Her game in thy tongue is called Life
As ebbs thy daily breath;
When she shall speak, thou'lt learn her tongue
And know she calls it death.
--DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.
For the rest, 'tis in the domain of history. Michael could have been
tried by his peers had he so desired it. The few friends who rallied
round him urged him to demand the right, but when we remember that in
pledging his life to his cousin, his one wish was speedy condemnation
and summary death, we cannot be astonished that he refused to be tried
by those who might have been lenient toward one of themselves.
Among his peers, too, the fact would of a surety have come to light
that he did not belong to the Catholic branch of the Kestyons, that he
himself was a member of the Established Church, which--as all these
trials, alas, really amounted to religious persecution--would almost
certainly have obtained an acquittal.
Parliament--still suffering severely of its no-Popery fit--demanded
that the traitor be tried as a common criminal before the King's Bench
and required the king to issue a special commission that the day might
be fixed as soon as may be.
The accused was of course allowed no counsel, and no defence save what
he could say on his own behalf. Nor did he know the precise words of
the indictment, or what special form the informant's lies had taken.
He did not know exactly what he was supposed to have said or done, he
could only vaguely guess from what he knew of similar trials that had
gone before.
The trial of Michael Kestyon, Earl of Stowmaries and Rivaulx, did,
we know, take place before the King's Bench on the twenty-first day
of November, 1678. Lord Chief Justice Scroggs presided, and the
Attorney-General, Sir William Jones, once the friend of Michael,
addressed the jury for the Crown.
We also know that the court sat in Westminster Hall for the occasion,
as it was expected that a very large concourse of ladies and gentlemen
would desire to be present. As a matter of fact, the élite of London
society did forego on that occasion the pleasures of The Mall, and
of the playhouse in order to witness a spectacle which would rouse
the jaded senses of these votaries of fashion and whip up their
blasé emotions more than any comedy of Mr. Dryden or the late Master
Shakespeare could do.
This would be a tragedy far more moving, far more emotional than that
of Hamlet or of Romeo and Juliet, for the element of romance mingled
agreeably with that of crime, and the personality of the accused was
one that aroused the most eager interest.
Outside, a gloomy November drizzle enveloped London with its clammy
shroud. Ladies and gentlemen arrived in their chairs or their glass
coaches, wrapped to the eyes in mantles and hoods of fur. There was
a goodly array of musketeers guarding the approach to the Hall, and
a small company of the trained bands of London lined the way from
Whitehall to Westminster, for it was pretty well known that His Majesty
would come--in strict incognito--to see the last of his nine days'
favourite, who during the last few months had made Mistress Gwynne
sigh very significantly, and caused Lady Castlemaine to make invidious
comparisons between the gallant bearing of the romantic adventurer and
the mincing manners of the gentlemen of the Court.
The less exalted spectators of to-day's pageant were being kept outside
and pushed well out of the way by the soldiery; nevertheless, they
stood about patiently--ankle deep in the mud of the roadway, their
sad-coloured doublets getting soaked beneath the persistent drizzle and
exhaling a fetid odour which made the street and the open place seem
more dismal and humid than usual.
The men pressed to the front, leaving the women to shift for
themselves, to see as best they could. It was pre-eminently a spectacle
for men, since it carried with it its own element of danger. For,
look you, the Papists would be mightily rampant on this occasion,
and who knows but that a gigantic conspiracy was afoot to blow up
the Lord's House of Parliament, which would sit this day to try the
arch-conspirator.
Recollections of the Gunpowder Plot caused men to curse loudly, and to
grasp with firm hand the useful flail safely hid inside the doublet: a
good protection against personal attack, but alas, useless if the whole
of Westminster was really undermined with powder.
The 'prentices, ever to the fore, had taken French leave to-day. At
certain risk of castigation to-morrow they deserted work with one
accord and were at the best posts of observation, long before the more
sober folk had thought to leave their beds. They wriggled their meagre
bodies between the very legs of the soldiery, like so many lizards in
search of sunshine, until they had conquered their places of vantage
in the foreground whence they would presently see the prisoner when he
stepped out of the vehicle which would bring him from the Tower.
In the meanwhile the crowd wiled away the time by watching the arrival
of the grand folk, and noting their names and quality as they descended
from coach and chaise.
"That's my lord of Rochester."
"And this my lady Evelyn."
"I vow 'tis Master Pepys himself."
"And his lady, too."
"'Tis His Grace of Norfolk!"
Whereupon since the duke was a well-known Papist, there were hoots
and hisses and cries of "The stake for heretics!" in which even the
musketeers joined.
The informers came together and were vigorously cheered and loudly
acclaimed.
"An Oates! An Oates! A Bedloe! Hurrah for the saviours of the nation!"
Daniel Pye, a little anxious, was being upheld by his friend Tongue,
who kept up a running flow of encouraging words which he poured forth
into the other man's ear. He not being known to the mob remained
unnoticed. As the time drew nigh for making his lying statements more
public, the East Anglian peasant felt his courage oozing down into
his boots. Bedloe and Oates, who had gone through similar experiences
several times now, added their own encouragement to that expressed by
Tongue.
