Her game in thy tongue is called Life
As ebbs thy daily breath;
When she shall speak, thou'lt learn her tongue
And know she calls it death.
—DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.
For the rest, 'tis in the domain of history. Michael could have been tried by his peers had he so desired it. The few friends who rallied round him urged him to demand the right, but when we remember that in pledging his life to his cousin, his one wish was speedy condemnation and summary death, we cannot be astonished that he refused to be tried by those who might have been lenient toward one of themselves.
Among his peers, too, the fact would of a surety have come to light that he did not belong to the Catholic branch of the Kestyons, that he himself was a member of the Established Church, which—as all these trials, alas, really amounted to religious persecution—would almost certainly have obtained an acquittal.
Parliament—still suffering severely of its no-Popery fit—demanded that the traitor be tried as a common criminal before the King's Bench and required the king to issue a special commission that the day might be fixed as soon as may be.
The accused was of course allowed no counsel, and no defence save what he could say on his own behalf. Nor did he know the precise words of the indictment, or what special form the informant's lies had taken.
He did not know exactly what he was supposed to have said or done, he could only vaguely guess from what he knew of similar trials that had gone before.
The trial of Michael Kestyon, Earl of Stowmaries and Rivaulx, did, we know, take place before the King's Bench on the twenty-first day of November, 1678. Lord Chief Justice Scroggs presided, and the Attorney-General, Sir William Jones, once the friend of Michael, addressed the jury for the Crown.
We also know that the court sat in Westminster Hall for the occasion, as it was expected that a very large concourse of ladies and gentlemen would desire to be present. As a matter of fact, the élite of London society did forego on that occasion the pleasures of The Mall, and of the playhouse in order to witness a spectacle which would rouse the jaded senses of these votaries of fashion and whip up their blasé emotions more than any comedy of Mr. Dryden or the late Master Shakespeare could do.
This would be a tragedy far more moving, far more emotional than that of Hamlet or of Romeo and Juliet, for the element of romance mingled agreeably with that of crime, and the personality of the accused was one that aroused the most eager interest.
Outside, a gloomy November drizzle enveloped London with its clammy shroud. Ladies and gentlemen arrived in their chairs or their glass coaches, wrapped to the eyes in mantles and hoods of fur. There was a goodly array of musketeers guarding the approach to the Hall, and a small company of the trained bands of London lined the way from Whitehall to Westminster, for it was pretty well known that His Majesty would come—in strict incognito—to see the last of his nine days' favourite, who during the last few months had made Mistress Gwynne sigh very significantly, and caused Lady Castlemaine to make invidious comparisons between the gallant bearing of the romantic adventurer and the mincing manners of the gentlemen of the Court.
The less exalted spectators of to-day's pageant were being kept outside and pushed well out of the way by the soldiery; nevertheless, they stood about patiently—ankle deep in the mud of the roadway, their sad-coloured doublets getting soaked beneath the persistent drizzle and exhaling a fetid odour which made the street and the open place seem more dismal and humid than usual.
The men pressed to the front, leaving the women to shift for themselves, to see as best they could. It was pre-eminently a spectacle for men, since it carried with it its own element of danger. For, look you, the Papists would be mightily rampant on this occasion, and who knows but that a gigantic conspiracy was afoot to blow up the Lord's House of Parliament, which would sit this day to try the arch-conspirator.
Recollections of the Gunpowder Plot caused men to curse loudly, and to grasp with firm hand the useful flail safely hid inside the doublet: a good protection against personal attack, but alas, useless if the whole of Westminster was really undermined with powder.
The 'prentices, ever to the fore, had taken French leave to-day. At certain risk of castigation to-morrow they deserted work with one accord and were at the best posts of observation, long before the more sober folk had thought to leave their beds. They wriggled their meagre bodies between the very legs of the soldiery, like so many lizards in search of sunshine, until they had conquered their places of vantage in the foreground whence they would presently see the prisoner when he stepped out of the vehicle which would bring him from the Tower.
In the meanwhile the crowd wiled away the time by watching the arrival of the grand folk, and noting their names and quality as they descended from coach and chaise.
"That's my lord of Rochester."
"And this my lady Evelyn."
"I vow 'tis Master Pepys himself."
"And his lady, too."
"'Tis His Grace of Norfolk!"
Whereupon since the duke was a well-known Papist, there were hoots and hisses and cries of "The stake for heretics!" in which even the musketeers joined.
The informers came together and were vigorously cheered and loudly acclaimed.
"An Oates! An Oates! A Bedloe! Hurrah for the saviours of the nation!"
