She groaned, then the pain of her abuse melted at the sight of him. “My love.” James was relieved that the demon had left her. “Where are we?” she asked.
“The Tower…I have demanded Queen’s audience, by right of birth. We shall be summoned on the morrow.”
James advised Alice to say nothing unless addressed by the Queen. His stepfather had served the Tudors well over years. Now at last he would receive the justice that he deserved.
They slept denied the comfort of an embrace. In the morning, a ewer and basin were brought to them so that they could to bathe their hands and faces. Then Alice and James, their hands chained, were led to a large hall full of courtiers and men-at-arms. At the end of the hall was a raised dais supporting a richly-carved throne. A small and slight woman, looking older than her thirty-eight years, with wan solemn features and piercing blue eyes, sat stiffly upon it, regally dressed but unattractive: Queen Mary, daughter of Henry VIII by his first wife, Catherine of Aragon.
Alice heard a bailiff intone “Bring forth the prisoner!” James was led forward, while Alice remained. Three guards stood beside her, halberds a thrust away if she were to give trouble. They intended to take no chances with the possessed. Alice watched as James arrived at the foot of the dais and bowed low to the Queen.
“Last I saw you, James De Fries, you were but eight years old,” Queen Mary remarked in a voice unexpectedly deep and gruff. “A wide-eyed boy on his first visit to court, clinging to his mother’s hand.”
“I am flattered that you remember, Your Majesty,” replied James summoning as much humility as he could muster as a bulwark against the Queen’s reputed short temper.
“I was fond of your mother, God rest her soul, so it pains me to see you here, accused of treason and the consort of a proven witch.”
“She is no witch, Majesty. I am no traitor.” James chose his words carefully. “I rose against corruption, not the Crown.”
“Your uncle claims otherwise.” Her tone had soured.
“He claims my lands as well, bequeathed to me alone by my stepfather.”
“You should have settled with him, divided the estate. He has much influence at court.”
“None has such influence as you, Majesty.” James meant to acknowledge her omnipotence, yet the Queen read it as flattery, which she always enjoyed but by which she was never swayed.
“True. A fine silver tongue in that handsome head,” she said tartly.
“You have no more loyal servant than I…” said James then wondered if this were a misstep. Had he invited a test?
“So say all around me,” the Queen replied.
Yes, flatterers all, thought James, pigs jostling for position at the trough of plenty. How he despised them, yet now he had sounded the same.
Queen Mary addressed the bailiff: “The girl.” The bailiff signaled the guards to lead Alice forward. This was not what James wanted to happen.
“We will make a test of your loyalty,” pronounced the Queen. “Witch or not, this village girl, child of a common headsman, is unworthy of a man of noble birth.” James’ heart sank, but he knew he dare not show it.
Alice arrived, buoyed by the summons. James’ suit must have found the Queen’s favor. She dropped to her knees in obeisance. Queen Mary noted her beauty, but not with approval. James saw in the Queen’s face envy tinged with bitterness. The trap was closing around them.
“Give her up, and I will look favorably upon your case,” said the Queen with a light smile. Though pain knotted her stomach at the thought, Alice would accept the sacrifice, if it restored her James to his rightful station. She prayed he would not contest the Queen’s wishes.
James understood that if the only way he could save Alice‘s life was by sacrificing their life together, he would do it. “Your Majesty, your will is my command.”
Queen Mary continued: “Give her up to face the penalty prescribed by law, and I will dismiss all charges against you and restore your lands.”
James could forswear the woman he adored in order to save her. This was different. A chill pervaded his being. Consign an innocent who loved him to a terrible fate, then be rewarded with all that he had been fighting for. Such calculated cruelty. To make him complicit in her death...
