The Road to Newgate

by Kate Braithwaite

  They direct me to a stool before the Counsellors, all of whom know me, at least by sight. I’m determined not to be intimidated.

  “Nathaniel Thompson,” begins Southwell, in his role as clerk to the Council. “You have been brought here to answer the charge that on the 30th of May, you attempted to suborn this young man, Simpson Tonge—”

  “Really?” I say.

  “You will confine yourself to answering questions, Mr. Thompson. You are charged with attempting to disrupt the work of the Inquiry into the Popish Plot, by generating false evidence against the two men who revealed this late plot to the King and to Parliament, namely Dr. Titus Oates and Dr. Israel Tonge.”

  As Southwell pauses, Oates leaps to his feet. “The man’s a rogue!” he calls out. “He is a papist and a liar.” He jabs his finger at me. “He should be pilloried.”

  The Earl of Shaftesbury raises a lazy hand. “Enough for now, Dr. Oates, enough for now. Your passion is to your credit, but we must follow due process. Southwell?” Shaftesbury is not a young man. He has a hawkish face, thin lips, and pale grey eyes. He speaks slowly, but I don’t find his apparent languor in any way reassuring.

  Southwell takes up the reins again, reading out a sworn statement from Tonge, whose eyes never leave his knees. In it, Simpson states that I visited him in Newgate and pressed him to come up with a story about Oates and his father forging letters to add weight to their evidence of the plot. It is said that I offered significant bribes, but that when Tonge hesitated, I paid the gaolers to treat him more harshly, denying him food or any exercise.

  It’s difficult to sit through. I dare not interrupt again, but with every facial expression I can muster, I show the Counsellors that the story they’re hearing is a mare’s nest, the most absurd fiction.

  Finally, I’m given the opportunity to speak. “This is a clear case of entrapment.”

  Oates snorts, but I don’t dignify him with a glance.

  “I was contacted by a man named Choquette,” I continue, “a Frenchman and a doctor who told me that his patient, Simpson Tonge, was desperate for me to visit him in Newgate. In no way did I seek out the prisoner or attempt to bribe him into making a false statement. Rather, he was trying to profit by selling out his father and Mr. Oates here.”

  “Doctor!” Oates is on his feet again, bellowing at me, but I continue to look straight ahead.

  “You can prove this?” asks Southwell.

  “If Choquette can be found. There will be witnesses to my meeting with him in the Sam’s Coffee House. And he should be known at Newgate.”

  The Privy Counsellors confer for a few moments in whispers. I flick a glance at Oates. He looks satisfyingly frustrated. Then the Earl of Shaftesbury questions me.

  “You say that you were invited to Newgate to hear Tonge’s evidence?”

  “I was.”

  “And what did he in fact tell you?”

  “Very little. He implied that he had knowledge that Oates and his father forged the Bedingfield letters, but I wasn’t prepared to pay for something that I doubted could be proved either way. It is very likely that the letters were forged.” A rumble from Oates is squashed by a sharp glance from Shaftesbury. “As I am not in the business of making false accusations, I didn’t take him up on his offer.”

  “Nor did you come forward and inform the proper authorities,” says Shaftesbury.

  “No.”

  “Even though this man was either offering you true information—” We all turn slightly as Oates’s chair scrapes against the floor, “—or he was seeking to pervert justice through false testimony. At the very least, Mr. Thompson, you should have reported this.”

  “Arguably.” I deem it best to make some form of concession. “But as Simpson Tonge was already being held indefinitely in Newgate prison, I judged his ability to influence events or endanger the country to be strictly limited.”

  “These are difficult days.” For the first time, Lord Williamson, probably the most powerful man in the room, speaks. “I don’t believe, however, that arrogance has become grounds for treason. If Mr. Thompson can prove that this Choquette fellow exists, then I don’t think we’re looking at more than a lapse of judgement in not reporting his meeting with Tonge.”

  “Begging your pardon,” says Oates, rising again. “If I might take a moment of the Council’s time?” Williamson nods.

