Tudor Pavanne: Trial
"John!" Belle sobbed as she fell into his arms, ignoring the guards. Those arms closed around her tightly, his voice as rough as his whiskers as he whispered her name in her ear, "Hannah."
The last three days had been sheer psychological torture. Back in the carriage, John had coldly demanded to see a warrant for their arrest, and the Sergeant had obliged, handing him the short document. It was valid, with Henry's signature and seal, but devoid of any details.
The Sergeant then ordered them out of the coach again, standing back at least to allow them to climb down of their own power rather than being dragged out, and they were surrounded by soldiers and marched into the ominous White Tower of London, then separated and locked into different chambers – on different floors, even.
Then, nothing.
No visitors, no information, no clothing, no food beyond the proverbial bread and water, for three long days. Belle didn't even know what was happening to John. At least nobody was questioning her – or physically torturing her, either. She appeared to have been forgotten. All her pleas for information from the guards who brought the food twice a day, or for word of her husband, or to take a message to him – all were in vain.
Regardless of the stories of comforts which had been – or would be – allowed certain high-profile Tower prisoners over the centuries, Belle's chamber, at least, was most definitely a jail cell. Only five paces across, all it contained was a hard, thin pallet on the stone floor, a thin, moth-eaten blanket, a rickety chair, and a bucket in the corner for her "convenience". "Well," she sighed ironically, "at least they left me a pot to piss in," before all humor fled and left her alone in her misery. After that, all she could do was pace, and think. And try not to cry. How had they found out? What were they going to do? To her? To John? To the baby?
The one concession she was granted, after much humble begging, was a grudging bucket of water to wash in and try to make herself presentable each morning. She was glad she had done so, when, just as she was finishing up on the fourth morning, the door opened again unexpectedly, her usual guard standing in the door and beckoning her out.
"Let's go, my Lady. It's time for your trial."
"And my husband?" she asked breathlessly, not taking a step, but he shrugged his ignorance.
She gave a tiny sob of fear and frustration, then steeled her trembling legs as best she could, holding her head high and pacing sedately out the door. He led her down the stairs to the entrance, two other guards falling into step behind her – and then she saw John waiting below, surrounded by other guards, and she ran to him.
He was as disheveled as she was – apparently his board had been as rough as hers. They hadn't even given him a razor to shave with, though his whiskers were damp as if just washed, and his hair obviously finger-combed, like hers, and they both wore the same now-filthy clothes they had arrived in. None of that mattered as she pressed her cheek to his.
"Are you all right?" he went on.
She started to give a pat reassuring answer, then stopped and leaned back to peer in his face. "Define 'all right'," she said sardonically.
His eyebrows flared, and then he nodded, matching her expression. "Good point."
The guards interrupted their reunion, then, the squad leader saying they had to go. The couple dropped their mutual hug, but then John formally offered his arm to Belle again, and she laid her hand atop his with a small curtsey, and they turned together to walk out the front door as if going to a ball rather than a trial for their lives. The guards hurriedly formed around them, and they marched across the yard to the Chapel of St Peter Ad Vincula in the corner of the great walls.
"Have you learned aught?" John asked in a voice too low to carry.
"No," she quavered.
"Neither have I." He sighed, then straightened once again. "But have no fear, I beg you, Madame. Whatever this base calumny someone has spread against us, we will soon root it out, and set some heads to knocking in the bargain."
She glanced sideways at his proud profile, knowing him too well to be fooled by his brave, overly-flowery, defiant speech; he was desperately worried. And afraid.
Which was nothing compared to her terror and heartbreak. She'd had no time to confess her deeds privately to him, and now never would. He'd find out how she'd betrayed him publicly, along with the rest of the court. All she could do was try her best not to let her sins spill over onto his innocent head. If it took confessing all, she would beg the court for the mercy to spare his life.
They entered the chapel, then, to find it had been transformed into a courtroom. The first several rows of chairs had been cleared away to create a large open space, a few of them removed to one side, where a handful of noblemen were silently sitting and watching them approach – apparently their jury. Opposite them was a long table with a single man behind it – judge or prosecutor, she wasn't sure which. Belle didn't recognize him – or any of the jury – but his robes marked him as the new Archbishop of Canterbury. Only a bare handful of spectators were scattered in the remaining rows behind them; their trial must not have been announced publicly.
But most important, inexorably drawing their attention, were King Henry and Queen Catherine themselves, seated on a pair of thrones set on a temporary platform raised just in front of the altar itself. Henry's face was carved from stone, his eyes staring at John alone with the iciest stare Belle had ever seen on another human. Catherine, her face pale, stared down at the floor by her feet and did not move; Belle couldn't see her eyes.
The accused were stopped in the center of the open space, in the crossfire of every pair of eyes, no chairs for their ease. The guards halted, their leader saluting the King, then with a crisp command they whirled a smart about-face and marched back out of the chapel, their job done. Somehow managing to look as if they had practiced it every night, John and Belle simultaneously sank into a ceremonious bow and curtsey before the monarchs, held the pose a beat, then rose again to hold their heads high, looking straight ahead at a point between the royal couple's knees. Belle kept her hold on John's arm as if it was her lifeline. Complete silence reigned for a long, long moment – and then Henry glanced briefly to his right and nodded at the Archbishop.
"John Wolfram, Viscount Pendleton," the man began, his voice a shade too sharp to be a drone, "you have been brought here to answer to the charge of treason. What is your response?"
John blinked, as if expecting more. "Response to what? Your Grace, My Lords, I have heard no specifics. What crimes, precisely, are we being charged with?" His tone was bewildered.
The Archbishop's voice sharpened – apparently he was the prosecutor here, Belle decided. "Do you deny that you have been conspiring with Thomas Boleyn to undermine His Most Gracious Majesty's authority and government?"
