A/N: Welcome back! As always, thank you so much for your kind comments and reviews.
I think there is certainly an edge of anachronism with making Filipe a King Consort, rather than being granted the Crown Matrimonial through marriage . While Mary was, to some degree, the 'first' of England/Britain's Queens to rule while married – though Philip became jure uxoris (i.e. 'by right of his wife') King of England by marrying her; and, boy, were there issues with that!
I'd say that Victoria and Albert's situation was the first in Britain primarily because it was the first that was actually successful. Previous husbands of English Queens, Guilford Dudley and Henry Darnley, were both denied the Crown Matrimonial by their wives; and certainly Darnley's tantrums over it were well known – while Dudley just ignored it and pretended he was King.
Filipe is far enough down the succession of Portugal to be grateful just to find a good marriage – and he's been well guided by an Ambassador who is keen to see that he's happy. He loves Elizabeth, and a sympathetic Council will do what they can to make sure he has useful work to do. In some ways, I'm channelling a version of the co-rulership that occurred in Catholic realms of the time, but tweaking it to reflect that of later royal marriages in Britain. Politically anachronistic, yes; but no harm in wanting Elizabeth to be happy, I always say!
So – the so-called 'armada' has failed, and now certain people must face the consequences of their actions...
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Three Upon a Scaffold
Cromwell looks up from his papers to see that Rich is fidgeting again. He does not need to ask why; even if he did not know his friend so well, it could not be clearer that he is both eager to confront Norfolk, and nervous of doing so. It is understandable, perhaps; for all Thomas Howard's new powerlessness, he remains an intimidating figure who once planned to use the Lord Treasurer for his own ends, only to then dispatch him to a cruel death.
"Has he shown any inclination to recognise the jurisdiction of her Majesty's justice?" Rich asks, suddenly.
"As of the last letter I received from Sir William?" Cromwell answers, "No. He shall be delivered to the Tower by this evening, and I have no doubt that he shall refuse to accept any accommodation offered him on the grounds that his arrest is unlawful."
"Then put him in Little Ease." Rich snorts, "He shall soon accept the Queen's House in return for it."
Cromwell smiles, "Dream as you will, Richard. It shall be the Queen's House, regardless of his ingratitude for it. I imagine he shall expect to be permitted to lodge at his London house until he has petitioned her Majesty. That, however, shall not happen."
"It is a disappointment with which I am prepared to abide."
"Your generosity knows no bounds." Thomas observes, dryly. Returning to his papers he examines them with great care. That Tunstall and Boleyn have already spoken so freely has enabled him to build a solid case against them for high treason. The former Bishop was doing so in the hopes that he might be spared the scaffold; but Boleyn did so with a calm openness that spoke volumes to Cromwell of the former Earl's courage. He has sighed to himself many times since then. If only they could have won him for the Regent at the outset. It was his diligence and skill that enabled the plotters to reach the point that they did. It had taken years of hard work to build sufficient funds to afford it, and he had done so. What could he have achieved had he applied that work in the service of his daughter and her child?
He sighs again, and Rich looks up, "What is it?"
"It is such a waste." Cromwell admits, "For all his faults, Boleyn is hard working, intelligent and highly skilled in the arts of governance and diplomacy. If he had not turned from us, then I am quite convinced that Mary would never have come at us again. The former Duke of Suffolk did not share his brilliance, and thus would almost certainly have ended his days in exile reliant upon the charity of others."
"He was not banished from Court, Thomas." Rich reminds him, "Her Majesty the Regent sent him to evaluate the navy; it was, I'll warrant, a suspension from the Council while he undertook the task, but nonetheless, had he returned, he might have been rehabilitated. It was his choice to be impatient and look to another to grant back the offices that he had lost."
"Perhaps; but it is as well that he did so, for I suspect that, had he remained at Court and won higher offices than those held already, we would have faced dissension at the rise of a common family at Court."
Rich nods; it never serves a King to raise a single family too high, as the fourth Edward's children found to their cost. A council dominated by Boleyns would have been as despised as one dominated by Wydvilles.
One of the clerks approaches and hands Cromwell a small note. From the satisfied expression upon his face, Rich deduces its contents, "He is delivered to the Tower?"
"Delivered, and angry as we expected. Sir William has advised that he acts upon the orders of Her Majesty and cannot contradict them."
"When are we to examine him?"
"After I have advised their Majesties of his arrival, Richard." Cromwell cocks an eyebrow, "I think, however it might be wise to curb your eagerness to do so. I might be minded to leave you behind."
He chuckles at the look upon Rich's face as he rises to depart.
Anne is reading in her Privy Chamber when he arrives and requests an audience. Emerging, she beckons him to join her, Lady Wiltshire at her side as the inevitable chaperone. God above, even now, despite his creased face, and his hair more white than grey these days, she must guard herself against rumour.
"He is here?" She asks.
"Delivered to the tower by Sir William, Majesty." Cromwell acknowledges, "I am given to understand that he is most discomfited to find that he has not been permitted to lodge in his London home to await your pleasure."
Anne smiles, "Of course. He is the first Peer of the Realm; he would expect to be treated as such, even though his acts do not warrant it. I assume he expects to be permitted to make his representations directly to her Majesty?"
