There was a jubilant message from my father. Monmouth had been proclaimed King in Taunton and was marching on Bristol.
We heard later that he did not reach Bristol, as the King’s army was approaching. So he went back to Bridgwater and there prepared for the great battle.
My father wrote to us on the eve of the battle and sent a messenger to us.
Be of good heart. Ere long there will be a new King on the throne and though his name will be James he will not be James Stuart. This will be James Scott, King of England.
Reading the letter my mother grew angry.
“How foolish of him … to write thus. The risk he runs! Oh, Priscilla, I fear for him. I fear so much.”
I repeated my belief that he would always win through. “Whatever happens, he will be all right. I know it.”
She smiled wanly. “He always got what he wanted,” she agreed.
The outcome of that fateful battle of Sedgemoor is well known. What chance had Monmouth against the King’s forces led by the Earl of Faversham and his second in command, John Churchill? Monmouth’s army consisted of rustics and men such as my father who, for all their bravery and dedication, were not professional soldiers.
Monmouth’s army was easily defeated and Monmouth himself, seeing the day was lost, was more intent on preserving his own life than standing to fight with those who had so loyally supported him.
Many people had been taken prisoner—among them my father.
We were stunned, although my mother had been expecting disaster ever since the death of the King, but that our pleasant lives should be suddenly so devastated was something we found it hard to accept.
The news grew worse. My father was imprisoned in Dorchester, and when my mother heard that the Lord Chief Justice, Baron George Jeffreys, would preside at the trial, she was overcome by a frenzy of grief.
“He is a wicked man,” she cried. “He is cruel beyond belief. I have heard such tales of him. And your father will be at his mercy. He said at the time of his appointment that he could not understand why Jeffreys had been given the post. Charles disliked him. He once said he had no learning, no sense, no manners and more impudence than ten carted streetwalkers. I know he opposed the appointment for a long time. It was a sign of his weakening strength that he at length gave way. Oh, I am so afraid. He hates men like your father. He envies them their good looks, their breeding and their boldness. He will have no mercy. There is nothing he enjoys more than condemning a man to death.”
My mother’s grief was more than I could bear. I kept thinking of wild plans to rescue my father. The thought of his being herded into prison with countless others was horrifying.
Thomas and Christabel came to see us as soon as they heard the news; they were genuinely grieved. Thomas had a grain of comfort to offer. “Jeffreys is a greedy man,” he said. “It is hinted that he will be lenient in return for some profit. They say he is hoping to make a small fortune out of these assizes, for there are some rich people involved.”
“Then there is a chance!” cried my mother.
“It would have to be done very tactfully and he would want a good deal, I daresay.”
“I would give everything I have,” she replied fervently.
Clearly the Willerbys had raised her spirits, for she came to my room that night. She looked very frail and there were dark shadows under her eyes. She stood against the door and I longed to comfort her, for I knew that without him her life would not be worth living.
She said: “I have made up my mind. I shall leave for the West Country tomorrow.”
“Do you think it possible to bribe this judge?”
“It is obviously possible and I am going to do it.”
“I shall come with you,” I answered.
“Oh, my dearest child,” she cried, “I knew you would.”
“We will make our preparations early in the morning,” I said, “and leave just as soon as we are ready.”
What followed is like a nightmare to me—and still is.
We went by stagecoach, which seemed the easiest way. It was a sombre journey and at the inn where we rested there was constant talk of what was being called the Monmouth Rebellion. The name of Judge Jeffreys was spoken in low whispers. It was clear that everyone pitied his victims.
It was said that he not only passed the harshest sentences which he could, but he did so with relish and could, with his wicked tongue, turn innocence into guilt.
As we approached the west, the mist grew more intense. Monmouth’s army had been active only in Dorset and Somerset, and the prisoners were all judged in those counties.
Jeffreys, with his lieutenants, was in his element. He delighted in his grisly work. There should be no delay once a man was sentenced. In twenty-four hours from his condemnation he was swinging on a gallows or suffering whatever the bloodthirsty judge had decreed for him.
“Oh, God,” prayed my mother, “let us get there in time.”
I think perhaps I pitied her more than I did my father. If he were sentenced, his death would come quickly. She would be haunted by the tragedy for the rest of her days. She was almost demented with grief. We would save him, I promised her. We must. It was not impossible and she must not allow herself to think so. We were going to get there in time. We were going to give everything we had if necessary to save my father’s life.
It was so irksome for her when we stayed in the inns on the way. She would have liked to drive through the night.
As we came nearer to our destination, so did the horror increase. The judge, whose name was on every lip, and was spoken of with disgust and repugnance, had ordered that it should be brought home to the people what happened to traitors. Often we passed limbs hanging on trees and corpses of hanged men. The smell of death permeated the air.
“What shall we do?” demanded my mother. “What can we do when we get there?”
At an inn one night they were talking about the case of Lady Lisle whose crime had been to give food to two of Monmouth’s followers who had escaped from the battlefield.
Jeffreys’ manner towards the poor woman had been so cruel even for him that the case was being discussed everywhere.
He had a way, this judge, of bullying his juries into giving the verdict he wanted. If they seemed inclined to be lenient he would fix them with a glare from the most wicked eyes in the world so that they shivered in their seats and wondered what case would be brought against them if they did not do the judge’s bidding.
This poor lady was called a traitor; she should suffer the death of traitors. He sentenced her to be burned to death.
This was too much to be accepted. Moreover, it was being said that the harshness shown to Lady Lisle came at the instigation of a higher source, for she was the widow of John Lisle, who had been one of the judges at the trial of Charles the First.
This seemed like the King’s revenge on the murderers of his father, and friends of Lady Lisle were pointing out that the lady herself was guilty only of two things—giving food to men who happened to be flying from Sedgemoor and being the wife of a man who, with others, had condemned Charles the First.
James should consider. What would his brother Charles have done? He would never have allowed a woman to be treated so.
James was not inclined to enjoy being compared with his brother, but he did have enough sense to see that to submit a frail woman to one of the most barbaric deaths conceivable for no real crime would not redound to his credit. At the same time he wanted everyone to know that they would be ill advised to take up arms against him.
Lady Lisle was saved from the stake to lose her head on the block.
My mother had scarcely eaten since we left home. She was very pale and had lost weight. I was fearful for her health.
There was more news. Monmouth had escaped to the New Forest even before the battle was over. He had hidden there for a few days but had been captured and taken to London. There he had implored the King to save his life. “For my father’s sake,” he begged. “You are my uncle. Remember that.”