The Road to Newgate

by Kate Braithwaite

  “No. James knew all about the case. He says Nat’s part in it was to make the arrest and nothing more. Twyn was running an illegal press, printing seditious pamphlets for some extreme group or other. Your husband is simply being stubborn by not explaining this to you. He was the Licenser and he was only doing his job.”

  Relieved as I am, there’s something in the way she speaks that gives me pause.

  “Was the Licenser?” I say.

  Sarah shifts and looks a little uncomfortable. “James thinks that Nat’s post may not be renewed in the New Year.”

  “Whyever not?”

  “Because Parliament is in uproar with the Catholic threat. All normal business has been suspended.”

  “Nat will find something else.” She had better not disagree with me.

  “I am sure he will.” She pats down her skirts and doesn’t meet my eye. “Anyway,” she says, “your note said you had something particular to discuss. Unless it was just this Twyn nonsense.”

  My sister’s resilience is one of her best qualities. Her open heart is another. That heart is on full display when I take her hands in mine. I whisper my suspicions and a smile, as broad as the Thames, lights up her gentle face.

  ***

  Hours later, with Sarah long gone, the house is quiet. Logs split and crunch in the fire. There are dull echoes of movement next door, the cry of our neighbour’s infant son struggling for sleep and the bark of a dog in the street outside, nothing more. I take up a volume of poems but haven’t the patience for them. I should not have doubted Nat about John Twyn. I need to have faith in him now. I have to. Especially now. This question of his employment must wait for another day. I will him to come home. Anticipation makes my mouth run dry.

  We will want wine. We will want to talk and to celebrate, and I’m suddenly re-composing the scene I’ve been planning. This morning, before I made a fool of myself at the hanging, I went to Leadenham Market. It was bitterly cold, the sun slung low, and a damp mist hanging about the streets. Before I married Nat, I bought things; of course I did. But now I shop. I have learned about prices, about measures and weights, about cuts of meat, about firm flesh and ripe scents, and so much more. I carry my own money and count out my own coins into the rough hands of men in greasy aprons with yellow rinds for nails. I relish the weight of my purchases on my arms and the hardness of the streets through the soles of my shoes as I carry everything home myself. This morning, I bought tongue, cheese, and two sacks of dried peas, one of which I must take to William.

  I jump to my feet and pick my way down to the kitchen. It smells good. There is a pipkin cooling on the stove, and the warm scents of stewed tongue, vegetables and thyme are very satisfying.

  I take the wine and a plate of cheese and some bread that Kitty slid from the oven just before she went home to her mother for a visit. I carry everything up the stairs and set it out on our dresser.

  I hang up my dress and climb into bed in my shift, hugging my knees. Imaginary conversations play in my mind. After a minute or two, I slip back out of bed and run down the stairs barefoot to find that book of poems I tried and failed to read earlier.

  I am just back under the covers and finding my page when the scrape of the door and the shuffle of Nat pulling off his boots tell me he is home. Sarah agreed with me. It is time to share my news.

  Chapter Ten

  Nat

  After a brief meeting with Kineally, I head straight back home. It’s not late, only a little after nine, but the lower floors of our house are in darkness. I pull off my boots, coat and hat. Then I climb the stairs, twirling my wig on my balled fist. Candlelight trims the cracks around our door. Anne is propped up in bed with the drapes still pulled back, reading a book.

  “Poetry?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  I busy myself pulling off my shirt and washing my face in the pitcher.

  “Well, I hope it’s not Andrew bloody Marvell.”

  “No. It’s not Andrew bloody Marvell – although just because you don’t like his politics, I don’t see why I can’t enjoy his poetry.”

  I cross to the bed and look down at her. “I’ve heard some wives are submissive to their husbands’ views and—”

  “Is that really the kind of wife you want?”

  We smile, but I’m aware that my answer is important. “No,” I say. “There is only one kind of wife I want. And it’s you.”

  “Good.”

  She pulls me into the bed with her, and her lips find my ear.

  “Because I have two things to tell you, Nat.”

  “And what may they be?”

