Oates speaks about each of the accused in turn, explaining where he met them and how each man was actively involved in the April 1678 meeting where the King’s death was plotted. Oates explains that he was given the task of personally visiting each priest after the meeting and obtaining their written assent to the plot. He also says he spent time in London with each of the accused during the month of August, witnessing their preparations to shoot the King in St James’s Park. The Lord Chief Justice Scroggs mutters agreeably throughout, often gesturing to the jury to take note of particular points, and at each interjection Henry shifts in his chair.
“Tell us, Dr. Oates,” says Jones, the Attorney General, “what you can, about Father Whitbread.”
“My Lord, I endured a great deal while observing these men,” says Oates.
His voice is peculiar, but I’m not sure it doesn’t make him even more convincing. He is a highly unusual creature. I’m shocked by what he says next.
“Father Whitbread suspected me of betraying his plot,” Oates says. “He whipped me, threatened me, and slapped me about the face. I feared for my own life at his hands. He is the main agitator, he is the provincial leader of the Jesuits. With a fanatic’s desire, he has paid men to take the King’s life and accepted French coin to fund his conspiracies.”
Father Whitbread is an old man, his cheeks fanned with lines, his thin lips as pale as his skin. He keeps his face immobile, mask-like. I dislike him. I believe he might use a whip. Fathers Fenwick and Ireland are younger. Both looked cramped with tension and are listening attentively. Fenwick visibly struggles to maintain his composure while Oates weaves his tale.
I’m interested when Oates’s evidence reveals more of his own recent history masquerading as a Catholic convert. Nat told me that Oates had been effectively destitute when he arrived in London a year or two ago. Naturally, he glosses over the details but admits he’d struggled to survive in London and was reduced to begging. Father Fenwick gave him alms, he says. But Oates paints this not as an act of charity, but as part of a Catholic snare, a way to attach young innocents to their cause, to recruit and convert them towards extremism.
As the trial continues, all three of the priests’ heads droop and their shoulders bend under the weight of the almost inevitable verdict of any treason trial. In the schoolroom with my brother’s tutor I remember being taught the words of Cardinal Richelieu, words from another time and another country, but no less apposite here: ‘Although in the course of ordinary cases justice requires authenticated proof, it is not the same with those that affect the state.’
In cases of treason, it is held that circumstantial evidence is enough. Such plots and conspiracies are deemed to be so complex, so secret, and so difficult to prove, that normal laws of evidence do not apply. There are some threats so terrible that they must be stopped at all costs. Suspicion is all that’s required.
At last, the priests are given their opportunity to put forward some kind of defence. Whitbread tries to attack Oates. “This man has fabricated evidence as an act of personal vengeance,” he declares.
But the crowd hisses and Scroggs is openly sceptical.
“Titus Oates was a student at St Omer’s College in Flanders,” says Whitbread in a calm voice. “He was the worst, most foul-mouthed, trouble-making, lazy, misbegotten creature we have ever—”
“It is not for the defendant to malign the witness,” shouts Scroggs. “Disprove his evidence. Or sit back down.”
Whitbread looks rattled. Then he tries again. “In June of 1678, Titus Oates was dismissed from St Omer’s College.”
Next to me, Southwell and Henry whisper and shake their heads.
“Did you not hear me?” Scroggs’s face is purple. “Dr. Oates is not the man on trial today!”
“I apologise, Your Honour,” says Father Whitbread, although there is nothing apologetic in his demeanour. “I will speak only of the facts. It has been stated by the prosecution witness that the murder of King Charles was the first order of business at a Jesuit meeting held in London that April. I ask permission to bring evidence that the witness,” Whitbread can’t keep the dislike from his voice, “was not in fact present at that meeting, because he was abroad, in Flanders, attending St Omer’s College.”
Henry elbows me. “Interesting,” he whispers.
There’s a moment’s silence. We are suddenly tense, as if an invisible net around us has tightened. All eyes are on Scroggs. Whitbread grips the rail in front of him.
