Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; your input is always gratefully received. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of these characters, and certainly not the TV Show.
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Chapter Twenty-Five: The White Tower.
Edward Bocking's cell was buried deep beneath the earth; in the bowels of the Tower itself. From his dark, dank confines he could hear the screams coming from the rack morning, noon and night. He could hear the living flesh being singed, eviscerated, dissected; piece by piece. The sounds and the smells were a special kind of torture unto themselves. But that Cromwell had been a smart man. He knew that it would be enough to make him sing like a canary when his time came. Bocking prayed for forgiveness for his weakness in breaking long before so much as a heated metal tong had been waved in front of his face.
But then, three months after his arrest, Cromwell returned. He had with him the Archbishop, Thomas Cranmer, who looked fit to vomit at any second in his new surroundings. Maybe it was for that reason that Cromwell was the one who did the talking.
"You've been found guilty of High Treason, spreading sedition, and endangering the life of Her Majesty the Queen, and the unlawful killing of her unborn child," he read out the convictions from a scroll of parchment. "You will be taken from this place in two days time, and dragged on a hurdle to Tyburn. You will have your bowels cut out, your privy parts cut off and burned before you. Your body divided into four quarters, and your head struck from your body. The head and quarters to be displayed at sundry places according to the King's pleasure."
Upon hearing his sentence read out, Bocking suddenly lurched forwards and vomited violently. Cromwell had to take a swift leap backwards to keep his shoes clean. But for Cranmer, it seemed to be the final straw. He pressed a scented handkerchief to his nose, and rushed from the room gulping for air. Even Cromwell blenched at the mess seeping into the already filthy rushes on the floor.
"However," Cromwell stated once he recovered himself, "should you agree to certain conditions, then that sentence will be commuted down to beheading by axe."
"Anything," spluttered Bocking. "Anything at all!"
Cromwell smiled. "Good man," he replied. "The master butcher will be on hand, though. Just in case you get any funny ideas about last minute acts of disobedience. Sir William Kingston will be in in a moment to tell you all you need to know about it. Anything you need before you go out, ask him."
As simple as that, Bocking's life had been signed away. He was persona non gratis. Elizabeth, his lover, he knew would not be far behind him. After all he had done to remain invisible during their campaign, he should have known it would come to this. All he could do was use what time he had left to pray. He didn't care about those conditions, either. God couldn't make him immune to pain and humiliation.
Not long after his attainder passed through Parliament, Arthur – as was his routine – waited by the door of his cell, ready for his hour of exercise out in the garden. He had finished his supper, and the night was drawing in. The sky grew steadily dark; the moon reached its zenith, and he gave up waiting and climbed into his bed. As he drifted into an uneasy sleep, he tried to think back over everything he'd done since arriving at the Tower, to see if there was some transgression that he was possibly being punished for? Because the loss of even small privileges in a prison seemed magnified to disastrous proportions. It was one less thing for him to look forward to.
Not long after he'd fallen asleep, however, he was shaken awake by Sir William Kingston.
"Your Grace," he said in a loud whisper. "Gather your belongings; you're being moved."
Arthur rubbed the sleep from his eyes; confused. "What?" he croaked in a voice thick with disrupted rest. "Now? Why?"
It was obvious that Kingston had also been awoken for the task, "King's orders," he said. "You're to be moved out of the way."
"Am I to be taken out in the morning?" he asked; meaning, was he going to be executed in the morning.
Kingston paused as he packed up some of Arthur's belongings. A hesitation that Arthur did not altogether like. "I don't think so, no," he replied at length. "We must hurry, Your Grace."
The urgency in the Lieutenant's voice compelled Arthur to simply do as he was told. He got up and hastily dressed before following Kingston outside with his belongs bagged. Luckily, he travelled light when he came, so there wasn't much. Wherever it was he was led to, in the labyrinthine fortress, it was old, dusty, and abandoned long ago. Arthur felt dismay, more than anything. It seemed Henry was going to execute him in silence, on the sly, where few would notice his leaving the world.
They had given him all the assurances that they could, but still Henry was troubled. He had gone over it and over it, he knew every detail, every part of it, but still he spent the night on his knees in prayer and contemplation of what he was about to do to his brother. God, however, remained silent on the issue of Arthur Tudor. God was sending a clear signal that Henry was on his own.
