by Amy Wolof
“Who?” I asked. “Wasn’t Titus a bloodthirsty Roman?”
“The bloodiest,” said Aventis, “but, compared to Oates, he looks like a fair maid. This Titus is—” he let out his breath, “—a liar, a turncoat, and, to all of my faith, the most hated man in England.”
“Religion again,” I sighed.
“Yes. Like Iago, Oates is prone to whisper into His Majesty’s ear, telling tales of a ‘Popish Plot.’”
“A what?” I asked. I had not been to London lately.
“A plot by Catholics to kill him—with the queen as conspirator!”
“Even I know that is pigswill,” I said, “and I do not like the woman.”
“Your feeling is unfair,” said Aventis. “As for Oates’s slander, Charles does not give it credence, but the people naturally do. Last year, five Catholic Lords were sent to the Tower, among them Viscount Stafford. Yet he need not worry for long, for he will be without his head.”
“God’s legs!” I cried. “Will this madness never end?”
“No,” said Aventis. “I have come to Newgate, Megs, simply by being a Papist—not a wanted outlaw. Who knows how much blood will spill before England turns against Oates? And now that Sir Godfrey’s been murdered—“
I must have looked surprised.
“Yes, found strangled, then stabbed with his own sword. ‘Godfrey daggers’ are selling fast to assault ‘murderous Catholics’—"
I shook my head.
“—while suspicion lights on the Jesuits, five of whom dangled at Tyburn.”
“Sweet Jesus!” I cried. “But . . . I have dealt with their sect and could not find men less warlike.”
Aventis narrowed his eyes.
“Yes,” I said, “I have seen her. She is a pretty little thing, but of much more import to me is that she was kind to a stranger.”
“She did not know you then?” asked Aventis. “You kept to your word?”
“Of course,” I said coolly. “Did you think that I would not?”
“No, no,” he protested. “I just—"
“Aventis,” I asked, “do you believe that her knowing me could be worse than absent parents?”
He looked down.
“Perhaps not. But that talk must wait. At present, we must contrive how best to escape our fate.”
“Have you gold to entice the guards?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “Only enough to maintain us.”
I closed my eyes.
“Then our hope rests on Jeffries. Of course, he is alone, since Carnatus has vanished like smoke.”
“We can only pray,” said Aventis, “that word of us reaches him.”
He addressed my Crucifix, mouthing some words in Latin. I did not follow suit, for I would rather have trusted in Jeffries than all of Heaven’s host.
Order in the Court
“When do you think they will try us?” I asked Aventis after his prayer.
“Soon enough,” he said, glancing through our cell's bars. “As we are accused of capital crimes, the Old Bailey awaits us.”
I grimaced, thinking of my last visit.
“If Jeffries does not aid us now,” I said, “no doubt we will reunite. But it will not be in this world.”
Aventis nodded grimly, then startled me by whispering, “Margaret.” The name was so unfamiliar that at first I didn’t respond.
“Yes?” I finally said.
“I am sorry, very sorry, that in the past, such hot words flew between us. May we not attempt, at this last, to part as reconciled friends?”
“If you insist,” I said stiffly. If that was all we were . . .
But his next words surprised me.
“I have never ceased loving you, Margaret. Not for a single second.”
“Nor I you,” I said, “though oftentimes I have hated you."
He smiled, and, in his face, I saw Frances’ eyes and mouth. Which brought something terrible to mind . . .
“Aventis. If we are both sent to our deaths . . . what will happen to . . . her?”
“She will remain in Lyon. When it is time, I suspect she will pledge herself.”
“To Jeffries?” I asked.
“To the Church,” he replied.
“You mean—?”
“Yes.” He sighed. “Her only path will be to take vows.”
“I never wanted that!” I cried, garnering stares from other inmates.
“What more can the Jesuits do,” he asked, “if you and I are in Heaven?”
I clenched my manacled hands.
