Charles the King (42 page)

Lisle, who was one of the few lawyers present, left his seat by the President's chair and came up to Cromwell.

“He knows the law too well,” he whispered. “If this continues and he's to be condemned without pleading, it would be better to do it in his absence.”

“That old fool,” Cromwell said under his breath. “Elected by the people…! God have mercy on us! Doesn't he know how to try a case? Tell him from me, Lisle, that if he gives the King such another opening to make him and us look ridiculous, I'll arrest him and put another in charge of the trial. Say that the proceedings can be cut short today. Go back and tell him now!”

Without seeming to watch them, Charles saw that hurried conference and for the first time he distinguished his principal enemy among that crowd of faces in front of him. Unlike the aristocratic spectators above him, there were very few of his judges that he recognized. He could see Ireton's pale, thin face watching him with hatred; Waller, the Parliament General, and the notorious troublemaker and pamphleteer, Robert Lillburn, were among them. The rest were officers, country gentlemen of middle-class degree, and a few labourers. He leant back in his chair and looked straight up to where Cromwell was sitting.

“The Court adjourns,” the President called out, and the judges struggled to their feet again. “You are hereby summoned to meet at this place tomorrow at the same hour for the continuance of the trial. I would advise you, Sir,” he added, pointing his finger at the King, “to change your mind and plead when you appear again.”

The King stood up and ignoring the President, he directed his reply to that figure by the backcloth in the last row.

“You may bring me here, but a King cannot be tried by any superior power on earth. Produce that power, and I will answer you.”

Charles turned and as he did so, the gold top of his stick came off and rolled a few feet away from him. In all his life he had never stooped and picked anything off the floor. Until that very afternoon one of his sullen guards had served him on one knee, and called for Parry to bend down and tie the ribbon of his shoes. He hesitated, waiting for someone to move, and then Hacket stepped up to him.

“My cane,” Charles said. “There is the top. Give it to me, if you please.”

Hacket's face flushed, and then for the first time since he had taken the King into his personal custody he looked at him and smiled. “No, Sir,” he said slowly, “I will not. And there is no man here who will. Henceforth, you will stoop for yourself!”

Lord Fairfax had not gone near Westminster Hall. He remained in his London house, avoided by most of his army compatriots who felt that he had incurred Cromwell's enmity by has attitude and that it was no longer safe to be on intimate terms with him. He showed considerable courage in receiving a messenger from France on the second day of the trial. To his surprise and embarrassment the man gave him two letters, one of which was from Henrietta. The Queen's letter did in fact, upset him, and in spite of his intense dislike of her in the past, he could not read without a trace of sympathy that anguished, hysterical appeal in which she threw herself upon her knees, begging his intervention for the King, but it was the second letter which roused him from his retirement and made him summon Cromwell and Ireton and two of the other generals to a meeting at his house that night.

Though he had not gone to the trial, his wife had taken her seat in the privileged gallery for the past two days, and as he waited for Cromwell, Lady Fairfax came back to report on the second day of the proceedings. Fairfax loved his wife, he admired her courage and he even admired her for defying him and going to hear the King defend himself. He was also ashamed because she could not understand why he did nothing to stop something which they both regarded as an abominable crime. Unlike him, Lady Fairfax had the courage to say so to Oliver Cromwell's face. He heard her step on the stairs and going to the door he opened it and took her in his arms. She was a handsome woman with sparkling blue eyes and a commanding character, and she pushed her husband unceremoniously aside while she unfastened her cloak.

“Sweetheart,” he said anxiously, “I've been waiting for an hour or more. The business was over at four o'clock. Why aren't you home until past five? I began to think something had befallen you.”

She laughed angrily.

“Something nearly did! I sat there listening to those murderers shouting the King down and refusing to let him speak in his own defence.”

“Has he answered the charges then?” Fairfax interrupted.

