“I was not!”
“And I am sure I was not either,” I say.
“Nor Matthew,” he says.
I can’t speak then. I wander away and leave Nat to fumble his way indoors and up to Anne. Our losses – of Matthew, of Martha, and of Henry – crash down on my head as I walk the rest of the way alone. The taste of beer sours on my tongue. This is but one small victory. And while Nat and Anne may nearly be finished with Titus, I’m afraid I will end up back in Newgate.
Even so, our day in court cannot come soon enough.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Nat
With Titus Oates under arrest, Anne and I are able to return across the river and settle into a new home not far from the print shop. We go to work together every day – I to my office upstairs, and Anne below, marshalling her boys. William appears only sporadically, and on Southwell’s advice still keeps a low profile. It is clear to me that he needs this trial to happen as much, if not more, than we do, but to a degree I envy him. William can act, where I only watch. In giving evidence against Oates, he can make reparation for Henry’s death, even though he must admit his own perjury to do so. I have done all I can with my writing, but still it tears at me that it was my crusade against Oates that brought this misery to our door. Now I’m left to wonder what I might have done differently. Such thoughts bear fruit in grey hair and furrowed brows; the scars of living, I suppose.
At last the day of Titus Oates’s perjury trial arrives, ushered in under a pink and orange London sky. I am thankful for Anne’s arm in mine as we walk to the Old Bailey together.
“Poor William,” she says. “He was restless yesterday. He is so intent on this. Desperate, even. He will be happier when his evidence is given, I hope. Oates will be found guilty, won’t he?”
“I believe so. I pray so.” We pause outside the courthouse walls. Witnesses and spectators are gathering in the yard. We find a path through them all and enter. It is a fine new building, another one rising from the ashes of the fire of ’66 – in this case, a stately three storey building, in the Italian style. They have kept the building open on the courtyard side to promote the circulation of air and reduce the risk of infection carried in by prisoners from Newgate next door. “Come.” I squeeze her hand in mine. “The sooner it begins, the sooner it ends.”
Falling in with Sir Robert Southwell, we take our seats in the balcony. There’s a sea of noisy humanity beneath us: lawyers; clerks; scribblers like myself; witnesses, of course; and a jumble of curious spectators, pushing and shoving to establish a vantage point. Anne is restless, rubbing her hands to keep warm and craning her neck, trying to catch sight of William. Southwell, on the other hand, looks as disinterested as ever. I don’t know how he does it.
“This trial will be a memorable one,” I whisper to Anne, “if his exit from Whitehall was any indication.”
Titus Oates does not disappoint.
He’s led in with his wrists shackled but his head held high. Oates makes much of looking about himself, twisting his fat chin from shoulder to shoulder. At the first opportunity, he speaks up in that loud, braying tone. As we know too well, this man is nothing if not versed in the ways of our courts of law.
“My Lords, it must be recognised that I am to speak here in my own defence. I have papers, records, testimonies.” He waves his hand over the small space allotted to the defendant. “I cannot manage my affairs like this. Pray, let me have space to manage my own trial.”
With a disgruntled look, the Lord Chief Justice Jeffreys, an old fellow with watery blue eyes and skin like crackled glaze, inclines his head and orders that an area at the bar is cleared for Oates, who makes much of setting out of his precious papers. The crowd stirs a little, but soon the business of selecting the jury begins.
“Not Scroggs this time,” whispers Anne.
“No. He has fallen from favour. Some of his views on Catholicism have cost him,” says Southwell. He follows this comment up with a groan. “This will take forever and a day. Watch. Oates will object to every one of these jurors.”
He is right, near as damn it. Oates interrupts proceedings whenever he can, asking the jurors questions or objecting to their selection without any grounds whatsoever. He has maintained much of his swagger in gaol, although he is thinner and his skin colour is not good. Eventually, the jury is sworn in and the formal charge against Oates is read out: perjury in the matter of the trial of the priests Whitbread, Ireland, and Fenwick.
