The Crimson Ribbon (21 page)

Chapter 37

Benjamin brings us the news two days later. Charles Stuart, the man who was our king, is named a traitor. He is to have a traitor’s death. They will cut off his head.

Lizzie, who has neither eaten nor slept since her shaming in the Painted Chamber, blanches as he tells us. Her legs give out and she drops to the floor, like a puppet with severed strings. The papers she has been working on fan around her on the floorboards. Benjamin gathers them up while I cradle her and call for Charlotte’s help.

Charlotte and I struggle to help her to her bed.

‘Mistress Poole,’ Benjamin calls, as we take her from the room, ‘are these ready for the press?’

For an instant Lizzie seems to wake from her trance and fixes him with a look of intent. ‘Yes, Benjamin. You know what to do.’

The crowd is massed at Whitehall, every man, woman and child waiting to witness the death of their king. The press of bodies cannot warm the January chill and breath steams and curls above people’s heads like smoke, as if they have fire burning in their bellies.

Sal and I press onward, weaving our way between merchants, servants, apprentices and the filthy poor. It seems that the whole of London is here; rank and file do not matter today. The fine clothes of the wealthy rub up against the stench of beggars’ rags. Apprentices stand shoulder to shoulder with their masters. Hucksters ply their wares from stalls set up outside the alehouses to well-dressed ladies.

Today the natural order of things is turned upside down. It has taken the death of a king to do it.

I have seen my share of public executions: condemned men hanged in the market square at Ely, processions of the damned making their way along Cheapside from Newgate to Tyburn. And I was witness to another, more lawless death, only too close at hand. In all those cases, the crowd was ugly, chisel-faced and flint-eyed, baying for blood. But there is none of that here. Even those who want the King dead, even those who despise him as the cause of so much bloodshed and suffering, even they dare not raise their voices now.

There are groups of men deep in discussion, some in prayer. Here and there a lay preacher speaks words of hope to a makeshift flock. There is no jesting or jostling, no banter and no laughter. People do not even complain when Sal pushes our way to a spot near the Banqueting House, where a scaffold has been put up overnight.

The wooden structure is draped in black cloth and protected by a wall of grim-faced soldiers. Behind it, with high glazed windows and white columns, the Banqueting House sits proud and splendid, like a palace from a fable, amid the tumbledown squalor of Whitehall. It is like a great block of ice, the glass in the casements reflecting back a pale winter sun. Today makes a mockery of the power and wealth of the kings who built it. Behind the windows, I can make out row upon row of snowy lace collars and tall black hats. These are the men who hold that power now.

Already the pamphleteers are at work. Sal refuses them again and again. She catches me looking at her in puzzlement.

‘Not yet,’ she says, keeping her voice low so only I can hear.

‘Today is the end of the old world,’ I say. ‘I thought you and the twins looked forward to the new.’

She shrugs. ‘A king dies today. No matter how many people tell me it is necessary, no matter what has happened in the past, it’s just that in here . . .’ she puts her hand to her heart ‘. . . I cannot make it right.’

I know what she means. It is for the same reason that Lizzie cannot rise from her bed these past three days, the same reason that she bade me come here and see the thing with my own eyes, and carry the details of it back to her. Even now it is hard to imagine that the years of the old order can ever be undone, that England really can be made new. Even after all the fighting and all the death, there is still doubt. I must see this thing done in order to believe it.

I think of Master Oliver and his admission to me in that fine room at Whitehall Palace. He believes that God has brought us here, but even he has doubts, even the very man whom people say is responsible. I wonder if he is sure of his actions now. I will not believe it is all due to him. The man I know is not a cold-hearted killer.

We wait for some time and rumour of a reprieve starts to circulate. Some say that Parliament is meeting to overturn the verdict. The crowd shuffle and sway, losing patience, limbs aching from standing so long, and I have to cling to Sal’s arm to keep from losing her in the crush.

But then there is a commotion inside the Banqueting Hall. People turn and crane their necks. Two men step out onto the platform, dressed entirely in black, hooded, faces hidden. One carries a long sword that glints as though it has been polished, as though it has never seen blood before. Following them come two soldiers and the King’s chaplain. The crowd falls silent, all faces upturned. After a moment’s pause, Charles Stuart steps out onto the scaffold, blinking against the afternoon light.

