John did not move. He was still and silent as he had been all day. The crowd around him jostled fiercely but John gripped his hands on the railing before him and held tight. Alexander saw that his knuckles were white; but so were his hands, his face, his whole body was bleached by cold and distress.
A window in the Banqueting Hall was open and the king stepped out onto the platform. He was simply dressed in black again: a black cape, a tall black hat, black breeches and a white shirt. The Order of the Garter was a blaze of color in dramatic contrast. He looked out at the crowd, John felt that somber, dark gaze pass over him and wanted to raise a hand, to catch at recognition for a moment. He kept his hands and his head down.
The king took some notes from his pocket and spoke quietly to the men on the platform. John, straining his ears, could hear only tantalizing snatches of speech; only the last few words rang clear: “I am a martyr to the people.”
John heard a hiss of breath at the unending, irresistible grandeur and folly of the man, and realized it was cold air through his own teeth. The king swore that he died in the faith of his father, as a Christian, and then spoke quietly to the executioner.
“Oh God, don’t let him botch it,” John whispered, thinking not of the executioner who had done this a hundred times, but of the king who must do this beautifully, just once.
The king turned to Bishop Juxon and the bishop helped him to tuck his long hair under his cap to keep his neck free for the blade. Charles handed his George and the ribbon of the Garter to the bishop, and pulled the ring from his finger.
“No, not that, no, no,” John muttered. The details were unbearable. John had nerved himself for an execution; not for a man undressing as if in domestic confidence, tucking his hair out of the way of his pale, fragile neck. “Oh please God, no.”
Charles took off his doublet but wrapped his cloak around his shoulders again, as if it mattered that he should not catch cold. He seemed to be complaining about the executioner’s block. The executioner, a terrifying figure in his masquing disguise, seemed to be apologizing. John, remembering the king’s ability to delay and prevaricate, found that he was shaking the fence post before him in painful impatience.
The king stepped back and looked up at the sky, his hands raised. John heard the scribble of a pencil behind him as a sketch-maker captured the image of the king, the martyr of the people, his eyes on heaven, his arms outspread like a statue of Christ. Then the king dropped his cloak, knelt down before the block and stretched out his neck.
The executioner had to wait for the signal; the king had to spread out his arms to consent. For a while he knelt there, unmoving. The executioner leaned forward and moved a wisp of hair. He waited.
“Please, do it,” John whispered to his old master. “Please, please, just do it.”
There was a wait of what seemed like hours, then with the gesture of a man diving into a deep river the king flung his arms out wide and the ax swept a lovely unstoppable arc downward, thudded into his neck bone, and his head dropped neatly off.
A deep groan came from the crowd – the sound a man makes at his death, the sound a man makes at the height of his pleasure. The sound of something ending, which can never happen again.
At once there were slow, determined hoofbeats behind them and people screaming and pushing in panic to get away.
“Come on!” Alexander cried, tugging at John’s sleeve. “The cavalry is coming through, out of the way, man, we’ll be ridden down.”
John could not hear him. He was still staring at the stage, still waiting for the final act when the king, gorgeously dressed in white, would step down from the stage and dance with the queen.
“Come on!” Alexander said. He grabbed John’s arm and dragged him to one side. The crowd eddied, rushing to the sides of the street, many running forward to the scaffold to snatch a piece of the pall, to scrabble for a bit of earth from under the stage, even to dip their handkerchiefs in the gush of scarlet hot blood. John, pulled by Alexander, and pushed by the people behind him trying to get away from the remorseless cavalry advance down the street, lost his feet and fell. He was kicked in the head at once, someone trod on his hand. Alexander hauled him upward.
“Come on, man!” he said. “This is no place to linger.”
John’s head cleared, he struggled to his feet, ran with Alexander to the side of the road, pressed against the wall as the cavalry forced their way down to the scaffold, and then slipped away as they went past. At the top of the road he checked, and looked back. It was over. Already it was over. Bishop Juxon had disappeared, the king’s body had been lifted through the window of the Banqueting House, the street was half-cleared of people, the soldiers had made a cordon around the stage. It was a derelict theater at the end of the show, it had that stale leftover silence when the speeches have been finished and the performance is all over. It was done.
It was done but it was not over. John, returning home, found his house besieged with neighbors who wanted to hear every word, every detail, of what he had seen and what had been said. Only Johnnie was missing.
“Where is he?” John asked Hester.
“In the garden, in his boat on the lake,” she said shortly. “We heard the church bells toll in Lambeth and he knew what it was for.”
John nodded, excused himself from the village gossips and went down the cold garden. His son was nowhere to be seen. John walked down the avenue and turned right at the bottom for the lake where the children had often gone to feed ducks when they were little. The irises and reeds planted in the wet ground at the margin were in their stark frosted beauty. In the middle of the lake the boat was drifting, Johnnie, wrapped in his cape, sitting in the stern, the oars resting on the seat either side of him.
“Hey there,” John said gently from the landing stage.
Johnnie glanced up and saw his father. “Did you see it done?” he asked flatly.
“Aye.”
“Was it done quickly?”
“It was done properly,” John said. “He made a speech, he put his head on the block, he gave the sign and it was done in a single blow.”
“So it’s over,” Johnnie said. “I’ll never serve him.”
“It’s over,” John said. “Come ashore, Johnnie, there will be other masters and other gardens. In a few weeks people will have something else to talk about. You won’t have to hear about it. Come in, Johnnie.”
Spring 1649
John was wrong. The king’s execution was not a nine-day wonder, it swiftly became the theme of every conversation, of every ballad, of every prayer. Within days they were bringing to John the rushed printed accounts of the trial and eyewitness descriptions of the execution, and asking him if they were the truth. Only the most hard-hearted of round-heads escaped the mood of haunting melancholy, as if the death of a royal was a personal loss – whatever the character of the man, whatever the reason for his death. The country was gripped with a sickness of grief, a deep sadness which quite obscured the justice of the case and the reasons for his death. No one really cared why the king had to die. In the end, they were stunned that he had died at all.
John thought that perhaps others had believed like him: that a king in his health simply could not die. That something would intervene, that God himself must prevent such an act. That even now, time might run backward and the king be found alive. That John might wake up one morning to find the king in his palace and the queen demanding some absurd planting scheme. It was almost impossible to accept that no one would ever see him again. The chapbooks, the balladeers, the portraitists all fostered the illusion of the king’s surviving presence. There were more pictures of King Charles and stories about him than there had ever been during his life. He was better beloved than he had ever been when he had been idle and foolish and misjudging. Every error he had made had been washed away by the simple fact of his death, and the name he had given to himself: the Martyr King.