“No, of course he hasn't! All he asks is that they listen to his reasons for not answering. But they dare not, the scoundrels, because they know he could prove that they had no right to try him, or anyone in England for that matter. I've never seen such a parody of a trial. I listened and I watched His Majesty sitting there full of dignity and patience and when they called out the roll of judges, they had the impudence to call your name!”

She paused for breath, and Fairfax saw that she was trembling. She was far more agitated than she would admit. He took her hands and said gently: “What nearly befell you, my dearest? Be calm and tell me.”

“When they called out your name, trying to implicate you in their vile doings, I couldn't bear it and I got up from my seat and shouted out, ‘He has more sense than to be here! Oliver Cromwell is a rogue and a traitor!' The next thing I saw was a group of soldiers down below taking aim at me.”

He caught her in his arms, and her hardy spirit faltered and she began to cry.

“They would have fired on me, Thomas, only someone ran up to tell the officer who I was. He shouted up that the next time I interrupted them I should be shot!”

“Good God!” Fairfax kept repeating. He was so incredulous that such a thing could happen to a woman, and that woman his own wife, that he was tempted to think she exaggerated. “Don't trouble yourself, I'll have this man arrested, I'll find out who he is!”

“I saw the poor King look up at me,” she continued, drying her eyes and growing calmer as he comforted her, “and I'll swear he smiled. Thomas, what are we going to do? What will become of us all if we allow the King to be murdered and the right of free speech taken away from us? Is this what we fought the King to gain? Is this why you killed some of your own friends on the field and why my own cousins fought for the King at Marston Moor and will not ever speak to me again? Thomas, I beg of you, do something to stop this creature Cromwell before he involves us all in his guilt.”

“I may be able to now,” Fairfax said slowly. “I know how you feel about this, and I don't blame you. But you wouldn't believe me when I said that I was powerless. Now you've seen the temper of the men that Cromwell represents. That man who would have murdered you for speaking out is typical of them all. If I came out for the King, there's not one who would follow me. But now I have something with which to bargain for him.”

“What?” she asked quickly. “What do you mean, bargain for him?”

“I have a letter from the Queen and another from the Prince of Wales. I've sent for Cromwell and Waller and Ireton and Whalley to show the letters to them. Then we shall see what can be done to save the King.”

She put her arms round him and for the first time since the King had come to Cotton House to stand his trial, Lady Fairfax forgot her disappointment in the husband she loved, and kissed him warmly on the lips. She had risked her own life to try and shame him into action; now he was about to prove that he was still the brave and honourable man who was even admired by his enemies in war.

“Please God you will succeed,” she said. “I know you won't falter. When are they coming? I want to go to my room before. I wouldn't trust myself to see them.”

“They should be here at any moment,” Fairfax said. He spoke quietly so as to hide his anger and anxiety from her. The thought of those muskets levelled at her box made him feel physically sick.

“Go upstairs, sweetheart, and rest. Trust me to do whatever I can for the King.”

Less than a quarter of an hour later Cromwell and the three other officers were announced. They greeted Fairfax politely, and Cromwell emphasized that their old friendly relationship no longer existed by formally bowing to him.

“Good evening, gentlemen. I regret the need for bringing you here at such an hour and disturbing your conduct of business, but I received something which is very pertinent to that business—I mean the trial of His Majesty the King.” He looked round them and his angry eyes lingered on Cromwell. It was Ireton who answered first.

“You mean the trial of Charles Stuart, my Lord. We no longer have a King!”

“Call him what you will,” Fairfax snapped, “and I will call him what
I
will. General Cromwell, I suggest that we all sit down. I have something to show you all.”

He went to his writing cabinet, unlocked it and brought out the letters sent by Charles's wife and eldest son. He held out the first to Cromwell.

“A messenger from the French Embassy brought these today,” he said. “This is from the Queen, begging for her husband's life. Whatever our opinions of the writer it is a moving letter, and as such it is worth reading.”

