The Road to Newgate

by Kate Braithwaite

  “Like you do?” she asks.

  I still cannot see her face properly. “If you like.”

  I turn my back – probably not the wisest choice – but I am anxious to give Henry the full picture of all I have heard. “It just went on and on. Eight thousand Catholics wait north of the border, ready to rise up against the English King, with money provided by the French. Here, in London, Oates has seen Tewkesbury mustard balls that could destroy Westminster, sparking a second Great Fire. He mentioned the Fuller’s Rent, where William said he met him. Oates said that men may be found there, on almost any evening, abusing His Majesty’s name and threatening treason.”

  “That’s not good,” said Henry.

  “Let’s hope it got lost in the crowd of his accusations. He even said that if the assassins failed, there were Catholic plotters who had bought the services of the Queen’s own physician, Sir George Wakeman. For ten thousand pounds, he’ll poison the King. You may believe that that claim got a reaction. It was a full five minutes before order was restored. They screamed for Wakeman’s arrest. All I could do was stare at Oates. I wish you might have seen him.”

  “How did he look?” Anne speaks up again but without looking at me, still bent over her stitching. She is angry. I knew when I woke in my office and not at home in our bed that there would be consequences, but she needs to consider what is happening here.

  “He was calm.” I say. “Almost serene, while disorder – near hysteria – ranged around him. He was feeding on it. I’m sure of that.”

  “So now we understand why the Privy Council dared not disbelieve him,” says Henry.

  Sick with it all, I push back my chair and pace the room. There is so much to consider, and then there are words that Henry and I are not saying. With Parliament in chaos, I’m almost certain that my post will not be renewed. My income will be cut in half. It’s a problem I must solve. Daylight has disappeared. We are all sitting in a gloom only alleviated by the flickers of the fire. I rattle around looking for the tinderbox and thump two heavy candlesticks down onto the table.

  “I wish you would calm down.” Anne’s voice is shrill.

  “Calm down, did you say? That’s the last thing I want to do.”

  “Nat,” Henry’s tone urges caution, but I don’t heed him.

  “This is not the time to be calm, Anne,” I say. “Do you have any idea of just how serious this has become? Who is this man? Why do we all rush to believe in him and his plot? Think of Parliament. My God, if you could have seen how those self-serving, power-seeking reprobates whipped themselves up to a frenzy as he spoke to them. If you had heard them crying that the Privy Council was at fault, how our government was impotent, how only they, the Members, would be able to protect the nation. Do you see it? Do you? Don’t tell me you are fool enough to think that they’re there for the good of the people? Of course not. The people’s latent bigotry and hatred of Catholics is being used. Oates and those politicians are equally to blame. They’re all there for the good of themselves, by which I mean more power to Parliament and less to the King. And what happened the last time Parliament became too powerful in this country? Tell me. Eh? What happened then?”

  There is silence. Anne turns her back and gazes into the blue-black windowpane. Henry looks at me, his eyes full of pity, mirroring my loss, thinking of my father, his friend, who died in the Civil War.

  “But if you don’t like that argument, then let me give you another,” I say. “Think about what has happened. Think. How many men, how many priests, has this Titus Oates already had dragged off to prison? Ten? Twenty? And how many more will follow? William! Our own friend William is in Newgate Prison. Have you any idea of the conditions there? Of course you do not. This Titus Oates has brought chaos and panic, he has stirred up the crowd until it must turn ugly. He has spoken to the worst fears and doubts of the people and fanned their deep-seated mistrust of Catholicism. You can see that, can’t you? You can see how he has worked them. But will you go to the hangings, Anne? Shall I take you to Tyburn, buy you a souvenir, and drink chocolate while we watch these men die? Because that’s what will happen. Men will die on his say-so. On the word of this, this, nobody. It is not right.”

  I sit down deflated, the anger hissed out of me, my head empty of thought. Henry’s hands are on the arms of his chair. He looks poised to move, but not sure how to take his departure. And then she clears her throat and speaks.

