The King's Exile (Thomas Hill Trilogy 2) (10 page)

IT HAD STARTED
well enough. The king, having been ferried by barge from St James’s Palace to Whitehall Steps, was marched into Westminster Hall by a troop of halberdiers. Two hundred men stood guard inside the hall, and two hundred more outside. There was barely an inch of space.

For the king’s trial it had been stripped of the low partitions that usually separated one court from another, and of the booksellers’ stalls and coffee shops among them. In their place a stage had been erected at the north end of the hall, on which sat the Lord President of the Court and the rows of commissioners who would decide whether or not the prisoner should be allowed to live. Rush had bought a seat in one of the stands set up around the hall rather than be forced to stand with the rest of the audience behind a screen high enough to obscure all but the king’s head. No one knew how long the trial would last and he did not relish the
prospect of having to mingle with the common herd for any length of time. He really should have been about his business but the prospect of the entertainment on offer had been too much of a temptation.

While the Lord President opened the proceedings by describing the king as ‘the principal author’ of ‘the evils and calamities’ brought upon the country, and the Solicitor General read out the lengthy charges, accusing him of ‘high treason and high misdemeanours’, the king sat impassively in a red velvet chair facing the stage, feigning lack of interest and tapping his cane on the floor. Just like Rush’s, the king’s cane was embellished with a silver top, although Rush doubted if it hid a sword of the finest Toledo steel. He smiled in anticipation of the humiliation to come for the fool who had ordered him to be interrogated and tortured and thought him dead.

But the day dragged on wearily. First the king refused to recognize the authority of the court to try him, then he refused to plead. After more exchanges, he refused to plead again. It was tiresome and repetitive and the pleasure of anticipation soon turned to frustration. It had taken Parliament far too long to bring the man to trial and now that it had, a day of verbal jousting had achieved next to nothing. Apart from some interventions from the spectators, there had been precious little entertainment and the obstinate little man on trial had shown not a sign of remorse or fear. It was most disappointing. If he would not defend himself, of course he would lose his head. For all the deference of the court, the solemn legal argument and the insistence on proper procedure, that was what would happen. The disappointment was that he did not seem to care.

When the court was adjourned Rush left his seat, made his
way past the halberdiers and through the enormous crowds outside the hall, and walked briskly to the carriage waiting for him nearby in Axe Yard. All London was in a fever about the most dramatic event in its history and he had been bored. There had been no fear, no pain, no humiliation. He ordered the coachman to take him straight home. He would not come again the next day. The judges’ decision would be announced soon enough.

He had to wait just two days to learn the inevitable verdict and another two to hear that the king’s execution would take place in Whitehall on the thirtieth day of January. He laughed out loud when he read that the king’s request to justify his actions to the court had come too late and had been dismissed by the judges. Sentence had been passed and the prisoner was no longer permitted to speak. It was typical of the man. He would not speak when asked to do so and would speak when told he could not. A foolish, arrogant man who deserved what was coming to him.

On the appointed day, Rush arrived early in Whitehall in order to secure a place at the front of what was bound to be a large crowd. The trial had been dull but the punishment would surely make up for it. Tobias Rush had cheated death, and now the man who had ordered it, the King of England, was on the way to his own.

During the morning the crowd grew until it entirely filled the space on three sides of the scaffold which had been erected outside the Banqueting Hall. The scaffold was draped in black and guarded by a row of pikemen who kept the crowd well back from it. Some who had come to watch stood on boxes for a better view; a few had actually arrived on horseback. The windows of the hall and the parapet on its roof were crammed with onlookers, as were the windows of every house with a view of the scaffold. While they
waited, men and women hopped up and down and blew on their hands against the cold. ‘A bitter day in more ways than one, sir,’ said a round little man standing beside Rush. When there was no reply, he tried again. ‘A bitter day for England, don’t you agree, sir?’

Rush turned his head towards his neighbour and peered down at him. ‘I think not, sir. A man found guilty in a court of law must pay the penalty for his crimes.’

‘Surely, sir, he should not have been tried in such a court. He is the king.’

‘That, sir, is exactly the opinion that has brought him to this end,’ replied Rush, turning his back on the little man. He was spared further irritation by the arrival on the scaffold of the executioner and his assistant, both hooded and heavily disguised.

When the king, in cloak, doublet and white cap, stepped through one of the tall windows of the Banqueting Hall on to the scaffold, the crowd came to life. There were cheers and groans and cries of ‘Long Live the King’. The little man beside Rush jumped up and down, holding out his hands as if trying to reach the king. ‘Do not permit this, sire,’ he cried. ‘It must not happen.’

The king stood and faced the crowd, scanning the faces he could make out at the front. At the moment the king’s gaze alighted on him, Rush doffed his hat and inclined his head. The king’s change of expression was so fleeting that not another man in the crowd would have noticed it. Rush did. It might have been recognition, it might have been disbelief, it might have been horror. But it was there.

After trying in vain to address the crowd, the king spoke for a few minutes to his attendants on the scaffold. When he removed his cloak and doublet before putting the cloak back on, the crowd
went silent. He handed the badge he wore to an attendant and knelt down with his neck on the block. For a few moments his lips moved in prayer and he looked up to the sky. Then he extended his arms and the axe fell. The crowd groaned. The executioner held up the severed head and the crowd groaned again. Men wept openly. Women and children screamed. Tobias Rush suppressed a smile. He made his way through the crowd, out of Whitehall and walked home.

