A Far Horizon

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  This youngest son – whom he hardly knew because of the war which separated them – approached tentatively. ‘Come closer, children, and greet your father.’ For one last time. But he did not say that, could scarcely bear to think it. ‘I have something to tell you. Something for your ears only.’

  Cromwell nodded his understanding and stepped back a couple of paces.

  Henry grinned, as if they were to play some secret game.

  ‘Now listen carefully, my darlings,’ Charles said, drawing them close. ‘I have summoned you today to bid you goodbye. I must go away soon – very soon – and I want you to always remember how much your father loves you.’

  Elizabeth questioned him with her eyes. He wondered how much she knew of the goings-on of the kingdom, the fighting, his imprisonment. He had asked that she be shielded from such knowledge, but she was an intelligent child. He had seen her watching, once or twice remarking on the lack of ceremony surrounding him when she visited him at Hampton Court.

  ‘Are you going back to the battlefield, Father? Is there to be more fighting? I thought all that had ended.’

  ‘No. There is to be no more fighting. That will be good, will it not?’ He paused, thinking how to proceed, inhaled deeply. ‘This time, I am going to a better place, a perfect kingdom where there is never war or grief or pain: a blessed kingdom.’

  ‘May we go with you, Father?’ Henry asked, excitement in his voice. ‘Please take us with you. You took Charles and James. I am old enough now.’

  But Elizabeth’s chin quivered. She held her hand to her lips to hide it.

  ‘No, Henry, where I am going you cannot go. Just yet. And your brothers are not going with me this time either. They are already with your mother in France. But all of you will join me later. We will have a wonderful reunion and never be parted again. All of us together in that new kingdom.’

  ‘Maman too?’ Elizabeth said in a small voice.

  ‘Oh yes. Maman, too.’

  His daughter pinched her mouth and squeezed her eyelids. A tear slid down her cheek. He took her hands in his and kissed them both, straining every nerve in his body not to let her tears draw out his own. He was uncomfortably aware of General Cromwell who, from across the room, cleared his throat and dropped his head. Charles lowered his voice to a whisper.

  ‘But before we meet again in that wonderful kingdom, I need you to do something for me. Chancellor Hyde is working with Parliament leaders to give you and your brother Henry leave to join your mother in France. You will see your little sister for the first time. It will be great fun, Henry, to have a little sister. You can teach her how to play all your favorite games. James and Charles can teach you how to joust like a real knight. You will like Paris, Elizabeth. There are lots of learned scholars there. You will hardly have time to miss me.’

  ‘Why can’t you go with us?’ she asked, her voice so low he had to strain to hear. His brave little daughter, the brightest of them all. Despite his cryptic language, she knew why.

  ‘When the time comes, Chancellor Hyde will escort you on your grand adventure. But first, this is what you must promise to do for your father.’

  The children nodded.

  ‘If you are moved to the royal apartments in the White Tower, you must mind your teachers and behave like the good children that you are. Do not make trouble. Do your lessons. Write down your thoughts – in English, Elizabeth.’

  The girl dropped her head and looked at the floor. He gently reached out his hand and tilted up her chin. ‘You are a princess of England, not a princess of Rome or France. You are to study the Holy Word and say your prayers – in English.’

  He reached inside a satchel on the floor beside him and drew out a heavy leather-bound book, handed it to her. Hesitant, she took it.

  ‘This is for you, Elizabeth. It is my Bible. It is the Bible given me by your grandfather, James Stuart. It was his greatest desire that this book be the official Word in England and Scotland and Ireland. It is yours now. Honor it. Read it and read it to your brother. Every day. And say your prayers every night. Both of you are to attend chapel in the White Tower. There will be an Anglican priest there. Do you have a Book of Common Prayer?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘The Anglican priest will be pleased to provide you with one. When you write to your mother and brothers in Paris, you may write in French. Be careful what you write. You must assume your letters will be read by spies.’

  He paused, looked firmly at each of them. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Father. I am glad we don’t have to write in Latin. It is too hard,’ Henry said.

  ‘Elizabeth?’

