by Stella Riley
‘I have nothing more to say. But I desire that this may be entered – what I have said.’
‘The Court, then, has something else to say to you,’ responded Bradshaw, arising with the notes for his final oration clasped in one hand. ‘Sir – you speak very well of a precious thing called peace. It had been much to be wished that you had really endeavoured the peace of the Kingdom – but your actions have been clean contrary. You have let fall such languages as if you had been in no way subject to the law. The Court is very sensible that the law is your superior; that you ought to have ruled according to the law. But you set your single judgement against the highest Court of Justice – and that is not law. The end of having Kings is for enjoying justice. Now, Sir – if the King go contrary to that end, he must understand that he is but an officer in trust and he ought to discharge that trust. Parliaments were ordered to address the grievances of the people … but what the intermission of Parliaments has been in your time is very well known. Truly, Sir, your proceedings call to mind the great Roman tyrant, Caligula – who wished that the people of Rome had but one head that he might, at one blow, cut it off!’
He paused briefly, heard a faint, disconcerting ripple of derisive laughter and resumed quickly, before it could grow.
‘It is a question much pressed on your side by what precedent we proceed. It is no new thing to cite precedents where people have called their Kings to account. You know very well you are the hundred-and-ninth King of Scotland. To mention so many of them as that Kingdom has made bold to deal with would be too long. But it is not far to go for an example; your grandmother set aside and your father, an infant, crowned. And the state did it here in England. King Edward II and King Richard II were dealt with by the Parliament – and the articles charged upon them do not come near to the crimes that are laid at your charge.’ He regarded the King forbiddingly whilst turning the pages of his notes. ‘Your coronation oath plainly shows that there is a contract made between the King and his people. The bond of protection is due from the sovereign as the bond of subjection is due from the subject. Sir, if this bond be once broken – farewell sovereignty!’
Grasping the pause, the King said rapidly, ‘These things may not be denied. But —’
‘Whether you have been the protector or destroyer of England, let all England judge,’ invited Bradshaw. ‘I shall not particularise the many miscarriages of your reign. They are famously known. Truly, Sir, these are your crimes. Tyranny and treason. All the bloody murders committed since division was betwixt you and your people. And if any man will ask what punishment is due a murderer, let God’s law speak. As the text has it … when innocent blood has been shed whereas the land stands still defiled, it can be no way cleansed but with the shedding of the blood of he that shed this blood.’ His voice had risen to a passionate crescendo and he took time to calm it before continuing. ‘All I will say before the reading of your sentence is this. You said that you wished us to have God before our eyes. I hope all of us have so. That God with whom there is no respect of persons; that God who is the avenger of innocent blood. We have that God before us. For yourself, we do heartily wish that God would be pleased to give you a sense of your sins – that you may cry unto Him to deliver you from blood guiltiness.’
The silence in the great Hall as he finished speaking was so acute that Venetia could hear her own heart beating. Beating or breaking; she couldn’t be sure which – only that it was now obvious where all these words were leading.
The King said slowly, ‘I desire only one word before you give sentence. And that is that you hear me concerning those great imputations that you have laid to my charge.’
‘Truly, Sir, I would not willingly at this time interrupt you in anything you have to say. But from the first time you were pleased to disavow us, the Court need not to have heard you one word,’ announced Bradshaw, resuming his seat. ‘We have given you too much liberty already. It is our duty to do what the law prescribes. What sentence the law affirms to a tyrant, traitor and murderer, you are now to hear read out to you.’
His face pale and set, Broughton rose to unroll a scroll with fingers that were not entirely steady.
‘Whereas the Commons of England in Parliament appointed us a High Court of Justice for the trying of Charles Stuart, King of England, on a charge of high treason and other crimes and misdemeanours which was read on behalf of the people of England … he, the said Charles Stuart was required to give his answer but he refused so to do. For all which treasons and crimes, this Court does adjudge that the said Charles Stuart, as tyrant, traitor, murderer and public enemy to the good people of this nation, shall be put to death by the severing of his head from his body.’
