The Road to Newgate

by Kate Braithwaite

  Three days and nights pass like this. Fear turns my bowels to water. I barely sleep, tormented by skittering beetles and the lice I imagine creeping across my skin, into my mouth, my eyes. I try to steel myself and bear this trial with patience and fortitude, but the injustice, the indignity, and above all the fear of the unknown, infects my thoughts. My heart hurts in my chest. Weak tears and snot warm my cheeks. My mind is in chaos and I can’t rein in my despair.

  And then suddenly the cell door opens. I am taken to a larger, cleaner, lighter room, furnished with only a table and two chairs. I’m told I have a visitor.

  It is Titus Oates.

  I’ll admit that the first thing I feel is relief.

  “By the stars, William,” he declares, striding in. I think he’s about to embrace me, but at the last moment he shrinks back. Instead, his eyes widen, and he fumbles for a handkerchief. “Good God, man. What’s that smell?”

  “Me, I suspect. Titus, thank you for coming—”

  “Indeed, you ought to thank me!” he says, settling himself in a chair and indicating that I should sit across the table from him. “It is not everyone who can visit prisoners such as yourself without considerable outlay, or indeed risk to their own reputation.”

  “Risk? I don’t even know what I’m charged with.”

  “Sedition, Schoolmaster. Although after this—”

  “What are you saying? Sedition? I’ve done nothing.”

  “Of course not, William. Of course not. No-one who knows you could think otherwise. And doubtless, in a few months when no evidence is found—”

  “Months?”

  “—then you will be released. But I doubt the Merchant Taylors’ School will look favourably on such an episode.”

  His voice trails off.

  “My God, Titus. What are you saying? My whole life is tied up in my work, in that school.”

  “I suppose it must be.” He walks to the door so his expression is hidden, but when he turns he is laughing. “Oh, you poor man. Would that I had a glass so you could look at your own face. You know, I never liked you. You know that, don’t you?” He goes to peer out of the narrow window.

  “You were a woeful teacher,” he says, casting me that sly grin I remember all too well. “Always choosing favourites. Soft when you should have been strict. Criticising when you should have been helping. Unfair.”

  “Really?” Tired and terrified as I am, there is something remarkably familiar about this. Titus is a bully. And as a teacher, I have met my fair share of those. His insults won’t touch me. But I am beginning to wonder what he wants.

  “None of the boys liked you. Oh, some would pretend, but that was only because they wanted to please their parents with your good report. We would talk about you after school, you know. The boys you liked particularly. They would laugh about you. They would say how you would—”

  “Enough!”

  Titus doesn’t like that. He turns and walks back to the table. Leaning down, he spreads his fat fingers on the wood, and his large face looms toward mine. Beer has soured his breath.

  “You don’t tell me, ‘enough’. Not any more. Do you hear me? You need to know who I am these days. Who I’ve become.”

  Tiredness washes over me. “Tell me,” I say. He will not be satisfied otherwise, I am certain.

  “I have lodgings in Whitehall. Did you know that?” He steps away from the table and paces the room as he talks. “Fine rooms, and a rather handsome young boy to light my fire and bring me whatever meat or drink I might desire. My days are busy. Almost intolerably so. Those Members of Parliament are all so keen to discuss this terrible Catholic threat. And so grateful to me for bringing it to light. I am invited to dine and welcomed to their homes.”

  He breaks off to take my measure. I will look impassive if it kills me.

  “The Earl of Shaftesbury. I imagine you have heard of him,” Titus says. “When I speak, he takes notes. Notes! And I have been furnished with my own guard, did I mention that? Then there is a matter of the death of that poor magistrate, Godfrey. It was an ill day for him when the old man Tonge and I took our deposition to him. Godfrey was so superior toward us; I disliked him quite particularly. But knowing our secrets cost him his life. He should have had more respect.”

  “The man is dead, Titus.”