"That is likely."
"I wish that I could be present to witness his angry dismay at the discovery that he shall be obliged to speak to a Baron who is of low birth."
"And even more that the man whom he hopes to bring down with him was the man who brought him to this fate." Cromwell adds.
"In which case, I am content for you to take a delegation to the Tower to examine him. Sir William is already present, so he shall participate. I suspect that his Grace shall consider the rest of that delegation to be biased, particularly the Lord Treasurer."
Cromwell nods, "In which case, we shall depart as soon as we may, to save him the journey back to the palace. There is no need to fear the tide when one is not obliged to sail beneath London Bridge."
"That is an unusual reason for being pleased to be at Placentia, Mr Cromwell." Anne smiles and waves over one of her newer stewards, "James, please arrange for a barge to convey the Lord Chancellor and his entourage to the Tower."
Jane rises and curtseys, "If it please your Majesty, I shall advise my lord and Husband to prepare to depart."
Returning to the offices to collect Rich is a slower business than it once was, and Cromwell curses his ageing limbs. The journey shall take three hours at best, though at least he shall be free to sit within a sheltered cabin as they travel. The cold, however, serves only to worsen his discomfort, and he knows how stiff he shall be by the time they reach the Wharves.
They are, however, going - and that shall please Rich no end.
The room that they have set aside to question Norfolk is a well appointed chamber within the old palace of the Tower. In the face of victory, it seems churlish to demand an audience in a cell.
Rich is fidgeting again, an inevitable sign of his nervousness. For all his reduced circumstances, Norfolk remains an intimidating individual, and Cromwell does not blame his friend for his tension. They are all tense, after all. They have all of Norfolk's letters, and fair copies of those that Rich sent back to him, but even so Norfolk shall attempt to brazen his way out of the charges, and they must be prepared for that.
Cromwell gathers his fellow commissioners together, "Sir William, before we begin this interrogation, it is important that you are aware of the evidence against his Grace of Norfolk. Much of what we have is based upon correspondence between his Grace and the Lord Treasurer."
Stamford looks up, startled, "My Lord?" his eyes are immediately upon Rich, who reddens in spite of himself.
"I was approached by the late Imperial Ambassador some years ago, Sir William." He explains, "We felt it was an opportunity not to be missed if we were to remain aware of the activities of those who had attempted to remove her Majesty. After the Ambassador's death, I was then approached by his Grace in hopes of continuing what he thought to be a secure, surreptitious correspondence."
"We took great care to ensure that we did not encourage him to act, but instead granted information that assured him that it would be safe to do so." Cromwell adds, "It was important that he was not exhorted to remove the Queen, but instead advised that, should he plan to do it, his plans would be reasonably assured of success."
Stamford nods, "I see. And I am present as a neutral party, I take it?"
"Yes - for you were not at Court while these plots were fomenting, and thus you cannot be accused of complicity in all that has unfolded. His Grace shall fight against us with all the arguments at his command; and he shall insist, I have no doubt, that he has been falsely accused; that the letters we hold are forgeries, and that he has remained a private citizen from the moment he departed the Court."
"Which he has not." Rich adds, "And, should he attempt to deny it, we have not only the letters, but also the testimony of Thomas Boleyn."
They take their seats at the sound of approaching footsteps, and the door opens to reveal Norfolk, escorted by four guards, who glares at the men within with cold, angry eyes.
Cromwell rises, rather more stiffly than he would have liked, "Your Grace. Please be seated."
"I prefer to stand." Norfolk growls, "You have no right to interrogate me."
"I have the authority of her Majesty the Queen." Cromwell advises, blandly, "But no matter; if you prefer to stand, then that is your prerogative. I, however, shall sit."
Resuming his seat, Cromwell sets out the indictment, "Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, you are hereby formally charged with high treason against her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth of England, France and Ireland, through the fomentation of plots with the determined intent of removing her Majesty from her lawful throne in defiance of England's Law and God's will. Also you are charged with conspiring with the exiled Thomas Boleyn and Charles Brandon, former Earl of Wiltshire and Duke of Suffolk, to set an illegitimate pretender upon that same throne in place of England's lawful Sovereign Lady and Queen. What have you to say in answer to these charges?"
Norfolk ignores his comments, "There is a traitor beside you, Cromwell." He does not offer the Lord Chancellor the courtesy of his title.
Cromwell smiles, thinly, "There is but one traitor in this room, my Lord, I assure you; and he does not sit beside me."
Norfolk snorts, derisively, "Then you are a fool. If you think that I have acted alone, then I can equally assure you that I have not. Do you think to sit before me in judgement, Rich? Were I to speak of your letters to me, then I think that you would be standing where I stand."
Rich's expression changes from a scowl to a smirk, as he rests his hand upon a wallet before him, "You mean these letters, my Lord?" he asks, all innocence.
"Would you dare to show those to the Queen?"
"I do not need to. Her Majesty the Regent has read them all, and knew of them from the beginning. Indeed, all that I have done, I have done with her knowledge and agreement." Rich is clearly enjoying himself, as Norfolk's expression changes in the face of this discovery.
