Twelfth Night, the comedy was called, and the Queen was much pleased by the quick turns of plot and the satirical thrusts. She led the laughter and applause.
A year later and the dark began to reclaim title to her eyes. World turned and dimmed too. Laughter that leaves a bitter aftertaste was the fashion. Ralegh returned to Middle Temple for the Revels and saw another play by Shakespeare. Ever a vane to the winds of fashion, the poet gave the scholars a feast of the fare they enjoyed, a play called Troilus and Cressida, all composed of follies of war and lechery.
And they laughed at the chaos and barbarism just beyond them, howling outside walls as thin and frail as an eggshell.…
Now at last a cluster of houses, cheek by jowl along the smooth bank, behind whose roofs tower the shadowy buildings of the Abbey and the palace of Westminster. And there … there is the incomparable high roof of Westminster Hall.
At the landing there are a pair of royal bargemen, clad in proper blue, waiting to take hold and tie the barge fast there. Behind and above them, on the flight of stairs which leads from the landing to the gate in the wall of houses, there are two armed yeomen of the Guard. These are not so tall as the yeomen were when he was their Captain and his size was the measure for the Guard.
They had to scour all England then for giants and, rarest, for graceful giants who would not tangle their feet or trip over each other’s partizans.…
“We are here,” Wilson says.
And Apsley touches his arm lightly, repeating: “We are here, sir.”
“Such a short time,” Ralegh says. “My brain was busy with idle thoughts. I scarcely noticed.”
“May I ask what you were thinking of?” Apsley still touches his arm as if to direct him, to keep him from falling when he stands.
“I was thinking of the light in our late Queen’s eyes, how light her eyes were, even to the last, when something made her happy.… You see how mad the thoughts of an old man may be.”
“And why not remember that if it pleases you?”
“Because we deceive ourselves,” Ralegh says to him. “The last of that light is gone.”
The coxswain eases the barge alongside the landing. Not so much as a rocking of it as oars go up high and blue-clad bargemen loop lines to make it fast. The yeomen begin to descend the stairs, coming toward them.
Ralegh stands up, so quick that Apsley’s hand falls away.
“I shall lead on. I know the way.”
One hop and he’s over the benches of the oarsmen and stands on the stones of the landing, eyeing the advancing yeomen, then turning back to the barge, leaning upon the walking stick, offering his hands as the gentlemen scramble out of the barge.
As if he were there to welcome them.
Across the landing, flanked by the brace of yeomen, they begin to climb marble stairs. Moving slow to keep to the rhythm of a limping man, while faces at the windows of houses and others behind them, riding the Thames, watch all this. And going under an archway, its figures and words of stone blurred by seasons, and into the large bare stretch of yard leading toward Westminster Hall.
Symmetrical, the hall guarded by two square-shaped towers and the roof rising steep above all, reaching a peak in a pendant where a weather vane turns in search of the breeze, the entrance way and above it the huge arched window, wait for them.
From the clock tower Great Tom booms the hour. Announcing nine o’clock of a Wednesday morning in the Michaelmas Term of the Law, and, as it happens, the feast day of Saints Simon and Jude.
None of the courts of Westminster will be in session. Not the usual crowd of lawyers and clients, witnesses, servants, the idle and curious, to witness the session at King’s Bench.
Someone has planned it so, but there is a flaw in the planning. Everyone knows there will be no sessions in the courts today. And so an assembling of judges, lawyers, clerks, servants, and others for King’s Bench will have wakened curiosity.
Easier for a fair woman to go stark naked and unnoticed at Bartholomew Fair than for such a secret to be preserved. There is already a little crowd off the streets near the entrance to the hall.
Peter Rush has been waiting, standing just within the entrance. He has seen to the care of the horses and he has assisted Yelverton to robe himself in an upper tiring chamber. Went down then to the porch and planted himself to be sure of a place. Knowing that once Walter Ralegh is seen disembarking at the landing, word will flare like flame in kindling.
