Cromwell's Cat Read online

  Copyright © 2021 John Livesey

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  Twitter: @matadorbooks

  ISBN 978 1800468 597

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For Niamh and Katie

  Contents

  Chapter One

  The Cat that got the Crumb

  Chapter Two

  ‘In It, To Win It’

  Chapter Three

  ‘Not a Mere Mercenary Army’’

  Chapter Four

  ‘That memorable year, 1648: Very great things brought about.’

  Chapter Five

  ‘Cruel Necessity’

  Chapter Six

  ‘Freedom, by God’s Blessing Restored.’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘The Edge of the Promises and Prophecies.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘The Man Who Would/Would Not Be King.’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Towards A Place of Rest’

  Appendix

  Some Important Events…

  Notes

  Chapter One1

  The Cat that got the Crumb

  I was by birth a cat, living neither in any considerable height, nor yet in obscurity… Well no, that’s not quite true. The first few months were very obscure and very much best forgotten, were it not for the fact that they help make sense of a lot of what follows. I was a witch’s familiar, or so they said, though who the witch was I’ve no idea. I only knew Mistress Margery and we were just friends, best friends, only friends. In fact I think that might have been part of the problem.

  It hadn’t always been that way. From what the other cats told me, when they deigned to notice me, my mistress had been well-known and not exactly liked – I mean she was always a bit of a loner – but accepted as she had her uses, teaching children to write, helping cure aches and pains and to find property that had been lost – or stolen. Yes, there was some of that – there always is with humans. Not exactly loved by all as she had a sharp tongue in her head as I found out to my cost – but live and let live, if you know what I mean. But then she got older, her neighbours died, one by one, until it was just her and me scraping an existence on the edge of the fen – a few wildfowl for her, lots of eels for me – in season – out of season if my luck was in – and turf from the fen to keep us warm through the winter. Without that we’d never have survived.

  Then suddenly it seemed we’d be without it for ever as our high and mighty neighbour, Mr Miles Sandys, decided to drain the fen and enclose it and turn it to pasture for his cattle, without so much as a ‘by-your-leave’ And when my mistress protested that she’d lose her right of common and turbary and fishing and fowling and what-not, and wouldn’t be able to last the winter, all he said was ‘Well, that’ll be one less mouth to feed, won’t it? – two if we count your cat’. She had a right go at him then (I told you she could dish it out when she wanted and most of all when she felt something was just plain wrong) but he simply laughed at her and told her to take him to court – and, as the longest purse somehow always wins, that’d kill her as sure as winter.

  Next thing I know (again from other cats, who heard their masters talking) she was a witch and I was her familiar, sent by the devil. Now where did they get that from? I never met any devil, wouldn’t know what one looked like. The other cats said the same – it’s a human thing, but once they get it into their heads it’s best to steer clear. And Mister Sandys’ horse had gone lame – a sure sign my mistress had bewitched him as she’d been heard muttering curses. They told me he stirred up the people against her and they were coming to get her. Which I suppose they must have done as one night, while I was out on my rounds I heard a great hubbub from the cottage and I raced back to get into my ‘defend-my-territory’ mode but when I got there Mistress Margery had gone. The other cats said I didn’t want to know what they did to her, and I suppose they were right but she was my friend, always good to me, and I miss her. And I’ll never believe what they said of her.

  So that’s the story so far, how I came to be where I was – alone and homeless in the fen and feeling that Mr Miles Sandys and those who want to drain the fens for their gain and the people’s (and cats’s) losses are not nice and don’t know a good thing when they see one. They should be stopped and would be if I could get the cats organized (fat chance – ever tried organizing cats? Don’t even go there – we’re unorganisable – every cat for himself and devil take the hindmost (there he is again – humans keep talking about him and we of course pick up their phrases – as they do ours – but more of that later). Or, seeing a fen-saving, eel-preserving cat band – like the local hero humans round here are always going on about, Hereward the what’s-his-name – well, seeing that’s a non-starter for the reasons given, if I could only find a kindred-spirited human and bond with him, I thought that would be the best I could hope for. And then I did. Providence, really.

  CROMWELL

  “Just a minute, what do you know about ‘Providence’?”

  TOMKINS

  “Do you mind? I’m putting the readers in the picture here – and you promised not to interrupt.”

  CROMWELL

  “I know – but…”

  TOMKINS

  “And as for ‘providence’, I know all I need to: you talk about it and I settle for it”.

  CROMWELL

  “I talk about it because it means a lot to me and because that day we met I was sitting – ‘valde melancolicus’ as my surgeon told me…”

  TOMKINS

  (Deeply depressed in your terms)

  CROMWELL

  “…because, though England was clearly going to heaven in a wheelbarrow…”

  TOMKINS

  (to Hell… He’s always had an odd way of expressing himself. You’ll get used
to it.)

  CROMWELL

  “Thankyou for the explanation. I doubt not they knew perfectly well what I meant – heading for disaster, which had to be just about the furthest thing from the Lord’s mind. And it was – always had been – my hope, that He would find a use for me to help Him stop it and save His poor people and saints, yet I had no idea how. No idea what His providence would be or how I should figure in it, or even – after six or seven years standing and waiting – if He would find any use for me at all. Is it any wonder I was depressed?”

  TOMKINS

  “Is that it? Have you finished? Good. So, I say again, providence brought us together – you depressed etc etc as you put it so clearly and succinctly, and me wondering where the next meal was coming from and where I was going to spend the night – two real reasons for a cat getting very down-in-the-dumpsish. And so – and thank heavens, I can finally get to the point – there we both were on the edge of the fen wondering where we went from there and what the future might hold, when something magical (or at least exceeding rare) happened. We found…You’re never going to believe this. We found… promise you won’t laugh. We found…”

  CROMWELL

  “We found we spoke the same language.”