  “First, I want to apologise. About what I said about John Twyn.”

  “I did nothing wrong.”

  “I know that now. I should always have known it.”

  “Or asked me.”

  “Or asked you.”

  “And the other thing? You said two things.” She is smiling at me. My wife looks highly kissable.

  “I am with child.”

  ***

  Two hours later, I’m in the Fuller’s Rent Tavern.

  We have talked, as husbands and wives do, about her news and what it will mean. But when Anne fell asleep, I found that I could not. I stared at the ceiling until my eyeballs felt they might crack. All I could think of was the Licensing Act. It won’t be renewed, and I will lose my position – precisely when I need it most. I crept from the bedroom carrying my clothes and tiptoed down the stairs. I needed a drink.

  I suppose curiosity brought me here. Oates, whose appearance is certainly to blame for my current employment woes, met William and Matthew Medbourne in this tavern. He even mentioned the place in his deposition to Parliament. I need some time to think things over, away from my usual haunts. I’ve no doubt that Southwell was pushing me in the direction of attacking Oates, hinting that rewards would follow. But do I have time to work towards rewards that might be as thin as the breath that whispered of them? I am going to be a father. The thought fills me with as much dread as it does joy.

  The Fuller’s Rent is hardly the den of treason that Oates described. It’s hot and airless. Tobacco smoke pricks my eyes and throat, and almost every seat is taken. I squeeze into a dark booth near the door and order a brandy. The men here are young and certainly less serious than my normal companions in Sam’s Coffee House. Laughter spikes the air, and a group near the fire sing lustily, undeterred by the cat-calls of some, bowing before the applause of others. There are working men: ostlers, still in their leathers; farriers with thick arms and strong necks; but also a mix of more languid-looking fellows with quantities of lace at their throats and cuffs, wearing colourful garters and costly wigs. That’s the kind of men this place has a reputation for, not for traitors. The atmosphere’s convivial, the clientèle more interested in banter than debate. They are also intent on drinking heavily, as testified to by a loud choking sound, mingled with cries of horror and disgust from somewhere near the far corner of the room. It suits my mood. I down the brandy and call for another, with a pint of ale.

  I wanted time to think, but suddenly there is nothing I want to do less. I tip back my head, open my throat, bloat myself with ale, and straight away call for more. I brood upon recent events. Southwell disgusts me. He is so passionless, so cold and analytical. At that bull fight, he was more concerned about the flavour of his beef than the state of the capital. The King doesn’t believe in Oates but will take no action to stop him. This madness will run unchecked. And meanwhile, the Licensing Act will lapse.

  Anne picks her way into my thoughts then, like a child at a scab, itching, tugging away. How on earth will I support her when I am not the Licenser? How will I support our child? Asking her to leave her home to be the wife of the Licenser was one thing. Expecting her to remain with a nobody, with a man struggling to scratch a basic living? That won’t do. I need income. Henry has been reticent, but he wishes I would not write against Oates, notwithstanding the fact that his influential friend suggested I should. I knock
back another shot of brandy. It is a task I could take on with relish, I’ll admit. Doesn’t someone have a duty not to let Oates’s conspiracies dominate the public consciousness, completely unopposed?

  I drink some more. Anne and I are happy, I believe. Our only true argument in all these months of matrimony was about John Twyn and that can be set to rest now, as least far as Anne is concerned. As I said to Henry, my conscience is clear. I didn’t pass judgement on John Twyn. I didn’t write the laws that he broke. I didn’t place the noose around his neck or go to gloat as his legs kicked into the void. But since Anne’s accusation, I have felt uneasy. I drink some more, dredging up the truth about my actions over John Twyn, bowing my head and rubbing one finger and thumb against my eyelids.

  My difficulty is not that I arrested the man and caused him to lose his life. That’s not the guilt that bites. No. The truth is that I never paused to think about it at all. Twyn was a printer, a man not unlike Henry, but a printer of seditious material for the Fifth Monarchists. Henry would never do work for a group like that. But Twyn did. I caught him in the act of it and gave no thought to what would happen to him after the arrest. I thought about nothing but making my own name and earning sufficient funds to support my mother and brother back in Sussex. Nothing more. Not of the life of a man, of the loss borne by his wife, not of the fatherless children left to struggle in the wake of my progress.