But it is late and nothing has happened. He sees two yeomen and some officers coming. Whoever it may be he does not recognize. An old felon, no doubt, a man bent with a walking stick, wild white hair, gray beard. Some country man who has seen better days. Judging by his heavy wrinkled mud-stained hose, old-fashioned breeches of faded tawny, ill-fitting doublet with gaps and with buttons missing, brown leather jerkin and no cloak and no cover for his head. Some poor fellow whom Fortune has ill used.
Peter Rush almost turns away before he sees the eyes of the man. Then he cannot believe his own.
Peter Rush, once a servant in the Court of the Queen, who has seen so many come and go, knows this is the man he has been waiting for. But how sadly altered.…
Ralegh has paused a moment, breathing, leaning on his stick. He looks into the eyes of Peter Rush and smiles.
Peter fumbles in the leather purse clipped to his waist. Steps past the yeoman, holding a comb.
“Oh, Sir Walter,” he says. “Let me comb your hair.”
“Let them comb it that mean to have it!” Ralegh snaps, brushing away his hands.
Someone behind them at the entrance murmurs the name. Then it is shouted in the yard.
“It is Sir Walter Ralegh, brought from the Tower!”
Running feet on the gravel. A growing ring of staring faces. The yeomen and the officers move closer.
Ralegh puts his hand on Peter Rush’s shoulder.
“Peter Rush,” he says, “I remember you well.”
“We have both seen better days, sir.”
“Do you know, Peter, if there is any plaster which will put on a man’s head again once he’s lost it?”
Peter Rush removes his own woolen cloak and places it around Ralegh’s shoulders.
“It’s bitter cold in the hall.”
“I thank you.…”
They move on, followed by a crowd, leaving Peter Rush standing there thinking. Suddenly he laughs out loud.
“What ails thee, Peter?”
That is John Greene, servant to one of the judges. A big bluff fellow nibbling from a basket of hot chestnuts.
“I can’t help laughing, John,” Peter says. “I spent a full hour this morning helping my master dress up for this occasion.”
“And?”
“And the old Fox has foxed them again.”
“Devil take them all!” John says, offering him chestnuts.
They enter the port of the hall, passing beneath clock and bell over the entry. Pause there a moment while Ralegh rests, catching his breath and exchanging words with a servant who recognizes him.
They stand waiting upon Ralegh while he speaks with the servant, the servant looking every inch his superior. On each side of the entrance port are stairways ascending, one to the Court of Exchequer, the other to the Duchy Chamber and Star Chamber.
Now they are moving again into and down the length of the oldest, largest hall of this kingdom. Begun by the son of the Conqueror, but built by Richard II. Who then lived to be deposed here. Once, long ago, the pride of kings. Where Christmas feasts and the Revels were held. Where often there was dancing and, upon occasion, even tennis. And once in a flood lords and courtiers played at rowing boats in this place.
Now used for feasts and such no more except at Coronation.
Now the palace and apartments around it are in much neglect; the Great Hall is reserved for practical affairs of state. Above are the places for the Parliament, Lords and Commons—the Commons meets in cramped St. Stephen’s Chapel—and various courts of law. Bel
ow lies the cellar, called “Hell.” But the hall is wholly given over, during four terms, to the law. Chancery and Common Pleas on either side near the port and entry.
They go down the length of the hall. Nearly a hundred yards in length and full twenty yards across. And so high that the celebrated oaken ceiling is lost in gloom.
Down the length of the hall, crackling over dry, tired rushes as they move toward the partly screened southeast corner and its shining marker—a wide white marble bench. Which is used by kings at the feast of Coronation and gives to this court of law its name.
Going past the ascending stairway that leads up to St. Stephen’s.
Going past the stairs that rise to the White Hall and to the Court of Wards and Liveries and to the Court of Requests.
Halting to face the marble bench. Heavy trestle tables for the judges and lawyers. They wear their outdoor hats, and cloaks and furs are worn over their robes against the cold. Some sniff at nosegays to stifle the stink of rushes.
Ralegh stands facing the judges, leaning on his staff, silent, expressionless, as Lord Lieutenant Apsley, upon receipt of the writ of habeas corpus, which he studies with care, formally delivers over his charge. Ralegh stands not listening but, with hooded eyes, studying the names and faces before him.