In fact, cruelty was not the Queen’s purpose that day, though it was often required of a ruler. Cruel though it might seem, witches had to suffer a foretaste of eternal hellfire in public so as to warn and to save the people, lest their baser instincts drive them away from God. The duty of the Monarch was to protect Holy Mother Church and the sanctity of Her teachings. The decisions of royalty reflected God’s purpose and were not to be questioned, whatever their consequence. In childhood, Mary had memorized the New Testament. The Bible was explicit on this point. Romans 13, verses 1 and 2: Non est enim potestas nisi a Deo quae autem sunt a Deo ordinatae sunt itaque qui resisit potestati Dei ordinationi resistit. “For there is no power save from God; those powers that exist are ordained by God; and so, whosoever rebels against power rebels against the mandate of God.” Such was the authority of Kings. And Queens.
Yet her own right to rule was being questioned. When her late father King Henry, having succumbed to lust, had broken with Rome, he had compromised the divine mandate that maintained the power of the dynasty. He had broken faith with God. Although she had loved him, Mary was certain that his foul-smelling ulcerous death was a foretaste of the sulfurs of Hell. Misfortune and rebellion had followed his demise. The souls of her subjects were in peril. God would continue to punish England if she were to fail to return the English Church securely to Rome. Heaven wept over its heresy; crops rotted in the fields, causing famine and unrest.
So the Queen had many other pressing issues to manage today, and competing factions at Court through which to manage them. She needed the cooperation of the Inquisitor Córdoba. That was essential. The girl must die. Córdoba had made that clear. She needed Sir Giles De Fries to continue ruthlessly to stamp out rebellion in the southern counties, and attempt to discover whether her half-sister Elizabeth had been involved in Wyatt’s conspiracy. The continued loyalty of Córdoba and De Fries was paramount, of greater import than the life of a peasant girl and the alleged theft of inheritance, of which crime Sir Giles was no doubt guilty. The blood feud within the De Fries clan must end. She had told Sir Giles in a private audience that after the girl was burned, she would rescind her promise to restore James’ lands, and would instead replace them with lands of greater value in the North, near the Scottish border. Thus the two men would be kept apart while familial wounds healed. Besides, she needed strong commanders to keep the Scots at bay. She looked at young impetuous James De Fries. He would soon forget the girl. There were peasant trollops aplenty, where he was going, if that was his taste. And given his reputation, he would establish firm bonds with the local population, and do all in his power to protect them. Which would serve her purpose against the borderers.
James sank to his knees beside Alice. He would beg if he must. “She has done no wrong, Majesty.”
“She is a peasant...guilty of witchcraft,” the Queen explained, as if speaking to a child. “Do this as a token of your loyalty to me.”
Alice addressed the Queen uninvited. “I am no witch but I accept my fate.”
“I do not,” James said hastily, hoping to nullify her offer. “Our fates are bound together.”
The Queen was shocked, not by the peasant girl’s lapse of decorum. She had expected a wailing plea for her life. Or more mad ravings, the like of which had been described to her. The mad were sometimes entertaining to watch, like cats with bells tied to their tails. So she did not expect this self-sacrifice, spoken with quiet, almost serene, resignation. This was not how Satan’s vessels comported themselves. There was more to this than met the eye. But larger issues vital to the Crown were at stake. Witch or no, the girl must burn.
Alice heard James a
nd was distraught. “No need for us both to die.” Alice loved James for his nobility of spirit. Yet she wished he would shed it now. “Do as her Majesty asks…”
James was gripped by a quiet anger. “It is a vile bargain. I will not.”
The Queen did not appreciate his scorn: “So much for loyalty to the Crown.”
Alice dissolved into silent tears. As the headsman’s daughter, she had seen the apparatus of power at work. For the poor folk dragged under its grinding stone, there was no mercy. She knew that she was doomed. Must James be as well?
James had hoped that an honest examination of his suit would be sufficient to exonerate him. As for Alice, she was no witch. Mayhap a trifle touched from the beating she had received. But she was her true self now. James knew that he had one remaining option. “Majesty,” he announced so the whole court would hear, “I demand the right to trial by combat against my accuser.”