  “What, so now I must lie and pretend I liked the fellow?” He takes the seat opposite me and lounges back, almost as if we are two old friends enjoying a gossip. “Oh, in some places perhaps, but we know each other well, William. And between these four walls we may speak openly. Sir Edmund Godfrey was as pompous a man as you could hope to meet. He barely gave me the time of day. Of course, my dress was not quite so fine then.” Titus runs his fingers down the cloth of his surplice and touches at his periwig. “But if the magistrate was as clever as everyone said he was, then he should have recognised our significance and behaved accordingly. If a man is rude to me, am I expected to shed tears when he is found dead in a ditch, strangled by some Catholic assassin? I think not.”

  “Have his murderers been apprehended?”

  “I believe they have. Three of them, I’m told. They may even be somewhere in this stinking hole. And they, old fellow, have even less chance of release than you do. Although sedition, as I say, is a serious, serious crime.”

  He has found his way, despite his vain meanderings, back to me.

  “Why are you here, Titus? If your only aim is to gloat, then we can agree you have succeeded.”

  “Gloating? Or simply stating the facts?” With his elbows on the table, he leans in and lowers his voice. “I won’t split hairs with you, schoolmaster. The point is that I am someone in this city these days. Whereas you, William, are a nobody. You are nothing. Look at what you’re facing. Living in this filth. Co-existing with these beasts. Trying to sleep amongst the noise and the stench, trying to survive until you’re put on trial, and then strung up by the neck until you’re dead. How can you escape your fate? Isn’t that what you want to hear?”

  “I’m not guilty.” I try to speak normally but my voice cracks.

  “And you think that matters?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that you are a fool. I’m saying that you will do as I tell you and say what I want, or you will sink and suffer in this shit-hole until you’re pulling the rope around your neck yourself and begging them to let you swing.”

  I concentrate on breathing. I am still sitting at the same table. My feet are flat on the floor, my hands clasped in my lap. Anyone looking in through the square grille at the door would see us in normal conversation, but the tension is palpable, and his eyes are locked on mine. I disliked Titus Oates when he was my pupil. I despised him when I met him again as an adult. Now he terrifies me.

  “Do what?” I hate my own words. I don’t want to open the door to his evil or suggest that I might be an accomplice to his malice. But I am afraid. I am cold, tired, hungry, and I am weak. I have always been weak. And he knows it.

  “There is someone else in here, accused of similar crimes to yourself. Accused of railing against the monarchy and wishing to see the Catholic Church restored to power in the nation. Accused of raising money to support an assassination attempt.”

  “And?”

  “And I want to you to be a witness to his crimes.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You not only can, but you will. In return, I will secure your release. The charges against you will vanish into the air. There is a witness to your crimes expected to attend the courts in the coming days. He will not materialise. But only if you do as I say.”

  “But…but who is this man I’m supposed to condemn? Who will believe me – giving evidence against someone I don’t even know?”

  Titus smacks his hand on the table against the table and smiles. “But that’s exactly why it will work so beautifully. You do know him. You know him very well.”

  A horrible thought yawns open in my mind: Matthew Medbourne, my frien
d for years, one of my closest friends, and latterly someone who befriended Titus, even though he showed him nothing but contempt in return.

  “You are not serious?”

  “Whyever not?” Titus is relaxed now, disgustingly so, as he lays out the information he wishes me to put forward. “Medbourne is a Catholic; he has never hidden it. All you need to do is say that you have seen him talking with priests at the Fuller’s Rent Tavern. That you have heard him talk openly about his support for the King’s brother. That he has denigrated the memory of Queen Elizabeth and praised her sister Mary. That he calls on others to toast the Pope. That you have seen money exchanged between himself and some priests. You don’t need to name them. Just say what you have seen.”

  “But I have seen nothing! Matthew has no interest in such matters. We both know that. Why do such a thing? Why would you? Why would I?”

