Rebels and traitors

Chapter Two — Whitehall: 2 February 1634

The blur of torchlight first became visible to the waiting crowds at Charing Cross. Spectators made out an occasional twinkle, then ranks of tarry flambeaux bobbed queasily in the darkness, finally filling the broad street with light. The horses and chariots made their slow, noisy way towards Whitehall Palace and the watching lords and ladies. A spectacular cast of players had spent hours preparing themselves in grand private mansions along the Strand and now they advanced towards the Banqueting House. Above the clatter of horses' hooves, a reedy shawm struggled to make its music heard in a hornpipe for frolicking anti-masquers, who were to present low-life comedy interludes. They wore coats and caps of yellow taffeta, bedecked with red feathers, and were ushering Fancy, the first featured character, in multi-coloured feathers and with big bats' wings attached to his shoulders. This quaint figure led the way for numerous curiosities, who were celebrating a tricky moment in history.

The Triumph of Peace was being presented to a King who certainly ruled without conflict. He had dismissed his truculent Parliament six years before. Now, though, his independence had an end-date for he had made himself penniless. To set the moment in context, that year of 1634 would see the notorious witchcraft trials at Loudun, the first meeting of the Academie francaise, the opening of the Covent Garden piazza in London, and the charter for the Oxford University Press. North America was being colonised with permanent settlements. Europe, from Scandinavia to Spain, was a theatre of blood, rape and pillage in what would come to be known as the Thirty Years War. The previous year, Galileo Galilei had been tried in Rome and forced to recant his opinion that the earth went around the sun; he now languished in the prison where he would die. In London the world revolved around King Charles.

In England, without apparent irony, its ruling couple could be hailed in song by Shirley as

'… great King and Queen, whose smile

Doth scatter blessings through this Isle.'

The masque celebrated the King's and Queen's recent return from Scotland. There, causing as much offence as he possibly could to his strait-laced and suspicious Scottish subjects, King Charles had been crowned monarch of two kingdoms. He had worn ostentatious robes of white satin and had outraged the fierce Scottish Kirk by using a thoroughly Anglican ritual, conducted by a phalanx of English bishops in jewel-bright robes. This display was not designed to win the hearts of sober Presbyterians. Although always convinced of his personal charm, King Charles saw no reason to show diplomacy to mere subjects. Why should he? He was accustomed to uncritical praise — for instance, the nauseous blandishments he was about to hear in Shirley's masque, calling him 'the happiness of our Kingdom, so blest in the present government…'. Perhaps only lawyers could have endorsed this. Even some of those paying for the masque may have choked on it.

There were three kingdoms, in fact, some more blest than others. It was never thought necessary to have a coronation for the Irish, even to offend them. They were seen as savages, whose best land English monarchs and their favourites greedily plundered — more recently, an investment opportunity even to the well-off English middle classes. The Welsh skulked in a mere rocky principality; they were allowed the traditional honour of their own Prince of the Blood, even though, as was also traditional, they never saw their sovereign's eldest son. The Prince of Wales was not quite four years old and so not allowed to stay up to watch The Triumph of Peace. Peace would play little part in his early life.

On returning from Edinburgh, King Charles and his enormous entourage had been ceremonially welcomed back by the Lord Mayor and Aldermen of the City of London. Gideon had gone to watch. Borne in the civic procession was the traditional naked sword — which might be prophetic. The staged welcome, with bare-headed reverence from the leading citizens, colour, vibrancy, noise, and crowds of applauding onlookers penned behind street rails, had similarities to the masque which the flattering lawyers then offered at Whitehall. It may have helped the monarch to believe that life was one great pageant of admiration, with himself its adored centre. But the grudging boy in the dotterel-suit was starting to wonder.

Bulstrode Whitelocke, the go-getting lawyer who had arranged The Triumph of Peace, knew what he was about. The royal family lapped up such entertainments, oblivious to the obscene expense. This masque cost twenty thousand pounds, at a time when a well-to-do farmer with his own land might earn two or three hundred pounds a year and a cobbler was paid sixpence a day — but must supply his own thread. Apples were three for a penny and ribbon was ninepence a yard. You could buy a horse for two pounds, or a blind one for half as much. Brought up to know the value of money, Gideon goggled at this extravagance. Twenty thousand pounds lavished on one night's court entertainment could only mean enormous royal favour was expected in return. Would the King understand the bargain?