“It shall be shown that the defendant, Titus Oates, of the parish of St Sepulchre, was a witness in the aforementioned trial,” the clerk reads. “At that trial the defendant did state under oath that there was a meeting held on the 24th of April of the year of our Lord, 1678. The defendant told the court under oath that at this meeting Jesuit priests did consult together in the White Horse Tavern in the Strand, and that they did there plan to form a revolution against our Government and murder our King. Titus Oates claimed to have later witnessed these Jesuits sign a document committing themselves to this treacherous plan.
“The truth, however, is that the defendant, Titus Oates, was in no manner present at such a meeting. There was no truth in his claim to have heard any man plotting a revolution and the death of the King, yet on the 5th of February, in the year 1680, Titus Oates did, under oath, declare that he had seen and heard the aforementioned priests, Whitbread, Ireland, and Fenwick, in such an act of treason. The court will prove that this man has wilfully and voluntarily committed an act of perjury in this matter and you, gentlemen of the jury, will be asked to say if he is guilty or not guilty in this regard.”
Oates is set on interruption. He makes various complaints about the indictment, including some nonsense about wording and Latin that inspires harsh words from Lord Jeffreys. Next to me, Southwell “tuts” and Anne looks disgusted at Oates’s behaviour. I had expected to revel in this. I have longed to watch Oates squirm. Now I’m not sure how I feel.
The prosecution outlines their case. They will prove that Oates was out of the country from December 1677 until the end of June 1678. For all that period, Oates was at St Omer’s, excepting one night only, in January 1678, when he turned truant and spent a night in a place called Watton, about two miles away from the college. Many witnesses will prove this, but first the jury will hear evidence of what Oates said in the trial of the priests.
A witness is called, a Mr. Foley, who served on the original jury. Foley testifies that in the priests’ trial, Oates swore he had attended the consult on the 24th of April and then had carried the document from lodging to lodging where he saw the various priests sign their commitment to a Catholic uprising.
Oates is granted the opportunity to examine the witness, but his questions do little to help his cause. Can Mr. Foley recall whether he had said that he’d seen the priests sign the document, or only that he knew it had been signed? Does Mr. Foley remember whether he had said where it was signed: at the tavern, or in their lodging? Had the meeting at the tavern taken place in one room, or several? I imagine Oates’s intention is to make the witness appear unreliable. Jeffreys certainly thinks so and steps in, warning him that attempts to insult witnesses will not be accepted.
“That’s a little rich,” I mutter to Anne. “Consider the way Catholics were treated when trying to give evidence in the trials in ’78 and ’79. No-one had any problem insulting those witnesses.”
Some of those very same discredited witnesses soon take the stand. The first is a Mr. Maxwell, a student at St Omer’s in the same class as Oates. He’s well dressed and a little nervous initially, but articulate and clear in his answers. He says he left St Omer’s the day before the supposed Jesuit meeting in April, and Oates had been at the college at that time. Maxwell had not travelled with, or seen, Titus Oates on his journey to London, and his testimony very plainly shows that Oates is a liar. We turn our eyes on the defendant who bridles in his chair and jumps to his feet.
“If I may ask a question,” he begins, “I would ask
the witness of what religion he may be and where he lives.”
At a nod from Jeffreys, Maxwell answers, “I am a Roman Catholic, and I live in the Inner Temple in London.”
“And when did you first go to St Omer’s, and how long were you there?”
“I arrived there in 1672. So, for six years.”
“And what was your business there?”
Maxwell hesitates. He looks at Jeffreys.
“That is not a pertinent question, My Lord,” says the Attorney General.
“It is my question, however,” insists Oates. “And I will prove it to be pertinent.”
Jeffreys clears his throat. “You will not, Mr. Oates. You will not ask questions that may ensnare a witness. Not in my court.”
“Mr. Oates, you notice,” says Southwell. “Not Doctor. You did your work well, Nathaniel.”
Below us, Oates holds his arms out in supplication. “I merely ask the questions that will support my own defence, My Lord. It is a relevant question and I have good reason for asking it.”
“But I will not have it asked, Mr. Oates. There is an end to it. Have you anything further?”
“Yes.” Oates looks disgruntled, but he is nothing if not persistent. “Mr. Maxwell,” he says, “when did I first come to St Omer’s?”