Now, all he was left with was the paper work; all warrants of execution had to been signed. Lady Jane Seymour had been stripped of her title of "Lady" and banished to a Convent for the rest of her natural life. Ursula Pole, the same, and mostly out of respect for the lifelong service of her mother, Lady Salisbury; who had been broken by her daughter's treason. Henry could see the ripples spreading out on the surface of a once placid lake. The consequences just kept on widening.
There was nothing he could do, or was indeed willing to do, for the Exeters. He signed their death warrants without a seconds thought. Tomorrow. That was the date. It was also the date on Arthur's death warrant. The same for the silly Barton girl. There was another document that needed signing, but Henry wanted to get the next day successfully consigned to history before turning his attention to that.
He took a deep, steadying breath, and allowed himself ten minutes away from the warrants. Looking up, he saw a sight he thought that he would never live to see. Anne and Catherine sitting in the same room, drinking small ale and chatting lightly to one another. They were subdued, naturally. Everyone was tense, and their nerves were stretched as taut as bowstrings. Nevertheless, Henry rose from his seat to go and join them.
"Cate," he said, still not out of the habit of calling her by his favourite pet-name for her. "I just want you to know that Arthur's goods have passed to you now. You're the Duchess in your own right, and all his lands, titles, and possessions are yours."
Catherine managed to raise a wan smile. "Thank you, Henry," she replied quietly. "We will have to leave The More, so I am selling it. With your permission, I should like to use Ludlow for the next year. We will be gone by the time your Prince arrives." Next to her, Anne smiled, running a hand over her belly, where just the slightest swelling was now visible.
Henry nodded. "Whatever pleases you, Cate," he replied. "Tomorrow …" he trailed off, skirting around the subject of the execution. "I should like to be there. Not on Tower Hill, of course, but up in the Tower that over-looks it. I need to be sure that everything is done properly, otherwise I will not have a moments peace again."
Anne covered his hand with hers. "I understand, my love," she said. "Do what you must."
Henry replied with a kiss on her cheek. "You stay here, though," he instructed her. "But I need you to send your most trusted Lady down to represent you. I am sending Charles Brandon down to represent me. Maybe your sister could do it?"
Mary wouldn't like it, he thought, but she was stronger than she let on. All of the witnesses for the execution had been hand picked. They were their most trusted, faithful servants and kinsmen. Charles Brandon, Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Boleyn, George Boleyn, Thomas Cromwell, Thomas Cranmer, and Henry Norris. Public access was to be severely restricted, as befitting a private execution. The Mayor of London would be present, but shunted to the back of the crowd. The Guildsmen, Liverymen, and a handful of apprentices from the city trades. They had to be extremely careful about who they picked. So, Anne agreed to send Mary along, too. They were all people they trusted to take the darkest of secrets to their graves if they asked them too.
"I will be there, too," said Catherine, placing her glass back on the table. "But I want to see him before though. Tonight."
Henry took a sharp breath. "I have something for him," he remembered suddenly. "I had my Physicians prepare a concoction of Valerian. If he knows about tomorrow's executions, he will be beside himself with fear and …" he broke off, struggling to articulate his own thoughts and feelings. "I want him to have a peaceful night."
Catherine rose to her feet. Their meeting had been concluded over an hour ago, and the day was ending. She took the Valerian from Henry's trembling hands. "Thank you," she said. "I will see you tomorrow, and everything will work out for the best." She meant it, as well. She would be on her knees in prayer all night to make it happen.
The old White Tower; built by the one they called "The Conqueror" almost five hundred years before, was looking and sounding its age. In the moonlit galleries dust clung to the fine, inter-lacing network of cobwebs that shrouded the high windows; the smallest of sounds rose high and reverberated through the still, musty air. The great Norman Keep was a vision of grandeur gone to seed, a pageant of ghosts where great celebrations once lifted the mile-high roof beams. Catherine looked around at it all in wonder. One day, she thought, even the splendour of the Tudors would end up like this - decaying halls and cobwebbed glory, with some new breed of person standing in Henry's fine palaces, looking at the ruins and shaking their head in sadness for a by-gone age.
Meanwhile, Sir William Kingston was fussing with a set of keys. There was never much call for him to enter that part of the Tower, so finding the right key was a tricky business. No one used it any more, and they hadn't for over a century. That was why it was perfect for their requirements. Eventually, Kingston found the right key. It slid into the lock, and the bolt slid back with a loud screech of protest that set Catherine's teeth on edge.
