Chapter Two.
The Trial.
The room suddenly grew dim and silent again, and I began to think that after all I had been only dreaming. But when I lifted my head and looked round, the place of the kings was empty. There was William the Conqueror’s footstool where he had upset it; and there lay the pen and ink on the floor under King John’s chair. As for the big group in the middle, not a soul was left there except Chaucer and William Caxton, who had taken possession of the two easiest chairs, and were deep in a game of chess.
As I picked myself slowly up off the floor, I became aware of the gleam of a lantern approaching me, and heard a footstep coming down the hall. It was too dark to see who it was till he was close up; then, with a gasp, I recognised Marwood, the hangman!
“Oh,” said he pleasantly, “you’re the young party, are you? Come, cheer up. You’ve got to be tried first. The fact is, they couldn’t find the regular police, and asked me to step up for you. Come, my lad,” said he, proceeding to pinion me with the cord in his hand, “this will brace you up wonderfully. You may depend on me to do the job neatly. I’ve just invented a new noose, and have been wanting a light weight to try it on, so you’re in luck. Come along, and don’t keep them waiting.”
And he proceeded to conduct me to the Chamber of Horrors. As we passed along the hall, one or two of the figures nodded to us; and Oliver Cromwell requested in Marwood to let him know when his part of the business was going to begin, as he should like to be present.
“I don’t care about the trial, you know,” said he. “Seen plenty of that sort of thing. But I’d like to see how you do your job, you know; so don’t forget.” And he slipped a shilling into Marwood’s hand.
“You’ve no idea of the civility I receive from some of these gentlemen,” said the latter to me with emotion. “Little drops of kindness like this always touch me. You shall have a little drop too, my boy, presently.”
I tried feebly to laugh at the joke; but I couldn’t, whereupon he got very sulky, and bundled me down the stairs without another word.
By the dim light of a few candles placed about the room I could see that the Chamber of Horrors was packed by a dense crowd of sightseers, who occupied seats on the floor of the court, and sat impatiently whispering together, expecting my arrival.
As I stumbled up the steps of the Old Bailey dock (where room had been made for me between Burke and Hare) the usual thrill of sensation passed round the court. I could see Henry the Eighth and his wives opposite me in the small dock, while the other crowned heads jostled one another on the platform of the guillotine. There, too, was the old hermit peeping out through the bars of his cage, and the warder in charge of the condemned cell was sweeping his place out and changing the sheets on the bed.
“Now then,” said Henry the Eighth, when all the bustle had subsided, “wire in, somebody! Let’s begin.”
“You’d better get a jury first,” said King John. “That’s one of the first things I insist upon in Magna Charta.”
“Order in the court!” cried Henry, “and Magna Charta be bothered! I shall do as I like!”
“Do have a jury, love,” said Catherine Parr; “it’s such fun when they come in with their verdict!”
“Oh, all right; have it your own way. I should have thought, though, I could come in with a verdict as well as they. Now then, you there!” said he, addressing the convicts round me, “answer to your names.”
And he proceeded to call the names out from the catalogue.
When a dozen had answered, Anne of Cleeves said, “That’s enough, Henry dear; we’ve got twelve.”
“Oh, have we?” said he. “You can have more if you like, you know; there’s plenty left.”
The ladies, however, decided that a dozen was enough, and the trial began.
“Prisoner at the bar,” said Edward the Black Prince, who was acting as usher, “are you guilty or not guilty?”
“What’s the use of asking him that,” said Henry the Eighth, “when everybody knows, eh?”
John here began to explain that he had arranged the matter in Magna Charta, whereupon the judge exclaimed—
“Oh, gracious! if we’re to have that up every two minutes I’ll adjourn the court! Now, you there!” said he to me; “why don’t you answer?”
I tried in dumb show to explain that I was not aware what I was being tried for; but as no one saw the point of my answer, I tremblingly pleaded “Not guilty.”
“Oh,” said Henry, growing very red in the face, “all right! Now, somebody, let’s have the indictment!”
To my horror, I suddenly saw reflected on a screen, in large characters, at the far end of the room, my recent examination paper, with all my answers appended thereto! As I staggered back in terror, Henry laughed.
“Too late now,” said he; “you’ve said ‘Not guilty’, so you’ve got to be tried—got to be tried. Eh, what? Now start away; begin at the top. What’s that he says about Alfred the Great? Where is Alf, by the way?”
