Tapestry (26 page)

‘William, what is to be done?’ Jane could hear her personal terror reflected in Winifred’s calm voice.

‘I’ve begun my appeal by engaging the services of an advocate. You will need to pay him ten guineas.’

Jane nodded, gathering from Winifred that this was a huge sum. ‘Your brother-in-law will help wherever he can, of course,’ she reminded him.

He led her over to the window seat, then leaned against the sill and sighed. ‘Yes, we shall surely need his finances.’

She remembered this room now. It was the actual bedroom that she had used when staying with Emily. She recalled it covered with wallpaper — a pink and green floral. It also had a dressing table where she sat now, a pine Habitat wardrobe to the side of the door and an old, single, iron bed that was painted in fashionable cream. She and Emily would sit on the floor near the fireplace and read magazines, listen to their vinyl LPs while
griping about study, or plan their next shopping assault on the West End.

But right now she was standing on straw rushes and staring at a pail, one-quarter filled with foul-smelling amber liquid, where in the future a small sink would reside.

Jane turned away, overcome with memories, and looked out of the window, only to realise she was looking down from this vantage point onto Traitors’ Gate. Not the living museum that she knew, but the operational water gate, still in use, bringing condemned prisoners to where they would probably spend their final days. Her gaze widened to take in the vast expanse of the River Thames. ‘Did they bring you through there?’

He nodded, disgusted.

She looked to her left, trying to rein in her astonishment at yet another surprise. There was no London Bridge — not as she knew it, anyway. It would be another century before city planners replaced the ramshackle, higgledy-piggledy structure she was looking at with a more modern bridge — which was itself replaced in the early 1970s.
Is this what inspired the famous rhyme that London Bridge is falling down?
she wondered. Her surprise turned to dismay when she spotted rotting heads on pikes at intervals along the structure … the bridge looked like a revolting pincushion of shame.

But attending William gave her little time to take in the sights beyond this six paces long, three wide chamber in which he was imprisoned. Its roof curved in a shallow arch of beams and the stone walls were not cheerily wallpapered, but pale and plastered to protect against fire.

‘The lawyer has suggested I plead guilty,’ William said, cutting back into her thoughts.

She frowned. ‘How does that help?’

A gust of icy air made her realise that he had kept the window open to the full force of Nature. ‘William, for mercy’s sake, you shall catch your death in here — and please do not jest that it
might be easier than losing your head. My nerves will not stand any more of such dark comedy.’

He closed the window. ‘When I feel the wind on my face, when it chills me numb, I seem to feel more alive and have reason to remain optimistic.’

It was Winifred who reached for his hand and held it against her cheek. Perhaps Jane and Winifred were existing in concert now. Jane’s host definitely felt more solidly present. She wondered if Winifred had access to her thoughts and memories as she had to Winifred’s.

She knew William was waiting. ‘All is not lost, my dearest. Tell me all that has happened.’

William began to pace. ‘We were questioned by the Lords of Council the day after our arrival and then impeached in the House of Commons for high treason.’

‘So what is your lawyer’s rationale for pleading guilty?’ she asked, her expression filled with confusion.

‘He advises — as do the other lords’ counsels — that we should claim to have acted upon our consciences and that we are prepared to face whatever penalty is allotted.’

She shook her head, alarmed. ‘What madness is this? Why does he not suggest you offer to chop off your own heads and give them to the King on a platter?’ Jane was impressed by Winifred’s sarcasm at this harrowing time.

‘
Now
who makes dark jests, my love?’ He smiled grimly. ‘For what it’s worth, I do not agree with him and have refused to enter such a plea.’

Jane felt her breath quickening as Winifred’s anxiety escalated. ‘Forgive me.’

‘Sentencing is set for the first week of next month.’

She began to wring her hands, joining Winifred’s fear with her own. How was she going to save him? Her Will seemed closer to death in her mind at this moment than he had at any time since the attack.

‘And King James?’

He gave a fresh grimace. ‘What of him? The rebellion was crushed.’

She nodded miserably as Winifred’s memories gave her the knowledge of James III, the ‘Old Pretender’, and his recent landing in Scotland. She told him what she knew. ‘The fierce winter in his own kingdom added salt to the misery of failed rebellion and afflicted him with the ague. I left before I could learn more.’

