that Cicely shuddered. She looked in his face and shrank back in dread,
wondering could this be indeed the same man whose noble expression had
so melted her, he was on a sudden so hideously transformed. All the
ferocity of his violent nature, all the brutality of a pitiless heart
were stamped upon his features. He was, indeed, at that moment,
suffering acutely from the effects of his journey, and his mind, at no
time tending greatly towards mercy and tenderness, was now warped and
disfigured by weakness and pain into a very hell of cruelty.
"Mercy!" he jeered. "Mercy! Nay, there shall be no mercy. They shall
all suffer, not one shall escape, not one. I will exterminate them all.
Verily, I will make an example of these turbulent townsfolk, I will
teach them a lesson they shall not soon forget. Mercy, aye, they shall
have mercy, even such mercy as they have deserved. A merciful death."
"Ah, no, my lord! But for this girl," pleaded Cicely; desperately,
"surely for her."
"Drive on," shouted Jeffreys fiercely. Then seeing the coachman
hesitate and glance doubtfully at Cicely, who clung to the coach door,
he rapped out a string of oaths and roared to the man to whip up his
horses and proceed.
The coach moved on.
But Cicely, desperate, still clung to the door of the coach, sobbing out
her appeal.
"Ah, no, my lord! on this one at least have pity. No no, not death, my
lord, not death."
Then the chief justice, livid with fury, rose in his coach, and shouted
to his coachman to lash at her with his whip, and drive her away.
Terrified, the man obeyed, striking at her blindly. The lash stung
across her hands and with a sharp cry she sank on to her knees on the
road as the coach rolled onwards, Jeffreys lying back shuddering on his
pillows, his face livid with agony, but the bitter smile still upon his
lips.
*CHAPTER XII*
The morning of the 16th broke bright and fresh from the thin September
mists. The sunbeams shot across the rosy sky, and sparkled in the clear
dewdrops, the late roses raised their glowing heads to meet the light,
and the birds in the woods chorused joyously their Autumn serenade. But
in the City of Taunton the morning light revealed the grey and careworn
faces of many who, hoping little from the morrow, had watched throughout
the night in an anguish of doubt and suspense, and a passion of hopeless
prayer. Be the morning sunbeams never so bright, they could not dispel
the darkness of that day for Taunton.
The sun climbed over the roofs, and peered into the high windows of the
prisons, where the captives roused themselves and prepared to stand
their trial.
The newly wedded bride lay sleeping in the arms of her husband, who for
many hours had watched in silence, till the pale grey dawn had stolen
into the wool-shed, to light the face he loved. She had fallen asleep
in the happiness of the present, but when she awoke and looked into his
face she knew that the dream had passed, and stern reality was before
them. She sat up with a start, gazed despairingly around her, then
turned again to meet the hopeless glance of the eyes that yesterday had
looked but love. With a deep sob of bitterness she flung her arms
around him, and buried her face on his shoulder; for now it seemed that
the angel of doom stood at the gate of their Eden to drive them forth
into the outer darkness, where each must wander alone. And he had no
comfort for her pain.
Barbara was ever strangely susceptible to the influence of sunshine.
The depression of the previous night had moderated and her spirits
danced lightly as the flickering sunbeams. The freshness of the morning
was in her glance and she looked as much out of place in those gloomy
surroundings as a delicate wild rose dropped in the mire of a city
street. Her cheerful spirits were infectious, the men warmed at sight
of her bright glances, and for a moment a sense of happiness gleamed
faintly in their hearts.
But not for long. The shadow of the king of terrors lay too heavy to be
effaced. The gleam of light grew fainter and more distant, until it
vanished in the dark mists of grim reality.
The sitting of the court was postponed till noon, owing to the
indisposition of the chief justice, but when the trial at length opened,
the work went busily forward. These first days of the Assize were
devoted to the trial of the more notable prisoners, the bulk of the
peasants taken at, or soon after Sedgemoor fight, being reserved for
trial in batches of from fifty to a hundred, later in the week.
One of the first to be called was Mistress Mary Dale, the poor young
bride. The lovers parted in silence, all eternity in their glance.
