Cromwell’s Cat

By John Livesey

From 1638, when this story starts, to its end twenty years later, Oliver Cromwell went on a roller-coaster ride through English history. Historians have argued about him and his motives ever since, but no-one’s been able to hear it from his point of view - until now. In chewing over events with his cat, Tomkins, Cromwell at last tells it like it was. 
After all, when did your cat ever ask you “Who are you trying to impress?” Never, of course – and neither does Tomkins. He hears all and, because he and Cromwell find early on that they talk the same language, he reveals all: Cromwell’s take on the Putney debates, the trial and Execution of Charles 1; his installation as Lord Protector and many more. 
So, the obscure-ish Ely gentleman, who by virtue of his military achievements rose to be almost but not quite King, finally gets to speak uncensored. And because the language barrier once-breached, becomes infinitely breachable, readers find they can ask him questions for which no-one hitherto (not teachers, not examiners, not historians and certainly not politicians) has ever known the answer. He tells of his belief that God was driving the rollercoaster – buoying him up on the highs (when Christ’s second coming and the rule of the saints seemed at hand) – and driving him on through the lows (and there were many) when he realised he’d got it wrong and the Lord must have been looking for something different. 
 Losing friends, finding enemies but never losing hope, convinced throughout that the Lord had a special providence for England - and for him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Dec 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781800468597

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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.

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For Niamh and Katie

Contents

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.