by Holly West
“Charles will not allow these men to harm me,” she said with certainty.
“Perhaps not,” I said. “But the king might not have a choice in the matter.”
Tears began to form in Catherine’s eyes and she swiped at her face in anger. “Will they never leave me alone?” she said under her breath.
I remained silent.
“I have been in England for almost twenty years, Lady Wilde. They did not accept me when I came here because I was an ugly foreigner. Then when I could not give England a legitimate heir, they hated me even more. I will tell you this—it is not the Catholics you should fear but the men who speak their lies against me and my religion.”
I took her hand with no thought of the impropriety of it and she did not pull away. “Your Majesty must be careful. Even a queen can be accused of treason.”
Catherine gasped at the word and became suddenly calm. “I would not utter treasonous words, Lady Wilde, for in doing so I would be speaking against my husband. As I said, I am sure he will protect me. He has never done any other thing in all the years we’ve been married.”
I bent my head, unwilling to look her in the eye. I had, after all, lain with her husband just a day ago.
“The hour is growing late, Lady Wilde, and I must attend chapel. Thank you for your visit.”
I left the queen to her prayers.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Thursday, 7 November 1678
During the first week of November, Lucian was finally well enough to return to his room at Mrs. Grayson’s house. As I sat on the bed watching him pack up his meager belongings, his manner could only be described as gleeful. No doubt his first stop would be the bawdy house. For my part, I was rather sorry to see him leave.
“You’re sure you don’t want to stay a bit longer?” I asked for the tenth time. “You’ve still got that limp.”
Lucian stood on his bad leg to demonstrate the extent of his recovery. “Nonsense, I’ll be dancing a country jig within a fortnight.” He came over to the bed and sat down next to me, taking my hand in his. “I do appreciate everything you’ve done for me Isabel. You know I do.”
I smiled at him sadly. There were marks on his face that would never heal, but instead of marring his appearance, they added an attractive roguish quality, as though my sweet-faced brother had been replaced by an older, more jaded man. Someone who could take care of himself, who did not need an overprotective sister hovering about him. And so I let him go.
It wasn’t long before he began to frequent Whitehall again, which gave me renewed access to an important source of gossip. After one such evening, he reported that with Buckingham’s sponsorship, Captain Bedloe had quickly eclipsed Titus Oates as England’s hero.
“Bedloe testified again before the Lords’ committee yesterday,” Lucian said. “He insists Edward Coleman asked him to help with the murder of Sir Edmund Godfrey.”
The lamb I’d been chewing became stringy and impossible to swallow. I spit it back onto my plate. “That’s impossible. Coleman was in Newgate when Sir Edmund was killed.”
“That’s not everything.” Lucian leaned in conspiratorially. “Coleman was brought before the committee with Bedloe present and Bedloe didn’t recognize him. Strange thing since he’d said it was Coleman who tried to hire him in the first place. He explained the blunder by saying he’d been confronted with so many different people in the last few weeks, no reasonable man could expect him to keep them all straight.”
“He’s a lying knave!”
Lucian shrugged. “No matter. The Lords’ committee agreed and Coleman will be tried for treason and conspiring to murder Sir Edmund Godfrey.”
* * *
“The king is occupied, Lady Wilde,” William Chiffinch said, futilely attempting to block my way. I pushed past him and burst into the king’s private rooms, not caring if I found Charles in the throws of passion with another woman or grunting upon his chamber pot.
Neither was the case. Charles sat at his massive oak desk reviewing a document with a quill in his hand. Danby stood beside his chair, holding a pile of additional papers for the king to sign. Both of them looked at me with questions in their eyes.
“Isabel, what is it?” Charles said, concerned.
“I should very much like to talk to Your Majesty alone,” I said, ignoring Danby.
“As you can see, Lady Wilde, His Majesty is busy,” Danby replied, returning my gaze with equal intensity.
Charles sighed and waved him off. “Leave us, Thomas. I’ll return to these later.”