"How much money have you dispatched to the continent to pay for the Dowager Queen of Sweden's attempt to steal England's crown?" Cromwell asks, coldly, "We know that you have conspired with known traitors to bring England to ruin in an ill-governed quest to force Englishmen to bow to a foreign potentate."
"And Rich did not?" Norfolk demands, "He sat upon your council and informed upon your deliberations to those who looked to restore the right rule of the Realm!"
"Did you truly believe that England was unprepared for the Dowager's fleet? Or that her Majesty was unaware of the threat posed by the former Lady Mary? We knew all, and thus could make ready for her invasion. Even had the weather not struck against her ramshackle gathering of ships, we had a fleet of sufficient size to repel her. Had we not known of her plans, then perhaps matters might have been different."
"Instead, however," Rich resumes, "She has failed in her intent - and who shall permit her to come again?"
Perhaps he should not be looking quite as smug as he does; but he has not forgotten the fate that Norfolk planned for him, and is savouring the moment of minor revenge for such casual cruelty. For Norfolk, however, that smile is more than he is willing to endure, and he surges forward, leaning across the table to snatch at the smirking Baron's simarre with both hands, dragging him from his seat, "Damn you, Rich! Damn you! I should have had you slaughtered the instant I first wondered where my proclamation had gone!"
The guards hasten forward to separate the two, pulling Norfolk away, and allowing Rich to straighten his garments and resume his seat, though he looks rather shaken at being so assaulted, and is angered over it, "But you did not, my Lord. I overheard your casual decision to have me gutted like a hog for my pains, and thus I granted my loyalty elsewhere. It was not I who encouraged you to do what you did - you approached me. We allowed you to act; nothing more - and thus it is not you who watches me upon a scaffold. Instead it is I that shall watch you!"
The chamber is uncomfortably silent after the shouting, and Stamford is staring at his colleagues, shocked at the sudden outburst of violence, "I think, my Lords, that there is little more to be gained from this. We know that you have acted treacherously, my Lord of Norfolk - and you must answer for it. Thus you shall be tried by a jury of the nobility, and face the Queen's justice alongside those of your conspirators who have been captured."
His face darkened by a vicious scowl, Norfolk glares at them, "There is no jury that can try me - for there are no equals to me."
Cromwell's answer is delivered with another thin smile, "I think not, your Grace. From tomorrow, you shall have forfeited your noble title to her Majesty. Your trial shall be open and public - but it shall be as a common man. Tonight, her Majesty shall sign the Act of Parliament that removes you from the Peerage of England. Thus all who sit upon the jury shall be of the nobility, but you shall not. Your property is temporarily confiscated, until this matter is settled; whereupon it shall be restored to your son, whom we know to have been innocent of this conspiracy."
They watch as the guards escort Norfolk from the chamber. To his credit; in spite of all, he remains calm and collected. While he is unlikely to show contrition on the scaffold, neither shall he show misery or fear for his pride shall not permit it. Watching him, Cromwell wonders if he could have been so at ease had he been in that position.
"I shall set to work upon assembling the jury, Gentlemen." Stamford rises, gathering his papers and bowing, "I shall see you anon."
As Stamford departs, Cromwell turns to Rich, expecting to see him looking pleased at the outcome of his revelation to Norfolk; but instead he is surprised to see that his colleague seems quite despondent, "You have had your vengeance, Richard."
"I thought that I should feel satisfaction at his fury in his discovery." Rich admits, quietly, "But I do not."
"Why is that?" Cromwell can guess; but he does not wish to put thoughts in his friend's head.
"Did I lead him on, Thomas?" Rich asks, his expression shamed, "Would he have done what he did had I not been a part of his conspiracy? Had matters turned out differently, I could have brought England to ruin."
"Nay, Richard; I think that he would have done all that he did even had you not had his ear. His anger at the Queen would not have permitted him to work at our side; for he could not act as Lord Protector while a regent stood in his path."
"Once, when I was trusted by no man, I would have acted so without a second thought - and indeed I stood and perjured myself at More's trial. But now? Now, I am trusted and valued as a good Councillor; and to act as I did when Henry ruled brings me naught but shame. Even as I spoke the words to his face, I thought I should be delighted to watch him upon the scaffold in my place - but now I feel little more than a murderer."
"Such is the burden of our place, Richard." Cromwell sighs, "I think it best we return to Placentia; there is much to be done."
"I shall follow anon. Take the barge, I shall seek out a wherry."
How men change. Cromwell thinks to himself as he rises from his seat. Knowing that Rich wants to be alone awhile, he withdraws, leaving his colleague to his regretful contemplations in the dying light of the candles
The barge makes its slow way upriver from Placentia; though the passengers are not engaged in conversation. Jane Wiltshire sits quietly, reading a letter from William written in Latin with only a few errors. He is a bright young man, learning apace; but she wishes that he was not in the house of another family. Such is the requirement of convention, however; she can supervise the education of a daughter, but not a son.
Seated beside her, Wiltshire gazes out of the window, his expression pensive. Anne might have spent some time with their father, but he has felt uncomfortable at the prospect. Unlike his sister, he conspired with the elder Boleyn, only to turn his coat and abandon his father's cause. While he knows that he was right to do it, there still remains a sense of guilt at his lack of filial devotion.
