by Stella Riley
‘Are you surprised?’ Venetia forced her eyes open again. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t faint.’
At the end of another excruciating hour, rumour said that the delay had been caused by the Commons, where Members were rushing through an emergency bill declaring it illegal for anyone to proclaim a new King. This, Venetia acknowledged distantly, made much more sense than wildfire stories about the executioner. But, by then, she was chilled to the bone and beginning to feel decidedly unwell. Her back felt as though it was being sawn in two, she felt light-headed and nauseous and a dull ache was rippling spasmodically across the pit of her stomach. She wished she could sit down; she wished she might not actually be sick; she half-wished she had listened to Gabriel.
And then it began. Men stepped on to the black-covered scaffold. Guards holding halberds, a couple of scriveners with note-books, a clutch of anonymous Army Colonels; and then, not only masked but also bizarrely disguised by wigs and false beards, the executioner and his assistant.
Venetia pressed her hands against the wall and waited. On the ceiling of the Banqueting House beneath which His Majesty must even now be passing, Rubens had painted Justice triumphing over Rebellion. The irony of it was vaguely crippling.
Accompanied by Bishop Juxon, a slight, heavily-cloaked figure stepped out on to the platform. Charles Stuart, King of England and Scotland. The crowd was silent now, its collective breath smoking on the air. Gesturing to the block, the King spoke quietly to one of the Colonels and apparently received a negative answer. Then, looking briefly at the mounted troops which were drawn up between the scaffold and the people, he drew a small piece of paper from his pocket and prepared to speak to those around him.
Isabel, meanwhile, had identified the officer as Colonel Hacker and started to give Venetia chapter and verse on his recent career as the King’s chief gaoler. Without turning her head, Venetia snapped, ‘Oh for God’s sake, be quiet can’t you?’
The King’s voice was calm and remarkably even, but his words drifted past the line of soldiers only in fragments. Straining her ears, Venetia caught some of them. Most of the crowd probably heard nothing at all.
‘I could hold my peace very well but I think it is my duty … to clear myself both as an honest man, a good King and a good Christian,’ he began. ‘All the world knows that I never did begin a war first with the two Houses of Parliament … I do believe that ill instruments between them and me have been the chief cause of all this bloodshed … I pray God forgive them. I wish that they may repent … that they may take the right way to the peace of the Kingdom.’
Venetia tried to ease the raw agony in her back – but to no avail. Her legs were like lead and, despite the fact that she was shivering, sweat trickled down her neck. She clutched her cloak about her and resolutely concentrated on the King’s words about the people.
‘Truly,’ he said, ‘I desire their liberty and freedom as much as anybody … it was for this that now I am come here. If I would have given way … to have all laws changed according to the power of the sword, I needed not …’ His voice faded and then came back with sudden clarity. ‘I am the martyr of the people.’
He spoke a little longer but Venetia could not hear what he said. Then he exchanged a few words with the grotesque figure of the executioner before putting on the cap that would hold his hair clear of his nape. The sense of nightmarish unreality which had gripped her all morning intensified abruptly and the ache in her body sharpened.
The King handed his Garter insignia to the Bishop. He said, ‘I go from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown, where no disturbance can be. No disturbance in the world.’
A lump rose in Venetia’s throat and tears blurred her eyes. Blinking them away, she watched the King make his final preparations. He looked serene and completely unafraid as he stood for a moment in prayer. And then, with neither haste nor hesitation, he lay down and placed his neck upon the low block.
Silence, heavy as a funeral pall, lay over the whole, dreadful scene and Venetia found herself struggling to breathe. A great, voiceless cry was welling up inside her, tearing her apart. Then, in the space of a single heartbeat, the King stretched out his hands and the axe commenced its slicing descent towards the block.
There was an ugly thud like distant thunder. The severed head fell … blood gushed like a conduit … and a deep, terrible groan erupted involuntarily from the crowd. Her face paper-white, Venetia stood perfectly still, staring as if mesmerised while the executioner held the dripping head aloft for all to see. Then, entirely without warning, she wheeled away and vomited helplessly against the wall.