“Speak for yourself,” I growled. “As for me—my life is devoid of good deeds.”
He shook his head.
“Who saw me through the Plague?” he asked. “And nursed me when I was shot?”
“That was for me,” I said, “as I could not live without you.”
He smiled.
"We can at least be grateful,” he said, “that we leave this world together. Anything else would be Hell.”
"True,” I said, but my mind was distracted. It was filled with thoughts of Frances, who, one future day, would take up a nun’s black veil. She would never know earthly love: not even the press of a kiss. The Tanner line—and Aventis's—would abruptly cease in this cell.
“It is so unfair,” I said.
“What? That you should be tried for your crimes? Yet, you own them easily.”
“So, you are the martyr?” I asked. “A saint to be carved in marble?”
"Hardly,” he said. “I—”
But two guards appeared through the bars.
"Next door, you ruffians!” one cried as he opened a metal lock.
He and his friend seized us roughly.
"There's some gentlemen, what’s in wigs, that wants to speak to ye’s!”
Though Aventis was a novice—at least to the Old Bailey—I well knew what would follow.
He, being merely Catholic, was not led out in bonds. Yet I was escorted, fettered, past this shining new Newgate. We were both marched next door to a place I expected to recognize . . .
Yet, I found, I did not.
We passed a low wall topped with spikes which led into a courtroom. This could be seen from the outside, for though it bore three back walls, the one in front was missing!
"What has happened?” I asked my guard as he undid my bonds.
"Huh? Oh, that. What wit’ the l fever, judges feel more comfor’ble like wit’ a bit o’ fresh air.”
"A true ‘open court,’” I mumbled.
We were led inside, where Aventis was seated behind me. Without much judicial pomp, I was shoved into the dock.
The passage of sixteen years had not made it any less daunting. There was the old sounding board to amplify my voice; the mirror over my head to reflect my every grimace. And there were five white-wigged judges sitting at their bench. Scattered around the court were the occasional barrister, a jury, and spectators—all of whose eagerness told me they wanted blood. Well, by God, they would get it!
“Prisoner,” said a barrister in a long, dark wig. “State your name for this court.”
“Megs,” I replied.
“What sort of name is that?”
“Mine,” I said.
All of the spectators laughed.
“Enough!” cried His Dark Wigship. “We well know who you are! Thanks to Captain Goodbody—”
Damn him, I thought.
“—the Court knows you as a high tobyman, who, in 1683, shot to death a King’s officer surname of Collins. Sentenced to hang at Tyburn, this habitual outlaw was freed by his own band. The sentence then was death—”
“Allow me to conjecture,” I said. “The King so far has not pardoned me?”
“Why should ‘e?” yelled out a spectator.
“Silence!” cried the barrister.
“Damn the accused’s impudence,” said a judge. “As he clearly has no remorse, we will show no mercy.”
“And If I sobbed, begging, at your feet, would the verdict, Your Honor, be
altered?”
The center judge shook his head.
His Dark Wigship went on.
“The prisoner shall be hanged by the neck etcetera, and his bones chained to a gibbet somewhere on Hounslow Heath.”
“Nobody cares,” I said.
“Quiet!” ordered the barrister. “Let this ‘Megs’ stand witness to the trial of his friend.”
“That’s the only witness we’ll see,” I said.
As I was led off, I passed Aventis, who staunchly took my place. Though he gave me a brave smile, I nearly shook out of fear for him.
“Prisoner two!” cried the barrister. “You—” he stabbed his finger at Aventis. “—state your name for the court.”
“Aventis,” he said.
Compared to everyone else—from the judges to the clerks—he seemed the only one there to exude a sense of dignity.
“What sort of name is that?” asked the barrister.
“Latin,” said Aventis.
There were titters from the spectators.
“Order!” the barrister called. His wig was beginning to tilt. “Whosoever you might be, you stand accused of treason against the Crown, conspiracy to harm His Majesty, and allegiance to a foreign power—to wit, the pope. How do you plead?”
