The Road to Newgate

by Kate Braithwaite

  “Are you both serious?” My task and purpose are quite forgotten. “A hothead? Who never apologised?”

  “Never. Oh, you were always the sweetest of girls, Anne,” Mother continues, “but once you were set on a course, I never saw you dissuaded. Your father and I should have thought more upon that and behaved a little better when you were first married.”

  I blink. This is an olive branch I had not anticipated.

  “I have also thought,” she says with one hand on her chest, “that I have been a little slow to consider you an adult, capable of making your own choices and decisions. And I am sorry for it.”

  “Thank you, Mother,” is all I manage to say. We eat tea and discuss a hundred things, from my mother’s friends and Sarah’s in-laws, to Nat’s growing reputation among her friends’ husbands – a factor, I am sure, in her change of heart toward me. She even says that my father will have been sorry to miss my visit. Truly, the times have changed.

  In a lull in the conversation, I take a deep breath and ask my mother about Valentine Greatrakes. I tell her that I wish to consult him, and when her lips form around the words demanding to know my reasons, I simply lay a hand on my stomach. Her face reflects her thoughts so clearly – I would laugh if it were not so important. She believes I wish to meet the Irish healer to ask him why I am not yet with child again. If I am completely honest, I may also want to ask about that, but only after I have quizzed him about Sir Edmund Godfrey. Of course, Mother knows exactly where to find Greatrakes. She dispatches a letter to her friend Lady Verner and tells us we may present ourselves at a gathering at the Verner house later this afternoon.

  ***

  As we walk past the footman and up Lady Verner’s grand marble staircase, I am quite composed. The sitting room, as always, is full of flowers. I catch their scent: tall vases of dusky pink roses, very charming. Card tables are set out the length of the room, and many ladies are already busy playing Ombre. Sarah leads me on to meet our hostess. Now my nerves begin. I have not been in such circles for a long time and several girls I used to know are present, including Miss Alice Peters, whom I have never liked. Her eyes meet mine and relief heats my cheeks, until her gaze moves seamlessly past as though I am invisible. Lady Verner, however, is perfectly kind and directs us into another, smaller sitting room, where a lady – if she is prepared to wait – may have a private consultation with Valentine Greatrakes.

  Here, I spot a small child who has been allowed into the party for a few moments and escaped his tutor’s clutches. He peeks out from a table near where Sarah and I stand. He has such naughty blue eyes. I lift my hand a little and wave. My heart aches to see him wave back and grin. There is a crowd in this small room, and I only catch glimpses of Greatrakes through the crush. He has wild red hair – no wig for him.

  Finally, the melee around Greatrakes thins and I’m permitted to take a seat next to the man of the moment. He is older than I had imagined, and his leathered face makes me think of a rocky path on a sunny day.

  “What is your name?”

  “Anne Thompson.”

  “And what ails you, Mistress Thompson, or would you like me to hazard a guess?”

  “Do you guess people’s ailments? Is that what you do?”

  “Not always. Some people tell me at once what is wrong. Others don’t know or can’t say what ails them. But often enough I guess right.”

  “Often enough?”

  “Enough to persuade people that my fabled powers are real,” he says.

  “And are they?”

  “I believe so. And soon you can tell me yourself if you concur. Now, let me try to guess.”

  Greatrakes takes up both my hands and turns them over and back. His eyes are light green. He’s like a force of nature. I force myself to breathe.

  “You fear you are infertile,” he says, and I flinch. “You have suffered a loss.” He frowns as if weighing some thought up. “A baby died, shortly after birth.”

  “Yes.” Sarah’s hand reaches down from where she stands behind my chair. She squeezes on my shoulder.

  “Lady Verner?” Greatrakes waves our hostess over, treating her more like a serving girl than the wife of a peer of the realm. He speaks quietly to her for a moment and then Lady Verner smoothly ushers all the other ladies from the room, even Sarah.

