Tudor Pavanne: Waiting for the End

Standing next to John after Henry had shown his true motivation, Belle felt all the life seep out of her husband. She didn't have to turn to see the light die in his eyes. This wasn't about the switched babies – unknown, and apparently forever so – or about any wild conspiracy of treason. It was about John's sexual orientation, and the King's disgust at it, and his willingness to throw away a loyal, lifelong friend because of it. And there was no fighting it. If John continued to protest, Henry would make it all public, and his life would likely be forfeit, anyway. If the church didn't burn him at the stake, he'd be hounded to his death by the homophobic people of Tudor England.

Her eyes slid to one side, unexpectedly catching Catherine's upon her, peeking up from under her brows. Belle's face twisted, pleading silently with her friend, and her heart leapt to her throat when Catherine suddenly sat up a little straighter, and drew breath to speak – but then, just as quickly, the Queen winced, hard, and collapsed in upon herself again, her head falling forward to hide her face.

Belle was startled – and then she saw Henry's white-knuckled hand clutching his wife's arm above her elbow, and understood. Catherine was under her husband's thumb; always was, and always would be. A true sixteenth-century woman.

Henry was staring at Belle, now, just as icily as he had been gazing at John till this point. Belle looked straight back into his eyes, as she had the very first day, but this time, no tiny knowing smile played at her lips. She stood with her chin high, as proud and royal as Catherine should have been, unbowed, unbroken.

But ultimately helpless. Henry merely looked away, dismissing her utterly. She swallowed hard, the truth that she had never meant a thing to him crashing down on her at once. He was just a client, after all, who had cast her aside without a thought, as they all did. She had no more claim to his consideration than the dog that usually lolled at his feet – less, in fact.

King Henry looked towards the jury and nodded. Numbly, Belle heard one of them stand and pronounce their judgment: guilty of treason. At Henry's subsequent nod, the Archbishop sonorously proclaimed, "The punishment for treason is death. As His Grace desires that nothing interfere with the joyous celebration of Holy Pentecost this Sunday, your executions will be held on Monday next. Guards!"

Before the soldiers could enter to claim their prisoners, however, John finally stirred, raising his head and opening his eyes again. "My.. my lords..." he began, but only the hoarsest whisper emerged. He cleared his throat and tried again, forcing himself to speak louder. "My lords. May the condemned make a last request?"

"What is it?" asked the Archbishop flatly, giving no hope.

"My lords..." John was still staring at the floor, unable to look at Henry again, turning his head slightly to address the jury. "My lords, I beg you. I throw myself upon your mercy – not for myself, but for my wife. She is innocent of these misdeeds. The fault is mine alone. Have mercy on her, and spare her life. She is but a woman, after all, easily led astray – "

"John! No! Stop it!" Belle tugged sharply on his arm, stopping his pleas, pulling him around to peer into his face. "Don't dishonor me like that. I am as guilty as you."

At last, he looked up into her eyes, and the raw pain within his almost made her cry out. "You value your honor more than your life, Madame?"

"Is my honor – or my life – worth less than yours, because I am a woman? Is that what you think of me, still, after all this time?"

His mouth twisted. "No," he whispered brokenly.

Belle turned back towards the jury herself then. "But I have a request of my own, my lords." She hurried on, not waiting for permission to speak it. "If I am to die, I wish it to be by my husband's side, and wearing the clothes and the jewelry I wore when I first arrived. I want nothing from any of you. Nothing from this place. Let me go to my death as I was then." No one objected immediately, so she went on. "They're rolled up in the bottom of my trunk – the one I was bringing with me to London. Dark blue."

Still none of them signaled any assent, but she'd done what she could. Then the guards were there, and she and John were forced to turn and walk with them out of the Chapel into the sunlight. John was moving mechanically, stumbling at every other step, his face as pale as the death he knew was coming. She clutched his arm and tried to help him across the yard, but at the door of the White Tower they were separated again, against all her protests, and she was shoved back into the same chamber she'd left just an hour – and a lifetime – before, all alone.

^..^

Later, she realized ruefully that she wasn't at all sure what day of the week it had been. She'd lost all track of time ever since the tragedy. She asked the guard who brought her evening hard bread and sour water, and he grunted, "Tuesday."

So. Six days to go.

