FOR KING OR COUNTRY: Thomas Fairfax

By Geoff Bayley

This historical novel is based on the dramatic real life events of Thomas Fairfax, Commander in chief of Parliament's New Model army and victor over the King's Royalist forces. Oliver Cromwell was appointed by and reported to him. Albeit an outstanding military leader Fairfax was also a modest, God-fearing man with no political ambition of his own. All the principal characters and events in this story are true. It is a story of power and politics, courage and betrayal, justice and reconciliation.
Fairfax was determined to establish legitimate Government and it is his legacy that secured our constitutional monarchy and democracy to this day.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781471701535

Book preview

THOMAS FAIRFAX

FOR KING OR COUNTRY

A man as great in war and just in peace

By Geoff Bayley

THOMAS FAIRFAX

FOR KING OR COUNTRY

By Geoff Bayley

Geoff Bayley Copyright10/02/2022

©️All Rights Reserved

Cover design by Geoff Leathley

Foreword

T

his historical novel is based on the dramatic real-life story of Thomas Fairfax. All the principal characters and events in this story are true. It is a story of power and politics, courage and betrayal, justice and reconciliation.  Fairfax was Commander-in-Chief of Parliament’s New Model army and the victor over the King’s Royalist forces. Oliver Cromwell was appointed by and reported to him. Albeit an outstanding military commander, Fairfax was also a modest, God-fearing man with no political ambition of his own. He was determined to secure legitimate government and his legacy has secured our Parliamentary democracy and constitutional monarchy to this day. Having studied the Civil wars at Oxford University I formed a strong conviction that Fairfax has been overlooked by history in favour of Cromwell and deserves greater recognition and credit for his leadership and self-sacrifice. This is my way of paying tribute to him and setting the record straight.

Geoff Bayley 2022

Tom never wanted to fight or have to choose between his King or his country. He tried hard to prevent the conflict from ever breaking out. Forced to defend himself from Royalist aggression he is nearly killed but quickly finds himself appointed to lead the entire Parliamentary army. He confronts the might of the opposing Royalist forces. Can he reason with the King to see sense and compromise? What will happen if he fails? This is his story and the fate of the nation is in his hands….   

Preface

I

t is only a short distance from our grace and favour home at York House in the Strand to the Palace of Whitehall where Cromwell had set up his headquarters in the most opulent, even regal, surroundings.

He was seated at his desk as I entered his large sunlit office with its tall windows looking out over the broad River Thames and the confusion of masted ships, barges and boats below. He had his head bowed, immersed in the desk strewn with papers but on seeing me he awkwardly heaved his large frame up and we shook hands as old comrades in arms. He looked strained and a lot older than when we had last met. He seemed frail and unwell.

I started by saying, It is good to see you again Oliver – I hope you are in good health. I think you know why I have asked to come here to see you.

Thank you. I am well but very weary he replied. It is good to see you too and as an afterthought, Please take a seat. Would you care for some refreshment?"

Sitting down I said, Thank you but no. I realise how busy you are so I will get straight to the point. The Duke of Buckingham no longer represents any threat to the nation and my daughter loves him very dearly – for old time’s sake I ask you to release him from the Tower so they can be married.

Oliver rose and started to pace around the room before saying. For God's sake Tom! He is a close friend of the man who claims the English throne! He has fought and conspired to reinstate the monarchy in this land and undermine the sovereignty of Parliament. He is a threat to the peace and security of this country so absolutely not - I will not let him go.

Do you not think it is time to bury the hatchet and move on? It is all over – finished. Can you not understand that? I replied.

No! and you are wrong. It is not finished.

What do you mean by that? Must there be yet more disruption and violence before this land will ever find peace?

Cromwell gritted his teeth. You have no idea what is at stake! The country is threatened from all sides. I have to protect the republic.

And in so doing you are destroying the health and happiness of the entire nation. For God’s sake is it not time to let the people free?

Just for a moment, I thought he hesitated and seemed almost broken with the weight of responsibility but he soon recovered himself and said.

I will never agree to your entreaty to release that man!     

I am one of the very few people who are not afraid to challenge his authority so I told him

You even seem scared of your own shadow these days. The people simply want a return to liberty, peace and justice. Is that so much to ask? You promised it but you are not providing it.

For as long as I am in command of this Government that man will remain in the Tower.

On what charge? Is this not the same kind of arbitrary justice which we fought so hard to overcome?

No it is not he shouted irritably. You are wasting my time. Now if you don’t mind I have more important matters to attend to, I need to get on. He sat back down heavily at his desk.

The meeting was clearly at an end so I stood and looked at him for an extended moment. He raised his head and I could see the strain in his eyes. I simply said, Goodbye Oliver. I wish you well and I shall pray for you.

And so with a sweep of my cloak, I turned my back against my old friend. I did not know it at the time but this would be the last time I would ever see him.

I walked slowly through the endless lavishly decorated corridors and ceilings of the Palace, down the magnificent staircase, hung with its many royal portraits and out into the central courtyard. The guards came to attention as I approached and saluted as I walked past them through the massive twin-towered gateway and out onto the broad thoroughfare running the length of the Palace which must extend for at least a quarter of a mile from Westminster.

The sun had set while I had been inside and there was now a gathering gloom in the autumn glow as I walked back towards the Strand. The streets were filled with the sights and sounds of horse-drawn carriages rattling along the cobbled ground, while clerks, lawyers and merchants scurried by on some important business. I rounded the corner into the Strand at Charing Cross passing the shattered remains of the Eleanor Cross and was pleased to see the nightwatchman with his lantern preparing for his rounds.

