Tapestry

by Fiona McIntosh

  Her macabre mind game was arrested with a fresh thought. Winifred, listen to me, she hissed in her mind, urging her host to pay attention. Lord Cowper is not the man who has the ultimate power. He is merely the mouthpiece, the puppet who enacts the wishes of others. There is someone still higher: the King!

  It did not matter what sentence was handed down today. Jane felt fresh hope surge through Winifred and she raised her eyes to fix Cowper with a stare. She knew anyone watching her might think it was one of hate. But Jane knew Winifred’s unblinking gaze was daring him to do his worst.

  I will not crumble, she assured him silently across the Hall. And I will beat you. So help me, by all things holy, I will outwit that executioner’s blade, she promised.

  Winifred’s emotions were ringing with passion; her blood was high, her pulse pounding with newly stirred excitement. Jane wasn’t paying attention, but she was aware that Cowper was completing his summing up. She could hear him sounding forth about the religion of the Church of Rome; she knew he singled out William in this part of his speech, clearly prepared.

  Then Jane heard him pause dramatically. She snapped to attention, sensing a subtle shift in the audience’s body language — hers and Cecilia’s included — as they leaned marginally forward in tandem with Cowper while he drew a slow, single breath … almost as if drawing them under his spell.

  In that breath, everyone was still. It was so quiet Jane was sure she could have heard the scratch of the spider’s feet against the stone.

  ‘And now, My Lords, nothing remains but that I pronounce upon you — and sorry I am that it falls to my lot to do it — that terrible sentence of the law which must be the same that is usually given to the meanest perpetrator of the like offence. The most ignominious and painful elements are usually remitted by the Crown in the case of persons of your quality — James, Earl of Derwentwater, William, Earl of Nithsdale …’ Jane felt dizzy as he again intoned the full name of each lord. She tried not to sway. ‘… return from whence you came. There you must be hanged by the neck, but not till you be dead, for you must be cut down alive; then your bowels must be taken out and burned before your faces, then your heads must be severed from your bodies and divided each into quarters; and these must be put at the King’s disposal …’

  The Hall erupted into cheers and an explosion of voices. Jane must have swooned; she realised she had leaned weakly against Cecilia, who had caught her, but in those intervening blurred moments she had missed seeing the Lord High Steward stand and process sombrely out of the Hall.

  She regained her wits just in time to stand herself, her fists white-knuckled as they gripped her gloves and her gaze searched and found William’s. Amid the bedlam of the excited crowd and the guards jostling the prisoners away, he tried to comfort her with a reassuring hand in the air that did, to a small extent, steady her nerves. Her gaze whipped to the spider and she just caught sight of it scrambling away as those around her stood and moved off.

  The spider is safe, Jane said in her mind, and so will you be, William.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  According to the police officers seated in the ‘drawing room’, as Catelyn Granger liked to call it, a full-scale search of the national park area around Ayers Rock was underway.

  ‘Dozens of police, dogs, two helicopters and a huge gang of locals are involved,’ the officer explained. ‘Rest assured, Jane will be found.’

  ‘Dead or alive,’ Juliette murmured, and won herself a glare from her father and a look of despair from her mother.

  The atmosphere was tense enough, but the telling silence that met her words forced her to be honest. ‘What? Why are we pretending that we aren’t all thinking the same thing?’

  The senior police officer cleared his throat. ‘I don’t think we should be jumping to conclusions. I believe —’

  ‘You can believe anything you want,’ Juliette snapped, no longer able to stomach the frigidly polite atmosphere that surrounded these negative daily updates. ‘But we know Jane. And Jane would not leave her family in this state of flux unless she was unable to reach us.’

  ‘That’s my point,’ the officer said calmly. ‘She may be injured.’

  ‘She may also have been abducted.’ Juliette’s comment crashed against his words of hope. His expression turned to one of appeal, but Juliette was too far gone in revealing her fears to pull back now. ‘Raped, murdered, left to rot in some outback cave or a shallow grave in a desert that is millions of miles wide.’

  ‘Please,’ the other officer — a woman — soothed. ‘This is not helpful.’

