My father would not have hesitated to sign the order. Indeed, he had many traitors executed during his reign. He had left the Battle of Bosworth Field victorious — the winner of the Cousin’s War or, as one bard had recently put it, the War of the Roses. Henry Tudor had stood as the last line of the Lancaster blood and to solidify his throne he had taken the eldest daughter of the York King Edward, my mother Elizabeth.
In the years that followed, my father had executed any nobles left who had threatened his throne — and some that had not. During the War of the Roses, my mother’s father King Edward had executed his own brother who lead a rebellion against him. In turn, Edward’s sons had been smothered by their uncle who was in pursuit of the throne. When my father had defeated Richard the Third, it was with some of the opposing princes still alive — including my grandfather’s nephew, a child who had a simple mind and a great claim to the throne. My father had him drawn up on treason charges and executed on the request of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain — they refused to let their youngest daughter enter England until this last York threat was eliminated.
But this was my first execution of a noble – a man who I had been raised with – and I was still unsure. As I pondered the words of the indictment— “beheaded or burned at the King’s pleasure” —it made me question this decision. First, did I want him dead? The answer to this was simple — yes. He had attempted an uprising against my son. Could I order his death without an uprising? Again the answer was yes. Thirty of the most powerful nobles in the land had declared this man guilty of treason and requested his execution. My wife had practically commanded it. So why did I hesitate?
Before I could think too hard about what I was doing I quickly scratched a signature to the bottom of the page and nodded to a page in the corner. He salted the page and rolled the document for me and only nodded when I barked out “To Wolsey.” He backed out of my sight and then turned to deliver the paper. As the sun set, I reclined in the chair I was seated in and breathed out a sigh. The hardest part was yet to come.
It took an additional two days for a scaffold to be built for the execution. I had confided in Thomas More my loathing to attend this court event— Wolsey was used to committing acts that would make most men feel queasy. My queen had a dress of yellow created especially for the event, and a matching outfit for young Harry. I had wanted our son to move back to Richmond — away from the court and the many sicknesses and dangers that could travel with it. However, Catherine had requested that he stay to be present at the execution. My argument that he was too young to understand what was happening — he was a mere two months old — did not sway her. Indeed she seemed almost disgusted for my lack of enthusiasm for the event.
The same tent that was used for the jousts had been erected in the courtyard of the Tower. Though it was one of my many palaces, we rarely lived here — it instead housed many criminals. Its strength as a fortress lent itself well to be a jail for the gentlemen of the land. It had been here that my two uncles had been kept as boys and then murdered by King Richard — something that plagued me every time I visited the palace. Catherine and I had stayed in the royal bedrooms here the night before our coronation. As she had slept soundly, seemingly untroubled by ghosts, I had lain in the darkness and waited to hear the screams of the two young children as they were smothered by the king’s agents.
Though I had waited, I had heard nothing. When my father had become king he had demanded a search of the premises be made to locate the boy’s remains. None were found and this revelation became a problem for my father — twice he had fought down uprisings centered on young country men who claimed to be one of the two boys, and the true king of England. My mother had refused to see, or attempt to identify, either of them.
Today the courtyard was filled; gentlemen and laborers alike had turned out to see the first noble execution in over ten years. A high buzz filled the air. The Duke of Buckingham would be beheaded by the axe, and while this would be considered a more humane execution, things could still go wrong.
Catherine sat proudly on my right, holding young Harry, who seemed even more solemn than usual for the occasion. I had questioned his nursemaid if it was usual for a baby to be this silent and she had informed me that he simply knew his place and was a most precocious boy. I accepted her judgment and the fact that she was probably thankful for an easy charge.
I still felt that Henry had no place here; his first execution before he turned three months old. But when I had raised my objections to Catherine, she had merely begun to explain everything that she had witnessed growing up as a Princess of Spain, the execution of prisoners or deserters she had seen before the age of five. And then she had uttered the words that had made me close my mouth and fight an angry blush that had overtaken my face.
“Of course your brother Arthur would have witnessed the executions; he was the Prince of Wales.”
And now that same small smile graced Catherine’s face and her gaze seemed locked on the door that the Duke would emerge from. She looked older than her twenty-eight years but queenly and powerful. I had heard stories about her mother, Queen Isabella of Spain — a woman who had led troops into battle and had ridden astride horses even while pregnant. Looking at Catherine today, it was easy to believe such tales.
The door finally opened and Edward Stafford, the Duke of Buckingham, emerged. The crowd’s voices grew to a roar as the jeers and boos began. As he reached the final steps, he stumbled and one of his jailors held him by the arm and raised him. I realized why he had stumbled a moment later — the citizens of London had obviously brought rotten fruit specifically to throw at the Duke.