  What kind of a man does that make me? I even enjoyed it. That night. The arrest. Summoning those guards. Was that what Oates felt when the Privy Council took him seriously, installed him in Whitehall, sent him out into the streets at the head of an armed guard to arrests those priests and prominent Catholics? I revelled in the attention that Twyn’s death brought me. I imagine Oates is doing the same right now.

  Fear grips my guts. I’ve spent ten years in London working to create a career that’s about to disappear. I have a beautiful wife who put her faith in me, abandoning her family and a life of comfort. Now she is going to have a child. What can be done?

  I’ve finished another drink by the time I reach this point of self-loathing, and lean back against the wooden panelling, gazing around for some distraction.

  I’m about to get much more of a distraction than I wanted.

  The double doors of the tavern are thrown wide open. Two smug-looking fellows, puffing for breath, hold them ajar without a care for the chill wind and spots of rain that blow in as they wait.

  ‘Shut the bleeding door!’ howls a young lad at a nearby table, only to find a stick under his nose. He’s told to mind who he’s bloody speaking to and, before anyone can say anything more, a group of six or seven men, heads bent and heavily cloaked, march into the tavern. The two from the door have no difficulty clearing a table for themselves and their companions. As the group settles and they remove their low black hats, I let out a gasp of surprise. Shrinking back into the shadows of the booth, I attempt to gather my somewhat pickled wits. And I’m not alone in my shocked reaction. Everyone recognises him, and he knows it. He smiles and nods like a visiting dignitary. It is the man of the hour, the Salamanca Doctor himself, Titus Oates.

  The landlord of the Fuller’s Rent falls over himself in his effusive welcome of Oates and his cronies. I’m caught somewhere between horror at seeing the man at such close quarters and delight at watching Oates at play. He appears friendly at first sight, but as the landlord retreats, Oates’s lip curls into a sneer. He busies himself smoothing down his surplice and listening, after a fashion, to the whispers of one of his companions. Drinks are brought, and he sucks thirstily on a tankard of wine.

  “Ugh!” With a loud cry, Oates spits his drink across the table. “Here, Thomas! Get your foul carcass over here,” he shouts. The landlord returns, hands clasped, a concerned expression on his face.

  “What piss is this?” Without warning, Oates grabs the landlord by the collar and pulls him down until there is barely an inch of air between them. “Thought to serve me piss, did you, Thomas?” Oates speaks quietly, but the whole tavern is silent. “Thought you could piss in a pot and laugh while I drank it, did you?”

  The landlord shakes his head. His eyes roll as he tries to look for support, but no-one’s moving.

  “People in this stinking hole have laughed at me in the past, haven’t they?” says Oates. “They laughed at the holes in my clothes and let me sleep on the street, rather than help a fellow man in need. But how many of these filthy scoundrels would like to beg a hand from me these days? Eh? Eh?” He rises out of his seat, pulling the poor man up by the scruff like a stray mongrel. Anger has turned Oates’s face crimson, but as he sees how rapt the whole tavern is, the colour fades. A crescent of a smile forms on his lips. “Well, we will laugh together now, instead,” he says. He raises his voice. “Drinks for everyone, I say. Whatever they have a fancy for. Fetch them out, Thomas, fetch them out! On the house.”

  Finally, Oates lets go of the snivelling Thomas. The poor man darts back to his bar and begins serving ale and wine. Oates, meantime, sits back down amongst his companions, who laugh and toast him in fine style. He lifts the very tankard he was so unhappy about and gulps down the wine.