  “For the very same reason,” he says, the smirk back on his ugly face.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Then you are even more of a fool than I have always taken you for, schoolteacher. Matthew called himself my friend, but all he did for me was find me a post with the Duke of Norfolk. The pay was poor, and the man’s arrogance was insufferable. I have nothing to thank Matthew Medbourne for. His help was an insult. And he insulted you – don’t try and pretend that he didn’t. You thought you were special to him, but the day I walked into the Fuller’s Rent Tavern, Matthew Medbourne dropped you like a hot turd. Here is your chance to get your own back. And you will save your own miserable skin into the bargain.”

  “No!”

  Titus rocks back in surprise. He hears the determination in my voice. To be honest, it surprises us both.

  “I will not do it, Titus,” I say. “Not to Matthew. Not to anyone. I am innocent and will take my chances. You think I’m a weak man, and God knows you are right. But I will not damn another man to help myself. I am not worth it. My miserable skin – you are right about that – is not worthy of the sacrifice of someone else’s. I will not do it.”

  He snorts. “You will change your mind.”

  “No. No, you will find that I will not.” I am very hot. If I lifted my hand, it would tremble. A tremor starts in my calf. If he does not leave I’m afraid my whole body will begin to rattle. “I’d like you to go now.”

  He takes his time about it. He rubs at his chin. He straightens his robes. He smiles and shakes his head at me. I do not drop my eyes. I cannot stand, but I hold my head high.

  At the door he turns. “I will hear from you. When you change your mind, let me know.”

  I do not reply.

  ***

  Two days later, I’m taken from my cell once again. My skin is slick with dirt, my scalp itches, and sharp pains grip my bowels. As they lead me down into the yard, I muster the strength to tell him no again. Nothing will make me put my life before that of an innocent man. There is a light rain falling and the sky is a solid mass of grey.

  They take me to the gate. There is someone waiting. A man. It is not Titus Oates. When his face resolves itself into the features of my friend Nathaniel Thompson, the rain on my cheeks mixes with stinging tears. I am a weak man, but I have not been weak. And now I’m free.

  Chapter Eight

  Nathaniel

  Henry rests a shoulder against the doorframe, recovering his breath. “Are you ready?” he asks.

  I lift my eyes from my papers. “Find a seat. I just need a few more minutes.”

  I have spent all afternoon in my office. For once I am on top of my required reading and have been writing something new. Titus Oates has been the talk of London since he appeared before Parliament two weeks ago. It is time for a few doubts to be expressed.

  “Here.” I thrust a few pages into Henry’s hands. He steps over one pile of leather volumes and clears another from the chair on the other side of the desk. Tilting the paper towards the window in the fading light, he purses his lips and reads. He has hardly begun before he speaks.

  “It won’t do.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Because there is nothing here that people want to read.”

  My eyes drop away and I gaze at the ink on my fingers. The nails of my right hand are stained black around the cuticles. When I look up, Henry’s mouth is set in a line, his head turned slightly to one side.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because there’s no appetite for your point of view. The public has gorged itself on fear of papists, fire, French invasion, Jesuit murderers and duplicitous kings. They have swallowed Oates’s story. They believe in it and won’t hear anything else. I’m not saying you’re wrong, Nat.” He slides back in his chair. “But being right won’t serve, not now.”

  My shoulders drop. I pick up a cloth to scrub the ink from my hands.

  “So, you’re saying it’s pointless? That I shouldn’t even try to expose the inconsistencies in Oates’s evidence, or ask who this man actually is and where he comes from? You are saying that these things shouldn’t be done?”

  “Not like this, Nat. At least, not now.”

  “Not now?” I echo. “Do you believe in it then?”

  “In what?”

  “In these plots, of course. In the threat of invasion. In the plots to murder the King. That the Queen would sanction her doctor poisoning her husband. That those three poor bastards they’ve arrested really murdered Godfrey. That there are Jesuits ready to stab, shoot or murder anyone who would stop them making England a Catholic country again.”

  “No. But almost everyone else in London does.” He steps across and squeezes my shoulder. It is a gesture of friendship, but I feel like a schoolboy being patted on the head. “And how is Anne?”

  “She’s fine.” My irritation seeps out. He has been asking after Anne every day since that ridiculous scene he witnessed over John Twyn.