“Oh,” said Edward the Third, “he can’t come. The fact is, they’ve taken him and dressed him up as a French General, and he’s so awfully busy, he says, you’d better let his part of the thing slide.”
“All serene!” replied Henry. “Lucky job for you, prisoner. I know what a rage he’d be in over that toast-and-muffin story you’ve been telling about him. He’d have done you brown, my boy, I can promise you! Never mind. Now let’s go on to the next. Read it out, Nigger.”
Edward the Black Prince, who answered to this genial pet name, accordingly read—
“‘William the Conqueror was a cruel tyrant. He made many homes desolate, and wrote Doomsday Book in the year 1087.’”
“There!” cried the Conqueror, coming to the rail of the guillotine and striking it in a passion with his gauntlet; “what do you think of that? I wrote Doomsday Book! It’s a lie. My lords and gentlemen of the jury, I can stand anything else, but when he says I wrote Doomsday Book, I say it’s a lie, and I hope to see him hung!”
“Hanged,” suggested Henry the First.
“All right, all right,” said Henry the Eighth, “keep cool, and you shall see him hung, and Henry shall see him hanged. We’ll oblige all parties. So you mean to say, Willie, you never did such a thing?”
“No, never; I hope I know my place better,” said the Conqueror; “and I’m surprised at you for asking such a question.”
“Got that all down, Nigger?” asked the judge.
“Yes. Forge ahead!” said the Black Prince. “Now we come to the next, ‘William the Second, surnamed Rufus, shot in the New Forest, by Walter Tyrrell.’”
“Eh?” shouted Rufus, pushing his father aside, and coming to the front. “What’s that? Me shot by Walter? Me—”
“Do say I,” suggested Henry the First.
The Red King rounded on him at once.
“Oh!” he cried, “it was you, then, was it? You’re the one that did it! I guessed as much! I knew you were at the bottom of it all along. What do you think of that, my lords and gentlemen?”
“The thing is,” drawled Edward the Second, “did Walter—”
“Order in the court!” cried Henry the Eighth. “Kindly allow me to conduct my own case. All you’ve got to say, Rufus, is whether it’s true what he says, that Walter Tyrrell shot you?”
“Him!” cried Rufus. “He couldn’t hit a haystack a yard off, if he tried.”
“Then he didn’t do it? That’s all right. Why couldn’t you have said so at once? All down, Nigger? That makes two lies. Now call up the next.”
“Henry the First, surnamed Beauclerk, never smiled again after his son was lost, and died of a surfeit of lampreys,” read the prince.
“Oh, those lampreys!” groaned Henry; “I am perfectly sick of them. I assure you, my lords and gentlemen, they were no more lampreys—”
“No, not after you’d done supper,” growled Rufus.
“In that case, William,” retorted Beauclerk, “I should have said ‘there,’ and not ‘they.’ But I do assure you, gentlemen, I never saw a lamprey in my life; and as for smiling again,” added he, in quite an apologetic way, “I did it often, when nobody was by; really I did.”
“Are you sure?” asked the judge. “Show us how you did it.”
Whereupon Henry the First favoured the court with a fascinating leer, which left no doubt on any one’s mind that he had been falsely accused.
So two more lies were set down against me; and the Black Prince called over the next.
“‘Stephen usurped the throne on Henry’s death.’”
“Quite right, quite right,” said Matilda; “perfectly correct.”
“‘Matilda, after a civil war, in which her bad temper made her many enemies—’”
“Oh you story!” exclaimed the empress. “Oh! you wicked young man!”
“Address the judge, please,” said Henry the Eighth.
“Oh, you wicked young man,” repeated the empress, turning to the bench; “I’d like to scratch you, I would!”
“Don’t do that,” said Henry: “I get quite enough of that at home, I assure you. Anyhow, Nigger can chalk it down a lie for you, eh?”
“And one for me, too, please,” said Stephen. “How can a fellow usurp what belongs to him?”
“Give it up,” said Coeur de Lion. “Ask another.”
“Silence in the court,” cried the judge. “Put it down, Nigger, and for mercy sake drive on, or we shall be here all night.”
“‘Henry the Second murdered Thomas à Becket, and was served right by having a family of bad sons,’” read the usher.
