Denmark assured because James’ Queen Anne was Danish. By implication England had triumphed over three troublesome enemies. Put in this fashion, it would seem that the accession of James VI of Scotland as James I of England was an English victory.
Having lost a Lady whom time had surprised … Graceful, gentle, courtly, this turn of phrase in the old chivalric manner. The Queen would have smiled to hear it. A small compliment which called up all the best of that lost time. The Queen had died old. She had reigned long, perhaps too long. The coming of James had been greeted with joy. Bells and bonfires celebrated the news. There would be change, but in that change was the hope for the future.
Now the slight turn of phrase must have touched them with shame. Awakened the memory of the grandeur of her reign, touched a pride and sadness in English hearts. There were many in the hall who had known her and served her in love, as few monarchs had been loved. True, there had been troubles and sadness. But it was not the picture portrait of the old Queen of a troubled country, dying after living and reigning long, that he bodied forth. No, it was the ghost of the young Elizabeth, and the proud figure, even when old, in her wig and jewels and one of her thousands of dazzling dresses.
And so she came to enter the hall to join the kings at the round table.
Mention of her in a fitting style reminded them of an odd coincidence. That the day of this trial was the anniversary of the Queen’s accession to the throne. For nearly half a century this day had always been an English holiday. Occasion for bells, bonfires, parades, and feasting. That this was the first time that her holiday would not be celebrated, and in this year, the very year of her death. Had she lived there would be no proceedings in Winchester. Had she lived, plague or no plague, there would have been public rejoicing across the land. And the Court would be gathered somewhere, wherever she chose, grumbling no doubt, but ready to be entertained extravagantly.
The Queen gone less than a year and already mourned and missed. A present twitch of shame increased by this reckoning, by the memory, still fresh, of the eager joy which had greeted the coming of James.
And for the King the scarcely subtle reminder that his reign, therefore all his power, was still in infancy.
We now had an active King, a lawful successor.… The King could not take offense. It was a compliment on his behalf, a further example of England’s “better position.” Except that the King was, thus, set against the memory of the Queen. She was described in poetry, he in prose. Active? Yes, he was already busy with affairs. And Ralegh called him a lawful successor. A matter the English had agreed to agree upon. Yet the English law was doubtful. In this hall was the Lady Arabella Stuart, on whose behalf, though all unknown to her, Cobham’s plot of treason was hatched. The probability of the plot depended upon the strength of her right to the throne. Though the King enjoyed priority of blood, the Lady Arabella was English by birth. And under the letter of the law there was that old statute, 25 Edward III, which stated that no one born outside England could inherit land within the realm. And there was also the last will of Henry VIII, which would have barred both the Lady Arabella and King James.
By asserting the lawfulness of the King’s throne, Ralegh reminded one and all that there were at least some doubts.
The state of Spain was not unknown to me.…
Ralegh had often played cards with the Queen. Here was his trump. He had held off naming the true enemy, the most urgent danger, until now. He stood accused of entering into a conspiracy on behalf of Spain. Very well, he would picture the present state of Spain in the world. He counted off English victories, ending his count with the defeat of the Armada in ’88. And here he was, one of those soldiers and seamen who had beaten the Spaniards back again and again. He pictured proud Spain from the popular English view—dishonored and discouraged. The pressure of Spain for a settlement with the new King was seen as “creeping to the King, my master, for peace.” The fortunate King was reaping a bountiful harvest which others had planted and cultivated. Even the peace he so desired with Spain could be seen as inherited, a gift of the late Queen and the English.
Another quick thrust at the King. Peace, the King’s ideal and noble aim, coupled with “creeping.” Who goes the extra mile for peace, goes it on his hands and knees.
Whoever read or heard of a prince disbursing so much money without some guarantee, a sufficient pawn? The unlikelihood of the Spanish King gambling wealth on a conspiracy.
Ralegh had cited the example of the Jesuits in Spain reduced to mendicants at the church door. A picture that pleased his hearers, Catholic and Protestant alike. Yet it was the intelligence of Spanish Jesuits against the English Catholics which had given the King his first clues of this treason.
