“He was avenging his honor, the bloody fool,” shouted Sir David into my ear. “He only ever held his son in his left arm, so the boy would nae be scared by seeing his blinded eye.” I did not know that the Baron had a son; the boy was not born of Lady Sanquhar. On the few occasions I had met his estranged wife, she had struck me as profoundly aggrieved to have been married to a Scottish lout and proven kidnapper. I could picture her expression later that day if he was not granted a gallows pardon, a wounded resignation that would not disguise her relief at being set free.

“That’s Sir Edward Coke. They say he’ll be made up tae Lord Chief Justice. He’d be glad tae see a Catholic hang,” Sir David said, nudging me to follow his gaze. Coke sat in his coach, his gaze pitiless. I guessed him to be in his early sixties but with none of the softness of some old men. He was very lean, his face all sharp angles and points. “His delight has always been tae trample on the unfortunate. I’ll be looking at his face when the pardon arrives!” Sweat tingled in my armpits to see hatred of my faith so openly displayed.

“Let it be known,” bellowed Sanquhar, “today I die a true Catholic!” The answering scream of rage from the crowd hurt my ears and my heart. Sir David and I moved closer together. The rest of the speech was swallowed up by insults hurled at the condemned nobleman. Silence fell only when the noose was placed over Sanquhar’s head. He craned his head toward the stairs, searching for the messenger who would convey the King’s forgiveness, but none appeared. Only as he was maneuvered over the trap door did his face lose all color. Only then did he believe he was to die. I pitied him to have so little preparation, then thought perhaps it was better that way.

I looked away as he dropped. However miscreant, this was still a life created from his mother’s body, brought into the world at great risk, nurtured for year upon year, fed, taught, loved but ended in ignominy with no legitimate issue. I hoped his mother no longer lived to know the shame of it, and that someone would care for the son who knew only one side of his father’s face.

I was not sure what to report to Robert Carr: that I was afraid the crowd would beat me to death if they knew I too was Catholic? That Sir David had stopped shouting once he saw the murderous looks his accent provoked? That it seemed justice, life and death were dispensed at the whim of the King?