The Soldier, the Gaoler, the Spy and her Lover

by Simon Parke

  ‘Once my name was Jane.’

  ‘Different days, my dear, different days.’ And then louder, ‘I wish you well, Mrs Whorwood, and every blessing on your dear husband and family.’

  She turned, walked away, stumbled a little and then her legs gave way. She fell to her knees in St James’s Park and felt the cold soil through her fading dress. And then she arose, wiped her muddied palms and walked on, towards the waiting figures with the horse, no looking back . . . though she did look back, to see her king, her dear little boy . . .

  *

  It is 1.30 on the afternoon of the day of execution.

  Charles is guided by two soldiers up the back stairs of the Banqueting House. He passes through the Great Hall where he and Henrietta Maria had danced beneath the Rubens ceiling. He looks up to enjoy it once more, but sees nothing; he cannot see the painting. The two tiers of huge oblong windows are boarded with crude carpentry and the light shut out. The painting cannot be seen, he is denied its final charm. Though he can imagine its colours here in the dark, imagine the scene, the infant Charles held high over England and Scotland . . . and his father carried to heaven.

  ‘Soon to join you, Father,’ he says, crossing himself. Would it be a happy reacquaintance? There were, one must admit, a mixture of feelings.

  But he’d grasped the issue of the soot; he’d been quite clear on that matter. Soot from the many lamps had begun to soil Rubens’ colours – such a tragedy – and so he’d limited the number of events here. Festivities had been relocated. One must protect beauty, what else is kingship for?

  And the gaiety in this place! He’s now remembering the visit of Indah ben Abdullah, ambassador extraordinary from the Sultan of Morocco. He’d come to negotiate a trade agreement, and what a show that had been! His gifts to Charles had included four Barbary horses and two saddles plated with gold of the most exquisite workmanship, while he had returned to Africa with a coach lined with crimson velvet, gilded and painted with flowers – and a copy of Van Dyck’s portraits of the king and queen.

  Such days! Torchlight processions through London, vast crowds pressing for a view. And they pressed again today, though differently. He walked towards his death which some, like his daughter, felt needless. Yet how could he have accepted such restriction on his divine office? And what would his father have said at such submission, such bending in the wind? He died now that future monarchs might be quite free from the restraint of monkeys.

  He looks around. Ahead of him lies the door through which he will step out on to the scaffold. He’ll step through the leaded glass on to his final scene. And he listens . . . and hears it. He hears the presence of people beyond those doors, he hears the crowd, both shouts and stillness. They have come for their king.

  Only slowly does he become aware of a figure, stationary in the shadows, familiar in outline, rounder and taller than Charles, with an unfortunate nose. Oliver Cromwell has come to say goodbye, but Charles has no time for this, no time for the man. He enjoyed their conversations at Hampton Court well enough, but he has never regarded Farmer Oliver as more than a servant, more than someone to do his bidding.

  ‘I am not aware we have anything to say to each other,’ Charles says quietly. ‘I cannot offer you absolution, if that is what you seek.’

  But Cromwell only stares and Charles is unnerved. Is he to be killed here, in private?

  ‘I would like to be left alone to say my prayers,’ says Charles. He is angry at this intrusion.

  ‘I doubt not your piety and fortitude,’ says Cromwell, to the king’s deep disdain. As if Charles is concerned over how this man considers him! ‘But I have yet to master your majesty’s failure to read a plain lesson – or your lack of candour, your passion for intrigue and your unshakeable obstinacy.’

  Charles looks at him through the half-light as if to say, ‘Are you quite done?’

  ‘I would have you on the throne,’ adds Cromwell, surprising himself.

  Charles smiles. ‘You disguise your wish well.’

  ‘You would not allow it, of course.’

  ‘Because you did not offer a throne, Mr Cromwell. Had you offered a throne, we might have walked together; but the army consumed you, ate you whole, wild men at arms.’

  ‘Only after deceit ate you.’

