.” He waited while this was done, while the rumors ran up and down the benches, and then commenced his assault.

From tyranny to sexual misdeeds, he laid a whole series of crimes at Strafford’s feet. Nor was he alone: his minion Clotworthy succeeded him with another speech, far less coherent but far more inflammatory, and then more after him. All riding hard toward the same end: the impeachment of the Earl of Strafford, on the charge of treason.

Pym had tried it years ago, with the Duke of Buckingham; Charles had dissolved Parliament rather than let his chief councillor of the time suffer attack. Now the leader of Parliament took aim again, when Charles could not evade it. This time, he might strike home.

But first, a committee; hardly anything was done anymore without a committee to chew it over first. The composition of that body was no surprise, either. Pym had planned for this, as he planned for everything, and the committee returned in remarkably quick time, opening the general debate. Antony seized his own opportunity to speak.

“Of a certainty, Lord Strafford has taken many actions both here and in Ireland that bear closer scrutiny,” he said, meeting the eyes of his fellow members. “Whether those actions constitute treason is a matter for the law to decide. But we must not let them pass unremarked, for fear that others might then try to press that liberty beyond the bounds of what is just and right. By all means, gentlemen—let us send to the Lords a message of impeachment.”

He took perverse pleasure in seeing the astonishment on Pym’s face as he sat once more. You think I support you and your junto. But I do not do this for you; I do it for Lune.

They had no word yet from Cerenel, though they knew he had arrived in Fife. And while no madmen with iron knives had shown up again, the disturbances at court had not ended. They needed the information Eochu Airt had—and that meant getting rid of Thomas Wentworth, the Earl of Strafford.

For once, Antony was glad of Pym’s attack. He still despised the man’s junto, and many of the things it fought for, but in this one matter, they stood as temporary allies.

The message summoned Antony out into the Old Palace Yard, where he found Ben Hipley waiting for him on the cobblestones.

“Have they impeached the earl?” the other man asked, hardly even pausing to make his greeting.

“Yes,” Antony said. “They have taken the message in to the Lords—Pym and the others.”

Hipley swore sulfurously. “And Strafford just came back. He left this morning for Whitehall, to talk to the King, but I saw him return not five minutes ago. Damnation!”

The curses were drawing far too much attention. They were hardly the only people in the yard; Parliament scarcely sat but there were mobs outside, thronging the streets of Westminster. These were the same apprentices and laborers, mariners and dockhands who had attacked Archbishop Laud’s palace earlier in the year. Riots had become a common feature of London life, no doubt encouraged by Pym and the others. Antony drew Hipley to one side and lowered his voice. “Temair wants him gone. Lune has told me to do it if I can. Why balk now?”

“Because Strafford was going to impeach Pym and the others,” his spymaster said through his teeth. “For treasonous dealings with the Covenanters. He might have broken their strength—so they are determined to break his first.”

It set Antony back on his heels. That Pym was deep in alliance with the Covenanters, he did not doubt. But he had not realized such a good opportunity existed to curb the opposition’s power.

He spun without a word and hurried back into the palace, Ben close behind, but even as he neared the Lords’ chamber the roar of the crowd there told him he was too late—even supposing he could have done anything to stop it. He could just glimpse Strafford exiting the chamber; gems glinted in the light as the earl removed his sword and surrendered it to Maxwell.

Illness had ravaged Wentworth; his complexion was sallow, his skin sagging in loose curves. He hardly looked the terrible figure popular opinion made him out to be. But the watching masses showed no respect; Antony heard many cutting remarks, and did not see a single man doff his cap to the bare-headed earl.

“What’s the matter?” a jeering voice cried out, as Strafford wearily faced the gauntlet he must run.