That evening, having enjoyed a bottle of his very best Spanish wine, Rush sat in front of the fire in his living room. The year had begun well. The king was dead. Hill was enjoying the hospitality of the Gibbes brothers, while his sister was living in fear for her daughters and her brother. And his wealth grew by the day. In the spring he would pay another visit to Romsey. Then he would travel to Barbados. It was time he inspected his investments in both places.

THE NOTCHES WERE
mounting up and still there had been no news. Every morning Thomas woke hoping that he would hear something and by every evening he was disappointed. He had not even seen Patrick again.

He was at the ledgers when John Gibbes arrived at the hut and growled at him. ‘We need a new place to shit, Hill. Get a shovel and follow me.’

Thomas followed him to a place a few yards from the stinking hole that served as their privy. A shallow trench running from the hole down to a gully in the woods allowed the rain to wash away the contents. In the dry season buckets of water were occasionally tipped in to help the stuff on its way.

‘Dig it there and run a new trench to meet the other one over there.’ Gibbes pointed to the spot. ‘Make it run downhill or we’ll be covered in shit. And so will you. Now get on with it.’

Thomas set about digging. He doubted if the brutes would notice if they were covered in shit but he would make the hole
about three feet deep, with the trench dropping by another foot. He reckoned it would take him all morning. He had no idea why they had suddenly decided a new privy was needed. The old one still served. It was probably just another bit of spite at his expense.

At midday he stood back and examined his work. It looked serviceable but to be sure, he threw a bucket of water into the hole and watched it wiggle its way down the new trench. Satisfied, he returned wearily to his hut to wash and eat. Heavy digging on an empty stomach had made him ravenous.

He had barely finished a bowl of broth made from chicken bones when both Gibbes came thundering up the path. ‘Hill, get off your arse and go down to the market. We need meat and bread. Tell them we’ll pay next week.’ There was ample meat and bread in the kitchen store but there was no point in arguing. Down the hill he would go and back he would trudge with bread and meat. Privies, pork, perspiration and pain today, Thomas, and not a scrap of pleasure. Another day in hell but no complaining. Off you go and get it done. Survive and hope.

An hour later, two bulging sacks slung over his shoulders, Thomas started for home. His eyes stinging from the sweat of his brow, his hands blistered from digging and his feet aching, he decided first to sit on the little beach for a while. It was deserted but, to his surprise, the water was not. ‘Patrick,’ he called, ‘is that you?’

‘Good day, Thomas. I thought I’d have a quick bath before the market.’ Patrick emerged from the water, shook himself like a dog, and strode up the beach. He wore only a torn pair of old breeches which barely reached his knees. ‘Are you bathing today?’ he asked. Thomas did not reply. He was lost in thought, trying to
remember who Patrick reminded him of. It must have been a figure in a painting or an illustration in a book but he could not place it. Patrick tried again. ‘Thomas, are you well?’

‘What? Oh, quite well, thank you. What did you say?’

‘I asked if you were going to bathe today.’

‘No, Patrick, I think not. It’s been a tiring day.’

‘Then let’s sit a while.’ When they had settled under the palm tree, Patrick said, ‘I have spoken to Adam Lyte about you and he has promised to give the matter thought. He would like to help but he is conscious of his position in the Assembly. He is not a man to rush into decisions.’

‘I shall keep hoping.’

‘Good. Never lose hope. And how are the lovely brutes? I hear that the turkey and shoat dinner was not a complete success.’

Thomas shrugged. ‘They’re repulsive, Patrick. Repulsive, filthy, brutal and many other things. The dinner was excellent but the conversation less so.’

‘If you say so,’ laughed Patrick. ‘How did a country as civilized as England manage to turn out those two brutes?’

‘England civilized? With the king imprisoned, cousin killing cousin and innocent booksellers sent here on trumped-up charges and without trial? While England burns, I daresay there are parts of Africa more civilized.’

‘Perhaps there are. Perhaps there are places where all laws are just, no one breaks them, everyone is equal, healthy and prosperous and there are no arguments ever. Not here, though.’

They were silent for a while, until Thomas asked suddenly, ‘Did you know that in England Parliament was so frightened of witchcraft that it appointed a man named Hopkins to search out
witches? A man to find witches, for the love of God. Sixteen and a half centuries after the birth of Christ and we’re looking for witches. They find an old widow who lives on charity and can’t defend herself and do you know how they prove she’s a witch? If she makes a mistake reciting the Lord’s Prayer or if she has some kind of mark on her – the Devil’s Mark, they call it – or if she doesn’t drown when they tie her up and throw her in the river, she must be a witch. So they hang her or burn her. It defies belief.’

‘And if she does drown? Are they murderers?’

‘I think they are but the law says otherwise. It’s hardly the justice of a civilized society. Based on superstition and benefiting no one.’

‘And yet you want to return there.’

‘Only because my family are there. I’d want to go anywhere they were, however uncivilized.’

‘How old are your nieces now?’

‘Polly is ten and Lucy eight. I miss them beyond words and I think of them every day. It’s summer in England. They should be playing in the meadow, paddling in the stream, collecting flowers, but they could be anywhere. They have only a little money and Margaret might have been forced to leave the house and move away.’

‘You’ll see them again, my friend, civilized society or not. Never doubt it. Now, I’ve got another book for you and a pair of tallow candles. They’re not very big but you’ll get some light from them.’

‘Thank you, Patrick. What’s the book?’

‘It’s a book of poems by a Lady Mary Wroth. Do you know her?’

‘I do. I once suggested to a dear friend that she follow Lady
Wroth’s example and write poetry.’ Thomas took the small leather-bound volume from Patrick and examined it. ‘Thank you, I’ll return it next week if I survive.’

‘You’ll survive, Thomas. You have a survivor’s look about you.’

‘How does a survivor look?’