  ‘Yes, Father. I will do as you have said. But may I at least continue my studies of the Greek philosophers? They still allow my tutor. She comes twice a week.’

  He sighed. ‘I suppose that is permissible. She is a scholar, not a cleric. But don’t forget to take your exercise in the garden. You need the sunshine and Henry needs your company. Now, one more thing. This is of the utmost importance. Listen closely. When you are given leave to go to Paris, I want you to take a message to your mother. This is what you must say. Elizabeth, you are to tell your mother that I love her still and that I have always been faithful to her,’ he said.

  It was no lie. He had always been faithful – in his heart. But Carisbrooke Castle was a lonely, hard place to be imprisoned. Henrietta would never have to know, and God would forgive him. He had forgiven another King far worse.

  ‘Climb up on my lap, Henry. I have a special instruction for you, also.’ He tried to say this cheerfully, struggled to push back the voice in his head reminding him there would be no other chance for his children to sit on his lap. ‘My, how you have grown since last you sat in my lap.’

  The child straightened his spine to a proud posture.

  ‘Now, your turn, Henry. Are you listening? This is most important of all my instructions. It is something only you can do.’

  The young Duke nodded earnestly.

  As Charles began his instructions, the child’s eyes grew large and round. Elizabeth’s sharp intake of breath alerted him, but he warned her with a glance and a shake of his head. When he had finished with the admonition, he repeated, ‘Do not be made a king by them.’ The little boy straightened himself, took a deep breath, and said resolutely, ‘I will be torn in pieces first.’

  The spirit with which he said it, this mere child, so earnest and brave, cheered his heart. Smiling, he lifted the child off his lap to stand again beside his sister.

  ‘Now,’ he said raising his voice, ‘General Cromwell will take you back to the White Tower. You will bide there, until it is time for you to go to Paris to be with your mother. Chancellor Hyde will visit you often to see that you are well provided for. If anyone is unkind to you, tell him. Look out for each other. Remember your promise to me, Henry. I will ask you when we meet again if you were true to it.’

  ‘I will not let them make me King, Father. Not ever.’

  ‘And Elizabeth?’

  ‘I will give your message to Maman, Father.’

  He kissed each of them on the cheek and said. ‘I have a parting gift. For remembrance of thy father.’ He removed two jeweled rings from his finger that he had been allowed to keep, and folded them into a palm of each child’s hand, saying, ‘Goodbye, my children. I give thee my blessing.’

  As Cromwell led them away, Charles turned his back to the wall. He would not let his enemy witness his tears.

  The next morning dawned a bitter cold. The King had slept but little. Having passed the emotional hurdle of bidding goodbye to his children, determined not to borrow pain before he had to bear it, he submitted his fate to God and willed his thoughts to a more philosophical bent. What did his death mean for the future of England? Would God wreak yet more havoc on this kingdom for their sin of regicide? The sorry rump of a Parliament had never replaced the leadership of John Pym. If Prince Charles, with Henrietta’s help, could raise an army and seize the thron
e. So many if’s.

  Finally, he saw the gray light seeping through the window and around the door. The last dawn he would ever see. He got up, shivering in his night shirt, pulled back the window curtain to greet it. The fire in his chamber had been unattended since midnight. Charles declined to break his fast but sat beside the dying embers. Bishop William Juxon, an old friend who had once served as the court chaplain, and as Lord High Treasurer, sat with him, prayed with him, read Scripture with him and offered the sacrament. Parliament had appointed a Presbyterian chaplain, but had conceded when Charles asked to be attended by the Bishop of London.

  It was a little before ten o’clock in the morning when the Parliament-assigned custodian, Colonel Tomlinson, came to tell him it was time to leave for the processional to Whitehall. ‘You will be going on foot, Your Majesty, accompanied by a regiment of the New Model Army, front and rear, to protect the King’s dignity and preserve order.’

  ‘Do not worry, Colonel. There will be no rescue party. We are way beyond that. And I agree the King’s dignity must be preserved even as they cut off his head.’

  Tomlinson had the grace to look embarrassed. But in truth Charles was also worried about the King’s dignity – and the King’s pain.

