by Robert Nye
‘My Lords, Sir Walter Ralegh, the prisoner at the bar, was fifteen years ago convicted of high treason, as you have heard. High treason, my Lords, committed by him against the person of his Majesty and the state of this kingdom. He then received the judgement you have also heard: the judgement of death - to be hanged and drawn and quartered. His Majesty of his abundant grace has been pleased to show mercy upon him till now. But now that same justice calls for due execution. Sir Walter Ralegh has been a statesman, and a man who in regard of his parts and quality is to be pitied. He has been as a star at which all the world has gazed. But stars may fall Nay, my Lords, they must fall when they trouble the sphere wherein they abide!’
This pretty speech completed, I was required to hold up my hand. Which I did. The Lord Chief Justice, Montagu, then asked politely if I had anything to say for myself why execution should not be awarded against me.
I stood and said:
‘My Lords, all that I can ask is this - that the judgement of death which I received so many years ago will not now be strained to take away my life. It was his Majesty’s pleasure to grant me a Commission in a voyage beyond the seas. I was given the power of life and death over others. Under such favour, my Lords, I presumed I had possession of a pardon. I was, after all, granted leave to depart from this land and undertake a journey to honour my Sovereign and to enrich his kingdom with gold. In pursuit of that honour, I have lost my son and—’
Montagu interrupted me.
‘None of this is to the purpose. We do not sit in judgement on your voyage.’
Coventry said: ‘In any case, the issue of your Commission cannot help you. Treason can never be pardoned by mere implication.’
Yelverton said: ‘Besides which, I have a copy of your Commission here before me. There is not a single word in it which could even be said to tend towards pardon.’
I looked at Bacon.
He did not look at me.
‘So be it,’ I said.
There was a silence.
Then I said: ‘I am satisfied, my Lords, that nothing I can offer in my own defence will be considered to the point. I submit myself therefore to your judgement. I put myself upon the mercy of the King.’
Bacon wrote even more busily. I fancy I must have surprised him by capitulating so soon in this matter of the voyage implying pardon. To be honest, it was part despair and part pride which inspired my swift submission. The despair of my being aware that he would welcome the chance to put the knife in my back as he had put it so often into others. The pride of my standing there knowing and declaring by my silence that the swine was well-named.
Yelverton said: ‘Sir Walter, you are wise not to argue the toss.’
I nodded my thanks for this compliment. ‘I would add only one word.’
‘What is it?’
‘Hope,’ I said.
‘Hope for what?’
‘Compassion,’ I said. ‘I might hope for the King’s compassion, might I not? Concerning this judgement which is so long past. There are some here, my Lords, even amongst yourselves, in this very hall, who could bear witness that I had hard usage in that trial of mine.’
Montagu stared at me. Then he looked up at the rafters. ‘Sir Walter Ralegh,’ he said firmly, ‘you must remember yourself. You had an honourable trial. You were justly convicted.’
I said no more.
‘My Lord the King’s Attorney has called you wise for not arguing the toss concerning your late voyage to Guiana,’ Montagu went on. ‘You would be even more wise if your submission ran to confess that your former treasons were well proved, and that the sentence then pronounced against you was no more than your guilt deserved.’
I said nothing.
Montagu sighed. Then he drew himself together.
‘Sir Walter Ralegh,’ he said, ‘I am here called to grant execution upon the judgement given you fifteen years since. All that time you have been as a dead man in the law, and might at any moment have been cut off, but the King in mercy spared you.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You speak of hard usage. Well, sir, it might indeed seem hard to some if you were now to be executed in cold blood. But it is not so, and you know it. You understand very well that your new offences have stirred up his Majesty’s justice, to cause him to recall his reprieve, and to revive your former sentence.’
He paused for effect. I think he was enjoying the sound of his own voice echoing in that vast hall, the largest in England, usually so crowded for proper trials, but this morning so empty.
‘I know you have been valiant and wise in the past,’ Montagu went on. ‘And I doubt not but you retain both those virtues. Now you shall have occasion to use them. In the past your faith was sometimes called in question, but I am resolved that you are a good Christian. Your History of the World, an admirable work, testifies as much.’
He glanced at my Lord the Archbishop, who inclined his head.
James Hay pursed his lips. He didn’t like this. On reflection, it was perhaps the bravest thing my judges did. They must have known that the Scot would tell the King. And that James had found my History not at all ‘admirable’. Too saucy in censuring princes, I think that’s what his verdict was. He had the book banned for a while, and when it was released again the printer took my name off the title page.
Montagu rambled on. Tear not death too much,’ he said. ‘Nor fear death too little. Not too much, lest you fail in your hopes. Not too little, lest you die presumptuously. And here I must conclude with my prayers to God for it, and that he shall have mercy on your soul, for execution is now granted, and I command that you be taken from this place, and that at nine o’clock tomorrow you shall be—’
I had shut my eyes.
The Lord Chief Justice stopped abruptly in mid-sentence.