A strange, sighing breath arose from the Hall and a bitter chill invaded the air. Faces expressed a variety of emotion – the most common of which was a sort of shocked bewilderment. No one spoke.
Clearing his throat, Bradshaw said, ‘The sentence now read is the act, judgement and resolution of the whole Court. Will the Commissioners stand to signify their assent.’
The Commissioners rose, albeit untidily, to a man.
The King looked from them back to Bradshaw and said, ‘Will you hear me a word, sir?’
‘You are not to be heard after sentence,’ came the curt reply. And, with almost indecent haste, ‘Guards – remove the prisoner.’
Utterly disconcerted by the discovery that it could all end so abruptly, His Majesty rose disbelievingly from his seat.
‘I may speak after sentence,’ he averred as the guards closed in about him. ‘I may speak after sentence ever! By your favour – hold! The sentence, Sir … I say, I do affirm —’ He stopped; surrounded, defeated and suddenly intensely bitter. ‘I am not suffered to speak,’ he proclaimed loudly as they started to hustle him away. ‘Expect what justice other people will have.’
Already his voice was half-drowned in the jeers of Colonel Axtell’s men.
Venetia and Kate Newburgh stared at each other, dry-eyed and shaking. Then, silently, they clung to each other and tried, unsuccessfully, to bear what they both knew was unbearable.
~ ~ ~
FOUR
Sentence had been passed on Saturday 27th and the execution was fixed for Tuesday 30th. Between the two, Eden and Sam listened to Hugh Peter preaching on the text ‘Thou hast destroyed thy land and slain they people’ but failed to find anything that might link him to Gabriel’s misfortunes. And Venetia, having already endured endless lectures from Sophia and Jack, came very close to quarrelling with her husband.
‘They wouldn’t let him speak,’ said Venetia, her throat aching with unshed tears. ‘I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t. He’s the King – but they wouldn’t let him speak. Not even … not even after.’
Gabriel held her tight against his side, wishing she would cry and get it over with. He said, ‘His Majesty denied the authority of the Court. They were bound to turn that against him in one way or another.’
‘But John Lilburne —’
‘Isn’t the same thing at all. Lilburne will always be allowed to speak. He’s a species of public entertainment. And though some people may have thought the King’s trial would be similar … they were either stupid or deluded. It was never going to be anything other than it was. The route to being rid of him.’
For a long time, Venetia said nothing. Then, ‘The execution is to be the day after tomorrow. They’ve still time to change their mind, haven’t they?’
‘Yes.’ The words But they won’t, hung unspoken in the air.
‘But if they don’t …’ She shifted a little. ‘If they don’t, I —’
‘No.’ Without warning, Gabriel released her and stood up. ‘No. You’ve attended the trial. Let that be enough for you. Watching the King die won’t achieve anything.’
‘I know. But —’
‘Venetia – listen to me.’ Both face and voice were utterly implacable. ‘It will be a harrowing, gruesome experience which, if you once see it, will stay with
you forever. Is that what you want?’
‘No. But it it’s the price I must pay, then —’
‘No price is required of you – particularly not that one. You are not going, do you hear?’
‘I have to. Please try to understand. Not to be there would be like deserting him.’
‘Rubbish! Do you think he’ll see you – or even know?’
‘That’s not the point,’ she said wearily. ‘I’ll know.’
‘The only thing we’re agreed on. But what purpose will it serve?’ Gabriel ran a hand through his hair and said grimly, ‘Have you ever seen a man butchered?’
A tiny shudder rippled through her. ‘No.’
‘It isn’t a pretty sight. To put it bluntly, it dismantles your stomach. Are you prepared for that?’
‘Probably not. But I’ll manage.’
He swung away to the small window, swearing under his breath. Then, turning back to face her, ‘And what if there’s trouble? What if a riot begins amongst the crowd and the Army comes in at push of pike – or worse? You could be killed.’
‘I doubt that. I won’t be alone, you know. I’m going with Isabel and Kate … and they’ll both doubtless take a couple of servants along for protection.’