He looks nothing more than a frail old man, with a thin grey face. Can this be the great tyrant? Can this be the man of blood who cares only for his own power and greed and wealth? For a moment I think I must be mistaken and that the terrifying figure of the King is yet to come, but people about me are bowing their heads and he is coming forward to address the crowds.

I strain to hear his words, but the breeze buffets them away.

The black drapes hide the block, but I watch as the King removes his cloak and hat and insignia and hands them to his chaplain. He is given a small cap and puts it on, tucking his hair inside as though he wishes to save it from the sword. Then he turns and addresses the executioner.

I feel as though I’m watching a stage play, as though the scene before me cannot possibly be real. I glance about me to catch the laughter in people’s faces, to understand the joke, but there is none. I cannot believe that this man has held the fate of the country in his hands, that this man has set brother against brother and brought us to the very edge of Hell, that this man is anything more than just that. He may be proud, he may be flawed, but he is still just a man, with a life that can be taken by the fall of a sword. He is not so different from Master Oliver.

The King speaks and the crowd waits silently, his words snatched away by the wind. I notice a tiny glimmer beside his cheek. A small pearl earring hangs there, gleaming in the light, a fragment of glamour remaining.

Then he puts his hands together in prayer and lowers himself to the block and out of view.

The hooded man steps forward. Seconds run by and I hold my breath. The executioner raises his sword and brings it down in one hard, sharp swipe. Then he stoops and lifts up the head of the dead man. He holds it at arm’s length and shows it to the crowd.

‘Behold the head of a traitor!’ he cries.

There are no cheers, no celebrations, bells do not ring out. Instead, the sound that comes from the crowd is deep and resounding, a primal moan of despair. It is a sound I know well. It is the sound that Esther Tuttle made when she birthed her cursed offspring. It is the sound that welled up inside me as I watched my mother’s body turn and twist beneath the branches of the willow tree. It is the sound that Lizzie made when she learned of her father’s death. It is horror. It is grief. That is what I hear now, as the black-hooded man holds up the head of Charles Stuart and lets the blood drip upon the scaffold.

Moments later the crowd begins to shift and swell. Those at the front rush the soldiers, desperate to be closer to the platform, holding out rags to catch any royal blood that might spill between the planks. There are sudden cries from all quarters, ‘God save the King!’ and, in answer, ‘Let the tyrant be damned!’ Scuffles break out nearby and soldiers draw their swords.

I am mesmerised, head spinning.

‘Come!’ Sal pulls at my arm. ‘We’ve seen enough blood for one day.’

We try to push through the crowd, away from the scaffold, but the press of people is too dense. The silent spell is broken: people shout and shove.

Next to us a man yells, ‘The tyrant is dead!’

His companion tugs at his sleeve. ‘And, look, here comes another . . .’

I turn to where he points, back towards the Hall, and see a small group of army men upon the scaffold. Among them I think I glimpse the crumpled face of my old master.

‘A tyrant and a traitor!’ Sal says. She pulls a sheaf of pamphlets from her satchel and presses one into the hand of the man. ‘Oliver Cromwell is the true traitor!’ she cries. ‘A traitor to God! A traitor to us all!’ She hands out the papers to those around her.

I catch her arm. ‘Sal, what are you doing?’

‘What I must,’ she says. She clambers onto a nearby barrel to raise herself above the heads of the crowd. ‘Listen! Listen all of you! Oliver Cromwell has killed a king so he can put himself on the throne in his place. He uses the word of God to fool us all. He says this is God’s work, but it is the work of plotters and schemers who want power and riches for themselves. He promised us a new England. Where is that promise now? Is this what we fought for? Is this what our loved ones died for? For Oliver Cromwell to betray us all? Read the truth – read it here!’ She hands out pamphlets to eager hands in the crowd.

I snatch one from her. I need hardly read the words to prove what I already know in my heart. These words are not Sal’s. They are not even the twins’.

There it is, as bold as anything: her name upon the page.

Oh, Lizzie. What have you done?