And even though Spain might not squander money on the dubious prospect of an English conspiracy, to be managed in large part by old enemies of Spain, still there had been many conspiracies and plots fueled by Spanish gold in the last reign. He recalled them, even in protestation. Spain was not to be trusted, in peace or war.
He gave example of the practice of princes by referring to Elizabeth again. He reminded them how the rich citizens of London had required mortgages from her. The old quarrel between the Court and prosperous London began again. And with that the memory of how faithfully and rigorously the Queen had repaid her debts, a fine profit accruing to the lenders.
Thus Ralegh called their gratitude into question.
The Lord Mayor had closed the gates of London and armed the militia when the Queen died. He refused entrance to the Council to announce the succession until he was certain James would be named King. The citizens of London were strong for James, and they were already receiving their rewards from the King. Pictured as demanding and receiving mortgages from the Queen, they did not appear to best advantage.
Another slight feint with a metaphorical dagger. In Scotland the King had been poor and hard-pressed. Here he saw riches, rich houses and lands, many palaces and more money than he had ever hoped for. Yet the Queen had been frugal and had devised tricks to keep taxes down and to prevent unhappy confrontations with her Parliament. At once overwhelmed with riches and aware of the limitations of his new estate, already anxious for hard money in his coffers, James was here reminded that the Queen had often been forced to borrow from merchants of London.
A digressive discourse on probability. Ralegh would not go free. No chance of that. But from that point on it was a different kind of trial. It was the King and the Law who were on the defensive. Details of the treason plot seemed trivial. Points of law seemed inconclusive.
The trial disintegrated into charge and countercharge, clash of conflicting evidence.
It was amid all this that Ralegh most deeply wounded Coke.
Professing ignorance, he asked only for two things: that there should be more than the testimony of one witness to prove a man guilty of treason and that he should have the right to question Cobham face to face. He cited statutes from the reigns of Edward and Elizabeth to support his requests.
It fell upon Coke, then, and the judges as well, to explain how the old laws had now been repealed or changed, that his citations no longer applied. Which was all true. Point by point. Yet Ralegh seemed entirely reasonable. Ralegh’s arguments were clear; the law, devious and equivocal.
For Coke it was especially galling. Ralegh had stood for traditions, embodied in old statutes, of the English common law. Coke honored common law as the breath and soul of the law. And, in truth, the traditions of common law supported Ralegh firmly in both his arguments. To answer him, and answer him he must, Coke was made to turn around, to stand on his head, to defend the letter of recent statutes against the spirit of English common law.
It would have been less humiliating had Ralegh hurled dung and stable straw at him.
And so, before the conclusion of the trial, the King’s justice was strongly challenged. Coke was left shamed and frothing with fury. And Ralegh, though convicted by the jury in less than a quarter of an hou
r, was triumphant in disgrace.
After a perfunctory protest against the verdict, he was brief in his acceptance of it.
RALEGH: I submit myself to the King’s mercy. I know his mercy is greater than my offense. I recommend my wife, and my son of tender years to his compassion.
Before passing sentence, Lord Chief Justice Popham felt compelled to give Ralegh a lecture. Not on legality, for the law had a bitter taste by that time of the afternoon. But, of all things, to lecture the Fox on the subject of worldly wisdom—“It is best for man not to seek to climb too high, lest he fall; nor yet to creep too low, lest he be trodden on.” He laid on hard, stressing Ralegh’s wealth, power, and his ambitions. And chastised him for the rumor, once bruited about, that Ralegh had held “most heathenish and blasphemous opinions.”
Something must be salvaged from all this for the King. All that the Lord Chief Justice could do was to try to erase the trial and to return it to its beginning, to recreate Ralegh as the best-hated man in the realm, and then to pass sentence on him.
Again the advantage was with Ralegh. He stood, tall, head up, silently bearing the redundant and unnecessary chastisement.
