The extreme peril of the case,
The peace of England, and our person’s safety,
Enforced us to this execution.
_King Richard III._
Among the petitioners who stood waiting for an audience of the Lord
Protector in the guard hall at Hampton Court, at that anxious period
which followed the many arrests and trials of persons implicated in
the conspiracy against his government, in the spring of 1655, was a
lady in deep mourning, who stood alone in the window niche of that
crowded apartment, and gazed upon the sunny garden before her with an
air of settled melancholy.
It was a May morning, the fourth day of that month. Notwithstanding
that the air of every thing about the palace was solemn and grave, yet
the appearance of his Highness’s life guards was very stately and
imposing. The hum of their voices, and of those of the various
officials who passed to and fro to the door of the presence-chamber,
though not loud, was yet audible and confident; while the little
conversation on which the various groups of petitioners ventured was
carried on in suppressed tones, or low and anxious whispers.
For three hours the lady remained in the same place, and kept her face
averted from the busy hall, and fixed upon the trees without. At last
there was a sudden stir and bustle, and when she turned round, she saw
the crowd going forth at the outer door; and an usher of the court
gave notice in a loud voice, that his Highness the Lord Protector
would not hear any further suits that day.
She moved instantly towards the door of the presence-chamber.
“By your leave, gentlemen,--let me pass: my humble suit will not
detain his Highness a moment; and to-morrow will not----”
“I understand you, lady,” said a grey-haired officer, with a manly
compassion; “but his Highness has passed into his inner
presence-chamber, and is engaged with the great officers of state. He
will not allow any one to approach him now; and he does not use to see
any private petitioners after. No one dare present himself at the door
of that chamber now; and we may not suffer you to pass.”
“Well, sir; but I will wait till the council is over, and then,
perhaps, he will admit me. To-morrow will be too late,” she added, and
turned away her head.
“Certainly, lady, you may remain awhile, till the council comes forth;
and he never consults long with them; but if your suit touches any of
the poor gentlemen about to suffer for the late treason, I fear there
is no hope of your success. He hath refused many well-supported
memorials for some who were but slightly connected with the offence,
and whose friends have great personal influence with himself. Indeed,
he cannot pardon them, with safety to his government.”
“It is not for a pardon that I come, sir, it is only for leave to part
with a dear relative, who is sentenced to die as to-morrow; and I am
denied admission to him, without I bring an authority from the Lord
Protector himself.”
“In as far as I may serve you, lady, in this matter, I will surely do
it.” So saying, he crossed to a gentleman who sat at a table in the
outer presence-chamber, the door of which was standing open, and
conferred with him, giving the paper, with the prayer of her petition,
into his hands. He returned, saying, that the secretary would present
it as soon as the council broke up, and then placed a chair for her in
the window near. In less than half an hour, the great officers of the
council came out, and crossed the hall--the guards standing to their
halberds. The lady rose, as they passed, out of respect to their
offices; and they, with grave bows, acknowledged that courtesy--not
aware, perhaps, that she was only a trembling suitor for their
master’s “Yes.” But this was not given, as a matter of course, when
the secretary asked it. The Protector questioned him closely
concerning the aspect and manner of the lady, and ended by commanding
her into his presence.