  ‘But it’s honest, and don’t tell me you haven’t considered these alternatives. Just stop pretending there’s a lot of hope, because unlike me, my parents trust you. They’re so obedient, for Pete’s sake!’ Her voice finally broke and she choked back a sob. ‘Excuse me …’ She leaped up, leaving the room, but not without hearing her mother’s soft apology.

  ‘Forgive her, please. She blames herself. We asked her to go with Jane, but …’

  Juliette disappeared upstairs filled with loathing. It was true. She did blame herself. If she’d been with Jane, her sister would not be missing. She stared at the phone extension in her room.

  Come on, Jane, ring us! she begged.

  Time marched to a different beat in Jane’s world. On Monday, three days after the predictable yet horrifying sentence, a warrant for the Earl’s execution was signed. Appeals for a reprieve had failed.

  Winifred sat in the window of Mrs Mills’s drawing room and looked out onto the busy street, where life continued, oblivious to her internal torment. Behind her, Mr and Mrs Mills were quietly talking as tea was being served. Their heads were bent close; Mr Mills wore a large black velvet bow at the base of his short white powdered wig to match the velvet bow Mrs Mills wore in her hair. A bonneted maid tiptoed across the fine oriental carpet and handed her master a cup and saucer, and smiled her answer when he asked if it was already sugared.

  Jane wanted to scream at the domestic scene behind her and at the busy, could-not-care-less scene in front of her. Her impotence tasted bitter against the sip of tea.

  News had been received this morning that the date appointed for execution was this Friday. ‘Four days,’ Jane murmured. ‘To save the lives of two men.’

  ‘What was that, Winifred?’ Cecilia asked, looking frightened at speaking into the near-silent pall that had settled around them.

  Jane blinked. She couldn’t share her latest idea with her friend, for fear that Cecilia might have her tied to the bed, claiming she’d become mad with grief.

  Cecilia shivered. ‘Winifred, dear, I know it is brutally unpleasant, but would you rather live with William at the Tower for the next few days until …’ She trailed off, unable to finish her sentence.

  Jane shook her head. ‘No. How might I plead my husband’s case if I were imprisoned alongside him?’

  ‘Surely there is nothing left to plead, dearest? Why not have this time together, at least?’

  ‘As long as William draws breath and my mind remains sound, there is hope of his escaping the fall of that axe,’ she said, more to herself than to poor Cecilia.

  ‘Darling Winifred, I fear I must be blunt with you. Yesterday I accompanied Mrs Mills on her shopping excursion and we came across a good friend of hers, Mrs Morgan, who it appears is most knowledgeable about the political climate. Her husband is a Whig colleague and fellow judge of Lord Cowper’s.’

  ‘You did not mention this yesterday on your return.’

  ‘No, dear,’ Cecilia said, her voice tense, ‘but that is because I believe you are already bearing a great burden of grief.’

  ‘Out with it,’ she urged, turning away from the street scene to fix Cecilia with a cool stare. Ancestors of Mr Mills glared at her from pictures hung on the walls, and a pink and gold chinoiserie screen hid a spare commode that she hoped she’d never have to use.

  ‘The word is that the King plans to gain popularity with an announcement that proceeds fr
om the sale of the Jacobite rebels’ estates will go toward the burdensome cost of putting down the rebellion.’

  Jane frowned as she filtered this snippet of intelligence through Winifred’s sharp understanding.

  ‘They’re sequestering Terregles?’ Winifred’s voice reflected the shock trembling through her. Jane only cared about Will, but she knew her host had to be mindful of the family’s estates, her son’s future as earl. Financial ruin seemed like a genuine threat now.

  Cecilia nodded, embarrassed. ‘I gather this is the plan.’

  ‘Well, I thought the petition to Parliament by all the wives would save our estates.’

  ‘I fear the arguing back and forth will take too long. Besides, though I am terrified to utter this, the general feeling is that you will fare better financially if William pays the penalty. Were he to live, you would not see a groat. They would confiscate it all and your children would have nothing.’

  It was a terrifying truth to hear.