She kept asking about her last request, until her guard became irritated, and she flew to humbly apologize, asking only that he inquire about it for her with his superiors.

At long, long last, three days later, the door opened again, and Belle was amazed to see two guards walk in with her entire trunk. The same man shrugged again, then turned and left without a word.

She flew to the trunk and threw open the lid, pulling out all her so-carefully packed gowns and throwing them on the filthy stone floor without a care. They didn't look as if they'd even been searched. I should have hidden a sword in here, I might have escaped after all, she thought ruefully, but then put it aside. At last – there was her costume, still rolled up right. With trembling hands, she brought it out and carefully unrolled it, glancing at the tiny barred window in the door to make sure she wasn't being watched.

The time jumper fell out into her lap and she snatched it up. Taking a huge gulp of breath, she closed her eyes prayerfully for a moment, then gingerly opened it up and touched Recall.

It was still glaringly, accusingly, blindingly, damningly white.

Crumpling over, she fell on her side in the dust and silently sobbed out the rest of her scant hope.

^..^

Hours later, she suddenly woke up in the darkness, a tiny sliver of light coming from the torch down the hall outside her door. She was still curled up in fetal position beside the open trunk, and she groaningly stretched her aching muscles – and suddenly realized her mind was clear. And very, very, grimly determined.

All right, Rose Hannah Tyler. Time to stop acting like a meek little wimpy housewife and take charge. They've knocked you down. So what? Time to get up again! The old Chumbawumba tune that always made her smile played through her mind, bringing her chin up and starting a fire in her belly. You're never gonna keep me down.

Although some real food would help. Come to think of it, that fire in her belly had more than a tinge of hunger to it. Oh, well. Can't be helped. And she put the thought aside and went to the water bucket, washed her face, then sat down on the chair and began to think.

She'd failed. She didn't know what she'd done wrong, or if it were only that it was going to take more time for the changes to be wrought, but she couldn't wait for that to happen. She stopped a moment, making herself recall all that Jared had told her about traveling with the jumper around the split, and what would happen in certain circumstances.

Apparently the moment of truth had not yet happened, because she was still here. However, if she tried to return to her own time again without the split having happened, she'd blink out, just as Saxon Rose's backpack had done. Nor could she count on any amount of life at all, frankly. She had to plan as though every move, every minute could be her last.

So. Her life was done – she accepted that without a quiver. But she was damned if she was going to sacrifice John. She'd gotten him into this mess, she wasn't going to abandon him to the executioner's axe.

She didn't know if her other request – that they be executed together – would be granted, but she had no choice but to take the delivery of her requested clothing as a hopeful sign. She would wait until the very last possible second, hoping she'd be able to reach him, to hold his hand long enough to punch a button.

And then what? She didn't dare attempt a time jump; the chances that she wouldn't make it and he'd be dumped without any warning in some foreign time were too high to risk, and without preparing him, he'd likely lose his mind and end up institutionalized.

But they could do a distance jump. Remembering more of Jared's tutelage, she smiled, leaned over and picked the jumper off the floor where it had fallen. He'd said that jumpers kept a log of their location in spacetime, periodically taking a reading and saving it. She found the log and scrolled back. There. That HAD to be Mauvais Loup.

OK. She'd preprogram the jumper for a distance jump back to their estate, and then they could make plans, even if they only had a few hours before Henry's troops showed up, seeking them in the most likely place.

John would never be able to resume his life. Viscount Pendleton was effectively already dead. But together, once she'd explained the situation – she felt sure that the initial demonstration of the jumper's power would be rather convincing (smiling wryly even as she thought it) – they could pick out a place, and perhaps a time, when he could blend in and begin a new life.

Without her. She didn't – couldn't – plan on even arriving there, let alone living for any length of time. The thought wrenched her heart, but she grimly squashed it again. She'd take the time at the estate to teach him all she knew about how to use the jumper, too, just in case. And then make the jump to wherever they picked as their – his – destination with it on his wrist, just in case. And if I don't even make it to the estate? Well. He'll just have to figure it out, and make his escape without me. There's only but so much I can do.

Pain stabbed at her again without warning, as the thought of leaving her wonderful new life behind – and her baby, safe and snug in Catherine's arms – crashed through her defenses. She sobbed once, gasping, and then determinedly put it from her mind, deliberately beginning to consider various destinations, beginning to prepare a range of choices to present to her future widower.