  Oates glowers over at me, pressing his chin into his chest. Then he lets rip. “This man is a viper. He is a liar and a papist!” Oates’s already shrill voice is strangled with anger. “He is a master of lies and false information. He hides his popish tendencies, but who, having read his cheap rag, cannot see how he has consistently and treasonably attempted to cast doubt upon the veracity of the popish threat? I do not speak of his slanders against myself. I am not so weak as to be hurt by his slings and arrows. But he is a worm, and a danger to us all. He eats away at the truth, seeking to unsettle the people, to confuse truth and lies, to mask the Catholic threat. He is a papist I say!”

  “And have you any evidence of this?” asks Williamson.

  “Look at his writings! Study his words. Give me a warrant to search his rooms. Then we’ll know with whom we are dealing. I say he is a Catholic, and can bring witnesses to prove it.”

  “If I may?” I keep my voice under strict control. “I would like to state at this point that I believe I am the victim of a deliberate, personal attack from Mr. Oates. I am a member of the Church of England and have been all my days. I have questioned the veracity of this plot, as I have questioned the veracity of this man who accuses me. But I am not a traitor, nor a Catholic.”

  “So, you admit that you have spoken against the Plot?” Shaftesbury is leaning forward now.

  “I have expressed doubts about the level of threat, yes.” Again, the Privy Council members put their heads together and murmur for some moments.

  “Dr. Oates,” says Williamson. “You say you have witnesses to the fact that Mr. Thompson is a secret Catholic. Can you produce one? Now?”

  “I can. If I may be given a moment?” Oates bustles from the room.

  Within minutes he’s back, followed by a thin, delicate-looking fellow who Oates introduces to the council. I’ve only ever seen him once before, giving testimony in the trial of Green, Berry, and Hill. It’s Miles Prance.

  “Do you know the prisoner?” he is asked.

  “I do.”

  “Where have you seen him?”

  “At Somerset House.”

  “At the Queen’s residence?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did you see him doing?”

  “He was taking mass in the chapel there.”

  “I was not!” I try to stand, but the guard behind me pushes me down.

  “You have been warned about interrupting Council proceedings already, Thompson,” barks Williamson. “Mr. Prance, you would be prepared to swear under oath that you have seen Mr. Thompson participate in a Catholic mass?”

  Unbelievably, Prance nods. He’s thanked and asked to wait outside.

  I turn imploring eyes on Southwell as the Counsellors begin a whispered conference. He sucks in one cheek and shrugs slightly, telling me only what I already know. I’m in serious trouble. Even if they want to, it’s hard to imagine the Council will let me walk away from such an accusation.

  Nausea grips me and heat rolls under my skin. It’s as if I’m on fire from the inside. Oates is grinning at me. The tendons in my neck grow stiff. My legs and arms ache as I hold myself down in the seat when all I want to do is charge across the room and take him by the throat. Real fear, for the first time in my life, turns my insides liquid. I ignore Oates and watch the Counsellors. They are animated. Shaftesbury is talking eagerly, jabbing a finger into the table. I don’t need to read lips to know that he wants to make an example of me. But perhaps he’s not having it all his own way. Others shake their heads. Southwell is taking notes.

  This is the worst moment. I am alone in this. Anne and Henry m
ight be miles away for all that they are probably waiting outside. The only other person in the room who really cares what happens to me is Oates. Finally, I understand how much he hates me.

  Henry was right. That thought brings another wave of heat. I might never get back to Anne. I’m on the brink of something terrible. I let myself look at Titus Oates.

  He’s lolling back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest. His fat, ugly face shines with sweat and his girlish lips thrust forward as he laps up every wave of my discomfort. He is terrifying. The degree of power and influence he has managed to obtain is staggering. It’s difficult to comprehend the nerve of the man. He has crawled up from nowhere and carried off his vast charade before the great and the good of the nation. He made sure that I’d be taken from my home at the worst possible moment. He is thrilled now, watching me struggle for my freedom. He is longing, lusting, to see me hang.

