“You will not forget your promise?” observed Tresham.
“Assuredly not,” replied the other. “A week hence, and you will make no complaint against me. — Are you sure you did not give me the wrong goblet?” he added to Ipgreve, as they descended the spiral staircase.
“Quite sure, my lord,” returned the jailer, with a grim smile.
Mounteagle immediately quitted the Tower, and hastening to Whitehall, sought out the Earl of Salisbury, to whom he related what he had done. The Earl complimented him on his skilful management of the matter; and congratulating each other upon having got rid of a dangerous and now useless instrument, they separated.
On the following day, Tresham was seized with a sudden illness, and making known his symptoms to Ipgreve, the chirurgeon who attended the prison was sent for, and on seeing him, pronounced him dangerously ill, though he was at a loss to explain the nature of his disorder. Every hour the sick man grew worse, and he was torn with racking pains. Connecting his sudden seizure with the visit of Lord Mounteagle, an idea of the truth flashed upon him, and he mentioned his suspicions to the chirurgeon, charging Jasper Ipgreve with being accessory to the deed. The jailer stoutly denied the accusation, and charged the prisoner in his turn with making a malicious statement to bring him into discredit.
“I will soon test the truth of his assertion,” observed the chirurgeon, taking a small flat piece of the purest gold from his doublet. “Place this in your mouth.”
Tresham obeyed, and Ipgreve watched the experiment with gloomy curiosity.
“You are a dead man,” said the chirurgeon to Tresham, as he drew forth the piece of gold, and perceived that it was slightly tarnished. “Poison has been administered to you.”
“Is there no remedy — no counter-poison?” demanded Tresham, eagerly.
The chirurgeon shook his head.
“Then let the lieutenant be summoned,” said Tresham; “I have an important confession to make to him. I charge this man,” pointing to the jailer, “with giving poisoned wine to me. Do you hear what I say to you?”
“I do,” replied the chirurgeon.
“But he will never reveal it,” said Ipgreve, with great unconcern. “I have a warrant from the Earl of Salisbury for what I have done.”
“What!” cried Tresham, “can murder be committed here with impunity?”
“You have to thank your own indiscretion for what has happened,” rejoined Ipgreve. “Had you kept a close tongue in your head, you would have been safe.”
“Can nothing be done to save me?” cried the miserable man, with an imploring look at the chirurgeon.
“Nothing whatever,” replied the person appealed to. “I would advise you to recommend your soul to God.”
“Will you not inform the lieutenant that I desire to speak with him?” demanded Tresham.
The chirurgeon glanced at Ipgreve, and receiving a sign from him, gave a promise to that effect.
They then quitted the cell together, leaving Tresham in a state of indescribable agony both of mind and body. Half an hour afterwards, the chirurgeon returned, and informed him that the lieutenant refused to visit him, or to hear his confession, and wholly discredited the fact of his being poisoned.
“I will take charge of your papers, if you choose to commit them to me,” he said, “and will lay them before the Council.”
“No,” replied Tresham; “while life remains to me I will never part with them.”
“I have brought you a mixture which, though it cannot heal you, will, at least, allay your sufferings,” said the chirurgeon.
“I will not take it,” groaned Tresham. “I distrust you as much as the others.”
“I will leave it with you, at all events,” rejoined the chirurgeon, setting down the phial.
The noise of the bolts shot into their sockets sounded to Tresham as if his tomb were closed upon him, and he uttered a cry of anguish. He would have laid violent hands upon himself, and accelerated his own end, but he wanted courage to do so, and continued to pace backwards and forwards across his chamber as long as his strength lasted. He was about to throw himself on the couch, from which he never expected to rise again, when his eyes fell upon the phial. “What if it should be poison!” he said, “it will end my sufferings the sooner.”