Gideon began to see why the Queen's love of such theatricals had attracted scabrous comment. As this procession was wending its colourful way along Whitehall to the Banqueting House, everything about it — including its staging on Candlemas, which was a Catholic feast day — looked like deliberate defiance against William Prynne, the puritan author of a fanatical tract called Histriomastix: the Players' Scourge (or Actor's Tragedy). Prynne had an obsessive hatred for the theatre. He denounced the Queen, who had shocked England by importing French actresses to take part in court masques, at a time when women did not appear on the stage. Worse, it was said that Henrietta Maria had scandalously danced in these masques herself.

William Prynne, who was a lawyer, had been tried in the hated Star Chamber, which ruled on censorship. He was sentenced to a ferocious fine, the pillory and prison; he was doggedly continuing his activities from jail and would eventually be tried a second time, have his ears lopped and his forehead branded 'SL' for Seditious Libeller. He was already deprived of his Oxford degree, and expelled from Lincoln's Inn, the very Inn whose more grovelling members had contributed to The Triumph of Peace.

Few of the satin-clad lords and ladies probably gave much thought to the imprisoned campaigner as the crowds gasped with delight at 'Jollity in a flame-coloured suit' and 'Laughter in a long coat of several colours, with laughing vizards on his breast and back, a cap with two grinning faces, and feathers between'. But as they stamped their cold feet outside in Whitehall, Lambert Jukes and his uncle were discussing Prynne sardonically. Bevan had an intimate connection with literature nowadays. Those who love books love free ones best of all. Through his new wife, the printer's widow, Bevan obtained reading material which — since the widow was extremely well-off — he had leisure to peruse.

'Have you read this Players' Scourge?' asked Lambert.

'Nobody has read it,' scoffed Bevan Bevan flatly. 'No man has a life long enough. We use this book to prop up a dilapidated court cupboard that has lost a foot. It is more than a thousand pages of bile! This is a mighty cube of invective, expelled like foul air from the posterior of one who professes never to visit the playhouse — '

'Difficult, when the theatres are closed due to plague.' Lambert sounded pleased to find this flaw.

Bevan eased his bulk, trying to get comfortable on his lame leg. He and Lambert were squeezed into a dark corner opposite the Horse Guards Yard, to which Bevan had led them by a back route up from the river, passing through the woodyard, coalyards, and other palace offices. 'They say Prynne's book is a very conduit of foul-mouthed, narrow-minded, fearsome flame-throwing spite which the crazed author has gathered over seven years — '

'And he calls the Queen a whore?' Lambert was always direct. From their position, they could see the tall windows of the Banqueting House; within its warmth, persons who called themselves quality were pressed against the glass panes, craning out at the spectacle. The King and Queen would be among that richly dressed throng. From time to time a jewel flashed on the white neck of one of the ladies, whose high-waisted gowns with puffed sleeves and snowflake collars were like costumes for fairies in just such a masque as they were preparing to watch.

'A notorious whore,' concurred Bevan.

'Not well advised!' Lambert sniggered.

As the torchlit procession continued past them, they watched many strange phenomena. To antique music representing birdsong, came a man-sized owl accompanied by a magpie, a jay, a crow and a kite. Struggling to spot their own bird, Lambert and Bevan made out three satyrs with their own torch-bearers — and finally what they were waiting for: the three dotterels. They expelled a roar of greeting, which they kept up until one of the high-stepping wildfowl turned slowly towards them.

Despite the winter night, inside the dotterel's heavy costume, Gideon had sweat in his eyes. Adolescents like to hide, but this was far too uncomfortable. Striving to keep up with the parade, the young actor momentarily tripped over the long claws of his bird's feet. Bevan's derisive cheer had been unmistakable even through the muffling headpiece. Now he was for it. He knew that his great-uncle and his brother had tracked him down.

