In the Shadow of Lions

by Ginger Garrett

  Rose could not understand the refusal. Sir Thomas could still have his church, so why deny the king his realm? More believed the Scriptures were the only ultimate law, yet he forbade people to read them. He believed harmony was the essential element of utopia, yet he rejected offers to reconcile. He educated his daughters and showed mercy to the orphan, yet drew his own blood every night and tortured those who sought a new world. Rose was sick in her stomach. More had made everyone, and everything, to conform to his own image, but he had never seen himself clearly.

  She had seen a glimpse of the man and he had stirred her heart. His passion and appetite was tempered severely by his mind and will. If only he had allowed himself to love, Rose thought, a new man would have emerged. But appetite and passion were lawlessness to him, so he struggled to scourge them from his heart.

  He loved law above all else. Henry wanted law and order kept too, and kept under one rule. Why did it matter who administered the Scripture? Would it not be the same? Why did More predict such death if the Book that gives life was given to the people? Rose shook her head to clear herself of the questions without answers. The only answer was that this story of free salvation had condemned More to his imprisonment and death.

  Last night a boy had run up the steps from the dock, shouting that he had news of good report. He made sure he was paid before he gave them the news, eyeing the half-angel, glancing back to see if there would be more. Rose still knew how to frighten a greedy urchin, and she drew herself up, pushing her face into his with a glare. He dispensed the news and fled.

  “In recognition of his good service, Sir Thomas will be beheaded. What great mercy from the king! He is spared the death of lesser men! It will happen tomorrow; he will be brought to the Tower by barge. His family is not allowed to attend.”

  And so this morning had come, with the children sitting in the parlour looking like ghosts, and Dame Alice stinking drunk and snoring.

  Margaret did not speak to Rose but dressed quietly. When Rose went down the steps to the dock, Margaret was behind her. There was nothing Rose could say. She had learned her letters, and even learned to form words from them, but there were none in her learning that could comfort. What word had she missed? What should she have been taught, or what lesson did she miss? It was wrong to sit in the barge in this freezing silence. There must be words for this. But none came.

  It was raining, an annoying drizzle that pelted her cheeks despite the covering over the barge. The drops found their way in, swatted by the winds, landing on her face and hands, soaking through her cloak little by little. She drew her legs in and tucked her hands under her arms. The sky was a brilliant grey that made the winter limbs of the trees, budding in green, glow against its palette. Birds circled over the river, pecking among the floating debris for their breakfast. She tried not to imagine it, but she knew by lunch his blood would be washed away into this same river. Guards would be washing their boots of him, stones would be covered with fresh straw, and Sir Thomas—the man who had lived for a vision of the future—would fade into London’s past.

  Now the Tower was ahead, its white stones looking like the weathered bones of a giant stacked neatly one upon the other. It looked immense to her as she sat perched in a tiny barge, and her stomach began to flip. She couldn’t keep her balance easily as she stepped off onto the slippery dock. The world seemed to be turning too fast under her, her legs unable to hold onto firm ground. Margaret was behind her and accepted Rose’s hand with a hard grip as she stepped onto shore.

  Rose held it for a moment longer than she needed to. She held onto Margaret’s hand, wanting to hold her here, before the day made her coarse. Margaret would not return to these steps as she was. She would return as an orphan, fury being her constant companion. The bile of bitterness would constantly rise in her throat, giving her a frozen, mean look. Rose knew. She had seen these women. She had been one when More found her.

  They pushed their way from the Old Swan Stairs to a platform above which they could watch for More to be brought here. A crowd was already gathered, mainly boys who shifted from odd jobs and found themselves with leisure when they cared for it. Today would be too juicy to miss. How many of them had been clapped into irons by More when they stole bread or robbed an old mother? He lectured in the courts about the need for law and justice, and today he would get a good taste of its blade.

  More’s barge came into view, and the boys went wild, catcalling and hurling insults. Other people came, hearing the noise, waiting for a sign that More had at last come to the Tower. Sir Thomas held his head high, looking them all in the eye, one by one, until his gaze fell onto Margaret and Rose. Rose saw his chin tremble and he looked away.

  The constable of the Tower led More off the barge. Rose saw More had not faired well in his captivity. His frame was much thinner, and he walked with great effort. His shift was thin and a cheap-looking wool, not thick enough for the cold nights he had spent sleeping on soiled straw.

  The constable led him through Old Swan Lane to Thames Street, the crowd growing with every step. One man brandished an unlit torch, his face contorted in hatred. She drew in a sharp breath. The man’s other arm hung limp at his side. He was surely one of the heretics who had walked this path himself, scorned and carrying the torch More threatened to light under his feet someday.

  The entrance to the Tower was upon them. Margaret broke through guards and knelt at her father’s feet. The crowd was pushing and screaming, and Rose fought to get near to hear his words. He placed his hand on Margaret’s head as if to pronounce a blessing over her. She rose and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Be off! No family is permitted to watch!” the constable ordered.

