The Mer- Lion

by Lee Arthur

  "Hear also the woman's husband," intoned the bishop without change in inflection.

  A tall man, an older, masculine, soft-fleshed version of the girl, stepped forward. It was Douglas, he who had made marrying an avocation. "Your Grace, before this court stands a man wronged by a lecher, a man who cries to you in the voice of loving husband and concerned father for justice. My wife, my daughter's mother, has deserted her marriage bed to cling to this man. I remind you, Your Grace, that the Lord God said, 'It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him an helpmeet for him.' So says the Book of Genesis. Again in Genesis it says, Thy desire shall be to thy husband and he shall rule over thee.'"

  Such pious mournings coming from such a man? De Wynter could not decide whether to laugh or gag. A look at Cranmer decided him to do neither.

  Douglas continued, "Your Grace, I rule not my wife who chooses to stay in the North sending her lover south to tempt my daughter to stray from her path of righteousness. My Lord Archbishop, I remind you that in the Gospel according to Mark, we are told 'What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder,' and The woman which hath an husband is bound by the law to her husband so long as he liveth.' Need I remind you, Your Grace, that when Moses, according to Exodus, went down from the mount of Sinai, ten commandments did he speak, the seventh being 'Thou shah not commit adultery'? Archbishop, judge you and punish him, stone him to death!"

  De Wynter could restrain himself no longer, but his manner remained respectful, his voice cool and dispassionate. "The ninth

  commandment seems grossly neglected here. Then, too, does not John say, 'He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone... neither do I condemn thee: go and sin no more'?"

  Cranmer eyed the man speculatively; such words bespoke more than casual knowledge of the scriptures. The other two had first to be rehearsed before they could quote so. However, such interruptions just delayed the foreordained course of this trial. "My Lord Gentleman Gaoler, have you other witnesses?"

  "Ten, save your Grace, all kenneled here in the Tower."

  De Wynter's pulse raced more quickly. The companions and servants were taken.

  "Do they bear willing witness?"

  "Nay, Your Grace, they remain stubborn though food and drink have been withheld from them."

  "What do you suggest, My Lord Gaoler?" The archbishop addressed one man while covertly studying the elegant face of another. On the Scot's reaction to the keeper's answer depended the success of their plan.

  "That they be put to the question. His Majesty's craftsman with rack and boot will shortly loosen their tongues."

  A slight thinning of de Wynter's lips, the tightening of a muscle in the cheek—in these small signs did Cranmer find cause to rejoice. He had again advised the king right. Loyalty was the weakness of 'this man, his friends the key.

  "Very well, My Lord Gaoler, I shall take that under advisement. Now, James Mackenzie, what say you in your defense?"

  Feverishly be had been seeking some defense. Not in truth could he take skelter, that would condemn him out of his own mouth. Nor could he perjure himself by lying; if his men were put to torture the truth would out. Desperately, he seized upon a bold defense.

  "Your Grace, what would you have me say? I cannot in good conscience stand by and let these slander the reputation of His British Majesty's good sister and his Scottish Majesty's revered Queen Mother."

  He studied Cranmer's countenance. Not a whit had it changed. "Therefore I, as Margaret Tudor's emissary, challenge the Red Earl to Trial by Combat, the Jouse a l'Outrance. Let sharpened lances determine the truth of the—"

  "Let it be recorded," interrupted the Archbishop, speaking over his shoulder to the clerk scratching away at his lectern in a deserted comer of the chapel, "the accused enters no defense."

  "But—" De Wynter would have continued, but he was given no chance.

  "So be it. I shall consult my God and my conscience and render my decision. Return him to his quarters."

  "No!" de Wynter shouted. "I have not finished. Let me speak."

  "Come, Your Lordship, if you cease your struggling, perhaps His Grace would allow you to see your men." All eyes sought out the archbishop.

  That such a visit was part of the strategy to bend de Wynter to the king's will, none would have known by looking at Cranmer. His impassive gaze rested long and speculatively on the young Scot where he stood held fast in the grip of four burly Beefeaters. Personally, he regretted sacrificing another victim to the king's fascination with his Boleyn. However, what the king wanted was the archbishop's desire. Almost imperceptibly, Cranmer gave his consent.