“No, no, and yes,” said Aventis, barely raising his voice.
“Explain yourself,” demanded the center judge.
“I am loyal to the king, am assuredly no conspirator, but plead guilty to being a Catholic. Has worship become unlawful?”
“In your case, yes!” cried His Wigship. “We have here—” he looked down, shuffling some papers, “—sworn testimony from Mister Titus Oates that you appeared at court with the sole intent of installing James, the Papist, on the very throne of Albion!”
“Nonsense,” said Aventis. “My presence at Whitehall was merely to comfort the queen.”
“Hmph,” his Wigship replied. “This court has determined that so-called ‘Aventis’ is
guilty of all crimes charged. His head will be struck from his body once this trial concludes.”
“What trial?” I yelled, as my guard moved closer. “More justice could be gotten from the mad inmates at Bethlam!”
“Take them out,” said the barrister, conveying as much contempt as a man in a tilted wig could. “The Papist to Tower Hill; the other returned to Newgate.”
“Condemned men’s hold,” I mumbled. At least it had a real bed.
As Aventis and I were led out, I saw a crowd in the Yard, for it was not every day that an outlaw and a Catholic were sentenced to death together.
“A precedent, this,” I said to Aventis.
“Unhappily,” he replied. “I fear, my dear Megs, we have come to the end of the road.”
“It would appear so,” I said, and, though it was long ago, I could still feel the whisper of rope around my neck. “Shall we determine who is more lucky in their manner of death?”
Aventis’s eyes shone, for he loved a good argument.
“In your case,” he said, “you will be left to dangle before you asphyxiate; while I—"
“—will feel nothing,” I said, “after the ax strikes. I think we can therefore determine that the better lot falls to you. Though I do not mind, for you deserve it.”
“Dear Megs,” said Aventis, almost overcome with emotion. “I fear this is adieu. Do not worry about Frances, for her fate is in God’s hand. We must pray to Him.”
“You do it for us both.”
He nodded.
“Je t'aime!” I cried, as the growing crowd in the Yard, from old Cavaliers to tradesfolk, stood on tiptoe just to catch a glimpse of us.
“Get away—get off!” yelled my guard, using the hilt of his sword to discourage a tanner. I saw that within the courtroom, the judges and clerks looked anxious.
Amid the press of flesh, I noted those black iron spikes topping the Yard’s brick wall. Perhaps I could hurl myself on one, I thought, and that way avoid Tyburn. That’s when the ground started shaking. I refused to credit my eyes as, over my head, came the arched forelegs of an enormous horse!
I cried out, kneeing my guard aside as I tumbled to the ground. When an iron-shoed hoof hit the ground, it barely missed striking my head.
“Aventis!” I cried, desperate to know if he was all right.
“Here!”
I heard his voice over the screams of others.
Raising up as best I could, I spied a tangle of bodies sprawled in every directions. Yet there was a single man there whom I’d make answer to me!
“Idiot!” I yelled at the careless horseman. “Are you trying to kill us all?!”
With his mess of colored plumes and a coat that blinded with scarlet, it did not take me long to know him.
“Carnatus!” I cried, “where the hell have you been?”
“That can wait,” he said. “Now, quick, get on!”
Using some bodies as ballast, I threw myself onto his saddle. It was not until I sat upright that I saw he wasn’t alone.
“Jeffries!” I roared, “I knew that you would come!”
“Of course,” he said as he helped Aventis mount behind him.
“How did you know we were here?” I yelled.
“If you listen, the streets will talk.”
“Bravo!” I said, snapping a short salute.
Yet those who ran from the court, including our bewigged judges, did not share my admiration. In fact, the guards who ran over from Newgate pointed their swords as if they fought against Cromwell.
“Here!” Carnatus shouted, handing me back a sword and pistol.
I smiled as I felt their heft. Aventis, I could see, brandished arms provided by Jeffries.
