lying ahead of him: marriage and death. Many would achieve both very quickly. Few used their fear of a coffin as a reason to delay jumping into a marriage bed; it was commoner to hurry between the sheets, while the chance was there.
Sadly it also became common for young married women to lose their new husbands while they were heavy with their first pregnancy. A proportion of widows would remarry especially those were young, proven to be capable of child-bearing, and perhaps blessed with a legacy; some could hope for second chances. For others, life would be bleaker. Widows, especially widows on the losing side, could only expect to be shunted into corners of other people’s parlours, often dogged by lawsuits and disappointed in their children. Despite this — luckily for men of eighteen — only in the most sensible families were young girls advised to be cautious about marriage.
For in the autumn of 1642, nobody supposed the civil war would last long. Most people were sure that some form of reconciliation would be negotiated between the King and Parliament. Anything else was unthinkable.
So Edmund Treves, who gave little thought to the possibility of dying until the Virgin Mary’s head nearly killed him in the High, was soon presented with another dangerous fate. Edmund had not learned good judgement. He never considered that the war into which King and Parliament had stumbled was set to drag on pretty well for the rest of his life. He failed to understand that war should be approached not as an impromptu game of fives against a college wall, but with great caution. Love, too, needed long-term planning. This was a risky time to take major decisions — especially when they were prompted by a man whose reliability was untested.
Bearing a whole flowery nosegay of misapprehensions, therefore, Edmund Treves travelled cheerfully from Oxford to a house near Wallingford, in order to meet a young lady about whom he knew only what his new friend had told him — much of which would turn out to be wrong. Had he been older and worldlier, it was generally agreed, he would
not
have visited a prospective bride in company with Orlando Lovell.
Chapter Seven
Oxford: Autumn, 1642
Lovell always protested his innocence, but nobody who knew him and his already dark reputation really believed the protest.
Where had he come from? Where had he been? There were answers, and there were people who knew them. He saw no reason to volunteer the correct information, and if incorrect stories were circulating, that was how he liked it.
Lovell, who now styled himself captain, had come to England from genuine military service in Europe, arriving at about the same moment as one of the King’s nephews. This was where his personal history first acquired an awkward kink. He let people assume that he had served under the eldest royal nephew: the Elector Palatine. Prince Charles Louis was a refugee. His father had been invited to take the crown of Bohemia, but was driven out ignominiously after less than a year; the Winter King had then lost his own lands as well, and until he died he had campaigned to regain his position. His sons now carried on the hopeless quest. Charles Louis came to England to plead for assistance in 1641. He was also hoping to claim his promised bride, the King’s eldest daughter Princess Mary, but found that she was to be married off more advantageously to Prince William of Orange.
It was a bad moment politically. King Charles had been bankrupted by the Bishops’ Wars and his new Parliament was set on confrontation. Charles had nothing for his begging nephew. As English hostilities were breaking out, the threadbare prince spent some time in London, assuring friends in Parliamentary circles that his own allegiance was neutral. Whether this reflected his annoyance at losing Princess Mary, or his astute evaluation of his royal uncle’s future, was unclear. He probably wanted to protect the pension that was paid to his mother
Sadly it also became common for young married women to lose their new husbands while they were heavy with their first pregnancy. A proportion of widows would remarry especially those were young, proven to be capable of child-bearing, and perhaps blessed with a legacy; some could hope for second chances. For others, life would be bleaker. Widows, especially widows on the losing side, could only expect to be shunted into corners of other people’s parlours, often dogged by lawsuits and disappointed in their children. Despite this — luckily for men of eighteen — only in the most sensible families were young girls advised to be cautious about marriage.
For in the autumn of 1642, nobody supposed the civil war would last long. Most people were sure that some form of reconciliation would be negotiated between the King and Parliament. Anything else was unthinkable.
So Edmund Treves, who gave little thought to the possibility of dying until the Virgin Mary’s head nearly killed him in the High, was soon presented with another dangerous fate. Edmund had not learned good judgement. He never considered that the war into which King and Parliament had stumbled was set to drag on pretty well for the rest of his life. He failed to understand that war should be approached not as an impromptu game of fives against a college wall, but with great caution. Love, too, needed long-term planning. This was a risky time to take major decisions — especially when they were prompted by a man whose reliability was untested.
Bearing a whole flowery nosegay of misapprehensions, therefore, Edmund Treves travelled cheerfully from Oxford to a house near Wallingford, in order to meet a young lady about whom he knew only what his new friend had told him — much of which would turn out to be wrong. Had he been older and worldlier, it was generally agreed, he would
not
have visited a prospective bride in company with Orlando Lovell.
Chapter Seven
Oxford: Autumn, 1642
Lovell always protested his innocence, but nobody who knew him and his already dark reputation really believed the protest.
Where had he come from? Where had he been? There were answers, and there were people who knew them. He saw no reason to volunteer the correct information, and if incorrect stories were circulating, that was how he liked it.
Lovell, who now styled himself captain, had come to England from genuine military service in Europe, arriving at about the same moment as one of the King’s nephews. This was where his personal history first acquired an awkward kink. He let people assume that he had served under the eldest royal nephew: the Elector Palatine. Prince Charles Louis was a refugee. His father had been invited to take the crown of Bohemia, but was driven out ignominiously after less than a year; the Winter King had then lost his own lands as well, and until he died he had campaigned to regain his position. His sons now carried on the hopeless quest. Charles Louis came to England to plead for assistance in 1641. He was also hoping to claim his promised bride, the King’s eldest daughter Princess Mary, but found that she was to be married off more advantageously to Prince William of Orange.
It was a bad moment politically. King Charles had been bankrupted by the Bishops’ Wars and his new Parliament was set on confrontation. Charles had nothing for his begging nephew. As English hostilities were breaking out, the threadbare prince spent some time in London, assuring friends in Parliamentary circles that his own allegiance was neutral. Whether this reflected his annoyance at losing Princess Mary, or his astute evaluation of his royal uncle’s future, was unclear. He probably wanted to protect the pension that was paid to his mother
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