Gideon was wary of Bevan. Even the recent offer of a printing apprenticeship seemed a mysterious ploy of some kind. Gideon always felt there was something unsound about his great-uncle. And he was right. When civil war came, Bevan Bevan would be a Royalist. Bevan was stirring trouble now, even though he always insisted he was supportive of Gideon. The lad's rebellion would be exposed, to become family lore, occasioning many more furious arguments at home.

Third Dotterel was forced to acknowledge that he had been recognised; he lowered his delicate beak in a sad salute. Thoroughly despondent, he flapped his arms like wings and stepped on his way.

'So there he flies; we have done our duty' What duty? Gideon would have roared. 'To a tavern, Lambert!'

'Do we not wait, to fetch our fledgling home?'

'It will be morning before he obtains his release. Let him find his own way'

Lambert at least was beginning to regret landing the young scamp in more trouble. 'Oh you mean, let him answer to my mother on his own!' Lambert knew Bevan was frightened of Parthenope. 'We need not speak of it — '

'Too good to keep to ourselves!' replied Bevan cruelly.

Thick crowds prevented them from moving off immediately. They saw out the rest of the parade. Immediately after the dotterels tottered a fine mobile windmill, at which a fantastical knight and his squire tilted raggedly while they tried to avoid its whirling sails. Then the procession became more formal. Fourteen trumpeters cantered by with rich banners; next rode the marshal among forty attendants, all tricked out in coats and hose of scarlet, trimmed with silver lace; then a hundred mounted gentlemen passed, two abreast. Finally in the manner of a Roman Triumph, three decorated chariots bore along Peace, Law and Justice, queenly females all coruscating with stars and silver ornament, thrilling beneath the shadows and light of many torches.

The King and Queen were so impressed, they sent out to request that the entire carnival be led right around the tiltyard at the far end of Whitehall, and brought back again for a second viewing. It was a chilly night and the crowds outside began to lose interest. As soon as they gained space to move, Bevan Bevan and Lambert Jukes took themselves off. They picked their way through the fresh horse-dung along to the Strand, then headed east, back to their own turbulent city parishes where they could enjoy a tankard in a tavern more at ease than here.

The masque participants finally dismounted outside the Banqueting House. Through his costume, Gideon could make out parts of the stark new classical building in three subtle shades of stonework, its harmonious Palladian style a cool contrast to the brightly painted beams and red brick of the rackety old Tudor buildings in Whitehall. Jostled by the other players and afraid his tail would be stepped on, he entered at the level of the Undercroft. The claws of his costume slipped on the stone, as he made his way up the easy flights of a broad stair. A tall doorway brought them into a magnificent two-storeyed hall, purposely designed for state receptions. Heat, braying voices, the stench of sweat and the cloying scent of rosewater assailed them. At the far end stood the King's canopied throne, flanked by the noblest gentlemen and ladies of the court. Lapdogs scampered about at will. Other courtiers, decorated with pockmarks and great pearls, lined the two side aisles, where splendid tapestries covered the tall window niches, pegged back on the street side to allow a view outside. Above, lesser spectators hung over the balcony which ran around the upper storey, including members of the Inns of Court who had fought the Lord Chamberlain for permission to see their own masque. The room, already warm from so many jostling bodies, was ablaze with lights, the glister of silver and gold tissue, and the sparkle of jewels. Only its ceiling was bare. Painted panels had been commissioned from Peter Paul Rubens, but they would not arrive from Holland until the following year.

The King and Queen, diminutive figures enthroned like dolls on their state dais, faced a specially constructed raised stage. During the masque, this would represent variously arbours, streets, a tavern, open countryside and clouds, with all the scene changes and spectacles wrought by cunning machinery.

Gideon was allowed to remove the head of his costume temporarily, and listen to the first scenes. Emerging red-faced, he found the proceedings hard to follow. To a grocer's son, it seemed completely alien. The script was tedious: anodyne exchanges which punctuated a strange mixture of clowning and dance. Presentations came and went, in a drama more remarkable for its ingenuity than its content. Moments of burlesque led into banal songs that would never be picked up and hummed on the streets; there were many dances and then a curiously stilted musical drama for Peace, Law and Justice.

