CHAPTER 27
29 October
Old Palace Yard was deserted when Frances arrived. The scaffold had been erected the previous night, just hours after Raleigh’s sentence had been pronounced. Thomas told her that Sir Walter had offered a spirited defence at his trial, despite being so weak with sickness that he had barely been able to stand. His courage had only faltered as the verdict had been delivered, and he had sunk to his knees, begging the King to show mercy. His pleas had fallen on deaf ears. The only clemency James had shown was to commute his sentence to beheading.
Frances had not slept that night and had risen before dawn. Raleigh would be brought here in a little under two hours’ time, as the bell of St Stephen’s tolled eight. Glancing towards the gatehouse, she saw a faint glimmer in one of the windows. The King had ordered that he spend the night there. Frances did not know if it was to save time or lessen the risk of escape. For a moment, she thought of running to the window and calling to him. But the idea faded as quickly as it had sparked. What could she say that Raleigh would be content for his gaolers to hear? Pray God he will find it in his heart to forgive me.
Thomas had begged her not to come, but she had been resolute. She had failed to save her old friend from the terror and humiliation of this death, but would be here to pray for him as the life was struck from his body. It had always been a source of shame and regret that she had lacked the strength to do the same for Tom. Looking around the courtyard now, she imagined her lover being dragged there on the wooden hurdle that had conveyed him from the Tower, his emaciated limbs jolting painfully on the cobbles. Thomas had told her that he had met his death with calm acceptance, apparently impervious to the horrors that the King’s executioner had visited upon his body. Tears pricked her eyes as she raised them to the heavens, imploring God to give Raleigh the same peace.
A few more people were filtering into the courtyard now, eager to secure a good vantage point. London was still crowded with revellers from the Lord Mayor’s Day celebration. They must consider it a boon to be witnessing this spectacle too, Frances reflected. She walked slowly to the opposite side of the scaffold, knowing that Raleigh would pass this way on the short walk from the gatehouse. Drawing up her hood against the cold, damp air, she closed her eyes in prayer.
By the time daylight broke, the courtyard was crowded with spectators, jostling and chattering excitedly. Frances judged that it could only be a few more minutes before eight o’ clock. It had seemed an age since the bell had struck seven.
‘Make way there!’
The shout rang out across the courtyard, prompting a chorus of murmurs as everyone looked towards the thickset guard who was pushing his way through the crowds. Behind him, Frances could see a procession of finely dressed dignitaries. She recognised Thomas Clinton, the new Earl of Lincoln, and Raleigh’s old patron Robert de Vere, Earl of Oxford, who had tried to stir up resistance to the Scottish King in the last days of Elizabeth’s reign. Frances craned her neck, hoping to see Bacon, but he was not among them. He had confided to her that he had no stomach for such things and that he would be spending the day in prayer for his old friend. Neither was Buckingham present, much to her surprise. She had expected him to take pride of place at the gruesome spectacle. Perhaps he meant to show, by his absence, how little Raleigh’s death mattered.
She was reflecting on this bitter thought when she saw Thomas at the end of the procession. Her heart leaped. He was staring at the ground, grim-faced, but looked up just as he drew level with her. Their eyes met for a moment before the crowds closed in behind him.
A loud cheer rose and all heads turned back towards the gateway where the lords had just entered. Frances stood on tiptoe but for several moments she could see nothing except the waving arms and hats being thrown into the air. Then at last Raleigh came into view. He was dressed all in black, and as he drew closer Frances was shocked to see that he was wearing his nightgown. A matching black velvet cap covered his scalp and he doffed it now and again, acknowledging the adoration of the crowds. It was as if they had come to see him crowned, not have his head smitten off.
He was so close to her now that she could have reached out and clasped his gown, as many others were doing.
‘God save you, Sir Walter!’ a bald man cried, tears streaming down his face.
Raleigh flashed him a smile, then took off his cap once more.
‘Thou hast more need of it than I,’ he replied, holding it out to the man, who gazed at it in wonder, as if it had been given to him by Christ Himself.
As the crowds surged behind her, Frances found herself being pushed forward. At that moment, Sir Walter turned towards her.
‘Forgive me,’ Frances mouthed, her eyes imploring.
He stared back at her for a long moment, then the lines at the corners of his eyes wrinkled with accustomed good humour. Reaching out, he took her hand and quickly pressed something into it. The gesture was so discreet that nobody seemed to have noticed. She looked up at him and he gave the slightest of nods before moving on into the throng. Frances glanced down and saw a tiny, exquisite prayer book. Her eyes filled with tears and she pressed her lips to it, then placed it carefully in her pocket and followed with the rest to the scaffold.
Sir Walter had already mounted the steps by the time she came within view of it. A guard stepped forward and took the black velvet gown from his back. As he stood to survey the crowds, dressed only in his linen nightshirt and breeches, his head uncovered, he looked like the frail old man she had seen on her last visit to the Tower.
‘Good people.’ Raleigh’s voice rang out across the now silent courtyard. ‘If I appear to tremble, I beg that you do not put it down to cowardice on my part, but rather to a strong and violent fever that is hindering me in what I intend to say.’
A murmur of dissent ran through the crowds. Frances heard several people around her mutter, ‘Shame,’ and ‘God save him.’ It gladdened her heart. The King might have denied Raleigh a public trial, but her friend was going to make the most of this opportunity. He had always known how to play to the crowds.
‘I thank God that I came out of the darkness of my imprisonment in the Tower to die in the light,’ he continued. ‘As for the matter that caused the King to take so great offence against me, I must confess that there was probably some cause, yet it is far from the whole truth.’
Very far, Frances mused, knowing that few of those present would guess at the extent of Raleigh’s crimes against the King. He went on to plead God’s forgiveness for the manifest sins he had committed throughout his life, then provided a fulsome account of his voyage to Guiana. Frances saw the guard behind him grow restless. He made as if to hurry the prisoner along but, sensing the mood of the crowd, kept his counsel. The tolling of the bell signalled that half an hour had passed since Raleigh’s arrival. He seemed not to heed it, but went on: ‘I confess myself to be a most wicked, sinful and wretched man, a poor worm of the earth, one who has delighted and trod in all ways of vanity. For I have been a courtier, a captain and soldier – professions in which vices have their best nourishment.’
A chill wind whipped about the courtyard. Frances noticed Sir Walter clench his fists at his sides to stop the trembling. Seizing his chance, the guard stepped forward and muttered something in Raleigh’s ear, then gestured towards the small fire that had been lit in a brazier at the back of the scaffold.