Daniel Pye, a little anxious, was being upheld by his friend Tongue, who kept up a running flow of encouraging words which he poured forth into the other man's ear. He not being known to the mob remained unnoticed. As the time drew nigh for making his lying statements more public, the East Anglian peasant felt his courage oozing down into his boots. Bedloe and Oates, who had gone through similar experiences several times now, added their own encouragement to that expressed by Tongue.
"No one will worry you," said Bedloe loftily; "they'll believe every word you say. Only stick to your story, man, and never hesitate. They can't contradict you: no one else was there to see."
Although the gloom outside had almost changed day into evening, yet on entering the great hall wherein a very few lamps flickered near the centre dais, Daniel Pye could see nothing of his surroundings. He was glad that Oates himself took him by the arm, and piloted him through the great hall toward a side door immediately behind the bench and which gave on the room that had been assigned to the witnesses.
A goodly number of ladies and gentlemen wore masks when they arrived, and among these was a man obviously young and of assured position, for his step was firm and his movements like those of one accustomed to have his own way in the world. He was dressed in rough clothes of sad-coloured material, but there was nothing of the menial about his person as he presented his paper of admission to the most exclusive corner of the hall.
Here he sat himself down in a dark recess beneath the sill of the great mullioned window, nor did he remove his mask as almost every one else had done. Had not the crowd all round him been deeply engrossed in its own excitement no doubt that some one would have challenged and mayhap recognised the solitary figure.
But as it was, no one took notice of him. Rupert Kestyon—like the criminal who cannot resist the impulse of once more revisiting the scene of his crime—had returned to London to see the final act of the great tragedy, wherein he himself was playing such a sorry part.
Not that Rupert had any fear that matters would not turn out just as Michael had mapped them out. He knew his kinsman far too well to imagine for a moment that he would lift a finger to save the life which he had bartered for his cousin's loyalty to the tailor's daughter.
But in Paris, whilst waiting in seclusion and inactivity, the moment when—the tragedy being over—he could once more resume the more pleasing comedy of life, he felt an irresistible longing to see the fall of that curtain, to be present when Fate dealt him his last trump-card, the final sacrifice of the man who stood in the way of his own advancement.
Therefore he sat there in the corner, solitary and watchful, noting the arrival of the spectators, the appearance of the men of law, the whole paraphernalia of justice which was about to crush an innocent man.
The hall by now was packed to overflowing; to right and left temporary seats had been erected and covered with crimson cloth, forming an amphitheatre which accommodated over a thousand people, amongst whom were many that bore historic names, as well as the gayer crowd that formed the Court set.
Vast as was the room, it had already become insufferably hot; ladies plied their fans vigorously, whilst the men, worried with their heavy perruques, became restless and morose. On the right hand side, and somewhat in advance of the rest of the seats, a few more comfortable chairs had been disposed. Here sat a man dressed in sober black, with dark perruque pushed impatiently off his high forehead, and shifty, mistrustful-looking eyes wandering over the sea of faces all around him. To right and left of him ladies whispered and chatted, trying to bring a smile to the pinched lips, and not succeeding, for the man in the black surcoat was moody to-day, anxious, too, and vastly dissatisfied with himself, which is ever an uncomfortable state of mind. He had entered the Hall almost unobserved by the crowd outside, stepping out of a closed coach in no ways different to others that had driven up before. He had worn a mask when he arrived and only removed it when he was already seated. Several people recognised him then, but what cheering there came from the more brilliant members of this promiscuous throng was quickly repressed.
Despite the many supposed attempts on the life of the king, he was far from popular just now. Conscious of this, he frowned when he realised that—though he was recognised by many—yet he was acclaimed only by a very few.
Already the jury were seated and Sir Cresswell Levins was sorting his papers, and incidentally chatting with the Attorney-General. And now from outside came a muffled sound, like unto great breakers rolling into shore; distant at first, it gradually drew nearer, drawing strength as it approached. Soon through it there came, striking sharply on the ear, the stamping of horses' hoofs on the cobblestones of the road, and the creaking of heavy wheels through the mud. The sound of rolling waves turned to one which came from hundreds of human lips—hisses and groans were distinctly heard; shouts of execration, with here and there a blasphemous oath loudly uttered against the cursed Papists.
The prisoner had arrived.
Inside the Hall all necks were craned to catch the first glimpse of the man who was destined mayhap not to leave this place save with the axe suspended over his head.
The romantic tales which had clustered around the personality of Michael Kestyon, the horrible suggestions of unavowable deeds, of black magic and devilish incantations, had borne fruit. Though eyes were fixed with eager curiosity on the man as he entered, though many a pleasing shudder ran along white plump shoulders as this confederate of Satan passed so closely by, there was not a single demonstration of sympathy on his behalf.
"He is goodly to look on!" and took stock of the prisoner's bearing, the upright carriage of his handsome head, the quiet look of splendid aloofness with which he regarded his surroundings.