Lacking the vigour of the old Ben Jonson masques which had once been played here, James Shirley's text was unworthy of the fine poet who wrote 'Death the Leveller'. His low-life comedy scenes were more spirited than his solemn allegories, but not much more. Wenches and wanton gamesters went into taverns and emerged drunk; thieves were apprehended by a constable; romping beggars and cripples attempted to cheat gentry, then threw away their crutches and danced. Shirley touched on controversy only with great care: 'Are these the effects of Peace?' asked Opinion (understandably perturbed); 'corruption rather.,' It was the only scathing comment. The King and Queen, who were still laughing at the cripples dancing, must have missed it.

Peace, according to this masque, did have the benefit of encouraging English inventiveness. Characters lined up to astonish the audience with fabulous ideas: a jockey brought a bridle that would cool overheated horses; a country fellow had devised a wondrous new threshing machine; a bearded philosopher with a furnace on his head could boil beef in a versatile steamer. There was an underwater chamber which allowed submariners to recover lost treasure from riverbeds, a physician with a hat full of carrots and a rooster on his fist had worked out how to fatten poultry with scraps, and a fortress to be built on Goodwin Sands would melt rocks. In a century where science was to make dramatic advances, this was the crazy side of science.

The three dotterels, Gideon presumed, were intended to illustrate country pleasures during times of plenty. Now they had their moment. Hastily donning his costume head again, Gideon scampered onto the stage. He hardly had time to be nervous. The trio of birds were chased around by three dotterel-catchers, who duly caught them with wires and cages, before they all scampered off to make room for the windmill and its jousting knight. Gideon experienced the gloom of an entertainer who knows the next act is bound to be more popular.

Soon afterwards, accompanied by solemn music, Peace, Law and Justice descended in gold chariots from stage clouds in the upper flats, three statuesque female deities wearing classical robes of green, purple and white satin. The ladies pronounced compliments to one another in curiously bad poetry before the entire cast moved towards the King and Queen and addressed Their Majesties with sanctimonious song. Gideon was at the back, so could barely glimpse the monarch.

The scene changed. The song changed, though not in quality. A finale was anticipated, yet the dance was interrupted by apparently real stagehands and costume-makers, whose dialogue was significantly more spirited than anything else in the pageant. Backstage, a small girl who was skipping about unattended shrieked with joy. Gideon Jukes had almost fallen over her as she stood below his line of sight, constricted as his vision was through the eyeholes. She pushed him aside, almost sick with excitement as actors playing a painter and a carpenter, a tailor's wife, a feather-maker's wife and an embroiderer's wife exchanged banter on stage. They represented ordinary people from a backstage world to which she had just been introduced by her somewhat frowsty grandmother. 'Juliane! Ou es-tu?' She was eight years old, and had been helping with the costumes, thrilled by the responsibility — but that night she was most entranced that she had seen the Queen.

The scene changed yet again. A representation of Morning Twilight glided onstage — a pale girl in a partly see-through costume, with whom Gideon was much taken. This brought the formal entertainment to its end. The Queen did dance with the masquers, proving her indifference to William Prynne's insults and delighting at least one small girl quite utterly!

Gideon felt shocked when Her Majesty danced. The rebel in him was out-rebelled. Any idea of running away from home to be a player evaporated. He would have to accept some other career.

So delighted with The Triumph of Peace was Henrietta Maria that she ordered it to be played all over again at Merchant Taylors Hall, where its anti-puritan message might reach larger numbers of people, especially the young. Third Dotterel would be forbidden by his parents from acting the second time. The small girl would not attend either, since her grandmother, always a game woman, wanted privacy to encourage a legal man called William Gadd, whom she had met at the first performance.

On that royal night at the Banqueting House, all the players and lawyers were taken afterwards to an enormous feast which lasted until daylight. Gideon was too sleepy to eat much. Next morning, Third Dotterel stumbled home to his mother with his bird's head under his arm, shedding feathers all the way from Ludgate Hill to Cheapside.