  Slowly and deliberately, I fold my arms across my chest and force my aching face into an empty smile. His existence is an affront to me. Even if I die for all this, he must never believe he’s had the better of me.

  Oates shifts in his chair. He doesn’t like my smile. Good. His gaze shifts toward the huddled Counsellors. The longer it takes them to decide my fate, the better my prospects begin to look. Only moments later, Williamson turns. Shaftesbury examines his fingernails.

  “Nathaniel Thompson. Serious accusations have been made against you, but we have nothing before us that would convict you in a trial by your peers. Let the record show that permission has been granted for a search of your properties, for the seizing of goods as is seen fit, and for a review of all your writings to be conducted by the Commons Committee inquiring into the Popish Plot, led by Lord Shaftesbury. In the interim, the prisoner is to be released.”

  Relief swoops over me, almost as overwhelming as my earlier fears. My eyes meet Southwell’s. He allows himself a small curl of his lips. Shaftesbury glowers at me on his way out. As I turn to my guard, putting forward my hands to be unchained, Oates’s breath creeps into my ear.

  “It’s far from over, Thompson. You can’t even begin to imagine what we’ll find when we search your little office.”

  “Secretary Williamson!” Sir Robert Southwell interrupts the general exodus.

  “What is it, Southwell?”

  “Given that there are issues of credibility on both sides of this case,” he gestures towards Oates and I, only inches apart in the centre of the room, “might I suggest that a supervisor be appointed to oversee the search of Mr. Thompson’s property?”

  It’s a stroke of genius. Shaftesbury has already left the chamber.

  Williamson wrinkles his nose. “Certainly. A good point. See to it, will you, Southwell?”

  “But, My Lord,” says Oates. “Sir Robert is a well-known crony of the prisoner.”

  “Dr. Oates!” interrupts Williamson. “You speak without due consideration. Sir Robert Southwell is a servant of the State and therefore has no cronies. You had best consider whom you slander.”

  For a moment, Oates quivers. Colour rises on his face as if he might do something rash. Instead, he storms from the chamber and is gone.

  ***

  “How is Anne?” I ask Southwell. With freedom, all of the realities of life tumble back into my head.

  “She is managing, Henry says. But come. We will go to her now. Are you hungry?”

  I blink, and realise that I am.

  “Ravenous. But I must thank you. You’ve saved my neck.”

  His long face looks grave again. “I may have, but I doubt that Oates is done with you yet. Let’s get you home and get you fed. Then we can work out what to do for the best.”

  ***

  Dark shadows lie under Anne’s eyes. When I take her in my arms, she feels insubstantial and frail. While Henry and Southwell arrange our future for us, Anne sits dully by the fireplace, shuddering at every cart and carriage that rattles past on the cobbles outside our home.

  It’s made clear to me that Oates has really gone to work on my reputation. Pamphlets litter the coffee shops and taverns, depicting me as that dog, Towser, dancing around the Pope’s heels and barking his messages. Henry hands me one, and I turn it over in my hands trying to find some kind of response.

  “There have been stones thrown at the door here, Nat,” says Henry. “Sarah was abused in the street. They say this is a house of papists, a viper’s nest.”

  “You need to get away,” says Southwell.

  “While you can,” says Henry.

  William is here, standing at the window, just behind Anne’s chair.

  “What do you say?” I ask him.

  “Titus is a bully. Always was, always will be. There is a chance that if you disappear for a while, he will find other targets for his vileness.”

  “But we live here. I work here. We can’t just pack up the house and head off into the countryside!”

  “And we do not suggest that you do, Nathaniel,” says Southwell. “Nothing so rash. But if Oates finds another witness, another Prance, to say you’ve been seen taking mass…”

  “Then you will be arrested again and have to wait who knows how long to have your case considered.” Henry looks at Southwell for corroboration and the old man nods.

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “That we give it time,” Henry replies. In a few months, he and Southwell say, the focus of public anger will shift. It always does. I just need to absent myself until they’re sure I won’t be re-arrested.