Anne did not require him to participate in the trials of the three conspirators; completed only a day ago with all three men declared guilty. With the mountain of evidence against them, Boleyn declared himself guilty and asked the Court to accept his contrition, and his willingness to equally accept his just punishment as a traitor to the Realm. Tunstall had followed the former Earl's lead, though it had been clear to all present that his primary concern was an attempt to avoid the block rather than stand before it.
He sighs, capturing Jane's attention, and she turns to him, taking his hand, "Are you sure you wish to do this?"
"I must, my beloved." He says, "I cannot permit him to mount the scaffold without settling matters between us. Anne told me that he is proud of me; but I wish to hear it from his own mouth."
"Do you think that you failed him in some way?" Jane asks.
He closes his eyes, and nods, "I turned against him and sided with my sister in defiance of his authority over me as my father. Even though I know that I was right to do so, still I feel most remiss for my disloyalty to him."
"But he was disloyal to the Queen, George," she reminds him, "in turning from her, he became a traitor to the realm, and now he must pay the price of it. Had you done likewise, I should be facing life as a widow, and our dear William would not have been born. Instead, his Latin is improving most well, and you hold the Queen's personal seal. Had your father been less intent upon regaining that which was not his to own, then perhaps he, too, would hold an office of high state. You are not to blame for his impatient decision."
"I know." Wiltshire admits, "But nonetheless, I feel guilt."
His thoughts return to the trials. The news of Norfolk's furious refusal to accept the jury's right to try him came as no surprise to any - and he insisted that his actions were not those of a traitor, but instead a loyal Englishman who sought to restore the right rule of the Realm. Such brazen assertions - but the evidence in the letters he exchanged with the Lord High Treasurer, who was obliged to stand and give evidence in person, spoke otherwise, and the jury had no hesitation of declaring him guilty in the face of his open assertions that he would aid the Dowager Queen of Sweden in an invasion sponsored by Spain.
The warrants for their executions have been drawn up; but it is not Elizabeth who shall sign them. Such a momentous act shall remain in his sister's hands, along with the blame for it. In time, of course, the Queen shall be obliged to affix her name to a death warrant - but not today.
"She does not want to do it." Jane says, quietly, as though she has heard his thoughts, "To send her own father to the block shall stand against her, even though there is no questioning his guilt, for he proclaimed it before the jury without fear or hesitation. But she must sign the warrants, and bear the consequences thereof."
"We shall stand with her, then." Wiltshire says, "We shall aid her in carrying the burden."
They lapse back into silence, though he does not release her hand.
Their arrival at the Tower wharf is in the midst of a grey drizzle that further darkens Wiltshire's mood. A warder awaits them at the Byward Tower postern, and guides them through to the tower where the first Earl is confined, "The Constable advises that you may take as long as you wish, your Grace." He says, respectfully, as they mount the stairs, "When you are ready to depart, please strike the door."
"Do you want me to come with you?" Jane asks.
"You are the mother of his grandson, Jane." Wiltshire answers, "I think he would be pleased to see you, for you have succeeded in ensuring the continuance of our line."
Boleyn is seated at the table by the window again as they enter, and he turns, "George."
There is no hostility in his voice, only relief.
"Father."
Rising from his chair, he crosses to his son, "Come, it is warmer by the fire. There is much we must discuss; for I do not think I shall see many more days upon this earth, and it would not do for me to depart this life with matters as they are."
He seems so solicitous as to their comfort: guiding Jane to the chair beside the fireplace, bringing over the chair beside the table and indicating that Wiltshire be seated, "There is no need to say anything, George. It is I who owes contrition, not you. I can see from your face that you seek my forgiveness for an act that was wholly right. I allowed myself to be seduced by power and wealth - and my pride would not permit me to subject myself to the authority of a woman over whom I had no control. I wanted to regain that which had been taken from me, and thus allied with any who might secure it for me. Had I been more patient, then perhaps I might have won back Anne's trust - as you did."
"Maybe so, Father; but nonetheless, I am grieved that you are in such circumstances."
"Circumstances that I earned, my son. Had you done as I did, you would not be Lord Privy Seal, nor would you and your good wife have given me a grandson to carry on my name. In doing so, I know that my family name has not been destroyed by my foolish impatience; and thus I can go to God with contentment, secure in the knowledge that my children have prospered even in spite of my actions."
"Are you comfortable, sir?" Jane asks, "Is there anything that we can do to see to your welfare?"
For the first time since the day she married his son, Boleyn truly smiles at her, "You are a good woman, Jane. I was a fool not to see it. Thank you, but there is nothing that I need. Her Majesty has seen fit to ensure my comfort; I am granted books to read, and the Constable has permitted me to walk outside when the weather is fair."
Their conversation is wide ranging, lingering on memories of times past; times at Hever, and at Blickling when they were an aristocratic family headed by a talented diplomat of whom all spoke well. Jane speaks of William, and of his progress as a scholar, and more than two hours pass before the shadows emerging from the corners of the chamber rouse Boleyn from his reminiscences, and he sighs, "I think it is time."
His eyes anguished, Wiltshire rises, "I do not wish to leave, Father. Anne has no wish to condemn you; if we could save you, we would."