She was ushered into the inner presence-chamber, the door closed
behind her, and she found herself alone before Cromwell. He stood on
the far side of a table, with one hand resting upon it, and her
memorial in the other. The table was covered with papers, and directly
near him was an ancient desk of ebony, with an hour-glass by the side
of it, and three or four books, one of which was a Bible. He was
dressed in a suit of black, and his costume would have been plainer
than any about the court but for the extreme richness of his Flemish
lace collar and cuffs; but these were cut after a plain square
fashion, and not in the Vandyke pattern of Charles’s reign. He avoided
noticing her obeisance, for she did not kneel; and, after a
considerable pause, he raised his eyes slowly, and fixed them upon her
with a penetrating and a severe expression. It was a trying moment for
Katharine Heywood,--for she was that lady; but she had been silently
lifting up her heart to God, and she returned his look with dignity
and composure. She could not but be impressed with awe in the presence
of one so powerful; and there was nothing in his cloudy and grave
deportment calculated to relieve that feeling. At last he addressed
her:--“Thou comest to us on the matter of this poor and deluded man,
who hath fallen into the snares of Satan, and hath attempted to fight
against the Lord. It is vain to petition us in this matter: we are to
this unhappy and distracted kingdom in the place of the angel of the
Lord; and we must not bear the sword in vain. As we are man, in so far
we are weak, poor, foolish, frail, blind, unstable, like unto the
light vane that turneth with every breath of wind; but, in that we are
the angel of this people, chosen of the Lord, set up in the place of
judgment, our wisdom and strength, our counsels and actions, are from
above, and we are strong, rich, wise, indestructible, discerning all
things; steady, fixed, constant in our purposes; immovable as a great
rock, that smileth at the madness of those waves that dash around
it.--Do not interrupt me, woman. I know what thou wouldest say: I can
tell thy thoughts afar off, and see tears before they come to the
eyelids. I must not pity. He that hath covered my head in battle
appointeth the doom of this troubler of Israel. His is the sceptre,
and the sword is his. I am but the poor unworthy instrument by whom
they are borne. I am no more but a poor Jack of the clock-house, and
strike the stroke of righteous vengeance, even as that automatous toy
striketh on the bell, being moved by the organs and machinery of the
skilful constructor or contriver thereof. Thou understandest me? I
like to speak plain, that my poor people may see what a very worm of
earth is every child of Adam; and how little store I set by all the
baubles and gewgaws of power and state. It is known how a whole nation
did weary my spirit with petitions to take upon me this grave and
weighty office, which I would gladly have foregone, if that I might
have declined the cross without sin. But such peace was not for me.”
During this strange address, Cromwell looked alternately at the paper
in his hand and at Katharine Heywood; dropping his eyes on the former,
and then suddenly raising them again, as if to catch some expression
of her countenance, which she would not willingly wear while his eyes
rested on her: but there was about her a majesty sad and unmoved; the
seriousness of her displeasure was grave; and she was fortifying
herself by mental prayer. The Protector perceiving this, abruptly and
without a pause, changed his manner and tone:--“You are the wife of
the condemned?”
“Not so, my Lord, I am his cousin.”
“What is your name?”
“Katharine Heywood, Sir: it is written on the petition.”
“What Heywoods?”
“Those of Warwickshire.”
“Ha! Malignants--Malignants:--Sir Oliver was one of them: a staunch
slave of that foolish and misguided man, Charles Stuart.”
“My father, sir, was a faithful subject of King Charles.”
“And you, woman----”
“I obey the laws. By my sex and by my sorrows I have been taught
thankfulness for any government that brings peace.”
“Out of thine own mouth is thy rebel cousin condemned. How came it
that all his relations were not instantly arrested? But thus it is.
Thus am I served by indolent and purblind knaves--the serpent and the
woman;--thus it ever was, and will be, the boldest treasons are ever
hatched by women. Where dost thou live?”
“At Cottesmore, in Gloucestershire.”
“How long have you dwelt there, and with whom?”
“Since the death of my father, I have lived in the family of an
ejected minister, named Juxon, a nephew of the bishop.”
Cromwell bit his nether lip, and passed his hand quickly across his
brow.
“I did not think that bluff old man was a plotter. They told me that
he was turned hunter again; but it is me that they would hunt. My soul
is as a partridge on the mountains: they hunt for the precious
life;--but,” he added (recovering the tone which a gloomy and passing
emotion had discomposed), “it is the Lord: it is he that hath called
me. I am his servant, and no weapon formed against me can prosper.
Who are these that would disturb a peace which the Lord giveth, and
kindle again the fires of a civil war which I have been commanded to
extinguish? and so thou livest near this merry old hunter that would
have my life?”
“My Lord, it is not so: the bishop meddleth not with any public
affairs, and I have never seen him smile since the sad end of his
royal master. No, sir, he doth only hunt for health and diversion of
his mind, which is ever occupied at home in dull cares and grave
studies.”
“That soundeth true of him. I do remember that he was accounted
honest; and that, from his youth, he had a body comely and quick--apt
for that manly sport;--but still, ‘The heart is deceitful above all
things, and desperately wicked: who may know it?’--How long is it
since thy cousin was at Cottesmore?”
“He was never there.”
“Is this true?”
“I would be sorry to utter any thing which might, by possibility, be
proved mistaken; but, to my knowledge, he was never there.”
“And how long, then, is it since you have seen him?”