  “Do not be alarmed,” says Greatrakes, settling himself back beside me. “If a matter is urgent, it is quite agreed between myself and Lady Verner, that she and her other friends will withdraw for a time.”

  “Urgent?”

  “Isn’t your reason for seeing me urgent?”

  His voice is soft and persuasive, his lilting Irish accent almost hypnotic. I have sudden empathy for my mother’s interest in the man. This day is far more emotionally charged than I had anticipated.

  “I do wish to talk to you in confidence.”

  “On your own behalf or on your husband’s?”

  My eyes widen, and my mouth goes dry. “How did you know?”

  “Tell me your story, honestly,” he says. “If I can help you, I will tell you.”

  I’m here to ask questions about Edmund Godfrey. But he has asked for honesty. I take a deep breath and begin with Martha.

  I talk about the hopes and fears I had when carrying her. I talk about Martha’s birth. This is difficult. When I hesitate, he waits, and in the silence I find the words I need to describe it. The memory of her few hours of life almost overwhelms me. He brings me a cup of hot honey and lavender from a dish on a table in the corner. It’s sweet and instantly calming.

  “Nat was there when she died. His face and his pain, it felt almost worse than mine. And then he was arrested.”

  For the first time, Valentine Greatrakes interrupts my story. “Why was your husband arrested?” His voice is as honeyed as the drink warming my hands. Never in my life have I unburdened myself in this manner. But I answer easily, as though he is someone I have known for the longest time.

  “My husband was – is – entangled with Titus Oates. Nat is a writer. He was the Licenser, but when the Popish Plot was all anyone could think of, he lost his position. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t like Oates, he didn’t believe him from the first, and so he went after him – with words, you understand. He attacked him, and Oates could not tolerate that. He trapped Nat and had him arrested only hours after Martha died.”

  ‘But you say he is still entangled?’ Greatrakes bends down to a large satchel at the side of his chair. He begins sorting through bottles, placing them on a small table.

  “Yes. At this minute he is out finding us rooms where we can hide from Oates. Our home was burned to the ground. Our closest friend died in the fire.”

  Even as I talk, I’m questioning myself. Here is this man, of whom I know next to nothing, yet I have confided in him about the worst day of my life. He is like a pool of calm water, immense yet graceful, busy yet restful, focussed and relaxed all at the same time. I have no idea how I’m going to get him to speak about Godfrey. He is only a breath away from me, but his thoughts could be in another continent. He has so easily won my confidence, but I’ve not the first idea of how to gain his.

  “I am afraid that Martha’s birth may have damaged me. We wait for another child, but I have not conceived again.”

  “There may be many reasons for that. These other recent losses – of your friend, of your home.”

  This is my chance. “Nat believes you were a friend to Sir Edmund Godfrey. He has evidence that Godfrey wasn’t murdered at all.”

  “I don’t see how that helps you now.”

  “It helps because your friend’s death was taken by all of London as proof that Oates’s stories were true. Everyone accepted that Godfrey was murdered by Catholics as part of the Popish Plot. But if he was not murdered – if there is some other explanation for the poor man’s death – then doubting Titus Oates is no longer strange. Questions can be asked. Evidence re-examined. Three poor men were hanged for your friend’s murder. It breaks my heart
. They were innocent. All of them.”

  Greatrakes stops sorting through his supplies.

  “I met him through treating his sister,’ he says. He rests his head against the back of the chair and lets his shoulders curl and relax. His eyes are closed. “We became friends. We liked each other, although he was very sceptical about my business – rather like you.”

  His eyes are still closed. He’s not testing me, just stating the facts.

  “Edmund suffered from melancholia. His father had suffered similarly, so he had no illusions. There was not much I could do for him. There is no cure. But I like to think I helped him live with it a little better. I gave him some herbal medicine to take when the black mists came on him. I was someone he could talk to. You are much more eloquent than your husband, you know.”

  “I am? What makes you say so?”

  “He has written to me several times, asking to meet with me to discuss Edmund, but I did not reply.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he never told me why. He was not open or honest. Not like you have been.”

