Judge The Best

by G Lawrence

  “I should have seen through him,” said my sad friend.

  “He had to lie well,” I said. “He has the world to convince that I and the innocent men to die with me were guilty.” I smiled. “It is the way of the world, is it not, Eminence? Accuse a woman of being a whore, and you can convince the world she is guilty of anything… any lies, any disgrace, any misdemeanour… she is condemned for the thought that she is without morals, even when the charges are so false, so ridiculous.”

  “You are as free of sin as the Virgin,” he said, “and as holy.”

  “I am not she, Eminence,” I said. “Not virgin saint, but neither the whore-witch they call me at court. I am not wholly good nor wholly evil. I am neither, but something in between. A woman, just a woman, made of good and evil, of light and dark, but with as much right to stand upon this earth as any man.”

  “I should have protected you,” he mourned. “I should go to the King and tell him all I know now.”

  “You will not,” I said, tears breaking from my eyes. “You cannot fall too, old friend.” His hand sought mine and was clammy to the touch. “You must survive, or all that has been done will be in vain. One of us must live, to guide the King in the right direction, for England, for my daughter, and for the faith.” I looked up into his eyes. “Do what must be done to protect yourself, Cranmer. There is no hope for me, but I will not die knowing that I took more from England than I gave. I will not have you sacrifice yourself for me. Live for your faith. Protect the people, protect the King. However much I find it hard to hold anything but hatred for him in my heart, he must have counsellors who are good and just, or all is lost.”

  I smiled. “In some ways, old friend, I die a martyr, do I not? With my death, the true faith may still be upheld, as long as I bear no further association with it. And you must keep it alive. You must protect it. For my daughter, for the future, I will go to my death.”

  “You are, to the end, a better soul than this world deserves.”

  “What have you been sent to tell me?” I asked, looking from the window where a bloody sun was setting. “Will the King show mercy, or will he lash me to a pyre and burn me?”

  “The King offers mercy,” he said. “He offers that you might, instead of dying, be sent to a nunnery and live out your days in prayer.”

  “How can that be true?”

  “That is what I have been sent to offer,” said Cranmer.

  “But it is not what you believe will happen.”

  He cast his hands out. “I know not, my lady, but I dare to hope.”

  “And what do they want in return?”

  “You are to say you were never married to the King. That your relationship with Henry Percy was a formal pre-contract of marriage, making yours to the King invalid.” He gazed at me. “If you admit this, the King will show mercy and save you from the flames. He may spare the men too. He will also protect your daughter, keeping her as his acknowledged child, and shielding her from harm.”

  I almost laughed. If I had never been married to Henry, how could I have committed adultery?

  I knew my death was a foregone conclusion. The swordsman was already sent for and Cromwell could not allow me to live. But I agreed. If there was even the slightest hope that my disgrace would bring mercy to my friends, to my daughter, any lie was worth it. I signed the parchment. I declared I had been promised to Percy, and had never married the man I loved.

  I submitted in the hope that Henry would treat Elizabeth well, and for the slighter, vainer hope that he might spare me and my friends. But even then I knew it was not so. This, much as it was with Katherine, was a way to wipe clean the past, to make it as though I had never been. This was Henry’s way of forgetting me. He would cast me from his mind, never to return.

  In truth, there could not have been a surer sign I would die.

  But that night, as I dined with Kingston and his wife, I spoke brightly of the notion I might go to a nunnery and the men in the Tower would be pardoned. I knew it was false hope, but I spoke of it, hoping the servants would tell their friends of all they had heard, and everyone would know when I died how little the mercy and promises of the King meant.

  When I returned to my rooms, I looked out over London. Dusk had given way to night and the little lights of the houses glowed in the darkness. In the distance I could make out a barge, its light dappled over the flowing, dark waters, the sound of music wafting from it as it sailed.

  “The King,” said Mistress Coffin, a strange look of mingled disgust and approval on her face. “He makes merry.”

  Henry had filled his barge with courtiers and ladies. He had set sail onto the waters, knowing I would see him. Henry was celebrating as his friends awaited death.

  I left the window and went to my bed, exhausted. Did he truly care so little for any of us? Or had his heart turned as cold as the water on which he sailed?

  *

  As it transpired, it was not Percy they used against me, but Mary.

  Cranmer told me that Henry Percy had written too many times to deny that he had ever promised me marriage, and the volume of letters was becoming embarrassing. Despite the fact that Henry and I had had a dispensation for marriage, which nullified his relationship with my sister, his dalliance with her was upheld. They made me twice a sinner, for this meant Henry was my brother, and I had married him. My daughter was the product of incest. Another shade of black to paint me in…

  The dispensation that had allowed us to marry had been granted by Clement, on the understanding it would be used after the trial of Henry’s marriage in Rome. In the year we married, Parliament had passed an Act, permitting our union, but had held that previous dispensations granted by the Pope would not be upheld if they went against God’s law. They ignored this, and used the old canon law to be rid of me, to make me no more Henry’s wife. They used me, and my last shred of hope that submission might buy life for the men accused with me, or clemency for my daughter.