Finally the sentence: “That you shall be had from hence to the place whence you came, there to remain until the day of execution, and from thence you shall be drawn upon a hurdle, through the open streets, to the place of execution, there to be hanged and cut down alive, and your body shall be opened, your heart and bowels plucked out, and your privy-members cut off and thrown into the fire before your eyes, then your head to be strucken off from your body, which shall be divided into four quarters, to be disposed of at the King’s pleasure. And God have mercy upon your soul.”
The traditional and symbolic execution of a traitor. Drawn on a hurdle, backwards at the tail of a horse, unfit to tread the earth and, upside down, to breathe the air. Strangled by being hanged between heaven and earth, unworthy of either. Castrated as unworthy of leaving any seed behind him. His bowels and heart ripped out and burned, for they, too, were guilty—the secret places where he had kept his treason. His head, the schemer and imaginer of mischief, to be cut off. His body to be cut into quarters, a disgust to men and food for carrion birds.
The Lord Chief Justice took the white wand of authority and broke it, ending the proceedings. The guards, breastplates and shiny halberds, red velvet doublets, swords and short cloaks, moved around the prisoner and marched him from the hall.
If the King had hoped to rally support around the disgrace of Ralegh, he had already failed when Ralegh was led away by guards he had once commanded, to climb to a high tower cell overlooking the yard.
Two of the King’s courtiers, one an Englishman and one a trusted Scot, brought him a prompt report on the trial. Roger Ashton spoke to the King with some courage and honesty, though not directly to the point.
“No man ever spoke so well in the past,” he said. “And I doubt any will do so in times to come.”
But it was not Ralegh’s rhetoric that concerned the King. James Hay, the Scotsman, once a favorite and always to be trusted, told him what he had to hear, like it or not.
“When I saw him first today, I shared the common hatred of the man. And I thought I would have gone a hundred miles to watch him hang. But before he left the hall, I knew I would go a thousand to save his life. And so would others who were there today.”
But that was long ago, longer than the span of years between. A lifetime long, and the world has changed as if by flood or fire, washed or burned, and now renewed.
Only, through odd circumstance, this affair of the last age must be settled now. And Sir Henry Yelverton is the King’s man and the man to settle it. All things are ready. He cannot be better prepared.
And, most comforting of all, he knows his man. Oh, there are limits to readiness. No doubt in the world the Fox will try a trick or two. But he’s an old fox now, stiffened with age, and there can be no new tricks. Let him come in all his dazzling finery. Let him have his full say, play with wit and poetry. It will be wasted. If never born to be called a silver tongue, Sir Henry will treat him with respect and honor. His modest simplicity will make the man’s mime of bravado ring counterfeit.
And if Ralegh can whisper up a multitude of famous ghosts, who will remember them? Who will know their names and faces?
Yelverton is confident and can find no cause for apprehension. Yet he cannot sleep.
He supped well enough. Had good appetite. His bowels are not bound, and his head is clear. He went to bed at the customary stroke of nine. Here he lies, in good health, in warmth and comfort. And deeply uneasy.…
He waits, impatient, for the sound of a cock, for the vague music of chiming bells, and for the noises of his servants.
He cannot find any source for his nagging doubts. Cannot find a cure against a feeling that something, unknown, nameless, utterly unforeseen, is threatening him.
He can only lie in his bed, keep still and wait, hoping that, after all’s said and done, the King will not be displeased.
You who would know something of the truth of kings, who stir dust and peruse the leaves of faded documents, seeking to retail the chronicle of dead kings and queens—yes, especially you who meddle with the dead, must first strip and simplify yourselves, becoming as the basest subjects who are content to love, honor, and obey their rulers.
You who would begin to conceive of kings, living or dead, must change yourselves to do so. Must unlearn all to learn again. And then perhaps you may come to some dim understanding—like that of an infant in a cradle of the tall alien world of faces which lean hugely close, then vanish without rhyme or reason—not of kings or the mysteries of kingship, but of the dream of kings.
