The Rebel Daughter by Miranda Malins

Author:Miranda Malins
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781409194873
Publisher: Orion

Chapter Fifteen

Autumn 1647

We are trying again; round two of the peace negotiations. It has begun well. In an expansive gesture of renewed goodwill the King has invited the army leaders to bring their wives into his presence at Hampton Court where he is now permanently lodged; notionally under the guard of Father’s cousin Colonel Edward Whalley and his men, but really in a return to full regal splendour. He may not be free to leave but he is at last back in one of his own palaces and in all other ways living in grandeur: his youngest children, closest advisers and personal chaplains with him, Presbyterian emissaries awaiting an audience, and scores of liveried servants to attend to his every whim, the court’s bills sent to Parliament.

Though I had prepared myself to be unimpressed by my first encounter with the monarchy in all its mystery, I am overwhelmed at the scale and magnificence of the palace. We approach by river, the vast brick walls the colour of dried blood rising above us, topped with a forest of chimneys, like the massed pikes of one of our infantry regiments. We alight at a canopied jetty, then a gravel path leading to a wide drive takes us through a great castle gate into the first of many courtyards. At this point Mother has to pause to remove a stone from her shoe but, luckily, there is a shadowed doorway for her to do this unobserved, leaning on my arm for support. I, in turn, am grateful for a few moments to rest my heavy stomach.

Father and Henry are clearly well known here as – stone removed, breath caught and hair swiftly tidied after the Thames wind – we sweep unchecked past the guards and up the marble staircase to follow a maze of tapestry-lined corridors. Everywhere I look there is a new marvel: statues and china figurines, intricate clocks and ornate mirrors, silver and glassware atop gold-painted tables, all gleaming in the candlelight from huge gold scones.

‘What need has one man of such riches?’ I ask Henry who merely shrugs in response.

Each room boasts brightly coloured walls lined with gilt-framed paintings – monarchs hang next to hunting scenes, Christ twisted on the cross beside nude nymphs and goddesses, their rosy faces and pink, swollen bodies leering out at me. In one gallery, we pass a sequence of huge painted canvasses depicting the Triumph of Caesar and I am cast back a few weeks to the long hot day when our army processed into London. Will someone paint us one day?

Father lingers before these for a few minutes, pacing back and forth and shaking his head in wonder and admiration. ‘Are they not marvellous?’ he asks, his back still to us.

But I cannot reply. The rich colours blind me and strip me of speech. The Word of God leaks from my mind as the graven images take its place.

We move on. Stunned, I pass through gilded chamber upon chamber until we emerge, like

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