  “This woman,” More said, “this woman is not family. Pray allow her to attend me in my final moments.” He was pointing to Rose. The constable looked between More and Rose, chewing his lip. He grunted and nodded an agreement.

  More motioned for Rose to draw near. Trembling, she started to kneel before him as well, but he grasped her, hard, and drew her face to his—he stank of rot and sour decay—and put his mouth over her ear.

  “My Rose.” His voice was breaking.

  Rose threw her arms around him, supporting him as he leaned further in, his thin frame rattled by a wet, bubbling cough. There was still something of the old man there, the man always at the edge of revealing himself, the one whose hunger for life was not restrained by order. It was this man she held.

  He took another breath and spoke in her ear again. “Hutchins is dead, Rose. You paid for his betrayal and burning. It was my last wish, for I could not leave this world to meet God if this man were still alive. Everyone knows it was you, Rose. You will never be safe among the heretics. I saved you from yourself.”

  She tried to push him off her, her mouth open for a scream, but his bony hands dug into her skin, forcing her to hear every last word, forcing them to resonate in her ear.

  The constable, seeing More falling onto Rose, and Rose unable to bear the weight, pulled More up and off her, and began the final procession to the scaffold.

  “Pray for me in this world, good men,” More called out, his words taking what life he had left. “I will pray for you in the next. I die the king’s good servant, and God’s first.”

  He knelt at the stained block and began murmuring in Latin. If he was repeating Scripture, he alone knew what it meant.

  The executioner was receiving final instruction from the constable, and More stood on his feet, rising fast. The crowd screamed, thinking he would run. The constable lurched and grabbed him, but More spoke something that calmed him, and he released More, who kissed the executioner on his cheek.

  The executioner was wearing a red robe, spattered and stained. He was a local man, rumoured to be a barber in his other hours, who did not waste his fees on washing. Henry despised More in this, that he would give a common man the task of taking off his head.

  “Be not afraid to do thine office,” More said to the man.

/>   He knelt again, laying his head on the block, looking at Rose. She froze, her heart stopping its rhythm, everything in her perched to watch the end of his days.

  With one swing, More’s head was off and in a basket.

  A wind swept over the crowd, like the beating of the wings of a great bird, and a wave of peace rippled over them all, who did not know its taste. All were dumbfounded at that moment.

  The executioner above them looked confused but grabbed the head to finish his job and get home. “Here be a traitor!” he pronounced.

  This shook free the crowd from their pause. Their bloody appetites awakened, they forgot the sudden, fleeting taste of grace.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  “I have read it, twice over—the entire book!”

  Anne was awed with the secret message, searing in indictments, scandalous in generosity. Why had she waited to read it? If it undid the world, so be it. The book belonged in the hands of the people, no matter what chaos it loosed.

  Something did trouble her, deep within. Something lodged in her spirit that she couldn’t dismiss. She didn’t know what to do with it, this thing that thrilled to hear the secret words, but felt fear when she considered her new happiness. She had it all—the blessing of an heir in her womb, the gift of the crown for her family and name. Why did she not rejoice in these blessings? Why was there no ease?

  Henry grunted and sat on the edge of her bed, looking out the window. Hampton Court was so quiet these past few weeks with so many of the women gone and Wolsey dead.

  “What is it, Henry?”

  “Do you not wonder, Anne?”

  “What?”

  “Do you not wonder why things happen as they do? If they are not signs from God, indications of His pleasure or fury, what are they? How are we to read our days?”

  Anne set the book aside.

  “I do not know. But I am learning,” she said, taking her time with these next words. “I am learning to think less of my days and trust more in God’s purpose.”

  Leaning over to kiss her belly, he pressed his hands deep into the bed to steady himself.

  He recoiled in horror.

  Charging from the room, he began shouting. Anne could hear much yelling in the halls. She threw back the coverlet to rise and go after him and saw she had been lying in a pool of blood.

  The cramps were constant. She found it hard to breathe. The pain stabbed and stabbed without stopping. She was panting, writhing to find a position that eased the muscles and kept the baby inside.

  Dr. Butts was helpless, standing at the side of the bed with a look that she had seen only once before. It had been in the French Court, when the king had sentenced a thief to hanging. His family had stood motionless and without expression, as he was dragged away. If they ever cried, no one knew.

  The pressure came, the force that crushed all reason and objection. She had to push. She grabbed for Dr. Butts’ hand to save her, as her muscles contracted, pushing.

  “Dear God, make it stop!” she screamed, pushing again.

  “Mercy! Mercy!” she cried out, to anyone who would listen, anyone who might help.

  With one more push, he was delivered.

  “Oh, God!” Anne cried, reaching for the baby, but Dr. Butts had already snatched him, rubbing him furiously, muttering wild prayers under his breath. Anne couldn’t hear the words—was he praying for the child or his own life?

  He stopped and his shoulders dropped. “What have you done?” he whispered.

  Anne’s heart contracted sharply, fear shooting through her body. Dr. Butts turned to her, slowly, holding out the infant, its face shrouded with linen wrappings.