And placing it to his lips, he swallowed its contents. As the chirurgeon had foretold, it alleviated his sufferings, and throwing himself on the bed he sank into a troubled slumber, during which he dreamed that Catesby appeared to him with a vengeful countenance, and tried to drag him into a fathomless abyss that yawned beneath their feet. Shrieking with agony, he awoke, and found two persons standing by his couch. One of them was the jailer, and the other appeared, from his garb, to be a priest; but a hood was drawn over his head so as to conceal his features.
“Are you come to witness my dying pangs, or to finish me?” demanded Tresham of the jailer.
“I am come for neither purpose,” replied Ipgreve; “I pity your condition, and have brought you a priest of your own faith, who, like yourself, is a prisoner in the Tower. I will leave him with you, but he cannot remain long, so make the most of your time.” And with these words, he retired.
When he was gone, the supposed priest, who spoke in feeble and faltering accents, desired to hear Tresham’s confession, and having listened to it, gave him absolution. The wretched man then drew from his bosom a small packet, and offered it to the confessor, who eagerly received it.
“This contains the letters of the Earl of Salisbury and Lord Mounteagle, which I have just mentioned,” he said. “I pray you lay them before the Privy Council.”
“I will not fail to do so,” replied the confessor.
And reciting the prayer for one in extremis over the dying man, he departed.
“I have obtained the letters from him,” said Mounteagle, throwing back his hood as he quitted the chamber, and addressing the jailer. “And now you need give yourself no further concern about him, he will be dead before morning.”
Jasper Ipgreve locked the door upon the prisoner, and proceeded to the Well Tower. When he returned, he found Mounteagle’s words had come to pass. Tresham was lying on the floor quite dead — his collapsed frame and distorted countenance showing the agonies in which he must have expired.
* * *
CHAPTER XIII.
THE TRIAL.
The trial of the conspirators, which had been delayed in order that full evidence might be procured against them, was, at length, appointed to take place in Westminster Hall, on Monday, the 27th of January, 1606. Early on the morning of this day, the eight surviving confederates (Garnet and Oldcorne being at this time secreted at Hendlip) were conveyed in two large covered wherries from the fortress to the place of trial. In spite of the severity of the weather, — it was snowing heavily, and the river was covered with sheets of ice, — they were attended by a vast number of boats filled with persons anxious to obtain a sight of them. Such was the abhorrence in which the actors in the conspiracy were held by the populace, that, not content with menaces and execrations, many of these persons hurled missiles against the wherries, and would have proceeded to further violence if they had not been restrained by the pikemen. When the prisoners landed, a tremendous and fearful shout was raised by the mob stationed at the head of the stairs, and it required the utmost efforts of the guard to protect them from injury. Two lines of soldiers, with calivers on their shoulders, were drawn out from the banks of the river to the entrance of the Hall, and between them the conspirators marched.
The melancholy procession was headed by Sir William Waad, who was followed by an officer of the guard and six halberdiers. Then came the executioner, carrying the gleaming implement of death with its edge turned from the prisoners. He was followed by Sir Everard Digby, whose noble figure and handsome countenance excited much sympathy among the beholders, and Ambrose Rookwood. Next came the two Winters, both of whom appeared greatly dejected. Next, John Grant and Robert Bates, — Catesby’s servant, wh
o had been captured at Holbeach. And lastly, Keyes and Fawkes.
Bitterly and justly incensed as were the multitude against the conspirators, their feelings underwent some change as they beheld the haggard countenance and shattered frame of Guy Fawkes. It was soon understood that he was the individual who had been found in the vault near the Parliament House, with the touchwood and matches in his belt ready to fire the train; and the greatest curiosity was exhibited to see him.
Just as the foremost of the conspirators reached the entrance of the Hall, a terrific yell, resembling nothing human, except the roar of a thousand tigers thirsting for blood, was uttered by the mob, and a tremendous but ineffectual attempt was made to break through the lines of the guard. Never before had so large an assemblage been collected on the spot. The whole of the space extending on one hand from Westminster Hall to the gates of Whitehall, and on the other to the Abbey, was filled with spectators; and every roof, window, and buttress was occupied. Nor was the interior of the Hall less crowded. Not an inch of room was unoccupied; and it was afterwards complained in Parliament, that the members of the house had been so pressed and incommoded, that they could not hear what was said at the arraignment.