‘What else is there to learn, other than that he arrived, caught the fever and sailed back to France within weeks, having achieved nothing more than to commit his loyal peers to almost certain death? King George will want to make an example of us lords.’

She nodded. There was little point in pretending otherwise.

‘I think we must anticipate the worst outcome, Winifred, and discuss what must be done for the children and Terregles, for your safety and the future —’

‘William, stop! For the love of all things holy, stop!’ Jane, propelled by Winifred’s needs, fell helplessly toward him. He held her close against his chest and she was glad he didn’t have to see the few pointless tears dampening his shirt. ‘Why can we not appeal directly to King George? I cannot imagine he wants the blood of British peers on his hands.’

William kissed her forehead tenderly. ‘His reign will be weakened by showing us mercy.’

‘I do not believe that,’ she persisted.

‘My lawyer will not petition King George,’ he said firmly.

‘Then I shall.’

‘You?’

‘Why not? A wife, the mother of the condemned man’s children; who could be more pitiful, more in need of mercy?’

‘I doubt you’ll find the new King of England to have much compassion for the wife or family of a Catholic peer, especially one who rose up against him.’

‘We shall see. And I shall leave no stone unturned until —’

‘Until it is hopeless?’ He already sounded beaten.

‘William. For my sake and that of the children, you must stay strong. I am entering a world I do not understand,’ Jane said in Winifred’s voice, believing she had never uttered a truer statement. ‘If you give in, what hope have I of helping you on the outside? You must keep your mind active and engaged and your body the same. Let
me
worry about your advocacy.’

He nodded, but she could tell he didn’t hold out much hope of success.

‘Have you spoken with Lord Derwentwater or Lord Kenmure?’ she asked. She knew these two men were powerful.

William shrugged. ‘A few words exchanged early on. Since then I have been confined to this chamber, and they to theirs, presumably. We dine each night with the Constable, who is a gracious host, but we do not discuss politics or strategy at his table for obvious reasons.’ He let out a sad gust of laughter. ‘We discussed poetry during our last meal together.’ William found a brave smile for her. ‘But fear not: I have a priest, Father Scott, who visits and keeps me company, and the warders are kind; we talk often. And at least I look out onto the river and not onto Tower Green.’

Jane swallowed, though she suspected that if an execution of these so-called traitors took place, the King and his Protestant supporters would want to make it as public as possible. William and his fellow lords would probably be taken to Tower Hill for their punishment.

Jane felt the bilious, dizzying fear rising again. She had to get out of this cramped room and away from its despondency.

‘The warder said I might only stay a short while, but I shall return as soon as I can with news. I’ve left fresh clothes with the warder.’ She dug into her pockets for the tiny sack of coins she’d brought. ‘Here, this will help keep your gaolers
sympathetic. I have already made a judicious bribe to Sir George. I do not doubt I shall be allowed to see you again.’

He took the purse and threw his arms around her again. ‘Thank you for being so strong for me. I have not even enquired about your journey — how you made it through the winter roads, how your lodgings were, or even —’

Winifred silenced him with a kiss, as Jane yielded to embarrassment and guilt. ‘I am here. Everything else is no longer relevant. Only your safe return to me is what matters,’ she said, guided by her host.

‘I love you, Winifred.’

Jane again felt the rush of emotion her host allowed her to feel and the power of it was as inspiring as it was frightening. Will in his bed, loving her, waiting for her, was in her mind, but she hated the fact that Julius was at the back of her mind also, tarnishing that connection across worlds. Perhaps it was Winifred’s weakening health that was dismantling Jane’s defences.

The hackney had obediently waited as instructed, and Jane noticed nothing of the landscape around her as it rushed her back to Duke Street. By the time she’d paid the man and Cecilia was opening the door, Jane could feel Winifred’s body trembling with fever again.

She stumbled into Cecilia’s grip, knowing only bed rest would help her now — yet every second mattered.

R
obert Evans glanced at Ellen, who betrayed no hurt in her expression.

‘I’ll ignore what you just said, Mr Maxwell. I’m sure you don’t believe that one of the most senior staff on the ward would manufacture information.’