Along the line of grand mansions that had been built in this street for the ruling aristocracy, I could just make out the spire of St. Clement Danes church in the far distance and could hear the chiming of its bells calling the faithful to evening prayer. As I approached York House I had a heavy heart worried about how I was going to break the bad news to the family that my daughter Mary’s hopes of marriage were to be dashed.

On entering the house my wife Anne was there waiting anxiously for my report. She led me into the drawing room where Mary was also waiting. Before I had a chance to speak Anne handed me a sealed letter saying-

This was hand delivered by messenger earlier this afternoon while you were out. It is specifically for your eyes only. What can it be?

I turned it over and was surprised to see the seal which I recognised immediately. I opened it and stared at the contents. It was a letter from the exiled court of King Charles 2nd written by Sir Edward Hyde, the Lord Chancellor, requesting a meeting with me at the earliest opportunity. It was made very clear that this was a request not to be mentioned to anyone outside this house on pain of death.

I looked up to find my wife and daughter staring at me with curiosity so I folded up the letter, put it in my pocket and sat down by the fire.

Well? asked Anne.

I am not at liberty to say just now. I will discuss it with you later. Now I must tell you both about my meeting with Oliver.

After the household had retired for the night in some distress at hearing my bad news I went back into the drawing room to sit by the fire and to re-read the letter to make quite sure I had understood its contents correctly.

My first thoughts were that this was highly dangerous. Edward Hyde was regarded as an enemy of the state and if he were to be identified and arrested he would almost certainly be charged with treason and executed for sedition.

I was not at all sure that I wanted anything to do with his request for a meeting since I would no doubt be equally compromised if it were to be discovered. In addition, it was not that long ago he and I had been sworn enemies and had a very different perspective on the events of the past few years. And yet more recently I had come to respect his honour and integrity despite our differences.

However, I was intrigued by the purpose behind this request. In his letter, he suggested that we share a common interest in recording the events of the last 20 years for posterity. He was writing his History of the Rebellion and asked if we might exchange information to inform each other’s knowledge of the forces that had been at work on both sides during the Civil war.

I had never expected or wanted to find myself at the centre of the devastating events of the Civil war. My father and I had tried hard up in Yorkshire to prevent them from happening but to no avail. We had no idea how or when it was all going to end and certainly no concept of its unthinkable denouement. I had been branded both a hero and a villain and received acclaim and condemnation. I knew I would answer God for my actions when the time comes.

His letter also made a vague reference to other matters of mutual interest without being specific as to what they might mean but I had a strong suspicion that I understood the nature of his implication. I thought to myself again that this is bloody dangerous!

It was getting late and the warmth of the fire began to make me feel drowsy. My mind started to wander back over the events in my life over the past 30 years and how it had all begun. I retained very fond memories of those carefree early years in my beloved Yorkshire but there are some other, more recent memories - too many - that I would much rather forget. I did not relish the prospect of trying to recall the details of some of these events.

And yet how can I not? I can still hear it, see it and feel it. I shall never be able to forget.

Yorkshire Dales

T

hirty years earlier in 1628, far away from the increasing turbulence in London, in a quiet corner of Wharfedale in the North Yorkshire dales my brother Charles and I were preparing to set out for a day’s riding. Ferdinando, our father, was expecting a visit from one of his Yorkshire political colleagues, Thomas Wentworth, the newly appointed head of the Northern council. It seemed to be a very important meeting. He appeared to be very anxious at the prospect of this meeting and he wanted us out of the house to avoid any possible distraction.

We were very happy to oblige and as we walked towards the stables we could see the stocky figure of our father’s colleague approaching purposefully up the drive on a powerful mount so we thought this was a good moment to make ourselves scarce. Entering the stable yard huddled against the elements with its protective limestone barns, tack room and stabling for a dozen horses we were greeted by Jacob, the farrier, who was busy in the corner of the yard replacing the shoes on one of our hunters. He doffed his cap to us with a hearty smile wishing us a fine day’s ride. Our family delighted in the pursuit of crossbreeding and schooling horses to achieve the best possible combination of strength and speed.

We saddled up two of our favourite mounts, brave Mercutio my powerful chestnut stallion with his white socks and Charles’s Ariel a lovely pure grey filly. We were planning to ride across the moors and dales towards the ruined Bolton Priory some ten miles distant. Why not? It was a beautiful spring morning.

Climbing the time-worn stone mounting steps and taking the reins Charles shouted across to me I will race you to the Priory and with that, he was galloping away across the high moor. With the wind blowing in our faces we were leaping ancient dry-stone walls heavy with lichen, splashing through the moorland streams, past the old water mill, through the steep lines of silver grey stone walls and up into the yellow gorse and heather on the high moor, wondering at the carpet of bluebells as we galloped through the woodland glades.

I managed to catch Charles just as we approached the brow of the fell overlooking the ancient abbey in the valley below. We rode together down into the dale and here we stopped for a well-earned rest for the horses. I jumped down from Mercutio and stroked his fine head which he nuzzled against my chest.

We sat and listened to the silence broken only by the occasional cry of a kite or the songs of the skylarks.

Look there! Charles suddenly shouted pointing up to the moors above us and we watched as a herd of deer led by a fine antlered stag slowly made their way over the brow of the hill. We reflected upon the lost world and magnificent ruins of the priory with its massive columns, gaping window frames,