Giving life or death, the King of England cannot change that.
All that remains is to lead his body by the hand, as one might lead a blind man, to cross a road.
“And now I pray and entreat you all that you will join with me in prayer to that great God of heaven, whom I have most grievously offended while I lived. For I am a man who is full of vanity and I have lived a sinful life in such callings as have been most inducing to it. For I have been a soldier, a sailor, and a courtier, and these are courses of wickedness and vice. And the temptations of the least of these are able to overthrow a good mind and a good man.
“I ask you to join with me in prayer that God, who alone is the author of all mercy and forgiveness, will forgive me, and that he will receive me into everlasting life.
“And so I take my leave of you, making my peace with God.”
With a slow deliberate gesture he removes his hat and bows his head. Light breeze ruffles his hair.
The sheriff moves forward to make the proclamation that all men should now leave the scaffold, as is the custom. But as he does so Ralegh, still bowed in prayer, gives him the hat he holds. The sheriff looks at the hat, glances at the line of great men, their heads bowed, and lowers his head also.
Upon that cue, all in the crowd bow their heads. And some few kneel.
A dog barks. A baby cries. From Thames the thunder of cannon and the hives of bells becoming louder.
“Amen,” says Walter Ralegh.
Then moves to the edge of the scaffold to bid farewell to the lords and gentlemen.
“I have a long journey to go,” he tells them. “Therefore I must take my leave.”
One by one, they file down the steps to stand at the foot looking up at him.
Turns and, taking a black purse from beneath his gown, gives money to the sheriff. Who is awkwardly holding the hat behind his back.
Mr. Gregory Brandon steps close.
“Permit me to assist you with your clothing.”
Like a servant, the executioner assists him as he removes the gown.
A little gasp from some in the crowd who remember the sudden scarlet shirt of Essex. But Walter Ralegh, ever exact, is dressed for mourning in black and gray. Except, as some can see and others will see, his black velvet slippers are brightened with red rosettes. As if with two tiny drops of blood.
Off comes the white ruff band and the doublet.
“Take these,” he tells Mr. Brandon. “And have my purse. It is thin enough, but perhaps it may serve you.”
“I thank you.”
Brandon folds doublet and ruff neatly, giving them and the purse to his son. The gown he folds and places near the red leather bag. He will wrap the gown around the bag before he gives it to Lady Ralegh’s messenger.
And now he picks up the heading ax and takes a wide-footed stance by the block.
“A moment, Mr. Brandon, if you please. May I see the ax?”
Brandon blinks, surprised. Does not move.
“I prithee, let me see it. Do you think I am afraid of it?”
Brandon does not offer him the ax, but he does release it as Ralegh takes it from his hands.
Hefts it with a tight smile. Turns toward where the sheriff stands, face like a flounder, close to Dr. Tounson.
Tounson, spectacled, bent close to his Bible, reading.
“The Lord is my shepherd and therefore can I lack nothing. He shall feed me in a green pasture.…”
Ralegh, facing the sheriff, runs his thumb along the edge of the ax.
“Mr. Sheriff, this is sharp medicine. But it is a sound cure for all diseases.”
The sheriff’s face seems to melt like a plate of butter left too close to fire. He looks away.
Ralegh turns again to Gregory Brandon and returns the ax to him. Sees that Brandon has removed his own cloak to spread it out for Ralegh to lie upon.
“Mr. Brandon, after I put my head upon your block, I should like one moment of prayer. When I am done, I shall stretch forth my hands and you may strike.”
A swift look around. The old stone buildings, surf of faces all around, the dark-boned, wind-plucked trees. And sees the black carriage waiting.
The sky grayer, the sunlight fading behind high clouds. And high, blank scraps of paper (all our speeches, all our words), a few gulls circle and soar.
Brandon kneels before him. Ralegh lays both hands on his shoulders and, nodding, whispers his pardon and forgiveness.
Bells are pealing in Westminster. From the landing and the arched gate a roll of drums. Trumpets sounding.
Brandon rising. Ralegh kneeling down, stiff-jointed.
Commotion of cries and voices nearby the scaffold. The sheriff mumbling something.
Ralegh looking up into Brandon’s eyes, questioning.
Brandon bending beside him, placing one hand, calm heavy hand, light on Ralegh’s shoulder, whispering in his ear.
“It is customary, sir, to lie down with the head facing east toward the rising sun.”
Ralegh shaking his head.
“So long as the heart is right, it is no matter which way the head lies.”
“But you will see the shadow of the ax and flinch.”
“Do you think if I fear not the ax itself, I shall be frightened by a shadow? No, Mr. Brandon, I shall not flinch.”
Brandon, still bending, spreading and smoothing his cloak for Ralegh to lie upon.
Ralegh easing forward on the cloak, lying full length, lowering his head, resting his neck on the cool, smooth, waxed hardwood of the curved block. Seeing, before he closes his eyes, the towering shadow of a man with an ax, the shadow of himself, his head and breeze-ruffled hair, a stain against the raw timber. Closing his eyes.
Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for thou art with me …
Hearing Brandon’s breathing, steady, louder than all drums and bells and trumpets at the landing.
… thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.…
Sudden then stretching forth arms full length. Rings on his fingers flashing with light.
Nothing.
Thou preparest a table before me …
Nothing.
Sweat in his eyes.
… in the presence of mine enemies …
Calling out to the huge shadow. A voice accustomed to the habit of command.
“What doest thou fear? Strike, man, strike!”
The ax is bright in dwindling sunlight. Flashes high before it falls.
Higher by far a lone gull banks and circles on the darkening air. Then flies away to vanish over the Thames.
Death of the Fox: a novel about Ralegh Page 61