Death of the Fox: a novel about Ralegh

by George Garrett

  Montagu, however, has no such feeling. This hearing has been brief beyond anticipation. The others must be as surprised as Henry Yelverton. Must feel, too, a slight sense of disappointment. Like him, they prepared themselves, were ready for everything. Except what has happened.…

  Therefore—Yelverton’s mind impatient to grasp at a conclusion—there is a similarity in difference. Both times Ralegh astonished his antagonists. Each time may be thought of as a victory for him. The execution of judgment, the passing of sentence, which ought to be the triumph of the law, becoming someway diminished in importance, an irrelevant epilogue to a play of which he, the prisoner, is author.

  What else can a judge do, stunned by the feeling of impotence, but plead his own case?

  Ralegh stands and listens without expression. Patient and knowing. Like a kind father hearing out a tedious story told by a child.

  Yelverton bends his head as if to examine papers and covers a smile with his hand.

  For he thinks he sees the grotesque beauty of it. The Fox has tricked them again and especially the King. In this, the last act, he has made his entrance in most pitiable condition—shabby, ill, and old. No one who has seen him today can fail to pity him. No one can but wonder what purpose the death of this man can serve to either state or King. All the weight and power, glory and pomp of the kingdom are ranged against one frail old man. Were he guilty of a thousand heinous crimes, it would be difficult to rejoice at the victory of justice.

  Perhaps the word of this, or some sense of it, will go to the King at his hunting. Lord Chancellor Bacon will no doubt send report. It would be like James Hay to leave this hall and mount a horse and ride to the King.

  It is possible, Yelverton thinks, that this is Ralegh’s stratagem. Report of the hearing, together with appeals from friends in high places, might cajole or frighten the King into another act of mercy. Yelverton has already learned of petitions sent from Lord Carew, from the Bishop of Winchester, from the Spanish Dominicans, who fear any Jesuitical triumph, and from Queen Anne. There will be others.

  Ralegh will lose his life or he will not. Let us assume the King is unmoved. Then he will go to his death as he is now, a poor harmless wretch. And it will do the King no credit.

  Ralegh pleads a case much like a lawyer, Yelverton thinks. But not with words this time so much as with his life, with his body and soul. And here is a dimension of freedom which staggers the mind. It is, indeed, as if he were a star, moving to a different music, ruled by other laws than ours.

  Quite suddenly Henry Yelverton is pleased with himself, for he believes at last that he has found the keys to the man.

  Montagu has finished his peroration, urging wisdom and courage. He has stated that execution is granted.

  Ralegh moves to speak, but before he does, Lord Chancellor Bacon is on his feet, coming down from the marble bench, two of his young servants assisting him with his robes. He carries parchment, the seal of the kingdom showing on it. He bends close to Montagu to whisper. Montagu examines the papers, then passes them to the clerk. Mr. Fanshaw reads them before rising. Judges and worthies whisper together.

  Ralegh stands erect and expressionless. No longer leans on the walking stick.

  “Hear what our gracious majesty does command,” Mr. Fanshaw intones. “Herein, signed, and sealed on this date at Westminster, His Majesty, dispensing of the manner of execution according to the former judgment and releasing the prisoner of same, that is, to be hanged, drawn, and quartered, says: ‘Our pleasure is, instead thereof, to have the head only of the said Sir Walter Ralegh cut off, at or within our palace of Westminster, commanding the Chancellor hereupon to direct two several writs under the great seal; one to the Lieutenant of the Tower, or his deputy, for the delivery of the said Sir Walter Ralegh to the sheriffs of Middlesex at the said palace of Westminster; and the other to the said sheriffs for the receiving of the said Sir Walter Ralegh from the said Lieutenant, and for executing him there; for which this is to be his warrant and discharge, against us, our heirs and successors forever.’ ”

  Chief Justice Montagu asks the prisoner if he has understood.

  Yelverton thinking that the King’s clerks were in such a haste to write this down for the King’s signature before he departed that it is a wonder that any man could understand it.

