Charles the King (43 page)

“He mocked,” Fairfax said bitterly. “He sat there grinning and then dismissed the whole appeal with a few words. ‘England has done with Kings.' That's what he said.”

“And he's to have his way,” Lady Fairfax straightened and moved away from him. “What has become of you, that you let such a creature get so far? Will you stand idle while he kills the King and think you will be safe if only you keep quiet? What manner of man are you?”

“Man enough to have that wretch who threatened you today brought up for punishment!” It was a feeble answer and a feebler attempt to pacify her. He saw her expression and he caught her hand and held it tightly.

“Believe me, sweet, there's nothing in the world that I can do to save the King. The army has him and the army is determined to put him to death. Even without Cromwell, there would be Ireton and Waller and the rest. For the love of God don't reproach me as if I were a coward!”

“You are not a coward,” she said coldly. “Only a fool and a laggard. I shall go down to Westminster tomorrow. If that vulgar brute thinks that a few muskets can frighten me away he is mistaken!”

“You are not to go,” he said quickly. “Cromwell told me he cannot protect you if you make another scene. I forbid it!”

Lady Fairfax smiled sadly at him. Whatever happened to them in the future, their relationship would never be the same again.

“Thomas, I fear you are in no position to forbid anything. I shall go every day until the trial is over. If I am shot or arrested, it will be well worth while if it persuades you to do something at last!”

Three more days had passed since that first day, and the assembly sitting at Westminster Hall knew that it would not meet again. Charles had not listened to all the proceedings because he had been removed on one occasion after coolly and persistently interrupting in order to make himself heard. He was no longer distressed by anything but the ordeal of walking through the lines of hostile, jeering Puritan soldiers on his way to the Hall and back. The first time they began to shout insults at him, he flushed and half turned, and then quickly collected himself and walked on as if he had not noticed. That afternoon on January 27th the Hall seemed to him to be oppressively quiet; he glanced round and was sure there were more soldiers present than before, and as he took his place, several of those sitting on the judicial bench avoided looking at him. Charles settled himself in his chair and composed himself. Evidence of his supposed crimes had been offered on preceding days, and witnesses had testified that his Standard had been raised for war in Nottingham, and he himself had been present at Edgehill and Newbury. There was nothing more to be said against him, and he had spent most of the previous night on his knees praying because he knew that this was the day on which his sentence would be passed.

As he looked at them all, the soldiers, the ill-assorted group of judges sitting a little above him, the faces, some of them unhappy, many curious and a few vindictive, which watched him from the galleries on either side, Charles felt little, sensation beyond that of great weariness and a deep, painful disgust. It would be necessary for him to fight the verdict, even to make a last attempt to forestall it, and he was ready to do this. But he did it in the name of the Sovereign power he represented; personally, he had little inclination to live, when the future could hold nothing but a lifetime of close imprisonment and lasting separation from those he loved. He had spent a lot of the time thinking of Henrietta, and he was so sure of the outcome of the trial that thoughts of her no longer pained him. They were a sweet relief, a refuge in which he escaped the hatred, insult and humiliations which increased with every hour. His memories of her were so vivid that they and not the grey cold Hall and the droning voices of his enemies, were the reality in which he lived.

Now the evidence was given, the speeches were over, and Bradshaw gathered his papers together and settled himself. Charles knew that he was about to pronounce the sentence and before he could do so, he stood up.

“One word, before you speak, Sir. A hasty sentence may be repented but it can never be recalled. Before you do this thing, I ask that the Commons and Lords may be assembled and I will speak before them both. I adjure you to allow this if as you pretend you value the liberty and peace of this kingdom.”

There was a sudden movement among the judges; he saw one man try to rise from his seat and those on either side of him try to press him back again. It was Colonel Downs, a veteran of the Civil War and a man of staunch principles. Those principles had been outraged every day in which he sat at Westminster and by every word exchanged between the King and the President of the Court. Cawley and Wanton were sitting with him; they were old friends of his and when he started to get up they almost struggled with him in their fear of what he meant to do.

