It was three months into the New Year 1641 and Sir Charles Berkeley, lying in bed, became vaguely aware of a little noise as he felt himself being shaken softly. Opening his eyes, the room was a blur. The glow of the flickering movements of the candle, dimly lighting the room, were bright in his eyes. As he focused, he saw that his wife Lady Anne Berkeley was standing over him.
Rubbing his eyes, he looked at her and smiled at his, "sweet Annie."
After a second or two, he saw the slight look of distress on the delicate features of her face. He knew something was wrong and glancing at her hands, she grasped a folded sheet of paper, with a large red wax seal and ribbon holding it together. Immediately recognising the crest of the seal on the letter, Berkeley sprung out of bed with a start.
Taking the letter from Anne with bated breath, he listened carefully as she told him a strange gentleman had just delivered it.
The seal was the Earl of Holland's, a well-known courtier and friend of the Queens. It was easily distinguishable and as Anne explained, the servant was waiting below.
Pulling the sheet apart with haste, the seal broke in two and half fell onto the wooden floor. He unfolded the letter anxiously and could only wonder as to what it contained.
His eyes scanned from left to right as he read the letter, it was short but simple like Holland's letters always were. It commanded him to accompany the servant to Whitehall Palace, where Holland was waiting for him.
He found it hard to make out the words on parts of the letter where the wax had greased the paper. What could all this mean he thought, why the urgency?
He looked at Anne, she was devoted as ever and seemed to know what was required of her husband, fetching his clothes.
He was barefoot and suddenly feeling the cold wooden floor against his feet, he quickly stepped onto the fur rug beside the bed. The freezing night had already seen a covering of snow and Sir Charles didn't know whether he was shivering from cold, fear, or both. After all, Lord Holland had never acted so urgently before.
The fire in the opposite wall had by now gone out, all that was left were black and grey ashes in the bottom of the fireplace. Anne returned from the closet, which led off the bedroom where the clothes were hung, with a great pile of his clothes. He smirked as the pile was nearly as big as herself!
After he took them from her, Anne rubbed her weary eyes. The commotion had made her wide-awake and she could generally not sleep, unless she knew her husband was there. Pulling on his doublet he whispered to Anne, "I am needed at Whitehall, I know not why but it must be urgent."
Glancing out of the small leaded window overlooking the street below, he saw the coach waiting for him.
"Will you be back tonight Charles?" she asked, as he pulled on his leather boots. They were so tight to get on; he had to maneuver his foot right down the long boot until they were up to his knees.
Taking his cloak he replied, "I will be as speedy as I can," then he hurried downstairs with Anne following him, her auburn curled hair flowing loosely as she moved. She was only five foot five but full of spirit.
Acknowledging the Earls servant with a nod, Sir Charles took his hat from Anne and embraced her. Anne had never shown any resentment at her husband’s career, which often took him away from her company. Ever devoted, she only prayed for his safety. In any case the separation was always made up for when he returned for he would always shower her with embraces. Married for only a short time, they felt that same intense love which had never yet been diminished through their separations.
Berkeley took his wife's leave, kissing her cheek and stepped outside onto the cobbled street, his leather soles resonating a clinking noise into the quiet night. A footman stepped forward, dressed in the Earls resplendid blue and gold livery, opening the coach door for him.
The coach was one of Lord Holland's with his family crest, the same as that on the footman's uniform, on the side of the door. The beautiful blue and gold crest stood out, advertising the wealth of the owner.
He entered the coach and sat down on the plush velvet seats. Leaning forward, he smiled to Anne as the coach moved off. As he sat back he realised he still had a tight grip of the letter, but his mind was in turmoil. The movements of the coach across the streets made it impossible to concentrate for long.
Clattering through the streets of London, Berkeley broke concentration while he lapped up the experience of a private coach with its glass windows, normally only for the elite. He watched as he passed Old Palace Yard, next to where the current Long Parliament sat.
How different it was compared to the day before and indeed many days before that. Normally bustling with people on their business it was now also where the mob protested against the Royal Ministers and the Kings prerogative.
Yesterday he had happily signed a petition to ask the King to give up illegal taxation and imprisonment, remembering how the King imprisoned his friend James’ father. Berkeley sighed, much disheartened by the disputes in the government, as the coach passed through King Street and arrived outside the palace.
It was strange, for although he attended the palace regular, he had never been near the King, nor did he feel any less annoyed by some of the ways the King had used to rule. The coach jerked to a stop, the primitive chassis designed to ease bumps, made him feel a little seasick as they accentuated the motion of the coach.
Hearing the familiar noise of the gates opening, the guards talking to Holland's men, he smiled as he listened. It must have been a welcome opportunity to speak to people on their uneventful night duty he thought. The coach moved off again, passing through and traveling the short distance to the entrance before stopping outside.
Gathering his thoughts, he waited for the footman to open the door and then stepped out of the coach. Placing his large feathered hat on his head, he stood on the gravel courtyard, savoring the cool, quiet London night. The sky resembled a huge decorative dark ceiling, lit by the many sparkles of stars, like imaginary chandeliers.
The main attribute of the night was silence, until the strict and ruthless ritual of palace life which never ceased, only reduced during the night, interrupted it. Looking around, he could see the marvelous Banqueting Hall built for the King by Inigo Jones and scene of the masques that the Queen enjoyed so much.
The King loved the hall so much that he banned many candles in the Masques lest they should discolour the painted ceiling. The Palace was a huge maze of corridors and rooms, to most newcomers leading back to where you started.
Berkeley entered through the huge stone arched doorway, the huge waiting chamber wasn't far from the entrance. The guards on either side of the doors nodded, moving their large pole-axes to one side as he entered the room. Only his anxiousness prevented him from not wanting to be here, rather than in his warm bed.
King or Parliament 1641 Chapter One: A Privileged Life (Novel)
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© Copyright 2002 by Mark Turnbull.
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