The 48

by Donna Hosie

  “I was frightened. I saw a chance of a better life. One free from fear and tyranny. I am a woman in a court…in a world of powerful men with bloodlust in their souls. I simply wanted to…”

  “Survive,” said the chambermaid.

  I nodded.

  “What do you propose?” asked Alexander.

  It was over. I would never get back to the painting before my forty-eight days were up.

  I was going to die. The radiation would tear apart every atom in my body as it searched for the time passage home.

  Would it be painful? Would it be quick?

  Did it matter?

  * * *

  —

  The next time food was delivered by a yeoman, the yeoman wasn’t Marlon. The meal was a bowl of broth, steaming hot and filled with vegetables. But every jangle of keys in the Tower corridors sent a surge of fearful adrenaline into my system that immediately killed my appetite.

  * * *

  —

  It was May 17, 1536. I knew this because one by one, the men found guilty of improper conduct with the queen were sent out to die. They were all allowed to speak. I didn’t watch from my window, but I heard them. There were only two voices I recognized. Mark Smeaton showed more bravery with his few words than I had ever done. He certainly didn’t deserve death, even though he said he did.

  George Boleyn was astonishing. His long speech was eloquent, and the crowd paid their respect to what was clearly a fabricated charge of incest with his sister by staying quiet. That meant I heard the whistle of the blade all too clearly as it made its way through the air. There was a crunch as it sliced through muscle and bone. It was a more brutal sound than I could ever have imagined.

  When I wasn’t dragged out to the platform to join them, I knew I would never face a trial. Never hear the jeers of the crowd, baying for noble blood. My death would come to me here, in this cell. I would die alone. In secret. I would never see my brother again. There was no afterlife, no Heaven. I would rot down to nothing. My skin would become atoms in the air and my blood would sink into the foundations of the Tower to mix for eternity with the blood of countless others.

  * * *

  —

  It was May 19, 1536. I knew this because the queen was sent out to die. It was early morning. I watched this one. The queen deserved my attention, and I deserved the haunting in my final hours. Her ladies-in-waiting were crying. Jane wasn’t there; neither was Lady Margaret. I could see Cromwell in the crowd. I wanted the swordsman to fall off the scaffold and take his head off instead. Anne spoke, but her voice was so quiet I couldn’t hear the words. She kept looking to her left. I think she believed up until the end that someone would stop her execution.

  No one came. With a blindfold hiding the angle of the French sword from her sight, it sang through the air and the queen was dead.

  * * *

  —

  The queen was dead. Long live the next queen.

  * * *

  —

  How long did I have now? Piermont hadn’t been back, but he had shown that he liked me to heal for a couple of days before inflicting more pain.

  But seeing how brave the queen was in facing her death had lit a fuse in my stomach that was burning through my veins. I would fight back, one last time. I was going to die anyway. It might as well be now.

  * * *

  —

  The jangle of keys was my alarm. I wasn’t allowed cutlery, presumably because it could be used as a weapon, but I had been trained by The 48 to improvise. After tying a musty-smelling cloth around my mouth to muffle my cries of pain, I had pulled on a wooden slat in the bed frame until it came free. The tendons in my shoulder sockets were on fire, but at least I had a weapon.

  “Come on, you bastard,” I whispered, holding the wooden slat like a bat. “Come and get me. One last time.”

  But it was Marlon at the door.

  Lady Margaret was with him.

  And Jane Seymour, too. I dropped the wooden slat.

  “Jane!”

  “Charles!”

  “Lady Jane, Lady Margaret, you can only have a moment. If you are discovered—” Marlon spoke in a hurried whisper, the words running into one another as they escaped his mouth.

  “Thank you, Master Chancery,” interrupted Jane. “Could you leave us, please?”

  Jane was wearing a black cloak, and underneath was a gold dress, threaded in thick blue cotton. Even in the flickering light of the torch she was holding, I could see she did not look well. Lady Margaret looked even worse. Her face was so drawn and thin, it was as if someone had stretched wax over a skull.

  “Get her out of here!” I cried. “She’s the reason I’m in here in the first place.”

  “It is because of Lady Margaret’s bravery that I am here at all,” whispered Jane. “Please, Charles. Listen to us.”

  “I am sorry, Charles of Cleves,” choked Lady Margaret. “I saw an escape. I believed I saw it with you and your brother. I have come to realize that I am not strong enough to play at these games. If this is my last act, then please do not think ill of me.”

  “I—I don’t think ill of your reasons, Lady Margaret. But you have been playing with our lives.” As soon as I said the words, I hated myself for my hypocrisy.

  “I know,” she sobbed. “I will spend the rest of my life praying to our Lord for your forgiveness. If it is of any comfort to you, I am to be married to a Scottish earl, and it will not be a union of love or happiness.”

  “Of course that’s no comfort!” I cried. The desperation on her face was hurting my stomach. I couldn’t deal with this. I turned to Jane.

  “What are you doing here? If anyone were to see you—”

  “I couldn’t bear it, Charles,” said Jane quietly. “I had to see for myself. What have they done to you?”

