Oates subsides with a wave of one hand and sits for some time supporting his head bent, appearing to pore over his notes.
Anne grabs my arm. “Where is William now? Can you see him?”
“No. Do you think he has gone?”
“I hope so. The way they have insulted him, I would hate for him to hear of it.”
She is right. He’s been painted as a man weak enough to perjure himself to save his own skin. The greater truth remains hidden.
Suddenly I don’t have the stomach for any more of this charade. “I’m going to find him,” I say.
Chapter Forty
Anne
I am glad Nat has gone to find poor William. He should not be alone at such a time. As the trial continues, there can be no doubt that it goes badly for Titus Oates. He is asked to produce his final arguments.
“This won’t take long,” says Southwell, and he is right. Oates has little enough grounds for defence, but nevertheless he tries to turn defence into attack.
“My Lord, to try to convict me of perjury, a whole parcel of witnesses from St Omer’s have been brought here. Some came before and were not believed by the jury or by Lord Chief Justice Scroggs. More come now, and I will not remark upon their testimonies but ask the good gentlemen of the jury to consider what manner of men these are. They are all Catholics, every one. All men of the same religion and the same interests. Their testimonies are all the same to me. I object to their evidence as I object to their appearance in this courtroom. I contend that no Papist has any right or should have any expectation to be received as a witness in a court of law. I contend that no Papist should be believed—”
“Have you come here to preach, Mr. Oates?” calls Jeffreys.
“My Lord, I demand to be heard. It is my right to take exception to these witnesses!”
“Your right, Mr. Oates? Your right? Your right is to be heard when you speak properly and to the evidence. Nothing more.”
“But, My Lord, I do insist on it!” Oates’s chest heaves and his voice rises. “These men’s religion is an exception to their testimony—”
“I am warning you, Mr. Oates. You are verging on impudence if you insist on this.”
“But it is a point of law! It is against our laws to be a Jesuit priest or a member of the order of the Romish church!”
“Does the law say they are not good witnesses?”
“It shows that every one of them, trained in St Omer’s, has broken the laws of our country.”
“And yet they did not own themselves to be Jesuits or priests, or to have taken orders.”
“But—”
“But nothing, Mr. Oates. Nothing. You have been heard on this and we will hear no more. If you have nothing more than slander and scandal to offer us, or your bleating refrain that you were believed before, then we can spend no further time in hearing you.”
Oates sinks down into his chair. He looks battered.
Southwell and I exchange glances. He puts his hands on his knees. “I believe these matters will conclude to our satisfaction. You will stay and hear the rest?”
I nod.
“Well, you are nothing if not thorough,” he says.
Not long afterwards, Oates also leaves the courtroom for a time, pleading illness. The crowd has thinned, the air is clearer, the end in sight. Darkness has fallen outside. When Oates returns, Jeffreys certainly makes sure that the jury knows their judge’s opinion of the case. Nat ought to be here for this moment. I hold the Judge’s words in my mind in order to repeat them to Nat as faithfully as possible.
“Gentlemen,” he says. “When I consider the circumstances of this case now, I do truthfully think it a very strange and wonderful thing that any man should ever have believed in Titus Oates. It is strange to reflect on what popular credit he did have only a short number of years ago. But still, who could have imagined that any man on this earth could have had his impudence, his daring, that he would stand before our King and Parliament and tell such infamous lies, lies which took away the lives of innocent men? Only now have men overcome their fears; only now is there a climate where we can consider these fears more calmly. God forbid that we should have continued any longer in our blindness and delusion. Truly, we must be thankful that this matter is now laid honestly open before us.
“This is a case of perjury before you, but I would ask you to consider it as much, much more. In truth, gentlemen, this is a case of murder. It is murder not done by the hand, but in the form of the Law, and that angers me, as I am sure it angers you and all honest men.
“Indeed, I am angry now. My blood curdles, and my spirits rise when I consider how this man has stood before us, impudent, brazen, without shame or confusion in his face. The monstrous villain has even pretended infirmity so that he could hide from my words and your justice. But it is not his supposed physical infirmity that I ask you to consider. It is the depravity of his mind, the blackness of his soul, and the baseness of his actions that make him unworthy even to tread upon this earth! My words are warm, but you will pardon that. You have the evidence before you. We will wait upon your verdict.”
These are the words we’ve dreamed of hearing. It’s the confirmation and vindication of Nat’s persistence. Yet I have no sense of jubilation. Instead, I’ve a rising sense of distaste for the whole affair. For what has really changed, except the season of opinion? And where are the others, to share this moment? Southwell has left, Nat and William have disappeared, and Henry is dead. I want to get out of here. I want to go home. But at the same time, it must be witnessed. We owe it to poor Henry. One of us must see it through.
It is not long until the jury returns the inevitable guilty verdict. Oates looks ill, his face pale and blotchy. Where earlier he blustered, now he cowers in his chair as Jeffreys closes proceedings. “Gentlemen, there has been some talk today of judges and of their opinions of verdicts,” he says. “And because of that, I take the liberty now to declare my mind and opinion to you. For my part, I am satisfied, quite satisfied, in my conscience. You have given us today a good and just verdict. And for that, you have my thanks.”