Watching this man’s humiliation sickened me — this was a man who I had grown up with as a boy, who had been a common figure at the court. I had played him at tennis and at bowls any number of times and had usually triumphed. I noticed a tremble cover him as he took the steps and a memory shifted slowly to the front of my mind — his father, Henry Stafford, had met his end the same way during the reign of King Richard.
I began to fight down a feeling of nausea as Edward made it to the top of the scaffold. Every bone in my body begged for me to stop the proceedings, but I knew that we were too deep in for me to change my mind. To do so was to look weak and nothing could harm my kingdom more than for me to look weak. To show cracks in my government was to be open to attack — from France or Spain, or for some other noble who thought he could win the throne. Above all else, my kingdom could not appear weak.
I gripped the handles of my throne and watched as the jailor nodded that the Duke could speak his last.
“Good people!” he began, his voice nothing like I had ever heard before. I had seen people die; I had even caused it during my campaign in France at the beginning of my reign. But I had never before seen someone try to compose his final words with such a certainty of death before.
The crowd gave him not a care. They continued their boos and he began his speech twice more before I rose to my feet.
I was sitting behind most of the crowd so it took them a few moments to realize that their king had stood. The jeers ended and they turned to me on a bended knee. Next to me, Catherine remained seated but I heard her sharp breath of “Henry,” a warning to not be merciful. I looked over their heads to the Duke and realized I had given him hope — something I had not meant to do.
“Let him speak,” was all I said, taking away his hope of a last-minute reprieve but at least giving him a small measure of respect. There was a silent moment until I returned to my seat and the crowd stood and turned back towards the Duke and this time remained quiet.
“Good people,” he began again, “I came before you to die, not because — not because.” He looked up towards Catherine and me, stuttering over his words. Knowing him as I did, I was sure that his final words would be of defiance, like most of his life had been. However, my sudden command to the crowd seemed to have taken him off guard.
“Good people,” he repeated, and t
he crowd started to grow restless, a few murmurs here and there but at least not fruit throwing. He shook his head before starting for the final time.
“Good people. I come before you to die as a good Christian man and as one who is in obedience to his King. If my actions were treasonous I leave to God to decide. I beg of you to pray for my soul and for those sins I have committed that could never be pardoned.”
This was obviously not the speech he had planned, but it was short and only slightly defiant. At this time I would have been prepared to hear almost anything if it meant I could leave the confines of this courtyard with the hot sun beating down on us and the smells of the London streets. I held a handkerchief up to my nose to cover the stench of excrement and rotting fruit.
The Duke of Buckingham stepped back from the edge of the scaffold and turned towards the executioner. Edward slipped a few coins into the hooded man’s hand to pay his fee and the Duke’s loud, “I forgive you,” rang across the now silent courtyard. The echo of the words seemed to rattle the young executioner and his hand shook as it grasped the few coins. The Duke then bowed his head and knelt before the priest, receiving the last rites that would prepare him for the kingdom of God.
Watching this reminded me of what Catherine had said to me the evening before. Now that she was churched I was determined that she would bear our second son before Harry began to wear breeches and I spent my evenings in her chambers more often than not. I had expressed my misgivings about attending the execution and referred to it as a messy affair.
“Of course it isn’t,” Catherine had responded, sliding out of bed, her nightgown that had ridden up falling down over her legs. She moved to the small mirror I had situated in the corner of the room and began to brush out her long dark hair.
“It is one of the neatest deaths one can ask for,” she continued, not turning around to look directly at me, something she only did when she was disagreeing with what I had said. “Anyone who has this death certainly deserves it. Beyond that, they know exactly what time and in what manner it will occur — something no other kind of person can boast. They are given the chance to say their final words in a clear voice, to forgive someone of their final sin against them, and then receive the last rites directly before death. There is no cleaner way to die.”
I didn’t respond to her because she was right — a person condemned to die on the scaffold did receive all those things. But were they things that someone would want? What if your last words were not stirring? I had heard stories of men weeping through the execution — this was not a death I could imagine a man would want.
But there was a certain pattern about it, a way to know what exactly your final actions would be and the Duke seemed to be steady as he finished his prayers and was lead to the block. His head was guided down by the jailor and I could see his lips moving in prayer as the executioner waited for him to fling his arms out to his sides — a sign of consent that he was ready for the blade.
And as I watched his arms move in a quick motion, with the same reckless movement that had led me to sign his death warrant, I realized that Catherine was wrong. I could not imagine consenting to my own death; what man does not rally against death at all costs? It is the thing that makes us most human.