  Ralegh raises his right hand.

  “Let the record show that the said Sir Walter Ralegh has heard and understood the pleasure of His Majesty,” he says.

  Some at the table, and others who have gathered around to hear, chuckle at this sally, but Montagu silences them with a cold glare.

  “My lords,” Ralegh says, his voice stronger now. “I have some requests to make and something more to say, if I may be heard.”

  “You may speak.”

  “I shall be as brief as can be, for I assume that many here present intend to go their several ways to dinner. And indeed I confess that I look forward to my dinner today, since it seems likely to be my last one.”

  “Take as much time as you need.”

  “I hope and trust and most earnestly desire that this execution shall not take place suddenly today. For I have something yet to do, something in the discharge of my own conscience, something to satisfy His Majesty, and something in which to satisfy the world.”

  “It would appear to be the King’s pleasure that you shall die tomorrow,” Montagu says. “For this document is so dated.”

  “I thank your lordships, then. For I need time before my execution to settle both my affairs and my mind more than they are at this moment. For, as I say, I have much to do for the sake of my reputation, my conscience, and my loyalty. And I beseech the favor of pen and ink and paper, so that I may express myself and, as well, that I may discharge myself of some trust of worldly matters that were put in me.…”

  Yelverton thinking that all this is intended for the King. He need not have asked the judges for the privilege of pen and ink and paper. He wants the King to know he will be busy between now and the time of his death.

  “My lords, I crave not to gain one minute of life, for now that I am old, sickly, and in disgrace, and certain to go to my death, life is wearisome to me.…”

  That the King may further know that what he takes away is of small value to its owner and therefore this punishment is light.…

  “And I do lastly humbly beseech your lordships that when I come to die, I may have leave to speak freely at my farewell, to satisfy the world only in this, that I was ever loyal to the King and ever a true lover of the commonwealth. For this I will seal with my blood.…”

  That the King may be reminded that a man upon the scaffold always has the last word before the ax falls.…

  “I thank your lordships and His Majesty that I shall die here in the open air of Westminster and not within the walls of the Tower.…”

  That the King may be aware that, Lord Mayor’s Day or no, an execution at Westminster will be public.…

  “My lords, I bid you farewell, craving your prayers for the mercy of God.”

  He bows his head, his lips moving as if in silent prayer. Then turns and moves toward Lieutenant Apsley.

  “It appears, Lieutenant Apsley, that you are now free and clear of the burden of me,” he says. “Since I am not to return to the Tower with you, will it please you to dine with me here?”

  Apsley is hesitant. “I thank you … I fear that I …”

  “Be my guest as I have been yours. A man must eat dinner. I promise you the best fare I can provide.”

  “I am grateful, sir, but …”

  “Good then. Show your gratitude by joining me and eating hearty.”

  He turns his back to Apsley, calling out, “Now then, where are the good sheriffs of Middlesex?”

  Judges and worthies are mounting the stairs to the upper chambers. Yelverton starts to follow them, hesitates, then pushes through the crowd to where Ralegh stands talking with Apsley and the sheriffs. He must say something, if only to pray his forgiveness and to w
ish him the mercy and love of God.

  Before he can speak, Ralegh faces him and is talking.

  “That was a nice figure of speech, Mr. Attorney, the simile of a falling star. For a moment I thought I heard the silver voice of your late father.”

  Yelverton flushes, clears his throat. Before he can answer anything, Ralegh continues.

  “I would add something,” he says. “A star in the firmament, however bright it may be, is but one of many. We look and behold it in its proper place, and that is sufficient. But mark this: whenever a star falls, it burns so bright it dazzles the eyes of the world.”

  “I wish you well, sir,” Yelverton says. “May God and His Majesty have mercy.”

  “Amen to that.”

  Ralegh strips off the woolen cloak and hands it to Yelverton.

  “Pray return this to your man, Peter, and thank him for the use of it.”

  Yelverton nods and takes it. Together with the walking stick which Ralegh gives him.

