Monmouth was executed for treason at the Tower of London in July of that year. He calmly paid the axe man, Jack Ketch, to do a clean and merciful job, but Ketch lost his nerve, taking five bloody strikes to relieve the duke of his head. Then comes the cider country between lines of rugged hills to the west and south, the Quantocks and the looming Blackdown range marking the border between Somerset and Devon. The weather seems well adjusted to Donald’s state of mind, showers arriving overhead at regular intervals between short intermissions of bright sunshine and crystal blue sky. On the far side of Honiton, a grim resolve asserts itself as he finds himself trapped by a series of heavy downpours in the middle of a convoy of high-sided lorries. These unstable vehicles veer from side to side as they catch the wind, their wheels kicking up huge drowning sheets of spray. He is forced to work his way through the pack, pulling out to overtake each in turn, putting his foot to the floor and hanging on determinedly as the Morris inches its way past, then finally back to the safety of the inside lane.