“In November. November 1677.”
“And what manner of place was this that we met in? Was it not run by priests and Jesuits?”
“Mr. Oates!” Jeffreys is red in the face and the Attorney General is on his feet. “Mr. Maxwell, you are not obliged to answer that question.”
“But what is to say that he has not been put upon by his superiors to say these things about me?” whines Oates.
“Nor is that a suitable question either, Mr. Oates!”
“Then I am hardly used, My Lord, most hardly used. How can I conduct my defence without questioning the witness?” Oates wheedles, but his eyes are on fire with anger and frustration. For a moment he and Jeffreys glare at each other. Anne leans forward, her lips open, absorbed by this exchange. It ought to feel beyond good to have Oates come under the thumb of the law. Jeffreys draws in a breath and grows larger in his chair, looming over the courtroom.
“I do not care, Mr. Oates, to hear your opinions on how you are treated. You will ask only questions that are within the bounds of the court’s discretion. When you ask questions that are impertinent, extravagant, or ensnaring, you will be corrected and kept within the proper limits.”
Oates’s shoulders drop. He rubs at his chin. He looks downcast, but still he is not done. “Then, My Lord,” he says, “I would like to ask Mr. Maxwell if he was a witness at the trial of the Jesuits Whitbread, Ireland, and Fenwick.”
“A fair question,” says Jeffreys. “Mr. Maxwell?”
“I was.”
“And then I would ask him how his evidence was received at that trial?” Oates folds his hands across his chest, a very priestly gesture, and gazes wide-eyed and expectantly at Jeffreys.
“What? What kind of question is that?” barks the judge.
“A fair one.” His chin juts forward.
“No indeed, it is not a fair one at all.”
“Yet he came to London in the matter of that trial, and his testimony was not believed or credited at all.” The whine creeps back into Oates’s voice. “I wish to ask why he thinks his tales of my whereabouts will be better received now.”
“Because of you, Nat,” whispers Anne.
“He comes because he was subpoenaed,” snaps Jeffreys.
“Well, I wish to know if he will receive any reward for coming here.”
“Will you?” Jeffreys turns to Maxwell, who shakes his head. “There. He was not paid. Are you done, sir?”
Oates’s frustration is evident. His chest rises and falls. His brow comes so low down over his eyes that they are all but lost between his wig and chin. He can do little more at this point. Maxwell confirms that he had heard there was a Jesuit meeting that April, but that it was of no special significance. Oates suggests that Maxwell could not be certain that he’d seen Oates every day of their time together at St Omer’s, but his argument is weak, and shortly afterwards the witness is dismissed.
“What do you think?” Anne says to me. “You don’t look happy.”
“It is pretty much as expected,” Southwell says, wrinkling his nose.
“There has been rather a volte-face though, hasn’t there?” I say. “It is a rough form of justice, I suppose. It pains me greatly to say it, but Oates has a point and is not being given a fair hearing. Maxwell’s evidence is the same. But now it is believed, whereas only a short time ago it was not.”
Anne’s face registers her surprise and Southwell rounds on me.
“Come now, Nat! It is a little late to be pitying the man, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘Was Oates in London in April 1678, as he said? No, he was not. Did his false evidence lead to the deaths of innocent men? Yes, it did. That he will be punished is largely thanks to your efforts to turn the tide of public opinion. Sit back, man. Watch. Jeffreys is in a fine temper. Enjoy it.”
Enjoy it? No, I don’t enjoy it. But I do try to put the question of fairness out of my mind. Southwell is right. This may not be fair, but at least it is true. I squeeze Anne’s fingers. I just want it to be over – for all our sakes, but most particularly for William’s.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Anne
After Maxwell, and a brief break for refreshments, the prosecution continues producing witnesses placing Oates firmly in St Omer’s, not London. The crowd perks up during these testimonies. There is no love for Oates amongst his old classmates, and they speak against him damningly. Man after man describes Oates as foul-mouthed, boisterous, short-tempered, slow-witted, unpopular and, therefore, highly memorable. Next to me, Nat makes a few notes. Some of their stories will be reproduced in the next issue of The Observator, no doubt. After a time, the stream of witnesses from St Omer’s begins to pall. Their evidence is more of the same, driving home the inescapable truth of Oates’s whereabouts that April. I turn my eyes on the wider courtroom and my thoughts to William.
