The King's Man (35 page)

The four accused were seated on a bench facing a raised platform where a table neatly set with feathered pens, ink and papers stood ready for the judges. No spectators and no jury. Gerard was right. If they were tried before a jury they would undoubtedly be acquitted. He didn't know his judges. They sat grim-faced behind the table surveying the four men, passing judgment before the trial even began.

The charges were read and the men asked to plead. Gerard, as the senior in age and rank, rose to his feet.

"I refuse to submit to the jurisdiction of this court,” he declared, his beard jutting imperiously at the bench of judges.

"And I...” Vowells rose beside him. “We are innocent of the charges laid before you and we demand the right to a fair trial by a jury of our peers."

The senior judge's eye moved to Fox and Kit. “And you?"

Kit rose slowly to his feet. “Sir, you have before you no doubt a full confession signed by me, admitting my complicity in a plot against the Lord Protector. I see no point in disputing the jurisdiction of this court when such evidence would secure a conviction before any court."

There was a general nodding of heads and the eyes moved to Fox.

Fox, less sure of himself, rose to his feet. His hands shook as he nodded. “I too have signed a confession,” he said. “What Captain Lovell has said, answers my case as well."

"Be seated. Now Lord Gerard, let us hear your argument as to why this court is improperly constituted."

Gerard argued long, loudly and to no avail. At the end of the day his arguments were dismissed and the trials commenced.

Through the haze of his own self-despair, Kit heard his name. He looked up.

"I call as witness, Captain Christopher Lovell,” the prosecutor said.

Kit rose to his feet. “No. I will not give testimony against these men."

"It's not a matter you have a choice about, Captain Lovell."

"I refuse to answer any questions,” Kit said. “You have my confession, you need no more."

"You will answer the questions,” the judge said with a glare, “or it will be the worse for you."

"How much worse can it be?"

"The difference between life and death."

"I will not bear testimony against these men.” Kit looked across at Gerard and Vowells. “I have done enough.” He sat down.

Fox was called and unlike Kit he proved happy to talk, digging deeper graves for his conspirators with every word. Kit lowered his head and closed his eyes, willing himself away from this place, in Thamsine's arms, in a world where they were safe and free of England.

Guilt was the finding swiftly delivered on all four of them and deliberation on sentence need hardly have taken place.

"As to the accused Lord John Gerard, this court finds him guilty and sentences him to death by beheading. As to the accused Phillip Vowells this court finds him guilty and sentences him to death by hanging, as to the accused Somerset Fox, the court finds him guilty and in view of his admission of guilt and cooperation sentences him to banishment to the island of Barbados. As to the accused, Christopher Lovell, the Court finds him guilty and takes note of his admission of guilt but in view of his close complicity in this heinous design, sentences him to death by hanging. These sentences to be carried out as soon as is practicable."

Kit hardly heard the words. Just for a moment, after the sentence on Fox was pronounced, he had hoped that some influence external to the court would prevail. He raised his head, scanning the room for John Thurloe, but he was not present. All Kit could feel was anger. He had trusted Thurloe, taken his advice, cooperated and yet he would still die.

Thamsine set her mask and hat down on the table and pushed back the stray tendril of hair that clung to her damp forehead.

"Thurloe won't see me,” she said.

"I didn't think he would.” Kit set down his beloved Francis Bacon and rose to his feet.

Thamsine gave a faint half-smile. “You must know every word in that book by heart."

Kit picked the book up, flicking through the well-read pages. He held out the book to her.

"Take it, Thamsine,” his mouth curled in a rueful smile. “It's all I have to give you."

She took a step back. “Don't talk like that."

He closed his eyes for a moment. “Thamsine, Thurloe won't see you because there is nothing he can, or will do. I go to the scaffold in the morning."

She straightened her shoulders and he could see the strain in the line of her jaw and her throat. She would not make a scene or make parting any more difficult than it already was. That, in its own way, was harder to bear than hysterics.

"Talk to me of ordinary things, Tham. Tell me some gossip.” He smiled and walked around the table, folding her in his arms.