For several minutes, she was aware only of how ill she felt and of the accuracy of Gabriel’s warning. ‘It dismantles your stomach,’ he had said; and now she knew what he’d meant. And even though she would not look again at the blood-soaked scaffold, the horror was repeating itself over and over inside her head.
Bracing herself against the wall with both hands, she gazed remotely down on the mess at her feet. A little space had cleared around her and the beautiful sable cloak had been carefully removed out of harm’s way. She drew a series of deep, shuddering breaths and gradually, in some far-off part of her mind, realised that Isabel was speaking to her.
‘Venetia? Venetia, my dear – I had no idea it would affect you this way. We must get you to somewhere you may rest and get warm. There are soldiers coming to clear the streets – so I really think we should try to go now, if you feel you can manage it.’
With extreme caution, Venetia detached herself from the wall. She said unevenly, ‘I’m sorry. Of course we must go. I’ll be well enough in a minute.’ She paused, turning carefully so as not to see the scaffold again, ‘Have – have they taken the King’s body away?’
‘They did it immediately. But the place is crawling with people trying to dip their kerchiefs in his blood,’ reported Isabel. And then, as Venetia swayed, ‘Perhaps Harris should carry you? You’re not the only one to have been overcome, you know. Several persons collapsed completely.’
Venetia shook her head and allowed Harris to lead her back into King Street amidst the slowly dispersing crowd. A body of tightly-packed cavalry rode smartly down towards them from Charing Cross and another could be seen approaching from Westminster. For a moment, people stared from one to the other, bewildered; then they dived into doorways and down side-turnings to avoid being trampled. Venetia found herself crushed between Isabel and a pilaster; the stone bit into her back and the breath was driven from her lungs. Then, as the horsemen swept by and Isabel was able to step back, a strange spasm convulsed her abdomen. She gasped and Isabel said anxiously, ‘You look dreadful. I doubt there’s a chair to be had but I really don’t think you can walk back to Covent Garden.’
‘Neither do I,’ admitted Venetia shakily.
Her ladyship and her servant exchanged glances. Harris said, ‘If your ladyship would be agreeable to it, we could take Mistress Brandon to my mother’s house in the Axe Yard till she feels a bit better.’
‘Why, of course! How clever of you!’ Isabel beamed at him and then turned her attention back to Venetia. ‘Tom’s mother is my own old nursemaid so she’ll know how best to take care of you. Also, the Axe Yard is only a few steps away. What do you think? Will you come?’
There seemed to be a fog inside Venetia’s head and she wanted nothing except to lie down. With difficulty, she said, ‘Yes. Yes – perhaps that would be best.’
‘Good. Then Tom will carry you. No – don’t argue. Tom?’
Venetia allowed Harris to lift her up into his arms and was conscious of instant relief. She shut her eyes and tried to force herself to breathe deeply … but all she could think of was the King’s severed head, dangling by its hair in the executioner’s hand. Her eyes flew wide. She clasped one hand over her mouth and left it there.
She noticed little about the house in the Axe Yard – nor even about Harris’s mother – until she had been carried up a flight of stairs and lowered gently into the depths
of a feather quilt. The room around her was simply furnished and scrupulously neat and a small fire blazed in the hearth. Venetia frowned slightly. Then a thin, angular face peered down at her, a capable hand smoothed back the hair from her brow and Mistress Harris said placidly, ‘Don’t worry, my dear. We’ll have you feeling better in no time. It’s just the shock, see? Nasty things, executions – and particularly this one. But it’ll pass soon enough. All you need is a bit of a rest.’
Venetia smiled wanly.
‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’
‘Not a bit of it.’ Across the bed, the woman’s eyes met those of Lady Gillingham and then returned to Venetia. ‘Her ladyship tells me you’re expecting a baby. Do you know how far along you are?’
‘Almost three months.’ Awash with sudden fear, Venetia struggled to sit up. ‘What are you saying? It is just shock, isn’t it? That and standing about in the cold for so long? I was perfectly well this morning.’