  “But that was all right for you, wasn’t it, Nat?”

  In the candlelight she appears jaundiced, her skin taut and thin.

  “You,” she says, “can shout about Oates causing men to lose their lives: men you think, but don’t know, are innocent. But you have not applied such scruples to yourself, have you?”

  She stands.

  “And don’t answer that. Just don’t. Because whatever you say, we will all still know that it is the truth.”

  She crosses to Henry, bends and kisses his cheek.

  “I don’t suppose you remember it, Nat. Why would you? But that woman who spat in my face at the fair? Her name was Mary Twyn.”

  Henry is poking in his pockets and will not meet my eye.

  “She told me you murdered her husband, Nat. That he was tried and hanged on your evidence, just as you say people will be hanged on the word of Titus Oates.”

  “John Twyn was guilty—” I begin, but Anne has already turned her back on me.

  She walks out of the room, and her footsteps echo as she climbs the wooden stairs.

  ***

  “He was guilty,” I say a few minutes later, as Henry shrugs on his coat and picks up his stick.

  “I believe you thought so at the time, Nat. I will tell her so if you would like. But she may need to hear it from you.”

  Henry heads out into the night and I am left to sit in front of the dying fire and consider. Not straight away, but slowly, a little nugget of resentment hardens somewhere in the middle of my chest. Anne is my wife, not my conscience. I decide to wait downstairs until she is asleep. I’m not used to answering to anyone for my actions. I’ve no intention of talking to her about John Twyn.

  Chapter Six

  Anne

  Upstairs, I get undressed and brush out my hair with firm strokes. Pent-up anger cracks in my limbs. Twice I go to the door, ready to march back downstairs and demand we discuss it, but each time I pull back. Doubt grips me. His confidence in his own opinion grated. To come home finally, only to rant about this conspiracy and this Oates character: how could I not react badly? But what have I done, throwing out an accusation about the Twyns when I’ve no real information beyond what his wife said at the fair? Henry and Nat are probably shaking their heads over my outburst. They may even be laughing at me. I turn and crawl into bed. My outrage is replaced by anxiety.

  I don’t know how much time has passed when Nat comes to the bedroom. I feign sleep as he sets his candle on the dresser and shrugs off his clothes. Then, candle snuffed, he climbs into bed next to me. I make sure to breathe in and out steadily. I wait for his breath on my neck. I wait for his fingers in my hair. But he shifts away and settles down. I lie awake for hours.

  ***

  Yesterday, after they took William, I ran straight to Henry’s shop, The Star, in Little Britain. In this cluster of streets, south of Smithfield and north of St Paul’s, many booksellers run their businesses. Henry sells books at the front of his property and prints pamphlets in the back, while Nat does his work as the Licenser upstairs. Outside each shop are tables piled with a profusion of books, maps, and papers. I had only been there once before and thought myself lost until I caught sight a faded yellow star against a blue background on a sign swaying up ahead. Henry was working in his shirt-sleeves, wiping the sweat from his brow. A sheaf of paper slid from a table as I rushed in. Before he could grumble, I told him the news.

  “William has been arrested. Nat followed them, but I don’t know where they have taken him or what the charge can be.”

  “You are out of b
reath. Take a seat.” Henry pointed to a chair by the fireplace.

  “No! You need to go. You need to help them.”

  “And I will. See? I am getting my coat on. But take a seat and compose yourself. Where were you? Where was he arrested?”

  Reassured by the sight of him pulling his apron over his head, I subsided into the chair. “Outside Somerset House.”

  “And how many took him?”

  “At least six men.”

  “Armed?”

  “Yes. It happened so quickly.”

  Henry shovelled his arms into the sleeves of his coat. “My best guess is Newgate. We can assume that Nat will do his best to speak to the Warden. I’ll go to Sir Robert.”

  “Surely it can be nothing so serious?” Robert Southwell is a member of the King’s Privy Council and a crony of Henry’s. “What crime could William have committed?”