She leaned her head against the soft linen of his shirt.

"May has a suitor,” she said.

In the two months of his incarceration her appearance had changed. The chestnut hair shone with health. He kissed the gleaming locks, smelling the faint scent of rosemary and chamomile.

"Who is her suitor?"

"A carter. He's a good man, solid and reliable. Just right for her."

"What about Nan?"

"She is honing her tongue. I swear it grows sharper by the day but she is pleased for May, I think."

"And Jem?"

"Henpecked by Nan. She all but runs the inn now I think."

His hand caressed the nape of her neck. He closed his eyes, trying to impress on his memory her warm, living scent.

"And your sister?"

"She has her good days. Since the children have been with her, she has been better."

He held her closer and they stood locked in embrace. So much to say and yet words were inadequate and unnecessary. All that needed to be said was in her tears that soaked his shirt, the feel of her silken hair in his hands and in the touch of his lips on her smooth forehead

She gave a choking sob and he held her closer.

"I'm sorry, Tham. So sorry,” he whispered. “It shouldn't have ended like this."

"No.” Her voice choked.

In a sudden, swift movement he released her, his hands lifting to her face. With a savage ferocity he kissed her, trying to draw the life force from her and hold it within himself. Thamsine's tears spilled unchecked down her cheeks, onto his hands.

As suddenly as he had seized her he let her go. He strode to the window and stood looking out, his back to her, his arms wrapped tightly around his body. He couldn't bring himself to look at her again. He couldn't trust himself to remain strong.

"Please go, Thamsine,” he said, his voice tight with emotion.

"Kit...” Thamsine hesitated.

"Go.” This time his voice was softer.

He heard the door open and shut and he watched as she left the tower, moving stiffly as if a puppeteer controlled her limbs. She stopped and looked up at his window, her face wet with tears. She then turned and walked away as if it were she who walked to the scaffold.

In the dark, lonely hours before dawn, Kit sat at the table and wondered what he should be feeling. Death had always loomed at the edge of his consciousness but always a sharp, brutal death on the battlefield, not a calculated, judicial determination of place, time and means.

He had asked for and been granted paper and a pen and he sat on the stool, the pen held awkwardly in the fingers of his right hand. The fingers had knit as well as they could but they were stiff, the joints unyielding. He would never wield a sword again but then, he supposed, that was really of little importance now. He could at least try and write one last letter.

"Dearest Thamsine,” he began and sat chewing the end of the pen. The awkward letters looked like the ill-educated scrawling of an eight-year-old child, not his usual, immaculate hand.

He set the pen down and closed his eyes, trying to remember every moment of their last meeting. The memory was too painful. Kit gave a shuddering sigh and picked up the pen again.

With renewed determination he began:

By the time you read this I will be dead. It is strange to know the exact hour of my death, a privilege not afforded many. I try not to think of the manner of my end and just pray that it will be swift. It is customary, I suppose, at times like this to have regrets but I find myself curiously thankful for my life. I have made many mistakes and done many things of which I am not proud but at no time could I ever say that my life was dull. One of the few good things I have done and by far the best was to pluck you from the crowd on that cold day in February. The few months that you have been a part of my life you have brought me absolute joy and taught me for the first time what it is to love a person completely and unconditionally. I have nothing of any value to leave you. A poor showing for my life, I know. Eveleigh and the empty title that goes with it will devolve to Daniel. I have to trust to Thurloe's assurances that he will return safely. Pray for Daniel, Thamsine, as you pray for me. My other concern is for my daughter Eloise. She is happy with her cousins and unless you think it wise, perhaps it is best she is left there with them. I only ask that you intercede with Daniel or my grandfather to grant her sufficient for a good dowry and some allowance to see she lacks for nothing in her life. Her guardian, my cousin, should be told of my death...

Kit paused and shook his aching hand before writing Suzanne's address.