  ‘You offered me a kennel in which the dog sits tied.’

  ‘If a kennel, a very fine one.’

  ‘But I am the king, not a dog.’

  There was a silence between them.

  ‘I wish to pray,’ says Charles.

  ‘And what of responsibility, Charles? You take none? I bid you take some!’

  Now Oliver is stirred, mindful of Charles’ lack of regret.

  ‘I will pray for your guilt,’ says Charles, ‘for I see it troubles you and makes you look quite ill. You look ill, Mr Cromwell. Now let me to my God . . . and my people.’

  It is a royal dismissal. Charles kneels, bows his head, pauses for a moment and then turns back once again – because he wishes to know.

  ‘Did Brandon agree?’

  But the figure in the shadows is gone.

  *

  Charles emerged through the tall window on to the scaffold, just before the second chime. He was struck by the density of the crowd: something solid, a carpet of heads as far as the eye could scan. His loyal people, reaching out to him – though soldiers positioned in-between, a line four deep, forcing his subjects back . . . and removing them from his final words. Charles had never possessed a big voice.

  ‘How is the king to address his people?’ he asked the bishop, who stood like a statue in the cold.

  ‘God will hear.’

  ‘I had hoped my people might also hear.’

  ‘You don’t have any people,’ said the masked figure of the assistant executioner. ‘Not any more.’

  The king was composed, wearing two shirts; this had been the advice.

  ‘Wear two shirts, your majesty, lest a shiver be construed as fear.’

  ‘I will have no fear. That is what Henrietta would advise.’

  ‘Then wear two shirts, so appearance matches your spirit.’

  Charles looked down and found the block for his head a little low. He asked the executioner if it could be raised, but it couldn’t be raised, he was told. He learned this from the shake of the masked axeman’s head.

  ‘A flat stone might be laid beneath it – to raise it a little?’

  But again the executioner shook his head. This was not the time for him to be altering the height of the block. He was used to the block this height. With a different height, the swing must be different, the angle changed, and there was no time to practise.

  Was it Brandon behind the mask? Charles was wondering if it was Brandon. He couldn’t tell, for he had never wished to notice the man until now. The executioner’s assistant stood four yards away, watchful, though who he was watching was harder to say. It was possible he was watching the axe. When Boleyn was killed, the poor girl, they hid the sword beneath the straw to calm her; but not so here. The executioner leaned on his weapon, as though it were a stick for an old man.

  Charles was allowed to give his speech, written on parchment – he had taken some care. No one could hear him, with the crowd pushed back, but he spoke as loud as he could and believed that God would help the listening of the crowd.

  ‘God will take your words to their ears, your majesty,’ said the bishop and so he began:

  ‘I never did begin a war with the two houses of parliament,’ he declared from the cold stage. ‘I never did begin a war – and I call God to witness, to whom I must shortly make account – that I never did intend to encroach on their privileges.’ There was deep quiet across London, as though the city heard every word. Maybe a miracle was occurring; some said this.

  ‘Rather,’ he continued, ‘they began upon me, this is how it wa
s. For you, the people of this land, truly I desire your liberty and freedom as much as anybody, whomsoever you may be. But this I must tell you plainly: your liberty and freedom consist in having a government and laws by which your life and your goods may be most your own. This I affirm. But it does not consist – and I say this plainly too – it does not consist in having a share in that government, for that is nothing pertaining to you. You are to enjoy government, rather than be the government. A subject and a sovereign are clean different things.’

  ‘Yes – and one difference is that we’ll still have our heads tonight,’ muttered the executioner’s assistant, who seemed a confident man on the scaffold, almost a man in charge. And there was something in the voice Charles recognized . . . but he would not be distracted by an oaf. He continued his address.

  ‘And therefore, until they do that – I mean, until you are given that liberty by your government – you will never enjoy yourselves. And it is for this that I stand here now. I stand here on this cold scaffold for your liberty.’