When she was summoned from the prison he took up his station by the
door, to await her return. He waited in vain. In her case--the one
instance perhaps in which it was unsolicited--mercy was shown. Her fine
was paid and she was free, free to go whither she would, save only back
to the prison where she had left her heart. Free, when freedom was
banishment, alive when life had nothing to offer save utter loneliness.
Throughout the day the dreary exodus of the prisoners continued. For
some there was no return, punishment following close upon conviction,
others returned calm and quiet in the certain expectation of death on
the morrow, or of that yet more terrible death in life which lay in the
sentence of banishment to the Plantations.
The pathos of the scene struck Barbara deeply, and the sense of her
helplessness in sight of injustice and wrong awoke in her a state of
subdued fury.
But she had her work to do. The morning had brought new terror to the
heart of the delicate child, Katherine Keene, and strive as Barbara
would, by all means in her power, to soothe and cheer the terrified
girl, her panic but increased as the day drew on, and when at last she
and her sister were summoned before the court, she clung passionately to
her protectress, sobbing in a very frenzy of terror, imploring her not
to allow them to take her away.
Even Barbara's firmness gave way under the strain, she wept out of pure
pity for a terror which as yet she could not comprehend.
"Brutes!" she muttered between her clenched teeth, when at last the
terrified children were marched away. "Brutes! devils! Can they not see
the child is half demented. Ah, were I but king for one day, I would
teach them a lesson they should not forget."
But later in the day, when a compassionate gaoler brought her news of
the children's fate, her indignation rose to fury. For Judge Jeffreys,
recognising in the panic-stricken girls a fit object for an exhibition
of his fiercest passion, had so bullied and tormented them, so raged, so
sworn, so threatened them, that the delicate Katherine could endure no
more. Scarcely had she reached the door of the court house, after her
trial, when she fell fainting to the ground, and an hour later died from
sheer excess of terror. Her younger sister was freed indeed, after
payment of a heavy fine, but she never recovered from the shock and fear
of that day. Thus suffered these innocents whose sole offence had been
in the embroidering of a banner for the Duke of Monmouth, under the
direction of their school-mistress.
Barbara having no longer an object on which to lavish her protecting
tenderness, there remained nothing for her to do save to sit in
idleness, watching that silent procession of prisoners passing ever
through the prison door, while the heart within her breast burned and
raged with impotent fury.
The day passed slowly on, and at length, towards six o'clock in the
evening, the summons came for Mistress Barbara Winslow to attend court.
She was the last prisoner for trial that day.
Barbara rose to her feet with alacrity on hearing her name, and throwing
on her cloak, made haste to follow her guards. Here at length was
something to be done, some change from impotent watching and waiting.
Now, at length, she was to meet face to face with these tyrant judges,
to whom she might at least speak her thoughts. All concern for her own
case, her own danger, had fled, prudence had no place in her thoughts,
her mind was filled with a wild hatred of the perpetrators of this
barbarous cruelty, with a mad desire to fling defiance at their threats,
and to cry aloud to their faces what she, Barbara Winslow, thought of
their sentences.
Escorted by a file of soldiers she was marched rapidly across the
market-square and into the court house. There was no great concourse of
people in the streets. The majority of the townsfolk sympathised with
the prisoners, but dared not openly show their sympathy lest they, too,
be accounted rebels; they deemed it more prudent, therefore, to remain
quietly within doors, while such as sought merely to derive sensational
amusement from the trial had found places within the crowded court.
While Barbara waited in the hall outside the chamber where the court was
sitting, a prisoner passed her, hurried along between his guards. He
was a young man scarcely twenty years of age, slenderly built, with
delicate handsome features, but the look on his face made the girl start
back with an exclamation of horror.
"In Heaven's name, what hath befallen him? Who is he?" she gasped.
"'Tis young Master Tutchin," answered one of her guards carelessly. "A
hard sentence, for sure, 'tis scarce likely he will live to see the end
o't."
"What is it?" questioned Barbara in horror.
"To be imprisoned seven years, and once a year to be flogged through
every market town of Dorset, which by calculation should be a flogging
twice a month. Aye, aye, 'tis a hard sentence," he continued, meeting
her glance; "but what would you? He is a proved rebel."
"Oh! that such devils of judges should go unpunished," was Barbara's
fierce rejoinder. It was with a heart burning with rage that she
entered the court.