  But I hoped Elizabeth was safe, not only because of Henry’s love for her, but by law. Even if our union had held impediments, we had married on the basis of the Pope’s dispensation. I had some hope that she might be recognised as legitimate, for marriages made in good faith upheld the resulting children as lawful.

  It would, however, aid Cromwell if Elizabeth was defamed. It would be easier to have Lady Mary restored to the succession, appeasing Spain, and making safe all the threatened trade. If both of Henry’s daughters were bastards, why not restore Mary to the succession? My only hope was that Henry would save Elizabeth from harm. I knew he loved her, although clearly, love was not enough to ensure his protection, but I hoped my last submission would aid her.

  “Your brother and the others die on the morrow,” said Kingston. “We have been told to take you to another place, so you might watch.” Kingston’s granite face did not look happy about this task.

  “There is no word of a reprieve?” I asked.

  “The King has commanded the sentences be carried out, my lady.”

  Of course he had. I had known it was a fool’s hope, but perhaps I had always been a fool. Fool to fall for Henry. Fool to believe in him, to think that he would lead England to a time of grace and godliness, when all he wanted was to steal from the poor, and murder those he loved.

  Fool to think that I meant as much to him as he did once to me.

  “You are to face the sword the next day,” said Kingston. “The King has commuted your sentence to beheading.”

  Was I supposed to be grateful? That I was to die by a sword, sent for before my trial had taken place, rather than by burning? Perhaps I was grateful. At least I would not suffer much. That spare consolation could I take for the others too, that they would not be hung, drawn and quartered, but beheaded.

  But we would die. For Henry’s lust for quiet we would die. For the faith to continue unburdened, we would die.

  Martyrs we were… for faith, for truth, and for love.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight


  The Tower of London

  May 17th 1536

  The wind whipped past the window, startling me from memories of the past. I jumped upon my stool, causing a single knock from its wooden leg to sound about the chamber. The maids on the floor did not wake.

  Night had fallen on this terrible day. The day I lost my brother.

  That morning, I had been led to a cold room in the Devilin Tower overlooking Tower Hill. I watched them lead out the prisoners. My brother stood in the sunlight, brought out from the Beauchamp Tower. The others walked out slowly, their eyes blinking owlishly in the harsh, bright sun, after days in the gloom of their prisons. Guards surrounded them; their presence laughable. As if these prisoners could flee.

  I pressed my hand to the window as I saw my brother. He looked around, at the final sights his warm hazel eyes would see. His clothing was his best, he was freshly shaven; even in death my brother was the image of a gentleman.

  My warm hand imprinted sweat onto the window as I cried out to him silently; my eyes awash with grief. As though he heard my silent cry, George looked up, and our eyes locked; our last goodbye in this world. He inclined his head to me and bowed. The guards did not try to hold him. The others, standing near him, bowed to me also; Weston, Norris, Brereton…. all but Smeaton, who stood snivelling, wiping his nose on his sleeve, his face turned from mine.

  Smeaton had not been racked, as was rumoured. It was clear enough to see. Had he been, his limbs would have been distended, and he would have had trouble walking. Most people who were tortured had to be carried to their deaths. He stood tall and graceful, as ever. I had no doubt, however, that he had been made to talk somehow. Unless, my first thought of him had been true, and he had tripped a fantasy of love from his imagination.

  But I could never have loved a man such as he. Not because he was low born. Because he was a coward.

  The nobility Smeaton had hoped for had never come to him. Nobility, as he had never understood, is not something born of blood, titles, or wealth. It is defined by one’s actions. Smeaton would get the death of a nobleman this day, but he would never be noble. The meanest peasant in the backstreets of London who offers a crust of bread to a starving dog had more nobility than him. Coward souls are not welcomed by God.

  I watched them walk through the crowds, watched them put on a cart to be taken to Tower Hill. Thousands had gathered to watch them die; a national pastime, an entertainment… Such was our grief, such were our deaths… an hour’s diversion for the low of this land, and the high.

  How small and meaningless life becomes when others sport with it.

  There were swarms of people on that hill. Thousands had come to watch the high brought low and rejoice in the spectacle of death. My hand still at the window, I felt panic rise in me as it must have in the men climbing the platform on Tower Hill, trying to keep their dignity as they walked towards Death.

  I wanted to scream to them to run… run far away. But no sound came. There was nowhere to run. There was no one to help us.

  I watched George as he climbed the steps to the platform amidst the roaring of the crowds. It had been built high, so none would miss a single moment. He stepped forward, and started to speak. I was too far away to hear him, but the crowds listened closely. There was a dull hush in the air. Tears rolled down my face and a noise, not quite a scream, not quite a whisper, escaped my throat as I watched his distant figure kneel before the executioner and bow his head in prayer. He lowered his head, and held out his hands.

