Robert Allibone and Gideon turned up like sightseers on Saturday the 20th of January, then attended every day. Lambert was on the mend, but still too shaky on his legs, though his wife Anne put on a hooded cloak and came. Gideon noticed with mild amusement that Anne was now so independent that she detached herself without a word and went to inveigle herself in among important ladies who were allowed to sit in the upper gallery. At first other spectators were kept standing out in New Palace Yard.
The judges entered and were seated. The commissioners' names were called over and those who were present answered; there would never be any attempt to penalise those who absented themselves. In the gallery, Anne Jukes became a witness to an incident; when Lord Fairfax's name was called, a masked woman cried out, 'He has more wit than to be here!' People whispered that it was his wife, Lady Fairfax.
Silence was called for, then the mighty doors at the end of the hall were hauled open so that 'all persons desirous to see or hear (without exception) might enter'. There were some exceptions: all delinquents and papists had been barred from within ten miles of London (though not those who were trying to pay their fines…). Otherwise it was a scrum.
'Use your weight!' muttered Robert as the crowd surged through the entrance, rushing for good vantage points.
'Kick shins!' urged Gideon. They pressed forwards ruthlessly and planted themselves among many others, all cloaked, gloved and hatted against the icy cold, a cold which even the presence of so many people never alleviated. Gideon, who had never been there before, gazed around in wonder at the spectacular great hall.
The public seats and standing room filled up fast. Silence was once more ordered. Colonel Tomlinson, in charge of the King, was commanded to bring in his prisoner. Although Cotton House was the nextdoor building, with royal dallying this took a quarter of an hour. Then came twenty officers with specially ordered partisans, twelve-foot staves with gleaming sharp barbed heads. The sergeant at arms, resplendent with his Mace, received the King into the court's custody and conducted him straight to a crimson velvet chair. After a reproving glance around the court, the King took his place.
The judges refused to remove their hats to him. He refused to remove his hat to them.
All men are born equal!' Robert Allibone snorted quietly.
Ever theatrical, the King had recovered his pride in his appearance. Maintaining a pose of great hauteur, he arrived in court in stunning black velvet, with the Order of the Garter resplendent on the left side of his cloak — a great, radiating circle of embroidered silver threads. This scintillating adornment, almost as long as his arm, was the oldest and highest English order of chivalry. It had been conceived to represent like-minded brotherhood — though a closed brotherhood of the sovereign with his elite private associates, not that of the sovereign and his subjects. The order's patron was St George, the dragon-slaying patron saint of England, who was depicted on a dramatic medal which Charles wore on a wide blue ribbon around his neck.
As Gideon sourly surveyed that Garter, its archaic symbolism seemed a serious error, grounded in exclusiveness. Taught by the authors of radical pamphlets, Gideon viewed Honi Soi Qui Maly Pense as a mystic incantation in the language of the Normans, repressive foreign overlords who had seized power in England, then employed the barrier of ancient French to exclude the native population from government and the law. Chivalric this order might be, and comforting to the King, but for Gideon the black velvet and expensive embroidery were an attempt to shield the King, who lived so completely in this alien world, from the consequences of his own arrogance, deviousness, divisiveness, indifference, pettiness and vacillation, let alone (why be mealy-mouthed?) his misunderstanding of, distaste for and disloyalty to the common man.
Gideon felt the decorative trappings of monarchy had no relevance, not for any Parliamentary soldier who had marched until his feet were raw, his stomach gnawed by months of hunger, constantly tasting danger and terror amidst the smoke and din of battlefields where men were ripped apart, gouged open, shredded and knocked senseless. To those who had fought for Parliament, and to the women and children who shared their self-sacrifice, the charge that Charles Stuart had maintained a cruel war did matter; it mattered desperately.
Bradshaw, Lord President of the High Court of Justice, occupied a velvet throne, with a writing-desk before him. He was three steps up on a dais so spectators could see him. The King had his back to most of them; he was in a dock where the walls were so high that when he sat, only the crown of his hat was visible. From time to time he stood up and peered over at the audience disdainfully. Two clerks, the only people hatless, occupied a large square central table, covered with a deeply fringed turkey carpet in the traditional rich shades of red, black and green. They had to squeeze their pens and papers between the Mace and a ceremonial sword over which the Mace was crossed. Pikemen and musketeers lined all the seating areas. Since these heavily armed troops were standing, they had the best view. They were bitterly cold, and from time to time glumly stamped their booted feet. Their orders were to protect the court and its prisoner and to take into custody anyone who caused disturbances.
Bradshaw opened the unprecedented proceedings: 'Charles Stuart, King of England, the Commons of England assembled in Parliament, being deeply sensible of the calamities that have been brought upon this nation, which is fixed upon you as the principal author of it, have resolved to make inquisition for blood. And according to that debt and duty they owe to justice, to God, the Kingdom and themselves, they have resolved to bring you to trial and judgment, and for that purpose have constituted this High Court of Justice before which you are brought.' The clerk of the court was commanded to read the formal charge. 'The Charge of the Commons of England against Charles Stuart, King of England, of High Treason and other high crimes.' Gone now were the all-embracing lists of grievances that once featured in John Pym's Grand Remonstrance. Ship Money, monopolies, encroachments, Catholic plots, Laudian impositions, imprisoned pamphleteers, abuses of commerce, disagreements about religion, were mopped up as 'a wicked design to uphold to himself an unlimited and tyrannical power to rule according to his will' for which end the King had 'traitorously and maliciously levied war against the present Parliament and the people therein represented'. Key military engagements were listed, from initial manoeuvres in 1642 and the raising of the King's standard, through Edgehill, Reading, Gloucester, Newbury, Cropredy Bridge, Cornwall, Newbury again, Leicester, Naseby and the uprisings in Kent and elsewhere in 1648:
By which cruel and unnatural wars by him (the said Charles Stuart) levied, continued and renewed as aforesaid, much innocent blood of the free people of this nation hath been spilt, many families have been undone, the public treasury wasted and exhausted, trade obstructed and miserably decayed, vast expense and damage to the nation incurred, and many parts of the land spoiled, some of them even to desolation.
When he heard himself accused of tyranny, the King laughed loudly. His arrogance shocked the commissioners who had come to sit in judgment, and it shocked spectators.
John Cook, Solicitor-General for the Commonwealth, was to prosecute. As Cook began, the King rapped him on the shoulder with his heavy silver cane, attempting to interrupt. Eventually, the head of the cane tumbled off. It rolled on the floor, noisily travelling to and fro. The King waited for someone to pick it up for him. Nobody moved. He was forced to stoop and retrieve the finial himself. He looked shaken.
Undaunted, Cook continued. The King assumed an insouciant expression, unaware that his contemptuous manner was losing him sympathy. He demanded to know by what lawful authority he had been brought there. He directly accused the court of having no more legality than thieves and highway robbers, who got their way by force. Bradshaw at first floundered nervously, saying that Charles was required to attend 'in the name of the people, of which you are elected king' — to which the King flashed back pedantically that England had not had an elected king in the past thousand years.