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Clammie bumped into me on High Street, Suttonford.

What did you give Brassica to read yesterday, Candia?  She says that she

was up all night and couldn’t sleep.

Oh, just a short story.  I expect she was disturbed because Cosmo and the

twins are in the observatory, watching the meteor showers till dawn.

No, she was spooked out.  I saw her down in Wintoncester, in The Square.

She was coming out of The Hambledon with several carrier bags.

Oh, I forgot about their sale.  I must go in and buy The Husband a new

Panama hat.  I love shopping in The Square.  That’s where The Eclipse

is, site of the execution of Dame Alice Lisle.  It put The Rising Sun opposite in

the shade as it were.

Who was Dame Alice Lisle? asked Clammie.

Do you want to be spooked out too?  Mind you, not as much as Cosmo will

be when he sees Brassie’s credit car statement!

Don’t tell me you have another story to tell, Candia!  You are becoming a kind

of female Ancient Mariner.

I’ll e-mail it to you tonight.  Then you can keep Brassie company in the wee

sma’ hours!

What’s it called?

The Equivocation of the Fiend.

How very Shakespearean!  I’ll look forward to it clogging up my inbox!

THE EQUIVOCATION OF THE FIEND

Maybe a writ of Habeas Corpus will liberate me from my confinement

and then I can steal away from this loathsome Tower and gain passage

abroad, but there is no Court competent to assist me in this wise and now

I am fast losing strength.  I am supposed to be thankful for the protection

I have, while the country demands that a retrospective Act of Attainder

should result in my condemnation for multitudinous murders.

The wheel has come full circle.  A mob had congregated outside my

house in Duke Street and mocked the bills which announced the sale of

my property.  Women screamed, offering me their garters that I should

hang myself thereby and men raged, advising me to cut my own throat.

I downed another bottle of brandy and shut out their clamour.

However, I seemed to have one remaining friend- someone who knew of

my predilection for Colchester oysters.  A barrel had been left for me at

the Tower and I burst its bands eagerly.  Inside there was naught but

shells and a halter.  I apprehended its hint. The delivery youth jeered:

“Canst tell how an oyster makes its shell?”

He is not so dim as he looks.

Photo of the top of an oyster

Imagine: Chief Justice of the King’s Bench at thirty five and Lord

Chancellor before my fortieth birthday.  I followed orders and to this

attribute my rapid promotion and even more sudden declension.I had

another birthday recently and there was none to exercise common

charity towards me, or to share a celebration.  I stand accused of a

lack of the milk of human kindness.

I will never be permitted to forget the trial of Dame Alice Lisle.  In

contrast, she was deemed to have shown exemplary, even saintly,

compassion and hospitality towards distressed fugitives, but there was

considerably more to the case than was imputed.

I was compared unfavourably to Nero, Satan, Cain and Judas, but I only

sent Whigs to Heaven.  It was common practice to lash rogues with the

tongue and, after all, I cross-examined some of the deepest-dyed

criminals in the land.  Their weeping and cries for mercy only served as

an irritant.  How difficult it was to extract the truth from Presbyterian

liars and I grew adept at smelling one out at forty miles, hence the posy of

herbs that I was wont to hold to my nostrils.  Severities may be properly

used, I believe, in common with Machiavelli, if they are appropriate with

national security.

Portrait of Niccolò Machiavelli by Santi di Tito.jpg

Yes, Dame Alice, I turned a deaf ear to your plea and you could not hear

the foreman’s delivery of the verdict, by virtue of your three score years

and ten’s infirmity.

A witch, I thought, whose husband had been a regicide and now the old

crone was denying knowledge of the nature of the indictments against

John Hickes and Nelthorpe, initially denying their presence in her house,

Moyles Court. Subsequently she pleaded that she had understood Hickes’

offence to be merely illegal preaching.  She stressed that she had no

sympathy with the Monmouth rebellion, but I persuaded the jury to re-

consider their verdict and, on the third occasion, she was pronounced

guilty, and rightly so, for the Law recognised no distinction between

principals and accessories to treason.  “Let the old witch burn,” I ranted,

“and let it be this very afternoon.”

The interfering Winchester clergy appealed to me on account of her age

and sex and they gained a respite.  Our sovereign commuted the sentence

to beheading, out of his merciful bounteousness.

Now the populace desire that I should share her fate.  I am eclipsed-ha!-

a play on the title of the marketplace inn where she spent her final night

before walking out of the first storey window onto the scaffold.  They

said it was ever after “The Eclipse” as it drew all attention from its

neighbouring public house: “The Rising Sunne.”

Barter gave us the information.  She had entertained, concealed,

comforted and maintained the fugitive rebels. The Devil had inspired her

to quibble, as do all witches.  Equivocation is the nature of the Fiend and

all his subjects.  I have oftimes heard his voice in the courtrooms and the

serpent-tongued dame tried to move me by a reminder that she had bred a

brat to fight for James, but if she had been my own mother, I should have

found her guilty, notwithstanding her prevarication that she was being charged

with sheltering Hickes before he was convicted of treason. She stated that

subsequent evidence should not be admitted since it had not been available

Very clever: but anyone who harbours a traitor is as guilty as any who bears

arms, I believed, and I hold fast to the same conviction to this day.

“Nay, peace thou monster, shame unto thy sex,

Thou fiend in likeness of a human creature

See thyself, devil!

Proper deformity shows not in the fiend

So horrid as in woman.

Shut your mouth, dame,

Or with this paper shall I stople it.”

The reference was lost on most in court.  Fools do those villains pity who

are punished.  Know this: that men are as the time is; to be tender-

minded does not become a sword.

WinchesterCastle.jpg

It is more than three years since that fateful day in August in the Great

Hall of Winchester Castle.  Some say that a lady in grey haunts the inn

and that a driverless coach has been seen in the grounds of her Ringwood

estate, drawn by headless horses and containing her phantom.

What is that nonsense to me?  Her head and body were given up to her

family, for burial at Ellingham and now the Whigs have all but canonised

her, raving about judicial murder.

Yet, when I attempted to escape from this hell-hole, no one would shelter

me in a cupboard nor a malthouse and I was discovered at Wapping and

my disguise removed. No port is free to me; no place that unusual

vigilance will not not attend my taking. So, here I lie, and suffer the

agony of passing these stones, a pain as sharp as the gravel of her drive,

but I still resort to my brandy. I am bound upon my own wheel of fire.

My reins are rubbed with sulphurous flames. The gods are just and of

our pleasant vices…  I waken to hear myself cry in the night and then a

distant rumble of carriage wheels approaches, or is it a more horrific

apocalyptic explosion?  Who is it that dare tell me who I am?

“What is that wailing?” I shout to the guard.

“It is the cry of women, my good lord,” he replies through the grille, most

caustically.  “Come here, most learned justicer.”  And then he laughs,

showing black tombstones in place of teeth.

“I have almost forgot the taste of fears.  I have supp’d full of horrors,” I

answer, before I remember the context. How malicious is my fortune that

I must repent to be just.

Equivocation- the only means of survival.  She was more skilled in its

employ than I.

George Jeffreys, 1st Baron Jeffreys of Wem by William Wolfgang Claret.jpg

(The grave of Judge Jeffreys was bombed by German aircraft during the War and his remains scattered.  The grave of Alice Lisle can still be visited in Ellingham churchyard.)

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