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 Wini
fred 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.
‘You stand impeached of high treason by the Commons of Great Britain in Parliament assembled, which treason is contained in the articles that have been lately read; to this you have severally pleaded guilty and are thereby convicted.’
Guilty? Guilty! So, during her illness William had acquiesced to his lawyer’s counsel? She blinked in heightened fear; there was clearly not going to be any further trial or discussion. She had been naïve to think otherwise. Today, the trial judge was presiding over this drama simply to weigh up the men’s actions and decide how best to punish them.
Her pulse, even though it seemed impossible that it could go any faster, accelerated as she tasted a fresh sourness at the back of her throat. She watched in deep dread as Cowper permitted each of the accused to have his say. Lord Derwentwater was invited to speak first and Jane was struck by the youth and dash of this wealthy peer, a friend of Julius Sackville, who told the Court he had become involved in the rebellion purely on religious grounds. She listened to him speak passionately about his wife and children, appealing to Lord Cowper to consider them in his sentencing, and assuring Britain of his loyalty.
The crowd had now been ‘warmed up’ and there was a buzz of voices echoing around the Hall. Jane wondered if she’d be able to hear anything that William said. Show remorse, she begged him inwardly. Thaw that hard heart of the trial judge.
Cowper’s small eyes fell on Winifred’s husband. ‘And what say you, William, Earl of Nithsdale, as to why judgement should not be passed upon you according to the law?’
Cecilia took Jane’s hand, squeezing it for support, but her gesture only served to heighten Jane’s dread, and she held her breath as she watched William straighten and nod.
‘My Lords, as Scottish peers we are required to ride out at our clan’s bidding, and perhaps our obedience to such fealty should be acknowledged rather than frowned upon. It shows us to be loyal peers of the British Isles, and should Britain ever need me, I would do the same. Nevertheless, I confess myself guilty of being attached to rebellion — though attached unhappily, My Lords, for I have never found that problems are solved with hostility. I am relying on His Majesty’s mercy. I beg leave to assure Your Lordships I was never privy to any plot or design against His Majesty’s own person or government, and was unprovided with necessaries for such a purpose; but rashly and thoughtlessly, with only four of my direct servants, joined those who went to fight from my neighbourhood, and was one of the last among them.
‘At Preston, My Lords, His Majesty’s general gave us great encouragement to believe that surrendering to His Majesty’s mercy was the ready way to obtain it, and with repeated assurances I submitted myself, and still entirely depend on His Majesty’s Commons to intercede with His Majesty on my behalf. And I solemnly promise Your Lordships, I shall, during the remainder of my life, pay the utmost duty and gratitude to His Most Gracious Majesty, and the highest veneration and respect to Your Lordships and the Honourable House of Commons.’
Jane cringed within, curiously able to feel Winifred’s pride being shattered, while at the same time appreciating that William was arguing for his life. Winifred could not surely put her notions about a Catholic king on the throne above that of the life of her precious husband. In that moment, she felt something give inside her. It was Winifred, she realised, but it was not Winifred’s spiritual resolve slipping so much as her religion being set aside.
And a new fire took its place. No matte
r what was decided today, Jane sensed Winifred was making up her own mind about how this sorry tale would end. And it certainly wasn’t going to feature a grieving widow watching her husband’s head being spiked for the populace to see and jeer at.
The other peers were then permitted to give their own impassioned speeches, but Jane heard none of them — only Winifred’s pounding heart. The crimson-robed judge then asked each whether he had pleaded anything in arrest of judgement that might postpone proceedings.
She waited until she heard William’s voice above the din of murmurs.
‘I have not,’ he responded.
When the last of the accused lords had pleaded in the negative, Lord Cowper waited with grave expression until a second, even tenser silence gripped everyone in the Hall. Satisfied that he had everyone’s attention, he began his final address. Jane looked down. She wasn’t sure she could bear to look upon the smug bastard and his horrible wig while he pronounced sentence.
‘James, Earl of Derwentwater, William, Earl of Nithsdale, William, Lord Widdrington, William, Lord Nairn, Robert, Earl of Carnwarth, William, Viscount Kenmure, you stand impeached by the Commons of Great Britain, in Parliament assembled, of high treason in traitorously imagining and compassing the death of His Most Sacred Majesty …’
Jane heard humming in her ears but could not listen to Cowper’s self-satisfied drone. She desperately wished she could run into the cloaked embrace of Sackville and escape everything — the two Williams, Winifred’s fragility, Cecilia’s earnest support. Instead, she disappeared from the proceedings by withdrawing into her mind and allowing her gaze to settle on a small spider that was scuttling about near her foot.
The insect reminded her of William and Will, and her boot was Lord Cowper. In a blink her boot could descend, like the gavel near the judge’s hand, and kill the spider as effectively as the axe could obliterate both men’s lives. Her foot hovered above the creature — life or death? she wondered. It was within her power to decide, as it was within the power of Lord Cowper. They were both omnipotent in this moment, with the capacity to show no mercy or to find humanity and understand that these men were simply being loyal by —
Tapestry Page 29