“Leave me alone! Are you men, to sit here and agree to this?” Charles heard him distinctly, and equally distinct was the reply of Cawley, “Sit down, for God's sake! You will destroy yourself and us with you.”

“If I die for it, I must do it!” Downs was on his feet and the whole Court was silent and expectant, staring at him. He was extremely pale but he turned to Bradshaw who had twisted round in his seat to see what the disturbance was and said at the top of his voice: “My Lord, I am not satisfied with this sentence … I cannot give my consent to it!”

“What is the matter with you, Sir?” Downs looked below him and saw Cromwell rise out of his seat. His back was to the King. “Colonel, what are you doing? I must ask you to be quiet!”

“I cannot be quiet!” Downs looked beyond him and for the first time he met the King's eye direct. “I want an adjournment.”

“Very well then,” Cromwell snapped at Bradshaw. “Adjourn for half an hour while we hear this gentleman.”

Charles was removed to an ante-room to wait; it was nothing but a railed-off space in the outside passage, where a chair was put for him and Parry waited with his cloak.

“A glass of wine, Sire,” he said anxiously. He came forward with the cup and ewer, and went down on his knee before Charles.

Charles took it and thanked him. “Get up, my good Parry. Do not kneel to me here or you will offend these people. They will only deal roughly with you when I am gone.”

“Sire, I will kneel to you so long as God gives me the strength to bend my knee,” Parry answered. “May I ask you a question?”

“You may, gladly,” Charles replied gently.

“What is happening in that place? Why have you come out here to wait, Sire?”

“The Court, or whatever it calls itself, has been adjourned. Some poor fellow's conscience troubled him and he spoke out in my favour. God knows, it was a brave thing to do. I was very much moved by it. But it will not come to anything. He will either be arrested or he will do what he is told like the rest.”

Within the half hour, Colonel Hacket reported that Colonel Downs' doubts had been satisfied and that the Court had reassembled. The King's presence was required.

Charles stood up and gave his empty glass to Parry.

“Have no fear for me,” he said quietly, “for I have none for myself.”

In the name of the Commons and the people of England, Bradshaw pronounced Charles a traitor, a tyrant and a murderer responsible for all those who had died in the war and sentenced him to be beheaded.

There was a piercing cry of protest from the gallery, where the intrepid Lady Fairfax, with the tears streaming down her face, cried out in defence of the King who stood before his judges, and was at that moment trying to speak out. He was not allowed a last defence. As his voice rose in an impassioned denial, wrung from him by the crude and vicious terminology employed against him and which impugned his Royal honour, Bradshaw stood up and shouted to the guards to take him out. And outside in the passages a cry of hate and triumph greeted him. The soldiers, relieved of discipline for the moment, crowded round him, shouting and jeering.

“Execution, execution!”

The smell of them sickened him. He drew back from the faces pressing close round him, blowing tobacco smoke into his eyes, and hedged in by his guards he pushed forward as quickly as he could.

“Execution! Execution for the tyrant!”

That was an officer, the fanatical Colonel John Hewson, who elbowed his way between the men guarding the King and came close up to him. His eyes were blazing with hatred; he had watched his detested enemy deriding the Court which to him was an instrument of Divine justice. He saw him even then preserving his damnable dignity, and it was too much for him. He came within a foot of the King and spat into his face.

The King's expression did not alter. He showed no sign except that a slight flush appeared as he wiped the spittle away from his cheeks and forehead.

“Now, tyrant, pay for your crimes!” Hewson hissed at him. Charles looked at the maddened, livid face of his tormentor and said gently: “God has justice in store for you as well as for me.”

He moved on, and Hacket ordered his men to close their ranks so tightly round the King as they emerged into the winter daylight that he was almost hidden from the crowds outside. As he stepped into the sedan chair which brought him from Cotton House, Charles saw that most of the silent crowd massed in the streets and gateway of Westminster fell upon their knees; many of them were weeping openly.