"Sorry about that, Your Grace," he said, bowing as she passed through the now open door of Arthur's new cell. "All the keys look the same."
"Thank you, Sir William," she replied. "I shall only keep you here for an hour - no more."
Kingston smiled. "Take your time, Madam. I am happy to wait."
Catherine walked into the unfamiliar rooms, clutching her flask to her chest as though it were a new born babe. It was filled with Arthur's favourite light ale, with the Valerian that Henry's physicians had concocted mixed in. If Arthur had got wind of tomorrow's executions, he would be needing it to sleep that night. She found herself in a small outer-gallery that led into a larger, and thankfully brighter, chamber – lit by a large candelabra suspended from the high, vaulted ceiling. Arthur was sitting with his back to her, hunched over a piece of paper with a quill in his hand.
"Husband," she spoke softly, not wanting to intrude on his private world. "It's me."
Arthur turned sharply to face her. "Cate!" he gasped. Then he was on his feet and in her arms. She had to place the flask down on a nearby table to return his embrace. "I was so afraid that you would not come."
He knew. "Why?" she asked, feigning ignorance.
Arthur let her go, and looked her in the eye. "Haven't they told you?" he asked. "It's tomorrow, Cate. I'll be put to the axe in the morning. That's why they have moved me here. So I cannot see the others going before me."
Catherine shook her head. "No, you have it wrong; I am sure-"
He pressed a finger to her lips to silence her. "I appreciate what you're trying to do," he said. "But do not coddle me. Tomorrow, I will die, and I am at peace with it."
Catherine couldn't think what to say. So she kissed him deeply, and caressed his face. He had shaved, just like she asked him to. "I have brought you something," she said, reaching for the flask. "Get a glass."
He looked at the flask, and smiled. "You're so good to me," he replied as he fetched a goblet. "I only have one, though. You use it, and I'll drink from the bottle."
"No," said Catherine. "It's for you." If she drank it, she'd be out cold too. "I want you to have it."
Arthur looked as though he was going to protest further, but then seemed to decide that it was only wasting what little time they had left. He thanked her again as he offered her a seat at the table.
"Promise me you'll stay away tomorrow," he said, pouring out the ale. "If you're there, I will lose my resolve. I know I will."
Hearing him talk like that was making her nervous, fretful. "Please, Arthur," she said, but then her words failed her. She didn't have the vocabulary to express what she was thinking. "You are strong."
She watched as he drank the ale, but it would take time for the Valerian to take effect. "Here," she said. "Let me top that up for you." He needed it all. She would tip it down his throat if she had to; every last drop of it.
He laughed as she almost over flowed the goblet. "That's enough, Cate," he said. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"
She raised a nervous smile. "Of course not," she said. "I just want you to … relax."
He gulped down a mouthful or two to siphon off the over-spill, and it finally took effect. He was relaxing. He sat down on the bed, luckily for her. His shoulders sagged, and his breathing was evening out as he grew sleepier. Catherine breathed a sigh of relief, but she was struggling to act naturally around him.
"I loved you always," he told her, knocking back more of the ale. "You know that, don't you?"
Catherine moved so that she was kneeling at his feet. "Here," she said, "let me take your boots off."
She was trembling so much that she struggled with the buckles and laces, but she got there in the end, pulling them off one at a time. By the time she had finished that, his eyelids were closing, he was getting weaker but struggling to remain awake. "What was in that?" he asked, nodding to the ale.
Her heartbeat hammered; guilt swelled in her. "Nothing, Arthur," she insisted a little too firmly. She took the goblet from his hands and poured the rest of the ale into it. "Here, quickly, drink it all."
The look he gave her as she raised the goblet to his lips crushed her. He turned his eyes to hers, large and doleful, expressing more than any words could. Obediently, he swallowed the potion, taking what he clearly thought was poison. Tears welled in her own eyes, leaking over her cheeks. "It's for your own good," she whispered. "Drink it. It's only a sedative."