  ‘The money means nothing to me,’ Jane replied, but knew these were her feelings alone; Winifred had to balance the weight of her love for William against the weight of her love for her children, and her concern for her son’s future succession. She could feel the anger of her host mixed with fear for her family.

  ‘Dearest, please listen to me,’ Cecilia urged.

  ‘Do not say William is a lost cause,’ Jane snapped.

  ‘Hear me out,’ Cecilia said, her voice trembling. ‘You know as well as I that William’s Catholic leanings and Jacobite sympathies have been a source of contention between him and the government for years. Even if the other wives can argue their husbands’ cases with some success, I gather that reprieve for William is so unlikely as to be impossible.’

  Jane’s thoughts swam with fear, but she remembered the spider and she especially remembered her earlier notion that Lord Cowper was merely the puppet of a higher authority. ‘That may be,’ she said, ‘but William’s cause is only lost when they sever his head from his shoulders. I shall have a private petition drawn up immediately.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For presentation to the King, of course! I shall throw myself on his mercy.’

  Monday evening closed in, just as sinister and black as one of the ravens she had seen on Tower Green, the night every bit as cold as the raven’s sharp gaze.

  With the help of her friends, she had attired herself in a black manteau and matching skirt, together with a dark cape, giving her the appearance of being in mourning. Mrs Mills had invited along her ‘knowledgeable’ friend, Mrs Morgan, currently heavy with child. Together, they took a hackney to St James’s Palace. Jane was certain she could have cut the tension in the cab with a knife and served it on dinner plates, it was so dense … almost a fifth person, a shadow that travelled with them.

  ‘I have a right to present the king of the realm with this petition,’ Jane said into the brittle atmosphere. Her sudden remark startled the other women.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Mrs Mills said, but her belief that this was not a wise decision was written in her frowning expression. ‘It is established custom, but I suspect the courtiers may be ahead of you in this, Countess, and might think to keep the unfortunate wives of the condemned peers at bay.’

  ‘Well, they can certainly try,’ Jane said, warming to her plan. Once she’d learned after the trial about the opportunity for the kin of the sentenced men to present a petition, she’d become single-minded about it. This was a last-ditch effort to use all the legal rights available to her and she couldn’t have cared less about what was seen to be dignified or appropriate.

  ‘This is a daring move, my dear,’ Mrs Morgan remarked.

  ‘I have no choice. I must make every attempt to win my husband a reprieve,’ Jane said calmly enough, ready for these last-minute efforts to change her mind. Her tone was so earnest, though, that each of her companions looked down. ‘And you are familiar with life at court, I gather, Mrs Morgan? I mean, you will recognise the King, for I have never seen him.’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes, of course,’ the woman replied. ‘He has the eyes of the Brunswicks, very fine hands and a long, straight nose. Forgive me for saying it again, dear Countess, but are you quite sure this is wise? You do not wish to enrage the King further, surely?’

  ‘Enrage? No, I wish to garner his sympathies for a grief-stricken woman. But I will risk his rage, Mrs Morgan, for it surely cannot make my lord husband’s plight any worse.’

  She suspected each of the women was conjuring a mental picture at this moment of the terrible punishment her husband would be forced to endure for her temerity. The carriage fell quiet. Jane was satisfied that none would try to dissuade Winifred from her chosen course again. They rode out the rest of the frigid journey in silence.

  Jane’s feeling of breathlessness was heightened as they passed St James’s Park and cantered up the Mall, to finally spy the familiar red brick Tudor masonry of Europe’s least impressive royal palace. Jane’s mind raced to her history: the palace had been built by Henry VIII and, if she was not mistaken, his daughter Elizabeth I was in residence here when the Spanish Armada threatened. Winifred’s memories also yielded the knowledge that the very king for whom William had risked his life had been born in this palace after a long and difficult labour, in front of a sizeable audience of whispering, gossiping courtiers.

  Jane snapped her attention back to the present as the hackney cab slowed to a stop. The women alighted, Cecilia aiding the tall, pregnant Mrs Morgan.

  ‘Oh, the First Regiment Guards always make me feel so proud in their scarlet and black. Our bravest and most senior infantrymen,’ Mrs Morgan whispered, ‘although we do have quite a few regiments.’