The executioner’s blade swung high into the air, not giving the Duke a chance to cry out. I held my breath, ready for this to end but as the blade came down it was quickly apparent that this would not be over in a single breath. A loud groan came from the Duke as the blade landed in the middle of his skull, something I thought would kill a man. But this did not and the executioner took his foot and placed it on Edwards’ shoulder and pulled the axe out of his skull as a commoner would do while chopping wood. The Duke’s prayers became louder and could be heard even at our tent at the back of the crowd.
Blood pooled on the straw beneath him and a large hole could be seen in the gap of his head. I could not remove my eyes from this sight as the executioner raised his axe high again and swung back down to hit him – this time in the back. It took another round of bracing the body with his foot, pulling the axe out, and swinging down again before the head was finally severed and the Duke of Buckingham’s suffering was over.
The executioner, aware of his botched job, seemed reluctant to raise the head but did as he should, lifting the head by its hair and raising it up, crying out in a broken voice, “The end of all traitors.” By the hush of the crowd I was sure that there would be no traitors in this gathering, the horrors of today would deter any man from a life of crime.
I glanced to Catherine and noticed she seemed pleased by the events, calmly smiling at the severed head. It wasn’t until I noticed a look of shock take her face and several female shrieks from the crowd that I turned back.
The eyes and lips of the Duke continued to move, his final prayer continued to be whispered. A few moments passed before the twitches stopped, but I remained horrified in my seat for many minutes until Wolsey approached my throne.
“Your Majesty, if you are ready to exit, the crowd will be allowed to disperse.”
I realized belatedly that no one could move until I did. This had been a law for so long that I had never forgotten it before — but I was shocked by the violence of the death and by the crowd’s calm acceptance of what had happened to him. Had I not intervened would that butchering have occurred with the jeers ringing in Edwards’ ears and the tomatoes being thrown at his battered skull?
Standing, I turned to Catherine and held out my hand to lead her away. Harry had already been collected by his nurse, who followed us out. My wife’s face had returned to its light smile; she was content that her will had been done.
As we exited, I glanced over to the scaffold where the former Duke of Buckingham was being deposited into a small coffin, his body finally run out of blood. Faced with this vile and pitiful site, I made a vow.
I would never witness an execution again.
Chapter Three
February, 1516
For only the second time in our marriage I was able to declare to my subjects the birth of a child. This time, however, it was a girl.
This news did not upset me as much as it would have before little Harry was born. At five years old the boy was thriving, he had joined the court for the last Christmas season and been the delight of all the visiting nobles. He was imperious and aloof, reminding me of my father. Catherine, however, saw her own parents in him and indeed I could see some of the Spanish coloring she had — to my great disappointment he had the same dark hair as her parents had. Both Catherine and I sported reddish hair, although hers had begun to fade dark in the past years.
During this last pregnancy there had even been a strand or two of gray in her hair, although I had taken great care not to mention this or notice when the strands were plucked away by her ladies. As with all of her pregnancies, this was a difficult one, but a live baby was worth much more than its weight in gold — even if it was a princess.
Much like with the birth of our son, I ignored protocol to greet Catherine as soon as she was decent and recovered from the birth. This time, instead of a proud princess regally poised on her bed, I found her in a deep sleep. I took the chance to observe her and the age I could witness around her face as she slumbered.
Creases that I had failed to noticed before seemed obvious now, lining her eyes and mouth. Her lips were parted as she slept and I noticed the two teeth that had rotted out the year before, leaving a large dark gap. There was more gray in her hair than I had ever seen before, her long locks tangled around a shriveled hand that rested by her face.
One of her young ladies in waiting bent gently over the bed and woke her, with a gentle whisper of ‘Your Majesty.’ Catherine awoke immediately, sitting straight up and turning to look me directly in the eye. As usual, her ability to school her features even when awakening out of a dead sleep impressed me.
“Your Majesty does me the great honor of visiting me this morning,” she said, bowing her head to me.
“A princess for your Majesty,” she said, looking down towards her hands. I imagine she was as disappointed as I was in this development, but as determined not to let it show.
“Yes, I believe we shall call her Mary.”
“Mary,” she said with a grin to herself, “Yes, for the saint.”
“For my sister,” I sharply responded, angry she had not seen my meaning. “The Dowager Queen of France.”
Catherine smiled unabashedly up at me. “You have forgiven them then, yes?”
I sighed as I moved to the window. Two years prior the ageing King Louise of France had taken my eighteen-year old sister as his bride. It had been a great boon to England and had furthered our standing on the continent — and would have continued to do so had my sister not gotten a foolish idea into her head.
Before leaving for France, Mary had demanded that if I made this marriage for her, then upon Louise’s death she would be allowed to choose her next husband. Such a proposition was preposterous — there was no conceivable way a woman, much less a princess, could choose her own husband. I had not answered her then and that had been my mistake — she took my silence for consent.
Catherine the Inquisitor Page 3
