As she was constantly questioned about her husband's activities, Juliana scrutinised the news-sheets. Sir Lysander had told her, in strict confidence, that in December at Carisbrooke the King had formally signed an agreement with the Scots. Charles had committed to a promise that in return for an armed invasion to restore him to the throne, he would institute Presbyterianism for three years. He would then outlaw free-thinking sects, a colourful cliche collection of: 'Anti-Trinitarians, Anabaptists, Antinomians, Arminians, Familists, Brownists, Separatists, Independents, Libertines and Seekers'. Although the 'Engagement' with the Scots had been secretly buried in a lead casket in the grounds of Carisbrooke Castle, Parliament discovered what had happened. They broke off all negotiations. Members passed a 'Vote of No Addresses', refusing any further contact. How the nation was settled would now be decided by Parliament alone — at least, it would be unless a new Royalist rebellion changed everything. Such a rebellion was in hand.
The King had been christened a Man of Blood by the New Model Army; he was proving it. The Scots began to prepare their invasion force. A countrywide new civil war was being co-ordinated by the King from Carisbrooke.
Dreading what it meant to her personally, Juliana noticed how even in London there was increasing Royalist support. Whether it was enough to achieve anything, she doubted. In a clampdown on troublemakers, John Lilburne and John Wildman had been arrested after addressing a large Leveller meeting in Smithfield, whilst a regiment of foot soldiers was now billeted in Whitehall to control Royalist demonstrations. By April the apprentices were rioting and the Lord Mayor took refuge in the Tower of London. As Juliana made her trips to Goldsmiths Hall, she was aware of the disturbed mood on the streets. Although she was missing her children, she was grateful she had left them in the security of Sussex. In mid-May she heard musket fire when pro-Royalist petitioners from Surrey and Essex tried to force their way into the House of Commons; guards who were pelted with missiles responded with bullets. Juliana heard that ten people were killed and a hundred more wounded.
Upheaval became country-wide. Rebellions began in Wales, where Parliamentary officers refused orders. In the north, the King's devoted supporter Sir Marmaduke Langdale took Berwick while Sir Philip Musgrove took Carlisle, in order to provide a clear invasion route for the Scots. They had been promised that the Prince of Wales would sail from Holland to join them. Rioting occurred in Norwich. Then throughout Kent — where Lovell was — a major uprising flared: Rochester, Sittingbourne, Faversham, Chatham, Dartford and Deptford were seized and the fleet was restive in the Downs, its anchorage off Kent. In May, nearby at Deal, a strange youth appeared, 'on foot, and in an old black ragged suit, without any companions but lice'. Keen locals welcomed this unlikely pretender, accepting his claim to be the Prince of Wales. Thomas Rainborough, then Parliamentary Vice-Admiral of the Fleet, rightly believed him to be an impostor, but the incident led to outright naval mutiny in which Rainborough was refused boarding of his own flagship. Although the sailors conceded he had been 'a loving and courteous colonel to them', they paid to send him (at the cost of sixpence) in a Dutch fly-boat, back to London with his wife and other relatives. The mutineers took nine warships and sailed to the Netherlands.
There were rumours that a large Royalist army, ten thousand men, had gathered in Kent. Juliana Lovell now believed Orlando was there, organising. If so, he probably wanted his estate back so he could sell or mortgage it to raise funds. He had deceived his wife, using her to achieve this for him, planning that if she succeeded, he would bankrupt them and destroy whatever inheritance their children might have had. Juliana seethed.
As the atmosphere in London became tumultuous, Juliana almost hoped the committee might refuse her plea. She wanted to return to Sussex. After a fruitless wait at Goldsmiths Hall one morning, she walked out for air and instead of taking her usual route to the bookshops around St Paul's, where she habitually window-shopped, her steps took her along Lothbury. It was a main thoroughfare, though notorious for its racket of metal-workers. She turned off for more peace into Basinghall Street, a narrow, winding cut-through that bent around Guildhall. From an overhead window, the measured notes of a tenor viol playing an air like a love song caught her attention. Attracted by the music, she entered a small print shop.
It was slightly dark and extremely busy. The great press dominated, with a tall desk for compositing. Papers were hung to dry on long wires. On the walls were large, faded publications, nailed up like posters, most of them about two years old as if someone had decorated the shop then: lists of two or three hundred victories ascribed to General Fairfax, surrounding large equestrian portraits of him or smaller busts of all the Parliamentary generals; memorials and elegies for the Earl of Essex, who had died in September 1646; she read: flnnals and most remarkable records of King Charles' reign… Wherein we may plainly see how the Popish, Jesuitical and Prelatical Malignant party have endeavoured the ruin of this church and kingdom but was by God's mercy most miraculously prevented…' There could be no doubt where the printer's sympathies lay.
They were selling a news-sheet called The Public Corranto. Juliana began to read the front page. The big-eared, buck-toothed apprentice clearly thought her a time-waster. Deeply suspicious, he operated the big press slowly as he watched her. He was eating slices of fruit pie from a delft plate. In a corner, almost unnoticed at first, a good-looking, dark-eyed woman in her late thirties was giving him a fractious look, as if she wanted him to save the pie. She was stitching together pamphlets; it was hard work, hardly a dainty thimble job. She had to press down the eye of the needle on a piece of slate to force it through the pages. Her fingers were red and sore, though she seemed to know what she was doing.
Juliana approached and smiled. She preferred doing business with a woman. They got into conversation, pleasantly enough, though both were wary. Holding a copy of the Corranto, Juliana asked after the latest news.
'Cromwell has been sent to Wales; the Lord General is taking men to Kent. The Earl of Warwick has succeeded Rainborough as admiral and gone to deal with the navy.'
'Do you think they will be successful?' Juliana asked, wondering what would happen to Lovell. 'It sounds as if the King has very great support now.'
'War will be short and brutal, so says Robert Allibone, the printer here.'
'Your husband?'
'No, no!' The woman blushed, and seemed conscious of the apprentice listening in. Before she looked down quickly, she glanced up to the ceiling, whence the sounds of the viol could still be heard, now playing a fugue. 'My name is Anne Jukes.'
'You work here?'
'I run my husband's grocery business, while he is away' In the New Model Army, thought Juliana nervously. Then, looking at the woman, and hearing that soulful music, she wondered on a whim, Perhaps her husband being away is convenient for her and she loves another… 'I come here to help with certain publications.'
Juliana nodded to the pamphlet Anne Jukes was now putting into piles. 'Revolutionary publications?'
Anne had identified this customer as a Royalist. Long-faced, despondent women in faded gowns often came into the print shop alone, after they had taken a bruising in committees. 'In the City, women are allowed to think!' And preach if we will, and make petitions, and pay our fees and join the Levellers… 'This is a discussion of Leveller principles, for those who sympathise. Our new newspaper called The Moderate will start next month.'