“Very well, Your Majesty.” Danby took his time adjusting the papers in his hands, and we exchanged angry glances as he turned on his heel and left the room.
“Now then, Isabel,” Charles said, folding his hands together upon his desk. “What is it?”
“I’ve just come from the Old Bailey,” I said. “Edward Coleman’s been convicted of murdering Sir Edmund Godfrey. He’s to be executed tomorrow.”
The trial had lasted only three days but from the beginning it was clear Coleman had little chance of regaining his freedom. Titus Oates, the first witness called for the Crown, claimed to have been a good friend of Sir Edmund, and he said the magistrate had confessed to him he’d been threatened by Edward Coleman. Oates hung his head mournfully as he gave the account of his dear acquaintance’s fear of the Catholics.
But the most damning testimony came from Bedloe. By now his story was well practiced and he stood before the court with all the confidence of a skilled barrister. He admitted Edward Coleman had enlisted him to murder Sir Edmund Godfrey for the sum of five hundred pounds. When Bedloe refused, Coleman allegedly told him, “No matter, the deed shall be done with or without your help, even if I have to do it myself.”
When Mr. Richardson, Newgate’s keeper was called, it was pointed out that Edward Coleman had been incarcerated the night of Sir Edmund’s murder. “I keep the most secure gaol in England,” he replied. “But do not forget Mr. Coleman has powerful friends for whom bribery is a simple matter. I cannot say with certainty whether he was locked up that night.”
Another witness claimed to have seen Coleman outside Somerset House on the night of the murder, and another, a fellow prisoner of Newgate, swore he’d overheard Coleman bragging about committing the murder.
Essential questions, such as why, if Sir Edmund was killed at Somerset House was his body moved to Primrose Hill, were not asked and so were not answered. To his credit, Edward Coleman presented himself well, despite his obvious state of deprivation. Newgate had reduced him to a trifle of his former self and yet he spoke with the assuredness of an innocent man, convinced the truth would come out and he would be freed. When Lord Chief Justice Scroggs announced the jury’s verdict—guilty—Coleman had a blank look on his face, as though he couldn’t quite comprehend what had happened.
Now Charles regarded me impatiently. “Is that all?” He unfolded his hands and sat back in his chair. “It’s no surprise a guilty man has been convicted.”
“You know he’s innocent as well as I do,” I said, crossing my arms against my chest.
“I know nothing of the kind, nor do you.”
“The only reason he’s in this predicament is because he’s a Catholic. Surely you would not have a man killed simply for his religious beliefs? Think of your own brother.”
“York knows the dangers of practicing his faith well enough.” Charles said, exasperated. “Come now, Isabel. You interrupt my business for this? I have far more important matters to attend to.”
“No, Charles, you do not. You have the power to stop this travesty of justice right now.”
Charles got up and came around to the front of the desk where I stood. “Isabel,” he said, taking my chin in his large fingers and lifting my face so that my eyes met his. “How is it that you’ve become just another meddling woman?”
I stepped back out of his reach. “Please, Charles. Order Coleman’s release.”
“There’s nothing I can do for hi
m.”
“There is an evil in your kingdom so dangerous that it threatens to destroy that which means the most to you, and I am the only person who dares to publicly question it. You have the power to pardon Coleman and show Buckingham and the House of Lords you will not be bullied.”
He glared at me but said nothing. I knew I was pushing Charles to the edge of his patience but I didn’t care. “Bedloe and Oates have lied incessantly about Coleman and the other Catholics, you know that. You have caught them in lies yourself. Now you’re sacrificing Coleman to the Protestants.”
There was an edge to Charles’s voice when he finally spoke. “I know you are not so ignorant of politics to think that I can pardon Coleman with no regard for the wishes of Parliament and the people. The opposition has moved aggressively. It is in no one’s interest for Coleman to live.”
“Least of all yours!”