It is over. The judges, the jury, the runners, the witnesses, all the crush of spectators, file their way out into the London night. Down below, a glimpse of red hair makes me wonder if Valentine Greatrakes has also wanted to see justice done. For a few moments longer, I stay in my seat. My mind is empty. I’m very tired and hungry.
A story from the schoolroom occurs to me: the story of King Pyrrhus and the great losses he suffered at the hands of the Romans, even though he had been victorious. Nat was dragged away only moments after we lost Martha. Henry died in the fire. And William. William came here today to redeem himself but was shown the door and refused a hearing.
Sudden fear has me leaping to my feet.
Chapter Forty-One
Nat
William is not in the courtroom. I push and twist my way through the crowd three times round until I’m certain. I pass quite near Titus Oates at one point, but I’ve no more interest in him. When I finally quit the Old Bailey, it’s still light. Evening will be with us shortly, however. The clouds are low in the sky, blanketing the city. I stand for a moment and catch my breath, wondering where William has gone.
He is not, like me, a habitué of the coffee shops or a man normally much inclined to drink; but today is a day unlike any other, so I start with the taverns and coffee shops. I draw a blank. I send a boy into the Fuller’s Rent, giving him a sketchy picture of my dear friend, but he swears there’s no man like that in the place. I go to our home, the print shop, and finally his room across the river – at each place running through the ways to help him through this disastrous testimony.
As I climb up the narrow stairs, I wonder why I didn’t come here first. I’m suddenly sure this is where he is, but when I knock, he doesn’t answer. I put my ear to the door and hear nothing. Perhaps I’ve missed him somewhere. Probably he is even now in one of the places I’ve just left. The idea of starting ov
er again is draining. It has been some time since I left the courtroom. All will be over there by now; Anne should be on her way home. I lean my head against his door to rest it. At my touch, the door swings open.
“William?”
This is the first time I’ve ever been in his room. His bed is neatly made and his desk is tidy, but paper crunches under my feet. The floor swims with papers and pamphlets, all marked with ink in circles or underscored. There’s not a floorboard in sight, just paper everywhere. I’m intruding. Even as I step inside, I imagine how I’ll apologise for invading his home.
That’s when I see him.
I take in the angle of his neck, his closed eyes, the air between his limp feet and the floor, the hook in the wall, the rope, the fallen stool.
Plunging forward, I grab at his legs to take his weight. Just as I lose hope, a rattle sounds in his throat. I brace myself to support him but won’t be able to hold him there for long. He groans, and pain slices my back. I stretch one foot but can’t reach the stool. My eyes are wide, my breathing ragged. I don’t think I can hold him. I don’t think I can. But I’ll let my bones crumble and my veins burst before I let him go.
“Nat!”
Anne bursts into the room, a lantern swinging in her hand. She dives at once for the stool and wedges it under William’s legs to support his weight.
“Hold him,” I say. She pushes him against the wall while I pull up a chair and climb up to untie the rope. Untethered, William’s body flails out, but together we catch him. Somehow, we lower him to the floor.
“Is he breathing?” Anne brings the lantern to his face.
“Yes.”
“Do we need a doctor? What should we do?”
“Wait!”
William coughs, and slowly one of his hands reaches up. He touches the raw skin on his neck. His eyes open.
“Oh, thank God!” Anne’s shoulders drop, and she puts her head in her hands. “I thought I might be too late.”
“Too late?” I say. “You knew?”
“Yes. Or no. At least, not for certain. But I suddenly thought of his desperate disappointment and feared the worst. I came straight here.” Her eyes are wet with tears.
“We are lucky you did. I couldn’t have held him much longer.”
“You did wonderfully.” She reaches across the bed and takes my left hand. I stretch and hold William’s cold fingers in my right.
“Are you sure I shouldn’t fetch a doctor?” she says.
“No.” It’s more of a croak than an answer, but it is William’s voice. My shoulders shake. I don’t hold back the tears.
It is some time before any of us regain our composure. By then William is propped up in bed and Anne has lit candles so the room looks normal, apart from all the papers now piled up in one corner. I don’t look over again at the hook.
“What happened?” William whispers.
“In court?” I ask.
William blinks and nods his head just a fraction.
“I don’t know. I didn’t care. I was looking for you. We were worried.”
Colour rises in William’s pale cheek.
“He was found guilty, dear friend,’ says Anne. “It is all over. There was no need for this.” She slowly waves her arm around the room, taking in William and the mess of papers. William is crying again now. His mouth falls open, and saliva hangs in thin threads between his lips.
But he is alive.
Chapter Forty-Two
Anne
A month later, and for the final time, we go to see Titus Oates in a courtroom. He is brought to hear his sentence wearing heavy iron fetters. He looks genuinely ill now, and his mouth works as though he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek. He’s unrecognisable as the man I slapped across the face at the Pope-burning procession.
