Charles the King (22 page)

“You cannot go,” the King insisted. He had been arguing with the Earl for nearly two hours, forbidding him to accept Pym's challenge and surrender to arrest. “You cannot and you will not. I forbid it! You will stay at Whitehall and I shall dissolve the Parliament.”

“You cannot, Charles,” Henrietta said desperately. She had listened to Strafford explaining why there was no alternative, and as she listened she understood only too well that there was nothing Charles or anyone could do. Their enemies wanted a sacrifice, and if the victim hid behind the King, the King would be torn from his throne in order to get at him.

“I told you this would happen,” Charles said. “I told you at York what their price would be if I summoned them!”

“I know you did, Sire,” Strafford answered. “And I beg you to remember what I said would happen if you didn't.”

“What is this?” Henrietta demanded. “What did you tell the King? He never said anything to me.”

“He couldn't Madam, without frightening you unnecessarily. If the Parliament don't have me, they will attack the King himself. And you and your children. The King knows that. He knew it when he came to London and so did I. I must go to them; there is no choice.”

He was exhausted, too tired and too ill to compete with the man he loved who was overcome by his emotions and was ready to face anything to save him. It could not be done and Strafford knew it. He had been waiting for this day since they left York, and all he wanted was to master his weakness and face his accusers with dignity. He could not bear to see Charles in his distress and he was grateful to Henrietta when she came to the King and said quietly—

“Thomas is right. He must stand his trial. He is innocent and they cannot possibly convict him.”

“They will attack the King. And you and your children.” She looked round at Strafford and he read the regret and the compassion in her face. But Strafford had put the choice before the King and she knew it was the right one. She turned to the Earl and gave him her hand.

“God will defend you, and the King will protect you. You need have no fear.” He knelt and kissed her hand and she held his own for a moment and pressed it. “Say good-bye to the King,” she said gently. “Now, Thomas.”

“No,” Charles made a movement to stop him, but Strafford had saluted him quickly and then stood up.

“God save Your Majesty,” he said hoarsely, and turned away to hide the tears which were running down his sunken cheeks. He wiped them away with his hand, and when he paused at the door and looked back at them, both small and slight and standing close together, his face was composed and his expression strangely calm.

“My heart goes with you,” Charles said, and he was weeping openly.

“Sire, you have always had mine.”

The Earl made a deep bow to them both and then opened the door and went out. He could not distinguish any faces among the crowd outside; as he passed among them they moved back instinctively from long habit, and watched him go by in silence. No one spoke to him or came forward and he had reached the outer chamber when a short, stout figure rushed through the crowd towards him and he stopped, recognizing Archbishop Laud. The little priest's face was red and wrinkled, like a child that is about to cry. He came up to Strafford and threw his arms round him and for a moment they stood together, the taller man stooping towards the priest, and then at last Laud spoke.

“Thank God, thank God, I thought I was too late … I only heard an hour ago!”

“I am so glad to see you,” Strafford said. “So very glad, my old friend. I thought we might never meet again.”

“What can I say, Thomas?” Laud shook his head miserably. “How can I ask your forgiveness for all this? You left the King in my hands and I have ruined him and ruined you!”

“You did what you thought was right,” Strafford said gently. “There is nothing to forgive. We both tried to serve him as well as we could.”

“If I had only left well enough alone,” Laud protested, “if I had never listened to you speaking in that Parliament twelve years ago and not gone meddling and recommending you to the King, you would have been living safe and well in Yorkshire now! But I did hear you and I said to myself, there's a man after mine own heart—he mustn't be wasted!”

“And so you told me, in the inner ante-chamber when I came out after seeing the King. How well I remember you then. You advanced me high, and I loved every moment of it. It's a good ending, my Lord Archbishop, that we meet here for our farewell. I'm going to the Lords to answer them.”

“I'm coming with you,” Laud insisted.

“Only to the Palace gates. There's a mob outside and you wouldn't be safe. But I'll be glad of one friend to go that far with me.”