  “Farewell, Mr. Attorney. And may God and His Majesty show mercy to you, too.”

  Ralegh turns to Apsley and the sheriffs, leaving Sir Henry Yelverton burdened with a cloak and a crude walking stick. Yelverton looks at the stick a moment, then looks up again to see the tall man striding out of the hall with the officers. Not the least sign of a limp now.

  Sir Henry Yelverton shakes his head and smiles.

  He is thinking that in this strange year of three comets, signs which have people talking of the end of the world, he could not, indeed, have found a more telling figure of speech.

  They are leading him toward the old gatehouse. As he expected. Indeed, moments after the judgment, he hired messengers to carry the news to Bess, to servants, and friends.

  He has invited Apsley and the sheriffs to join him at dinner. Poor gentlemen, the King has added to their burdens. For this is their last day in office. Tomorrow, upon Lord Mayor’s Day, two new gentlemen selected as sheriffs will be sworn in here at Westminster. There must be some doubt as to which of the four will legitimately hold the office when and if he is to be executed. They must prepare a scaffold in Old Palace Yard in haste. And be prepared to contend with a large crowd of people.

  The King has been ill advised. Apparently his stratagem is for the pageants, processions, and festivities in the city to be honey to divert the flies. He must have forgotten that the ceremonies require the new Lord Mayor of London to come here to Westminster in the morning. And that event, even without the prologue of a state execution to attract them, will gather crowds in Old Palace Yard.

  Coming out of the hall Ralegh sees a small crowd gathered outside already, and spies an old friend, Sir Hugh Beeston.

  “Will you be there tomorrow morning?” Ralegh asks.

  “You can count on it.”

  “Well,” Ralegh says, glancing at the crowd, “you may be hard put to find a place. I fear you will have to shift for yourself. Thank God, I am sure of one.”

  Moving on then, taking his time, talking with Apsley and the sheriffs while the yeomen make way for them.

  Here is a kinsman, Francis Thynne, a kind-hearted man with the shadow of a Puritan.

  Ralegh greets his kinsman and invites him to dinner too.

  “I promise you the best dinner that my money can buy,” he says. “And money can work magic. No miracles, of course. If I could perform a miracle I would invite everyone here to share a basket of loaves and fishes.”

  Others laugh, but Francis looks pained.

  “Do not try to carry it with too much bravery,” Francis whispers. “Your enemies will take exception.”

  Ralegh puts his arm on his shoulder.

  “Ah, Francis,” he says, “this may be my last mirth in this world. Pray do not begrudge it to me. When I come to the sad parting you will see me grave enough.”

  Walking away, head high, not needing a walking stick. Has left it in the hands of Sir Henry Yelverton to do with what he will. A token, just as Yelverton gave him one—the figure of a falling star.

  He will not think of Yelverton or figures of speech or the walking stick now. He is preoccupied with arrangements to be made for his quarters in the gatehouse, for dinner to be ordered for his guests. For everything that can be done to pass through this time with composure.

  After that, after he has composed himself, there will be time for other things. There will be time.…

  Not thinking of Yelverton now. But he did so during the hearing. Listening and not listening.

  Could read Henry Yelverton’s face. Yelverton was astonished. What Yelverton saw was a ragged, disheveled, sickly, pitiable man. Who had been always, even in disgrace, among the brightest, and now was diminished to least luster.

  Men of the world, the judges and lawyers and other worthies present, could not be certain whether this was only another stratagem of the Fox. Since they could not determine this, they would do what they were compelled to, accepting it both ways at once. His appearance being, then, both crafty device and truth.

  Truth or craft or both, he forced them to perform their duty with a reluctance, a muted reticence. Has any man ever been so quietly condemned?

  In a larger sense, the cornered Fox was asserting the last freedom left to him. He was left with a choice of style. He exercised that choice and caught them unaware.

