November, 1660
A hard wind blew dry leaves against Whitehall’s towering windows. Inside, beyond the heavy oak doors that guarded the entrance, the long corridor now shone with newly-polished marble columns and flickering sconces. It was no longer the plain, functional passageways of the interregnum, but instead a procession of grandeur restored—walls hung with tapestries depicting the Tudor rose and Stuart lion, gilded frames containing portraits of monarchs past staring down like silent sentinels. Chief among them and most prominent was Van Dyck’s portrait of Charles I with his family, a declaration in itself.
The floor was laid with a carpet woven in deep reds and blues. A close inspection might reveal places where it was worn thin by decades of shuffling feet; however with a trade war yet raging, now was not the time for such repairs.
Footsteps echoed ahead; Charles Stuart with sure tread made his way with attendants in tow, passing beneath the portrait of his father. The light was fading, pale through the high windows and throwing long shadows that mingled with the golden candlelight that already burned in heavy brass chandeliers. There was a sense of power still unsettled; haunted by years of exile.
The group entered a chamber at the far end of the hall; the monarch’s chosen place of meeting, as it had been for those who came before him. The chamber where the Protector once sat in plain buff coat was now half-filled with disused trunks and moth-eaten hangings.
Two members of His Majesty’s Privy Council had convened to bring news and discuss the unrest still simmering beneath the surface of his restored realm. The door was flung open, revealing a room both sumptuous and commanding.
Inside, a long table of dark oak stretched between two banks of windows, each pane bordered with lead and diamond-cut glass. Heavy curtains were drawn aside, revealing the Privy Gardens, now reeling from the winds that cruelly tore the leaves from carefully cropped branches. Charles took note as he entered, always the botanist.
He passed walls hung with rich tapestries, their threads catching the candlelight in a way that made the images shimmer—scenes of English victories and royal triumphs, of kings crowned and realms united. A vast fireplace carved with heraldic lions and dragons dominated an entire wall with a fire that crackled and spat to life. Charles made his way to the windows, remembering again the years he had enjoyed this same view—though it was very different now.
He watched as the wind came in gusts off the Thames, driving spray against the stone and sending dead leaves swirling across the neat lawns. The trees bent and twisted like supplicants in some ancient ritual. Charles seemed for a moment less a king restored than a gentleman of leisure gauging the temper of the elements.
A light cough behind him advised that he was expected to take his seat in the grand chair at the head of the table—a throne of carved oak, gilded with gold leaf, the arms terminating in fierce lion heads that seemed to leer at the gathered men. To the right of it Edward Hyde, Lord Chancellor, stood expectantly in heavy robes and powdered wig. He was man whose sharp eyes missed nothing. His voice carried the cool authority of law hardened by years of political survival.
Opposite him stood with rather more impatience John Maitland, Duke of Lauderdale, a soldier and politician both, his bearing lean and intense, his gaze restless and calculating. He was a man used to command, used to pressing advantage, and well acquainted with those who sought to challenge the status quo.
The Chancellor leaned slightly. “It is a fine prospect, Your Majesty. But even the neatest garden will not withstand a winter such as this promises to be.”
“You would be amazed at the strength of such trees,” Charles replied, gesturing toward the embattled yews. “Left alone, they would overrun every wall and path, as with our Roman ruins—still standing after fourteen centuries—our present craft can scarcely match the old strength. The masons of England have chased Roman concrete for generations, yet even now we build with envy.”
He turned and sat, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. “They tell me Cromwell had the gardeners mending these grounds for months, then locked the gates to all but himself—the old Puritan fox. I mean to open them again—when the treasury can bear the cost. And perhaps a sundial I have in mind that will tell far more than the day’s time,” he added, one brow arched, “to remind our people that the House of Stuart holds a finer command of science than any commonwealth could boast. Cromwell, for all his sums and calculations, was a mere dabbler.”
The king’s mind, like his forebears’, ran to instruments that marked not just the hour, but the harmony of the heavens themselves. “But that will wait,” he said, “until the kingdom’s debts are stanched and the accounts stop bleeding like a bad wound.” He settled into his chair, and despite the magnificence surrounding him, the king’s posture was cautious, almost tentative, as though the weight of history pressed upon his shoulders more than the soft velvet and ermine could conceal.
Hyde cleared his throat, breaking the silence with a hint of wryness.