I leave Sal ranting her accusations at Master Oliver and the Army Council, doling out Lizzie’s pamphlet to anyone with a mind to read. I push my way through the crowd, jabbed and jostled, the world a blur of elbows and fists. The air is thick with fury, as if the stinking coal smoke is poisoned with it. I cover my face with my shawl and take shallow breaths; I have enough anger brewing in me already.

Yet again, I’m astonished, and hurt, by Lizzie’s duplicity. How dare she speak out against Master Oliver when he has been so good to us? He has singled her out, giving her the chance to be heard, when so many voices like hers are ignored or ridiculed. He could not have foreseen the shameful outcome. He could not have known that those men would not listen. He gave her what she asked for and now she sullies his generosity with slander. I know her well enough to understand that this is her means of revenge. I must get away from here. I must see how to limit the damage she has done.

I’m deep in my own thoughts, trying to make my way through the rabble, when someone grabs at my arm. Thinking it a beggar or a cutpurse, I pull away, but strong fingers dig deeper and then I hear my name. I falter as I recognise his voice. My heart tilts. I know it’s him before I turn. I know it because I have been dreading this meeting for weeks.

Since the day Joseph told me his awful secret, I have imagined this moment. I have run it through in my mind over and over, planning to spurn him, this man who is dead to me. I would not give him so much as a word or a nod. I would turn my back and walk away, and he would never know how it pained me to do so. But here, in this place, with the world gone half mad about me, I have no such composure. The corruption that poisons the air fills every part of me, simmering under my skin, until I don’t know whether to rage or to cry.

I spin to face him, Lizzie’s pamphlet aloft. ‘Did you know about this?’

Joseph takes the crumpled paper from me. ‘Not until today.’

He glances behind him. I follow his gaze and see the twins, Benjamin and Charlie, a few steps away. Just like Sal they have packs strapped across their chests, and are handing out pamphlets to the crowd. Like Sal, they are fired up with sedition, eyes wild, cheeks flushed.

‘I think they’re making a mistake,’ Joseph says. ‘It’s not a good time to make enemies.’ He looks back over the crowd, towards the scaffold.

‘Can you not stop them?’ I say.

‘It’s not my place. They are their own men.’

I snatch the pamphlet back from him and turn on my heel. I fight my way up Whitehall, away from the Banqueting House.

‘Ruth, wait!’

I am pulsing with fury, fighting back tears. I don’t want to speak to him, or even look at him, but he keeps pace by my side.

‘I know you don’t want to see me, but I am glad to see you,’ he says. ‘I must speak with you, alone.’

‘Leave me be.’

‘There is something I must show you . . . something you will want to see.’

‘I have seen enough today.’

‘Please, Ruth, you must trust me.’

At this I want to spit at his feet, right there in the street, like some godless wilding.

‘I promise you will want to see this,’ he says, catching at my sleeve.

I slow, curiosity piqued despite myself, but still I refuse to meet his eye. ‘What is it?’

‘Come away from here,’ he says, tugging my arm and leading me into a side-street, until we find a place where the crowd has thinned. He stops before a tavern. The door is closed and barred, a lone man sitting on the sill, quietly weeping. Close by, three whispering women huddle, subdued children about their feet. Two lads hurtle past, armed with fire-stokers, boots splashing in the wet street drain. The air rings with the shouts of the Whitehall crowd, the tolling of a single church bell.

Joseph fishes inside his jacket and brings out another pamphlet. He hands it to me. ‘I found this a few days ago. I knew if I came to West St Paul’s you would not see me, but I think you are meant to have it.’

It is an account of the trial and hanging of one Michael Mitchell, who met his end at Tyburn not a month since. On the frontispiece, under the lettering of the title, a crude black figure dangles from the gallows, tongue lolling. Such stories make common fodder for the presses, feeding the clamour in St Paul’s Churchyard for scandal and horror. I have seen dozens of the like in Lizzie’s hands.

‘What do I want with this?’ I say.

‘Read it . . . here.’ He points. ‘The second page.’

Although I’m desperate to be away from him, I glance at the type: . . . 
Mitchell, a man of such evil wrongdoings, having led a life of sin and devilry, brought to justice at last by the grace of Our Lord
 . . .