He is down there somewhere. Nat, Southwell, and I have been given excellent seats in a balcony. We look directly down on Oates and miss no moment of his discomfort. Only the heads of the jury men and the back of the Attorney General are visible from here, but I’ve a clear sight of Jeffreys at all times and the milling crowd of onlookers who fill the standing space below. There’s almost constant movement in that section as people come and go: some just stopping in to catch a glimpse of the Saviour of the Nation in the toils; others, friends to a particular witness, who shuffle out after their companion’s testimony is complete. There are men and women there, a fine mix of wigs and bonnets from this vantage point. It’s so very typical of London that a trial, in many ways, is just another opportunity to show off one’s finery.
I search but can’t see William. Perhaps he has been told to wait outside. I have no idea how long it will be before he is called. He has been like a taut string these last weeks, even more subdued than usual, only saying, when pressed, that he will be fine when this is over. I am worried for him. To have to stand and declare himself a liar, to have to admit that he has committed perjury and acknowledge that he allowed himself to be blackmailed, these are hard truths for a quiet and honourable schoolmaster. What will they ask him, and how will he answer? Most importantly, will he be sent to gaol?
Down below, the parade of witnesses from St Omer’s is over, and Oates wrangles again with Lord Jeffreys over the Latin wording of the indictment brought against him. He is a fool. Jeffreys quickly silences him on the point but Oates moves on boldly, bringing up the matter of Ireland’s conviction for treason.
“I desire that a point of law be considered, My Lord,” he declares.
“Ah-ha!” Beside Nat, Southwell mutters and nods his head, as might a man arriving in good time at an expected destination.
“My point,” says Oates, “is whether or no
t the conviction of Ireland and his fellows – that they did treasonably conspire to murder the King at a consult meeting on April 24th, 1678 – ought not be taken as sufficient legal proof of the fact. For how can that meeting be false, while their conviction remains in place?”
“You see,” Nat hisses at Southwell. “He should be tried for treason, not perjury!”
“No. Listen.”
And indeed, Lord Jeffreys is not in the least perturbed. “There is no question to argue,” he says. “God forbid that if a verdict is obtained by perjury, that the existence of the verdict should prevent the perjurer being prosecuted for his false oath. Where would the justice be in that? We are not concerned with the conclusions of that trial here, but with the testimony that was made. And if the testimony is false then the perjurer must be prosecuted.”
“But is the conviction not incontrovertible evidence of fact, until – and if – it is reversed?”
“Yes, against the party convicted. But if the verdict was founded on perjured evidence, then I say again, the perjurer must be prosecuted.”
Oates bows his large head and spreads his palms on the papers. When he straightens he speaks with great deliberation. “With permission, there are some observations I would like to make to the court and to the jury.” Jeffreys rolls his eyes but allows it. “First is the matter of these witnesses. The jury may wonder, as I do, about all these witnesses offering new evidence: where were they in 1678? And then, what of the others? Some of these men did give testimony at the priests’ trial and they merely repeat their statements today. Last time, the jury didn’t believe them. Why? Because these men’s religion and education betray them as men of artifice whose word is never to be trusted.”
Nat grips his knees in reaction to Oates’s bigotry. Jeffreys appears resigned to letting Oates have his say.
“And I would further observe,” says Oates, “to you, My Lord, and to the gentleman of the jury, that I have been most harshly dealt with in this case.” The emotion is back in Oates’s voice. All eyes are on him as he lifts up some papers and reads: “In the case of the trial of Fathers Fenwick, Ireland, and Whitbread, it was said by Lord Chief Justice Scroggs that an ‘unexceptional verdict had been found’. Why, he said that ‘all objections against the evidence had been fully answered’, that ‘the prisoners had nothing to argue over’, because ‘the thing was as clear as the sun’.
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