And yet, so strange and uncontrollable are the feelings of women that
her first thought, when she found herself face to face with the dreaded
chief justice, was one of astonishment and pity.
She had expected, like Cicely on the previous evening, to behold a
coarse, brutal ruffian, ferocity and hatred stamped on every feature.
When, in place of such a creature, she beheld the handsome face and
noble bearing of her judge, she gave a gasp of surprise. Pity also
filled her heart, for his eyes were half closed, and there were traces
of suffering on his face, as he lay back in his chair with an air of
extreme exhaustion. The terrible malady to which he was a victim
tortured him, and the long day in court had tried him severely; but no
amount of physical suffering could overcome the iron will, or prevent
him even for a day from pursuing that strange course of relentless
cruelty which he had elected to follow.
When Barbara took her place in the dock he roused himself with an
effort, and looked at her with a sharp piercing glance.
"What!" he exclaimed. "Yet another of these women rebels. Are we never
to have an end of them? Can they not find mischief enow to do in their
own homes, but they must needs interfere in affairs of state? What is
the prisoner's name?"
"Mistress Barbara Winslow, my lord."
"Winslow! Winslow!"
"Aye, my lord," answered one of the crown lawyers. "Her brother followed
the rebel duke, but through her connivance, so it is submitted, he hath
escaped the country."
"Ah, ha! so she comes of a fine rebel stock, eh?"
The several counts in the indictment were furnished by Barbara's
participation in the escape of Sir Peter Dare, her interference with the
whipping of the boy at Durford, and other incidents of a trifling
character in themselves, but of which the prosecuting counsel did not
fail to take full advantage. The first witness called Corporal Crutch,
who took no pains to conceal his malignant satisfaction in prejudicing
the chances of the prisoner by every means in his power. Barbara's
pride, and her contempt for the man forbade her to question the
corporal's evidence, even though she was urged to do so by Sir William
Montague, the chief baron of the court; and after corroboration of the
corporal's story by other troopers the case for the crown being closed,
Barbara was asked whether she had anything to say in her defence before
the jury considered their verdict and the court pronounced sentence.
"So please you, my lords," answered Barbara, ignoring Jeffreys
pointedly, and addressing herself to the three judges who sat with him,
"that I am a traitor I deny utterly. As for the stories these men tell
of me, why, they are true enough I must admit. But what then? I did
but give food and assistance to those in dire distress and misery, I did
no more than we are e'en commanded in the Gospels."
"The Gospels! The Gospels!" interrupted Jeffreys scornfully.
"Aye, my lord," answered Barbara, turning on him sharply. "The Gospels.
In which books methinks your lordship hath made but scant study."
Judge Jeffreys started forward, and stared at her in astonishment, then
his face grew purple and distorted with fury, and his eyes gleamed
horribly as he broke into a fierce tirade.
"What! What! I am to be browbeaten, contradicted in my own court, am
I? What! You shall learn that the majesty of the law, the
representative of our gracious sovereign is not to be thus lightly
answered. Gospels, forsooth! 'Tis ever the same excuse, the same
prating of Gospels and conscience and I know not what. Is this yet
another of these pestilent dissenters? Do these wretched creatures deem
they may rebel with impunity against his gracious Majesty, can plot and
scheme against such a loving, such a merciful, king, and then shelter
themselves behind such a babble of Gospels and conscience. Faugh! 'Tis
monstrous. 'Tis beyond endurance! The prisoner pleads guilty to the
charges brought against her but appeals to the Gospels for evidence in
her favour, eh? 'Tis but little evidence she will find there in
justification of rebellion."
Barbara's anger had risen during the foregoing scene, and was now beyond
her control. Twice she had endeavoured to interrupt the judge's
comments, and now when at length he paused, she burst forth in almost as
great a frenzy as the judge himself.
"And I must needs say this much more--not indeed in mine own cause, for
that I care nothing, but rather in the cause of the many poor wretches
whom ye have to-day tortured and slain, of the ignorant and helpless
peasants whom ye have condemned without fair hearing, of the delicate
women whom ye have threatened, of the innocent children whom ye have
terrified even to death. Nay, I will _not_ be silent, I _must_ speak.