“But what kind of evidence would that be?” says Scroggs. He shrugs and even smiles. “Who could swear before this court that Dr. Oates was in Flanders when we know him to have been in London? Who would swear such a thing?” He shifts forward in his seat and the smile is long gone. He jabs a fat finger at Father Whitbread. “More of your kind, that’s who! More Catholics.” The tension in the crowd loosens. “You will not pull the wool over our eyes so easily. You take us for such fools, but we know what you are.” He turns. “Dr. Oates, I presume you can bring witnesses to attest that you were in London in April 1678?”
Oates nods. “I am happy to do so, Lord Chief Justice. My witness is Mr. William Smith, lately schoolmaster at the Merchant Taylors’ School.”
This is surely a mistake.
I have misheard.
But no. I stare dumbfounded as William, our friend, William Smith, appears in the witness box. Henry can’t take his eyes from him, but his hand finds mine and he squeezes my fingers. We both sit transfixed as William swears on the Bible that Oates was in London that April, and that they spent many hours in each other’s company.
He doesn’t look happy about it. William’s usual sombre demeanour is even more pronounced, but I can’t get past the first shock of seeing him there, in support of Oates.
Within a minute, it’s over. William is despatched back into the crowd.
“You didn’t know?” I say to Henry.
He doesn’t answer. He’s studying Scroggs, who in turn is glaring at Whitbread. Spit is visible on his lips and genuine anger lights his eyes.
“You Catholics,” Scroggs hisses. “You are men that eat your God. You are men that kill their kings and make saints of their murderers. And you would have us take you at your word?”
People all around us gasp.
Whitbread closes his eyes and his lips move quickly, but he has no more words for the court. He’s broken. I turn my eyes to Oates. He’s standing staring at Whitbread with one arm folded across his chest and his other hand held up before his face. He appears as shocked as anyone, for even the most fervent anti-Catholics in the crowd are silenced for the moment by the urgency of Scroggs’s invective. But then I understand that Oates isn’t shocked at all; he’s trying not to laugh. His shoulders are trembling, his arm is around himself to hold himself in check, his hand hides a smile. As Whitbread sits down, he looks at Oates, who lets his hand drop, giving a glimpse of his true expression to the crushed old man. Whitbread doesn’t react. Beside me, Henry sucks in a breath as if scalded. He’s seen, as I have, the naked triumph in Oates’s eyes.
“It’s time,” says Henry. He motions to one of the several boys loitering near the back of the Hall ready to run errands or fetch refreshments. Henry presses a folded paper and a coin into the boy’s hand, and points out a young woman near the front of the crowd below the witness box. She’s wearing a fashionable blue-black bonnet and a grey shawl.
As the boy squeezes his way through to her, the judges ask Fathers Fenwick and Ireland what, if any, defence they might offer. Fenwick, so soft spoken that I must believe he is a total innocent in all this madness, makes little impression, but Father Ireland calls his sister. She’s sworn in as a witness and speaks in a clear, educated voice. Miss Ireland is tall, and simply dressed; a good-looking girl with tidy brown hair. Henry’s note is in her gloved hands.
She begins by attacking Oates’s assertion that Ireland was in London, in August, plotting to kill the King. Her family wishes to offer evidence, she says, that her br
other was in St Albans and Wolverhampton for the whole month. There are several witnesses they seek permission to bring to swear to this before the court.
Scroggs raises his hand to quieten her. He scrapes back his chair and confers in whispers with his fellow judges. The crowd, anticipating something unusual, becomes agitated. Feet scuff the floor and whispers pop up like bubbles breaking a watery surface.
“We deny the witnesses.” Scroggs glares around the court. ‘If it is proved that Father Ireland was out of London for part of August, it is only a mistake in point of time and doesn’t invalidate the substance of the accusation. We are concerned with action, in this court, not circumstance of time. Have you anything further?”
Ireland’s sister’s lips part. She flushes and her eyes fill. I will her to act on the note. Henry has written: Call upon Sir Denny Ashburnham, MP for Hastings. Request that he be allowed to give testimony. Do not fail.
She does not.