The King of England thinks these words, framing them in mind as if he were putting them in ink upon a parchment. He is awake, not wishing to dream. If he could sleep without dreaming, he would set his mind free and do so. But to sleep is to be at the mercy of dreams.
The dream of kings is not so strange that it cannot be shared. All men have known it, if only in memory of the past. So Adam dreamed of the one true King, who was his maker.
To dream of kings you must imagine a world to contain them. Imagining that world makes it so.…
The bed in which James I, King of England, lies is much like that of Sir Henry Yelverton. He, too, lies curtained within a larger chamber. Floating high above hard bedboards upon layers of stuffed woolen mattresses, and atop all those, a softness from France, a down feather bed. He, too, feeling the texture of the huge sheets, large as sails, and enjoying their odor of fresh-laundered cleanliness and the delicate scents of herbs and flowers used to sweeten them. His body, too, so weightless for the time being that he can believe himself free of its burden. He, too, warm under wool blankets, with a fine-wrought coverlet over all. His royal head rests upon pillows made of down and edged and bordered with an elegant stitchery of lacework.
The king’s bed is grander, its posts more intricately carved and polished, its headboard a marvel of beasts and nymphs and satyrs, leaves, flowers and fruits worked into the wood until, in the light from many candles in niches, all these plants and creatures are alive.
Candles burn, as upon a Popish altar, on the headboard. Standing candles and tapers throughout the chamber make a continual, soft light. And the fire burns high.
No evil can come from the dark where there is none.
He is safe and secure, at the center of the inmost maze of a great house. Before he entered the bed and drew the hangings together all around it, guards searched the bed and the covers, crawled under it; one even bounced upon it and felt every inch for any threatening thing. Now all around the bed stands a barricade of propped mattresses, and outside the only door to this chamber, locked and bolted from within, two armed men stand guard. Which must be sufficient. Since, after all, only two men stand guard at the gate of the Tower of London at this hour.
Was there ever a king born without a witnessing of signs and portents? Has one
king died without the signs of nature mourning or rejoicing?
Mourning and rejoicing accompany the demise of kings. For kings are ritual and sacrificial beings, born and called to live and to die in celebration of both life and death, relinquishing their claim to common humanity for the sake of celebrating all that is worthy in mankind. Receiving, at the moment of that relinquishment, an invisible but palpable inspiration, a fiery gust of the original divine breath which transformed dust into the first man. Kings are coupled to divinity, but not so much in wedlock as by rude rape. And ever after, so long as a king lives, he is at the mercy of his Ruler, subject to each blessing and each curse bestowed upon him.
And it is for this cause, and not for any visible pomp and glory or power, that a king is worthy. Worthy to be loved, to be honored, to be obeyed, and yet also to be pitied and prayed for.
To deny the divinity of kings would be to deny the print and seal of the divine upon the human soul.
Who denies the divine power of a king denies divinity within himself. And thus he denies God. And in so doing he surrenders all claim, all privilege to be called human.
Within the chamber are trusted servants. One is wrapped in a blanket and lies dozing on a pallet by the hearth, his duty to feed the fire with logs through the night.
The other is a handsome young nobleman, not more than a boy really, splendid in white silk. He sits on one of the new chairs, a Farthingale chair of oak, upholstered in dark velvet, a chair without arms, designed for the ladies’ fashion in skirts. It serves his purpose well, for the young man can curl his slender legs beneath him on the chair and read a book.
Probably a play or some romance. There is no way to protect the young from their own folly. Idle and inwardly insolent in their bloom, they dawdle time away. Well, it is part of their everlasting charm, that they are so aware of their gifts yet somehow shielded from the knowledge of mutability. They do not dream that all gifts are loans made at high interest, to be repaid on demand. It is well that they do not take the wisdom of the ancients seriously. For the young and the beautiful, words, wise or foolish, are mere sounds, music, occasion for a dance. Then let them dance while they are able, dance and be beautiful as flowers. Spoil them now, for time will spoil them soon enough.
Death of the Fox: a novel about Ralegh Page 3