Ye who are judges, what judgments are these wherein is neither truth nor
mercy? Ye prate of the law, what law is this that knows no justice? Ye
speak of his Majesty. Oh! an ye be in truth the representatives of his
Majesty, the workers of his will, then do I say he is no true king, and
'twould be a good day indeed for England were such a king overthrown."
She ceased speaking. She had said her say, she had poured forth all the
pent-up fury of her thoughts, she had defied the judge to his face, and
in the dead silence that followed her words, the first grip of terror at
what she had said clutched at her heart.
The court gasped in horrified amazement, but the face of Judge Jeffreys
was terrible to behold. Always strangely, morbidly sensitive to
opposition, or to rebuke from whatever source, the judge lost all
control over himself. His eyes seemed starting from his head and glared
horribly; his face grew purple and swollen, his lips were drawn back in
a fierce snarl. He ground his teeth, and rolled from side to side in
his chair, partly in rage and partly in the agony which such rage caused
him. His unrestrained fury was horrible to witness. It was as though
some fit were upon him, and Barbara shrank involuntarily at the sight of
such appalling ferocity. At length he regained some measure of his
self-control.
"What! Heaven help us," he exclaimed. "Why, this is the very
incarnation of rebellion, a very headspring and source of treason. Oh!
that such a woman, so young, should be so far gone in iniquity. Beware,
madame, beware! I see death standing beside thee----"
"Then, my lord, I doubt not 'tis an infinitely preferable vision to that
which mine eyes behold," she answered, staring full at him, and goaded
into recklessness by an awakening sense of her own danger.
For an instant it seemed as if the judge would give way to another
paroxysm of rage, but he restrained himself with a supreme effort, and
with a calmness that boded even worse for the prisoner than his former
fury he turned to the jury and continued:
"What say you, sirs? Methinks you can find but one answer as to the
prisoner's guilt."
But Barbara's youth, beauty and courage had not been without effect upon
the minds of the jury. Slavish time-servers though they were, they could
not without protest see condemnation passed upon a young girl whose only
real offence lay in a too-unrestrained tongue. This feeling was readily
apparent to the practised eye of the judge and lest it should serve to
balk his purpose he added: "The prisoner is young it is true, but what
of that? Rebellion must be crushed in the bud, must be slain in the
shell or 'twill grow to a most pernicious monster. Come, what is the
verdict? Do you find the prisoner guilty or no? Beware, gentlemen, how
ye condone guilt; lend no cloak to protect treason."
The jury, thus admonished, held out no longer. They found the prisoner
guilty, but salved their consciences by commending her to mercy.
But ere the chief justice pronounced sentence, a protest came from an
unexpected quarter on Barbara's behalf. Sir William Montague, leaning
forward in his seat, addressed the judge in low earnest tones which
could not fail to arrest his attention.
"My lord, I anticipate what sentence you purpose to pronounce upon the
prisoner, even such an one as was passed upon the late Lady Lisle. But
bethink you, my lord, the cases are very different. For Lady Alice
Lisle was the widow of a noted rebel, she was advanced in years; both
her age and her experience should have warned her of the full
significance of the offence she committed. Moreover, my lord, there are
those who consider that even in her case, the sentence erred in
severity. But this is but a girl, too young indeed to realise the
criminality of her actions. She hath pleaded guilty it is true, but
thereby has thrown herself upon the mercy of the court. That she hath
incurred the penalty of the law by sheltering rebels, 'twere idle to
deny, but she did so from motives of humanity, and in no way from a
desire to further the cause of rebellion. For the rest, my lord, you
cannot condemn the prisoner because she hath, as indeed what woman hath
not, an over-free tongue, and hath on this occasion, it must be
confessed, used it most ill-advisedly. Further, I would remind your
lordship," he added in a meaning tone, "that there be occasions when to
show mercy is not only a divine action, but also an expedient one."
Lord Jeffreys sat for some moments in silence, gazing sullenly at the
prisoner. The words of the chief baron had not been without their
effect. He knew well what universal indignation his condemnation of
Lady Lisle had aroused, and he judged that in face of the interest the
affair had excited in high quarters, to pass another such severe
sentence upon a woman were not politic. For however much the orders of
the King might demand seventy, Jeffreys knew well that his master was
not one to screen his servants from the general opprobrium attendant
upon the committal of an unpopular act, even were that act the outcome
of his express commands.