"I am well aware of that; your sister is a courageous woman, but also compassionate. Much as I should wish to live - for what man walks willingly towards death? I know that it cannot be done. Remind her that she must put England ahead of her personal wishes - and that I look upon her with pride. And also know that I look upon you with equal pride, for you have forged a prosperous career, and have granted me a grandson to keep my name alive." He embraces Wiltshire, grasping him tightly as his son equally grasps him. They shall not come again, and thus it is their last farewell.
Disengaging, Boleyn turns to Jane and likewise embraces her, "You have proved to be a fine wife for my son, and I am grateful that you have found joy in your marriage. Look after him."
"Most assuredly, sir. I love him dearly and shall willingly abide by the vows I made before God. We shall pray for you, and look to a time when all is mended and we are together in Heaven."
His expression reluctant, Wiltshire approaches the door and bashes it with his fist to summon the warder. They depart arm in arm, close together in shared sadness. Watching them from his window, Boleyn sighs, and returns to the table, where letters to his eldest daughter, and his granddaughter, await. They, too, must know of his contrition - and then he shall be glad to go to God, for all his accounts shall be settled.
Anne stares out of the window, her eyes upon a flawless blue sky dotted with gulls that whirl upon a cheerful breeze. She, however, is not cheerful.
Affixing her name to the three warrants still haunts her; Signed upon this third day of December, 1549…death by beheading…Tower Hill… all signed with the words that once she revelled in writing: Anne the Queen.
The Constable of the Tower advised that the three convicted men received the news very differently. Norfolk was furious and defiant; Tunstall with quivering tears, and her father with calm acceptance. She is grateful for his bravery. Even as she watches the gulls in the wind, the knowledge that she has sent her own kin to the block chills her to the core as though she were the very soul of that frigid breeze beyond.
Margery is nearby, supposedly embroidering beside the fire, but instead constantly looking towards her with concern, "Majesty, do you not wish to sit where it is warmer?"
She does not move, or speak. Below, she can see the Queen's privy stair, where the Lord Chancellor, Lord Treasurer and Sir William Stamford are boarding a barge that shall convey them to the Tower to join the other senior members of the Privy Council, all of whom shall be present to witness the deaths. They shall lodge there tonight, before making their way to the scaffold to stand upon it while the three men who conspired against their Queen meet their end upon the block.
It was always going to be the block, of course; the very idea of sending a man to die by hanging, drawing and quartering so appalling to her that she could not countenance it. Nonetheless, despite the legality of her act, she remains cold to the very centre of her being at the thought that, upon the morrow, three lives shall end - and it shall be done at her command. It had seemed so easy to sign away the life of the traitor Seymour; he had entered into the service of traitors and ridden at the forefront of the insurrection at Barnet. Perhaps much of it was based upon her hatred for the sister; but nonetheless she had calmly, almost indifferently, consigned him to God with the stroke of a pen. Much has happened since then, however. She is older, wiser, and years of ensuring her actions would not impact upon her daughter have left her careful to avoid setting precedents that would pain Elizabeth to perpetuate. The casual execution of Subjects would most assuredly be one such act.
So now she sits and ruminates upon her actions. Actions that she cannot undo; no matter how much she might wish to.
Below in the barge, unaware of that silent scrutiny, Cromwell seats himself awkwardly, for the cold is aggravating his hip, while Rich gazes out of the window at the filthy water and says nothing. Sir William takes his seat, and nods to the pilot that they can depart, "It is a cold day in more aspects than one, my Lords."
"Indeed so." Cromwell agrees, "We have been most fortunate in that so few have been sent to the block by royal command; His late Majesty seemed quite content to sign warrants for execution, even from the first days of his reign." He remembers that grim cavalcade; men cast aside and destroyed for - in some cases - mere trifles that could have been easily mended by other means. To this day, he still wonders if he might have been one of them had Henry lived.
They say little else for the rest of the journey. What, after all, is there to say? They could discuss the preparations for the coming Christmastide celebrations - but that seems utterly inappropriate in the circumstances; or perhaps lesser matters of governance that are ongoing. Instead, the grim task that they must perform upon the morrow hangs over them all like a shadow, and they sit in silence; the only sound the creaking and splashing of the oars.
The rooms that have been prepared for them are within the walls of the old palace: comfortable, if a little battered. As they alighted at the Tower wharf, they could all see the work being done at the height of the hill before them, a great platform, surrounded by railings and offering excellent views for all who would wish to watch; and now there is word from the warders that already people are gathering, hoping to have the best views by being placed at the front.
Warwick and Bedford are already present, though Wiltshire has sought - and received - consent not to attend. Cranmer is in the Church of St Peter, and shall join them anon when supper is served, though Cromwell is quite certain that victuals are unlikely to be consumed, for they certainly hold no appeal to him now.
"I should be pleased." Bedford sighs, "And yet, I am not. England is safe from invasion; but at the same time, I am hard put to believe that the Dowager's fleet could possibly have succeeded with so few ships and men. It feels almost as though we are kicking an already beaten dog."
Warwick nods, "Indeed; the letters from his Imperial Majesty disavowing the entire enterprise have been frequent and most fulsome in their excuses. That she left from Cadiz, and left with ships and captains, ensures that there must have been at least some support."