“It is many years since I have seen him; nor for these two years have
I even heard of him.”
“He was an officer of the Parliament?”
“He was, sir; and was made a colonel of horse, in the second year of
those wars.”
“I remember it. Ere this, he might have written general, and baronet
to boot; but he was hot, and wrong-headed.”
“’Tis better as it is: his heart is right,--and he hath less to answer
for.”
The eyes of Cromwell rested upon the countenance of the majestic
Katharine with severity, and with a surprize that seemed to ask the
meaning of words so strange and cold. But the tone in which they were
uttered, and the sudden mournfulness and abstraction of her gaze, told
him that emotions, both strong and tender, were working in her bosom.
“And your prayer, lady, is that you may be permitted to take leave of
your cousin before his execution?”
“That is my prayer.”
“It is not wise. I speak as to a Christian mind. Though none hath
shown himself more bitterly my foe than this cousin of thine, yet he
was no assassin. He was, I know, for a warlike rising: his obscure
lodging was found full of arms; and though he lived as frugally as he
that laboureth for a groat a-day, yet was a horse worth fifty pieces,
and trained for the great saddle, found in the shed, behind the small
house where he lived. I have shown him all the favour in my
power:--the sentence and manner of his death are changed. His life is
a forfeit to the weal of England. I am no man of blood, lady:--the
signing of death-warrants is no joy to me; but one example on a
scaffold may save the lives of thousands. Lady, your visit will only
disturb his last moments. I have cared for his soul:--a godly minister
doth see him; and I learn that he doth exercise himself as a dying man
should. It seems that you have not seen him for many years:--he will
not expect thee--does not think of thee:--cousinship is not so close a
kindred. I cannot grant thy prayer.”
“My Lord, I am his nearest relative--his only relative now living in
the land. We were together in our youth. I would not fail him in this
hour. At such a time, to feel that he is not forsaken of all men must
be a comfort to the spirit. Besides, he may have parting words for his
distant father, and parting words are precious. Oh, grant my suit,
your Highness! on my knees I humbly ask it--I implore it. Oh, grant my
suit! I will not let you go till my poor prayer is answered.”
Katharine had approached, and fallen upon her knees, and in her hands
she had clasped the skirt of his dark cloak.
“Lady, control yourself: I have a human heart--but duties are too
sacred to be foregone for tears. I cannot grant your prayer.”
“Why not, my Lord? Oh, why this strict and stern refusal? Oh, deign to
tell me what makes you thus cruelly dismiss me?”
“It were to commit evil against thy cousin’s soul, and to defeat the
ends of public justice; I can tell by thy lofty eyes thou wilt carry
him the means of death.”
Katharine rose from her low posture with a look of reproof to the
suspicious usurper at once dignified and solemn.
“Francis Heywood, my Lord, is of a nobler spirit than to tarnish his
brave life by an end so mean, and hath too holy a trust in his
Redeemer’s mercy to shrink from his appointed trial. But were he
other, and I found him so, and with a poison cup at his lips, this
friendly hand should dash it from them.”
“You speak of what you know not: the most valiant heart that ever beat
might yet shrink from the shame and dishonours of the scaffold.”
“Shame and dishonours! Where are they? ’Tis not the place or manner of
a death can make them; besides, the scaffold hath now become a dying
place of kings, and meaner men may hold themselves ennobled by
suffering like end. I promise by all my love towards my gallant
cousin, by all my truth, and all my hopes of heaven, to hold no word
of conference with him on any matters save our private love as
cousins, and our common faith as Christians.”
Just at this moment a door leading to the wing which Cromwell
inhabited slowly opened, and a lady, with a gracious but most pensive
face entered a little way and gently called him. He turned: the
gloominess which had gathered over his brow at Katharine’s last speech
was dissipated at the sound of her soft voice: he went to her, but
before Katharine could address an appeal to her she had left the
chamber; and Cromwell, returning to the table, took a pen, and wrote
on the back of her petition an order for her admission to the Tower,
and to the prison of Francis Heywood; then, with a grave and not an
unkind look, he put it into her hand.
She glanced at the writing:--“Add another word, my good Lord,--the
body:--Oh, grant me that! When the bloody axe hath done its work, let
the body be my care:--we grew together in our youth,--I would not have
his precious remains buried by executioners.” Cromwell took back the
paper, and, without uttering a word, wrote the permission.