“I may stop at the gates today, Thomas,” Laud said quietly. “But I'll follow you out of them soon. God will be with you from now onwards. When my time comes, I only pray He'll be with me. Come then, let us go.”

They walked slowly down the long corridors and through the tall rooms of Whitehall, and the Earl entered his coach and drove out of the Palace. That evening, under authority from the ancient Constitution, the Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod arrested him at the doors of the House of Lords and escorted him to the Tower of London.

The trial was held in Westminster Hall. The public seats were crowded and often in the long days that followed, the spectators tired of the spectacle of the sick man who was fighting so courageously for his life and turned to stare at the grill covering a small window, behind which they knew the King and Queen were witnessing Strafford's ordeal. They came every day, two shadows behind the screen erected to preserve their privacy, and Charles refused to spare himself a moment of the agony and humiliation which was being inflicted on his Minister. He had gone in the hope that his presence might intimidate the judges; it only served to emphasize his helplessness to protect his servant and to increase that servant's pain. In denying the charges of brutality and tyranny which were poured out against him by witnesses from London and Yorkshire and Ireland, Strafford was desperately defending the King. And it was a hopeless defence. No one sitting in Westminster Hall was interested in his denials or his explanations or in the fact that those who testified against him were all personal enemies and friends of the Puritans. He was lost and he knew it, and so did Charles, listening to the vituperation and falsehood which was given against him under oath. He was there when the fatal remark about the Irish army landing to subdue Scotland was brought out with a triumphant flourish, and he started out of his chair when he heard the prosecutors say that the Kingdom referred to was the Kingdom of England.

“They're lying!” he turned to Henrietta, and she held on to his arm to keep him back. “They're lying and they know it. Strafford never meant that!”

“Of course they're lying,” she whispered bitterly. “They've done nothing but lie from the beginning. Sit down, I beg of you, you will be seen if you open that screen.”

“I'm going to open it,” he said furiously. “I'm going to open it and denounce this evidence myself. I'll dismiss the Court if they continue with it!”

She held on to him desperately, knowing him capable of putting what was left of his power to an impossible test. He could not stop them. He could not call his own Secretary's evidence a lie without placing his personal integrity on trial. If he ordered the Court to adjourn, the Court would disregard him. He had no constitutional right to interfere, and he had no force to take the place of that right.

“If you make such a public gesture you will ruin any chance Thomas might have of being fairly judged,” she insisted. “I implore you not to do it … you will only harm him. Please, please sit down.”

He turned towards her, his face distraught with grief and anger and for a moment he hesitated, one hand on the latch of the grill.

In the room below them he heard Strafford's voice rising, clear and firm, denying that his Irish troops were meant to do anything but fight the Scottish Covenanters.

“Listen,” she said, “listen to him, Charles. If you interrupt now, no one will believe him …”

“No one would believe me, you mean,” he said. “I am their anointed King and I am forced to sit there while they perjure my friend and faithful servant into his grave. It is not to be borne, Henrietta. I would rather die than submit to kingship at this price.”

“You need not submit to it much longer,” Henrietta spoke quietly. “We both know that this situation is impossible. There is only one way to save Thomas and save yourself, and I've been busy planning it while they were all occupied with this trial. Now the time has come to tell you. I've been in touch with some officers of the Army. There are half a dozen of them ready to gather their troops and occupy London and take over the Tower!”

Charles stared at her, horrified and incredulous. Henrietta smiled up at him; her eyes were bright and confident. She had kept her secret very carefully, confiding in no one except the men involved, even excluding Lucy Carlisle from the negotiations of the most deadly nature which she had conducted alone with the young Royalist officers at the Court.

“In the name of God, what have you done?” he asked her.

“I have secured George Goring, commander of the garrison at Portsmouth, Harry Percy, Northumberland's brother, Asburnham, O'Neil, and a score of lesser men. Goring is ready to garrison London and my Master of the Horse, Harry Jermyn, will lead a force to seize the Tower. Now, Charles, do you see why I would not let you open that screen and spoil everything?”