Maxwell blinked. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, taking in both of them with a sweeping glance. ‘I just want Will to have the best shot at beating this thing.’

‘Nothing I suggest is for the good of anyone, except Will and your family. And in my professional opinion, Will’s convulsion is a key sign that he’s regaining consciousness.’

‘Can he hear us?’ Diane Maxwell wondered.

‘I always believe the patients can hear us, Mrs Maxwell,’ Ellen said gently. ‘I talk to Will the whole time I’m working around him. How can it hurt?’

His mother nodded, smiling sadly. ‘You’re so kind, dear. You’re right, it can’t hurt, I’m sure. So what does this mean, Dr Evans?’

‘I’m recommending you leave Will where he is, certainly in the short term.’ They all watched Maxwell shift restlessly with annoyance, but for a rare moment he controlled his expression and his tongue, as Evans continued. ‘We just don’t know what the upheaval will do. Will is off life support, as you know, so
this is all about him and his choice of timing. He’ll decide when. We have to keep the faith and stay patient.’

‘What about brain damage?’ his mother asked.

‘Mrs Maxwell, we can’t even begin to assess that until Will wakes. And he is waking. But it’s a slow process. Every person, every injury, every brain is different and reacts and responds in varying ways. Um … is there any news of Miss Granger?’

‘Crazy girl’s gone off on some capricious expedition that she hopes will divinely wake Will from afar,’ Maxwell growled.

Diane Maxwell had apology written in her expression as she looked at Evans and his team. ‘Will has been researching something called straight tracks … they’re ancient. I’m not sure I understand any of it myself.’

‘I’ve read about them,’ Evans said.

‘Jane’s gone to a place that Will dreamed they would visit together. It’s, um …’ She glanced at her husband, who was wearing his familiar scowl. ‘Well, they say it’s a place of spiritual enlightenment.’

‘She’s hoping magic is going to save him, Dr Evans, not medicine,’ Maxwell quipped.

Evans looked unperturbed. ‘At times like these, Mr Maxwell, religion, spirituality, pagan beliefs, magic … it’s all the same thing, really. We turn to one aspect of it or another at times when we’re under enormous stress. I’m for whatever works, whatever helps keep you strong.’ He brightened and smiled. ‘Anyway, if I were to guess — because I’m sure that’s your next question — I would say we shall know more in the next day or two.’

‘Right,’ Maxwell said. ‘Now, perhaps we could have some time alone with our boy.’

‘Of course,’ Ellen and Evans said together, but not before sharing a glance of silent triumph that Maxwell hadn’t mentioned the deadline again.

Jane blinked to gain focus. Where was she?

Cecilia’s smiling face came into view. ‘Welcome back, dear.’

‘What’s happened?’ she croaked.

‘Here, sip this,’ Cecilia said, lifting Winifred’s head, which felt as heavy as a medicine ball. ‘Your fever has broken.’

‘Fever?’

‘A relapse, dearest. It had to happen. You have pushed yourself too hard and your body has rebelled.’

‘I cannot remember … wait, I went to the Tower. I saw William.’

‘Yes. That was thirteen days ago.’

It took Jane several moments to process this. But finally, as it sank in, she pushed away the glass that Cecilia held up to her face.

‘Did you say thirteen?’ she spluttered.

Cecilia gave a small sigh. ‘I did.’

‘But —’

‘But there is nothing you could have done in the meantime. Be still, or you shall wear yourself out and become feverish again. Let me apprise you of what we have learned.’

Jane dutifully fell back against the pillow, but only because the room had begun to spin, as if Cecilia had commanded it to. However, she mustered the strength to say, ‘Do not hold anything back.’

Cecilia gave her an admonishing glance. ‘It comes to this. Sentencing has been set for 9th February,’ she said bluntly. ‘That is in eight days.’ Before Jane could speak, Cecilia held up her hand. ‘I know you want to visit William, but it has been forbidden by the King until sentencing. Of course you will wish to be present at the trial, so I urge you to use this week to get well, Winifred, dear. That journey took far more out of you than you would ever admit.’

The following week turned into a stultifying period of broths, bed baths, and restless nights and days lost to exhaustion and
sleep. But within six days Jane’s resilience and Winifred’s determination had rescued the fragile body they shared, and once again Jane could see to her own ablutions without help or hobbling like an old woman.

