Tales From the Tower of London (23 page)

In any normal tale of theft and pursuit this would have been the end of the story, but there was never anything normal about the life of Colonel Thomas Blood. Under questioning he arrogantly refused to talk, stating that he would only confess to the king himself. His behaviour was so bizarre that an account of it made its way into the official report of the Lieutenant of the Tower and was duly passed on to the Duke of Buckingham, King Charles’s chief minister. By the end of the day, the entire Court was buzzing with the gossip of the daring attempt to steal the Crown Jewels, and the tragic destruction of the crown and sceptre. Trying to lighten the king’s mood, Buckingham showed the report of Blood’s strange demand to confess to the king. While King Charles was indeed amused, his reaction was not what Buckingham probably expected.

There is little doubt that the king had heard of Colonel Blood through his attempt to seize Dublin Castle and the daring, daylight kidnapping of the Duke of Ormond. Intrigued by the sheer unmitigated gall of this unrepentant rogue, the king ordered that Thomas Blood be brought to Whitehall where he would be given the opportunity to be as good as his word. He could confess directly to his king. Two days later, Blood was bundled out of his cell, locked in chains and carted off to Whitehall for a private audience with Charles II, King of England, Wales, Scotland and Ireland.

When the guards led Blood to a private audience chamber, they were ordered to wait outside. Desperate to know what was happening, they must have pressed their ears to the door in an effort to overhear snippets of conversation, but to no avail. We will never know what passed between the thief and his monarch; but we do know that there were no raised voices, no shouting and no loud pleas for mercy. It would seem that Blood neither begged nor grovelled but apparently was quite calm in placing his life in the hands of the man whose royal treasure he had mangled beyond repair.

Within days of this strange meeting Thomas Blood was ordered released from the Tower with a full royal pardon. Even stranger, he was given the lordly pension of £500 pounds per year for life. In an age when any theft with a value of more than a shilling commonly led to the scaffold, such a thing was unprecedented and unimaginable. Only days later, Blood was spotted by two old friends parading around Tower Green wearing an expensive new suit of clothes, a new hat and an elaborate wig. Within weeks, the rest of the gang was pardoned, including Desborough who had eluded capture.

Inevitably, the strange treatment of Colonel Blood set the gossiping tongues at the royal court wagging furiously. Rumours and theories abounded: chronically broke, King Charles had been in on the plot from the beginning; it was all arranged by the king to check out the security measures at the Tower; the king had made a wager with some of his cronies that he could steal his own Crown Jewels; and on, and on, and on. The truth is probably more prosaic. Being a bit of a rascal himself, King Charles had simply been intrigued by this gutsy man with more balls than brains. Possibly, with his longstanding connections with members of the old Parliamentarian government and knowledge of Irish revolutionaries, Blood could serve as a spy reporting directly to the king. Certainly Blood was adept at spreading rumours, lies and disinformation when it served his own best interests. Whatever the case, Blood quickly became a familiar face around court.

If King Charles had hoped Blood would make an effective spy, it was in vain. With his newfound place at court, Blood’s old friends avoided him like the plague and his new associates at court did not think much more highly of him. Although the king seemed to enjoy his company, no one trusted Blood and despite his charm he managed to alienate first one and then another of the royal courtiers. On 10 May 1672, only one year after the incident at the Tower, the famous diarist John Evelyn attended a dinner where Blood was present. His comments make clear the court’s general reaction to having this notorious villain in their midst:

Dined at Mr. Treasurer’s house where [I] dined [with] Monsieur de Gramont and several French noblemen, and one Blood, that impudent bold fellow who had not long before attempted to steal the imperial crown itself out of the Tower. How came he to be pardoned, and even received into favour, not only after this but several other bold exploits almost as daring . . . I could never understand. . . . the only treason of this sort that was ever pardoned. The man had not only a daring, but a villainous unmerciful look, a false countenance, but very well spoken and insinuating.

