He took her hand and kissed it, feather-light; she fought not to shudder at his touch. “I shall petition the Fates to make me a seer, then, and until that day, live in hope.”
ST. STEPHEN’S CHAPEL, WESTMINSTER: April 21, 1641
“Consider the law,” Antony said, endeavoring to sound stronger and more confident than he felt. “For weeks, we have seen the Earl of Strafford defend himself upon the charges laid against him. He has established beyond doubt that, however much we may dispute the choices he has made, the actions he has taken, they have not crossed the line into treason.
“What are the strongest pieces of evidence against him?” A rhetorical question, but he had come to learn some of the theatrics of oration. Though he could not match the eloquence of Strode or Holles, he had to try. Antony raised a sheet of paper. “A copy of a copy of a note, made against Secretary Vane’s knowledge.” On a bench across the way, Vane’s son glared, not in the least embarrassed by his theft. “And Secretary Vane’s statement regarding the privy council meeting at which that note was made. The same piece of evidence, rendered twice, does not become twice as strong.
“Lord Strafford suggested the Irish army be used to reduce ‘this kingdom.’ Had he meant England, that would be treason indeed—but he did not say England. Others present at that meeting have no doubt he meant Scotland, which was, after all, the rebellious land then under debate. There is no treason here.”
He tossed down the paper, contemptuously, and locked his hands behind his back to conceal their trembling. “The charge of impeachment has failed. This bill of attainder seeks to circumvent that failure—to declare that Strafford intended to subvert the laws of this land, and that such intent, unproved and not acted upon, yet constitutes treason. In effect, the bill declares that Strafford must die for the good of England, because we say it is so.”
A pause, to let that sink in. But the benches around him were far too empty; where were the men who should have packed into the aisles for such an important vote? Scarcely half of the Commons had come today, despite the penalties for absence. They were afraid to commit themselves.
Afraid to put themselves in the path of Pym’s relentless assault, which struck not only at this one man, but the roots of sovereignty itself. Laud was in the Tower with Strafford; other servants of the Crown had fled abroad. Parliament—which was to say, the Commons—asserted the right to question and oversee the King’s councillors, to alter the Church as it saw fit, to control the revenues of the state; they wanted authority over the militia given into their hands. The only thing yet passed into law was a bill to call Parliament not less often than every three years—but if Antony lost this chance to thwart the opposition, who knew where the avalanche would end?
“Let us not make ourselves into a tyrannous mob,” he said, quietly, into the watchful silence. “The law has rendered Strafford innocent of treason. We must heed its voice.”
Then he sat down, before his knees could give out.
“The question,” said Speaker Lenthall, “is the bill of attainder for Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford. The House will divide.”
The lobby to the chapel was cleared of all its usual rabble. Sir Gilbert Gerard and Sir Thomas Barrington stood by the door, ready to mark down the names of those voting against the bill.
Antony was the first to rise and pass outside the bar. In that moment, he hated this arrangement, which encouraged the lazy and the fearful to remain in their seats, while those who stood against were forced to walk out, under the eyes of their enemies.
Even before he turned around in the lobby, he knew it would not be enough.
A score. Two score. Watching, praying, he ended his count at fifty-nine. The dissenters recalled into the chamber, Lenthall read out the division: the yeas had gathered two hundred and four.
There was still a chance. The Lords had not yet passed the bill, and the King had not assented. And Charles had promised Strafford repeatedly that he would suffer no such ungrateful reward for his service.
But whatever the outcome for Wentworth’s life, the earl was defeated; Pym had won.
TOWER HILL, LONDON: May 12, 1641
The sea of people stretched as far as the eye could see in all directions: on rooftops, hanging out windows, flooding Petty Wales and Tower Street and Woodroffe Lane, packing into the open spaces of Tower Hill until there was scarcely room to draw breath. How many are there? Antony wondered.
How many thousands have come to see him die?
Katherine was not one of them. Antony had asked that morning, tentatively, whether she wished to accompany him. Other wives stood with his fellow aldermen, just as eager as their husbands to see Black Tom Tyrant meet his end. But while Kate had as strong a heart as any for most things, she could not abide blood; she had gone into Covent Garden for the day, far from the thousand-headed monster that now waited with unholy glee.
That monster frankly scared Antony. He’d already fled one angry mob a few days after the vote in the Commons, discovering only then that the divisions had been published, and that he was tarred as a Straffordian. And as bad as the riots had been lately, the celebration tonight would be worse. London had become a beast that answered to no man’s command.
Noon was nearly upon them. Sunlight gilded the tops of the White Tower, and the scaffold where the headsman waited. The wind off the river was cool, but with so many bodies pressed so close, the air sweltered and stank. Despite that, hawkers wandered tirelessly through the crowd, selling beer and onions and cheese. A few enterprising souls seemed even to have brought chamber pots, so they need not risk losing their places.
Antony prayed for it to be over soon, and was answered with an animal roar. Mail and pike heads glittered along the Tower walclass="underline" they were bringing Strafford out.
Thomas Wentworth, born of a wealthy Yorkshire family, bore himself as proudly as any duke. Illness and imprisonment had weakened his body, but his spirit was yet strong; he had even written to the King, telling him to sign the bill of attainder, for the good of England. Antony suspected it a political gambit on Strafford’s part, a ploy to gain sympathy from the Lords by his noble self-sacrifice, but if so, it had failed signally. All it had bought him was death.
Movement flickered in a window of the fortress: craning his neck, Antony saw Laud, looking out from his own cell. The archbishop raised his hands in blessing as his friend passed; then he staggered, weeping, and crumpled out of sight.
Having mounted the steps to the scaffold, Wentworth composed himself and addressed the crowd. Only fitful snatches of the man’s final speech reached Antony’s ears. “I do freely forgive all the world—”
Even his King, Antony thought, and shifted uncomfortably. All Charles’s promises to Strafford had come to naught. The King had even made one last, frantic attempt to free the earl by force, dispatching soldiers to break him from the Tower of London, but it accomplished nothing. No, something more, and worse: it had fed the hysterical rumors of gunpowder plots and invasion from abroad, and strengthened Pym’s position. Who could trust the King now?
His speech concluded, Wentworth was praying. The rumble of the crowd subsided, waiting for the moment. And in that hush, Antony heard a voice, hissing venomous words.
“Put not your trust in princes, nor in the sons of men, for in them there is no salvation.”