"Indulgence, I suspect." Cromwell answers, "His Imperial Majesty doubtless looked upon the Lady's arrival and demands with annoyance and even consternation, for she wished to overturn all that he has attempted to achieve by opening up hostilities with another nation when he is already heavily engaged against several others. It may be that he dispatched her to Cadiz merely to remove her from his presence."
"Should she return to Spain, then he shall not welcome her." Rich mutters, picking at a loose thread upon a nearby wall hanging, "Her failure has embarrassed him, and caused him to look disingenuous, for he claims to treat us upon peaceful terms while an invasion force is sent against us. She shall be fortunate to be permitted to enter the Alhambra - assuming, of course, that she ever arrives there." They have no idea if her ship is even afloat, much less where it might actually be.
Supper is, as Cromwell expected, of little appeal to the men who have gathered, and most consume only a few mouthfuls before individually withdrawing to their chambers. Only Rich remains as he sips at his claret, shredding a piece of bread.
"It is hard, is it not?" Cromwell murmurs.
"I have sent innocent men to the block with my lies, Thomas; and cared not one whit." Rich answers, miserably, "Now, I am responsible for three more men facing such an end; and, despite my knowledge that they are guilty and that I spoke no more than the truth, I am riven with guilt. I encouraged their enterprise, and told them that which they wished to hear. Had I not done so, then perhaps the fleet might never have put to sea at all."
"I think not, Richard." Cromwell reminds him, "Boleyn himself stated that Mary was adamant that she would sail, and he is certain that not even the knowledge of a superior force opposing her would have stayed her hand. Her actions were driven more by a determination to rescue England from eternal damnation than a desire to unseat a rival - from his testimony, it appears that she had abandoned reason in favour of a religious fervour that would have shocked even the most fanatical of catholics upon the continent. In her mind, she was doing God's will, and thus no degree of argument could have swayed her to think otherwise."
Rich sets the ruined slice down, "I am grateful now that her Majesty demanded I give the money to the poor. Were I to have kept it, then I think it should have weighed me down into darkness more heavily than the thirty pieces of silver."
Cromwell sets a hand upon his shoulder, "And thus you are a better man than once you were, for your remorse is proof of it. Tomorrow shall be hard, yes; but once it is done, we shall be free of the threat of Mary once and for all, and there shall be a wedding to celebrate for the true Queen of England."
When Cromwell opens his eyes, he is startled to have done so; for he did not expect to sleep at all. The room is dark, yes, but the Tower clock has just struck six, and even now the confessors shall be attending the prisoners who are to die this morning, even though they shall not emerge to face the block until nine.
Rising from his bed, he limps to the window and looks out to see a light dusting of early snow upon the cobbles of the Tower passageways. Reaching for a fur-trimmed robe, he wraps himself up in it and watches awhile as the flakes gently appear, and vanish, in the lights of the flambeaux that still flicker in the last of the night.
Cursing his age, he eases himself into a chair, his hip too painful to remain standing. He shall be obliged to do the same upon the scaffold, though he shall not be short of sympathy from the crowd, as Londoners are as fervent for reform as even Cranmer, and see him not as a monster who destroyed the old ways, but a great politician who has worked to serve the needs of those who are not wealthy, and who has never turned away any who have approached him for aid. None shall jeer him upon that scaffold; no, that shall be reserved for the three men who attempted to bring a Catholic fanatic to their shores and drive them all to the stake. The wonder of rumour.
He turns at the sound of a light knock upon his door, and his summons reveals a young man lent to him as a manservant during his stay, who carries a basin and pitcher of hot water for him to wash, and the means to shave him. While not as capable as his own man, the youth is competent in matters of toilet and aiding with the donning of garments, and Cromwell soon emerges, leaning on his stick, to make his way up to the Chapel of St Peter. God is everywhere, yes; but sometimes it is most appropriate to approach Him on consecrated ground. As he approaches, he can see that the candles within are lit, and is grateful; for thus he shall not be obliged to find his way in the dark.
Removing the warm scholar's cap that crowns his head, he carefully brushes off the snowflakes, then limps his slow, tapping way along the primary nave to the altar rail. Kneeling is a sequence of cracks, and grunts of pain; but, once settled, he is more comfortable, and able to absorb himself in prayer.
With little means to mark the passage of time, he is unaware of how long has passed when he is roused from his contemplations by the sound of approaching footsteps. Before long Warwick is beside him, and then Bedford. Shortly afterwards, Rich appears, relieved to find that he is neither alone, nor the last to arrive, before Stamford joins them; a row of five before God.
None speak, instead each involved in his own contemplations; and it is the sound of the clock outside striking the half hour past seven that finally brings them collectively to their feet, "Today shall be a hard day, Gentlemen." Cromwell advises, as he gathers his stick to depart, "But with God's aid, we shall meet it, and England shall move on."
Victuals have been set for them in the old Palace, but none seem willing to make a meal, instead sitting around and waiting for the moment when they shall be obliged to leave; a departure that shall be prefaced by the arrival of the guards who shall escort them. Outside, the snow has become heavier now, a thick curtain of flakes that drop to the earth as though weighted with lead. Watching them, Rich sighs, "If this does not stop, then the prisoners shall be wet, cold and shivering - the crowd shall think them afraid, and I think only Tunstall is fearful."