For more than seven years, Blood wavered between being in and out of favour. He would insult someone, or be caught involving himself in some unsavoury plot, and be banished from court. Eventually, he would worm his way back into someone’s good graces and be called back. Finally, almost inevitably, he went too far. When he insulted the Duke of Buckingham, the man unintentionally responsible for bringing him to the king’s attention, he was sued in open court for libel and ended up in prison. Blood did eventually pay his fine and get out of jail, but his health had been broken in the confines of the dark, damp cell and he was never again welcome at court.

On 24 August 1680, Thomas Blood, sometimes Colonel, sometimes Reverend, sometimes courtier, sometimes revolutionary, but always criminal, died at the age of sixty-two, and was buried in the churchyard at Tothill Fields. But even now, he could not rest. Blood’s reputation was so well known among the local villagers that no sooner had the lid been nailed on the coffin than rumours began to spread. He was not dead – the coffin was empty; it was another of his tasteless jokes; there was someone else in the wooden box beneath the sod of the churchyard; it was all a part of one of Blood’s bizarre schemes to disappear so that he could carry out some wild plan under an assumed name. Conflicting stories flew so thick and fast that only nine days after the funeral, the local coroner ordered the body exhumed. The rumours were wrong. The grave was one tight spot that even the notorious Colonel Blood could not wriggle out of.

If anything good came of the wasted life of Thomas Blood, it was that security surrounding the Crown Jewels was stepped up. And although they remain in the Tower of London to this day, no one has ever again come so close to pulling off a successful royal heist.

Talbot Edwards lived for more than two years after the brutal attack at the Martin Tower, but never fully recovered from his wounds. His daughter Elizabeth, for whose future Talbot was so concerned, eventually married a Major Beckman, the same Captain Beckman who had been promoted as a result of his daring capture of Colonel Thomas Blood.

Most people are familiar with the saying, ‘Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ But sometimes, even constitutionally controlled power can get out of control if a few evil people conspire to subvert the course of justice. When King Charles II died without a legitimate heir in 1685 the struggle for his throne very nearly sparked off another civil war and brought the course of British justice to its knees.

Once the grim, austere, puritanical rule of Oliver Cromwell ended in 1659, the restoration of the monarchy under Charles II must have seemed like a breath of fresh air for the people of England. After ten years without a king, the Stuarts were back on the throne and although, inwardly, King Charles’s court was riddled with intrigue aimed at restoring a Catholic monarch, and court life was notoriously debauched, outwardly the realm was peaceful and relatively well ordered. But for all his philandering, a string of mistresses and thirteen illegitimate children, King Charles and his wife failed to produce an heir. Consequently, only two men held any substantial claim to the throne: Charles’s brother James, Duke of York, and his eldest illegitimate son, James Scott, Duke of Monmouth.

The king’s brother had never been popular, nor does it seem that he made much of an attempt to curry favour in high places. He was secretive, cruel, cowardly and mildly paranoid, in part because he knew his Catholic faith was unpopular among the people, the court, and the Whig-led parliament. To make matters worse, James habitually wore an expression that made people think he had just smelled something nasty. As early as 1697 the largely anti-royalist Whig party attempted to have James removed from the official line of succession, but without ever explaining his reasons King Charles adamantly refused to consider the request.

In stark contrast to his uncle, the king’s eldest son, the illegitimate James, Duke of Monmouth, was a young man with a quick wit, an easy smile and just enough arrogance to make him appear completely self-assured. To add to these impressive attributes, Monmouth was, by the standards of the day, very handsome. Small wonder he was popular among the noble classes as well as with members of parliament and the common people – an achievement to be envied by the politically ambitious of any period. But his biggest attraction at court and in parliament was probably not his personal charm, rather it was his status as the Protestant who stood the strongest chance of preventing the throne from reverting to his staunchly Catholic uncle James. Repeatedly, Protestant leaders and members of both political parties tried to convince the king to legitimise his natural son and name him successor to the throne. But just as Charles would not rule out the possibility of his brother assuming the throne, neither would he consent to name his son as legitimate heir.

