The Road to Newgate

by Kate Braithwaite

  “Next he will be hinting that the Crown has a reason to be lax in its attempts to solve the murder,” says Henry.

  “You think so?” I have to lean forward and twist across Southwell to make sure they can both hear me over the shouting. The Earl of Shaftesbury is the strongest opponent to the Crown and the King. Oates’s plot might smell rotten to me, but it sings of sweet opportunity to a politician like Shaftesbury.

  Henry shrugs. “It is what I would do, were I in his shoes. His wish is to deny James the succession. Shaftesbury doesn’t want to see a Catholic on the throne. That lies behind all his actions. If I were him, I’d be suggesting that the reason it took so long to find the Catholics who killed Godfrey is because they were protected by James, perhaps even by Charles. Why not?”

  Southwell purses his lips and sucks his cheeks as if testing the idea on his teeth. “He may try it. But tomorrow the King will increase the reward for more witnesses in the case. That may bring something out of the woodwork.”

  “Other than more damned worms,” I say.

  “You will gather that Nathaniel here is not an admirer of Dr. Oates,” says Henry. “But I have told him he will do himself few favours by making his views public.”

  Southwell opens his mouth to respond but pauses. The first of the dogs is flung though its gate and into the ring. All eyes follow it as it circles the bull, keeping close to the floor and out of reach of those lethal horns.

  “I’m not sure you are entirely right in that, Henry,” he says. Southwell has the long, sombre face of an academic, but his eyes are gleeful, riveted on the spectacle below. “And besides,” he says, “our young friend here has worries of his own. With this storm, there will be no renewal of the Licensing Act in the New Year.”

  We all keep silent then, our eyes fixed on the ring. The noise, the movement all around carries on, but the certainty with which Southwell speaks freezes me. So, there is no hope. The Licensing Act will not be renewed, and my post will cease to exist. At least half of my income will be gone in an instant. My first thought is of Anne. I should never have married her. A man does not marry a woman and then fail to provide for her. I am sickened. Ashamed. Nor is it just about the money. Without my position, what will I be? Little more than the newsmonger Anne’s parents have always said I am. My thoughts swirl and I have trouble keeping my ear on their conversation. I cannot look at Henry.

  Southwell is far from finished. “And yes, Henry, the public believes in Oates and might well turn in anger on anyone who crosses him. Yet there are those who have their doubts and have begun to express them, if only in private.”

  “Who?” Henry demands. Somehow, I must put my panic to one side and listen.

  “The King for one,” said Southwell. “Wait—”

  Before he can say more, we’re thrust into the fencing by the swell of men behind us. The dog, at a sharp instruction from its master, darts forward and snaps at the soft, wet nose of the bull. It misses, and the bull kicks the dog away. It spins, skids on its side into the wall of the pit, and yelps in pain, but it’s instantly up on its feet and circling the ring again.

  “Another, another!” calls the heaving crowd. “More dogs. Send in more dogs!”

  “The King?” I say.

  “In a moment.” Southwell bends far over the fence as a second dog runs barking and frisking around the bull directly beneath us. It forces the beast to twist first one way and then back, making it snort with exertion. Still, the bull proves nimbler than expected. The little dog whisks in and stumbles. The bull lowers its head, thrusts forward its horns, and tosses the dog high in the air. It twists and arcs over our heads, then crashes to the floor of the ring. I hear its skull crack, I swear. My stomach turns over. I want desperately to walk away but need my question answered.

  The crowd erupts and Southwell sniffs in apparent satisfaction. “I was present while the King interviewed Dr. Oates,” he says. “Mostly, His Majesty spoke little, but when Oates talked of having been in the presence of Don John of Austria during a discussion about funding the physician Wakeman to poison Charles, the King took an interest. He asked Oates to describe Don John.”

  “And?”

  “Oates said he was tall, of spare frame, and dark-skinned. But the King pointed out that Don John is, in fact, short and unusually fair.”

  “See Henry!” I say. “The man is a liar. An opportunist at best.”