“To it, lads!” yelled the captain, and it was only a moment before the clash of steel cleared the Yard faster than a cry of “Plague!”
We were now four against twelve, but, knowing our company, I would take those odds. So, it seemed, would Carnatus.
“Seven-to-five we prevail!” he cried, and I half-expected him to pull out a pair of dice.
Instead, he swung his sword so wide that three guards tumbled to earth.
“Nice,” I said.
From my rider’s perch, I saw a guard cock his gun before swinging it toward Aventis. In a flash of powder—issued from my own pistol—his soon hit the ground, followed by his own self.
“Surround them!” Jeffries ordered, and our two horses, prancing, penned in guards as if they were sheep. “Surrender!” the captain told them.
“Bloody hell we will!” one snarled, lowering his blade toward Jeffries’s mount. I do not know which moved faster: the fellow’s sword as the captain swept it out of his hand; or the horse’s forelegs, intent on smashing its foe.
“Call ‘im off! Call ‘im off!” the guard begged, prostrate.
“I can well understand,” said Carnatus, “having a fear of bears. But horses? These men sully the name of ‘soldier.’”
“Ha!” said Jeffries, “they are not fit to be waterboys!”
“Very well,” said another guard, breathing hard from the fight. “They don’ pay us enough to fight brigands. Here’s my sword, cpt’n.”
“And mine.”
In quick succession, each man threw down his weapon.
“Cowards!” the barrister yelled from his corner of safety.
With all opposition scattered, Jeffries waved to Carnatus, and they left the way they had come, which meant jumping their steeds over those sharp iron pikes.
I heard a hoarse yell, then realized it was my own. I had not been on horseback for months but managed to keep my seat as we hit hard dirt—on the other side of the wall.
“Nicely done, Jeffries,” I called. “God knows I’d rather play Gad than a corpse!”
“And I,” said Aventis, “am grateful to keep my head.”
“It was nothing,” said Jeffries. “You would have done it for me.”
“But not with such style,” I said.
“All this praise m
akes me ill,” declared Carnatus, “when not directed at me.”
Aventis and I laughed, expressed our thanks to him, then followed the captain as he left the Old City.
Interregnum
“We must find a hideout,” said Jeffries. “Alas, it cannot be my house or even the Heath. Somewhere we have not been.”
“York?” broached Carnatus.
Too far,” answered Jeffries, and headed for the southeast.
With a lope of a mere two leagues, we arrived in Greenwich, a place I had never been but knew from its Royal Observatory. I had no idea what they did there: only that the red brick building boasted four new towers crowned by half-circle domes.
“It is witchcraft,” said Carnatus.
“They are surveying the stars,” said Aventis.
“Witchcraft,” Carnatus whispered.
Jeffries pressed on for two leagues, then came to a halt.
“Where are we?” I asked.
I knew Epping, Middlesex, Salisbury, but not this landscape, which seemed to consist of gorse.
“Blackheath,” said the captain.
“No!” cried Carnatus. “Jeffries, we cannot stay here. They say it received its name from being the site of a plague pit!”
Aventis sighed.
“As was every street in London,” he said. “If you believe those stories, you’ll never set foot there again.”
“Hmm . . .”
I could tell that Carnatus dwelt on his favorite taverns and inns.
“Very well,” he said. “I proclaim those stories false.”
“That is prudent,” said Jeffries, “for we may be here for some time.”
Carnatus’s back shuddered.
“What did you have in mind?” I asked.
“Some deep hollow not far from the road,” said Jeffries, “so we may hide and still ply our trade.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, unwilling to argue with the man who had just saved my life.
After a brief tour of the heath, Jeffries settled on a spot which seemed to meet his standards.
He dismounted, telling Carnatus, “Please perform your usual duties and find us something to eat.”
“Aye, aye!”
Carnatus went off with his bow as Aventis and I slid groundward. We faced each other and smiled.
“Well,” I said, “it seems that you and I must live a while longer.”