hundred and four.
There was still a chance. The Lords had not yet passed the bill, and the King had not assented. And Charles had promised Strafford repeatedly that he would suffer no such ungrateful reward for his service.
But whatever the outcome for Wentworth’s life, the earl was defeated; Pym had won.
TOWER HILL, LONDON: May 12, 1641
The sea of people stretched as far as the eye could see in all directions: on rooftops, hanging out windows, flooding Petty Wales and Tower Street and Woodroffe Lane, packing into the open spaces of Tower Hill until there was scarcely room to draw breath. How many are there? Antony wondered.
How many thousands have come to see him die?
Katherine was not one of them. Antony had asked that morning, tentatively, whether she wished to accompany him. Other wives stood with his fellow aldermen, just as eager as their husbands to see Black Tom Tyrant meet his end. But while Kate had as strong a heart as any for most things, she could not abide blood; she had gone into Covent Garden for the day, far from the thousand-headed monster that now waited with unholy glee.
That monster frankly scared Antony. He’d already fled one angry mob a few days after the vote in the Commons, discovering only then that the divisions had been published, and that he was tarred as a Straffordian. And as bad as the riots had been lately, the celebration tonight would be worse. London had become a beast that answered to no man’s command.
Noon was nearly upon them. Sunlight gilded the tops of the White Tower, and the scaffold where the headsman waited. The wind off the river was cool, but with so many bodies pressed so close, the air sweltered and stank. Despite that, hawkers wandered tirelessly through the crowd, selling beer and onions and cheese. A few enterprising souls seemed even to have brought chamber pots, so they need not risk losing their places.
Antony prayed for it to be over soon, and was answered with an animal roar. Mail and pike heads glittered along the Tower wall: they were bringing Strafford out.
Thomas Wentworth, born of a wealthy Yorkshire family, bore himself as proudly as any duke. Illness and imprisonment had weakened his body, but his spirit was yet strong; he had even written to the King, telling him to sign the bill of attainder, for the good of England. Antony suspected it a political gambit on Strafford’s part, a ploy to gain sympathy from the Lords by his noble self-sacrifice, but if so, it had failed signally. All it had bought him was death.
Movement flickered in a window of the fortress: craning his neck, Antony saw Laud, looking out from his own cell. The archbishop raised his hands in blessing as his friend passed; then he staggered, weeping, and crumpled out of sight.
Having mounted the steps to the scaffold, Wentworth composed himself and addressed the crowd. Only fitful snatches of the man’s final speech reached Antony’s ears. “I do freely forgive all the world—”
Even his King, Antony thought, and shifted uncomfortably. All Charles’s promises to Strafford had come to naught. The King had even made one last, frantic attempt to free the earl by force, dispatching soldiers to break him from the Tower of London, but it accomplished nothing. No, something more, and worse: it had fed the hysterical rumors of gunpowder plots and invasion from abroad, and strengthened Pym’s position. Who could trust the King now?
His speech concluded, Wentworth was praying. The rumble of the crowd subsided, waiting for the moment. And in that hush, Antony heard a voice, hissing venomous words.
“Put not your trust in princes, nor in the sons of men, for in them there is no salvation.”
He thought at first it was one of his fellow aldermen. But they were all watching the scaffold, where Strafford refused a blindfold. Scarcely breathing, Antony cast his eyes about, trying to find the source of the voice. All about him were merchants and gentlemen, common
There was still a chance. The Lords had not yet passed the bill, and the King had not assented. And Charles had promised Strafford repeatedly that he would suffer no such ungrateful reward for his service.
But whatever the outcome for Wentworth’s life, the earl was defeated; Pym had won.
TOWER HILL, LONDON: May 12, 1641
The sea of people stretched as far as the eye could see in all directions: on rooftops, hanging out windows, flooding Petty Wales and Tower Street and Woodroffe Lane, packing into the open spaces of Tower Hill until there was scarcely room to draw breath. How many are there? Antony wondered.
How many thousands have come to see him die?
Katherine was not one of them. Antony had asked that morning, tentatively, whether she wished to accompany him. Other wives stood with his fellow aldermen, just as eager as their husbands to see Black Tom Tyrant meet his end. But while Kate had as strong a heart as any for most things, she could not abide blood; she had gone into Covent Garden for the day, far from the thousand-headed monster that now waited with unholy glee.
That monster frankly scared Antony. He’d already fled one angry mob a few days after the vote in the Commons, discovering only then that the divisions had been published, and that he was tarred as a Straffordian. And as bad as the riots had been lately, the celebration tonight would be worse. London had become a beast that answered to no man’s command.
Noon was nearly upon them. Sunlight gilded the tops of the White Tower, and the scaffold where the headsman waited. The wind off the river was cool, but with so many bodies pressed so close, the air sweltered and stank. Despite that, hawkers wandered tirelessly through the crowd, selling beer and onions and cheese. A few enterprising souls seemed even to have brought chamber pots, so they need not risk losing their places.
Antony prayed for it to be over soon, and was answered with an animal roar. Mail and pike heads glittered along the Tower wall: they were bringing Strafford out.
Thomas Wentworth, born of a wealthy Yorkshire family, bore himself as proudly as any duke. Illness and imprisonment had weakened his body, but his spirit was yet strong; he had even written to the King, telling him to sign the bill of attainder, for the good of England. Antony suspected it a political gambit on Strafford’s part, a ploy to gain sympathy from the Lords by his noble self-sacrifice, but if so, it had failed signally. All it had bought him was death.
Movement flickered in a window of the fortress: craning his neck, Antony saw Laud, looking out from his own cell. The archbishop raised his hands in blessing as his friend passed; then he staggered, weeping, and crumpled out of sight.
Having mounted the steps to the scaffold, Wentworth composed himself and addressed the crowd. Only fitful snatches of the man’s final speech reached Antony’s ears. “I do freely forgive all the world—”
Even his King, Antony thought, and shifted uncomfortably. All Charles’s promises to Strafford had come to naught. The King had even made one last, frantic attempt to free the earl by force, dispatching soldiers to break him from the Tower of London, but it accomplished nothing. No, something more, and worse: it had fed the hysterical rumors of gunpowder plots and invasion from abroad, and strengthened Pym’s position. Who could trust the King now?
His speech concluded, Wentworth was praying. The rumble of the crowd subsided, waiting for the moment. And in that hush, Antony heard a voice, hissing venomous words.
“Put not your trust in princes, nor in the sons of men, for in them there is no salvation.”
He thought at first it was one of his fellow aldermen. But they were all watching the scaffold, where Strafford refused a blindfold. Scarcely breathing, Antony cast his eyes about, trying to find the source of the voice. All about him were merchants and gentlemen, common
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