  “I cannot imagine. But this is the quickest route to find out.” He crossed the room and put a hand on my shoulder. “You did the right thing coming to me,” he said, and then he was gone.

  I sat back and pressed my hands to my cheeks. The argument with Nat, followed by William’s arrest and now Henry’s unexpected kindness, brought tears to my eyes.

  “Miss?”

  I dropped my hands as the blood rushed to my face. A small boy, perhaps no more than ten years old, stood awkwardly before me, chewing on a fingernail of one ink-stained hand. Of course, there were apprentices working in the printshop. I pulled myself together.

  “I’m sorry. What’s your name? Do you need some help?”

  “Yes, Miss. It might be burning.”

  “Burning?” I followed his eyes and the smell reached me. How had I not noticed? In a moment the boy put a cloth in my hand and I lifted the pot that was hanging in the fireplace.

  In this manner, I found myself feeding four young boys and eating with them, all the while promising myself that if grisly stew was the best Henry could do for himself and his boys, then Kitty and I would intervene. When our poor meal was over, I resolved to go home and wait for news, but the boys looked at me expectantly.

  “What should we do?” asked Jim, the one who had approached me first. “The master isn’t back yet and the paper is drying out.” He pointed to a pile of creamy sheets above a large basin of greasy water. “Everything is ready,” he said. The others nodded.

  “Do you know what to do?” I asked. “What would your master do if he were here?”

  Another boy stepped forward. He was older, perhaps thirteen, with a boyish face still, but taller than me and broad across the shoulders. Nearly a man. “Tom here is the beater. He uses those inkballs to prepare the forme.”

  “The forme?”

  “This.” He showed me a frame filled with tiny metal letters.

  “Perhaps we should wait?” To be honest, I was not sure Henry would like this, not one bit.

  “He said this job was urgent, miss. We was in a rush to get started when you came in, and now he’s gone. If we don’t do nothing, he’ll sack us.”

  “You mean he’ll sack you, John,” said Jim. “You’re the pressman.”

  “Pressman?” They smiled at my poor questions, but what would I know about a printshop of all things?

  “He runs the press. The only one of us allowed to touch that.” Jim pointed to one of the three presses, and for the first time I took in the scope of the enterprise that Henry runs. Each press is large, as big as a cart, and I saw in the centre where the forme of type would sit. There was already paper pinned flat on a hinged surface, ready to be positioned over the type. John, the pressman, would pull the lever that lowered heavy block and pressed paper and ink together.

  “Why would he sack you? Why don’t you just go ahead? Surely he will be pleased with you?”

  But the boys did not agree. They shuffled and muttered, and eventually Jim took the role of spokesman. “Mister Broome hasn’t checked the forme, yet. He left too soon. It needs checking.”

  They looked at me in expectation.

  “I don’t want to interfere.”

  “I just need you to read it over. Only the first one. To check for mistakes.” Jim would not look me in the eye. None of them would. These boys cannot read.

  And so I stayed. I stayed all afternoon. I checked the type, and took a turn at rubbing the leather inkballs together, smelling the linseed oil, and lifting and lowering drying sheets of printed paper until my arms ached. The boys were organised but inclined to bicker and criticise one another. I saw the pecking order they operate under and how Henry has trained them to take on more responsibility as they grow older and stronger.

  Dusk was falling when Henry returned. I scanned his face for news of William but also feared his reaction to my still being in his printshop, in his territory, a place he had never invited me to be.

  If he was surprised, he hid it well. “William is in Newgate, charged with sedition. He was named by Titus Oates in his written deposition to Parliament. Oates claims he overheard Smith and others talking treasonably in a tavern. Nat is looking for character witnesses for him. He went to the school, but fears William may lose his teaching post. The Merchant Taylors’ School has a reputation it is anxious to protect.”

  “Did you see Sir Robert Southwell?”