Whereupon the men retorted gruffly:
"The emissaries of the devil are always made handsome in the eyes of others. Satan arranges it so, else they would have no power."
Following on the prisoner's entrance, the great doors of the Hall had been closed, whereupon the noise outside became quite deafening. The hoots and hisses, the shouts of execration, were still apparent but they mingled now with the clash of arms, the tramping of many feet, and loudly repeated groans of agony. The mob, robbed of its spectacle, had turned restive, the men broke through the lines of the soldiery and made an effort to rush the gates of the Hall. From the officers came quick words of command, rallying their lines from where they stretched toward White Hall.
A few heavy blows, well aimed and vigorously dealt, with the butt end of the muskets, a few bodies trampled beneath horses' hoofs, some broken heads and shattered limbs, and the mob sobered down, withdrew grumbling and cursing, but understanding that the great pageant within was for their betters and not for them.
During the turmoil the Lord Chief Justice had entered and the prisoner had been led to the bar; he had been made to hold up his right hand whilst he was told why he had been brought here, and why he was made to stand his trial. Being a peer, the Chamberlain of the Tower stood beside him holding the axe.
Michael silently did all that he was bidden to do. The proceedings had no interest for him. Of a truth he had been more than satisfied if the more barbarous justice of two centuries ago had been meted out to him. An accusation, a brief interrogation, mayhap an unpleasant quarter of an hour in the torture chamber, then the block! How much more simple, how much more easy to endure than this sea of curious faces, this paraphernalia of gorgeously-clad judge and of lawyers assembled there with the pre-conceived and firm determination to condemn the accused whatever might betide.
The while Sir Cresswell Levins opened the case, admonishing the jury to do their duty by the prisoner at the bar, Michael with indifferent eyes scanned the faces all around him. He saw Mistress Julia Peyton in the front rank of the spectators clad in exquisite pearl grey silk, her beautiful shoulders but thinly veiled beneath filmy folds of delicate lace. He saw the piquant face of Mistress Gwynne, the haughty figure of Lady Castlemaine. Most of the women as they encountered his look blushed to meet those dark eyes, which looked almost unnaturally large in the face rendered thin and pale through the nerve-racking experiences of the past few weeks.
Anon Michael's eyes met the restless ones of the king. He bent his head with deep respect, for he had not yet learned to despise the man to whom he owed all that he had, all that he was now sacrificing in order that his snowdrop might find happiness again.
Charles Stuart turned his head away with a sigh. All that was good and noble and kind in him went out to that man, in whose innocence he firmly believed but whom he found was well-nigh intolerable.
But Michael now was obliged to pull his senses back to the exigencies of the moment and he pleaded "Guilty!" in a calm and steady voice. He had not even grasped the full meaning of the indictment read out at full length by the Attorney-General. All he knew was that he was accused of having plotted to murder the king, whom he revered, and of having sold his country to the head of a Church to which he did not happen to belong.
Michael desired his own condemnation. He was here solely for that, in order that the man whom his ice maiden loved with that cold, passionless heart of hers might give her all that she wanted, all that was her due. But the inactivity of the moment was so terrible to bear. To a man accustomed to rule his own destiny, to choose his own path, and to say to Fate: "This will I do, and thou art my slave!" to a man of that stamp the present situation was well-nigh intolerable.
The long-drawn-out speech of the Attorney-General, the platitudes addressed to the accused by the Lord Chief Justice, his own answers mechanically given soon left him wandering into the realms of unreality.
The heat in the room pressed upon his temples like a monster weight of lead. Michael, gazing with eyes that saw not on the solemn scene in which he was the chief personage, soon fell into a kind of torpor akin to a trance. Ghost-like forms clad in crimson robes, grinning faces with perruques awry, began to dance before his fevered fancy. They twirled and turned, round and round the flickering flames of the lamps, until these were magnified an hundredfold and multiplied innumerably. Now faces and forms disappeared: there were only a thousand millions of eyes that blinked and blinked, the while the lamps were will-o'-the-wisps, glowworms with monstrous shining horns that stood upright on iron tails and joined in the wild saraband which had transformed the solemn Hall of Westminster into the precincts of Hell.
Then gradually all the grinning faces, all the glowing monstrosities and witch-like forms became a gigantic circle of ruddy light wherein flames flickered at intervals like unto a burning halo which seared the eyes of the beholder. And right in the very centre of that transcendent glow two faces appeared, white and ghost-like, spirits surely from a world beyond.
Michael knew that he was dreaming, his temples and pulses were throbbing. He had lost count of space and of time. He just breathed and held himself upright and no more; living had become an unknown thing to him. But the faces were there still, in the centre of the glowing halo, and they were those of his beautiful snowdrop and of Master Legros, tailor to the King of France.