London - Edward Rutherfurd [316]
And a remarkable community it was. Apart from the small army of workmen and retainers, cooks, scullions and washerwomen required to service the place, and the lieutenant, constable and other ancient officers, there was the Mint and its keepers, and the Master of Ordnance, whose gun foundries were on the wharf but whose stores lay safely within the walls. To add yet more colour, the new Tudor order of gentlemen-bodyguards to the king, the yeoman warders, were headquartered at the Tower and were often to be seen in their magnificent crimson uniforms. There was still the royal menagerie of exotic beasts and lions whose occasional roars, breaking the silence, could sometimes be heard from the south-west corner. And lastly, of course, the ravens on the green whose dark croaks announced what none could gainsay, that it was they alone who were the true, ancestral guardians of the place.
The prisoners were few in number and almost exclusively of the upper class – courtiers or gentlemen who had offended the monarch in some way. Sometimes, it was true, they might be made to suffer, though use of the rack or other tortures remained extremely rare in England, but more often than not they were housed in modest comfort as befitted their estate.
His own reception had been polite enough. The Lieutenant of the Tower, a courtly man, had paid him a brief visit. Although loyal to his monarch, Rowland suspected, he was secretly appalled by Henry’s actions. Sir Thomas More and Bishop Fisher were confined in the Bell Tower, near the entrance, he learned. Doctor Wilson was elsewhere, and the three priors in yet another lodging. After this, though brought his meals by whatever guard was on duty, he was largely ignored. He was, after all, of no importance. He was left alone with his thoughts.
He had tried to be calm. But how could he be, given the terror of what was surely to come for himself and the fear for his family?
By the end of the first day he had twice been sick and was so pale that the constable was told he might be dying. The next two days, despite visits from his wife and children, he was hardly better. Yet now, as he looked out at what was passing below, pale though he was, he almost smiled, and turning to Susan remarked:
“Come and see this wonder.”
The three priors were being led out to execution.
They were allowed to walk from their lodging to the outer gate. From there they would be taken across London to the awaiting gallows. They were accompanied by the lieutenant and a respectful group of yeoman warders, who were evidently determined to give them a few last moments of dignity before the ordeal that lay ahead; and they had just passed the green where the ravens strutted when Susan, unwillingly, joined her husband to watch them.
“See how meekly and cheerfully they go,” he murmured. “The lambs of God.” He smiled at her. “I think,” he went on gently, “that is what faith really means. They know, you see. They know they are doing right.” He paused as the little party went quite close beneath the window. “That’s what martyrs leave behind, isn’t it? For all of us to witness. A message stronger than words.” He smiled. “I suppose they are the stones, in a way, of which the Church is truly built.”
Susan said nothing.
Rowland continued to watch. He now felt the calm which, after a long agony of anticipation, men often feel when they are at last brought face to face with a great terror. A sense, curiously, of relief.
Last night Thomas had given him some other news when he had visited. “When the executions are done,” he had said, “they are going straight to the Charterhouse to give the oath to the rest of the monks.”
Peter. He too, then, would soon be in his company. Perhaps, Rowland thought, they would be tried together, even die together. The thought comforted him and gave him strength.
On 4 May in the year of Our Lord 1535, upon the order of King Henry VIII of England, that zealous Defender of the Faith, the execution of the three priors was carried out in the following