"What?" John spluttered, utterly flummoxed. "Of course I deny it – on all our accounts! Sir Thomas would do nothing of the sort, nor would I help any such endeavor by any means! We are the most loyal of subjects to your Graces!" Belle noticed that he directed most of each of his speeches directly to Henry, who simply sat motionless and stared flatly back, with as much emotion as the stone gargoyles on the roof. But why is he concentrating on John? Have they decided that it was his idea?
"Have you not been in constant contact with Boleyn and his other conspirators?"
"I have long been in correspondence with a number of men, in many circles – but there is no conspiracy for any purpose that I am aware of!"
"So you continue to deny your guilt, in planning the undermining of His Majesty with Boleyn?"
John was getting irritated (to put it mildly) at the continued innuendo. "Absolutely! If you have any evidence against Sir Thomas, why is HE not here? Why are you questioning ME? In fact, I demand – " A flash from Henry's eyes showed he had gone too far, and he stopped himself, swallowed, and continued in a more reasonable voice. "I humbly request that Sir Thomas be found and brought here to answer these charges, as well."
A murmur from the jury met that request, but Belle couldn't figure out the cause. The Archbishop allowed himself a tight, satisfied smile before replying laconically, "That would be difficult, as he is already dead."
"Dead?" gasped both John and Belle together.
"The traitor Boleyn was arrested some four weeks ago on these charges, confessed his guilt under torture, was convicted of treason, and was executed for his crimes." The Archbishop would have seemed much more saintlike had he been able to keep the note of satisfaction from his voice during that pronouncement.
"Executed..." John was shaken to the core.
"And his family?" Belle blurted out, and instantly regretted it, as everyone's attention shifted immediately to herself.
The Archbishop paused significantly. "And why would you have such concern for the traitor's family, My Lady?"
The cold band of fear around her chest tightened even further – here was quicksand, but she had no idea of its shape or form.
"Because they were a lovely family – we had dinner with them." She tried to keep the quiver out of her voice – not entirely successfully. "And quite innocent of whatever their husband and father was accused of."
"Quite..." His voice seemed to linger insinuatingly on the word. "His wife and daughters have been sent to a nunnery. The boy was adopted by a cousin." The information came flatly; obviously he had no further interest in them.
A sudden vision of the bright, vivacious little girls, Anne and Mary, locked away into a suffocating religious life came unbidden to Belle's mind, but she ruthlessly quashed it, trying desperately to concentrate on her own predicament. The entire scene was beginning to feel unreal, with the concentration on Sir Thomas – what had he to do with her and the Prince? She didn't dare begin to hope that she was undiscovered after all.
"I still don't understand." John had found his voice again. "What does any of that have to do with us? What exactly was he convicted of doing, or planning to do, and why do you believe we had anything to do with it? Because I knew the man, was friends with him? Everyone knows everyone in this society."
"But not to the same degree. You have admitted to being in correspondence with Boleyn. Indeed, we have several of your letters to him – letters in which you discuss a great many things, and even include warnings of danger. What danger was that, My Lord?" Nobody was fooled by the innocence of the question.
John swallowed, glancing at the stony King. His attention had been snared by the Archbishop, and he'd been speaking directly to him the past few exchanges. Now he deliberately turned to address his liege again. "I was worried, Your Grace, that his actions might begin to have the appearance – the false appearance, that he no longer had Your Grace's best interests closest and dearest to his heart, as I know without a doubt that he always did. I was cautioning him to have a care that his actions spoke always truly of his intentions, and could not be misread by idle, suspicious minds." His voice was firm again, but Belle felt him trembling through her hand still laying formally on his arm. His private words to her of a few weeks before came unbidden to her mind: "He's playing a dangerous game, and making even more enemies. He needs to have care, that he doesn't overreach himself." Apparently, Sir Thomas had paid no attention to John's warnings, and had done himself in after all.
Still, the King was silent, still as moss. The Archbishop spoke again, boring in. "And you still deny that you were in league with Boleyn, deep in a plot to discredit our beloved King and overthrow our beloved Queen, supplanting her with another?"
Utter silence reigned in the chapel, as everyone held their breath, staring at John to see his reaction.
Which was to splutter, utterly flabbergasted. "What?" He gave his head a shake as if to clear his ears. "That... is … preposterous!" He swung back again to stare at Henry, outraged. "Your Grace! Forgive me, but you cannot possibly seriously entertain such a ridiculous charge, based on a wild supposition without a shred of evidence!"
"But we do have evidence, My Lord." Both Belle and John snapped their eyes back to the Archbishop at this silky pronouncement. "Very kindly provided to us... by your Lady Wife."
John's head whipped around, and he stared at Belle, shock and bewilderment etched deeply into his face. She shook her head at him, mutely, mirroring the same genuine emotions. What in the name of all the saints could he possibly be talking about?
As they both turned back to their prosecutor, he nonchalantly raised a hand and beckoned to someone in the tiny audience behind them. A figure rose from his seat and brushed close by the couple, trailing the faint scent of incense and oranges, bowed deeply to their majesties, then turned to face Belle and John directly.
Fray Diego.
Catherine's confessor was holding a small, cloth-wrapped bundle, which he shifted to one hand, then slowly folded back the corners of cloth, his icy black eyes never leaving Belle's face. She didn't meet those eyes, staring frozen at his hands, somehow knowing an instant before it happened what would be revealed.
Carefully nestled within the pristine white cloth were a dozen or so scraps of paper, burned around the edges, the remainder darkened by heat and smoke. She could make out on each a few lines of tiny, perfectly uniform print – far smaller and more advanced than anything the printing presses of the day could manage. All that remained of the damning book she'd smuggled back from the future, which she'd tossed into the fire in the palace kitchen all those months before.