To her surprise he did not speak for a moment. He leant forward apparently listening to the proceedings in the room below; his face very pale and set. Henrietta touched his arm impatiently.

“Have you nothing to say?” she demanded. “Don't you appreciate what I have done for you?”

“I appreciate the thought, but not the method,” he answered slowly. “You are my wife and the dearest person to me in the world, but I will not permit you to enter into intrigues which could result in Civil War, without consulting me. We will leave here and when we return to Whitehall I shall send for all these people and speak to them myself. Come, my dear.”

He was angrier with Henrietta than he had been for many years; angry and deeply resentful because at a time when his pride and his authority was at such a pitiful level, she had taken the initiative without consulting him. And she had stopped him from making his gesture in defence of Strafford because it would have interfered with her own.

He went straight to his apartments and sent for George Goring and Harry Jermyn. George Goring was the eldest son of his old friend and Councillor, but Charles had never liked or trusted him. He was a handsome young man with a pleasing manner and a quick wit, but his morals were notorious; he drank and whored and gambled and had only showed himself to advantage when he was fighting in the Netherlands. Charles had always thought him self-seeking and deceitful and ambitious. He preferred the Queen's Horse Master, Jermyn. Jermyn had been a favourite of theirs for some years; he was a jovial, generous man and the King trusted him implicitly.

With Henrietta flushed and angry beside him, Charles received the two men and came to the point at once.

“The Queen has just told me of her dealings with you,” he said coldly. “I am surprised and displeased that you should have involved her in any enterprise of this nature without consulting me. Now, be good enough to explain yourselves.”

Goring came forward and bowed. His handsome face was turning slowly red, and there was a gleam of temper in his eyes which was quickly hidden when he addressed the King.

“Your pardon, Sire. The Queen herself insisted upon secrecy; she impressed it upon us and required us to take oaths. We obeyed her in belief that by doing so were we best serving you.”

“You will best serve me by answering my question,” Charles said coldly. “What is this talk of bringing your troops to London?”

“The garrison at Portsmouth is loyal to your Majesty,” Goring answered. “They are my own men, raised and trained and equipped by me. I can vouch for all of them. My plan is to bring them to London, surround the House of Commons, arrest the members and take possession of the Arsenal and the Mint. Jermyn can take the Tower with the help of your Bodyguards. Daniel O'Neil is one of us; as the nephew of the Red O'Neil, he can rouse the whole of the Catholic Irish to your cause. That is the plan, Sire. It seemed a sensible one to us.”

“It seems madness to me,” Charles said shortly. “Madness and treason. Jermyn, what have you to say?”

Harry Jermyn looked towards Henrietta and received a nod of encouragement.

“I agree with Goring, Sire. You must preserve your authority by force of arms. There is no other way. There's certainly no other way to save the Earl of Strafford.”

“Listen to them, Charles.”

Henrietta interrupted for the first time. It was obvious to her and to men like Goring and Jermyn, that nothing was going to save Charles except the extermination of his enemies by a military coup. She sacrificed her pride, and clasping her hands, she sank down on her knees in front of them all.

“I beg of you, don't dismiss this plan of ours. Think of poor Thomas being harried to his grave—that is what you said yourself today. Think of the insults, the indignities which have been heaped upon you by these people who have dared to stand there and defy your wishes and criticize your actions! Think, Charles, and for the love of God, give Goring and Jermyn your blessing!”

George Goring had moved back a few steps; he watched the scene with a feeling of irritation which was changing to uneasiness. He saw the Queen on her knees, imploring the cold and stubborn King to act like a man, and he watched while the King's anger faded and he lifted his wife to her feet and whispered gently to her, and then kissed her tenderly on the cheek. Goring had no patience with sentiment; he had some admiration for the spirited woman who had approached him so boldly, promising all the rewards of power and wealth which his ambitious soul desired. He had almost forgotten that Charles, chilly, obstinate and hesitant, was King, and not Henrietta.