Meanwhile a deep hush of expectation had fallen upon the court while the
judges had conferred together, broken at length by the harsh tones of
the chief justice.
"Mistress Barbara Winslow, you have been found guilty of the crime of
harbouring rebels, and of interference with the lawful actions of the
agents of his Majesty, the King. Yet as the tender heart of his
Majesty, our most gracious sovereign, doth ever incline to pity and
leniency, you shall, in consideration of your youth, meet with a mercy
you have in no wise deserved." Here he paused and scowled vindictively
upon Barbara.
"The sentence of the court is that you shall be imprisoned for the space
of two years in the common gaol of this city. Furthermore, ye shall
to-morrow, and once every month in the two years of your imprisonment,
be scourged publicly by the common hangman, in the open market-place.
By this discipline it may be that the hardness of your heart shall be
melted, and you shall recognise the power of that justice which you have
dared to condemn."
A shudder of horror went round the court at the pronouncement of this
brutal sentence; but Barbara controlled herself; indeed, she did not yet
fully realise what had befallen her.
She raised her head defiantly and returned the judge's glance of triumph
with a calm smile.
"Farewell, my Lord Jeffreys," she cried, "and may God prosper you as you
deserve."
She walked proudly from the chamber and still scarce realising the
horror of her sentence, she passed from the court house, surrounded by
her guards, and emerged into the street.
In the centre of the market-place stood a crowd of loafers, rough
fellows, and troopers of Kirke's horse, to whom, however, she gave but
little heed. But as she was being escorted by the outskirts of the
crowd, a sudden sharp cry rent the air, followed by horrible shrieks of
pain. The crowd parted for an instant, and she beheld a woman, one of
the peasant-women who had shared her sleeping-room the previous night,
bound to the whipping-post, her back bare, and streaming with blood, her
face distorted with suffering. Then the shrieks were smothered in a
shout of coarse laughter from the troopers, the crowd closed round the
scene, and her guards hurried her forward.
It was but the glimpse of an instant, but in that instant Barbara
realised her own doom; it was as though she had beheld a vision of her
own fate, and at length she understood.
She reached the shed, still to be her temporary prison, giddy with
horror, the shrieks of the woman still resounding in her ears, and worse
than these, that sickening shout of brutal laughter which made her blush
and tingle with shame as she pictured the coarse jest that had doubtless
given rise to the merriment.
With clenched teeth and drawn face, she hurried into the shed,
struggling to master this fear which clutched her heart. She knew that
she must not think of it. She must talk, work, do anything, anything;
but think of it she dared not. But, alas! what else remained for her.
The company in the shed was reduced to a few stolid peasants, who could
not have comprehended her fears, and some half-dozen rough soldiers,
mercenaries in Monmouth's army, who sought to while away the hours and
drown their cares with dice and drink procured, no doubt, by the
corruption of an indulgent sentry.
All her friends of the previous day had been removed. The only other
female occupant of the shed was the strange old woman, the fanatic, who,
when the girl timidly approached her, gazed upon her with unseeing eyes
and continued to mutter and gabble her tests.
Nowhere was there comfort for Barbara; she was utterly alone. In vain
she strode about the shed, tried to fix her mind upon the past, upon the
traditions of her family, upon the boasted courage of the Winslows. In
vain she repeated verses, recalled stories, anything to distract her
mind, she could not control her thoughts, could not drive the face of
the tortured woman from before her eyes, nor banish from her ears the
terror of her cries.
It was now dark and her nerves were overstrung, worn out completely with
the excitement of what she had passed through. The thing had come upon
her so unexpectedly she had no resistance to offer, and now in the
silence and loneliness of the night the full horror of the future
gradually dawned upon her mind. She pictured with all the vividness of
a strong imagination every detail of the life before her; death itself
seemed easier to face than this nightmare of shame and torture. She
sobbed with terror. Fear took possession of her soul, and she suffered
as only those of strong will and high courage can suffer in their
moments of weakness.
*CHAPTER XIII*
Lady Cicely, who was overcome with the effects of her encounter with
Jeffreys and the attendant incidents of the previous evening, had not
the courage to attend the sitting of the court, although Master Lane had
ascertained that her cousin's trial might be expected to take place
during the day. She sat hour by hour in the quiet house waiting for her
host to bring her news of the verdict.