“I cannot do it,” Charles insisted. “I have given my word.”
“My lord,” said one of the bishops, “there comes a time when certain action must be taken. It is better for one man to die than thousands.”
“Thousands…” echoed Charles.
“The people are in an angry mood. I fear they would attack the palace first.”
“My wife…my children…” cried Charles.
“My lord, none of them is safe. It is Strafford’s blood they want. He is a symbol. If you refuse to sign the death warrant you are going against Parliament for they have passed the sentence. To refuse to sign it is defiance against Parliament.”
“I do defy them. I will not sign away the life of a man who has shown me nothing but friendship and loyalty.”
The Bishops were dismayed. “We fear the consequences. They will break into the palace. The Queen….” They looked at me solemnly. “The people murmur all the time against the Queen.”
I looked at Charles and saw the frank terror in his face. It was fear for me and the children.
He said: “Give me time…time….” And I knew that he was wavering.
The Bishops left and Charles turned to me. “What am I going to do?” he cried in despair. “You are in danger. The children….”
I said: “Charles, you must not think of me. You must do what is right.”
“How could I not think of you? I would do anything…anything rather than that harm should come to you.”
Then we kissed tenderly and were silent for a long time. His resolution was wavering. He was going to give them what they wanted, not out of fear for himself—he was the bravest man on earth—but because he dreaded what they would do to me. I think we both remembered that Queens had been beheaded before. Worse still, if I fell into the hands of the mob, they would tear me to pieces before the judges could condemn me.
Our son came to us. He was very grave for he was fully aware of what was going on. Young Charles had always been precocious. He looked at his father questioningly and the King said: “They are crying for Strafford’s blood. How can I sacrifice one who has served me so loyally?”
Our son surveyed us solemnly and I thought how serious and kingly he looked—tall, commanding even at his age—he was eleven years old but already looked like a king. His dark rather saturnine looks gave him an air of authority. He was the sort of child whom none could ignore.
The King said: “My son, you shall take a message to the House of Lords. I will appeal to their sense of justice. It will be our last attempt to save the Earl of Strafford.”
Young Charles was eager to play his part in the drama and all night the King and I sat up drafting the letter which our son would take. We were sure he could not be ignored and would attract sympathy by his very youth.
In the morning young Charles put on robes of state and took his seat in the House of Lords. There was, I heard, a stir of interest as he entered and I could imagine that gravity, that kingly dignity which was so impressive in one so young.
He presented the letter. If the matter had not gone so far it might have had some effect. But it was too late and our last attempt failed.
The King was deeply moved to receive a letter from Strafford himself. Strafford realized what was at stake. He could perhaps see more clearly than I or the King. He knew that this struggle was between the King and the Parliament and there was still time to save the country from civil war. The Parliament had decided on his death; if the King did not agree to accept their verdict they would rise up against him and try to destroy all that the Monarchy stood for. Strafford must have seen that, and loyal subject that he was to King and country, he released the King from his promise.
Charles was deeply moved and I think that helped him to his decision. All next day the people were filling the streets. They made for Whitehall and St. James’s. The situation was becoming very dangerous.
I had been urging Charles not to give way but now I saw that if he did not it would be the end of us all. I thought of my mother, my children, the King himself…and my common sense told me that Strafford would have to go.
Charles was beside himself with grief. He had given his word to Strafford, but Strafford had released him from his promise. He believed in his heart, though, that the King would never agree to his execution.
“You have done all you could,” I reminded Charles. “No one could have done more.”
The King nodded. “But I gave my word. Perhaps…I should keep it.”
“At what cost?” I asked. “Your children…me….”
“Don’t,” he begged. “I could not bear life if you were harmed.”
“We must be reasonable, Charles. I was fond of Strafford. I know he was our loyal friend…but many lives are at stake.”
He embraced me. He was calm and cold and I knew he was thinking of me and the children.
Then he said slowly: “There is no other way out. I must sign.”
Strafford’s execution was fixed for the next day—the twelfth of May—a day I shall never forget. Charles insisted on knowing what Strafford had said when he understood that Charles had signed the death warrant.
Charles never got over it. I am sure to the last he remembered Strafford and in his mind’s eye saw the man whom he had tried to save being given the news that the King had betrayed him—for that was how Charles saw it and would not see it otherwise, however much I pointed out to him that it was not betrayal for Strafford himself had advised him to do it. But he heard that Strafford had murmured: “Put not your trust in Princes.” Poor man, he must have been overwrought. Not so much for himself but wondering about his family.
He had sent a message to Archbishop Laud, who was also lodged in the Tower, to be at his window as he passed and give him his blessing. Laud was there, and blessed him as he passed and then fell fainting to the floor as Strafford went on to the scaffold on Tower Hill.
Crowds came to see the deed, and there was a hushed silence when he raised his hand and spoke to them.
There were plenty to tell us what he had said and this was the gist of it:
“I had always believed parliaments in England to be the happy constitution of the kingdom and the nation and the best means under God to make the King and his people happy. Do not let the beginning of the people’s happiness be written in letters of blood.”
There was a warning there, but the people would not see it.
He died nobly as would be expected of such a man, refusing to have his eyes bound and asking for a moment of respite to say a silent prayer, promising that when he had prayed he would lift his hand as a sign to the executioner to wield the axe.
Thus he died and so ended the troubles of his earthly life.
Ours were just beginning.
THE SPY
When I went to see my mother she was in a state of panic. She had faced the fury of the people of her own country so was no stranger to unpopularity which was reaching the danger point.
“I must get away,” she said. “I must leave this country. I tell you this, Henriette. I picture those people storming the palace. They would have no respect for Queens. I did not think this could happen here. I had thought you were well settled. These people are barbarians. They hate the King. They hate you. And it seems that most of all they hate me. Savages! Like uncivilized people they turn on those who are foreigners to them.”
“They turned on Strafford,” I reminded her. “He was no foreigner. And yes, dear mother, I think you should go…if that is possible.”
“You should come with me, my dear.”
“And leave Charles!”