  The tension in the room ebbs as drinks are served and new conversations begin. The group around Oates are all sycophants, busy laughing at his jokes, assuring themselves of his comfort and satisfaction, no doubt hoping to profit through their fawning and petting of London’s saviour. One in particular – a fat, watery-eyed young man with a double chin and a snout for a nose – butters Oates up most assiduously, pointing at other men in the tavern, doubtless whispering snide comments in the good doctor’s ear. At any rate, his commentary prompts several bursts of immoderate laughter and more spitting of wine. They sicken me, but I can’t take my eyes from them. At length, I stand, planning to slip out for a moment to relieve my bladder. But as I step past the fine company around Oates, the fat fellow sticks out a foot and trips me.

  I crash to the floor like a felled tree. I’m drunk enough not to be hurt by the fall, but not so soused as to be oblivious to their sniggering. In a mounting rage, I raise myself on all fours, then with the aid of a chair, clamber up and glare at them, my fists tight at my sides. No-one helps me, but at least no-one else is laughing, only Oates’s little flock.

  “Is there a problem?” asks the pig-faced one, as Oates trills with laughter.

  I sway a little on my feet.

  “Oh, ignore him, Harry,” says Oates, putting an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “He’s just some drunk, nothing for you to concern yourself with.” His grip tightens, and he rubs a fleshy hand up and down Harry’s knee. “I only hope this maltworm hasn’t hurt your leg with his clumsiness. Thomas!” Oates calls across to the landlord. “There are some rather undesirable characters in your tavern this evening. Get him out.”

  “What?” That wakes me up. I’m about to plant a fist on that pink face, ready to show Oates that though all of London might bow down before him, I, at least, am not afraid to speak my mind. But even as I bend, firm hands grip me by the arms and I’m whipped back like a dog on a leash.

  Titus Oates gets to his feet and takes a step towards me. Recognition flickers in his eyes. Like him, I’m far from unknown in the city.

  “Why, but you’re the Licenser, aren’t you?” he says, his breath warm on my face. “Or at least, you are for now. Here, Harry,” he says, “this is Nathaniel Thompson. Have you heard of him?” I glare at Harry who looks back at me blankly.

  “No. Should I have?”

  Oates giggles. I swear he giggles like a girl at the fair. He turns his gaze on mine and looks me right in the eyes, but when he speaks it’s as if he’s still addressing his companion.

  “No,” he says. “And if you haven’t heard of him yet, I’m sure you never shall.” He blinks and speaks to the man holding me. “Chuck him out.”

  In another second, I’m out in the street. Of course, I try to push my way back in. I rattle and hammer on the door. I stamp and slosh in the gutter.
I’m shouting, bringing forth an avalanche of invective, cursing about Oates and his poisonous little friends and their pathetic schoolboy bullying little ways.

  I scour the street for a rock or a stone to throw at a window. “I’ll smash you, you bastards,” I bellow through the rain. “You’ll see!” At last, I find a lump of wood and hurl it at the tavern. It bounces back at me off the wall.

  Chapter Eleven

  Anne

  The Year of Our Lord, 1679, begins like no other I have ever known. First, it is so cold that the Thames freezes over. People skate across its silver crust and buy wares from impromptu stalls established on the ice. Nat and I only peer at them from the safety of firm ground. There is no ice-skating for me this year, and besides, I am less than light-hearted. Every day I wait for my husband to tell me that his post as the Licenser has disappeared, and every day he says nothing.

  The early months of carrying this child are a struggle. The queasiness that began at Edward Coleman’s execution plagues me for two full months. I sleep a great deal and Nat is in and out, working relentlessly, but to what end? Sarah tells me in January that the Licensing Act has lapsed, as James had suggested it would.

  We are now in February and still my husband keeps his own counsel on the subject.

  In the matter of Titus Oates, however, he cannot keep his views to himself.

  Perhaps he has decided to court business through notoriety? Whatever his reasoning, he is about to issue a very public attack on Titus Oates, for I saw the pamphlets being set for printing with my own eyes. Henry is concerned. He says nothing, but I share his fear. Nat, these last two months, has fastened his energies upon Oates like a clam on a rock. Where Oates is, my husband goes. He has watched Oates hold public meetings, preach sermons, and speechify as if he was born to it. Everywhere Oates is, Nat says, he scatters the seeds of panic. His fame is unparalleled. And Nat is about to attack.