  I grow a little hot. I’ve an impulse to defend Nat; he is much more open than he was, I want to say, but I keep to the task before me. “You are easy to talk to. And you knew about my fears for a new baby. You knew at once.”

  “That is a small matter. You are too thin. Look at the wedding band on your finger.” I touch it and it slips round easily. “Your sister looks at you with a mother’s eyes. You are pale. You look as though you do not sleep well. You stared at Lady Verner’s grandchild with longing.”

  “I did?”

  “You did.”

  “Here.” He picks up a bottle from the table and hands it to me. “Bergamot. Make tea with it each morning. It may help you, or it may not. More likely an end to this matter of Titus Oates is what you truly need.”

  I take the bergamot gladly and he waves me away when I offer payment. I stand then and thank him for his time, but he is not finished with me yet.

  “Is there not one more thing that you would ask me? About my friend?”

  Perhaps it is something in the tilt of his head. Or the tone of his voice. Or the light in his so green eyes. I tingle with anticipation and unexpected hopefulness. “Do you have any idea of what truly happened to him?” I ask.

  “Yes, I do. My dear friend killed himself. His last letter to me proves it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  William

  Anne’s recovery of Godfrey’s suicide note from Valentine Greatrakes is the tipping point. Nat publishes the true story of the magistrate’s death, and suddenly we are not the only voices questioning Titus Oates and the whole of his calamitous Popish Plot. Southwell insists that Nat amend Godfrey’s letter to remove Edward Coleman’s name, but Anne prints the rest:

  My dear friend Valentine,

  The darkness is coming on me again. I write to you and hope that you will send me some more of that cordial you so kindly prepared for me last year, and also, to be direct, in the hope that you will visit. Things go ill for me in London. A year ago, I almost left it all behind and came to you in Ireland. Would that I had done so.

  There is much nonsense talked of in the city. Or nonsense I thought it when I warned my friend Edward Coleman that he was the subject of some wild claims I had the misfortune to come across in my role as a magistrate. I fear I have caused displeasure. At best, I have been a fool; at worst, precipitated a crisis that should never have been. The nonsense becomes more serious every day.

  If I am found to have betrayed this confidence, I fear the consequences. But no-one can be harder on me than I am myself. Did I ever imagine myself fit for a higher office? I know now that my deafness only prevented me from failing in a more spectacular fashion. My judgement is not what I thought it, Valentine. Do you see? I have lost faith in myself again.

  Come soon, Valentine, if you can. But please, if you do not hear from me again, please know that it is by my choice and my hand. Know also, that although I leave you, I loved you well. Your lightness always lifted my darkness, and for that I am truly thankful.

  Your friend,

  E.B.G.

  ***

  They work well together, Anne and Nat. It heartens me. They climb their way out of the pit of despair that the fire threw us in, but I remain in the dark until Titus is dealt with. I must have my chance to unsay the words I spoke at the trial of Fathers Whitbread, Fenwick, and Ireland. That is my every waking thought, and nothing – not my friends, not the boys, not the lifting attitude in London – can shake me from it. My guilt over their deaths keeps me firmly in the pit. At last, Southwell sends the message we have been waiting for.

  ***

  It’s late, nearly midnight when Nat and I cross the Thames. As the waterman works his oars, Nat’s fingers rap against the side of the boat. I study the sway and glint of the lanterns on other boats criss-crossing the river. I’ve a dream-like sensation; a disbelief that such a longed-for moment is finally upon us. The high walls of Whitehall gradually grow larger as we eddy onwards. In a few more minutes we are berthed beneath it. Nat pays the boatman and we clamber up steep stone steps. Henry would likely not have come with us to see this done, but he is in our thoughts tonight.

  A sharp wind hits us as we reach street level. We cut through an alley at the side of Whitehall and then slow our pace as we enter the courtyard. The palace is brightly lit still, although most of the street torches in the city are out for the night. A burly guard approaches, and Nat shows him a paper bearing Robert Southwell’s seal. He’s satisfied to let us linger. The courtyard is out of the wind, built several storeys high on all sides. We stand just inside the south gate, and I take in at least five different entrances through which Titus might be brought.