The conspirators were first conveyed to the court of the Star-Chamber, where they remained till the Lords Commissioners had arrived, and taken their seats. The commissioners were the Earl of Nottingham, Lord High Admiral of England; the Earl of Suffolk, Steward of the Household; the Earl of Worcester, Master of the Horse; the Earl of Devonshire, Master of the Ordnance; the Earl of Northampton, Warden of the Cinque-Ports; the Earl of Salisbury, Principal Secretary of State; Sir John Popham, Lord Chief Justice; Sir Thomas Fleming, Lord Chief Baron of the Exchequer; and Sir Thomas Walmisley and Sir Peter Warburton, Knights, and both Justices of the Common Pleas.
Summoned by an usher, the conspirators were conducted to a platform covered with black cloth, which had been erected at the lower end of the Hall. A murmur of indignation, vainly sought to be repressed by the grave looks of the Commissioners, burst from the immense assemblage, as they one by one ascended the steps of the platform. Guy Fawkes was the last to mount, and his appearance was followed by a deep groan. Supporting himself against the rail of the scaffold, he surveyed the assemblage with a stern and undaunted look. As he gazed around, he could not help marvelling at the vast multitude before him. The whole of the peers and all the members of the House of Commons were present, while in a box on the left, though screened by a lattice, sat the Queen and Prince Henry; and in another on the right, and protected in the same way, the King and his courtiers.
Silence being peremptorily commanded, the indictment was read, wherein the prisoners were charged with conspiring to blow up the King and the peers with gunpowder, and with attempting to incite the Papists, and other persons, to open rebellion; to which all the conspirators, to the no small surprise of those who heard them, and were aware that they had subscribed their confessions, pleaded not guilty.
“How, sir!” cried the Lord Chief Justice, in a stern tone to Fawkes. “With what face can you pretend to deny the indictment, when you were actually taken in the cellar with the powder, and have already confessed your treasonable intentions?”
“I do not mean to deny what I have confessed, my lord,” replied Fawkes. “But this indictment contains many matters which I neither can nor will countenance by assent or silence. And I therefore deny it.”
“It is well,” replied the Lord Chief Justice. “Let the trial proceed.”
The indictment being opened by Sir Edward Philips, sergeant-at-law, he was followed by Sir Edward Coke, the attorney-general, who in an eloquent and elaborate speech, which produced an extraordinary effect upon the assemblage, expatiated upon the monstrous nature of the plot, which he characterised as “the greatest treason that ever was plotted in England, and against the greatest king that ever reigned in England;” and after narrating the origin and progress of the conspiracy, concluded by desiring that the confessions of the prisoners should be openly read. This done, the jury were ordered by the Lord Chief Justice to retire, and the injunction being obeyed, they almost instantly returned with a verdict of guilty.
A deep, dread silence then prevailed throughout the Hall, and every eye was bent upon the conspirators, all of whom maintained a composed demeanour. They were then questioned by the Lord Chief Justice whether they had anything to say why judgment of death should not be pronounced against them.
“All I have to crave of your lordships,” said Thomas Winter, “is, that being the chief offender of the two, I may die for my brother and myself.”
“And I ask only that my brother’s request may not be granted,” said Robert Winter. “If he is condemned, I do not desire to live.”
“I have nothing to solicit — not even pardon,” said Keyes, carelessly. “My fortunes were always desperate, and are better now than they have ever been.”
“I desire mercy,” said Rookwood, “not from any fear of death, but because so shameful an ending will leave a perpetual stain upon my name and blood. I humbly submit myself to the King, and pray him to imitate our Supreme Judge, who sometimes punishes corporally, but not mortally.”
“I have been guilty of a conspiracy, intended but never effected,” said John Grant, “and solicit forgiveness on that plea.”
“My crime has been fidelity to my master,” said Bates. “If the King will let me live, I will serve him as faithfully as I did Mr. Catesby.”