"No one will worry you," said Bedloe loftily; "they'll believe every
word you say. Only stick to your story, man, and never hesitate. They
can't contradict you: no one else was there to see."
Although the gloom outside had almost changed day into evening, yet
on entering the great hall wherein a very few lamps flickered near the
centre dais, Daniel Pye could see nothing of his surroundings. He was
glad that Oates himself took him by the arm, and piloted him through
the great hall toward a side door immediately behind the bench and
which gave on the room that had been assigned to the witnesses.
A goodly number of ladies and gentlemen wore masks when they arrived,
and among these was a man obviously young and of assured position,
for his step was firm and his movements like those of one accustomed
to have his own way in the world. He was dressed in rough clothes of
sad-coloured material, but there was nothing of the menial about his
person as he presented his paper of admission to the most exclusive
corner of the hall.
Here he sat himself down in a dark recess beneath the sill of the great
mullioned window, nor did he remove his mask as almost every one else
had done. Had not the crowd all round him been deeply engrossed in its
own excitement no doubt that some one would have challenged and mayhap
recognised the solitary figure.
But as it was, no one took notice of him. Rupert Kestyon--like the
criminal who cannot resist the impulse of once more revisiting the
scene of his crime--had returned to London to see the final act of the
great tragedy, wherein he himself was playing such a sorry part.
Not that Rupert had any fear that matters would not turn out just
as Michael had mapped them out. He knew his kinsman far too well to
imagine for a moment that he would lift a finger to save the life which
he had bartered for his cousin's loyalty to the tailor's daughter.
But in Paris, whilst waiting in seclusion and inactivity, the moment
when--the tragedy being over--he could once more resume the more
pleasing comedy of life, he felt an irresistible longing to see the
fall of that curtain, to be present when Fate dealt him his last
trump-card, the final sacrifice of the man who stood in the way of his
own advancement.
Therefore he sat there in the corner, solitary and watchful, noting the
arrival of the spectators, the appearance of the men of law, the whole
paraphernalia of justice which was about to crush an innocent man.
The hall by now was packed to overflowing; to right and left temporary
seats had been erected and covered with crimson cloth, forming an
amphitheatre which accommodated over a thousand people, amongst whom
were many that bore historic names, as well as the gayer crowd that
formed the Court set.
Vast as was the room, it had already become insufferably hot; ladies
plied their fans vigorously, whilst the men, worried with their heavy
perruques, became restless and morose. On the right hand side, and
somewhat in advance of the rest of the seats, a few more comfortable
chairs had been disposed. Here sat a man dressed in sober black, with
dark perruque pushed impatiently off his high forehead, and shifty,
mistrustful-looking eyes wandering over the sea of faces all around
him. To right and left of him ladies whispered and chatted, trying
to bring a smile to the pinched lips, and not succeeding, for the
man in the black surcoat was moody to-day, anxious, too, and vastly
dissatisfied with himself, which is ever an uncomfortable state of
mind. He had entered the Hall almost unobserved by the crowd outside,
stepping out of a closed coach in no ways different to others that had
driven up before. He had worn a mask when he arrived and only removed
it when he was already seated. Several people recognised him then,
but what cheering there came from the more brilliant members of this
promiscuous throng was quickly repressed.
Despite the many supposed attempts on the life of the king, he was far
from popular just now. Conscious of this, he frowned when he realised
that--though he was recognised by many--yet he was acclaimed only by a
very few.
Already the jury were seated and Sir Cresswell Levins was sorting his
papers, and incidentally chatting with the Attorney-General. And now
from outside came a muffled sound, like unto great breakers rolling
into shore; distant at first, it gradually drew nearer, drawing
strength as it approached. Soon through it there came, striking sharply
on the ear, the stamping of horses' hoofs on the cobblestones of the
road, and the creaking of heavy wheels through the mud. The sound
of rolling waves turned to one which came from hundreds of human
lips--hisses and groans were distinctly heard; shouts of execration,
with here and there a blasphemous oath loudly uttered against the
cursed Papists.
The prisoner had arrived.
Inside the Hall all necks were craned to catch the first glimpse of the
man who was destined mayhap not to leave this place save with the axe
suspended over his head.
The romantic tales which had clustered around the personality of
Michael Kestyon, the horrible suggestions of unavowable deeds, of
black magic and devilish incantations, had borne fruit. Though eyes
were fixed with eager curiosity on the man as he entered, though many
a pleasing shudder ran along white plump shoulders as this confederate
of Satan passed so closely by, there was not a single demonstration of
sympathy on his behalf.
The women whispered:
"He is goodly to look on!" and took stock of the prisoner's bearing,
the upright carriage of his handsome head, the quiet look of splendid
aloofness with which he regarded his surroundings.
