on a tight little rota of rich and influential cronies. They hold onto power because they support the King whatever he does.'
Gideon had felt some surprise when his father identified himself as a radical. Parents are supposed to be hidebound, not hotheads. It made him pause. Men of wealth and reputation were necessary for reform, yet he felt some consternation at the involvement of his now elderly father.
'I thought your father was a company man.'
'And his forefathers before him. This is the first time ever that a Jukes was elected to the Common Council.'
The next tussle in London was for control of the Tower of London. The King appointed Sir Thomas Lunsford as Lieutenant, but there was a public outcry and outrage in Parliament; he was replaced only five days later.
'What is this Lunsford's history?'
'Unfit for office.' Robert had the background. 'The man murdered his own cousin. He fled abroad and became a professional soldier — which shows his low quality — was pardoned by the King — which shows his — then served in the Bishops' War where he is famous for shooting out of hand two young conscripts he accused of mutiny. He also put out a captain's eye.'
'My father says, if this godless outlaw is in charge of the Tower, where the bullion of the realm is kept and coined, there will be too much anxiety; it will put a stop to trade.'
'Stop trade!' cackled Robert satirically. 'Surely merchants are more robust? But to pardon and promote such an outlaw shows what kind of king we have.' Gideon could see that.
On Sunday, the day after Christmas, the Lord Mayor warned the King that the apprentices were on the verge of rioting. London apprentices always loved a rumpus. Their football games led to casualties and damage; they insulted visitors and foreigners; they roamed in gangs on May Day and at St Bartholomew's Fair. Now they came out of the workplace, using their holiday to mobilise. On the Monday, as members reassembled after Christmas, they flocked around the Commons, protesting against the inclusion of bishops in Parliament. On Tuesday, with extra support from crowds of shopkeepers and merchants, they forced the doors of Westminster Abbey, intent on destroying popish relics. On Wednesday evening, the King entertained at a hearty dinner Thomas Lunsford, the man disappointed of the Tower of London command. A collection of apprentices gathered and jeered, causing a fight with departing guests and palace servants; casualties resulted. Over in the City, two thousand apprentices then massed in Cheapside, armed with clubs, swords and home-made spears. Many were hard young nuts who lived for a fight. On Friday, the nervous King sent to the Tower for powder and ammunition, enough for five hundred soldiers. When this equipment reached Whitehall Palace, the House of Commons became equally nervous of what the King might do with the firepower, now concentrated a few hundred yards away. Members decamped to the Guildhall and Grocers' Hall.
Both Jukes brothers were now busy. While his brother printed news-sheets, Lambert was helping to make the streets safe against any armed men the King might send. Guards had been posted on the city gates. Bollards slung with chains to thwart cavalry were set up in critical locations; key streets were even bricked up. As the atmosphere became ever more tense, householders were told to arm themselves and stand by their doors, ready to defend their families and the community. Sturdy and willing, Lambert went from house to house giving instructions for resistance if the King sent troops.
The King offered a safe conduct if the Commons would return to Westminster; some members uneasily crept back. That night, rumours grew that Parliament intended to impeach the Queen, in response to the constant reports that she was involving herself in plots. The King became alarmed. Charles then took an unprecedented step: he went to the House of Commons in person, intending to arrest five particular troublemakers himself. He took four hundred soldiers, armed with halberds, swords and pistols. They shoved aside the doorkeepers, jostled members and their servants, and filled the corridors, making ominous threats about their marksmanship as they pointed their weapons into the chamber through its open doors. Bursting in uninvited, the King haughtily demanded the Five Members. The Speaker refused to reply. Forewarned, the five men had disappeared through a back door. The furious King stared around and accepted that 'the birds have flown'. He retreated ignominiously, pursued by angry cries of 'Privilege!' His armed guard waited around for orders to fall upon the members and cut all their throats, but then dispersed in disappointment.
The House of Commons declared the King's act to be a high breach of the rights and privilege of Parliament. Once again they adjourned to the Guildhall.
The Five Members, John Pym, John Hampden, Denzil Holies, Arthur Hazlerigg and William Strode, had also fled to the City. Gideon and his partner had a new apprentice, Amyas, who came running in excitedly. 'The Five Members are in Coleman Street!'
'At the Star Tavern?' Gideon guessed.
'That will be a secret then!' Robert reproved. Amyas, say nothing to anyone.'
'There could be spies,' the boy acknowledged, fired up by this exciting idea.
'Only if they are very stupid,' murmured Robert. An informant for the Duke of Buckingham was once chased out of Coleman Street and stoned to death.'
Theirs was one of the rumbling presses that worked through the night to give out news. Rumours flared of plots against members of Parliament, armed forces from the north gathering to attack London, dangerous new weapons that would stick in the body and could not be pulled out, sinister lists of citizens who would soon be rounded up …
Next morning tension remained high. City businesses stayed closed for safety. The King ventured in procession from Whitehall to Guildhall, where the Commons were sitting in committee. It was only two minutes from their shop. Gideon joined the mutinous crowd outside. Again King Charles demanded the Five Members; after a turbulent meeting, again he was refused. He had to leave Guildhall empty-handed and depart from the City, accompanied as was traditional by the Lord Mayor and aldermen. Now the crowds who had welcomed him home from Edinburgh were more sullen. When the ornate royal coach reached Temple Bar, obstreperous citizens banged on the King's coach, rocked it, peered rudely through the windows and even thrust copies of radical pamphlets inside.
Gideon had run though the streets, chasing after the King's coach. He followed it all the way beyond St Paul's, out of the city gates and as far as Temple Bar. Borne along by curiosity, he was among the angry crowd who surged forward and tried to rock the coach; he even stepped on the footboard, and pulled himself up. He looked in at the window. At the masque in the Banqueting House all those years before, Gideon had barely glimpsed the King and Queen. Now, for just a second, Gideon Jukes stared King Charles in his long face. They were barely two feet apart. Ignoring the apparition at the window, the King looked calm and aloof; it was the bravery of ignorance. He was convinced of a safe return to his palace, despite this noise and inconvenience. The wild appearance of his indignant young subject made no impression at all. Gideon was the more disturbed by the moment.
The carriage lurched. Gideon fell into the road, swinging by one hand for an instant, then landing on his back in the dust — from that moment a convinced republican.
The Lord Mayor and some aldermen were pulled from their horses. 'Not me,' Gideon assured Robert and Amyas on his return to the print shop. 'I would never dirty my hands on an alderman.'
Amyas chortled, though his gap-toothed grin did not linger. He was toiling at the press while Gideon and Robert stood by in their shirtsleeves, following the rule of all trades that juniors work while management loftily discuss the issues of the day.
The crisis grew more frightening. At dusk the next evening, shots were heard. Someone had accidentally discharged a carbine, and drunken courtiers were fighting a duel at an inn by the new Covent Garden piazza; it caused panic. In street after street, householders were roused by unseen fists banging their doors and urgent voices crying to be up in arms. Gideon went home to reassure his mother and was nearly shot by his father, who sat in a tall chair on guard, with a loaded musket. Families spent a sleepless night in fear.
Nothing happened.
In the next lull, petitioners from all over the country again flocked into London. Knights of the shire were joined by sailors, porters, fishwives and weavers.
A mass of poor women surrounded Parliament, to express the hardship they suffered due to 'the present distractions and distempers of state.' They waylaid the Duke of Richmond in Palace Yard, threatening to dump their starving children at the House of Lords. They broke his ducal staff; he had to send peevishly for a replacement. A small group was allowed to present its grievances; when this produced no results, many swarmed around the