  ‘It is a bitter morning. Please tell my servant to bring me an extra shirt to wear beneath my doublet. I would not like my enemies to think I shiver from fear. And instruct him to bring my nightcap. I want the axe to meet no impediment. I hope the blade has been honed and the axe man is a professional.’

  Charles tried to dispel the bloody image that had been placed in his head as a child, the gruesome story of what had happened at the execution of his grandmother, Mary, Queen of Scots; how her head had been hacked off three times, ragged sinews hanging, her mouth still twitching, when the headsman held it up.

  ‘This headsman is an expert, Your Majesty. From France, I think. They could find no Englishman among your subjects who would do it – for any sum. The officers of the Tower have assured us the Committee Blade has been newly honed. It should be swift and … painless.’

  ‘Then let us begin,’ he said, and walked out into the street to take his place.

  As they marched, he couldn’t help but observe that General Cromwell’s army was impressive, disciplined, marching as one and well turned out, their regiment flags waving in the slight breeze. Charles was grateful for the extra shirt as he walked the short distance to Whitehall, regiments front and back of him, drums beating, flags unfurling. Even in his extremity, he summoned that part of himself that provided intellectual distance and held back fear, much as he had been able to do on the battlefield. He looked right and left at both the loyal and the disloyal, meeting the eyes of his enemies with his head held high and nodding at the occasional tearful face of a faithful friend or loyal subject. He remarked to Colonel Tomlinson, walking beside him, in clear conversational tones of detachment, about the quality of the day, the size of the crowd lining the route.

  They were approaching Whitehall when a small disturbance occurred and a tall woman in a hooded cape of forest green rushed forward. Before the startled guards could pull her away, she pulled back her furred hood so that he could see her face and knelt before him.

  ‘Stop. We would speak with this good woman,’ he said.

  Colonel Tomlinson held up his hand to halt the marchers. The drums stilled. Charles bade the woman stand. ‘Mistress Whorwood. Jane.’

  He considered her tear-streaked face. She was a comely woman, even in extremity. But not a beautiful one. And yet, she had been able to move him more than any other. In his darkest hours he had been buoyed by her loyalty and exalted by her reckless demonstrations of affection. This one was especially rash, but it would be her last.

  ‘Your love and loyalty to your sovereign has been much appreciated, my dear lady. It was kind of you to wish to bid me farewell.’ He said this loudly enough that Colonel Tomlinson and Bishop Juxon behind him could hear clearly. Then, dropping his voice, ‘Leave quickly, Jane. Do not linger in this crowd. Go back to Oxford this night. Take with you the memory and love of your King.’

  Colonel Tomlinson motioned for one of the soldiers situated at stations along the way. ‘See this woman safely away.’ Then he signaled for the processional to enter the portal at Whitehall.

  As they entered, Charles looked straight ahead, refusing to look at the crudely cut door facing the street through which he would at some near hour meet death. Sooner rather than later was his hope. Waiting would only deplete his strength. The Banqueting House. Henrietta’s joy. The King’s glory.

  Standing beneath Peter Paul Rubens’ painted ceiling, he felt himself a small figure. He gazed upward at the magnificent creation of color and light, a riotous celebration of the Stuart Divine Right to rule: James I, his foot on the world, his scepter lifted upwards, his arm supported by the figure of Justice. The infant Charles was there too, presented by figures representing both Scotland and England: Scotland who betrayed him, England who ripped the crown from his head, and would soon slice off the anointed head that bore it. Where now was the triumph of justice and virtue presented in the painting? Where the promised triumph of peace over war? Beside the still waters, Charles. Death is but a shadow. This world is but a shadow. This broken kingdom is but a shadow.

  Hours later he took, at the urging, a bit of bread and wine to fortify his body so he would not faint. Still they did not come. Some problem with the headsman? Or the sword? Or was this delay just to prolong his suffering? He sipped the wine and nibbled at the bread and a bit of tasteless cheese, then asked to be alone to say his prayers in private. He prayed for Henrietta in France. He should have seen her off at Falmouth Harbor, but it had never occurred to him when he left her so abruptly in Bedford that he would never see his dear heart again. He hoped Elizabeth remembered to give her his message. He prayed for his children, calling each by name, and even the youngest daughter who would never know him. He prayed for the kingdom he was leaving. And finally, he prayed for the courage to die with honor.