The day of sentencing was ominously bleak. February was traditionally the harshest winter month and 1716 was no exception, with the temperature so bitterly cold that the skin of Jane’s palm very nearly stuck fast to the iron railings when she briefly stepped outside. Even so, she made it obvious that Winifred was immovable on her decision to attend the trial.

Cecilia didn’t stop trying, though. ‘Apparently the Thames is frozen hard,’ she said over breakfast, pouring her friend a hot chocolate.

Mrs Mills bustled in with a plate of pound cake cut into small squares and some steaming rolls. ‘I’ve just heard from one of the delivery boys that there is an ice fair being held on the river. I shall have to take myself down there.’

‘Perhaps too much merriment for me, Mrs Mills,’ Jane said softly, and caught Cecilia’s glare at their hostess.

‘Forgive me, Countess, I meant nothing —’

Jane shook her head. ‘No, please, don’t even mention it. I am tired of feeling so gloomy and forcing everyone else around me to feel the same. I hope today will bring news to lift my spirits.’ She was saying the right words for Winifred, but Jane heard the hollowness in them.

‘The hackney will be here shortly to take you to Westminster Hall,’ Mrs Mills said, moving swiftly on to practical matters.

‘Who is presiding?’ Cecilia asked, frowning.

‘Lord Cowper, the High Steward, has been chosen as judge for the Jacobite lords.’

Cecilia nodded. A clock chimed on the mantelpiece and she shrugged at Winifred. ‘I should fetch our cloaks and we must ready ourselves.’

Jane knew Winifred wasn’t hungry, but she also knew her still-frail body needed as much nourishment as possible. ‘I shall just eat one of these hot rolls.’

Pleasure flared in her friend’s gaze. ‘Good. I am happy to see you have an appetite, dear. Go ahead.’

The journey was a blur for Jane. She was unable to concentrate on anything, until she felt a sharp surge in her body as the horses slowed and the driver called, ‘Westminster!’

She emerged from the carriage to be met by a man who introduced himself as her husband’s counsel. She knew his name from organising the payment for representation: John Fitzwilliam. He was bewigged and berobed, his expression sombre enough to be considered funereal, Jane thought.

‘Countess, I must warn you that the Whig government has persuaded the King to turn this into something of a spectacle,’ he said, his deep voice adding weight to its lofty tone.

‘What do you mean?’ Her insides began to roil.

He cleared his throat, sounding vaguely embarrassed. ‘The Hall has been cleared of its traditional stalls and is now filled to capacity with a newly erected public gallery far larger than anything we could have expected.’

Her hopes sank. ‘I see,’ she said, unsure of what else to say.

‘The High Steward has just arrived in his coach together with his officers and will appear shortly. Countess, every one of the lords will be present, excepting Lord Wintoun, who has successfully convinced the government that he is insane.’ He shrugged at her dismayed look. ‘I thought you should know.’

Jane could not have cared less about Lord Wintoun, whoever he was, but she could tell William’s lawyer was aiming to be thorough. Still, she loathed him for the mere fact that he had urged William to plead guilty. Surely that only helped the King to send him to the chopping block.

‘May I ask what you know of Lord Cowper?’

Her dread was reinforced when the lawyer was momentarily unable to meet her gaze.

‘I shall not lie to you, My Lady. Lord Cowper has a reputation as a stern judge. It is why I recommended your husband make a guilty plea, for this judge responds to admissions of guilt and especially any sense of remorse.’

She was glad William had declined to plead guilty. ‘I am afraid my husband could show no remorse for wanting the true heir to the English throne to be sat upon it rather than a German, sir.’ It was Winifred expressing her defiance while Jane, horrified, could see the man’s eyes glaze over. It was clear he held no hope for the Earl if he persisted with this attitude.

With nothing more to be said, he politely but silently guided her into Westminster Hall. Jane knew the building dated back to the eleventh century, but she had no time to be inspired by the architecture, for she was overwhelmed by the tiers of seats that had been hastily built on scaffolding. Half the population of London had crushed themselves into them, as the lawyer had warned. The noise was immense as excited onlookers swapped their views and anticipated the colourful theatre of death sentences passed on important people, both Scottish and English. The smell of unwashed bodies was a powerfully sour note to add to Jane’s dismal mood.