“That’s nice!” said Henry, advancing. “Bad sons, indeed! Never had a better lot in all my life. Really, my lord, that ought to count for four lies right off. The idea of calling my Johnny a bad boy. Why, my lord, he was his father’s own boy. You’ve only to look at him; and if he was a bit of a romp, why, so were you and I in our day.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Henry the Eighth severely. “But what about Becket?”
“Ah, well, there was a little accident, I believe, about him, and he got hurt. But I assure you I never touched him; in fact, I was a hundred miles away at the time. I’ll prove an alibi if you like.”
“No, no,” said the judge; “that is quite sufficient. Chalk down two, Nigger: one for Becket and one for the bad family. How many does that come to?”
“That’s eight,” said the Black Prince. “All right. We only want two more. Go on.”
“‘Richard the First, surnamed the Lion Heart, was the strongest and bravest man in England, and won many glorious battles in the Holy Land.’”
“Hullo, I say,” said the judge. “That’s pitching it just a little strong, isn’t it? What have you got to say to that, Dicky?”
“Seems pretty square,” said Richard modestly. “He doesn’t say what a good dentist I was, though. My! the dozens I used to pull out; and—oh, I say—look here, he says nothing about Blondel, and the tune I composed. That’s far more important than the Crusades. It was an andante in F minor, you know, and—”
“That’ll do, that’ll do, Dicky. We’ve heard that before,” interrupted the judge. “Score him down half a lie, Nigger, and call up Johnny.”
“‘King John, surnamed Lackland, was a wicked king. He was forced to yield to the barons, and he lost all his clothes in the Wash.’”
“Well, I never!” said John, foaming with rage; “if that isn’t the coolest bit of lying I ever heard! Here have I been and worn my fingers to the bone writing Magna Charta and giving England all her liberties, and he never once mentions it! My lord and gentlemen, I should like to read you the document I hold in my hand, in order that you may judge—”
“What, eh? Read that thing?” exclaimed Henry the Eighth, in horror. “You’d better try it on, that’s all. Good gracious me, what next? I’ve a good mind to commit you for contempt of court. The question is, were you a wicked king? and did you lose your clothes in the Wash?”
“I am surprised and pained that your lordship should ask me either question. When I assure you, my lord and gentlemen, that a more dutiful son, a wiser monarch, a tenderer husband, and a more estimable man than the humble individual who now addresses you, never drew—”
“Teeth,” put in Richard I.
“No, breath,” continued John. “And when I further tell you that I never even sent my clothes to the wash, and therefore could not possibly have lost them there, you will—”
“All right, pull up,” said the judge. “That’ll do. Keep the rest, my boy. That makes ten and a half—more than we want. Now, then, the next thing is, what sort of execution shall we have?”
“Oh, please,” said the ladies, “please, Harry, darling, let the jury go out and bring the verdict in. It will be such fun.”
“Eh, what?” said Henry, “oh, bother the jury! Where are they? Clear out, do you hear!” said he, addressing the twelve. “Go up to the Napoleon room and talk it over, and stay till I send for you.”
The jury obeyed, and I was left alone in the dock.
“Now,” said the judge, evidently relieved, “let’s have the execution.”
“But we’ve not had the verdict yet,” said Anne Boleyn.
“That’ll do any time,” said Henry. “Just as much fun to have it afterwards. Besides, it’s a wonderful saving of time to get the execution over now, while we’re waiting; and then we can go straight to the refreshment-room. Eh, girls? Eh, what? Ah, I thought so.”
“Oh, well,” said Catherine of Aragon, “but do put him in the condemned cell for a minute or so, and then have him brought out, like they all are, and—”
“As they all are,” said Henry the First. “Like is only used when—”
“Hold your tongue, you impertinent, forward young man!” said Catherine in a rage. “There, now!” added she, beginning to cry, “I’ve forgotten what I was going to say, all through you!”
“I think,” said Henry the Eighth, waving his hand for silence, “he’d better be hung. Marwood tells me it’s a very pretty sight; and the gallows are there quite handy. Besides,” added he confidentially, “we should have to tip him in any case, so we may as well let him have the job, and get what we can for our money. What, eh?”
Every one approved of this, and the executioner was summoned.
Then, as I stood there, shivering in every limb, unable to speak, or even to move, I was aware once more of the lantern coming towards me, and of a hand laid heavily on my shoulder.
“Come, young gentleman,” said the voice, “wake up—or you’ll get locked in. They’re shutting the doors. Tumble up, and look sharp.”
It was Madame Tussaud’s porter; and I had been fast asleep, after all!