  Her long fingers caressed my face and wrists.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Your brother is waiting for you by the docks. So is the girl, Alice. Lady Margaret has put herself at great risk to help you.”

  “What if it’s a trap? How can I trust anything she does or says?”

  “They had a message for you,” said Lady Margaret. “They said ‘The painting has not been moved.’ These are not words I could conjure on my own. They said you would know the intent.”

  “You have friends, Charles,” said Lady Jane. “And whilst you may not be who you claimed, you have been a friend to me. I will not forget that…once I am queen.”

  “Don’t do it,” I whispered.

  “He is my king,” Jane whispered back. “It is an honor. And for the first time in my life, I will be more powerful than anyone else in Wulfhall.”

  “Look out my window,” I replied through gritted teeth. “That’s the honor of being queen in this time. Blood-soaked straw. You’re not safe here.”

  “Who is safe anywhere?” replied Jane. “At least here, I will rule. I am to be the next Queen of England and I will be cherished above all others. And I can assure safety for you.”

  “I don’t want you to do this. I will find another way out of here.”

  “Nowhere is safe in this court. Those who endure know what they must do. This is what I must do. I am not here to negotiate with you, Charles. His Grace and I are to be betrothed in the morn. I am here to say goodbye.”

  “We must go,” interrupted Lady Margaret, pulling on Jane’s arm. “We have done what we came to do. We need to return. You will already be missed.”

  “The king will be the death of you,” I said.

  “Not if I give him a son.”

  Especially if you give him a son, I wanted to scream. There must be a way out of this for all of us, but I just couldn’t see it. Jane bit her bottom lip and looked down at the floor. I was suddenly conscious of how dreadful I looked and smelled. One pitiful excuse for a bat
h in days was not enough to wipe away the grime, pain, and shame of the Tower of London.

  “I will remember you always in my prayers, Charles,” said Jane.

  “Don’t marry him,” I begged.

  “Lady Jane, please!” cried Lady Margaret. “Someone is coming.”

  The door to my cell opened. Marlon was holding another torch, which illuminated him in an orange glow.

  “Miladies, you must leave,” he said.

  Jane stepped forward and pressed something into my hands. “I will be forever grateful for your concern and confidence. And your friendship.”

  Lady Margaret said not another word before she scuttled out; Jane was out of the door with her smaller torch before I had drawn a breath.

  I looked down at what Jane had placed in my bloodied hands. Crushed daisies, the same flowers I had given her at the joust.

  * * *

  —

  It wasn’t Marlon or even Thomas Ladman from the yeomen guard who came to take me to the docks. Instead, it was three other men who didn’t look older than me. I was quickly escorted out of my furnished cell in the Tower of London toward Traitor’s Gate. Two bodies, blackened by the decay of death, were swinging from ropes. Two crows were snatching at the rotting flesh.

  From there I was bundled onto a smaller barge and into the custody of two older men who had weathered, tanned skin that made them look like the carved wooden figureheads on a boat. They rowed away with me sitting between them, the small barge gliding gracefully through the water, which lapped at the sides with a gentle plopping noise.

  I didn’t believe for a second that I was being taken to my brother and Alice, even though I trusted Jane completely. Our track record for luck didn’t allow me to. So I said nothing. I was just watching, listening, and thinking. I knew I could get away.

  The only question was when.

  The opportunity arose once we reached the shipping docks. It was dark but cloudless. The moon cast a silver light over everything, making the men and women who worked the evening appear as ghosts. Crates were being hauled onto ships, and drunken laughter and shouts were punctuated by the odd scream that no one paid attention to.

  I wasn’t bound, but I had feigned frailty. I wanted my watchers to believe I was weaker than I really was. A couple of days earlier I had been a wretched creature, but adrenaline remained the best anesthetic for pain there was, and my release had given me the boost for one last battle.

  I was escorted off the barge and led through the dock. There was a tavern on my left, and men were spilling from the doors and onto the damp cobbles. One sailor with no front teeth grabbed hold of one of my watchers to steady himself. He then promptly vomited over his boots. It was the chance I needed. As fists started to be thrown around, with no thought as to what they were hitting or missing, I made a run for it. It didn’t matter where. I just needed to get away.

  But days of being incapacitated, tortured, and underfed had left me seriously weak. I ran into a side alley and took a left, staying parallel with the river to keep my bearings, but I was gasping for breath within a couple of minutes. Pain wrenched at my side as my lungs burned. My legs alternated between feeling as heavy as concrete and so light I wasn’t sure if I was putting my feet down at all.

  But the darkness and the crowds were my allies as I stayed hidden. In my court finery I would have been robbed on the spot, but dressed in black pants and a filthy white shirt, I was one of them.

  The echoes of shouting were following me, but they were diluted by other cries and objects being thrown. Even a few dogs were adding to the symphony. But I had done it. I had escaped from the malevolence of the Tudor court.

  The thrill of my success was short-lived. I would die if I couldn’t get back in front of the painting, and with the countdown gone, I had no idea of time.

  I slumped against a wall and slid down. Defeated and alone.

