“A mistake. Never denude land of its trees. Yon hinge wants mending,” continued the Earl, striding over and feeling the nails in the top hinge of the heavy door. “Aye, your door will be swinging awry one of these days if you don’t take care. And that would never do. I might slip out through an unhinged door and be off to France, eh, Balfour?”
“Would not your lordship prefer Spain as a refuge?” said Sir William, even more stiffly.
Slingsby made a quick movement, for Strafford’s preference for Spain as an ally was one of the points in his policy detested by most Englishmen. Although it was over fifty years ago, the Armada was not yet forgotten or forgiven in England. Strafford perceived the trap.
“Do not trouble yourself, Sir William,” he said. “No blast of displeasure from Lords or Commons shall shake me from my duty. I shall not run away, to France, Spain, or where you will. Not even to Scotland,” he concluded on a teasing note.
“I fear you would get but a cool reception in my country,” said Sir William, stung, “since you threatened to bring over Irish kerns to subdue Scotland.”
Strafford laughed. “Well, we must not talk politics. It would not be seemly,” he said.
Sir William, who knew this as well as his prisoner did, and was vexed that he had allowed himself to be provoked into such dangerous matters, bowed coldly.
“But come, Sir William, what of my dinner?” continued Strafford, smiling at his score over the Lord Lieutenant. “I own I am hungry over all this to-do, and would be glad to eat as soon as I have smoked a pipe.”
“I will send the cook to attend your lordship.”
“Oh, no need, no need,” said Strafford. “I am not a man for fancy dishes and foreign sauces. Plain homely food, as long as it is good stuff, will do for me.”
“Your wishes shall be respected, my lord,” said Balfour. He had in fact earlier in the day asked his cook to prepare a dinner suitable for the delicate palate of an earl, and the man would be wounded if it were countermanded. All traces of friendliness, Slingsby was sorry to see, were therefore gone from his manner.
“I shall require a larger table,” said Strafford, gesticulating with one hand, “over there in the corner. And a couple of chairs—plain working chairs—for my secretaries. And another great chair or two by the hearth, for messengers from the King, and my counsel, and other men of quality who may need to visit me.”
“I was about to ask your lordship for your desires in respect of furnishings,” said Sir William, in a voice choked with resentment.
“Ink and pens, of course. But Slingsby here can procure those. And plenty of candles. I must insist, Sir William, on an abundant supply of candles. It is dark here. I shall be writing all day and far into the night.”
“There is no need to insist. They are already provided.”
“Oh?” said Strafford, apparently surprised by his curt tone.
“They lie in the chest there. With respect, I will now take my leave.”
“How shall I recall you if I need you?” said Strafford carelessly.
“There will be soldiers at the door, whom you can send with a message. I shall be glad to accompany your lordship in walking about the Tower of a morning, for exercise.”
“The afternoon might be better, after I have set my secretaries to work.”
“Or in the afternoon,” said Sir William in a tone of rage.
He bowed and withdrew.
“Touchy fellow,” said Strafford to Slingsby. “Have you my pipe, Guilford?”
“Yes, I have brought it with me. Would it be well,” suggested Slingsby, “to write a note to Sir William, thanking him for his kind reception?”
“You know me, Slingsby. I’m not the man for ceremonies of that kind.”
“Sir William may have expected thanks,” hesitated Slingsby.
“What for? He is only doing his duty, for which he’s paid. Have some sense, man.”
“It might be politic,” began Slingsby.
“It’s too late for me to begin to be politic,” said Strafford rather heavily. “I have a natural roughness and there it is. Men must take me as they find me, prickly rind and all.”
“They do not know the generosity and warmth which lie within,” cried Slingsby.
“You are a good lad, Slingsby,” said Strafford. “Come now, let us make a few notes on these foolish charges. They are ill drawn. We shall live to laugh at them. Aye, they’re right blown.”