  “You’re sure they will take him out through this gate?”

  Nat nods. He has his arms folded across his chest and stands very upright, although he sways forward and back on his feet a little. Which way will they bring Titus? On the east and west wings there are large iron studded doors that stand open in the daytime but for now are closed and guarded by eight men. The guards appear relaxed. Murmurs of conversations and the occasional crack of laugher echo up into the night. On the north wing there are three possible routes for the soldiers to bring Titus. The central doors are also closed, and a sturdy oak beam is posted across them. But on either side near the corners are two smaller open doorways, and in the torchlight I make out the beginnings of a stairway. One guard is posted at each of these, but most likely at the top of each stair there will be a guard station.

  “I’m freezing.” Nat turns and flashes me a grin. “Listen,” he says, and he makes his teeth rattle against each other like a dice in a box.

  “Surely it will not be long now? Southwell was certain?”

  “Look!”

  The guards step away from the east doors as they grind open. A soldier emerges and takes a moment to confer with the men. He crosses over to the south gate for a whispered conference with the officer who spoke to us. That’s when we hear the first shriek.

  “Bastards!” The familiar voice shoots through the east door. His screeches explode over the trample of the feet of four or five soldiers, dragging him out by brute force.

  “Whore-sons!”

  I clamp my hand over my mouth. With every inch of his strength, Titus Oates squirms and struggles against the guards who’ve been sent to arrest him. Nat and I glance at each other, our eyes on stalks as Titus, spitting and kicking, is manhandled into the courtyard.

  “I am a man of position! I’m a man of the cloth, by God! You shit-breech windfuckers will be sorry you ever touched me. I will have your guts for my supper! I will eat—” The first guard moves swiftly up behind Titus and stuffs a cloth in his mouth. His eyeballs swell out in shock and anger. In another moment his arms are tightly bound, but he still struggles violently, twisting and bucking, refusing to walk. He is half kicked, half dragged towards us.

  Nat and I step forward into
the light. The group halts while the guards exchange papers and cast a derisive looks at their struggling prisoner. Titus’s chest heaves, his face is choked with bile, and his large head still resists, swaying and turning like a cornered beast. When his wild eyes fall on us, all colour drains from his face. His nostrils flare and he strains forward as if to charge, but the soldiers have him held fast. I remove my hat and nudge Nat, who does the same. We grin at each other. And then, both putting our best legs forward, we give Titus our compliments, bowing with as much ceremony as we can muster.

  As we straighten up, the guards pull him away. Veins rage in his neck as he twists back to glare at us. The guards drag Titus off to gaol. Our laughter surely echoes in his ears as he goes.

  ***

  After several hours of sweet celebration, Nat and I stagger back over London Bridge. We have no money left to pay for a boat and are only just able to recall the route to our temporary lodgings. The wind howls over the bridge, and although drink warms my body, my fingers and face are chilled.

  “Bastards!” From behind me, Nat calls out in imitation of Titus and dissolves into a fit of hysteria. “I am a man of the cloth,” he says, sounding more like a strangled cat than anything else. A window above us opens and a basin of water is thrown out. It misses, but not by much.

  “Come on, come on. No more shouting. You’ll get us arrested, and then where would we be?” I stop up short and consider two narrow roads leading off to the right. I push my fingers up under my wig and scratch my head. “This way,” I decide. “Come on.”

  Somehow or other we make it back to Nat and Anne’s lodgings. My new, tiny room is only a few streets away. We pause to say our goodbyes.

  “Will there ever be a finer moment?” I ask for the umpteenth time.

  Nat grins. “Could he have taken it with less dignity? What a performance. I could not have written it half so well.”

  “You are right.” I jab a finger up towards Nat. “He is a disgrace of a man. And you knew it, right from the start. Why, I am sure you were not such a banshee when you were arrested.”