Denzil Holles had resolved to stay in England, and was busy leading a party in Parliament against the chiefs of the army, principally against the Lieutenant-General, who was looked upon as the great man of his side, nay, by some, as the great man of the nation.
He, on his part, maintained a singular quiet, nor put himself forward in any way. He had moved his family from Ely to London, and there resided quietly or moved about from place to place as his duties called, contradicting no man and interfering with none; yet somehow his figure was always in the background of men's thoughts, and all either feared him, or looked to him hopefully as their case might be, as if from him must come, sooner or later, the healing of the schisms, the twisting together of the intricate strands of faction, the smoothing out of the tangled confusions that now maddened and bewildered men.
There were able, honest leaders in every sect and faction, there were clever, high-minded politicians like Sir Harry Vane, there were energetic and successful soldiers like Sir Thomas Fairfax, and there were men like Ireton who combined the qualities of both—all of whom were respected and followed by their several parties. But none stood out so vividly in the eyes of both friend and foe as did the figure of Oliver Cromwell, whose cavalry charges had turned the tide of battle at Marston Moor and Naseby, who was the idol of that army which seemed now to hold the balance of power, and whose utterances in Parliament had shown him to be as decisive, as wary, as brilliant in attack, as quick in resource, as commanding a personality in politics as he was on the battlefield.
Yet there was perhaps no one, among all the men whom the times had made prominent, who kept so in the background of events during the last turmoils, confusions, and intricacies of the negotiations and consultations between the King, the Scots, the Parliament, the Army, the Presbyterians, and the Independents.
Since the conclusion of the Civil War, the King had been, and continued to be, the great element of discord and difficulty. No one could resign themselves to do without him, and no one knew what to do with him; the Scots had given him up in despair, and the parliamentary Commissioners found him equally impossible to deal with. A general deadlock had been solved, Gordian knot fashion, by the army; Cornet Joyce and six hundred men, acting under what orders no one knew, but acting certainly according to the general wish, had carried off the King (very much to his will and liking), from Holmby, to the great dismay of the parliamentary Presbyterians, and lodged him at Hinchinbrook, from whence he moved about with the army, treated in kingly style. He was finally taken to Hampton Court, the army headquarters being now at Putney, in such ominous nearness to London that the great city itself was believed to tremble, and at Westminster there was open turmoil.
Lieutenant-General Cromwell, who, with the other officers, had been ordered to his regiments when news came of Cornet Joyce's amazing action, but who had already gone (not without some haste, his enemies said, for fear of an arrest from the incensed Parliament, for it was credited that his was the authority under which Joyce had acted), had remained at Putney for some weeks before this visit of his to Hampton Court.
He was, with little delay, admitted to the King's antechamber, where Lord Digby received him, and soon into the King's presence. The apartment was one of the beautiful chambers built and decorated by Henry VIII; old oak, carved in a deep linen pattern and worn to a colour that was almost dark silver, formed the walls, and round the deep blue painted ceiling ran a design of "A. H." and the Tudor roses, quartered thus to please the first English Queen who died a public and shameful death.
An oriel window, brilliant with painted blazonry, was set open on to the gardens which sloped to the willow trees and the river, and in the red-cushioned window-seat the King's white dog slept.
The furniture was very handsome stately oak and stamped Spanish leather; above the low mantelshelf hung a picture by Antonio Mor, a portrait of the sad-faced Mary Tudor, in white cambric and black velvet, gold chain, and breviary.