  “You’ll enjoy this also,” says Southwell. “The King next asked him where he’d met Louis’ confessor, Père La Chaise. Oates said the meeting took place in a Jesuit house, near the Louvre.”

  “And?”

  “Well, the King said promptly that there was no Jesuit house within a mile of the Louvre.”

  “There! The King knows the man is a liar. He must be got rid of—”

  “Ah!” Southwell interrupts me and gives a knowing smile. “But Oates is no fool. If nothing else, he’s a quick study. For he turned to the King and glibly pointed out that the Jesuits are so deep in their plots and underhand ways that, of course, they have a house near the Louvre, but one so secret that no-one else knows of it.”

  “But that’s nonsense! Why, by that reasoning the man can say anything and no-one can argue!”

  “Exactly.”

  “Such audacity,” says Henry, folding his arms across his chest. “To talk in such a manner to the King. Has he offered any written evidence, Robert?”

  Again, the crowd presses forward and I’m forced up against the wooden fencing. Southwell holds up a hand, waiting for the noise to abate. “Some letters between senior Jesuits and Thomas Bedingfield. Bedingfield is the confessor to the King’s brother,” he explains. “Oates was the only man there who claimed to recognise the handwriting, but anyone could have written the damn things.”

  “In Parliament, he said he had been able to copy only a few.”

  “Quite. And what’s to say he did not make those up entirely? But even if we could prove that letters he showed us were forged, this plot has assumed a life of its own.”

  “What was the King’s response?” asks Henry.

  “He made no visible response. But he left the chamber shortly afterward. The whisper is that Charles is desperate to have Oates whipped from Aldgate to Newgate, but believes it would be impolitic to do so.”

  “So, he’ll let these arrests continue—”

  “Watch your words, Nat,” says Henry.

  “—and allow panic and rumour to rule the streets?”

  “Until the time is right,” says Southwell. “Yes, that’s exactly what he’ll do. But I believe he will reward well anyone who can turn the tide of public opinion against Oates. Now. Watch this.”

  This is very typical of Southwell. He drops his message and then directs our attention back to the animals while his words sink in. Through every gate, dogs are being despatched into the ring. There are at least ten angry, barking little bulldogs goading the beast, snapping at it from all sides. The bull still looks strong to my eyes, though. What might such diminutive opponents actually achieve here, beyond exhausting it? They yelp, growl, and run about the giant’s hooves. The bull’s chest heaves, and steam rises from its flanks. Suddenly, one of the new dogs lunges forward and clamps the fleshy nose of the bull in its jaws. The bull bellows in pain. It lurches backwards as blood spurts, covering the dog’s head, pouring into its eyes and then running down the ugly wrinkles of skin on its flat muzzle. The dog will not let go. Southwell sees the disgust on my face.

  “Remarkable, isn’t it? Note how clever that is, Thompson,” he says. “The bulldog has been designed for this sport, bred to it. The wrinkles allow the blood to flow off the dog’s face. Its character keeps it on the bull’s muzzle until the bull tires and collapses from the pain. The dog is tenacious and has only one purpose. It will serve its master and take down the bull. I have seen dogs lamed, maimed, crushed, and half dead, who will keep attacking a bull or die in the attempt.”

  It’s as if he is speaking from a distance. I’m
caught in the moment, trying to balance the mixture of sorrow and disgust that the sight of the bull staggering towards submission conjures up. Its knees buckle. Its strength is crushed by the pain. Henry appears unmoved. Two men with long knives enter the ring. They slit the creature’s throat, catching its steamy blood in a large metal pail. Finally, the dog is pulled off, amidst great shouts and cheering.

  “So, Robert?” Henry asks, as we turn and the crowd begins to quickly disperse. “The King seeks a champion to combat Oates for him. These are indeed interesting times. That would be a brave fellow, mind you. Perhaps even a foolhardy one.”

  “Needs must,” Southwell says. “And the King’s approbation can be worth much.”

  I have had enough of their thinly-veiled commentary. The King wants Oates attacked, and I am about to have time on my hands and a driving need for funds. The point has been made. “What’s the next act in the drama?” I say. “Where should we be looking next for news?”