“Brave girl,” Henry mutters.
In a matter of moments, the clerk of the court calls on the MP for Hastings. Oates has gone very, very still. He looks at Scroggs and raises his shoulders slightly, as if to say he knows nothing of Hastings, but his teeth work against his lips. He’s nervous.
“Ashburnham?” Scroggs frowns at the MP. “What can you have to say in this matter?”
“I wish to speak, My Lord, of the character of the witness, Titus Oates.”
Scroggs slumps in his chair and shakes his great head. “I have to say, sir,” he says, “that I am not pleased to hear that, not pleased at all. The court has already expressed its displeasure at the pathetic attempts made to malign Dr. Oates.” He pauses, perhaps to weigh up his options.
Sir Denny Ashburnham is a mild, sandy haired man, a respected Protestant Member of Parliament; someone, Nat wrote to Henry, whom Scroggs will know, if not particularly well. Nat’s hope is that Scroggs won’t be able to shout down such an unimpeachable character. “Well, you may speak up if you must, then,” says Scroggs. “But I hope it is to the point. And short.”
“I have known Titus Oates for many years,” Ashburnham says. “In my experience, he was not a man whose word could be relied upon.”
“Not strong enough!” This is Southwell, loud enough for me to hear.
“I have brought with me a copy of an indictment against Mr. Oates for perjury,” the MP continues. “I felt it my duty to communicate it to the court, for your consideration.”
“You did, did you?” asks Scroggs. He pauses and scratches at his cheek. “Well. You have done so, and we will look at it. But let me ask you, sir, when you speak about Dr. Oates in his youth, when you dishonour a man who stands before us, staunchly protecting the freedom and safety of your fellow Englishmen, what would you have us think of you?”
Ashburnham swallows before he replies. His inner politician has won the day. I can’t look at Henry. “Please, My Lord,” Ashburnham says, “I would have you think nothing more than that I am a responsible citizen doing my duty. I know nothing of Dr. Oates that would lead me to doubt his testimony now; now that circumstances corroborate his evidence. Were the matter to rely on his word alone, my experience would lead me to harbour some doubts. But that is not the case. I would say nothing against Dr. Oates beyond the matter I have transmitted to the court regarding his record in the Town of Hastings.” He bows to the court and Scroggs nods approvingly. Ashburnham is excused. The courtroom is quiet as the judges consider Ashburnham’s evidence of the perjury charge.
“Not enough. Not enough.” Henry is shaking his head. Southwell is already on his feet, ready to leave.
The five judges confer. There is a degree of liveliness to their debate and I’ve a late sniff of hope. As Scroggs prepares to speak, I hold my breath, but…
“Gentlemen of the jury, it is of no matter. We have studied the information and find that it is not relevant to the prisoners. There is no need for it to be read. Let us move on.”
***
Henry is crushed. The moment the evidence of perjury is denied, he follows Southwell out of the Hall. I catch up with him in the street outside and he walks me home in silence. I picture Nat, somewhere far away, imagining events in London in a very different manner than they have played out. How can I write to him of this failure? And what will he think of William’s role today?
By the time we reach my door, Henry has rallied a little. “Nat will be disappointed,” he says, “but Ashburnham was at fault. Too much the politician. Not enough of a man.”
“Those three priests. Do they stand a chance?” I ask.
“No. They will go the same way as Green, Berry, and Hill. The same way as Edward Coleman, although with much less cause.”
As he says the man’s name, my mind slips back to Coleman’s execution, but I don’t stop to dwell on his gruesome end. Instead, I remember that I was with child then and that I am not now. The world is a dark, dark place. Thank heavens Henry cannot read my thoughts, and talks on regardless.
“In Coleman’s case,” he says, “there was some evidence against him, but these priests? You saw it, Anne. They were given no chance. And they will die.”
“And what about William?”
“I have no idea what possessed him.”
“I suppose if he was subpoenaed and asked the question, then he had no option but to attend the court and tell the truth.”
“So it would seem.”
“But you will ask him about it?”