  “She is young, Nat. From a different world than ours. You must talk more. And be patient—”

  But I am on my feet, grabbing my coat, unwilling to discuss Anne with Henry. She made up her mind, without the proper information, and put me on a par with Oates, just like that. There is much I could say to both Henry and Anne on the subject. I could ask them, for example, if it is too much for a husband to hope that his wife should have some faith in him. Instead, I’ve said nothing, and Anne has not mentioned it either. It is almost as if the conversation never happened. Almost.

  Of course, I’m in a thoroughly bad mood now. “We don’t have time for this,” I say. “Come on. Otherwise we’ll be late.”

  ***

  Henry and I meet Sir Robert Southwell over at Clerkenwell. It is a crisp, chilly evening and already dark, but at least it is not raining. William was to join us, but he has cried off. That week in Newgate hit him hard. At least Southwell will distract Henry from his interest in my marriage, and he’s always a useful source for me. As Clerk to the Privy Council, he is frequently in the company of the King and his closest advisors. He looks rather displeased when we arrive, but Henry affects not to notice his friend’s reserve, and even Sir Robert can’t maintain his irritation in the face of Henry’s wholehearted enthusiasm for the entertainment ahead. We join the stream of men walking up Cow Cross and Turnmill Street towards Hockley-in-the-Hole; a rabble of men of all trades and stations, talking loudly and anticipating the main event of the evening. I don’t share their excitement. Henry’s dismissal of my work has left me bristling, but I trail after them anyway. Sir Robert is a great man for the dogs and wants to see how they fare against a hundred and fifty butcher’s stones of live bull. I have newssheets to fill, and if I want the latest gossip from the Court, I must go, too.

  Our destination is a large circle dug into the ground, open to the elements above but fenced on its innards with a sturdy wooden wall that rises up to about my waist. At four points there are small gates and steps through which the dogs and their owners can enter and leave. Southwell leads us to a point directly opposite another wider gate, from which a slope extends, to e
nable the bull to be led into the pit. The ring is bare but brightly lit by high braziers and torches fastened to the pit walls. A thick iron hoop, with a long coil of rope tied to it at one end, is fixed in the ground at the centre of the ring. The whole place hums of wet hay, damp fur, and sweat.

  The crowd is lively; raucous, even. These are common working men, noisy and expectant, shouting and stamping to keep their feet warm. The dogs are not in view, but their harsh barks and yelps stir up the audience until a sudden hush falls and the beast is led into the ring.

  It is so damned ugly, it’s almost beautiful. The bull’s meaty shoulders roll and ripple with grease, shiny against sleek black hair. Its head swings ponderously from side to side and forward of its body, so that it appears low to the ground, yet its horns are as high as the chests of its handlers. Its nostrils flare and smoke. Two small eyes twist and circle as the creature tries to make sense of its surroundings. Its handlers tie it to the rope and flee the ring, as the animal strains and stomps, looking for a way out. In contrast to its bulky chest and neck, the bull’s rear quarters look vulnerable, its legs thinning to neat ankles. I imagine the dogs flinging themselves at those fine tendons, piercing the skin with sharp white teeth, and glance at Southwell. It is surprising what some outwardly civilised men like to do in their spare time. I would prefer to be at home with a glass of wine and the London Gazette.

  The crowd begins to clamour for the dogs. A bottle is thrown at the bull, smashing into its flank and bringing it skipping round. From another side, a bucket of slops is thrown at the beast, and it shakes its great head, showing the sharp points of its horns.

  Southwell and Henry talk loudly to be heard over the vociferous crowd. I listen to them exchange the news. It is clear that there is much concern amongst the Privy Council about the arrest of three Catholic men for the murder of Edmund Godfrey.

  “Shaftesbury is having a field day,” admits Southwell. “The more Catholics implicated in this disastrous plot, the more he can mutter against the King’s brother. He has set up a committee in Parliament to investigate Oates’s popish plot, and swears only the will and drive of the elected members will get the results the public demands.”