Think you that by ****** an end of the King you will end the Kings party?
Nay, you will give it a martyr.You will create for every woman in England a new saint.You will outrage all sober folk that love order and at the very moment when you seek to lay down the sword you make it the sole arbitrament.Whatsay you to that?""There is no need to speak of his death.What if the Court depose him only?""You deceive yourself.Once put him on trial and you must go through with it to the end.A deposed king will be like a keg of gunpowder set by your hearth.You cannot hide him so that he ceases to be a peril.You cannot bind him to terms.""That is naked truth," said Cromwell grimly."The man is filled with a devil of pride.When Denbigh and the other lords went to him he shut the door in their face.I will have no more of ruining hypocritical agreements.
If God's poor people are to be secure we must draw his fangs and destroy his power for ill.But how to do it?" And he made a gesture of despair.
"A way must be found.And let it not be that easy way which will most utterly defeat your honest purpose.The knots of the State are to be unravelled, not cut with the sword."Cromwell smiled sadly, and his long face had for the moment a curious look of a puzzled child.
"I believe you to be a godly man, friend Nicholas.But I fear your soul is much overlaid with worldlythings, and you lean too much on frail understanding.I, too, am without clearness.I assent to your wisdom, but Icannot think it concludes the matter.In truth, we have come in this dark hour to the end of fleshly reasonings.It cannot be that the great marvels which the Lord has shown us can end in barrenness.His glorious dispensations must have an honest fruition, for His arm is not shortened."He rose to his feet and tightened the belt which he had unbuckled."I await a sign," he said."Pray for me, friend, for I am a man in sore perplexity.
I lie o' nights at Whitehall in one of the King's rich beds, but my eyes do not close.From you I have got the ripeness of human wisdom, but my heart is not satisfied.I am a seeker, with my ear intent to hear God's command, and I doubt not that by some providence He will yet show me His blessed way."Lovel stood as if in a muse while the heavy feet tramped down the staircase.He heard a whispering below and then the soft closing of a door.
For maybe five minutes he was motionless: then he spoke to himself after the habit he had."The danger is not over," he said, "but I think policy will prevail.If only Vane will cease his juridical chatter....Oliver is still at the cross-roads, but he inclines to the rightone....Imust see to it that Hugh Peters and his crew manufacture no false providences.Thank God, if our great man is one-third dreamer, he is two-thirds doer, and can weigh his counsellors."Whereupon, feeling sharp-set with the cold and the day's labour, he replenished the fire with a beech faggot, resumed the riding cloak he had undone and, after giving his servant some instructions, went forth to sup in a tavern.He went unattended, as was his custom.The city was too sunk in depression to be unruly.
He crossed Chancery Lane and struck through the narrow courts which lay between Fleet Street and Holborn.His goal was Gilpin's in Fetter Lane, a quiet place much in favour with those of the long robe.The streets seemed curiously quiet.It was freezing hard and threatening snow, so he flung a fold of his cloak round his neck, muffling his ears.This deadened his hearing, and his mind also was busy with its own thoughts, so that he did not observe that soft steps dogged him.At the corner of an alley he was tripped up, and a heavy garment flung over his head.He struggled to regain his feet, but an old lameness, got at Naseby, impeded him.The cobbles, too, were like glass, and he fell again, this time backward.His head struck the ground, and though he did not lose consciousness, his senses were dazed.He felt his legs and arms being deftly tied, and yards of some soft stuff enveloping his head.He ceased to struggle as soon as he felt the odds against him, and waited on fortune.Voices came to his ears, and it seemed that one of them was a woman's.
The crack on the causeway must have been harder than it appeared, for Mr.
Lovel fell into a doze.When he woke he had some trouble in collecting his wits.He felt no bodily discomfort except a little soreness at the back of his scalp.His captors had trussed him tenderly, for his bonds did not hurt, though a few experiments convinced him that they were sufficiently secure.His chief grievance was a sharp recollection that he had not supped; but, being a philosopher, he reflected that, though hungry, he was warm.He was in a glass coach driven rapidly on a rough road, and outside the weather seemed to be wild, for the snow was crusted on the window.
There were riders in attendance; he could hear the click-clack of ridden horses.Sometimes a lantern flashed on the pane, and a face peered dimly through the frost.It seemed a face that he had seen before.
Presently Mr.Lovel began to consider his position.Clearly he had been kidnapped, but by whom and to what intent? He reflected with pain that it might be his son's doing, for that gentleman had long been forbidden his door.A rakehell of the Temple and married to a cast-off mistress of Goring's, his son was certainly capable of any evil, but he reminded himself that Jasper was not a fool and would scarcely see his profit in such an escapade.Besides, he had not the funds to compass an enterprise which must have cost money.He thought of the King's party, and dismissed the thought.His opponents had a certain regard for him, and he had the name of moderate.No, if politics touched the business, it was Ireton's doing.Ireton feared his influence with Cromwell.But that sober man of God was no bravo.He confessed himself at a loss.