In the chair he leant back well out of view and closed his eyes. Without looking at it, he threw the handkerchief soiled by Hewson's outrage on the floor, and tears of pain and weariness ran down his face. It was the first and only time in the last week that he had wept, but when Hacket opened the sedan door and curtly ordered him to get out, he showed no trace of anything but dignified indifference.

“Thank God!” Charles remarked, as if he were making conversation. “I shan't have to go to that wretched place again.”

Chapter 15

The sound of hammering at Whitehall Palace began at dawn on the morning of Monday, January 29th. The scaffold was to be built as high as possible so that the crowds should see as little as possible, and their view would be obscured still further by a rail hung with black cloth. The wooden struts rose up against the walls of the Banqueting Hall and the centre of the platform came under a window which was broken down to make it long enough for a man to step straight through it. The General had made his usual thorough preparation for the execution which was to take place on Tuesday the 30th, and having satisfied himself that he could put the King to death efficiently—the preparations included staples and ropes with which to tie the King to the block if he resisted—Cromwell showed his lack of personal enmity by sending him to sleep at St. James's Palace for his last two nights on earth, wishing to spare him the sound of that incessant hammering. He also ordered the disappointed Hacket to keep his troops out of the King's rooms and he allowed the former Bishop of London, Edward Juxon, to bring Charles the consolations of the Anglican religion.

For Charles, it was a blessed interval of peace, free of the attentions of his tormentors. He gave himself up completely to spiritual preparation, and he found the closest union with a churchman in the gentle, steadfast Juxon that he had known since the death of his beloved Laud. Together they prayed, and Juxon exhorted him to forgive as he truly hoped to be forgiven and to put aside all fear and hope and earthly considerations. There was little need for this advice. Charles was weary, and yet his spirits soared with a strange cheerfulness; he was resigned, but there was no sign of despair or even of recrimination. And out of the past the one crime of his life was claiming its just retribution; he confessed to Juxon that he deserved his own death for having condemned the guiltless Strafford. His peace was made with God and his conscience; he was happy and ready to exchange the crown torn from him by men for the crown of eternal life.

And on Monday, the night before he was to die, he was allowed to see his children.

Their last meeting had been at Hampton Court, and that too was by courtesy of Cromwell, who was such a good father himself. Then, three children had come to him, now there were only two, for his second son James had escaped long before and was safe with his mother in France. Charles had been waiting impatiently by the window, but it was too dark to see their arrival. When he heard the sound of steps outside his room, some of them light and quick, he turned quickly to Juxon who was standing at the side of the room.

“Pray that I don't break down before them! Whatever their last memory of me, it must be one of courage!”

“It will be, Sire,” the Bishop answered. “Prepare yourself, they're in the ante-chamber.”

They came into the room alone, the little Princess Elizabeth, aged thirteen, holding her nine-year-old brother Prince Henry by the hand, and they hesitated, staring at their father as if he were a stranger. It was nearly two years since they had seen him last. Charles walked towards them slowly, and bending down he took his daughter in his arms. He felt the child stiffen as if she were going to pull back, and then suddenly she threw her arms around his neck.

“Papa! Oh, Papa!”

The little Prince came clamouring to be kissed and embraced with his sister, and for some moments Charles knelt and held them to him, and the Bishop moved to the door and slipped out, leaving them alone.

“Elizabeth, come, let me look at you—and Henry too. How big you have both grown! Why, my son, you're quite the man,” he said gently, stroking the little boy's head. “Come and sit down with me, here.”

They went with him to the fireplace, where a heap of logs were burning brightly, and Charles lifted the boy upon his knee and held his daughter close to him, his arm round her waist, hers round his neck.

“My children,” he said at last, “my dear children, now I am truly happy.”

Elizabeth's eyes were big and blue and very like his own; there was a shade of red in her brown hair. “You are a true Stuart,” he told her proudly. “And you, my little son. You are of the Blood Royal, and that is why I must speak to you, not just as your Papa who loves you, but as the King to a Prince and Princess of England. Come closer still, Elizabeth, and listen to what I tell your brother. When I am gone you must remind him of it at all times.”