We stopped. I stood up and never had I felt so tall. The crowd were all looking at me. I scanned the galleries. Men sat forward with their elbows on their knees staring intently. Women sat too, heads stretched back over their shoulders to talk to their neighbours. They were out there and I was here, with Roger North, exposed and afraid. Stepping down off the cart was a relief. The soldier that helped me step down cast me a quick glance, assessing my state of mind with expert eye, no doubt. It was so damn noisy! No longer could we see above the heads of the vast gathering. It was like a tunnel opened up before us walled with people. We were pulled forwards by our chains, desperate to stay on our feet and not slide over in the slippery brown mud. No man wanted to die with wet brown filth on the seat of his pants. The scaffold waited for us ahead. It looked so small from here. The horses danced next to it, skittish and nervous, ready to hold us beneath the gallows. A wall of people barred any attempt to flee.
The tall man in the brown leather apron stood above us, waiting. The heat, the smell of sweat, vomit and ale, the obscenities and blasphemies that I could hear, despite trying not to listen, pressed down on me. North was ahead of me, yet the spell of our companionship was broken. I could see the fear in his eyes, the tears on his cheeks. I felt my own bladder weaken, felt the crap in my bowels begin to churn. It was too noisy to exchange words of comfort. We were in the pit of Hell, burning in the flames of man’s hatred. Words were no use here.
‘Hold fast!’ a voice shouted from somewhere up in front, from somewhere past the horses.
‘Hold fast!’ it shouted again, this time louder. It sounded like someone was in trouble. I waited for a scream. The guards slowed, mumbling and impatient, pikes held aloft.
‘Hold fast!’ A body appeared in front between the scaffold and us. ‘I have a document signed by King Charles himself! Harry Lytle is to be trialled anew!’
Trialled anew? Trialled anew? Trialled anew! God have mercy on my soul! I felt like singing, yet would the guards oblige? I felt a sudden fear that they would dismiss this man with his document signed by King Charles and insist on carrying out their task. Could they read? I stood with my feet dug firmly into the mud, determined not to take a single further step towards the gallows while the chief of the guards took the paper and read it, then ran his fingers across the seal. He read slowly, I watched his eyes move from side to side, letter by letter, word by word. He mouthed the words as he read them, his face a picture of anxious puzzlement. Then he turned to his colleagues and shrugged. My chest was squeezed so tight it felt like I was being crushed beneath a great stone.
‘Back to Newgate for this one.’ The guard pointed at me. ‘Onward-ho for the other.’
Back to Newgate! My very own Garden of Eden! I looked for Roger North up ahead. I caught a quick glimpse of his face, mouth wide open and tongue lolling, his eyes frantically scanning the sky for some angel of salvation. He walked with his shoulders slumped forwards and his trousers were soiled. He had shat his trousers and was panting like a dog.
I never saw Roger North alive again. Though his head sat above Nonsuch for about six months.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The first leaves produced by the roots are very nutritious and restore strength if taken either as a distilled juice or roasted in the oven in the manner of artichokes in meat pies.
I was back in the same courtroom the very next day. This time none came to see me at all before the day started, so I resigned myself to another session of ritual public humiliation. I wondered what witnesses would be called today? They might as well collect the heads of Giles, Hewitt and Keeling, attach them to the end of sticks and have Shrewsbury perform a puppet show. Yet I was not entirely pessimistic. There must be some reason for initiating the rigmarole one more time.
I resolved beforetimes not to mess about with the jury unless there sat a genuine lunatic. On second thoughts perhaps I would be better off with a jury selected from Bedlam. That was a thought indeed!
I asked one of the guards who were to be the judge and prosecutor as we travelled. The judge, I was told, was one Nicholas Earl of Newcastle, a scholarly sort of fellow by reputation. The prosecutor on the other hand, was none other than the Attorney General, the same that had told me that I should be dead by now. He should be glad to see me then.
We resumed our old familiar seats. I couldn’t tell this set of the jurors from the last, so ignored them. They would do as they were told, no doubt, so there was little point in concerning myself. I was more interested in observing the Attorney General. He came in on his own in advance of the judge and settled himself quickly. I received a brief glance, but no more. Gone were the flummery and flammery, the posturing and theatre. Sitting with his arms folded, he looked like a man denied his favourite pudding.
The judge entered by himself, a slight man. He walked quickly with short little strides, head lowered, muttering to himself. After he jumped the steps up to his little wooden throne he peered about him short-sightedly until he spotted me. He glanced me up and down, blinked and was satisfied.
The same clerk as before read out the names of the jurors.
‘Mr Attorney General,’ the judge spoke very fast, ‘do you wish to challenge any of the jurors?’
‘My Lord, I do not.’
‘And you?’ he looked at me.
‘My Lord, I do not.’
‘Very well. Last time you pleaded self-defence. Does that remain your plea?’
‘Yes, My Lord.’
‘Good. Then let’s begin. First witness.’ He paused to read a parchment on his desk. ‘And only witness. David Dowling.’
Dowling? I turned to see him escorted towards the witness box. He regarded me calmly and gave me a big wink. The Attorney General saw it and glared.
‘What is your name?’ The clerk adopted the same ceremonial position and manner as he had before.
‘His name is Dowling, as I have already made clear. Please be seated.’ The judge waved a hand irritably, sending the poor man scurrying for cover away from the eyes of his junior colleagues. ‘Mr Dowling, I will be asking you some questions. From time to time I will permit the Attorney General to ask you some questions of his own. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, My Lord.’ Dowling was looking quite splendid today I thought, having forsaken his usual sorry attire in favour of a fine suit. It wasn’t expensive or particularly finely tailored, but was well cut and very stylish. It really quite became him.
‘Dowling, your profession?’
‘These days I am a butcher.’ Dowling turned to face the judge and gave a deferential little bow.
‘Butcher? You don’t look much like a butcher.’ The judge squinted. Wait until someone told him that he could read and write and bore the saddle off a donkey with Bible talk.
‘It is not my usual occupation, My Lord.’
‘Well, what’s your usual occupation? Come on now, Mr Dowling, we don’t have time for games.’ The judge cast an eye in the Attorney General’s direction as he spoke.
‘My usual occupation is agent for King Charles II. I am employed by His Majesty to look after his interests about London.’ He turned and smiled broadly at me.
Well, as I am a sinner, which I certainly am, Dowling was the Bishop’s sister’s son! This was something! And I thought he was only fit for ruffians! This could only be a poke in the eye with a burnt stick. The Attorney General sat slouched in his chair, sullen but not surprised. You are on a different field today, my friend!