  Beside the still waters. In the valley of the shadow of death.

  This last prayer was answered. An unusual calm descended over him as he prepared to step through the newly cut-out door, fronting onto the street, and onto the black-draped platform prepared for a king’s execution. No common scaffolding on Ludgate Hill, this with its black velvet draped platform and lined coffin waiting. A large knot of soldiers stood in front of the scaffolding, a barrier between the spectacle and the large crowd that spilled into the street as far as he could see. He paused and assessed this last earthly convocation he would witness. It was an orderly crowd. Unlike the crowd that witnessed Thomas Wentworth, eight years gone, martyred for his loyalty to his King. Unlike the crowd that witnessed Archbishop William Laud four years gone, martyred for his loyalty to the one true Church of England. No howling mob waited for the King’s head. At long last, the burden Charles had carried for nine years would be lifted. That same King, whom these two friends had trusted and who had failed them, would join them. Atonement.

  The sonorous pealing of two bells interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘It is time, Your Majesty.’

  He stepped through the door.

  A hush fell on those assembled. Behind him Bishop Juxon intoned the Lord’s prayer. The smell of the new-cut wood assailed his nostrils. Now, treading the raw boards, he bolstered his courage, as before, by voicing aloud to these faithless witnesses, as he had to his children, that he was only exchanging this broken and imperfect kingdom for a perfect kingdom where he would be rewarded for his faithfulness. But at the sight of the black-masked executioner, the block, the waiting coffin, a momentary turbulence troubled the still waters of the Psalmist’s promise.

  ‘The block is too low. It should be raised.’ Charles addressed this to Colonel Hacker – Please, Christ and all the saints, let not the irony of this man’s name be a sign.

  ‘I am sorry, it cannot be changed. It is already in place.’ The man’s voice
was civil enough, but Charles knew the positioning of the block was an unsubtle attempt at his humiliation.

  ‘My linen cap, please,’ he told the servant, ‘beneath which to tuck my hair.’ He said this matter-of-factly, a King’s voice, still giving orders. ‘No hindrance between blade and object.’ He placed some coins in the executioner’s hand. ‘Take care that you do not put me to pain, good headsman.’ The black-hooded executioner nodded.

  As a last chance to cleanse his soul, and as a display of the King’s piety, a lesson for the watchers – especially the little congregation in the front rows of those who had condemned him – he knelt to pray for those who had been loyal to him and ask divine forgiveness for his enemies. He prayed for John Pym, pausing to ponder with a sigh how they two would greet each other in Heaven. (In the unlikely event, of course, that Pym was there.) He asked God’s guidance for Parliament to realize their grievous error and prayed that the Crown would be restored to Prince Charles, who would heal the land of its bloody wounds.

  Crossing himself, he stood up then and, fumbling with the linen cap, tried to tuck his heavy locks beneath it.

  ‘Allow me, Your Highness,’ Tomlinson said.

  With the image of the Reubens painting still floating before his eyes, he proclaimed as loudly as he could, ‘I go from a corruptible to an incorruptible Crown, where no disturbance can be!’ Then, after making a joke to the headsman about not harming the blade lest it harm him, he knelt, spread his arms wide, and put his head upon the block.

  One clean, quick slice.

  In silence, lest his voice be recognized, the headsman lifted the bloody head of their King for the modest crowd of assembled witnesses. The response from the crowd was a stunned silence broken only by a muted ‘praise be to God’ coming from the chief prosecutors in the front row, who were sufficiently removed so the King’s blood would not spatter them. One or two cheers threatened, then faded into the hovering quiet, as one by one the small crowd in the courtyard drifted away with stunned expressions, realization dawning. They had killed an anointed King, God’s deputy placed on earth to govern them. Now what? Was it over? Even the prosecutors were restrained in their singular achievement as the body was placed in its velvet-lined coffin and carried away.