‘I don’t care if they take a dozen mercenaries and a score of bloody eunuchs!’ snapped Gabriel. ‘The place will be heaving with troopers who won’t have orders to be either selective or gentle. It. Will. Not. Be. Safe. Do you hear me? And, just for once, will you do as I ask and stay at home?’
‘I can’t,’ said Venetia, stubbornly but with reluctance. ‘I really can’t. I’m sorry. But I will be careful. I promise.’
‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’ He stared at her, as furious with his own impotence as with her obstinacy. ‘If I was out of here, there would be no question of your going. You know that, don’t you?’
The merest hint of a wry smile touched her mouth.
‘Not necessarily. But I admit that it would probably be more difficult.’ The smile faded, leaving her face very tense. ‘If I could do as you ask, I would. But I can’t turn aside from this, Gabriel. Not even for you. I’m sorry.’
*
Wearing her warmest cloak over a plain, dark gown, Venetia took a chair to Covent Garden on the morning of the 30th. It was bitterly cold, as it had been for days and the frost lay thick and white over roofs and trees. In the City, people went about their daily business with a sort of strained normality or stood around in huddles, talking in hushed voices. Faces expressed fear, confusion, resentment; few of them were smiling. Venetia understood how they felt. It was as if the world had spun out of control and was hurtling towards the void.
Gratingly self-absorbed as ever, Isabel welcomed her as though they were merely going on a shopping expedition and revealed that Lady Newburgh would not be joining them after all. Her husband had apparently forbidden it.
‘Sit by the fire, my dear,’ invited Isabel. ‘I’ve mulled some wine and we’ve time for a cup before we leave.’
Venetia eyed it distastefully.
‘That’s kind of you … but I don’t think I could.’
‘I know how you feel – but you ought to try, you know. It’s freezing outside and we’ll probably have a long wait. This may help to keep the chill off.’ The vivid blue eyes encompassed her in gentle concern. ‘Try to drink a little, Venetia. You can’t afford to neglect your health now you’ve the baby to think of.’
Venetia took an unenthusiastic sip of the hot, spicy liquid and then warmed her hands around the cup. She said baldly, ‘I still can’t believe they’ll actually do it.’
‘They’ve built a scaffold.’ Her ladyship sat down, seemingly unaware of Venetia’s indrawn breath. ‘It’s outside the Banqueting House. Did you know?’
‘Yes. But there must be something – or someone – capable of stopping them using it, even now.’
‘I doubt it. They say Prince Rupert’s in Ireland with half-a-dozen ships … but what’s the good of that? The Scots are against it, of course, but they won’t do anything; and the Dutch sent envoys to the Commons but were just told to go away and get their plea translated! Also, rumour has it that the Prince of Wales sent a signed sheet of blank paper, begging Parliament to name its terms for sparing the King’s life. But even that won’t help. Not now. It’s too late.’
‘It won’t be too late until it’s actually done!’ snapped Venetia. And then, ‘How can you be so cool?’
‘I’m not,’ replied Isabel, without noticeable emotion. ‘I’m as upset as you. But one has to be realistic. His Majesty has been tried and sentenced; and, short of a miracle, he will go to the block a few hours from now.’
Venetia frowned into her half-empty cup.
‘And who,’ she murmured bitterly, ‘will be brave enough to sign the death warrant of a King?’
‘Ah. Yes – well, that has presented difficulties, I believe. Certain of the Commissioners were unwilling to put their names to it and had to be … encouraged.’
‘You mean forced, don’t you? And by whom? Or no. Silly question. Cromwell, no doubt?’
Her ladyship nodded and leaned forward with the air of one enjoying a confidential gossip.
‘And that’s not all. The document itself was wrongly dated and ought to have been re-written – except that it was feared that some of those who’d already signed might refuse to do so a second time. And so the mistakes were simply altered.’
The frown in Venetia’s eyes intensified and she looked up.
‘How do you know all this?’