  “Well, to Edward Coleman, of course,” says Southwell. He pulls his cloak about his shoulders as if stung by the cold night air. “His treason trial concludes tomorrow. Face it, gentlemen. With Godfrey murdered and – as it looks like – Coleman convicted, Oates’s plot is made real. The Jesuit priests he named are under arrest. Godfrey’s murderers also. But, friends, I have to go. I promised Lady Southwell that I’d secure some of the meat of that bull. Nothing compares with baited meat for flavour.”

  Chapter Nine

  Anne

  At first, I don’t mind all the people. Crowds are London, and London is a crowd. We live elbow-to-elbow and bustle together in the shops and markets and up and down our narrow thoroughfares. Everywhere is noisy. There are shouts and cracks of laughter. There’s a piercing brawl between two women over a sack of I don’t know what. An angry driver loses a wheel and blocks the road. He is roundly cursed and spat at by the farmer stuck behind him. I mind my feet. The streets run wet with housewives’ washing water, animal dirt, and worse. This is probably a terrible idea. But I’m determined to see it through nonetheless.

  Will you go to the hangings? That’s what he asked me, that night. Weeks have passed since our argument over John Twyn, but we act like nothing occurred. We woke the following morning with his body curled snug around mine. Whatever thoughts or ideas might separate us, our bodies tell a different, happier tale. The argument faded away. We took pleasure in each other as we always have.

  But I have spent many hours alone this past month. Apart from my now daily visits to Henry and the boys at the print shop, I have been lonely. Nat is always at out at work somewhere, and William has all but disappeared since those few days in Newgate. Nat says he is miserable and won’t say a word about his time there. Losing his teaching licence hit William hard. With time on my hands, I brooded on this matter of the Tywns until I decided to find my own answers. It irks me that Nat has not spoken about it and I’ve no wish to start another disagreement, but it is a shadow on my back, darkening all my new hopes. Sarah has promised to question James about John Twyn’s death, and I expect her to visit this evening. I pray that what she learns will put my fears to rest.

  Will you go to the hangings? There was haughtiness in his voice when he said that. Almost a sneer. He thinks that I am some weak woman, unused to the world, and oblivious to its harsh realities. I am determined to show him I am neither.

  I arrive at the print shop, determined to insist they take me with them to Coleman’s execution, but none of the usual tables cluttered with books and papers are set out in front of the shops. Shutters, red, green – blue in Henry’s case – are closed and latched. I knock several times on the door in case they’re both up in Nat’s office, but I already know I’ve missed them. I should turn back. Instead, I set my feet to the task and quickly find High Holborn is a much longer road than I imagined.

  It takes me nearly an hour, but at length I arrive within sight of the gallows. People are gathering. I pass one group laughing at a picture of the Pope with the words ‘avarice’, ‘lust’, and ‘pride’ around his head. Edward Coleman will be brought here on a hurdle, a kind of crude sleigh, as traitors are denied the dignity of travelling upright in a cart. Beyond that, I’m not sure what I expect. One minute I’m part of a walking crowd, the next we’ve stopped. Beside me, two men are discussing a play that one saw the night before. I’ve heard of it but not seen it. The Coronation of Queen Elizabeth, it’s called. Henry told me it shows the Pope seducing a nun.

  The man I’m listening to thinks it is a disgrace, but he believes that the story is true. Hate is in the air. The blessed relief that my walk is over is quickly forgotten as my back begins to ache. Our progress grinds to a halt but, twisting my head along with everyone else, I see that this man’s last journey from Newgate to the Tyburn Tree is nearly at an end. Two horses plod slowly. I can’t see what they’re pulling, but there is the priest walking behind, and the crowd folding in and following in its wake. The horses snort and their breath steams up against the harsh December chill. Here is the traitor.

  He is middle-aged and has a smooth, thoughtful face. People jeer, spit, and curse at him. A stone cuts the air as it flies by my cheek. A red cut opens up under Coleman’s right eye. His face is white with fear. Then he is past me. Bodies shuffle into mine. Caught in the crowd, I follow, pressing on towards Tyburn to see a man die. My plan was to make a point to my husband. To show him that I am not a child and not naïve. But if I am honest, I wish I had not come.