  ‘A secret death is beginning to have its attractions,’ said Ireton, who was also cold, standing in the shadows with his father-in-law, just inside the windows through which Charles had walked. Ireton was not a man for the public stage, just one to get matters done.

  ‘It could have been otherwise, my dear subjects,’ said Charles, looking for his line. He held his script in chilling hands, fingers struggling to hold the parchment still; it wobbled a little. ‘If I had succumbed to an arbitrary way, by which all laws are changed according to the power of the sword – then I would not stand here now! I would be in the palace in Whitehall rather than on a scaffold in the street. But I bear no grudge, no grudge at all. And as I pray that God will forgive those who bring me to this place, I offer myself to you, my English subjects, as the martyr of the people! Here I die, this day, the martyr of the people!’

  ‘I think that’s as much flatulence as I can stomach in one afternoon,’ said Ireton. He was finding this speech most trying.

  Charles was stirred within but struck by the chill. There was no protection from the wind here; it smacked his face. He turned to the bishop, folded his speech faithfully delivered and gave it into his keeping.

  ‘Good words, my lord Bishop?’

  ‘Good words, your majesty.’

  ‘So I go now to where no disturbance can be,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that so?’

  ‘You do, sire.’

  ‘Death is not terrible to me. I bless my God. I am prepared.’

  And to the executioner, he gave instructions: ‘I shall say but very short prayers – and when I thrust out my hands . . .’

  He asked the bishop for his cap, and having placed it delicately on his head, mindful of appearance, he asked the executioner, ‘Does my hair trouble you?’

  ‘It would be best beneath the cap, sire.’

  ‘Let me,’ said the bishop, leaning forward to help, as did the executioner. Together, they ensured the hair was tucked inside.

  ‘I have a good cause and a gracious God on my side,’ he said to the bishop, who replied, ‘There is but one stage more, your majesty, which – though turbulent and troublesome – is a very short one.’

  ‘Short indeed,’ said Charles. ‘A mere swing of the axe!’

  ‘A short path, but one that will carry you a very great way. For it will carry you from earth to heaven; and there, sire, you shall find, to your great joy, the prize you hasten to – a crown of glory.’

  The king added, ‘I go from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown, do I not? To a place where no disturbance can be.’

  He had lived with disturbance long enough.

  ‘You exchange a temporal crown for one eternal, sire – a good exchange, I believe.’

  Charles now turned to his executioner, still unsure: ‘Is my hair well?’

  ‘Your hair is well.’

  He then took off his cloak, felt the freeze and removed the jewelled figure of St George from around his neck. He gave it to the bishop, who placed it in the same pocket as the folded speech, deep beneath his robes. Charles looked down at the block and said to the executioner: ‘You must set it fast.’

  ‘It is fast, sire. I have set it well, as sure as a rock.’

  ‘It might have been a little higher.’ He did wish it to be higher.

  ‘It can be no higher, sire.’

  ‘Are they always so low?’

  ‘Always, sire.’

  ‘You will give me a moment?’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘When I put out my hands this way, then . . .’

  Charles indicated what he would do, and then, as he stood, spoke a few words to himself, his hands and eyes lifted up to the clear January sky. He now moved quickly, and stooping down, placed his neck upon the cold block – how had it come to this? – while putting stray hairs under his cap. He was not quite ready, and imagining too sudden a strike, said to the executioner, ‘Wait for the sign. I will stretch out my hands.’

  ‘I will wait for your hands, your majesty.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Encouraged by his father, Brandon had practised as a child, decapitating cats and dogs. He had a steady hand and an unerring eye. His father had never said that, but he knew for himself. He’d never used more than one strike and he’d killed before large crowds, especially at Tower Hill – that blood-stained ground to the north-west of the Tower. It was mostly nobility that ended up there, after imprisonment in the Tower – rich people executed for ‘being an inconvenience’, as his father told him, but folk who could draw a crowd. One hundred thousand had watched him relieve Stafford of his head, that’s what they said. And Archbishop Laud? Brandon had done him as well; another freezer in January and the old man in his robes, playing the priest to the last.