The King’s in the country. Hunting again and with such passion for the chase that he may yet rid England of game before he dies.
Ralegh sees no one here who might be the King in any costume, behind any beard.
Sir Henry Yelverton, King’s Attorney General. Stout, bluff and forthright. Eager for the King’s favor. More caution than tact. A man in his early fifties, some ten years younger than Ralegh. Cambridge man and a scholar from Gray’s Inn. Will be a judge one day, if he continues to please. If he learns to oil joints and curb tongue. His father was a good Parliament man.…
Sir Thomas Coventry, Solicitor General. A man of forty, friend to Yelverton. More moderation than zeal, more mercy than thunder. A good lawyer and a fair one. Plain speaker, but forceful and persuasive. Likely to be Attorney General soon. An Oxford man and member of Inner Temple.
And there are three puisne judges of King’s Bench.
Only three? There should be four and also the Chief Justice if this hearing is to be valid.
Sir Robert Houghton, Norfolk man, a few years older than Ralegh. In Parliament he stood for Norwich. Lincoln’s Inn his school. Some say he is a good judge—prudent, learned, temperate. Bacon calls him a soft man, malleable, and easily persuaded to follow with the majority.
Sir John Croke, of Ralegh’s age almost to the year. From Buckinghamshire and to law by way of Inner Temple. Ralegh remembers him from Parliament. He was Speaker of the House in ’01. Dark-haired—it must be dyed now—heavy-browed, black-bearded, dark-complexioned. Known all his life as “a very black man.”
Sir John Doderidge, close to his own age. These lawyers live long! A Westcountry man from Exeter. Oxford and Middle Temple, studying there when Ralegh did. Knew him there and in Parliament also. Bacon has said he pleads a case straight and well “like a good archer.” Strong supporter of the King and ready and willing, unlike many judges, to give opinions in secret. They call him “The Sleeping Judge” because he closes his eyes when hearing a case.
Sir Henry Montagu, Chief Justice of King’s Bench. His grandfather, Sir Edward, was Chief Justice also. Henry Montagu’s a Cambridge man, studied at Middle Temple. Ten years younger than Ralegh. Knighted, together with the multitudes, by James in the first year of his reign. Resolute and vigorous, yet at ease. Replaced Coke when Coke fell in ’16. He holds the key to what will happen here.
Among other worthies present Ralegh spies George Abbot, whom James made Bishop of London and then to the amazement of all—most especially to elegant Lancelot Andrews, who thought himself sure to be chosen—Archbishop of Canterbury. Holds an uneasy favor with James. A man of not much moderation and less tact. Has opposed the Spanish Match too persuasively.
Spots also James Hay, Viscount Doncaster. Scotsman who came down to England as the King’s favorite. But always his own man. Lavish in taste and dress, he nevertheless has shown no signs of gnawing ambition. Has served the King well and honestly, though often at variance with policy and willing to say so. He is as strong opposed to Spain as Ralegh. Hay will give the King a true report of these proceedings.
Someone has brought a stool. He nods and, as he sits, sees Francis Bacon, Lord Chancellor, taking his place on the King’s marble bench. Where, except for the King, only the Lord Chancellor may sit.
Sir Henry Yelverton is on his feet to speak for the Crown. Gripping his stick, Ralegh swallows an urge to smile. Beneath his loose flowing robes Yelverton shines, barbered and dressed for dancing and a masque. Somehow foolish in all his splendor. Seems troubled as well. His round face wrinkled with a frown.
“I shall call upon the clerk of the Crown, Mr. Fanshaw, to read from the conviction delivered against Sir Walter Ralegh at Winchester. It has been fifteen years since then and this man, the prisoner, has been for fifteen years convicted of treason and sentenced to death. The King, His Majesty, out of his abundant grace, has been pleased to show mercy to him until now. Now justice calls to him for execution.”
Yelverton has moved closer. Stands silent a moment, eyeing him. One hand nervously touches links of the heavy gold chain and medallion the Attorney General wears. He shakes his head and turns back to face the judges of the court, raising his voice.