‘And you will be again, dear – mark my words. There’s nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.’ Mistress Harris pressed her back on to the bed and smiled soothingly. ‘But it does no harm to be careful, so I think I’ll bring you a special potion of my own. Nothing very strong, of course. Just something to relax you. How does that sound?’
‘It sounds precisely what she needs,’ said Isabel firmly. And, to Venetia, ‘You couldn’t be in better hands, you know. Margery cared for me until the day I was married – and I trust her implicitly.’
‘I always did my best for you, my lady – and always will,’ came the smooth reply. ‘Now. Perhaps you’d be good enough to loosen Mistress Brandon’s laces while I go and fetch my herb cordial? The poor young lady looks quite worn out.’
The door closed softly behind her and Isabel advanced on Venetia, smiling.
‘Shall we see about making you more comfortable? And then later, when you’re feeling better, Tom shall fetch my carriage to take you home.’
The thought of Cheapside and Sophia was reassuring. Venetia said, ‘It seems I’ve already been enough of a nuisance. Perhaps if Tom went for the carriage now, I could —’
‘I won’t hear of it.’ Her ladyship removed Venetia’s shoes and then sat on the bed to unlace her gown and stays. ‘You must take Margery’s cordial and rest for a little while. The streets will be quite crowded still – and it would be silly to take any more risks.’
‘I – yes. I suppose so.’ Venetia lay back again. Her back still hurt but less than it had done and the sharp, frightening pain had once more receded into a gnawing ache. Inside her head, however, two thoughts warred persistently with one another; the first was concern for her baby … and the second that the King had been dead for just over an hour. She said vaguely, ‘I suppose the Prince of Wales is King now. Charles the Second. It sounds so odd.’
‘There is no King. There’s just the Army and Oliver Cromwell. But don’t think of that now. It will only upset you. Tell me instead how Colonel Brandon feels about becoming a father. Doubtless he’s pleased and hoping for a son?’
Venetia stared miserably up at the ceiling.
‘He doesn’t know I’m pregnant. I decided not to tell him until he’s released from the Tower.’ She paused briefly as the door opened and Mistress Harris reappeared. ‘I thought it would make it harder for him and I didn’t want that.’
‘Pity,’ murmured Isabel. Then, as Venetia looked at her curiously, ‘I was just thinking that it might have given him something to look forward to. But I’m sure you know best. And now, drink Margery’s brew. Once your nerves settle, you’ll feel better in no time.’
Venetia accepted the cup from Mistress Harris and took a cautious sip. It had a slightly pungent taste but was not unpleasant and she was half-tempted to ask what was in it. Then, deciding that it was probably little different from the potions she herself made at home, she raised the cup to her lips and quickly drained it.
Mistress Harris took it from her and smiled.
‘There, my dear. Now lie down and shut your eyes while I take her ladyship downstairs for a glass of my parsnip wine.’
Venetia did as she was bidden without argument. It sounded sensible advice; and, much as she wanted to go home, she did not think she had the energy to move. Isabel glided past her and Mistress Harris followed, shutting the door behind her. Venetia turned on to her side and concentrated on emptying her mind.
Against all expectation, she fell asleep … and awoke some time later, tightly curled-up and in the grip of fierce, grinding pain. For a few moments, she was utterly disorientated. Then, the pain eased a little and she heaved herself onto one elbow to discover that Isabel was watching her from a chair by the fire. The vivid eyes were bright with an expression which defied interpretation and Venetia said raggedly, ‘What’s happening? I feel so ill.’
There was a long silence. But finally, in tones of the purest unconcern, her ladyship said, ‘You’re miscarrying.’
Venetia stared at her, at first blankly and then with gathering dread.
‘No,’ she whispered, shaking her head. ‘No. I can’t be. Help me.’
‘Help you?’ Smiling, Isabel rose and walked a few steps towards the bed. ‘But I already have.’
Vicious claws tore at Venetia’s insides. She gasped and folded her arms hard across her body, perspiration beading her brow.
‘I – I know. But please … for God’s sake get me a doctor.’