  "When?" de Wynter demanded.

  Unseen by the herald, the keeper signaled the archbishop—all was in readiness. "Would the present suit Your Lordship?" "Very much."

  "Good. My Lord Gaoler, you will conduct our young friend direct to see his men."

  They did not retrace their steps. Instead, led by the keeper, they left the chapel, pacing the length of the banqueting room, de Wynter counting his steps off silently. It measured twenty-seven paces, an enormous room.

  A door in the northeast corner revealed another stair built in the wall. De Wynter lost count of the steps as they made their way down into the depths of Tower Hill. Finally the stairs ended and they came out in a large room. But the torches carried by the warders revealed no Scots.

  Bewildered, de Wynter looked to the keeper for explanation. Was this some sort of trick? Was he to be done away with secredy? The keeper forestalled his questions: "They be kept in the Little Ease."

  Giving his torch to a fellow, he advanced toward a dimly lit corner of this windowless room tunneled out of solid rock. Grasping a ring in the floor, he gave a heave, opening a trap door, then gestured for de Wynter to advance. His first hint of what he would see was the stench. By the light of the torches held by his surrounding captors, de Wynter looked down into the upturned faces of his friends. They lay and crouched and sat in a small pit in the ground not big enough for all to stretch out, or high enough for any to stand.

  "Jamie! Water! For God's sake, fresh air!" Some merely moaned.

  He knew not who cried what. "How long—?"

  "They been down there since they arrived. They have not been out since, although we supply them with salt meat and water. They eat little but drink every drop. Their body heat turns the pit into an oven. How long will they last? They are strong young men, one or two might live out the next week."

  De Wynter tried to push the menacing pikes aside so his men might escape, but strong arms held him back. "Let them out. They have done nothing. I am the guilty one. Take me to the archbishop. I shall confess." The keeper gestured his men to step back so he might let the door down.

  "Drummond, Fionn, Gilliver," de Wynter called back over his shoulder as his warders pulled him back. "Have faith, I'll have you out." His promises were cut short by the hollow thump of the trapdoor closing with fearful finality. Returned to his cell, de Wynter lay dejectedly as the hours passed. The room grew dark. The fire on the hearth grew low, until merely smoldering, scattered coals. Still de Wynter made no move, lying still on his pallet. Even when the door opened and warders bearing torches entered, he did nought but cover his eyes with his forearm.

  There came to his unwilling ears a medley of sounds. Logs being put in the fire... his furniture, set back on its feet from where he had kicked it in helpless rage... the door opening more than once... and footsteps, many footsteps, scuffling about. With the closing of the door, the sounds died away except for the crackling of the fire. Then, a very faint rustle of cloth. Cranmer spoke.

  "I take it you saw your friends and were not pleased," he addressed the still form on the bed. "The gaoler tells me you are prepared to confess?"

  "Will it free my men?" "No, I think not."

  De Wynter was off the bed and on his feet like a snarling cat. But the archbishop remained unfazed and unruffled as the enraged lordling stalked him, mayhem being hi
s object.

  "Lift finger against me and you condemn your friends to die. The gaoler has his orders." With a stifled cry the defeated herald turned away, leaning dejectedly against the chimney place, staring unseeingly into the fire. Helpless. He was at the mercy of this man and his lecherous king.

  "There is a way to solve our contretemps. Sit down and I will explain."

  "I'd rather stand."

  Cranmer chose not to object. "His British Majesty has sent me here personally to treat with you. First, let me make it clear you have no bargaining power. Your fate rests with me. I have in my possession eleven death warrants, signed and stamped with royal' seal. And if I should wish, eleven confessions to confirm their righteousness. Yours has already been heard, and there are ways of making the most loyal friends and servants say what they think the court wants to hear. Which, as we both know, would be simple truth. But for what would you all be giving your lives? To save the nonexistent reputation of a harlot whose whoring is the talk of all Europe? Come now, my friend, you have better sense. The other side of the coin is—if one is convicted of adultery, what of the other? Is she not equally guilty? Naturally, his British Majesty would not, could not sentence his own sister to hang—"

  "I thought stoning was prescribed."

