Doctor Who_ The Roundheads - Mark Gatiss [38]
remained, and the Rump would see justice was done, Cromwell was sure of it.
The general sat at the head of the table, Thurloe by his side, fiddling with his none-too-clean collar and scanning an impressive document spread out before him.
Something about the portentously elaborate style of the writing betrayed its purpose as an instrument of state.
Cromwell read it over in his head several times, before running a hand through his thinning grey hair.
‘Well, gentlemen?’ he said at last.
Groby held up a gloved hand. ‘By your leave, General, I think I speak for us all when I ask that the charge be read aloud.’
Cromwell shifted in his seat, uncomfortable because of the boil on his buttock, but also because he was almost painfully aware that he was not only living through a moment of great historical import, but actually creating it.
There was no joy, however, no triumph in his voice as he lifted the paper closer to his eyes and began to speak.
‘Charles Stuart,’ he began, ‘the now King of England, is accused of entertaining a wicked design totally to subvert the ancient and fundamental laws and liberties of this nation, and in their place to introduce an arbitrary and tyrannical government.’
Cromwell paused and looked down the length of the table.
To a man, the members sat with heads bowed.
‘And that, besides all other evil ways and means to bring his design to pass, he hath prosecuted it with fire and sword, levied and maintained a cruel war in the land.’
Cromwell stopped again, letting the impact of his words sink in. The room was hushed, save for the sputtering of the lamp flames.
Then, as though from miles away, the sound of approaching footsteps became audible. They were coming from the adjacent corridor and their owner was in something of a hurry. His boots rang off the stone floor.
Cromwell looked up expectantly as the double doors were thrown open and Sir Thomas Fairfax stood framed there, his arms spread wide.
‘So this is where it is done, Oliver?’ he spat. ‘In the shadows, like knaves?’
Cromwell didn’t react at first. His heavy, warty face remained impassive and then, with a sniff, he looked at Fairfax with something like pity.
‘I can think of few places more public than this chamber,’
he said quietly. ‘With Parliament close by.’
Fairfax shot a look at Colonel Pride and laughed derisively. ‘Aye, what’s left of it.’
Cromwell looked at the floor and then glanced at Thurloe, who indicated, with a small movement of his hand, that it was perhaps wise for the other members to leave.
When Cromwell and Fairfax were alone, they stood in brooding, angry silence. Then Cromwell dragged the charge sheet across the table and thrust it under Fairfax’s nose.
‘You would object to what this document says?’
Fairfax shook his head. ‘It is true. I know it.’
Cromwell’s blue eyes blazed with righteous ire. ‘Then what ails you?’
The commander sighed. ‘It is all true. But we have gone too far, Oliver. We cannot... we must not kill our King.’
Cromwell rolled the document up and held it in his hand like a dagger. ‘We gave him every chance, Thomas, every chance. He chose to repay our trust with the basest treachery.’
Fairfax looked pleadingly into Cromwell’s face. ‘But there must still be another way –’
‘There is no other way,’ said Cromwell in a dangerous whisper. ‘If we let him slip again, our cause is finished, Thomas. We might as well call ourselves serfs and have done with it. We must cut out this poison at its source.’
Fairfax shook his head. ‘And have history condemn us as regicides?’ Cromwell turned away. ‘I have no care for history.
I am concerned with the present.’
Fairfax looked at his old friend, the soldier alongside whom he had fought so long and so bravely. He let out a long sigh that was more like the last breath of a dying man. ‘Then you must face the consequences alone, my friend.