He offered no resistance, and by the time the cup was drained, he grew heavy and limp in her arms. His eyes were closed, and he was in a deep sleep in her arms. She lay him down gently on the bed after managing to pull back the covers. She wrestled his breeches off, leaving him in just his cambric shirt. Once he was in place, and comfortable looking, she tucked the blankets around his chin. Once he was in, and slipping deeper into what she knew would be a blank, dreamless sleep, she sat with him. She smoothed back his hair, smothered the small patch of exposed cheek with kisses, and measured the rise and fall of his chest. He was oblivious, and that was all that mattered.
The morning of the executions dawned grey and dismal. Henry sent up a silent prayer of thanks, for it would keep the morbidly curious commoners away from the Tower gates. Over on Tower Green the Exeters had already been put to death and the cannons fired their ear-splitting death knoll across the whole of the city. Henry looked down at the official list in his hands. Henry Courtenay first, followed by his wife, and the last name on the list: Arthur Tudor. His mouth ran dry as he turned to look out of the window.
This was a different scaffold to the others. Tower Hill was reserved for private executions, and this one needed privacy like no other. At his side, Catherine shivered in the breeze from the open window.
"Why don't you sit down," he said, worried for her.
None of them had slept a wink. They had passed the hours of darkness in prayer and silent contemplation, just waiting for this moment to come.
Catherine shook her head. "Look down there," she said. "Everyone is in place already, what is the hold up?"
She was right. They were looking from a window on the second floor, and could clearly see that their carefully selected witnesses were already in place. The headsman was by the block, obscuring his axe beneath the straw. The Chaplain, for this occasion it was Thomas Cranmer, was in place, Bible in hand. He even had the prayers already marked out. Charles Brandon had draped his fur lined cloak over Mary Boleyn's narrow, trembling shoulders. Wiltshire and Rochford were seating by the back rail of the scaffold itself.
Finally, Sir William Kingston appeared followed by a small knot of armed Halberdiers, the blades of their weapons pointing towards another man at the heart of their formation. They were all getting soaked in the fine drizzle that seeped from the over-cast sky. Unconsciously, Henry reached for Catherine's hand, and squeezed it tight.
"Not long now," he whispered. "Stay strong."
Down on the scaffold he looked wretched as the Halberdiers parted, leaving him alone at the edge of the platform. Catherine stepped up closer to the open window, to hear what he said. To her surprise, he didn't say anything beside: "God save the King." Then Cranmer recited his prayers as the the prisoner knelt at the block. The headsman picked up his axe, shook off the straw and aligned the stroke with a well practised expertise. It was over in seconds. Both Henry and Catherine flinched and recoiled as the axe hit home. Then, it was over. They turned from the window, and listened.
"Thus die all England's enemies."
The headsman's voice was distant. Henry and Catherine looked at each other; pale and shaken. Henry gathered himself enough to speak first.
"I don't think anybody noticed," he said. "They would have raised an objection if they had noticed."
It was only the noblemen: Brandon, Norfolk, and the Boleyns who knew that the man executed on Tower Hill was really Edward Bocking. Cromwell knew, as well – it was his idea. So did Cranmer. William Kingston, and some of his most trusted servants had played their part, too. But all the others were in ignorance. None of them had met Arthur, and nor had they met Bocking. They would never know the difference. But it was their testament that would spread the word of Arthur's death, and throwing him the lifeline he needed to melt away into a private life, and never be bothered by the plots of others again.
Catherine smiled, visibly giddy with relief. "I think we got away with it," she said. "He will be safe now everyone thinks he's dead again."
It had been touch and go. So many what ifs? All it would have taken was for one person to spot the simple subterfuge, and their whole plot to save Arthur by faking his death would have been ruined. Henry leaned forwards to close the window, taking a long look at the broken body of Edward Bocking on the scaffold.
"Everyone's leaving," he remarked with a glance at the vanishing crowds of Guildsmen. The biggest risk was the Mayor, he'd met Arthur at Anne's coronation. So, they made sure he was well back from the scaffold and barely able to see a thing. "If they suspected anything I am sure they would have raised an objection there and then."
Catherine placed her hand on his arm. "Henry," she said, looking at him directly. "You have done all you can, now. We need to concentrate on how we're going to keep this secret covered."
It was so secretive, that they couldn't even risk telling Arthur himself until after they had successfully completed the deception. The guilt, the strain, it took on the few who were involved was terrible. Henry planted a chaste kiss on Catherine's cheek. "There will be a way," he assured her. "There's always a way."