‘Why?’ Her ladyship looked down on her smiling. ‘It won’t do any good. And you can’t really want to bear the bastard’s brat – now can you?’
~ ~ ~
FIVE
At about the time Venetia was falling asleep in the Axe Yard, Major Maxwell unlocked the door of Gabriel’s cell and said laconically, ‘You’re out.’
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed and for a moment he neither moved nor spoke. Then he said, ‘By whose orders?’
‘Ostensibly, Ireton’s. But I’ve a suspicion that the Lord General gave him a nudge.’
‘And the charges against me?’
Eden shrugged. ‘Nothing has been said … but I think you can be fairly confident that they won’t be resurrected.’
‘Provided, of course, that I resign my command.’ Smiling sardonically, Gabriel rose and set about fastening his coat. ‘If that was all Henry wanted, he needn’t have gone to so much trouble. I was going to do it anyway.’
Eden moved away from the door, frowning slightly.
‘I suspected that you were considering it. But …’
‘But what? You know my views on what this Army has become.’ Gabriel looked up, his gaze austere. ‘Since you’re clearly not going to tell me, I’d better ask. Did they actually go through with it?’
‘Yes.’ Major Maxwell stared down at his hands. ‘At around half-past two. They say … they say he died well.’
There was a long, yawning silence. Then Gabriel said grimly, ‘I daresay he did. It was the only thing left to him. The question remains, however, whether it was either necessary or desirable that he should die at all.’
Eden’s mouth twisted wryly but the hazel eyes were bleak.
‘I don’t know. I can only say that I’d have preferred another way. I don’t think he was a tyrant or a traitor or a murderer – or any of the things they charged him with. I even think he meant well and believed his principles worth sticking to. But if he’d made terms with either us or the Parliament, it needn’t have come to this.’
‘And now it has?’
‘You’re asking if I’ll continue to serve? I must. In the last seven years, the Army has become my life. And even though, thanks to you, I can now face up to my past and pay the occasional visit to Thorne Ash – I’ll never go back to it on a permanent basis because it isn’t what I want.’
‘Then what is it you do want?’
‘Mostly, to make sure we haven’t gone through all this for nothing.’ Eden paused and then said, ‘It’s different for you. You’re too much the soldier to enjoy battles fought with petitions a
nd manifestoes – and I suspect you’ve found something you want more than a well-fought campaign.’
A faint smile dawned.
‘You may be sure of it. Does she know about my release?’
‘No. I thought you’d like to surprise her.’
‘I would.’ With increased haste, Gabriel finished tying his sash. ‘Did she go to the execution?’
‘I don’t know – though I would guess she probably did. But she should be home by the time you get there. They cleared the streets within an hour and there was no trouble so far as I know.’
‘Thank God for that.’ He crossed the room and extended his hand. ‘And thank you, too. If there’s any justice in the world, you’ll be rewarded with my vacant shoes.’
‘Well, of course.’ Grinning, Eden gripped his Colonel’s fingers. ‘I was counting on that. But, all things considered, it might be best if you don’t recommend me.’
*
Gabriel walked into the Cheapside house at a little before five o’clock and found the parlour occupied only by Sophia. Rising so fast that at least three shawls slithered to the ground, she said, ‘My God. They’ve let you go!’
‘As you see,’ he smiled. And, when she cast her substantial form against his chest, ‘Have a care, Sophy. Remember my weakened, half-starved state.’
She peered up at him.
‘You look remarkably well to me.’
‘Appearances are frequently deceptive. Where’s Venetia?’
Her hands fell away from him.
‘I don’t know. She went to the execution and she hasn’t come back yet.’ She paused and, just as he had done with Eden, said, ‘Did they … is His Majesty really dead?’
‘Yes. Unfortunately, he is.’
‘God rest his soul, then.’
‘Amen to that.’ Mingled with his disappointment over Venetia’s absence was a little core of worry. He said, ‘Perhaps she’s had difficulty finding a chair or a boat to bring her home.’
‘Ah yes. That’s very likely, isn’t it?’ Her expression lightening fractionally, Sophia poured two glasses of wine and handed him one of them. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’