“Your Majesty, I spoke with Mr. Pepys recently. You recall, the diligent clerk who accompanied your return from exile?”
Lauderdale grunted. “Pepys says the weather of this century is worth noting in his diary. Records the temperature as though it were a state paper.”
“Aye,” Charles chuckled, “and I like him for it. Pepys is no sailor, yet we have given him the Navy. He asks what others are too proud to ask—and that may save us from another Dutch humiliation. He tells me he has lately tried a tea from China that was quite extraordinary.”
This brought a smothered laugh from Lauderdale. “Then he has not travelled as we have. Your interest in Portugal made us well-acquainted with their fetish for this China tea.”
Hyde added, “One would think his sailors would have told him, for they claim it warms the body against biting winds.”
Charles’s mind turned. “And what of your meeting? Tell me of the marriage.” His eyes darkened with calculation. “It is our hope this agreement cools the fires of dissent in our midst.”
The Chancellor inclined his head. “It is all but sealed, sire. The treaty is signed, though the formal ceremonies await the spring. Still, the agreement binds us now. A useful alliance, strengthening our hand against Spain and France alike.
Maitland added, “She brings not only a dowry but ports—Tangier and Bombay—gifts that expand England’s reach and influence.”
The Lord Chancellor’s tone shifted, his fingers tightening on the desk. “And yet, Your Majesty, not all fires are quelled by marriage. If we are ready for our next business?” As both nodded, Hyde continued, “We have petitions from the ‘Georges.’”
His majesty groaned. “These Quakers! Queen Elizabeth would have swept them from the realm before they’d learned to call a meeting.”
Again, the unfortunate Chancellor coughed, and the duke nearly asked if he was suffering from cold. But Hyde continued, “There is another petition, quite similar, from Lady Fell. Both speak of change with quiet but firm conviction.”
Maitland’s gaze hardened. “They may say they seek peace ‘quietly,’ but their refusal to bend threatens the order we are charged to preserve. As for this woman, she is a known trouble-maker. Entertains the heretics at Swarthmoor all the more now her husband is dead.”
Charles shook his head. “Has her son no spine to bring his house into order?”
“Thomas Fell left the house and grounds to her, to prevent marriage with one of these dissenters. It was to preserve the family, though an ill choice to my mind.”
At this the king turned fully, unfolding the petitions deliberately. “Then let us give our answer speedily, for I fear she will gather all the women of the gentry to her bosom lest we act with authority for the realm’s peace, and for the Crown’s future. We hardly need another dissenter to overtake these grounds.”
The wind gave a sharp knock at the windows, as if to punctuate the thought, and the king looked at his two advisors expectantly.
Hyde was first to reply, his voice a rasp like dry parchment, “Sire, the chief difficulty is that these petitions are brought for as in humility, yet the very words strike at the root of our Church and Crown, threatening the very order that holds this realm together. You are correct; to permit such dissent unchecked invites even greater chaos than the last reign’s failings.”
Lauderdale nodded sharply, eyes hard. “They refuse oaths, spurn the militia, reject lawful authority. Their meetings disrupt the peace. This faith is but sedition in disguise.”
Charles sighed impatiently. “Yes, yes, all are agreed. What is your counsel?”
With a gaze sharpened with resolve, Hyde set forth the plan he had been crafting since Cromwell’s death. “The Corporation Act, Your Majesty. Soon to be presented to Parliament. It will secure municipal offices for those loyal to Church and Crown, requiring oaths that exclude these recusants. Constables under the old regime held sway, but many proved timid or corrupt. This law ensures municipal authority remains steadfast and uncompromised. Their influence will be curtailed; their gatherings suppressed by law.”
Lauderdale’s eyes darkened. “The militia must be ready to quell disturbances swiftly and decisively. Constables alone cannot withstand the uproar—those howling sectaries, disrupting worship and irritating ministers and magistrates. Nor even the ministers and magistrates inciting mobs against these Quakers. Let us be clear–loyalty is not a matter of convenience but an unyielding allegiance to King and Church alike. But above all we keep the peace.”
The king considered his council, voice steady and firm. “Let the law bind all subjects equally. None may claim conscience as a shield from obedience. Disorder will find no refuge in these realms.”
The chamber quieted, the candle flames flickering like watchful eyes as the weight of the decision settled. Outside, the wind whispered through bare branches, carrying rumors of unrest that would soon swell into storm.
Friends of Freedom 