  "The advantage of hanging is that all voices quickly cease. You can see, His Majesty faces something of a dilemma." "Good! Tell him to let us go free!"

  "That would not satisfy the Douglases. No, if it were left to me, I would simply send you to join your friends and let you perish one by one in the Little Ease beneath St. John's Chapel Crypt."

  "There will be talk—"

  "There already is. Your melodramatic departure did not escape notice. It would be a matter of great embarrassment if the subject of your disappearance should come up during Henry's visit to France this week for the holding of the Second Field of Cloth of Gold."

  "He should have thought of that before arresting me."

  "What choice had he, the Pope's own proclaimed Defender of the Faith? Of course, the issue being ecclesiastical did not solve the problem of the immunities conferred by your tabard and collar. Naturally, no monarch in his right mind would kill an envoy, a messenger. That would border on an act of war. But killing an adulterer, that would be within his rights. And think how that would enhance His Majesty's own unblemished—"

  "Ha!"

  "Unblemished reputation. Then again, there is the matter of his sister. And the delicate negotiations for the marriage of the Lady Mary Tudor. You did, of course, know of them." Cranmer wished the man would turn round; his profile, though illuminated to its handsomest advantage by the firelight, helped Cranmer not one bit in judging how well his talk was being received. Despite that, it was time to come to the crux of the matter. No sign of this crossed the archbishop's face nor found its way into his tone of voice.

  "It occurred to me, and His Majesty reluctantly agreed, that there might be a way, short of your deaths, to silence our gossips and confound our critics. For did not Our Lord Jesus address the adulterous woman, according to the Gospel of St. John, thusly: "Woman where are those thine accusers? Hath no man condemned thee?" She said, "No man, Lord." And Jesus said unto her, "Neither do I condemn thee: Go, and sin no more."'

  Cranmer's voice died away momentarily. Then he began again, his voice tinged with real reverence. "Then did He not say also: 'I am the light of the world: he that followed! me shall not walk in the darkness, but shall have the light of life.'"

  De Wynter listened carefully; what he heard puzzled and disturbed him. Standing upright, he turned and faced his judge. Cranmer's eyes were closed, the expression on his face genuine. Servant of king he might be, but he served another, less worldly monarch also. He was a true religious. De Wynter feared him more. The Church in the name of religion did most ungodly heinous things.

  Cranmer opened his eyes and stared straight at him. "If you should follow Jesus..."

  "Follow how?" De Wynter's eyes narrowed. In his gut, he dreaded this answer.

  "Take orders. A genuine act of contrition. Then could no man criticize you, His Majesty and your Dowager Queen."

  "No!" De Wynter's gut spoke.

  "Think on it. Take as long as you like. But remember your friends. My Lord Keeper tells me one, he that is named Gilliver, might not make it through another day and night"

  De Wynter groaned. What matter thinking on it? He had no choice. But still he might bargain. "And if I do, what of my friends?"

  "The dyester's pole, unless—"

  De Wyntet-clutched at straws. "Unless—?"

  "Unless you were to act immediately and join an order based far from this shore. One in need of fighting men. Then I see no reason why your men might not depart with you."

  "You have an order in mind." De Wynter accused him point-blank. "The Templars."

  "That heretic group? Never. Besides, the next thing we'd know they'd have you in France at their temple there. No, we had another in mind."

  "Well?"

  Cranmer let him stew a little, but de Wynter, gambling for eleven lives, could well wait him out. Finally, Cranmer gracefully gave in. "We thought perhaps since you were so familiar with St. John—"

  "No, not them. Not the Order of the Knights of St. John."

  "I told His Majesty you'd know them."

  De Wynter's voice was bitter. "Who does not know of the Knights Hospitaler late of Rhodes, now of Malta? You might as well sentence me and my men to death if you send us to defend that bare pile of rock out in the ocean."

  "That well might be, but is it not better to die, sword in hand, the name of the Lord on your tongue, than at the end of a rope?"