“Be sure that I will.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
William
They come for me at night. A pair of thugs grab me on the street as I walk home from Henry’s print shop. It is nine o’clock and fully dark. Dense cloud obscures the moon and a steady drizzle dulls all sounds so that I don’t hear them coming. One moment I’m walking, the next a hand yanks my hair, my head snaps back, and my arms are pinned to my back. With stale breath, they whisper sordid threats in my ear should I make the smallest complaint.
Titus waits in a small private room in The Cooper’s Arms Tavern in Rose Street. This time I am not brave or defiant. This time he gives me no choice. Anne will be grabbed off the street just as I have been. Or a fire will start at Henry’s print shop. Or Nat will not return to London alive. An accident on the road. Matthew will die in Newgate. He asks for very little in return, he assures me. One small falsehood to avoid such calamities. Indeed, only half a falsehood, because he swears he was where I am instructed to say he was. Not even a falsehood, he says; just the confirmation of something that is true. I agree to the lie. When called upon, I will say that I saw him in London in April 1678. Then they let me go.
I do not immediately realise the enormity of what I’ve agreed to. A couple of days pass. I visit Matthew in Newgate. Sickness has taken hold of both his body and his mind. His conversation wanders. I’m not sure that he hears or even sees me all the time I am there. One small falsehood, I tell myself. How bad can it be?
I see Anne and Henry and the boys at the print shop and say nothing about my meeting with Titus, even though he is a constant topic among us. Nat has conceived a plan to bring up Titus’s perjury in the case of the Parker family in Hastings. He hopes to undercut his evidence during the priests’ trial. I am enthusiastic about it, hopeful that this plan will give Titus something more to worry about than this matter that requires me to say he was in London.
How naïve. Weak. Easily manipulated. Educated, yet an absolute fool. This is who I am.
***
After the priests’ trial, when I have given evidence that will cause men’s deaths…
After the priests’ trial, when I have chosen fear and lies over truth…
After the priests’ trial, when I have chosen known friends over unknown innocents…
After the priests’ trial, when I have been the worst of myself and a coward…
Afterwards, Henry asks me if it is true, what I said under oath in Westminster Hall.
I look him in the eye and say it was.
There are no small falsehoods.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Nat
I am propped up in bed with blankets warming my shoulders and cosseting my knees when the idea comes to me. I’ve picked through Henry’s letters for perhaps the fiftieth time. The failure to damage Oates at the priests’ trial sent me into a spiral of whisky-filled oblivion, but I don’t sink completely. Something in my gut tells me not to give up. Instead, I go back through Henry’s letters and find one that brings things into focus. It’s the Pope-burning. He’s described the procession in typical detail and precision. My reputation, my position, and my prospects all went up in smoke in Smithfield. I let my eyes run over the details again, but this time a name jumps out at me from the page. Justice Godfrey.
A man dressed as Godfrey headed that procession for good reason. The dead magistrate is a symbol for all the turmoil that had gripped the city, his death widely accepted as proof that Jesuit priests were determined to murder the King and turn the country Catholic again. I recall Lord Chief Justice Scroggs, at the trial of Green, Berry and Hill. He said there was monstrous evidence of the whole horrid Plot in that one killing.
But who was the prime witness against Godfrey’s murderers? Miles Prance. I thought he was a perjurer at the trial of Green, Berry, and Hill, and then he viciously lied about me before the Privy Council. The more I consider it, the more I’m certain that Prance let three men swing for a crime they did not commit, not to mention letting the real killers run free.
For the first time, I ask myself: if those three men were innocent, then who really killed Godfrey? I drop the letter onto the bedclothes and stare into the fire. Who is to say, even, that his murder had anything to do with the Catholics at all? Something stirs in my ribs. What if the accepted fact that Godfrey was murdered by Jesuit plotters is as false as all the other lies that have brought men to the scaffold and set neighbour against neighbour? People took Godfrey’s murder as proof that the Popish Plot is real. What if I prove otherwise? If Godfrey’s death has nothing to do with the plot, where does that leave Titus Oates?
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