It was too late for Lord Rochester to retreat back to Holland; he convinced himself there was still hope and went north. Over on the Continent, King Charles had moved to Middelburg, ready to cross to England once support took hold. But Lovell felt the whole design was ruined.
He took himself to London. On the way, he went to Lewisham again. The old house standing in the orchard appeared empty, though efforts had been made to replace elderly cherry trees. A neighbour informed him that Mistress Juliana Lovell had sold the property, sold up to one Lambert Jukes, a grocer of the City of London. He rented out the orchard, but kept the house and stayed in it when he came to the area on business: the man was involved in the ships'-biscuit factory that had been set up in the old Tudor palace in Greenwich.
Greenwich was reputed to have more cavaliers than London so, mindful of recruitment, Lovell went to explore. He found the supposed Royalists were decayed court servants, mainly musicians and art collectors, who had hung around hoping that Parliament would give them their unpaid wages from the late King. They lived near the park, partly paid off with royal paintings, waiting glumly for the possible restoration of the monarchy. They might be loyal in theory, but flautists and lutenists were useless as soldiers. If this was the best Lovell could do, his mission would be a disaster. He knew other locals were even more unfriendly; when Lord Norwich camped in the park during the ill-fated uprising of 1648, his men had been jeered at and pelted by the Greenwich watermen.
Lovell sauntered past speculators' sheds and decaying riverside wharfs to look at the biscuit factory. When Parliament sold off other royal residences, the elderly Palace of Placentia had been retained — according to a cynical alehouse informant, because no buyer could be found for such a ramshackle monstrosity. It was now crisply called Greenwich House and assigned to the Lord Protector; Cromwell, satisfied with Hampton Court, never came here. The already decayed buildings had suffered. Various buildings and gardens had been parcelled up and sold off. Horses had been stabled in the palace where kings and queens were once born; ninety poor Greenwich families were installed in the staterooms, before they were pushed out so the place could be a prison for captured sailors during the Dutch War. When the war ended last year, a venture making hardtack for the navy started up. Sneering, Lovell pictured Lambert Jukes as a puritan tradesman of the lowest quality.
Orlando Lovell had no real interest in grocers, though he was ready to demand that this tuppeny biscuit-maker give up details of Juliana's whereabouts — assuming he knew. There was no reason, on the face of it, why he should.
Lovell travelled by river to London, where he found a hot situation. In anticipation of Rochester's revolt, an order had been issued for the seizure of all horses in London and Westminster so they could not be commandeered by cavaliers. Horse-racing was banned, because race-meetings were a cover for conspiracy. Many known Action Party members were taken into custody. Security was tightened. A new City militia was organised. Extra troops were recruited for the Tower of London. Spies were out everywhere, watching Royalists.
The uprisings at the start of March failed to ignite. In Yorkshire, less than three hundred men came to a planned rendezvous with Lord Rochester. Other risings across the country were equally disappointing, even the most ambitious, that of Colonel Penruddock in Wiltshire. Leaders were captured, then executed or transported. Rochester was taken near Aylesbury, but bribed an innkeeper and escaped back to the Continent. Within a fortnight, Cromwell felt confident enough to stand down the militia.
Orlando Lovell turned up a few weeks later in Flanders; his movements in the intervening period were, as usual, mysterious.
The seizure of London horses caused local upset. Gideon Jukes now owned Robert Allibone's old mount which, amidst much grumbling about costs, he kept at livery in an inn in Holborn. He was summoned one morning by an excited ostler, to find soldiers in the act of removing his horse.
'You want Rumour? An old, nervous irritating nag, who only cares to wend his way to taverns for a bucket of ale?'
'All serviceable horses — '
'Serviceable doesn't cover this one!'
' — have to be taken to the Tower of London.'
'Outrageous! Rumour is no traitor. He has given his oath of allegiance to the Protectorate.'
'Just doing my duty, Captain Jukes.' Gideon was using his rank today, in the hope it would give him some purchase on the argument.
Rumour added his twopenny worth. He bit the soldier who was trying to harness him.
'Look — we have nowhere to put all these animals. Colonel Barkstead is in a complete tizz; Tower Green looks like Smithfield horse-fair… There are two solutions, Captain — ' The sergeant turned to Gideon, with a wild appeal. Every horse he tried to impound brought him new trouble from indignant citizens. 'Either we can put him down, which will waste a bullet — or you can hide him in a shed until it's all over.'
'Done!'
Hardly had Gideon reprieved the horse, for sentimental reasons, than he realised his error. His print shop had no outbuildings. If Rumour would agree to shift himself, he would have to be led from his familiar livery stable and taken to Shoe Lane. There, helpers must coax him to the shed in the back courtyard — which could only be reached by walking the horse right through Juliana's haberdashery shop. There would be neighing, horseshit, mud on the floor, breaking window-glass, leaning against fragile cabinets, flying ribbons and pin-packets, not to mention flabbergasted customers and a tense proprietor. Gideon knew before he asked her, Juliana would say this was not in her marriage contract.
His apprentice, Miles, refused to be involved. Gideon came up with two solutions. He did not ask his dear wife, he merely informed her, in the offhand manner of a head of household who is confident his every proposal reeks of common sense. (He realised he had become perilously like his father.) More astutely, he borrowed a bucket, which he filled with beer and carried ahead of Rumour to entice him to amble forwards, hopefully undistracted by baskets of bright haberdashery looking like treats to munch…
Other than this incident, they continued to live very quietly.
Chapter Seventy-Six — Antwerp and London: 1655-56
'The Lord Protector should have great care of himself. There is still great underhand labouring..'
(From the State Papers of John Thurloe)
In Holland, Edward Sexby lived in disguise in Antwerp. He was joined for a time by Richard Overton, funded by Thurloe to spy on Sexby, though Gideon Jukes had assessed Overton as disloyal. Sexby made approaches to Sir Marmaduke Langdale, claiming that if protection was given for popular liberties, he would happily see the King restored to the throne. They could work together to achieve it. Langdale had misgivings. 'What do you think, Lovell?' 'I would not trust this rebel to give a bowl of water to a dog.' 'He seems persuasive. He has wormed himself into the confidence of Count Fuensaldanha.' That was the Spanish commander-in-chief in the Netherlands, with whom Sexby somehow wangled a personal interview. The unlikely liaison had serious consequences for Cromwell's government, because Sexby betrayed to Spain the Western Design — the Protectorate's ill-fated attempt to capture Cuba. He also offered to organise a mutiny in the English fleet, which the Spanish seemed to believe was attainable.