Stamford looks up, "Her Majesty decreed that, in deference to the cold season, they shall be permitted to wear warm garments to make the journey to the scaffold, and shall be obliged to remove them only at the last. I think that would include thick cloaks to keep the snow from them."
The snow has deepened by the time they emerge to walk to the enormous scaffold that awaits Norfolk, Tunstall and Boleyn, but the way has been cleared by a small team of warders, and thus their pace is slowed only by Cromwell's inevitable arthritic limp. Emerging across the drawbridge from the great gatehouse, it is clear that an enormous crowd has gathered, despite the weather, and a troop of halberdiers has been sent to ensure that a way through that press of bodies is available. It is clear that the approaching party is not the prisoners, and thus the noise is not too great; but nonetheless, Cromwell can see that his fellow Councillors are made as uncomfortable as he by that fearsome gathering, and just as grateful that they are not the ones facing its ire.
The executioner is already present, hooded and awaiting his charges, while two assistants sweep the snow from the boards with besoms. Further back, a canvas canopy has been hastily erected to keep the snowfall from the Councillors who are to witness the deaths, and a heavy chair is ready for Cromwell, who cannot possibly stand for so long a time as this unfortunate procedure shall demand.
Mounting the steps is uncomfortable for the Chancellor, but there is room for another to stand beside him, and Stamford aids him as he climbs, before he is able to make his own way to the chair, and sit down. Rich stands alongside, with Bedford and Warwick, while Stamford moves to end the line. Now, they must wait.
The first indication that matters are progressing is a shift in the sound of the crowd, as a murmur shivers through the gathering. Then it starts: the jeering, the hurling of insults. It could not be clearer that the three prisoners are coming.
Seated in his chair, Cromwell senses, rather than sees, Rich go tense at the sound. For all his behaviour in those gone days when he acted against better men than he, he was not present to witness their deaths. Now, however, he must do so as a Privy Councillor, and know that - but for his involvement - things might have turned out entirely differently. It could not be clearer that he wishes to be anywhere other than here.
The irony is that, this time, Londoners view his actions as heroic - for his involvement was aimed at preventing a foreign invasion of England, not aiding it. How strange that he sees it in the absolute opposite light.
The noise of the crowd grows louder as the men approach, and finally Norfolk appears, stepping up onto the scaffold with that air of haughty superiority that has never left him. He is warmly wrapped in a fur trimmed cloak, and glares at the men he faces with cold anger. He knows, as do they, that there is no messenger racing to this spot with a hastily composed reprieve.
"She always hated me." He hisses at Cromwell, "And now she has murdered me. She shall stand before God to pay for it."
Cromwell ignores him, sitting quietly as though the words are naught but a breath of wind.
Tunstall is behind; fearful, yes, but composed. Perhaps his fear is more of what lies beyond the block, rather than that moment itself, for he has aided an act of treachery, and now must answer to God for it.
Then Boleyn steps up onto the platform. Unlike his fellow prisoners, he is calm, almost relieved that the moment has come. Bizarrely, he smiles at the gathered Councillors, and nods his head to them respectfully. Whatever he says to the Crowd, it shall be loyal, and doubtless worth hearing.
The Chaplain of the Chapel of St Peter is reading from a book of scripture. Convention demands that executions are undertaken in order of precedence; so, regardless of the removal of his privileges, it is Norfolk who shall face the block first.
His expression cold, he steps forth to stand before the straw that will soon accept his knees, turns to pay the Executioner, then looks back at the people who have come to watch him die "I am a true, loyal Englishman, and I go to God with my conscience clean! As God is my witness, I sought only to bring men back to the true Faith, and free England from the stain of heresy at the hands of a usurper! Thus I die a martyr, but I am glad that I did what I could for the true Queen of England in the knowledge that my sacrifice shall be celebrated in Heaven. God save the Queen Mary!"
Ignoring the furious roar of the crowd, he shrugs off the warm cloak, and drops to his knees to set his head upon the block. Behind him, Cromwell smiles in admiration. Even at the last, he has cleaved to his principles, and refuses to set them aside. For all his bombast, it is a courageous act, and only a fool would think otherwise.
Those last words seem to have annoyed the executioner as much as the crowd, and his swing of the axe is powerful, cleaving through skin and bone with a sharp crunch that is stilled by the thud of the blade biting into the wood below. Beside him, Cromwell knows that several of his colleagues have averted their eyes at the ghastly fountain of blood that has spewed from the severed neck, but he forces himself to continue watching as the Executioner steps forth, grasps the head by its hair and lifts it for the view of the baying throng, "Here is the head of a Traitor!"
The crowd cheer, and people are leaning forward, attempting to dip kerchiefs in the blood that has dribbled over the side of the platform; Tunstall, however, sways as though he might faint. While he is not a member of the nobility, he is one of the Lords Spiritual, and it has been decreed that he shall be next. Remarkably, Boleyn hastily steadies him, whispering exhortations to be brave, for they have all confessed, and thus shall approach God shriven. Is that not the best way to end one's life?
With a deep breath, Tunstall gathers himself as the headless corpse of Thomas Howard is dragged away. The jeering has died down now; all want to hear what he has to say.