  “But my life is here!” I insist.

  I turn to Anne, but her eyes are fixed on the fire.

  ***

  “It may not be for long.” She sounds intensely grave. The others have left, and we’ve gone upstairs. We lie curled on the bed, too drained to undress, her back pressed to my chest, her hair in my face.

  “It has already been too long. I can’t bear that I had to leave you that day. I shouldn’t be leaving you again. Come with me.”

  She squeezes my hand. It’s all wrong. It should be me comforting her, easing her pain, looking after her, as I promised to do.

  “I can’t,” she says. “I can’t leave her here alone.”

  “She is with God,” I say.

  “Is she?”

  “Isn’t she?” It’s a poor response, but I am like a blind man, groping my way with my fingertips.

  “She is in the ground. I won’t leave her. It’s only when I visit her that I am at peace. Can you see? Perhaps in a few weeks I could join you. Or perhaps you will be back. I just need time.”

  I can’t see, and I don’t understand. But she has asked me to let her stay and grieve for our daughter. How can I refuse? “I love you, Anne Thompson,” I say.

  “And I, you.”

  We fall asleep like that. In the morning, I pack a bag and board a coach to Edinburgh.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Anne

  I promise Nat that Sarah will stay with me while he is gone, but after a week I send her home. There is a tyranny open to the bereaved. Henry, Sarah, Nat – all three used to be so sure they knew what was best for me, but not now. Sarah, especially, understands my desire to be left alone.

  Two, three, then four months pass. Nat’s offices are ransacked but nothing is found. The charges against my husband are not dropped, but with little evidence, Southwell and Henry declare that we will have him back in London soon. Nat’s public reputation, however, has never been worse. He is vilified on a daily basis in the Whig presses. They stopped throwing stones at the door when it became known that he had left town, but he is still widely believed to be a secret Catholic. It is Kitty who tells me they are making a straw man of him to burn in the November Pope-burning procession today. No-one else has mentioned it, of course.

  I insist on going. It is time I shook the stupor from my bones. There are cross words. Neither Henry nor William are happy, but I make it very clear that I will go, whether they accompany me or not. I am hard as iron about this. I want
to see it.

  But when I do, this effigy of Nat is the stuff of nightmares.

  First, they tie it to a chair. The chair is nailed to a rough platform of wood and juggled up onto the shoulders of six willing men, ready to be paraded through the streets of London. Horses trample past, obscuring my view, filling my ears with snorts and the hard smack of hooves on the cobbles. Men bellow orders as they shuffle and stir the procession into shape. I have never seen such a profusion of purple, such glorious rich deep velvets. All around us, young men shrug on priests’ clothes and grab crucifixes and altar books from a cart brimful of goods.

  My plan is to stand very still and not panic. I promised Henry and William I would not, and it is not my living, breathing, husband Nat they’ll burn. This is only a straw man, thank God. But I cannot drag my eyes from it, all the same. He – it – wears tight black breeches and a many-buttoned waistcoat. It sports a grubby neckerchief and a long dingy coat that has seen better days. They have given it woollen stockings – worn, nubby, and poorly patched. Worst of all are the wig and hat. Its wig hangs limply and is matted with some tacky grime. The hat looks as though it has been kicked across the cobbles before being crammed upon its head. Probably because it has.

  They are not his clothes. Nat’s clothes, those he left behind, are in our house, cleaned and folded in readiness. Oh, but these are like! That is his cut of coat, his colour of wig, his careless necktie. My husband has been studied most diligently. Where his face should be, there is a painted mask. The body is tightly bound to the chair but the head leans at an impossible angle. They have slung a crude sign around his neck with his name painted on, although no-one in the crowd could have any doubts. Someone has even put a quill pen in one of his hands and piled papers and books on his knee and at his feet.

  “Hey!” A whey-faced old man lumbers against me, misting stale ale and tobacco across my cheek. I mis-step and my ankle twists. William grabs my arm while Henry blusters.