Sir William, sitting down to dinner alone some time later—he had meant to invite the Earl of Strafford to share it with him but could not bring himself to do so—was interrupted by a noise of bustle and confusion: steps running up and down the staircase and distant voices raised in what seemed alarm. He rose from table hastily, fearing an attempt to rescue the Earl. In the passage, to his astonishment, instead of armed and dangerous men he encountered an aproned cook and a servingman with a dish.
“What is happening here? What means this noise?”
“His lordship sent me to the kitchens, sir—he said he could not eat duck without apple sauce. It seems they always have apple sauce with duck in Yorkshire.”
“Give him his apples, in heaven’s name,” said Sir William, fuming.
It was with reluctance that for duty’s sake he presented himself to his prisoner at the hour of repose, to enquire if Strafford had all he needed. Two or three attendants were hurrying about, moving the furniture and spreading carpets. Sir William was bound to admit that the room had a more cheerful, cosy, lived-in air after these alterations. Strafford was seated in an armchair by the fire, smoking, and did not rise to greet him.
“Ah, Sir William,” he said, snapping his thumb-nails one against the other in a comfortable way. “I quite enjoyed my dinner.”
“I am pleased to hear you say so, my lord,” said Sir William, bowing; inwardly he was infuriated by the depreciation of quite.
“But I don’t think much to your bread. Hard in the crust and tough within. Where do you buy your flour, Sir William?”
“I have no idea, my lord,” said Sir William, fuming even more.
“You should ask your steward,” said Lord Strafford seriously. “Not that I care what I eat, you understand, but I like things to be right all the way through.”
“A thorough policy,” snapped Sir William.
The moment he had spoken he bit his lip, for this word thorough, employed by Strafford and his friend Archbishop Laud in their administration of the country’s affairs, was hated because of their tyranny all over the kingdom, and doubtless Strafford knew it.
“He will be furious,” thought Sir William, and although he was Lord Lieutenant of the Tower, and Strafford his prisoner, on trial for treason and in danger of his life, Sir William for a moment felt afraid. There was indeed a long charged silence. When Sir William at last forced himself to raise his eyes, he found Strafford’s gaze fixed sombrely upon him. Those large dark eyes, that piercing gaze, gave him a most uncomfortable sensation.
“I did but jest, my lord,” said Sir William feebly.
“Faithfulness in small things is no jesting matter, Sir William,” Strafford reproved him.
Sir William bowed. But his heart was hot again with resentment. Why should he, a Scotsman of long and noble descent, with a good estate, unencumbered, in Fife, and a long record of soldierly service, have to take reproof from this jumped-up newly ennobled earl with a Yorkshire accent you could cut with a knife? “Black Tom Tyrant, the people call him,” thought Sir William angrily, “and they are right.”
The weeks that followed passed in continual discomfort. There was an unceasing bustle about the Tower. Messages came sometimes three a day from the King for Strafford; his counsel likewise was with him at all hours; visitors from Lords and Commons had to obtain permission to see him but the permission was never refused. Thus Sir William was in a continual sweat of anxiety, for if by some mischance he let Strafford slip away, he knew Parliament would have no mercy on him. At last, to Sir William’s relief, v
isitors were forbidden to see Strafford after dark, and presently Sir William was ordered to confine his prisoner to three rooms, to lock his door at night, to keep more soldiers constantly at his outer door, to allow him to take exercise only under the strictest supervision. This made great inroads on Sir William’s time, for he went personally to escort Strafford to chapel every morning, and to walk in the Tower garden every afternoon.
“I will be thorough in this,” he said grimly to himself, and he did not fail, though these two daily periods were a great exasperation to him.
For if Strafford roused his sympathy for a moment, next moment he immediately laid it low.
Sir William could not help but admire Strafford’s undaunted cheerfulness, his swift and efficient organisation of the work needed to prepare his answer to the Lords’ charges, his prompt and skilful replies to his visitors’ questions. But at chapel Strafford thought the singers shrill, the preacher a poor tool, jerky in delivery and unlearned in doctrine. While walking with Sir William he commented adversely on the traditional ruffs worn by the yeomen of the guard—“difficult to keep clean,” he said with a meaning sniff. This, spoken loudly in the Tower yard, caused such an increase in laundry bills that Sir William, who had already had a tiff with his steward about the flour, was obliged to have another about excess expenditure on starch. Lord Strafford remarked, too, that one lieutenant of the guard carried his nose so high in the air that his throat was stretched, another was so sharp that he would cut himself if he wasn’t careful, and a third was an ailing weed who looked like a school usher.