Whereupon the men retorted gruffly:
"The emissaries of the devil are always made handsome in the eyes of
others. Satan arranges it so, else they would have no power."
Following on the prisoner's entrance, the great doors of the Hall had
been closed, whereupon the noise outside became quite deafening. The
hoots and hisses, the shouts of execration, were still apparent but
they mingled now with the clash of arms, the tramping of many feet, and
loudly repeated groans of agony. The mob, robbed of its spectacle, had
turned restive, the men broke through the lines of the soldiery and
made an effort to rush the gates of the Hall. From the officers came
quick words of command, rallying their lines from where they stretched
toward White Hall.
A few heavy blows, well aimed and vigorously dealt, with the butt end
of the muskets, a few bodies trampled beneath horses' hoofs, some
broken heads and shattered limbs, and the mob sobered down, withdrew
grumbling and cursing, but understanding that the great pageant within
was for their betters and not for them.
During the turmoil the Lord Chief Justice had entered and the prisoner
had been led to the bar; he had been made to hold up his right hand
whilst he was told why he had been brought here, and why he was made
to stand his trial. Being a peer, the Chamberlain of the Tower stood
beside him holding the axe.
Michael silently did all that he was bidden to do. The proceedings had
no interest for him. Of a truth he had been more than satisfied if the
more barbarous justice of two centuries ago had been meted out to him.
An accusation, a brief interrogation, mayhap an unpleasant quarter of
an hour in the torture chamber, then the block! How much more simple,
how much more easy to endure than this sea of curious faces, this
paraphernalia of gorgeously-clad judge and of lawyers assembled there
with the pre-conceived and firm determination to condemn the accused
whatever might betide.
The while Sir Cresswell Levins opened the case, admonishing the jury
to do their duty by the prisoner at the bar, Michael with indifferent
eyes scanned the faces all around him. He saw Mistress Julia Peyton in
the front rank of the spectators clad in exquisite pearl grey silk,
her beautiful shoulders but thinly veiled beneath filmy folds of
delicate lace. He saw the piquant face of Mistress Gwynne, the haughty
figure of Lady Castlemaine. Most of the women as they encountered his
look blushed to meet those dark eyes, which looked almost unnaturally
large in the face rendered thin and pale through the nerve-racking
experiences of the past few weeks.
Anon Michael's eyes met the restless ones of the king. He bent his head
with deep respect, for he had not yet learned to despise the man to
whom he owed all that he had, all that he was now sacrificing in order
that his snowdrop might find happiness again.
Charles Stuart turned his head away with a sigh. All that was good
and noble and kind in him went out to that man, in whose innocence he
firmly believed but whom he found was well-nigh intolerable.
But Michael now was obliged to pull his senses back to the exigencies
of the moment and he pleaded "Guilty!" in a calm and steady voice.
He had not even grasped the full meaning of the indictment read out
at full length by the Attorney-General. All he knew was that he was
accused of having plotted to murder the king, whom he revered, and of
having sold his country to the head of a Church to which he did not
happen to belong.
Michael desired his own condemnation. He was here solely for that,
in order that the man whom his ice maiden loved with that cold,
passionless heart of hers might give her all that she wanted, all that
was her due. But the inactivity of the moment was so terrible to bear.
To a man accustomed to rule his own destiny, to choose his own path,
and to say to Fate: "This will I do, and thou art my slave!" to a man
of that stamp the present situation was well-nigh intolerable.
The long-drawn-out speech of the Attorney-General, the platitudes
addressed to the accused by the Lord Chief Justice, his own answers
mechanically given soon left him wandering into the realms of unreality.
The heat in the room pressed upon his temples like a monster weight
of lead. Michael, gazing with eyes that saw not on the solemn scene
in which he was the chief personage, soon fell into a kind of torpor
akin to a trance. Ghost-like forms clad in crimson robes, grinning
faces with perruques awry, began to dance before his fevered fancy.
They twirled and turned, round and round the flickering flames of
the lamps, until these were magnified an hundredfold and multiplied
innumerably. Now faces and forms disappeared: there were only a
thousand millions of eyes that blinked and blinked, the while the lamps
were will-o'-the-wisps, glowworms with monstrous shining horns that
stood upright on iron tails and joined in the wild saraband which had
transformed the solemn Hall of Westminster into the precincts of Hell.
Then gradually all the grinning faces, all the glowing monstrosities
and witch-like forms became a gigantic circle of ruddy light wherein
flames flickered at intervals like unto a burning halo which seared the
eyes of the beholder. And right in the very centre of that transcendent
glow two faces appeared, white and ghost-like, spirits surely from a
world beyond.
Michael knew that he was dreaming, his temples and pulses were
throbbing. He had lost count of space and of time. He just breathed and
held himself upright and no more; living had become an unknown thing to
him. But the faces were there still, in the centre of the glowing halo,
and they were those of his beautiful snowdrop and of Master Legros,
tailor to the King of France.