“I would not utter a word,” said Fawkes, looking sternly round; “if I did not fear my silence might be misinterpreted. I would not accept a pardon if it were offered me. I regard the project as a glorious one, and only lament its failure.”
“Silence the vile traitor,” said the Earl of Salisbury, rising.
And as he spoke two halberdiers sprang up the steps of the scaffold, and placing themselves on either side of Fawkes, prepared to gag him.
“I have done,” he said, contemptuously regarding them.
“I have nothing to say save this,” said Sir Everard Digby, bowing to the judges. “If any of your lordships will tell me you forgive me, I shall go more cheerfully to the scaffold.”
“Heaven forgive you, Sir Everard,” said the Earl of Nottingham, returning his reverence, “as we do.”
“I humbly thank your lordship,” replied Digby.
Sentence was then passed upon the prisoners by Lord Chief Justice Popham, and they were removed from the platform.
As they issued from the Hall, and it became known to the assemblage without that they were condemned, a shout of fierce exultation rent the air, and they were so violently assailed on all sides, that they had great difficulty in reaching the wherries. The guard, however, succeeded, at length, in accomplishing their embarkation, and they were conveyed back in safety to the Tower.
* * *
CHAPTER XIV.
THE LAST MEETING OF FAWKES AND VIVIANA.
Up to this time, Viviana had not been allowed another interview with Guy Fawkes. She was twice interrogated by the Privy-Council, but having confessed all she knew of the conspiracy, excepting what might implicate Garnet and Oldcorne, neither of whom she was aware had been apprehended, she was not again subjected to the torture. Her health, however, rapidly sank under her confinement, and she was soon reduced to such an extreme state of debility that she could not leave her bed. The chirurgeon having been called in by Dame Ipgreve to attend her, reported her condition to Sir William Waad, who directed that every means should be adopted for her restoration, and that Ruth Ipgreve should remain in constant attendance upon her.
Ascertaining all particulars relative to Guy Fawkes from the jailer’s daughter, it was a sad satisfaction to Viviana to learn that he spent his whole time in devotion, and appeared completely resigned to his fate. It had been the Earl of Salisbury’s purpose to bring Viviana to trial at the same time as the rest of the conspirators, but the chirurgeon reporting that her removal at this juncture would be attended with fatal consequenc
es, he was compelled to defer it.
When the result of the trial was made known to Viviana by Ruth, though she had anticipated the condemnation of Guy Fawkes, she swooned away, and on her recovery, observed to Ruth, who was greatly alarmed at her looks, “I feel I am going fast. I should wish to see my husband once more before I die.”
“I fear it is impossible, madam,” replied Ruth; “but I will try to accomplish it.”
“Do so,” rejoined Viviana; “and my blessing shall rest ever on your head.”
“Have you any valuable?” inquired Ruth. “My heart bleeds to make the demand at such a moment. But it is the only way to produce an effect on the avaricious nature of my father.”
“I have nothing but this golden crucifix,” said Viviana; “and I meant to give it to you.”
“It will be better employed in this way,” rejoined Ruth, taking it from her.
Quitting the cell, she hurried to the Well Tower, and found her father, who had just returned from locking up the conspirators in their different dungeons, sitting down to his evening meal.
“What is the matter with the wench?” he cried, staring at her. “You look quite distracted. Is Viviana Radcliffe dead?”
“No; but she is dying,” replied Ruth.
“If that is the case I must go to her directly,” observed Dame Ipgreve. “She may have some valuable about her which I must secure.”
“You will be disappointed, mother,” rejoined Ruth, with a look of irrepressible disgust. “She has nothing valuable left but this golden crucifix, which she has sent to my father, on condition of his allowing Guy Fawkes to see her before she dies.”
“Give it me, wench,” cried Jasper Ipgreve; “and let her die in peace.”
“She will not die in peace unless she sees him,” replied Ruth. “Nor shall you have it, if you do not comply with her request.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 222