The Duke of Monmouth’s mother was Lucy Walters, a former mistress of Charles II, who had turned to prostitution after the king had tired of her. Despite his neglect of Lucy, Charles saw to it that his eldest son was well cared for. When young James reached the age of thirteen, his father called him to court – a move which should have provided him with the benefits of a fine education and a chance to learn the graces of a courtier. Unfortunately, Monmouth’s education turned out to be a bit more comprehensive than it should have been. Charles placed the boy in the care of his latest paramour, Lady Castlemaine, who exposed him to the worst influences of a morally and sexually debauched court. With his natural charm and wit Monmouth quickly became the darling of the court and developed some serious deficiencies of character that were bound to bubble to the surface sooner or later. Even Samuel Pepys, Secretary of the Admiralty and noted diarist, referred to him as ‘profligate’ – strong words for the time.

Within three years of coming to court, King Charles officially acknowledged the young duke as his son, and arranged a marriage with Anne Scott, Countess of Buccleuch and the wealthiest heiress in Scotland. Following the marriage, James officially adopted his wife’s surname, becoming James Scott, Duke of Monmouth. Advancing himself through the political and social ranks of his father’s court with astonishing speed, at the tender age of twenty Monmouth was appointed captain-general of all the king’s forces, both regular army and cavalry. Amazingly for one so young, he seems to have acquitted himself well. He was admired by common soldiers and senior officers alike and judged to be a fearless and clever commander, who always led from the front. Tragically, the young duke seems not to have been quite as bright as he was charming and bold.

When threats of anti-Catholic riots rumbled across England in 1680, King Charles decided it would be best if his brother James, Duke of York, left the country for his own protection. The wily James agreed but insisted that Monmouth should leave as well. Finally, Charles acquiesced, ordering his son to the court of his Protestant sister Mary and her husband (and cousin) William of Orange, ruler of Holland. Monmouth went as ordered, but in less than two months he returned, uninvited, to England. The king was furious, insisting that the thirty-year-old duke leave the country at once. Monmouth refused. Finally, the two compromised. Monmouth would stay away from court and out of the limelight until he was called for.

So he left court, but he hardly remained out of the public eye. For months Monmouth and some of his closest supporters toured the country on what can only be called an ‘image-building’ campaign, where his startling good looks and charm won him thousands of ardent fans and supporters. When his father demanded he return to London, a violent argument broke out between the two, which ended with the king stripping his son of his titles. Monmouth insisted it had not been his fault, that he had been led astray by followers who wanted to see him on the throne. It was a poor excuse but Charles believed it (as fathers are wont to do). He forgave his son but ordered the arrest and execution of some of Monmouth’s closest followers. The Duke of Monmouth had sent his friends to the block to disguise his own ambition and save his titles.

As part of the reconciliation, Charles insisted that to avoid a conflict with the succession and quell any lingering rumours as to the exact nature of the ill-conceived publicity tour, Monmouth return to the court of the Netherlands and stay there until he was called for. This time, the 35-year-old Monmouth obeyed his father.

Separated by the English Channel, relations between Charles and Monmouth seem to have improved greatly over the next few months. It is even possible that, in time, Charles might have made his son heir to the throne. Unfortunately, on 6 February 1685, just over a year after Monmouth left England, King Charles suffered a stroke and died. When news of his death reached the Netherlands, Monmouth was overcome with grief. His aunt, Queen Mary, reported that he went to his bedroom and mourned so piteously that those in nearby rooms could hear him weeping. Meanwhile, Monmouth’s uncle James (Duke of York) hurried to London to claim the throne as King James II.

For all the strange and convoluted plots to return a Catholic to the throne of England, it must have come as a surprise to nearly everyone when James ascended the throne with complete legitimacy. Even less expected was the fury with which he set about ousting Protestants from high office and replacing them with Catholics. As though attempting to make himself unpopular, the new king openly encouraged foreign Catholics and English Catholics in exile to move to England. To Catholics foreign and domestic he handed out important civil and military positions more on the basis of their religious beliefs than on any real qualifications. The move was unprecedented, unconscionable and of highly suspect legality. James had not even had his coronation and he was turning his kingdom on its head. Within weeks of taking the throne, nobles and parliament alike were looking for a way to replace the new king.