“If none of my officers please your lordship,” said Sir William angrily at length, “what hope is there—”
He broke off, for he could not find the words he wanted to express the irritation and despondency which Strafford’s criticisms caused him, and it vexed him the more that his prisoner looked at him in astonishment.
On another occasion as they strolled in the garden together a lieutenant of the guard—the “school usher” lieutenant, a very earnest young man—came eagerly to Sir William, began to tell him that something of importance had come, then blushed and fell suddenly silent. Seeing from his embarrassment that the matter was not to be discussed before Lord Strafford, Sir William excused himself and went within. A large bundle wrapped in linen and well tied lay on his table. When he had removed the wrappings, behold it was the new axe for executions. It was a fearsome but handsome object, the huge blade of polished steel sharpened to a fine edge, the handle gleaming silver. Looking over his shoulder to say a word as to its arrival, Sir William saw with horror that Lord Strafford had followed him in and stood at his side. Since Strafford might well be the next to feel the axe, Sir William coloured and felt acute regret. Strafford picked up the axe, turned it over, felt its edge with a smile.
“Sharp enough,” he said.
Sir William, crimson with embarrassment, could not quickly decide whether it would be worse for him to speak or to be silent.
“But why silver?” pursued Strafford. “Soft stuff. It will bend. An execution’s not a supper party. Silver! I call that silly work.”
Sir William’s embarrassment turned to fury.
The two men quarrelled, of course, about their political views. This was natural, and Sir William could have borne it if Strafford had not always taken the line that Sir William’s views, matters of high principle held with staunch integrity, were immoral and disgraceful to a man of sense. Their worst quarrel occurred on a winter’s day when Lord Strafford lay abed with a racking cough. He looked pale and ill, and Sir William felt some compassion for him as his cough interrupted his exposition of the divine right of kings.
“I am for the rights of Parliament, the elected representatives of the people,” said Sir William staunchly at length.
“I am for King and Parliament—the one cannot function without the other,” said Strafford.
“You care not a jot for the common people,” said Sir William, angered.
“That is nonsense. In Ireland I showed that I was all for the people and against the great ones.”
“You want to lay down your own law, and make all do as you please.”
“It would be better for them if they did,” said Strafford cheerfully.
“Black Tom Tyrant!” shouted Sir William, losing his temper.
“Come, come, Sir William! This is harsh carriage,” said Strafford in a commanding tone.
To be accused of a harsh manner by the Earl of Strafford was more than Sir William could bear. He rose, bowed without a word, and left.
At last the day came when Strafford was to go before the Lords to answer their charges. It was a hard day for any man, and the prouder the harder, thought Sir William, to have to leave the Tower by Traitors’ Gate, so he was most punctilious in arrangements for his prisoner’s conveyance by barge to Westminster. He had wondered whether the prisoner would show respect, or crave compassion, by his dress, but Strafford was in a fine neat suit of black, as usual, and had had his beard and hair trimmed. (It was like him, reflected Sir William sourly, to have flown out at the barber yesterday in a burst of rage, because the poor man had wanted to give him a more fashionable cut. “My hair’s my own and I shall wear it as I like,” he shouted impatiently.) As he came out of the sombre building into the windy March sunshine, the Thames rippling sharply in the breeze, Strafford looked keenly at the escort of soldiers, the three barges, his servants drawn up in the new liveries he had ordered. (There again, on the scenes with the tailor as to cut and fit, Sir William preferred not to dwell. The tailor’s whining excuses had been cut short by an outraged shout: “I’m speaking!” which had echoed through the Tower.)
“You’ll find nothing wrong, my mannie,” thought Sir William now in triumph.