  TOMKINS

  “It’s true”

  CROMWELL

  “… incredibly, miraculously true! Though whether because our situations and concerns so exactly coincided – as he maintains…”

  TOMKINS

  “That’s always been the way in all the stories handed down from cat to cat – down the generations.”

  CROMWELL

  “Then how is it we humans have never heard of it?”

  TOMKINS

  “Because – duh – the only ones in on the secret are those involved – and they’re not going to let on, are they? To everyone else you’re still the same old sour-puss and I’m the usual purring fur-ball – to everyone except the readers of this book, that is.”

  CROMWELL

  “So…having now let the cat out of the bag…”

  TOMKINS

  “Language!”

  CROMWELL

  “Sorry, slip of the tongue. But you just called me a sour-puss…”

  TOMKINS

  “Because you are and, being a cat, I can say so. You can’t and it’s my job to see you don’t. So, go on.”

  CROMWELL

  “Alright, so we having given the secret away here – in this book…”

  TOMKINS

  You can expect dozens of other ‘purr-and-tell’ stories to follow…(it’s the human way. Well, you don’t need me to tell you)…all proving what I said: when our interests coincide so does our language.

  CROMWELL

  “Or might it not be, as I read it, nothing less than a sign from the Lord? I despairing of His providence and my role (if any) in it – as I just said – what more providential than the gift of tongues? It’s not unknown – the Lord pouring out His spirit upon His chosen people. What more natural? Anyway, here’s how it happened: there we are on the fen’s edge at the end of this day of deep despondency and me worried that I might burden Bess with my…”

  TOMKINS

  (His wife – Elizabeth – Mrs Crumb)

  CROMWELL

  “…with my concerns, and wondering what I could do to put a smile on her face, when all of a sudden I had a bright idea – so bright I blurted it out. “I know…” I said “… I’ll catch an eel for dinner.”

  TOMKINS

  “And I said ‘Funny, that’s just what I was thinking.’”

  CROMWELL

  “And I got up and went over to the bank and was just about to delve into the mud when I stopped short and said: ‘Who said that?”

  TOMKINS

  “And I said ‘You did, dumbo. You said you were going to catch an eel for dinner”

  CROMWELL

  “No, not that. Who came back with ‘just what I was thinking’ and who am I holding this conversation with? Come out, come out! I know you’re there. This is no time for joking”

  TOMKINS

  “And I said ‘I can’t come out cos I’m out already – right by your feet – and I’m not joking. I’m going to catch an eel for dinner – so get out of my way”

  CROMWELL

  “And I looked down and there he was – right by my boot, looking up smiling smugly…”

  TOMKINS

  “I was not smiling – I was dead serious, settling into my easy-does-it waiting to pounce mode. And I do apologise to you readers for spelling it out like that – wouldn’t normally. As cats we do it, but don’t talk about it. I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I didn’t have to…”

  CROMWELL

  “Yes, yes – enough of the excuses. As I was saying, I looked down and there he was looking up like the cat that got the cream. And that was how we found we spoke the same language. Explain it how you will: God’s providence or meeting of minds – the effect is the same.”

  TOMKINS

  “And that is why we can chat and why, when he says something to me, you can hear it as well. He can’t speak to you directly, can you, Crumb?”

  CROMWELL

  “If the Lord wills…”

  TOMKINS

  Well then you, reader, should be very glad the Lord doesn’t will as, if he did, all you would get in the whole of this book would be the same old ramblings and wishful thinkings that historians have haggled over for centuries – partial, inconsistent – never dishonest – true, but so convoluted as to give honesty a bad name both at the time and for all the centuries since. Whereas, when I tell you what happened, what he did and how he and I talked about it before and after, and how it looked at the time from my angle, you’ll be getting the true story – how he got it right – and where he went wrong – straight from the horse’s, or in this case the cat’s mouth. Historians would give their eye-teeth for such access. So, there you have it: how we came together on the edge of the fen at Ely in…“When was it, you said?”

  CROMWELL

  “1638”

  TOMKINS

  1638 as humans count – my first life in cat terms – both wondering what the future held and hoping…

  CROMWELL

  “Praying”

  TOMKINS

  “Whatever – crossing fingers and paws that it would be something special” – and what could be more special than to find ourselves speaking the same language? Though I must say at times it has been less than a blessing as you will find when he goes off on one of his ‘needle-in-haystack’ rambles – and if you can’t stand the thought of that (and I wouldn’t blame you) you’d far better put the book down now and read something more fancy-full if less adventurous. Because he doesn’t do fancy. He does earnest and worried by the bucket-load, ecstatic by the cart-load, but fancy – not even a thimbleful. So th
at’s how it stands and now I’ll give you a couple of minutes to close the book and go about your business and no hard feelings.

  Oh, before you go – or don’t as the case may be – names. You’ve heard me call him ‘Crumb’, which I’ll explain in a minute. As we sat there on the bank I made it clear if we were going to live together, we had to settle on names. Mine was simple – Tomkins was what Mistress Margery had called me. I liked it and Crumb had no problem. So that was settled. As for him I suggested ‘My Lord’ (suitably subservient – we cats can be a bit creepy that way). But he was having none of that – said there was only one Lord and it wasn’t him. He was just plain Noll Cromwell (he pronounced it Crumwell – which explains a lot). And I said that wouldn’t do – Noll was too familiar and with my recent experience (‘witch’s familiar’ – remember?) that didn’t do it for me; and Crumwell was too formal. What do people call you, I asked. “Didn’t I?”