  “I did, but he did not offer much hope. If Titus Oates can produce a witness to corroborate his claim against William, then the case is dire.”

  “I can’t believe it!”

  “Do not panic entirely. William’s friend Matthew Medbourne has been in Newgate for several weeks and Oates has not supplied any witnesses as yet.”

  “Then why has he not been released?”

  Henry let out a tired sigh. “Medbourne is a Catholic. William, however, is not. Nat will go next to obtain evidence of William’s Protestantism. If he supplies that and Oates doesn’t supply his proof, then we will secure William’s release within the week.”

  “Thank God. Is it so very terrible inside Newgate?”

  “Every bit as bad as you may imagine.” He turned from me and looked around. “Now, boys. Show me what you have done.” I gathered up my things and prepared to leave. My hand was on the worn doorknob when he called me back.

  “Anne.” His face was softer than I had ever seen it. “Thank you for helping them.”

  “It was nothing,” I said.

  “More than nothing.” He took my hands in his large warm grip. “It has been an anxious, shocking day, but you have been calm. More than calm. You have been helpful. I am grateful.”

  “You are my husband’s closest friend. I want nothing more than to help.” His smile encouraged me. “Might Kitty and I send over some food for you all tomorrow?”

  Henry nodded, and I left with my heart full.

  But then the hours ticked by and Nat did not come home.

  It took me some time to grow angry. All afternoon, I regretted my words before William’s arrest. I longed to see Nat and put the foolish argument out of my mind with kind words and apologies. All evening, I regretted my sharp tongue, and jumped at every creak and whisper in the house or the street outside. Thoughts of the child I believe I’m carrying make me alternately happy and anxious. I do not want to be at odds with my husband at such a time. I settled at nothing, hoping for good news for William; longing to see my husband. But he did not come. In the morning, I woke to a cold and empty place beside me on the bed.

  All day today my temper has been on the rise. Shopping, sewing, helping Kitty make sauce in the kitchen: through all, I’ve been on tenterhooks. When his note came, it told me nothing but that William was still in Newgate and that he, Nat, had work that could not wait. I played solitaire at the sitting room window, looking down every second or so for his familiar hat and wig coming down the cobbles. Solitaire! Kitty took lunch to the print shop, but I ought to have gone myself. With no-one to talk to and nothing to do, my mood swung from fearful to indignant like a rising tide.

  Still, more than anything I wanted to put yesterd
ay’s cross words behind us. But when he did arrive home, Nat talked of nothing but Titus Oates. Not for the first time I thought that this husband of mine might be arrogant. How can he be so sure there is no Catholic plot? What makes him so much better than everyone else? John Twyn’s wife did not think so. Far from it.

  My temper got the better of me.

  I may be the greatest fool in London accusing my husband in that manner. But why did he stay downstairs? Why not come upstairs and talk things out? When sleep finally comes, it only does so fitfully. I do not like my dreams.

  Chapter Seven

  William Smith

  No-one will tell me what charges I face, but they are serious enough that the Keeper of Newgate raises an eyebrow and whistles when he looks at the paperwork the soldiers give him. He tells me I may send no messages and will receive no visitors. I’m manhandled into a large dark room and sold a candle that costs me nearly every shilling I have on my person. Then I’m left to find a space for myself in the gloom. Men, little more than bundles of misery and rags, huddle on the floor or on narrow boards fixed to the wall. The smell of excrement is overpowering. I find a gap in a far corner and lean into it as my stomach heaves and sweat breaks out on my forehead. This is the condemned hold.

  Mercifully, I do not spend many hours here. Someone – Nat, I assume – visits the Keeper and pays for my swift removal and elevation to a cell upstairs on the Masters’ side of the prison. At first, I chafe at the irons at my wrists and respond to any sound of movement outside my cell, expecting release at any second. I pray fervently, but in vain. No-one comes, and my optimism that this was a mistake soon to be rectified, bleeds away. By evening, my mood is as dark as the patch of sky visible through the window above my head.