I Am Stretched on Your Grave
Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing. I am also not a singer, I Am Stretched on Your Grave, is performed by Kate Rusby on her album Hourglass.
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell
Summary: 470 Years ago, July 28th, Thomas Cromwell was put to death at leisure of the King.
There is nothing I can write that is a fitting tribute to the man, but I tried.
The sky and land blended together into one shade of fearsome, hopeless grey. The old churchyard was deserted, unkempt since the monastery had been dissolved years before. Thomas Cromwell had personally seen that this monstrous monastery was brought down. He stared into the darkened windows, eyes with a black soul on display, battered oaken door the gapping mouth of hell. The wicked house of worship with its bastard bishops had given him the gift of enlightenment at a far greater price.
Alexandria Grace had been a beautiful child, his little cherub. And then the sickness. Every spare cent he and Elizabeth had went to the church, hoping that the priests would intervene on their behalf and Dria would be saved but instead the holy men took their money and in the end God took his Dria, five years hardly a life. The apple of his eye food for worms under a fruit tree. The apple tree stood forlorn in a far corner of the yard. Cromwell turned the collar of his coat up and moved between the abandoned markers. She would be a woman now, both of his daughters would be.
Margaret Anne had died in her cradle. Not even a year old, as if she should have never lived in the first place. That was when Elizabeth knew. Knew the Papacy was a lie, that the truth faith was not in Rome but in one's self as preached in Germany.
Unfortunately she did not live to see the Glory of God come to be properly celebrated in the Reformation. She carried a torch for the True Religion and now that she was gone he carried a torch for her.
Elizabeth Matilda Ruth Wyckes Cromwell: Beloved. Her marker was as fair as she had been, shaded from the elements by the low branches of the apple tree, alongside her children in Heavenly peace.
At her feet he stood mind lost in the haze of memory.
I am stretched on your grave
and will lie there forever
if your hands were in mine
I'd be sure we'd not sever
my apple tree my brightness
it's time we were together
for I smell of the earth
and am worn by the weather
He lay across her grave, fresh turned soil filling his senses, opening a void in his heart. The sun beat down, the snow drifted, wind wailed, and the rain roared. He lay there through it all, unable to move, the darkness of his hair and his funeral garb blending into the grave making him one with soil. He was in the ground one with her once again. Cromwell watched himself fade into the field. All was dark, dark as Niflheim.
When my family thinks
that I'm safe in my bed
from night until morning
I am stretched at your head
calling out to the air
with tears hot and wild
my grief for the girl
that I loved as a child
Cromwell looked away, the sound of a soul breaking taking his attention. It was coming from her headstone. He was on his knees, leaning on the carved stone, the only thing supporting his weight, weak with pain and loss. His face was thrown back to the stars, calling out to the air, to God, to all with the ache in his heart. Tears fell like rain form his eyes, they fell undisturbed to the ground, from them Asphodel flowers blossomed. His hands full of earth beat against his chest.
"Why? Why? Why?" he cried, the church bells began to toll.
"Thomas…" her voice floated to him like a nightingale on the wind. Thomas looked up from his writhing pain. She came on a pale horse; her cambric shirt had no seam but a pocket full of poesies, parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. A ring of roses in her hair.
"Elizabeth." He breathed. She dismounted the fair steed and passed through him going and gathering him in her arms. Soothing his wild wails with soft words, a kiss a balm for his aching heart.
"Do you remember," she asked softly, breath no more than a breeze.
Do you remember
the night we were lost
in the shade of the blackthorn
and the chill of the frost
thanks be to Jesus
we did what was right
and your maiden head still
is your pillar of light
"Thomas, Thomas I am sorry." Cardinal Wolsey was at his side, eyes hollow and grave, Rosary around his wrist, head bowed. "She is gone." He whispered. "We tried to perform the extreme unction but she passed before she could partake of the viaticum." The elder churchman touched his shoulder. He was cold.
Many feet sounded as voices raised in requiem. Coming towards him on the shoulders of friars was her coffin. Her coffin. She lay on he back within the box, face relaxed in a deep, final sleep, pale hands crossed over the breast of her flame red dress – the request she had made with the last of her strength.
"Do not bury me in a black dress." she had said. And then with her last breath, "I love you." Her voice was on the wind, I still love you. He loved her, and seeing her committed to the earth chilled him. Never would he be warm again.
The priests and the friars.
Approach me in dread
because I still love you
my love and you're dead
I still would be your shelter
through rain and through storm
and with you in your cold grave
I cannot sleep warm
"Thomas." A soft voice and even softer touch turned his attention from her grave where he was stretched, their fingers twined. Elizabeth's blue eyes glittered with the life she no longer had, a long black veil blowing in the wind. She kissed his lips gently, tasting of dust and ash. She extended her hand to him, wedding band shining on the fair tapers. He looked at the gesture, knowing what it meant, and yet he felt no fear.
"Thomas," she said, "It is time." He took her hand.
so I'm stretched on your grave
and will lie there forever
if you hands were in mine
I'd be sure we'd not sever
my apple tree my brightness
it's time we were together
for I smell of the earth
and am worn by the weather.
Thomas Cromwell awoke, the church bells chimed. July 28th, 1540.