He had long ceased to expect words of thanks, but thought he might have received a bow, in acknowledgment of the dignity and decorum of the scene. Lord Strafford, however, merely tightened his lips; true, he nodded his head very slightly, but without looking at Sir William, as though congratulating himself. Vexed, as usual, Sir William felt his anger sliced by a sudden pity, for against the background of robust soldiers and tanned mariners, Lord Strafford as he went aboard looked stooped and pale. He trod the boards well, with the dignity which comes of not thinking about dignity, seated himself and drew his cloak about him, the faithful Slingsby at his side.
At first the Trial went well for the accused; Strafford was too strong, too clear-headed, too able in speech—perhaps even too innocent of treason—to succumb to the ill-supported charges which he had to answer. The assembly broke up in uproar, the King and Strafford laughed gleefully at each other across the hall.
“He is singing psalms of thankfulness,” said Slingsby to Sir William next morning, smiling all over his honest face.
“Aye, but it will not serve him,” said Sir William.
“How? Do they dare not to acquit him?” cried Slingsby, indignant.
“Dare they let him escape them?” thought Sir William, but he was too wary to utter such a dangerous thought aloud, merely smiling vaguely and shaking his head.
And indeed a Bill of Attainder had already been put forward in the House of Commons, and before the Trial could end was passed quickly through its first and second readings. Even when the third reading passed, Strafford took it lightly, for (as emerged from chance words here and there from Slingsby) he had the King’s promise, written in a secret letter, that he should not suffer in life, honour or fortune. Unfortunately rumours of this letter escaped into London and beyond, and the country boiled. The King went to the Lords and made a foolish speech; it grew clear that King or no King, Parliament meant to have Strafford’s head. The Bill passed the Lords, and required only the King’s signature to make it an Act. What would happen if he refused his signature, men trembled to contemplate. Then Strafford wrote to the King, releasing him from his promise.
“Now that the Bill is passed, I must see all letters which leave the Tower, Mr. Slingsby,” said S
ir William formally. “Those are my instructions.”
“Even this? Even a letter to His Majesty?”
“Even this,” returned Sir William.
It was a noble letter, and yet there was one sentence in it which made Sir William’s neat grey curls stand on end. My consent shall more acquit you herein to God than all the world can do beside, wrote Strafford. No doubt it was true, Strafford alone could give release from a promise made to him; but imagine telling a King that he needed a subject’s intervention between himself and his God! Even Sir William, staunch Parliament man as he was, thought this going rather far. The letter was, of course, in Strafford’s own hand, and the very writing, square and strong, so different from the elegant penmanship approved at Court, was enough to vex King Charles, a man of refined taste, by its look of obstinacy.
A most anxious and exhausting weekend followed. Would the King sign the Bill of Attainder? The Tower guards were doubled, a new Constable was appointed, Sir William hovered about near the staircase to Lord Strafford’s apartments all day, while Slingsby rushed madly in and out with continual suggestions for compromises, escapes, petitions and so on, all quite useless. Lord Strafford sent away his dinner untouched. Sir William, as was his duty, called formally upon his prisoner to remonstrate. Lord Strafford—the moment the King signed the Bill he would revert to plain Thomas Wentworth, but as yet his title held—was sitting by the fire, looking pale and for the first time anxious. He listened impatiently to Sir William’s polite remonstrance, flipping his thumbnails, and at the close said only:
“You won’t happen take twenty thousand pound to let me escape, Master Balfour?”
“Your lordship’s supposition is correct,” said Sir William stiffly, infuriated both by the insult of a bribe and the bluntness with which it was offered.
The long day passed, the evening came. The King signed the Bill.
One of the King’s secretaries came to tell Thomas Wentworth of this decision. Sir William allowed a decent interval to elapse after his departure, then entered to inform his prisoner, according to his instructions, when the execution (by axe) was to take place. Wentworth, sitting still in his chair by the hearth, wore a look of intense surprise and perplexity.
Tales of the West Riding Page 4