“Sir Walter Ralegh has been a statesman and a man who, in regard to his parts and quality, is much to be pitied now. He has been as a star at which all the world has gazed. But stars may fall.… Nay, they must fall when they trouble the sphere wherein they abide!”
He pauses again, gestures toward Ralegh. Then steps to the judges at the table. His voice lower now, words quick, flat, routine.
“It is therefore His Majesty’s pleasure now to call for the execution of this former judgment against this prisoner. And I now ask order for the same.”
Not looking back at Ralegh, he returns to his place. The clerk reads the words of the judgment at Winchester.
Chief Justice Montagu asks the prisoner to hold up his right hand, signifying that he had heard and understood the judgment. He does so.
“Now then,” Montagu continues, “what says the prisoner why the execution of this judgment should not be awarded against him?”
Ralegh rises and limps toward the table. Halts and leans on his stick.
“My lords, my voice has grown weak from illness and on account of the ague that troubles me even now. Therefore, I should like to ask you for the relief of pen and ink so that I may answer.”
Montagu shakes his head.
“You are audible enough. We can hear you.”
“Very well.”
“Proceed, if you please.”
“My lords, I hope and trust that this judgment of death I received many years ago will not now be strained to take away my life. In His Majesty’s commission for my late voyage, my life was implied to be restored. I was given the power of life and death over others. Surely under law my pardon and restoration was implicit. I undertook that voyage to the honor of the King to enrich this kingdom with gold. If the voyage miscarried …”
“Whatever you say concerning the voyage is not to the purpose of this hearing,” Montagu says.
They wait for him to speak. For a time, brief enough but silence is long, he stands and stares at them, moving his head slowly to look into the eyes of each of the judges, coming back then to rest a stare upon Montagu. His left hand ruffles his white hair. Someone coughs.
“So be it, then,” Ralegh says.
“I shall, however, speak touching upon your commission from His Majesty,” Montagu says.
Ralegh waits silent.
“The King’s commission can be of no service to you,” Montagu continues. “For treason can never be pardoned by implication. That is the law. You must, then, say something else to the purpose. Otherwise
we shall have to proceed with the order for execution.”
“It is apparent, my lords, that nothing whatever I can offer in my own justification will be to the purpose. Therefore I submit myself to the judgment and put myself wholly upon the King’s mercy.”
There is a stirring at the table. No one expected this to come so swiftly.
“There is wisdom in your submission,” Montagu says, after a moment.
“Yet I do honestly hope,” Ralegh adds, “that the King will take compassion upon me, concerning this judgment rendered so long ago. His Majesty was of the opinion that I received more hard usage than justice that day. And there are some here present who could bear witness to the truth of that.”
“You have been as a dead man to law for fifteen years,” Montagu answers. “The King, in his mercy, has spared you all that time. And it might seem heavy if now, without some reason or provocation, the sentence of death is to be exercised in cold blood. But this is not so. You understand full well how your new offenses have stirred up and wakened His Majesty’s justice to revive the former sentence.”
Ralegh nods and waits for Montagu to continue.
“I know that you have been valiant and wise in the past,” he says. “And I doubt not that you retain those virtues. Now you shall have occasion to use them. In the past your faith was questioned, but I am resolved that you are a good Christian. Your History of the World, an admirable work, is the witness to that.”
Nevertheless, in spite of his intentions, Chief Justice Montagu finds himself proceeding to lecture Ralegh upon the subjects of sorrow and the fear of death. Ralegh stands listening, attentive, humble, but stonefaced.
It is Sir Henry Yelverton who is wondering what it is about Ralegh which can make an otherwise intelligent and politic judge turn into a tendentious, tongue-wagging fool. It is as if the judges spoke to relieve themselves. As men snatched and saved from peril may babble nonsense, the sound of their voices serving to prove to doubtful mind and body that peril is past. Exactly … But what peril had old Popham felt? True enough, on his deathbed he asked forgiveness for his part in that first trial.
Death of the Fox: a novel about Ralegh Page 19