The Queen stared at him. This a development she had neither expected nor desired. Yet she could not deny James’ customary right before the court. The outcome was no longer predictable. That occurred to Alice, too. Perhaps they were not doomed after all. The Queen bowed to the inevitable.
“And trial by combat you shall have.” She turned to the bailiff. “Summon Sir Giles De Fries.”
CHAPTER 34
Sword and Buckler
The doors opened and Sir Giles De Fries, who had been waiting in an adjacent chamber, appeared. He bowed low to the Queen then strode across the flagstones to arrive at a respectful distance to her left. He bowed again. The Queen nodded. Then Sir Giles turned to give James and Alice an elaborate mocking bow.
“Greetings, nephew. And outlaw. And plaything of the Devil’s whore. Your new titles become you. I accept your challenge. My choice of weapons will be sword and buckler.”
James was surprised by his uncle’s enthusiasm for a death match against a man his junior by a score of years. His thoughts turned to the moral dilemma he would face in their conflict. While his uncle had no compunction about killing him, could he kill his stepfather’s brother? James had wished for revenge many times. Now the moment had come. He had appetite for victory more than murder. As guards removed his chains, James resolved to leave his uncle wounded, not dead. He glanced at Alice, as they led her from the center of the room. This was the girl for whom he would die, if it were God’s will. But his cause was just. And God favored the just.
Sir Giles turned to the Queen. “Your Majesty, may I present Cedric of Winchester, my champion.” A muscular giant of a man stepped out of the crowd and bowed to the Queen. Sir Giles had anticipated his nephew’s predilection for heroics. There was no way young James would accept the Queen’s proposal. So Sir Giles had borrowed one of Córdoba’s personal guard, a champion swordsman in England and Spain.
The Queen noted Sir Giles’ foresight. Alice saw that James would be fighting one of the men who had tried to violate her. But she wanted no revenge that risked James’ life. James himself was outraged.
“Champion?” James shouted for the whole court to hear. “God’s Blood, fight me yourself, coward!” The supercilious grin on his uncle’s face infuriated him more. Now he really did want to kill the spineless cur. There were many in the hall who privately agreed with James, but they raised not a murmur. Sir Giles did indeed have much influence at court. The courtiers understood that they would be witnesses to the judicial murder of an innocent man. But to survive in politics, honor must sometimes be bent.
“It is my right to appoint a champion,” snapped Sir Giles, “It is yours also. Summon your champion.”
“I fight my own battles,” James replied with contempt. He turned to the Queen. “Majesty, I declare Alice Craddock of Farnham to be my betrothed. If...when I prevail, and receive the pardon the law dictates, that pardon shall extend to all members of my family.”
The court was hushed. Alice looked at James. She had never loved him more. Queen Mary’s jaw tightened. She looked across the hall at Alice, her face sorrowful, but glowing with pride. There was a purity about the girl, a commodity so rare that young James was prepared to die for it. The Queen sighed. In a court packed with dissemblers and wastrels, it was a shame to lose a capable young man. He deserved hope at least, in his final moments. She would give him that much.
“If God decides that your cause is just and gives you the victory, then pardon is hers also.” However, she saw little contest between this young nobleman and Cedric, battle-hardened mercenary for the Hapsburgs and champion for hire, so her ruling was immaterial.
The Queen arose, and turned to a senior advisor, the Duke of Norfolk, who was hoping that this task would not be assigned to him. “Norfolk, see that the contest is fairly conducted, and advise me of the outcome.”
“As you command, Majesty,” Norfolk responded.
The assemblage bowed as the Queen left the hall, followed by her ladies-in-waiting. She was not pleased by these developments. But it was a busy day. There were other matters to address.
Norfolk ordered the two combatants to prepare. An oval was cleared in the center of the hall. Alice, her hands still manacled in front of her, quickly stepped forward, and before her guards caught up, reached edge of the circle of spectators close to the Duke. Alice would rather witness than listen, whatever the outcome. Norfolk saw the defiant pride in her face. He saw no trace of the raving spitfire about whom he had been told. Unfortunate child. He nodded his assent. Two guards flanked her while another stood behind.