  As his father told him, you forget the crowd: ‘It’s just you and ’im. So swing fast and straight, aim for the nape . . . and hope the bugger don’t move.’

  Charles stretched out his hands.

  And in one movement, Brandon raised the axe and swung it down, straight and fast, aim for the nape – and the royal head left the body. A cascade of blood, a red drizzle; the crowd groaned – a shocked and communal exhalation. But Brandon felt only relief flood his body: a good job, well done, well executed, as they said. He passed the bloodied axe to his assistant, handle upwards. He then bent down, and with some difficulty picked up the rolling head from the stage and held it up before the people.

  In his best Whitechapel drawl, he shouted: ‘Be’old the ’ed of a traih – uh!’

  That’s what they had told him to say, so that’s what he said. It wasn’t his mind but theirs. Now the surge of the crowd, the soldiers at tipping point, managing with a struggle to hold them back, while Brandon put down the head, a pale bloody thing, and reached into the king’s pockets. Thirty pounds plus the king’s pockets was the fee. He drew forth a silk handkerchief and an orange stuck with cloves, which surprised him a little. He would get ten shillings for that from the right person, so best to keep it safe. These were his thoughts as the body of the king was lifted up in haste, placed in a coffin, covered with black velvet, and carried from the stage back through the window from which he had emerged some ten minutes ago . . .

  Ten minutes that Jane had been unable to watch, standing in the doorway of her childhood home, just three hundred yards from the dreadful scaffolding, but her eyes elsewhere . . .

  *

  Some from the crowd were allowed forward, through the wall of soldiers.

  If they paid a shilling, they could climb up on to the stage and dip their hankies in the royal blood. A queue quickly formed, one of grief above fury. Most desired only its healing powers, to be stored if possible – for when would this happen again? He had healed in life, this was well known, and he would heal in death. One woman dipped her finger in the blood and then crossed her forehea
d with it; another appeared to place it on her lips, as if receiving the sacrament.

  ‘God bless your majesty,’ she said.

  The executioner left the stage in haste, fearful for his life if he stayed. He followed the coffin back into the hall, where he collected his payment from his assistant.

  ‘You pay me?’ he said.

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘Unusual.’

  ‘Today is unusual, my friend.’

  ‘You too are an executioner?’

  ‘A good job, Brandon; you killed a wrong ’un.’

  ‘I killed a king.’

  And now he trembled a little, his knee buckling in horror, and his foot twitched, like a dying man himself. Today he’d killed the monarch of England and was now a man on the run, and forever so, keeping silent to survive . . . but he could not keep silent from himself.

  ‘There will be none who know?’ he asked.

  ‘I won’t be telling.’

  Brandon counted the coins with shaking hands, placed them in the sack with his executioner’s outfit, bowed to his assistant – he wasn’t sure why – and then slipped through a tradesmen’s door, back on to the London streets and towards Whitechapel, by a roundabout way. He would not speak to any of this day, though he felt the whole city stare, every face seeming to know his deed.

  His assistant cared less about secrecy, and returned to the scaffold hiding nothing, his mask removed as he talked with the soldiers.

  ‘His blood makes them happy,’ said one, as they watched the dippers in various states of hysteria.

  ‘Certainly makes me happy,’ replied the assistant executioner; ‘all very healing.’

  And he watched as the troops marched in opposite directions between Westminster and Charing Cross, dispersing people north and south; they were not staying here to cause trouble. And there was no trouble in London that day, in neither Whitehall nor any other district. The people of England watched the killing of the king and then went quietly home. But it would be a day he, Cornet Joyce, remembered. And he could have done it, if Brandon hadn’t.

  ‘I could have swung that axe,’ he said to himself, as he stepped from the stage, already being dismantled. ‘Joycey could have done it.’