  “Catherine died a few hours ago.” He said it as an accusation.

  Anne held her hands out for the baby. Its face should not be shrouded, she thought. It won’t breathe well.

  “Thou art surely a witch!” Dr. Butts said. “I will not die for your sin.”

  He laid the baby on the bed and ran from the room. Anne thought she was going to faint, but no one was offering her water or wet rags to wipe her face with. Her vision sharpened, and she saw there were servants in the room, pressed against the walls. No one was moving.

  She would not faint. She took a deeper breath, dragging the baby closer up the bed. It was not moving.

  “No, no,” she whispered, peeling back the linen, piece by piece.

  It was a boy. But he was not as a child should be; his arms were shriveled and his head was bulging in one area. She could not bear to see him and threw a linen over his still face before she screamed.

  The servants moved with a collective will, moving towards the door, keeping themselves as far from her as possible. No one met her eyes. Anne began to sob. She looked with clouded, stinging eyes, and pain was everywhere. Nothing was the same. The turtledoves calling from the courtyard pained her ears; the gold of the room stung her eyes. She was too far from home.

  “I want my brother!” she wept.

  The last of the servants leaving heard this, his face changing when she said it.

  She was taken by barge to the Tower, through the Traitor’s Gate. People were running to the water’s edge to see her, screaming obscenities … some in Catherine’s name, others in God’s.

  As she was led along the stone path, she heard unimaginable screams.

  The guard smiled. “Seems your brother is already here.”

  “My brother? Why? What has he done?”

  The guard laughed, his grip on her arm bruising her. “They’ll work him hard through the night, and take confession tomorrow.”

  “This is madness!” Anne began struggling, trying to break free and run towards the screams. “George!”

  The guard knocked her off her feet and spat on her.

  She looked up at the guard’s face twisted in hate. Her Yeoman cast a sidelong glance, and Anne saw no one else near them. He elbowed the guard so hard that the man went down on his knees. Turning his back so that Anne could not see his face, he faced the guard and raised his arms.

  The guard screamed in terror, scrambling away on all fours. There was no time for Anne to think, for new guards ran from around the corner. They picked her up and continued her descent into hell.

  The room was clean enough, and she was given servants, handpicked by Henry, but she was delirious from fear, fear that would not let her sleep or eat. Some moments she was laughing, which made the other women pale and silent. When she wept, only then did they have the nerve to come near and touch her.

  “I want to see Elizabeth,” she moaned. “Please tell Henry I want to see our daughter.”

  Elizabeth was brought to her, and Anne beheld her face, so perfect and plump, God’s utter grace out of her imperfect union. Anne inhaled deeply as she cradled her, drinking in the fragrance of roses and sunlight. At last the ladies scooped Elizabeth away from her, cradling her gently and promising her many treats.

  Anne saw in her mind the men of the court … how she had stood before them as queen, receiving all honour, and just yesterday, stood before them accused, dripping with shame. Even her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, who had served her at her wedding feast, betrayed her. They pronounced Henry’s good pleasure that she die by beheading. Henry was not there. Jane’s father was, and Anne saw that he wore scarlet now, the colour of nobility. Jane had done well for herself.

  She had begun to chuckle quietly, and the men shifted in their seats.

  Henry, no doubt, was already commanding her to produce an heir. He needed an heir for more than just the kingdom; he needed an heir to be justified, to silence the blood that began to stain the ground all around him. His train was of blood, his coat of arms was of blood. Jane was in love, no doubt, and could not taste it.

  “Have you a defense?”

  Anne shook her head. “Henry knows I did not commit this crime. It is not in my heart. Nor is it in my brother’s. Henry knows this full well.”

  She lay awake through the night, her body straining to hear if her brother s
creamed. He would not confess before death, she knew this. He would not tell them his secret.

  But he did.

  She rose at 2 a.m. to begin saying her prayers. Every time she drifted to sleep, she was awakened by her own cries. Begging God to speak. Begging for mercy in her hour of need. She checked her clock often, her little Nuremburg Egg that Henry had given her to mark the hours until they could be together again. It had been a love gift from long ago.

  The night watchmen were agitated, peering in at her with deep scowls. Her maids said it was because she was a witch; they were terrified she might escape. Messages came throughout the night, causing them to become more animated. The maids heard only pieces of the conversations.

  Signs and wonders were rocking the city. A nobleman of Henry’s court had awakened at midnight from a nightmare, a premonition of Anne’s death that caused him much suffering. The candles all around Catherine’s tomb, tucked quietly away at an abbey, flamed to life by themselves, and when the priest cried out, they extinguished. Henry had sent men to the tomb, fearful perhaps that Catherine might rise and decry his justice. Anne’s uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, dreamed that he would be condemned in the next life, consumed by flame and sentenced to ride for one thousand years with four headless horses. He sent word to the Tower to watch Anne, to prevent her from casting such spells with the devil.

  Anne paid them no mind. What business of this was hers, how the spirits tormented those who betrayed her? Their names were safe. It was what they wanted.