"Good Christian people." He begins, rather more steadily than perhaps even he expected, "I have come here to lay down my life for my sin. I turned from my Queen, and sought to bring another to steal her throne. Thus I face just punishment for my crime. I ask you to pray for my soul, in forgiveness, and to pray for the life of both her Majesty the Queen, and her noble mother, the Queen Regent, against whom I have offended, for her kind mercy in granting me a nobler death than I rightly deserve. Thus I give my life to God in hopes of resurrection and forgiveness, and shall be permitted to stand together with my fellow men in Christ. God save her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth of England."
There is no jeering this time. Instead, there is silence as people take in his words of contrition and seem to accept them. There is a degree of mumbling further back amongst those who did not hear his speech so well, but the crowd watch quietly as he also hands over the fee to the Executioner, drops his cloak from his shoulders, takes to his knees and rests his head upon the block that has been wiped over with straw to remove at least some of the blood.
"One stroke." Cromwell can hear Rich whispering, almost faintly, "One stroke. Just one. Please God, just one." He is relieved that his colleague is hating this as much as he is. Fortunately, that quiet prayer is answered, and for the executioner is highly experienced, and knows what he is about.
Only Boleyn remains. He has been obliged to watch two men die bloodily and unpleasantly in front of him, knowing that he shall share that fate - but he has not, at any time, shown fear, or dismay, or horror at what is to come. Instead, he steps forth and faces the Councillors, bowing to them formally, before turning back to the crowd, "Good English people. I have offended against England. I have offended against you, and I have offended against her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth. Thus I stand here justly and rightly; having betrayed my own kin, and the rightful Queen of this realm. I ask that you look upon me with forgiveness for my actions, and learn from my presumption. Men should not be impatient to grasp all that they can. They must be content with what they have, and look to better themselves with temperance, faith and goodness. I sought to raise myself as a Lord Protector, and was prevented - but still I looked to take that which was not mine to have. That I stand here now is proof to all that God did not look upon our actions with approval, but instead sent His aid to His chosen anointed Queen.
"If any look upon my death as martyrdom, I demand that they cease to do so. I am a justly convicted traitor against the realm of England, and I die for that crime, not for any other end. While my acts of good are few in number, I look to the next life with joy, for I have truly repented and confessed my sins before God and place my hopes in Him that I shall be forgiven and welcomed to His table. For those of you who remain as I take my leave of this life, I ask only that you live well, live kindly and live loyally. Pray for me, but moreover pray for the life of the Queen, for those who give her good counsel and loyal service, and for England. May God save her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, and grant her long life and many children to continue the name of Tudor, after her late lord and Father, King Henry of England. I thank you for your kindness in hearing my last words."
Again, there is silence as he hands his purse of monies to the Executioner, hands his cloak to one of the assistants, with the exhortation that he keep it, and sets himself upon his knees before the block. In spite of Boleyn's insistence to Anne that she must not reprieve him, Cromwell finds himself tensing, waiting for a cry from a messenger to halt the execution; though Boleyn himself seems not to expect it, and calmly sets his head down, ensuring that there is ample room for the axe to sever his neck.
One stroke, and it is done.
From his seat, Cromwell sighs as people in the crowd again step forth to dip kerchiefs in Boleyn's blood. It is done; now he must return to Placentia and tell the Queen that her father is dead.
Anne is still at the window. Her only deference to the passage of time is that she is now seated, and a warm stole has been set about her shoulders, at Margery's insistence. Jane is now present, as is Wiltshire, while Mary stands alongside her sister, but says nothing.
The barge arrived half an hour ago, in the midst of a thick snowstorm. All those who were sent to witness the deaths disembarked, but only the Lord Chancellor shall attend her to report upon how the procedure went.
There is a knock upon the door, and Cromwell is admitted. She does not need to look back: she can hear the thud of his stick upon the carpet as he approaches her.
"It is done?" She asks.
"Yes, Majesty. While Norfolk was defiant to the last, both the former Bishop Tunstall and Thomas Boleyn spoke well, seeking the crowd's forgiveness for their sins and asking them to pray for the life of the Queen."
"And their remains?"
"The heads of Norfolk and Tunstall shall be set upon pikes at London Bridge, Majesty, while their other remains are coffined at All Hallows by the Tower until the heads are removed and brought back. Then they shall be interred in the Chapel of St Peter. Sir Thomas Boleyn, however, shall lie in the same church until preparations are made for his funeral as is determined by his family."
Finally, she turns, "So he shall not be set upon a pike."
"No, Majesty. Out of deference to his kinship to you, his remains shall be interred in a place chosen by the family." He looks about at her siblings, clearly including them in his statement.
"Then all is done well, Mr Cromwell."
"It is done, Majesty."
"Thank you."
He bows, and departs.
She remains absolutely still as Wiltshire crosses to stand to her right, as Mary stands to her left. Behind them, Jane hastily ushers everyone out, and steps out with them. Now is not the time for company.
"And thus we are orphaned." Anne says, quietly.
"But we remain, Sister." Wiltshire answers, taking her hand, "And thus our name shall live on."
Slowly, she rises from her chair, as Mary takes her other hand. There are no more words to say. Holding tightly to each others' hands, the three Boleyn children look out in silence at the softly falling snow.