  Mrs Mills frowned. ‘Something to do with the spacing of buttons on their uniforms, dear. That is apparently how one tells them apart.’

  ‘And those buttons bear the royal cipher,’ Mrs Morgan added.

  But while her friends chattered, Jane did not permit herself even a moment’s awe as she entered St James’s Palace, passing by the solemn sentries in their bearskin hats, whom Jane knew as Grenadier Guards. In fact, all she could feel was relief that their quartet was duly admitted to the palace with other members of London society, and she felt her luck was still running when they learned that the King had not yet left his closet.

  ‘Let us sit here,’ Mrs Morgan suggested, guiding the women to a low-panelled chamber. ‘The King will have to pass through this room.’

  Jane fleetingly, absently, took in her surroundings. The chamber was painted the softest of sage greens, the carpet a magnificent mix of rich greens and purples. A trio of low windows flanked one side of the room, and before each was a broad bench seat covered in deep violet velvet. Mrs Morgan chose the central bench to make herself as comfortable as her condition allowed. The women took their places, Winifred sandwiched between Cecilia and Mrs Morgan. They passed the time observing the officials, busy about their duties, while ladies in their hooped silks and gentlemen in powdered wigs milled around gossiping, all of them waiting, it seemed, for the emergence of the sovereign, no doubt hoping to catch his eye.

  Jane fixed her gaze on the door from which Mrs Morgan assured her the King would appear, while her friends talked quietly over and around her about courtiers and prominent members of London high society. She lost track of time, though guessed it was more than an hour before the door opened. She’d anticipated a tall, dominating man, so it surprised her to see a stocky figure stride into the room. The King was resplendent in a long, grey curling wig, parted severely in the middle so that the hair on either side achieved great volume. She drew a deep breath, knowing she needed to look beyond the pompous appearance of the German who held the fate of her — Winifred’s — husband.

  At Mrs Morgan’s nudge, Jane stood to curtsey with every other woman in the chamber. When she straightened, the King was somewhat closer to their party; she was struck by his piercing blue eyes, and cheeks made extra-rosy by rouge to match the colour of his
full, somewhat pouty lips.

  Don’t be fooled, Jane. He is sharply intelligent … The thought flitted across her mind. Had that been Winifred? Robyn, perhaps? She couldn’t examine it, because a push from Mrs Morgan meant she was propelled lightly forward, suddenly directly in the path of King George I and his courtiers.

  ‘His English is woeful. Remember he speaks French, although he prefers German,’ Mrs Morgan hissed from behind her in a whisper.

  Jane had no German, but she had studied French and Winifred’s French was flawless. In a seamless shift, she petitioned the King in a language she knew they all shared. She wasn’t sure if it was fear, or the necessary reverence, but she fell dramatically to her knees, holding the rolled paper out to him.

  She could hear the gasps and murmurings around her. Sharp eyes missed nothing and her audience was predictably stunned, even horrified, by her undignified public behaviour. Jane no longer cared how they might choose to interpret her actions.

  ‘Your Majesty, I am the unhappy Countess of Nithsdale. Please will you hear my —’

  King George I had been startled initially, but once he had heard her announce herself, she noted the disgust reflected in the twist of his fleshy lips. He deliberately ignored her, instead saying something as an aside to one of the fawning courtiers.

  ‘Your Majesty!’ she said much louder, heedless now of any need for decorum. ‘Please, I beg you! This is my personal petition for the reprieve of my husband, who was —’

  The King was moving beyond her reach and Jane sensed Winifred’s panic. Frantically, Jane reached for him, grabbing the tail of his dark, brocade coat. Was that his hem ripping? She heard others gasp, but she didn’t care.

  ‘King George!’ She hauled herself forward, stretching to push the petition into his coat pocket, but he refused to stop.

  Jane’s ire was roused fully now. She refused to let go of the King’s frock coat, while he refused to acknowledge her, and so, within moments, the pleading Countess was being violently pulled forward. Jane was no longer on Winifred’s knees beseeching the King, but was prone, fully outstretched and being dragged along the parquet floor, while the sovereign remained determined to pretend he was unaware of her.