anything, for I’d eaten not a bite since riding in the cart to Smithfield all those hours ago. Coughing, I dashed the spittle off my chin with the back of my trembling hand.
The oarsmen rowed the boat under the bridge. The water slapped against the dank stone arches. I shuddered, knowing that right above me stretched the heads of the executed.
My eyes flew open at the gentle touch of a hand on my shoulder. I took Geoffrey’s cloth, the same one he’d offered at Smithfield. I ran it over my face.
I looked at Geoffrey. “I’m sorry this is happening to you,” I said.
“I know.” A smile curved his lips, but not a mocking or angry one. He peered over my shoulder; the smile vanished. I watched his whole body tense.
Our boat was turning. We entered a narrow waterway, with high walls on each side. A huge, square blackness loomed over us, swallowing up the low-lying stars and faint gray clouds; it was, most certainly, the Tower.
“It’s the crown or the cross,” Geoffrey Scovill said, in so low a voice I barely heard him above the loud slap of the oars.
“Pardon?”
“We must all choose which comes first, which we owe primary allegiance to,” he said. “The rebels of the North chose the cross.” He jerked his head back toward the fearful bridge. “You saw where that leads.”
I didn’t need to ask Geoffrey Scovillwhere his loyalties rested. For him, the choice was simple. As for myself, I couldn’t help but think of Sir Thomas More, the brilliant, brave soul who said on the scaffold, “I die the king’s good servant, but God’s first.”
Had it been simple for him,
I wondered,
to embrace martyrdom?
In those few minutes left before we arrived at the River Gate of the Tower, I did nothing but pray. I prayed for the soul of Margaret, for the recovery of my father, for the freedom of Geoffrey Scovill. I prayed for the strength and wisdom to guide my words and actions. I prayed for grace.
Two groups of men stood waiting for us at a narrow stone landing carved into a massive brick wall. Lit torches were affixed to the sides of an arched doorway, the gated entrance yawning open.
The larger group, all wearing bright uniforms of red and gold, helped the oarsmen of our boat bring it around, parallel to the landing. When the boat was tied to, a man leaned down and stretched out a hand to me, careful not to meet my eyes.
As soon as my feet touched the landing, one of the men from the smaller group stepped forward. He was young, with a well-trimmed beard and bright, nervous eyes. “Mistress Joanna Stafford, you are admitted to the custody of the Tower,” he called out, more loudly than seemed necessary. It was such a small area. “Yeomen warders, take them in.”
I heard a loud thump behind me and turned. Geoffrey lay at the feet of a yeoman warder on the landing.
“Has he fainted?” demanded the young official.
“Yes he has, Lieutenant,” the yeoman warder answered, disgusted.
“He was hurt at Smithfield,” I told them. “He took a heavy blow to the head. He is innocent of any crime; his name is Geoffrey Scovill.”
Everyone acted as if I had not spoken.
The yeomen warders bent down and picked up Geoffrey and roughly heaved him through the archway, carrying him in feetfirst. As they passed, I could see fresh blood spreading under Geoffrey’s bandage. He must have hit his head again on the stone landing.
“He needs a healer, surely you can see that,” I said to the lieutenant.
“You are not here to issue ordersto us, mistress,” he said, his lips pressing thin with anger. “You are under arrest.”
“And what are the charges?” I snapped back. “By whose authority am I arrested?”
A movement on the far end of the landing caught my eye. Another man stepped forward. He was much older, about sixty, and as he came closer to me, into the circle of torchlight, I saw he was dressed in expensive deep-green velvets, his puffy sleeves fully slashed. A thick gold chain hung round his neck.
The oarsmen rowed the boat under the bridge. The water slapped against the dank stone arches. I shuddered, knowing that right above me stretched the heads of the executed.
My eyes flew open at the gentle touch of a hand on my shoulder. I took Geoffrey’s cloth, the same one he’d offered at Smithfield. I ran it over my face.
I looked at Geoffrey. “I’m sorry this is happening to you,” I said.
“I know.” A smile curved his lips, but not a mocking or angry one. He peered over my shoulder; the smile vanished. I watched his whole body tense.
Our boat was turning. We entered a narrow waterway, with high walls on each side. A huge, square blackness loomed over us, swallowing up the low-lying stars and faint gray clouds; it was, most certainly, the Tower.
“It’s the crown or the cross,” Geoffrey Scovill said, in so low a voice I barely heard him above the loud slap of the oars.
“Pardon?”
“We must all choose which comes first, which we owe primary allegiance to,” he said. “The rebels of the North chose the cross.” He jerked his head back toward the fearful bridge. “You saw where that leads.”
I didn’t need to ask Geoffrey Scovillwhere his loyalties rested. For him, the choice was simple. As for myself, I couldn’t help but think of Sir Thomas More, the brilliant, brave soul who said on the scaffold, “I die the king’s good servant, but God’s first.”
Had it been simple for him,
I wondered,
to embrace martyrdom?
In those few minutes left before we arrived at the River Gate of the Tower, I did nothing but pray. I prayed for the soul of Margaret, for the recovery of my father, for the freedom of Geoffrey Scovill. I prayed for the strength and wisdom to guide my words and actions. I prayed for grace.
Two groups of men stood waiting for us at a narrow stone landing carved into a massive brick wall. Lit torches were affixed to the sides of an arched doorway, the gated entrance yawning open.
The larger group, all wearing bright uniforms of red and gold, helped the oarsmen of our boat bring it around, parallel to the landing. When the boat was tied to, a man leaned down and stretched out a hand to me, careful not to meet my eyes.
As soon as my feet touched the landing, one of the men from the smaller group stepped forward. He was young, with a well-trimmed beard and bright, nervous eyes. “Mistress Joanna Stafford, you are admitted to the custody of the Tower,” he called out, more loudly than seemed necessary. It was such a small area. “Yeomen warders, take them in.”
I heard a loud thump behind me and turned. Geoffrey lay at the feet of a yeoman warder on the landing.
“Has he fainted?” demanded the young official.
“Yes he has, Lieutenant,” the yeoman warder answered, disgusted.
“He was hurt at Smithfield,” I told them. “He took a heavy blow to the head. He is innocent of any crime; his name is Geoffrey Scovill.”
Everyone acted as if I had not spoken.
The yeomen warders bent down and picked up Geoffrey and roughly heaved him through the archway, carrying him in feetfirst. As they passed, I could see fresh blood spreading under Geoffrey’s bandage. He must have hit his head again on the stone landing.
“He needs a healer, surely you can see that,” I said to the lieutenant.
“You are not here to issue ordersto us, mistress,” he said, his lips pressing thin with anger. “You are under arrest.”
“And what are the charges?” I snapped back. “By whose authority am I arrested?”
A movement on the far end of the landing caught my eye. Another man stepped forward. He was much older, about sixty, and as he came closer to me, into the circle of torchlight, I saw he was dressed in expensive deep-green velvets, his puffy sleeves fully slashed. A thick gold chain hung round his neck.
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