When I opened my eyes I saw Bacon leaning down from his white marble bench. He looked like a bent archangel. He was handing Montagu a piece of parchment. It was not the parchment he’d been scribbling on. I heard it crackle as Montagu took it. The parchment bore the seal of the kingdom: a great gold and purple blob on a sheet of yellow. I expect Bacon had been keeping it warm in some deep pocket of his robes all the time of the hearing. I suspect also that his sudden production of this missive came as no startling news to their Lordships. Just another of the King’s little Scottish tricks, his small dramas, his ironies.
Montagu put on his spectacles.
He said:
‘Here is the word of his Majesty the King. Signed and sealed. Delivered by his right trusty and well-beloved counsellor, Francis Lord Verulam, Lord Chancellor of England.’
He read aloud from the parchment:
‘James, by the grace of God, King of England, Scotland, and Ireland, Defender of the Faith. We, by this present writing, do pardon, remit, and release Sir Walter Ralegh, Knight, from the manner of execution according to his former judgement at Winchester - namely, that he was to be hanged, and drawn, and quartered. Our pleasure is, instead, to have the head only of the said Sir Walter Ralegh cut off, at or within our Palace of Westminster?
I will say this much for Montagu:
He did not play the clown.
He read out the rigmarole straight, in a sober unvarying voice, where he could have paused after that bit about
pardon, remit, and release Just to torture me a second
with the prospect of a little more life.
Silence.
Were they expecting me to applaud? More silence.
I heard the cry of a rat-catcher in the street outside. He was singing the rat-catcher’s song. I cupped my ear to listen to him:
Rats or mice, ha’ye any rats, mice, polecats, or weasels?
Or ha’ye any old sows sick of the measles?
I can kill them!
And I can kill moles!
And I can kill vermin that creepeth up and creepeth down, and peepeth into holes!
A long time since I’ve heard that song. Perhaps I only imagined it? No one else in the great hall showed any sign of having
heard it. Yet I swear I did. And that the rat-catcher had a broad Devon accent.
Yelverton rapped with his staff.
‘Does the prisoner understand?’ he demanded irritably.
Bacon had gone back to his writing. He crossed something out. Then he added some commas in another place. He did not look up. He never said one word, nor looked once in my direction, the whole time.
I stood erect.
Then I said:
‘My Lords, let your record show that the said Sir Walter Ralegh, Knight, has perfectly heard and very well understood the pleasure of his Majesty.’
Bacon covered his lips with his hand. If he smiled, no one saw it. Did anyone ever see Bacon smile? I didn’t.
The rest of my noble judges did not smile. My words appeared to have frightened them out of their wits.
‘Amen,’ cried Lord Chief Justice Montagu, at last. ‘Execution is granted. God save the King!’
I bowed.
I dropped my cane with a clatter and let it roll. I turned.
I limped away without it from Westminster Hall. As I said, that took two minutes. I walked as well going out as I did coming in. As well, or as ill.
So the cane made no difference. No difference at all
*
I am here in an upper chamber of the Gatehouse. The Sheriffs of London have guard of me. This place was once the old monastery of Westminster. To be sure, my room is monastic enough. A well-scrubbed floor, a trestle table, a hard bed. From the one tiny window, if I looked down into Old Palace Yard, I could see the carpenters at work constructing a scaffold for my final use tomorrow. I have no wish to watch them. It is raining. The unfortunate fellows no doubt are getting soaked to the bone. I have a fire. I can hear the sound of their hammers. Apsley instructed the Sheriffs to allow me pen, ink, and as much paper as I required. I do not think I shall need the great pile they have brought.
I dined well. The porter served me roast beef, green peas, turnips, and artichokes. There was a quince pie to follow, baked (so he said) by his wife. He offered me wine. I prefer not to drink it.
Three o’clock. The bell called Great Tom has just boomed it out from the clock tower.
A wet, a windy, a wretched afternoon. I can see that the darkness will come early. I shall have candles lit. I always liked to write by candlelight. I always liked the winter smell of wax.
*
I have sent word to Bess. She knows where I am. The Sheriffs say she can visit me tonight. I asked her not to bring Carew. It is better that way.
*
All this paper
It silences me.
For the first time in my life, I find it difficult - if not impossible - to write.
What can I say that’s not been said? To whom should I address myself?
I waste time. I sit and smoke my pipe and stare into the fire. I hear the hours strike, and the rain against the windowpane. They have ceased that damned necessary hammering. I should be exerting myself to write some kind of public statement, something my friends might have published if my speech on the scaffold tomorrow is cut short.
Short or long, it will be cut all right.
This time tomorrow I shall be dead.
I can afford to waste time, for time will soon waste me no more.
For the first time in my life, I feel free.
*
Stars must fall….
Quite a decent phrase, that one of Yelverton’s. I wonder where he got it from. Sounds like a quotation. Marlowe, maybe. Or Kyd. Too good for Kyd. Shakespeare? No, not good enough for Shakespeare.
Dead.
All dead.
Marlowe, Shakespeare, Kyd.