  Then there was the flash of the axe in the sun’s light. Then there was blood.

  George’s body fell sideways. The roar of the crowd signalled that my brother’s light had been extinguished.

  My throat cried out again, the hollow, raw, dark noise of sorrow.

  They pulled his body, heavy with death, rudely from the platform and another figure stood.

  Norris… my sweet friend.

  I thought of all the looks and glances between us. I thought of him telling me that he loved me. Did he regret those feelings as he went to his death? I hoped he did not, for I clung to them. I grasped them with the slippery ends of my fingers, and hugged them to my heart. This day, Henry would take the lives of those I had loved, and tomorrow he would take my head, but my heart was his no more.

  It was in Norris’ keeping, and he would hold it safe, even in death.

  He knelt, his head in George’s blood. He mumbled prayers, but none were needed. The Lord of Heaven knew what a fine man would come to Him that day. The axe flashed. The blood came.

  Henry Norris, this man of goodness and grace, was lost to the world.

  Weston came next. The platform was red, shining, sticky and slippery with blood. He was too young to die, if one can ever be too old… Is there ever a time when death is welcome? Even in old bones we strive to exist.

  His head took some time to chop from his body. Perhaps the handle of the axe had grown slippery with blood, or the executioner was tired from killing George and Norris. Poor Weston… his was not a clean death.

  Then there was Brereton, such an old rogue. His face was pale but he stood true and still as he faced the crowds. His head came off clean.

  Then Smeaton stood. His blood would finally mix with those he had envied. In death, finally Smeaton was where he had always desired to be; in the company of great men.

  His lips muttered as he died. I hoped he prayed for forgiveness.

  I slid to the floor, weak and overwhelmed. Tears would not come. I sat upon the dusty floor and stared at my hands, listening to the roaring of the crowds.

  Mistress Coffin, Cromwell’s beast, came to me. For a moment I thought she sought to comfort me, as her arm reached around the back of my slim shoulders, but instead she leaned close. “Master Wyatt watched this also,” she whispered.

  I raised my head slowly. I saw a gleam of excitement in her pale eyes. Suddenly I felt more tired than I had ever been before. Here, at the point where so much grief met with such destruction, here, this woman sought to trap me. To trick me into expressing something that might harm Tom.

  “Why do you say this to me?” I asked in a clear voice, anger flooding past the weary sorrow of my heart. “Do you seek rich pickings of flesh to take to your master, the wolf?”

  I stood up and faced her, my lip curled in derision. “I have watched friends and kin die innocent this day; great men, greater than you or your master could ever hope to know or understand. Soon I shall be held in the mighty and gentle hand of God with them, for He knows the truth that you all seek to ignore. Take those words to your master, leech, and seek not to spill the blood of more innocents.”

  I walked to the door, turned and pointed at her. Her crafty face stalled as my eyes, always my greatest weapons, glinted. “God watches all you do,” I said, “and He will reward or punish all you have done in this life.” I lowered my hand. “I will pray for you,” I said and turned to leave.

  “Pray for yourself, my lady,” she said.

  I looked at her and smiled. “Although I am closer to death, you are more in need of prayer than I.” I turned to be taken back to my apartments.

  There I sat on a window seat and watched the bodies brought back and buried in the churchyard behind the Chapel of St Peter’s on the Tower green. As I watched their lifeless bodies, wrapped in cloth stained with blood, being immured in the ground, I began to laugh. Not from any humour within my heart, but from desperation, fear, from the terror of what awaited me.

  “Soon I shall be Queen Anne sans-tete.... the Lady Anne lack-head,” I said. “I shall be the first Queen to rule without her head… perhaps that will serve me better, for trying to rule with a head did me no good.”

  I laughed wildly, my fine eyes afire with desperation and fear, cheeks flushed with unusual colour. My laughter bounced and echoed around the rooms. They stared, wondering if I had finally lost my senses, and I laughed louder still to see their fearful expressions, to watch them shrink from my glorious eyes, wicked and sparkling w
ith hysteria and terror.

  They are afraid I shall curse them, perhaps, I thought. As though I had access to those types of powers! As though I had access to any of even my earthly powers here. Who is there that I can charm here? Who is there that I can dance for, or sing for… for my life?

  My laughter faltered, and I returned to stare from the window.

  Rain splattered the window that afternoon. As I watched the grey skies, a leaf was flung by the winds against the window. Desiccated and broken, its fresh green was fading, but not gone. Against the window it moved in the wind, slipping on the diamond pane. Up and down it shifted, crooked like a bent finger beckoning me unto death.

  New ghosts walked amongst the old in the Tower compound that night. I saw them, flitting in the darkness, pale light against the shadows. They were all there, waiting for me to join them. I stared out, at the platform on which I was to die, and I felt panic rising in me once more.