  The shouting was getting closer. Let them take me, I thought wearily. Throw me in the Thames and drown me in crap. What a perfect metaphor for my life.

  And then I heard my name.

  “Charles!”

  “Charles!”

  “Where the hell is he?”

  “Charles!”

  “Alexander, stop yelling and running around like a madman.”

  “Charlie!”

  “Alex!”

  I didn’t have the energy to stand. Instead, I crawled on my hands and knees in filth toward Alex and Alice, who were sprinting toward me.

  “Jane did it…she did it!” cried Alex, throwing himself down into the muck with me. I must have yelped like a wounded dog, because he immediately rolled off me. “Charles, holy crap. What happened to you?”

  “We’ll compare scars later,” I groaned. “I think we have less than a day left.”

  “I wasn’t happy about trusting Lady Margaret at all,” said Alex, hugging me again, despite our dual pain. “But let’s be honest. She was dealt a really crappy hand. And I feel sorry for her.”

  I sighed and nodded. “She was hoping for a better life.”

  “Like we are,” Alice said quietly. “And unlike Lady Margaret, we still have a chance at it.”

  “Okay. So where to now?” I asked.

  “Greenwich isn’t far from here,” said Alice. “We have time.”

  We all knew we didn’t, not really. But it felt good to hear.

  * * *

  —

  We slept under a tree after walking for what seemed like forever. It was only when I collapsed for the fifth time that Alex refused to go on until I had rested. When I woke up, two red squirrels were nibbling at the frayed leather of my boots. They scampered off as I jerked awake, my legs and arms twitching like a marionette’s. Dew from the grass had soaked into my pants and shirt. I sucked on my sleeve and took in a little moisture. It wasn’t enough to quench my thirst, but it was enough to line my gums, which were swollen and sore from neglect.

  “It’s supposed to be the end of spring,” said my brother, stretching in a way I couldn’t because of my damaged shoulder. “You wouldn’t have thought it by looking at the gray sky. English weather is weird.”

  “That’s what’s weird?” exclaimed Alice. “We’ve time traveled, each been used as a pugil stick and worse, but it’s the weather that’s weird.”

  “I swear it’s going to start raining—again,” said Alex, putting his hand out as if to catch imaginary raindrops.

  “Alex,” said Alice incredulously. “Sometimes you can be a real idiot.”

  “But I’m handsome, and, unlike my brother, I can move my shoulders,” he replied, climbing to his feet before gently helping me to stand. “So not everything is lost.”

  I didn’t know what else to do, so I hugged him.

  “If today’s our last day, then I’m glad I’m with you,” he whispered.

  I just nodded and let my tears answer for me.

  * * *

  —

  We had traveled farther along the river than I had thought possible. Greenwich Palace was in the distance. And twenty minutes later, we finally reached the stables. Almost immediately we heard voices, so we slipped into one of the stalls and waited for the grooms’ chatter to diminish.

  As silence fell once more, I thought of Jane. She would be betrothed to the king today, and she would die after giving Henry a son. And then Jane Seymour would be a symbol of Catholicism for years. Some would even regard her as a saint.

  “What are you thinking about?” asked Alice. “You have that look of deep concentration on your face.”

  “Jane. Grinch. Life. Death. Take your pick.”

  Alice kissed my shoulder. The one I still couldn’t move.

  “I’ve been thinking about Jane too,” said Alex. “She dies in childbirth, doesn’t she? Well, what if there was a way to save her? We’d never have got you out of the Tower if
it hadn’t been for her and Margaret. So that surgeon—the one who saved me. He was called Fiennes, wasn’t he? What if we told him what was going to happen? He understood that we were different—even though he didn’t ask questions. What if we gave him the idea that women die from infection? He knew about keeping wounds clean, anyway.”

  “He’s considered an outcast. A physician for the prisoners because they’re disposable. They’ll never let him near Jane when she eventually gives birth…”

  “Jane knows what she’s doing,” said Alex.

  “She has no choice.”

  “You’re very sweet, Charlie,” said Alice, standing up in a fluid movement that was almost balletic. “But sometimes I think you were better off when you were fully indoctrinated by The 48.”

  “Are you saying I’m weak?”

  “I’m saying you need to find the middle ground. You swing one way and then another. Life outside The 48 will be made of tough choices too.”

  “We aren’t outside it yet.”

  “Then let’s make our final hours mean something,” said Alex. “And we don’t split up. If we’re going to die today, we die together.”

  He put his hand out; Alice placed hers on top. I went last, gingerly cradling both of their hands in mine with every ounce of strength I had.

  We didn’t have the luxury of waiting for nightfall. We had to get to Cromwell’s rooms and the painting, and we had to set aside time for Grinch, whom we fully anticipated having to dispatch. Charlie’s countdown had been butchered out of him, but mine was working.

  * * *

  —

  0 0:59:35

  Anne Boleyn had been dead for less than twenty-four hours, but I knew that, according to the history ledgers, the king would be betrothed to Jane today. That meant that the palace would be busy. Even so, we’d need to blend better than ever.