The anger in Charles’s eyes was replaced by coldness. “Careful, Isabel. You’re treading upon dangerous ground.”
I knew that Charles’s goodwill was all that stood between myself and the gaol, so I swallowed hard and struggled with my reply. “You’re right,” I said. “I have been around the court long enough to know there are certain rules that cannot be broken, certain practicalities that cannot be escaped. But to allow Coleman’s execution when you know he is innocent is—”
“Paint me how you will, Isabel,” Charles said. “Coleman has been convicted and will die a murderer and a traitor. I will do nothing to stop it.”
I knew hope was lost for Coleman then. I hung my head and dropped my shoulders with defeat.
Charles reached out and caressed my cheek. This time I did not back away. “My dear, you shall live a far happier existence when you cease looking for justice at every turn.” He looked at something beyond my shoulder and I turned around to see that Chiffinch had at some point reentered the room.
“Chiffinch, tell Danby he can return now,” Charles said. “You’re dismissed, Isabel.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Tuesday, 12 November 1678
Early on Tuesday morning, I stood with Lucian, Sam, Charlotte and an ever-growing crowd of curious onlookers at Tyburn Hill, waiting for the condemned prisoners’ cart to arrive. The mid-November sky was angry and dark, and cold enveloped me, rendering the fur-lined hood and cloak I wore as thin as silk.
I’d never witnessed an execution before, though London’s rougher residents considered it fine entertainment, cheaper than the price of a theatre ticket. Constables on horseback surrounded the throng, only keeping moderate order. Sam kept a close watch on all of us, ever mindful of the pickpockets and thieves in close proximity, many of whom he knew by name.
It wasn’t long before a cart bearing the condemned came rolling up to the gallows. I scanned the occupants, momentarily relieved when Edward Coleman did not appear to be among them. But any hope I still had for Coleman’s reprieve ended when I saw the horse-drawn hurdle carrying him alone. He sat in the curved wooden sled with his arms secured behind his back, facing the crowd. The noose had already been draped around his neck, and the excess rope pooled on the bottom of the hurdle in front of him. A sheriff sat in front of Coleman with his sword drawn and ready, as though he could jump up and attack at any moment.
The spectators became more agitated when they saw Coleman, their shouts growing louder. “Take off his hat so we can see his face!” Those closest to the hurdle began throwing dirt and rocks in his direction, and he winced when a few found their marks on his arms and torso.
“Kill the murdering papist!”
“Down with the French spy!”
“The devil take you and your kind!”
In spite of the horrid conditions, Coleman looked rather peaceful. I imagined that apart from his trial, this was the first glimpse of the outdoors he’d had in a long while, and he lifted his face to the sky and closed his eyes. I couldn’t tell if he were praying or simply enjoying the feel of the brisk air on his skin.
The horses stopped when they came to the gallows, known as the triple tree because of their triangular shape. Each arm of the structure was able to hold eight people so that on busy days, twenty-four prisoners could be hanged at once. Today’s hanging would include only five men. The prisoners in the cart were escorted one by one onto a wheeled platform. When it was Coleman’s turn, he stood up and scanned the crowd as though looking for someone in particular. Finally, he seemed to understand that no one would save him. Not the Duke of York, not the king, and not his God. Resigned to his fate, he stepped into place.
Two horses led the platform to its position beneath the gallows. Jack Ketch, the hangman, positioned two of the men on each arm of the tree and pushed Coleman under the third. Coleman remained calm as his rope was secured around the top beam.
“Do the prisoners have any last words?” Ketch asked.
The first man, convicted of robbery, shook his fist in the air, shouting his innocence. The next acknowledged the crowd as though he were an actor performing a soliloquy, calling upon God to have mercy on his soul. Then it came time for Coleman to speak. I strained to hear his words over the raucous shouts of the crowd. “My desire has only ever been to serve my king and country and to spread the word of the one true faith. In his infinite wisdom, the Lord God has seen fit that I go to my home in heaven on this day, and I shall go willingly.” He lifted his hands up to the sky. “As I am innocent, so receive my soul, O Lord Jesus.”