“If it contains nothing of importance, my reading it would be a waste of time,” Cromwell said curtly. “Surely, Lord Fairfax, you did not bring myself and these officers here to tell us that this pernicious woman is trying to interfere in English affairs yet again!”

His eyes were as cold as steel as he looked at his old friend. There was nothing in them but dislike and contempt. As he had once said to Ireton, it was a great pity that Fairfax had survived the war.

“No,” Fairfax answered, and his face was turning red. “I know you better than to think that a woman's tears would move you. The second letter is my reason. It is from the Prince of Wales.” He held it out and after a moment, Waller, the tough and brilliant campaigner of the First Civil War, squinted at it and then exclaimed: “Letter! What letter? there's nothing but a signature on a blank page!”

“Precisely!” Fairfax dropped it on the table in front of them. “On that page we can write what terms we like above the signature. That's what the Prince offers in return for his father's life.”

There was a moment's silence.

“It is an advantage well worth having, gentlemen. If you want to make permanent peace, that letter is your charter. Put down what settlement you will and the Prince will honour it. You can depose the King in his favour, you can extract a total abdication from the Prince and his heirs, if that is what you want. Think what this means in relation to the life of one man.”

“It's a trick,” Ireton said. “I would not trust a word of it.”

“Now, now!” Cromwell turned round and admonished him. “You are too prejudiced, Ireton. This is no trick! It comes from a distressed and noble boy, ready to forswear himself and all his rights to succour his father. Nobody doubts that … But my Lord Fairfax made the point. What does this mean in relation to the life of the King? Now that, gentleman, is a different matter.”

He sat back in his chair and folded his arms and looked mocking at Fairfax.

“I say it means nothing at all. There is no settlement to be made with any of the Stuarts. England has done with Kings. Far from accepting the Prince's offer, we are bound to reject his right to make one at all, and to answer that if he should ever show his face in the country after his father's execution, we will hunt him down and kill him as a traitor. Nothing can alter his father's guilt or snatch the people's lawful victim from their vengeance. The trial must continue and Charles Stuart will be convicted and sentenced before the end of the week. This letter is superfluous. I suggest that you destroy it or return it with a suitable answer whence it came. And now, Lord Fairfax, I must ask you to excuse us. We have much work to do.”

“It is not work which will bring you or any of us any profit,” Fairfax said slowly. “You are determined on the King's death. So be it. I will return the Prince's letter.”

Cromwell bowed and began to walk towards the door. Fairfax stepped in front of him suddenly.

“There is one other matter, General. My wife was in Westminster Hall today. There was an incident when she spoke out and some of your troops nearly fired upon her! I would like an explanation from you if you please!”

Cromwell faced him calmly. He restrained an impulse to push the infuriated man aside without bothering to answer him.

“I heard about it,” he said. “My regrets to you and her Ladyship. It seems she made remarks which would have put a humbler person into the Marshalsea for contempt. The officer in charge was not aware that a woman of quality would cause such a public disturbance and he was only trying to keep order.”

“What was his name?” Fairfax demanded. “I'll have him disciplined!” He was trembling with helpless rage. Thanks to his own faith in the man standing before him, and to his own blindness of that man's true character and motives, he was as impotent to protect his wife as he was to save the King.

“Axtell,” Cromwell answered. “Punish him by all means, my Lord. But for her own safety, I suggest you keep Lady Fairfax at home until the trial is over. I cannot guarantee protection for her if she makes another demonstration. Your servant, my Lord. Come, gentlemen.”

He did not go up to his wife after they had gone. He stayed on in the room and lit the candles by his writing cabinet and tried to begin a letter to the Queen and the Prince of Wales explaining that there was nothing he could do for Charles. But he had written nothing when his wife came to him. He did not speak at first, he did not know how to tell her that he had failed. He did not need to; she looked down over his shoulder and said quietly: “You must find that letter very difficult, Thomas. I knew he had refused to listen to you when you stayed down here.”