They broke poor gentle Thomas Kyd on the rack. I am spared that, apparently. I am spared the dagger thrusts through the eyes which dispatched poor Marlowe. I am spared the anti-climax, even, of dying at home in my bed, a man of property, like the great upstart from Stratford. (He must have lain dying that month I stepped forth from the Tower two years, two lifetimes, ago. Wat said Ben Jonson got him drunk on a visit to that vulgar house of his, New Place, and that Shakespeare slept it off under a tree all night in the rain, only it was a thin tree, and S. then took to his bed with a fever. I don’t believe it. Drink only ever sobered Mr Shakespeare, and God knows he was always sober enough without.)
Dead, anyway, all of them.
All of us.
So here’s the chance to say I forgive the worst and the best, the star that out-shined us all, the only one clever or unlucky enough to die without poetry or violence or drama, at home in his second-best bed.
I mean: Mr W.S. And I mean I forgive him specifically for mocking me as that character called Don Armado in his Love’s Labour’s Lost. A muddled patchwork piece, in my opinion. Essex loved it. So did the Queen, when it was done for her at the Christmas revels in ‘97. At least, Shakespeare allowed his fantastical Don Armado the last speech in the whole stupid farce. The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo. You, that way: we, this way. Which also happen to be some of the better lines in the wretched production. Only now we all go the same way. And that’s no jest.
I wonder which particular star my Lord the Attorney General can have had in his mind? Mercury?
In astrology, according to Dr Dee, Mercury signifies subtle men, the ingenious and the inconstant. Rhymers, I remember him saying, poets, advocates, orators, philosophers, arithmeticians, and busy fellows generally.
The words of Mercury
I don’t intend to utter many more.
In any case, Yelverton probably meant Lucifer. As proud as Lucifer, that one who was damned and ruined by his pride. Lucifer, after all, is the most notable star anyone ever thinks of as falling It’s in Isaiah somewhere: How art thou fallen,
from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning!
And Coke called me Lucifer. And so did Howard.
In fact, it was my star part in that other farce at Winchester.
*
I write drivel. I know it.
Stuff about plays and nonsense about players. Because my life on the stage of this world has been a play, and I have played in my time many parts, but always the actor, the actor, not the man of action, the actor. And so on. I’ve said it all before…
What tedium.
I heard Edward Alleyn once. Drunk. Playing Faustus. He got stuck. He must have forgotten his lines. He just stood there, centre-stage, shouting over and over again:
See see where Christ’s blood streams in the firmament! Shouting louder and louder each time. He must have roared it all of six times before he was prompted. It was very effective, all the same. No one laughed. By the fifth scream, everyone in the audience at the Fortune could see that blood streaming.
But I have no great line to get stuck with.
I sit here repeating banalities like a fool. The porter brings more coals. The fire is already too much.
It’s dark. The candles are nodding in their cowls.
I ought to be writing and rehearsing that last speech. The speech I might not even be granted the chance to deliver. It’s the condemned man’s right. It’s traditional. But, with King James for curtain-master, who knows?
Let’s face it. I haven’t the heart.
And it would be rather good to say nothing, would it not?
*
Good. Yes. To deny them their oration. To go tight-lipped to the axe. To die in silence. But vain.
Prouder than Lucifer.
My last and most devilish pride to overcome. I have to say something. Anything. The best I can say. Which won’t do. Which will have to do. God help me.
What?
*
I give thanks to God. He answered my prayer. I have suffered two most welcome interruptions. Now I am inspired. Now I know what I must do, what I must say.
The first inspiration came in the shape of a clergyman. A round, plump, busy shape. Bustling in with a copy of Cranmer’s Book of Common Prayer held outstretched in his hands as if to ward off some mal
evolent spirit.
I gathered I was the spirit in question.
The young cleric introduced himself. A Dr Robert Toun-son, King’s chaplain, and Dean of Westminster. He had come, so he said, to encourage me against the fear of death. It was part of his usual priestly duties. A mission he performed for all men about to leave this world.
I offered him my chair. He sat down, flicking dust from black pumpkin breeches. I stood with my back to the fire. It was pleasant, the heat against my buttocks.
‘I am the resurrection and the life,’ Tounson said.
‘Saith the Lord, ‘I said. He that believe thin me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die? I lit my pipe, smiling. ‘You see, sir, I know a little religion But are we not premature? This is the beginning of the Order for the Burial of the Dead. I have not yet achieved that translation.’
‘Quite so, quite so,’ Tounson muttered impatiently. ‘I offered those comfortable words of Our Lord vouchsafed to his disciple St John merely to introduce the subject.’
‘Which subject?’ I said.
‘Christianity, sir. The state of your soul.’
I blew a smoke ring.
‘As you see, it could be worse, my dear Dean.’ ‘Men have called you an atheist—’
‘Men were wrong. I believe in one God the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible. And in one Lord Jesus Christ, the only-begotten—’
‘Amen,’ Tounson interrupted. ‘I see that you know the Creed. I did not doubt that. But what men say with their tongues does not always chime with what they think in their hearts. What is your true faith, sir? Your religion?’
I blew no more smoke rings.
I said:
‘I am a Christian. I shall die as I have lived, in the only faith I have known, which is the faith professed by the Church of England.’
Tounson blinked.
‘Sir Walter, I confess that you surprise me. I had heard much of your scepticism.’