The crowd burst into a frenzy of furious shouts. Collectively they pushed forward and I was forcibly moved a few feet. Sam put his arms around us and braced himself so we could all remain steady. Those observers closest to the scaffold grabbed for Coleman’s legs as though they wished to hang him themselves. The mounted officers struggled to keep them back.
As the hoods were placed over the men’s heads, Sam leaned in close to me. “You might want to turn your head now,” he whispered. I shook my head. I had come to witness Coleman’s execution and I would not look away.
Jack Ketch struck the horse closest to him with a switch and gave a loud shriek to get it moving. Charlotte let out a scream as both horses bolted forward, leaving the five men hanging with nothing underfoot. I gasped in horror as I saw that none of them appeared to have died; their legs kicked violently, trying in vain to find the absent platform. A weeping woman ran out of the crowd and grabbed the legs of one of the men. She jumped and held on so that her full weight was off the ground, pulling him downward, attempting to ease the suffering of her loved one by helping the noose to do its work.
Coleman’s legs jerked back and forth, and a growing darkness had spread across the front of his breeches. Alas, urinating upon himself was not to be his final indignity. Jack Ketch cut down his still-live body and ordered it to be thrown back onto the hurdle. Coleman would be transported through the angry streets of London, back to Newgate where he would die a traitor’s death.
That night, I dreamt about Coleman’s body as it lay disemboweled and quartered in the recesses of Newgate, waiting for Jack Ketch to boil the pieces in a cauldron with cumin and salt. I awoke with a start and vomited into the chamber pot.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Friday, 15 November 1678
The vision of Coleman hanging from the Triple Tree tormented me for days afterward. I couldn’t enjoy the simplest of tasks—even reading or embroidery, things I normally found pleasurable. No matter what I did, I couldn’t ease the terrible memory. I’d failed Coleman the same way I’d failed Sir Edmund, and despite Sam’s reassurance I’d done all I could for him, Coleman’s death haunted me.
Though I’d heard Captain Bedloe’s testimony at Edward Coleman’s trial, I had not actually spoken to him since that night in the hackney outside of the Cock and Fox. I thought I’d made it quite clear then that I never wanted to see him again, but the message was somehow lost on him because nearly every day since, he’d sent a messenger inviting me to visit him at his room. I always told Alice to send him on his way.
/> We were just finishing supper when the now familiar door knock came. Charlotte went to answer it, since Alice was away visiting her ailing mother in Cheapside. “If it’s Captain Bedloe’s messenger,” I called out to her, “you know what to say.”
“He’s not one to give up easily, is he?” Sam said. “Do you want me to have a word with his messenger?”
“I’m not sure it would help. Bedloe’d just find someone else to deliver his messages.”
A few moments later Charlotte returned to the drawing room, her face pale.
“Charlotte, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost!” I said.
“That was Captain Bedloe’s messenger.”
“Yes, I figured it was—did he say something to disturb you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then what is it?”
“It was the same messenger who brought the note for Sir Edmund the night before he disappeared.”
The skin on the back of my neck prickled. “Are you certain?”
“I’m sure of it, ma’am.”
Sam jumped out of his chair. “Charlotte, what does he look like?”
“He’s young, about twenty or so, and he’s wearing a short brimmed hat and a blue coat.”
“How tall is he?”
She raised her hand above Sam’s head, indicating the man was about a foot taller than Sam was.
Sam raced to the door. “Wait,” I said. He stopped short.
“What? If I don’t go now I might lose him,” he said.
“It’s better if we let him go.”
“Why?” Charlotte said.
“Because if we bring him back here, he’ll report it to Bedloe,” I said.
“So?”
“We don’t want Bedloe to know you recognized his messenger,” Sam said, now understanding why I’d stopped his pursuit.