Stewards brought forward two dueling swords, their blades three feet in length, with quillions at the hilt curving back towards the pommel to protect the fingers. James had trained with a similar weapon at school in Paris, and had fought friendly bouts for wager. But he had never used a weapon in earnest until confronted by the assassins his uncle sent, who drew daggers against him on three sides. He had proved to be more accomplished with the dagger than they. Accompanying each sword was the buckler, a round shield, steel-rimmed and studded, a mere twelve inches in diameter. Held by a leather strap, it was used to both to ward off blows and to deliver them at close range. James and Cedric took their weapons, and were allowed time at separate ends of the hall to stretch their limbs in swings and lunges. After a brief interlude, Norfolk ordered them forward to the center of the wide ring of spectators.
“Are the combatants ready?” asked Norfolk.
“Aye,” both men replied. The hall fell silent.
“To first blood?” asked Norfolk, trying to steer the combat against a mortal outcome.
“To the death,” said Cedric immediately. Cold. Expressionless.
“To the death,” echoed James, unsurprised.
“To the death, then,” said Norfolk, with discernible regret.
Each raised his sword in salute to Norfolk, then to his opponent. James made the Sign of the Cross, then kissed the base of the blade at the hilt, before sweeping the weapon in a low arc across the floor. I raise my blade to God to give me victory, said James to himself, and I point to the ground where I will put you. But James knew that he had a serious task ahead of him. Cedric of Winchester was a professional, powerfully built and a half-foot taller than he.
“En garde,” the Duke of Norfolk announced. Each assumed the position. “Allez.”
The swordsmen started warily circling each other, watched by all, but by none more intently than Alice. A steward brought Sir Giles his requested goblet of wine. He hated to admit to himself that his nerves needed steadying. The combat was a foregone conclusion. Or was it? In the past few weeks fate had reversed a number of his assumptions. He had underestimated the inner strength of the Princess Elizabeth. His manipulations had secured for him her undying hostility, rather than the renunciation of any claim to the throne. His failure legally to eliminate the Princess from succession as promised would anger Phillip of Spain, who had already paid him a substantial advance in gold coin. There was a limit to how
long he could prevent the audience with the Queen that Elizabeth had now demanded. That issue would come to a point soon. There would be fancy footwork ahead.
Footwork indeed underpinned a swordsman’s victory. Agility of the feet was more important than strength of arm. Balance and maintaining correct distance were key. As James and Cedric circled, each gauged the other’s stability and reach. Cedric made a sudden step forward to assess the reflexes of his opponent, who jumped back, lurching slightly before straightening into guard position again. Typical, thought, Cedric. These young nobles who fancy themselves with the sword do not take the time to develop the automatic stability that was a standard discipline of his own generation. They were seduced by the new gadfly style of fighting made popular by Portuguese fencing masters. This would be short work.
Alice’s heart raced as Cedric launched a series of feint attacks, before thrusting high to James’ shoulder. But James did not hop back as expected. His feet remained locked firmly in place. He parried the blade, stepped forward, and thrust to the belly. Only Cedric’s speedy counter parry prevented a serious wound. As it was, the tip of James’ blade, parried downwards, nicked Cedric’s thigh. Cedric sprang back. A flea bite, but an indication that his opponent was a better swordsman than he had at first pretended to be.
A running battle then ranged back and forth across the oval. Alice had seen her brothers compete in the quarterstaff championships each year at harvest time, but she had never seen a duel with swords before. Thrust, parry, riposte, disengage, circlage, coupe...James and Cedric unleashed every maneuver and deception, causing gashes, blows from shield and elbow, building to a furious interchange of clashing Toledo steel. Both men paused, breathing hard, bleeding from superficial wounds. Alice was breathless too. She hated to see the tiny trickles of blood that streaked James’ arms and torso. Cedric and James stared at each other. Men of the sword have respect for one another’s art regardless of allegiance.
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