Oates is entitled to plead grounds for clemency or mitigation of his sentence, but he appears unprepared. In a wavering, unsteady voice, he asks for more time before sentencing, but Jeffreys is impatient to see proceedings brought to a close. Nat, William, Sir Robert Southwell, and I peer down from the balcony. There is sweat on Oates’s brow and his breathing is laboured. When he stands up, he does so with difficulty, as if he has pains in his legs. He clutches the table for support. There is nothing happening here that the man does not fully deserve. And yet none of us smile.
Jeffreys is bitingly curt. “When a person is convicted of such a foul and malicious perjury as this,” he declares, “it is impossible for the court within the laws as they stand, to punish the guilty party in any way proportionally to his offence. Hanging is not open to us, yet it must be said that the law is defective if such a man as this is not to be hanged for his heinous actions. It behoves the court to make an example in this case. Innocent blood has been shed in this land, and all that you have said in your defence is that over forty witnesses should not be listened to simply because they are Roman Catholics. But they have been listened to, and the judgement of the court upon you is as follows:
“First, the court orders that you pay a fine of two thousand marks. Second, that you be stripped of all your Canonical habits.”
Next to me, Southwell is nodding.
“Third, the court demands that you stand in the pillory before Westminster Hall upon Monday next between the hours of ten and twelve, with a paper on your head declaring your crime.
“Fourth, upon Tuesday next, you will stand in the pillory at the Royal Exchange between the hours of twelve and two, bearing a similar inscription.”
Sir Robert leans forward and he and Nat exchange speaking glances.
“Fifth, you shall next Wednesday be whipped from Aldgate to Newgate.” That produces some whispers.
“And sixth, you shall next Friday be whipped from Newgate to Tyburn by the common hangman.”
Jeffreys pauses, although it’s clear that he has more to say. I hold my breath.
“Your crime, Mr. Oates, which we revile most heartily, is, moreover, a crime that you committed several times, repeatedly swearing falsely about your fellow men. For this reason, we have chosen an annual punishment for you, to best commemorate your repeated offences.”
Titus Oates grips the table in front of him as Jeffreys continues.
“Upon the 24th of April every year, for as long as you live, you will stand in the pillory at Tyburn opposite the gallows for one hour.
“Upon the 26th of April every year, you will stand in the pillory in front of Westminster Hall for one hour.” Small gasps from around the packed courtroom follow each pronouncement.
“Upon the 28th of April, you will do the same in the pillory at Charing Cross, every year.
“On the 30th of April, you will do the same in the pillory at Temple Gate.” Oates sits down heavily in his chair as Jeffreys delivers the final blow.
“And on the 5th of February, in commemoration of the trial in 1680, you will stand in the pillory before the Royal Exchange for one hour. You will do this every year, during your lifetime, and remain a prisoner of the King’s Bench for as long as you shall live.”
I glance at Nat and William. Both look as shocked as I. Oates’s sentence is extraordinary – vindictive even – in its scope.
Jeffreys gets to his feet. “This is the sentence of the court,” he says, “and I take leave to tell you that if it had been in my power to carry it further, I would have done so, even to giving the Judgement of death on you, for I am sure that you deserve it. Let him be taken away.”
***
A day or two later, we gather in our kitchen. William sits at the table, his long legs sticking out almost to the other side. Nat is teasing me with that look of his, one that always has me reaching for a stray curl to tuck behind one ear. My face is hot. I’ve just pulled a tray of biscuits from the oven. They steam gently on the table before me. I sip at my cup of bergamot tea and allow myself to hope.
“Will you go and see him pilloried?” I ask Nat.
“Absolutely not. Nor whipped neither. Would you want to?”
&nbs
p; “No. It is enough to know that he been dealt with.”
“He has been dealt with roughly,” Nat says. “Deserved as it is, it gives me no pleasure.”
“Did you ever really think it would?” William’s face is grave, the scars of the deaths we’ve suffered still present in the dark shadows under his eyes and the fading burn mark at his neck.
“Once, perhaps,” Nat says. “But not now. Now it’s the people in this room that give me pleasure. And long may it remain so.”
***
We do not look back. Every April, we leave London and go to stay in the country, either with Nat’s family in Sussex or, more often, with friends in the Cotswolds. Nat is well rewarded for his pursuit of Oates, as Southwell promised he would be. The knighthood makes a deep and favourable impression on my father and mother. Nat calls the new accord and regular visits between our households the archetypical double-edged sword.
We never go to see Titus Oates suffer his punishments. He was tried and found guilty. He is in prison, that’s enough. The manner of his trial unsettled Nat. My husband says he has been left with the abiding sense that nothing has changed in England but the flavour of public opinion; that our inherent bigotry and bias lurk undisturbed. His interest in public life has diminished accordingly. Oh, he hasn’t changed his spots completely. He still writes news commentary with a bias towards the Tory rather than Whig line, but the heat for it is gone. He widens his literary interests, and we publish his own translations of Greek and Latin classics. He wins a fine reputation as a reliable reviewer of the theatre.
William and I run the print shop together. Given time and patience, our friend becomes quite adept at the business, and I’m thankful for his help as family obligations come between my new venture and myself.
When our son Henry is born, the memory of what happened with Martha makes me almost afraid to push. But the child squawks his way into the world, and there is never a quiet moment from that day on. The same is true of his sisters, who follow soon after.
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