  Under the triple tree – the triangular gallows where eight men and women can be hanged simultaneously – the lace is cut from Coleman’s throat and his hands are unbound. His coat is stripped from his back. His hat and wig are thrown into the crowd and fought over so fiercely that both are surely ruined. He’s allowed to stand while a rope is placed about his neck and tied fast to the beam above. Prayers are said. The wait is interminable. Finally, the driver of the hurdle shakes the reins and the horse pulls away. Coleman swings.

  He doesn’t fight it. I’ve heard that victims of the hangman struggle: legs kicking and veins bulging as they fight for breath, but not if they want to die quickly. If his neck snaps at the first drop, he won’t know what follows. After a few minutes, the hangman climbs up and cuts the rope. Coleman drops to the ground. My heart drops to my stomach as his body plunges down. Next, he is manhandled up onto a wide wooden pallet, the noose still tied around his neck. The crowd presses forward. He may be dead. I don’t want to look. I turn away, but people push forward on all sides. Coleman’s shirt is ripped away. A knife is raised. His belly is sliced open and his steaming innards slide out. He screams.

  The crowd loosens, and I stumble away, sickened and retching.

  “Anne? What on earth are you doing here?”

  “Thank God, Nat.” I whisper. My stomach heaves.

  “She may faint,” Henry says. “Get her away from this. Don’t let her see the blood.”

  Relief washes over me. Blinding tears save me from witnessing anything more.

  ***

  “It’s hard to believe that anyone deserves such an end,” I say later.

  “It’s a traitor’s death. You couldn’t have chosen an everyday hanging for your first taste of death, could you? You have seen justice at its most visceral today.”

  I shift the pillows up higher behind my head. They have brought me home in a hired carriage, and Nat has helped me upstairs. The drapes are drawn around us in our bed. I have slept through most of the afternoon, he tells me, and it grows dark in the city very early at this time of year. Both the darkness and his voice are comforts.

  “The evidence against Edward Coleman was damning,” Nat says. “His house was searched. They found letters, written in Coleman’s hand, which proved unequivocally that he was asking the French to support James becoming the King of England in his brother’s place. In return for French funds, Coleman told them James would make the country Catholic again.”

  “And so, Oates’s plot stories are true?”


  “It would seem so.”

  We are silent a few moments.

  “Only seem so?” I ask.

  He shifts his body down the bed and plants a kiss on my shoulder.

  “Titus Oates named Edward Coleman as part of the Catholic conspiracy, and the evidence supports him. Oates lodged his statements with the magistrate Godfrey, and Justice Godfrey is dead. You might say only a fool would not believe it.”

  I wince as he repeats my own words to me. At least his voice is gentle. Perhaps I might bring up the subject of John Twyn. Yet, when I remember my collapse at Tyburn, courage deserts me. I could not have failed in my attempt to be taken seriously any more spectacularly. I want to hold onto this moment of intimacy. “But you still have your doubts?” I say.

  “Most certainly.”

  “What can you do about it?”

  “Ask questions. Look for holes in his story. Find out more about him. I’ve asked Kineally to find out what he can about Oates.”

  “Kineally?”

  “John Kineally. He works for me sometimes. Finds people. Or information. That kind of thing.” There is a pause, and I sense his hesitation. “In fact, I should really go out now to meet him.” Nat squeezes my hand. I’m glad he can’t see the disappointment on my face. “Anyway, your sister sent a note. She wants to see you and will arrive any moment. So, you won’t mind if I’m out – just for an hour or two – will you?”

  “Not in the least,” I say with as much cheer as I can muster. “Happily, there is one member of my family we can always be glad to see.”

  He gives a short laugh and, to be honest, I am glad, both that Sarah is on her way and that Nat will not be here when she arrives. We have much to discuss.

  ***

  I let her deliver her news first.

  “John Twyn. Don’t give him or his wife another thought.”

  “No?” My memory of Mistress Twyn’s twisted face when she accosted me at the Bartholomew Fair is all too clear. I would love to put her out of my mind.