London - Edward Rutherfurd [223]
The justice gazed down at the Lombard, decided he did not like him, and turned reluctantly to Joan. “Well?” he asked.
And it was just then, unlooked-for, that help came from an unexpected quarter: a red, pimply face, grinning cheerfully, burst out of the crowd. It was Silversleeves.
No one had noticed Dionysius arrive. Indeed, he had not planned to be at Newgate at all, or even remembered that there was to be a hanging that morning. He had been walking out to Westminster, to watch the gathering for the Parliament, when just past St Paul’s he had noticed a small stream of people on their way to Newgate. He had arrived just in time to see Joan approach the tumbrel, had witnessed the argument, and now, vastly intrigued, and relishing his own part in the business, he saw his chance to make a dramatic intervention. They’ll be talking about me all over London, he thought as he stepped forward.
“It’s true, sirs,” he cried out to the justice and the sheriff. “I’m Dionysius Silversleeves, of the Mint.” Now they would all know his name. “She is a whore. I had her last night.” Catching sight of William Bull, and pointing to him, he cheerfully called out: “And so did he!” He beamed at them all, delightedly.
Joan’s face turned to horror. This was not what she had intended. She thought furiously. She knew she must make them believe she was a whore, but kindly Bull had been going to do that. Thrown off balance by the interruption she looked guilty and distressed. And then what about poor Martin, watching all this from the tumbrel. What must he think? In an agony of fear, she stared at him, willing him to trust her, to understand.
At that moment, she heard the justice speak.
“By God, we’ve forgotten something.” He turned his gaze upon Martin Fleming now. “It seems, young man, that this girl is a whore. Now then. If she is, are you ready to marry her?” He paused. “It means you go free, you know,” he added kindly. “You won’t hang.”
And Martin Fleming only stared ahead.
He could not speak. He could hardly even think. On his way to death, to which he had resigned himself, his Joan, his pure and beloved, had appeared in the loathsome dress of a whore. It was so unimaginable that for moments he had been unable to comprehend what was going on. “Nothing will be what it seems.” He remembered the message. But how was that possible? “You must trust her.” He wanted to. Perhaps, against all appearances he might have, had it not been for the look he had just seen on her face. There was no mistaking it. The look was one of guilt and confusion. And even though she was now staring at him desperately, mouthing something, he was sure he understood the awful truth.
She was a whore. She might have done it for his sake. She must have. But she was a whore. At the moment of death, for a crime he had not even committed, this ultimate horror of horrors had been sent him by a God whose great, blank cruelty he could not begin to understand. The one girl he had dared to trust was like them all. Indeed worse. It was all filth, he thought, all bitterness, all useless. As he looked up, now, into the clear, cold, blue sky, he decided: No more. I want none of it, any more.
“No, sir,” he said. “I don’t want her.”
“No!” Joan was screaming. “You don’t understand.” But the tumbrel was already moving.
“That’s it then,” remarked the justice, as he rode away.
What could she do? How could she speak to him? She tried to run after the tumbrel, but strong arms were holding her back. She tried to fight them off. “Let me go,” she screamed. Why were they holding her? Who were they? She twisted her head, to see the grave, stern face of her father and her two brothers.
“It’s over,” they said.
And she fainted.
William Bull rode swiftly.
He was not very pleased at being publicly exposed by young Silversleeves,