People began to point at Winifred as Jane followed the lawyer’s directions to seats reserved for her and Cecilia. She kept her eyes facing ahead, determined not to lock gazes with anyone but William once he was brought in. She did glance up toward the magnificent hammerbeam roof — the largest in Europe — but the sight only added to her escalating sense of terror. If the Earl of Nithsdale was sentenced to death today, her life and Will’s life were over too. Nausea rose.

‘Winifred?’ Cecilia said, laying a worried hand on her friend’s arm.

‘I shall be fine,’ she murmured. ‘Just a moment of dizziness. I am already better.’

The Court of the King’s Bench was called to order and Jane watched, darkly fascinated as the lords walked through from the Upper House and the members filed in from the Commons to take their seats. Everyone stood as the Prince of Wales was announced and sombrely took his place in what looked to be a specially prepared box. Jane’s hopes were dashed further by his arrival, as it seemed to underline the gravity of the occasion, adding to her foreboding that death was about to tap Winifred’s husband on his shoulder.

She heard someone nearby whisper that the footmen and ushers on duty were dressed in a new set of scarlet livery. King George, she realised, was not squandering the opportunity to impress upon the people his power and worth as their new sovereign.

Cecilia was still and silent at her side, for which she was grateful. Her companion knew Winifred too well to twitter with pointless conversation or placations at this juncture. Jane used the time to quell her rising anxiety.

Then she caught sight of a familiar face and her heart lurched. Julius Sackville was watching her from the topmost tier of the noisiest set of stands. Everyone’s gaze was fixed on the doorway where the prisoners would be led out, but his was fixed on her alone. She felt tears sting. He looked so calm, as dark and brooding as a cave of secrets. She wanted to run to him, to hold him, to tell him that —

‘Here’s William!’ Cecilia cried, elbowing her, and dragging her attention away from Sackville to search out Winifred’s husband. He was second in the small line of condemned lords in their frock coats, and again she felt the familiar surge of love from Winifred, helplessly reaching out to the man she adored. From this distance Jane could be tricked again — for a moment — into thinking it was Will standing there, and her
own grief raced toward her throat. She forced it back down, determined not to disgrace herself or Winifred.

Jane watched his gaze search the chamber and find her, lock on to her, in what felt like a suddenly choking triangle, because she knew to her right was Julius, completing the third angle. She dared not shift her gaze and instead simply smiled as William Maxwell gave a sympathetic half-smile with a brief, encouraging nod. He was being strong for her.

He turned away to face the Court and as he did so her treacherous gaze searched for Sackville again, but his face was lost to her and she realised he had gone. The punch of realisation that he was no longer present was succeeded by a small sigh of relief … she could devote her attention purely to William now.

Cecilia gripped her arm tightly. ‘It’s Lord Cowper,’ and in the low hiss of Cecilia’s words, Jane heard the tension that her friend was trying to control as well.

Jane let go fully of Sackville and took a deep breath for Winifred, allowing her gaze to absorb the figure of the judge, clothed resplendently in crimson, processing slowly into the Hall. At his side was the Garter of Arms, who carried his processional wand, and they were followed by the Usher of the Black Rod. Jane was grateful for Winifred’s knowledge as she observed this solemn spectacle.

Atop the judge’s doughy, middle-aged face and frowning forehead sat a dark brown, curly wig of such length that Jane had to suppress a nervous giggle. Were these men blind when they saw themselves in a mirror? How absurd they looked!

Oblivious to her ridicule, William Cowper, lawyer and Whig MP, Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain for the past eight years, and now Lord High Steward presiding over the sentencing, glared at the excited audience from on high. An expectant hush rippled through Westminster Hall as he awaited their complete attention. Once satisfied, he nodded.

‘My Lords who are prisoners at the bar: I am to inform Your Lordships that upon any occasion which shall be offered you to speak for yourselves, you are to direct your speech to the lords in general, and so is any other person that shall have occasion to speak in this court.’

He proceeded to call out each of the lords’ names — Derwentwater, Nithsdale, Kenmure, Carnwarth, Nairn and Widdrington — making each sound like a death toll.