  In acting freely, he took nothing from them. No part of the plot, the fable, of which all, including himself, were a part. Excepting one thing: he took away the right to possess what they did not have any claim to except by his volition—the right to choose the manner in which he would meet judgment and bear defeat.

  This is a small exception. But there are times when something just so small can render the astounded beholder speechless. Times when the simplest exercise of liberty can dazzle those who witness it.

  So it was, then, with that man of the world, Sir Henry Yelverton.

  Yelverton was forced to grasp for an appropriate convention. For lawyers as well as poets know there are moments of truth whose only true expression is in the conventional. And so he expressed himself, on behalf of the King and the law, with the figure of a falling star.

  An image, it is true, from the old astronomy, already much questioned. No matter, though, about the science of the night. The truth of the figure is not in natural philosophy.

  Sir Walter Ralegh has been as a star at which all the world has gazed.…

  Indeed? That figure might have better suited the lamented Essex. Who sought and coveted admiration. And who died for it.

  Yet Yelverton, seizing the handhold of convention, meant more than that. Meant also, by similitude, an alien and admirable creation, a nature of different fire, moving in time to tunes beyond reach and pitch of mortal ears. A dancer moving in graceful motions to a music of concord and harmony. Dance and the harmony of the music being beyond common understanding. Subject to the same law which governs sticks and stones, snowflakes and raindrops, snails and whales, earth, air, fire, and water. Subject to the same law, yet likewise ruled by another law, much like that law which governs the motions and brightness of stars.

  In one rhetorical stroke Yelverton placed the case of the King before this court. Saying, in effect, that though the common law of this nation was not easy to invoke to work Ralegh’s ruin, the law of the sun could be summoned. The King, being the sun, brightest of stars.

  Saying not that injustice is justified, but rather calling upon a justice above and beyond the power of the Court of King’s Bench, though the exercise of it must come through the judgment of that court.

  And thereby ending all argument and contention. Leaving the matter entirely in the hands of the King.

  But, live or die, Ralegh has gained a marvelous new thing.

  Sitting to hear the argument, standing to hear the judgment, Ralegh felt free as a falcon sent aloft. Though belled and bound to return to the wrist of his keeper, he was for that moment free and high-flying, sailing in the easy rolling sea of the air.

  Thinking then:
let these and all the world judge as they are able. To some a lunatic. To some pathetic. To some a fool. To some ridiculous, depending on a simple, foolish device to save himself. To some too subtle, a rebel against right order. For he has managed to make his death—if it comes—a sort of murder. To make his life—if mercy should be granted—a just reward.

  Perhaps a few, if not Henry Yelverton, have moved beyond commonplace conclusions. Ralegh outfoxed enemies and surprised friends. Now the King is forced to act. If the King has planned this game to its very last trick, saving one final trump to be turned up and played, Ralegh has deprived him of the pleasure of playing that trump.

  Live or die, he has deprived the King of some freedom.

  To be a king in bondage is to be no king at all, even though those bonds are frail as a spider web.

  Something else he has gained at the hearing. He came before them not in humility, but the image of a dishonored man. Seeming to welcome and embrace dishonor.

  It is the eyes of this world which award honor or dishonor. The world can bestow honor or dishonor, or, can be indifferent to a man, but cannot control the indifference of the man himself. A single man’s indifference shatters the power of the world to pass judgment.

  Therefore, if the world is not to melt away in self-contempt, it, too, must act. Knowing, even as it does so, that any demonstration of spurned powers is ridiculous, the world must bestow honor or dishonor upon a man who has challenged both.

  Just when Ralegh was able to renounce both honor and dishonor equally, false idols and strange gods, Sir Henry Yelverton, fumbling and finding an old figure of speech, awarded him more honor than he had ever held.

  has been as a star at which all the world has gazed.…

  Spoken in past tense to describe a lost condition. To make the most of his present condition of dishonor. In short, an equivocation by a good lawyer and a reasonable, politic man.

  As if to say: If he will have neither honor nor dishonor, then, by Almighty God in heaven, we shall award him here a measure of both. Let him live or die with that.