The Love Child

So he went back to Bridgewater and there prepared for the great battle.

My father wrote to us on the eve of the battle and sent a messenger to us.

Be of good heart. Ere long there will be a new King on the throne and though his name will be James he will not be James Stuart. This will be James Scott, King of England.

Reading the letter my mother grew angry.

“How foolish of him … to write thus. The risk he runs! Oh, Priscilla, I fear for him. I fear so much.”

I repeated my belief that he would always win through. “Whatever happens, he will be all right. I know it.”

She smiled wanly. “He always got what he wanted,” she agreed.

The outcome of that fateful battle of Sedgemoor is well known. What chance had Monmouth against the King’s forces led by the Earl of Faversham and his second in command, John Churchill? Monmouth’s army consisted of rustics and men such as my father who, for all their bravery and dedication, were not professional soldiers.

Monmouth’s army was easily defeated and Monmouth himself, seeing the day was lost, was more intent on preserving his own life than standing to fight with those who had so loyally supported him.

Many people had been taken prisoner-among them my father.

We were stunned, although my mother had been expecting disaster ever since the death of the King, but that our pleasant lives should be suddenly so devastated was something we found it hard to accept.

The news grew worse. My father was imprisoned in Dorchester, and when my mother heard that the Lord Chief Justice, Baron George Jeffreys, would preside at the trial, she was overcome by a frenzy of grief.

“He is a wicked man,” she cried. “He is cruel beyond belief. I have heard such tales of him. And your father will be at his mercy. He said at the time of his appointment that he could not understand why Jeffreys had been given the post. Charles disliked him. He once said he had no learning, no sense, no manners and more impudence than ten carted streetwalkers. I know he opposed the appointment for a long tune. It was a sign of his weakening strength that he at length gave way. Oh, I am so afraid.

He hates men like your father. He envies them their good looks, their breeding and their boldness. He will have no mercy. There is nothing he enjoys more than condemning a man to death.”

My mother’s grief was more than I could bear. I kept thinking of “wild plans to rescue my father. The thought of his being herded into prison with countless others was horrifying.

Thomas and Christabel came to see us as soon as they heard the news; they were genuinely grieved. Thomas had a grain of comfort to offer. “Jeffreys is a greedy man,” he said. “It is hinted that he will be lenient in return for some profit. They say he is hoping to make a small fortune out of these assizes, for there are some rich people involved.”

“Then there is a chance!” cried my mother.

“It would have to be done very tactfully and he would want a good deal, I daresay.”

“I would give everything I have,” she replied fervently.

Clearly the Willerbys had raised her spirits, for she came to my room that night.

She looked very frail and there were dark shadows under her eyes. She stood against the door and I longed to comfort her, for I knew that without him her life would not be worth living.

She said: “I have made up my mind. I shall leave for the West Country tomorrow.”

“Do you think it possible to bribe this judge?”

“It is obviously possible and I am going to do it.”

“I shall come with you,” I answered.

“Oh, my dearest child,” she cried, “I knew you would.”

“We will make our preparations early in the morning,” I said, “and leave just as soon as we are ready.”

What followed is like a nightmare to me-and still is.

We went by stagecoach, which seemed the easiest way. It was a sombre journey and at the inn where we rested there was constant talk of what was being called the Monmouth Rebellion. The name of Judge Jeffreys was spoken in low whispers. It was clear that everyone pitied his victims.

It was said that he not only passed the harshest sentences which he could, but he did so with relish and could, with his wicked tongue, turn innocence into guilt.

As we approached the west, the mist grew more intense. Monmouth’s army had been active only in Dorset and Somerset, and the prisoners were all judged in those counties.

Jeffreys, with his lieutenants, was in his element. He delighted in his grisly work.

There should be no delay once a man was sentenced. In twenty-four hours from his condemnation he was swinging on a gallows or suffering whatever the bloodthirsty judge had decreed for him.

“Oh, God,” prayed my mother, “let us get there in time.”