‘People talk. You know how it is. Nothing remains a secret for very long.’ Rising, Isabel shook out the ample skirts of her bronze silk and expertly twisted one flame-red curl back into place. ‘If you’ve finished your wine, we should go. My loving motherin-law will be back soon and I’d rather not see her just now. Also, it will be hard to find a place from which to see if we don’t arrive in good time. I thought we’d walk down to Whitehall. It’s not far, after all. And I’ve told Harris to be ready to escort us. He should be sufficient protection, don’t you think?’
With other things on her mind, Venetia had difficulty recalling the large young man Isabel had foisted upon her for a few weeks the previous autumn but was vaguely surprised that he was once more in her ladyship’s own employ. Draining her cup and setting it aside, she said, ‘I thought the Dowager wanted you to get rid of him?’
‘She did – and still does, come to that.’ A bright, malicious smile dawned. ‘But annoying her is one of life’s small pleasures. Shall we go?’
Outside, the cold took Venetia’s breath away and seared her lungs. Isabel, larger than ever in an extravagant cloak lined with sable, continued to pour vitriol on the Dowager Countess all the way down the Strand and though Charing Cross – while Harris trod a respectful two paces behind, presumably listening to every word. Venetia felt her nerves start to snarl into an irritable tangle and wished she’d had the sense to realise that, on this of all days, Isabel Molyneux was probably the very last companion she wanted.
King Street was lined with soldiers, past whom people were moving in only one direction. Venetia walked grimly on, trying to batten down her emotions and prepare herself for what lay ahead. Then she caught her first glimpse of the scaffold and knew a sudden, terrible desire to turn and run.
During the war, some of the windows of the Banqueting House had been bricked up. Now, however, one had been knocked through again and enlarged to form a rough doorway; and before it, about six feet high and flanked by mounted troopers, stood the black-draped platform of the scaffold.
Venetia stared at it, transfixed. Isabel shook her arm and said, ‘Come along. A place near the wall will be best. Also, if we’re to hear a word His Majesty says, we’ll need to get nearer the front. Harris will clear a path for us.’
Scarcely aware of the complaints and buffeting of the crowd, Venetia allowed herself to be propelled forwards to a point beneath the gallery which linked the Palace to t
he Holbein Gate. And then, when they were no more than twenty feet from the scaffold, she stopped dead, her eyes glued to the low block. Isabel’s voice droned endlessly on, attempting to persuade her to take a few steps more but Venetia ignored it. This was as close as she could bear to be; and much closer than was probably wise.
It was only then that it occurred to her to wonder why they were standing in the icy street amidst the common people instead of sitting snug in a window somewhere. It wasn’t like Isabel to endure discomfort; and that sable cloak had never been intended for standing cheek-by-jowl with shopkeepers, apprentices and fishwives. Just for an instant, Venetia contemplated asking why they weren’t above in the gallery with the other fur-trimmed spectators – and then changed her mind. It didn’t matter. It would also probably provoke another mindless monologue and she had already heard enough.
Somewhere, a church clock struck noon. The crowd was denser now and becoming tightly-packed but voices remained low and faces subdued. Isabel described, in exhaustive detail, the gown her dressmaker was currently completing. Time passed. Venetia’s hands and feet grew numb with cold and her back ached with standing. The clock struck one and the crowd shuffled restlessly on a tide of rumour that something had gone wrong.
Venetia’s eyes brightened and, cutting Isabel off mid-sentence, she addressed the man nearest to her.
‘What’s that they’re saying? Something about the executioner?’
‘They’re saying he won’t do it and that the Army’s calling for volunteers,’ he replied. ‘Not that they’ll have to look far. I reckon Nose Almighty’d be happy to oblige. Or Hugh hell-fire Peter, come to that. But I doubt it’s true, lass – so there’s no need to look so sick. Young Gregory’s beheaded Lord Strafford and Archbishop Laud in his time. And doubtless the fee’s higher for a King.’
Venetia leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.
Isabel said, ‘Are you all right, my dear? You’re very pale.’