  De Wynter had no ready answer. The whole plan was so well thought out. An order of nobles, respected fighting men, one of whose canons was celibacy. What better proof and proclamation to the courts of Europe that this was a true act of contrition? Desperately, be sought for a loophole through which he might wiggle, but he knew there was none. Nor, if Gilliver's life were not to be wasted, could he take time making up his mind. "If I were to agree?"

  "The order would welcome you." And your fortune, Cranmer thought to himself. "We have the word of Sir John Carlby, the order's Turcopolier, on it. However, he offers you the haven of the order only if you join immediately."

  "Immediately?"

  "Tonight So, James Mackenzie, what will you have? The life of a novice or no life at all? Make your choice."

  Swallowing his pride, de Wynter opened his mouth to beg mercy; then, knowing it was no use, he swallowed his words and merely nodded.

  "You agree then?" Cranmer was secretly delighted; already he could see Henry's reaction: Carlby appeased, Hampton Court saved, the too-desirable Scots herald gone, sailing to Malta on the same tide taking the King of England, and Marquess Pembroke to France aboard the Henry Grace a Dieu, the selfsame ship that had a dozen years before, on the last day of May, taken Henry and Catherine to France.

  "Know you then, the Right Honorable the Earl of Seaforth, James Mackenzie, that by token of this genuine act of contrition, the ecclesiastical court invoked this tenth day of October, in the year of our Lord 1532 is hereby adjourned, res adjudicata. Dieu vous garde.

  "You will be taken directly to the priory of the hospices of St. John of Jerusalem, at the temple outside London near Westminster. Sir John awaits you there. And, my lord, do not attempt escape. Not till word comes you have arrived safely will your men be released."

  "Will you at least raise the door, to give them fresh air?"

  Cranmer considered. The thought appealed to his basic humanitarianism. "I see no problem with that. Perhaps you would even care to send a message, one personally reassuring?"

  What to say to convince them not to fight, nor yet to give up hope. "Tell them I turned the ring on my hand and a roar was heard. Follow me!"

  It was Cranmer's turn to be puzzled. "You turned the ring on your hand and a roar was heard?''

  De Wynter nodded. "Don't forget 'fo
llow me!'"

  "You have my word on it. My Lord Gaoler," he said, not raising his voice, "present yourself."

  He might have said "Open Sesame," so promptly did the door open. "This man accompanies you. But he should not go half dressed. His collar, if you please. Send the bill for his keep to the Knights Hospitaler. For such a fighter as this, with ten men at arms, they should be willing to reimburse the king his generosity."

  CHAPTER 18

  On big way back up the Thames in a small but strong-poled, well-oared wherry, there was no Thomas Nottle to spend de Wynter's time and fill his ears with such tidbits of information as that his destination was originally the seat in England of the Order of Templars, The Poor Knights of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon. When they moved elsewhere, the buildings passed into the hands of the Hospitalers, who leased all but the consecrated buildings to certain professors of common law, half of whom formed a society known as the Middle Temple, the rest the Inner.

  From the river, Node would have been quick to note that of greatest interest were the large, elaborate gardens where partisans of the Houses of York and Lancaster plucked the living badges that gave odor to that famous hundred-year-long series of "cousin wars" known as the War of the Roses.

  As the wherry landed, thousands of starlings, roosting in the tree-lined approach to the Temple Church, took umbrage at being disturbed and took wind in a storm of flutters and angry calls.

  'They be back," said the Yeoman Warder, who looked like Thomas Nottle. "They be like the ravens, at the Tower. Too lazy and well fed ever to take their leave for long. They say that if either starling or raven permanently disappear, it will mean the fall of the Temples of Law or Tower of London."

  The Temple, although not a fortress, was indeed much like the Tower, both actually being a composite of buildings with a central core. The Norman castle-keep for the Tower, the Norman round-church of St. Mary for the Temple. De Wynter's destination now was the hospice. It resembled an inn, but its windows were palisaded with wood tempered hard as metal, the ends of which were buried within the casing of the window. The doors, made of plank atop plank, bolted and banded, could have withstood fire or siege. The floors and walls were of stone, the ceiling twice a man's height. De Wynter feared he had exchanged one prison for another that had no fireplace to ward off the cold of the coming night.