Finally, my dearest Thamsine, I can do nothing more than wish you a happy life. Free yourself of the past ties and enjoy what is now your fortune. If our marriage accomplished nothing but your liberation then I die happy in that knowledge. There is nothing more I can say, words are inadequate but I will hold your face in my memory until the end, remember me always.

Yr loving and affectionate husband,

Kit

Kit sanded the letter, shook off the sand and reread the scrawl. Written words seemed so much easier than the spoken words. Everything he had planned to say to her that afternoon had entirely escaped him when confronted with her love and her grief.

Carefully he folded the paper and sealed it, addressing it to Thamsine Lovell, care of the Ship Inn. He set it aside. It still lacked a few hours to dawn, a few more hours to make his peace with the world.

As the sky began to lighten through the window, he looked up at his last dawn and memories of other dawns flooded him—those he had spent around campfires, before battles, in bed with pretty girls.

He rose to his feet and dressed carefully in a new suit of good blue cloth. Unable to use his right hand, he hadn't shaved properly since his encounter with Morton so he had ordered the services of a barber. He intended to go to the scaffold looking every inch the gentleman that he was.

The door opened and Barkstead loomed in the doorway. “Ready to meet the Lord, Lovell?” he asked.

"You are optimistic about where I am headed,” Kit replied.

"I am a great believer in a forgiving God,” Barkstead said. “The pastor is here if you wish to pray."

"I've made my peace with God,” Kit replied. “However I have no objections to him saying a few words on my behalf."

He picked up the letter to Thamsine. “You will see this delivered?"

Barkstead nodded and stowed the letter in his jacket. He waited patiently as the barber saw to Kit's chin. Kit rose to his feet and put on his jacket. He hoped Barkstead didn't notice that his fingers shook in the task. He straightened the collar and took a deep breath.

Barkstead gave an approving chuckle. “Very nice, Captain Lovell. ‘Tis a pity there will be no crowd to admire you."

"No crowd?” Kit smiled. “What a pity. I hear Vowells had quite a send-off."

"No, for you, ‘tis a private affair, here in the Tower.” Barkstead shrugged. “You must have a friend somewhere."

After the pastor had pronounced some solemn thoughts on the future of Kit's soul, Barkstead stood to one side.

"After you, Captain Lovell,” he said.

Kit took a deep breath, trying to calm the churning in his stomach. His limbs felt wooden and unresponsive. He closed his eyes and willed them to obey. He would not be dragged to the gibbet, hysterical and screaming, but would die with what little dignity he had.

He could, he supposed as he descended the narrow, winding stairs, have insisted on beheading. It was his right as a member of the aristocracy but then few people knew who he was and those who had known had forgotten or were dead. No, he would die, as he had lived, as a commoner and besides, from what the gossip had told him, Lord Gerard's despatch at the hands of a headsman had been unpleasant in the extreme. “Four goes to lop it off,” the turnkey had said.

A scaffold had been erected in the courtyard, the wood smelling new and fresh. He mounted the steps to the platform. Above him the noose stirred slightly in the chill, early morning breeze. Below him stood two men, well wrapped in their cloaks, hats hiding their eyes. He barely gave them a glance and wondered if they had their breakfast before or after the deed took place.

"Any last words?” Barkstead asked as one of his men secured Kit's arms behind his back.

In the hours before dawn, Kit had rehearsed a number of well-chosen epithets; now they escaped him completely. He shivered slightly and looked at the banner of the Commonwealth flying high above the White Tower. He thought of Lord Gerard and his lengthy speech to the gathered crowd. For Kit there was no crowd, and professions of innocence, loyalty to the king and to his country seemed misplaced and hypocritical. He shook his head.

The hangman pulled him towards the stool and he stepped on to it. He swallowed, took a last deep breath of air, tinged with the stench of a London summer, as the man hung the noose around his neck. The weight of the cord, pulled down by the heavy knot, hung slackly on his shoulders.

He stood poised only for an instant before the stool jerked away from beneath him. The slack in the rope caught and tightened. In that split second Kit panicked. The knot had been badly tied. He would die by slow strangulation. He wanted to protest but already the rope bit in, cutting off blood and air.