Virgin Earth

Spring 1659

The storm which blew Oliver Cromwell up to his reward in heaven, or down to the devils in hell, did not helpfully indicate his successor. There were many who said that he nominated his son Richard on his deathbed, but John, recalling what his father had said about the succession of kings, remembered that courtiers were never very reliable about deathbed confessions, and that the power of supreme government in England might go to whatever man had the courage to seize it.

The man most fit to succeed was John Lambert, beloved of the army, still the greatest power in the land, and a proven friend of peace, tolerance and reform. But Richard was said to be the heir and a new parliament was summoned to rule with the new Protector.

They were curiously churlish about the job. Richard was not even recognized as Lord Protector until they were forced to acknowledge him so that he could send the fleet to the Baltic to protect English shipping against the Dutch in February. And then in April, the army, impatient with being ignored while they petitioned for back pay, and furious at the increasingly arrogant behavior of the royalists, locked the MPs out of the Commons, Richard among them.

He might be a Cromwell, but he was not an old soldier, and the army suspected that the new breed of politicians and leaders had lost the godliness and republican fire of those who had been forced to fight for their beliefs.

John had promised Hester that he would take her to see Lambert’s orange garden at Wimbledon in the spring. They took a boat to the manor house landing stage and walked through Lambert’s new plantation to the formal gardens before the house. John hesitated when he saw Lord Lambert on the terrace, his wife beside him. Before them were a couple of soldiers with the standard of his old regiment which had been given to Cromwell’s son-in-law.

“What’s going on?” Hester asked her husband quietly.

John shook his head.

“Perhaps we should just wave and go back to the plantation,” Hester suggested tactfully. “It’s maybe a private matter.”

“He’s beckoning us,” John said. “Come on.”

The Tradescants went to the foot of the steps. John Lambert smiled down at Hester with a beam that reminded her poignantly of Johnnie when he had just got his own way in an argument.

“You come at a good moment,” he said to them both. “See. Here’s the standard of my regiment. Restored to me.”

“Restored?” Hester asked, coming up the steps and dropping a little curtsy to Lady Lambert.

“Fauconberg and the rest are dismissed from their posts, and so my lads have come to restore the standard to me. We’re together again.”

“I’m glad for you,” John said. “Congratulations, Lord Lambert.”

“Major General,” Lambert said with a gleam. “And I’d rather be a major general at the head of the best regiment in the army than a lord at my fireside any day.”