London - Edward Rutherfurd [320]
Thomas nodded.
The yeoman turned. “Nothing you can do, sir,” he said kindly to Thomas. “We’ll inform the lieutenant.” He ushered the others out, tactfully leaving Thomas alone for a moment.
So that nobody heard Thomas, as he touched the corpse, whisper: “God bless you, Peter.”
It was dawn when Rowland Bull awoke. He found consciousness slowly; his head felt strangely heavy. Thomas was still there. The last thing he remembered was the two of them talking with Peter. And then he frowned. Why was he wearing a monk’s habit? He glanced round. Where was he?
“You’re in the Charterhouse,” Thomas said quietly. “I think I’d better explain.”
It had not been difficult really. The sleeping draught Peter had given him had worked even faster than they had expected. Changing his clothes with Peter’s had been the work of a couple of minutes. Nor had there been any difficulty taking him out of the Tower. “I’m Cromwell’s trusted man, you see,” Thomas said. The only problem, which they had anticipated, was getting an unconscious man into the Charterhouse; and for that short journey, Daniel Dogget had simply carried him, bodily, in his mighty arms.
“You’d be amazed how like you Peter looked once he was in your clothes,” Thomas continued. “And when a man dies, you see, his looks change anyway.”
“Peter is dead? How?”
“I was to kill him. We were going to make it seem he had died in his sleep. It was helpful that they already believed you were ill. But then, just as I began . . .” Thomas looked down for a moment. “I thank God the Lord took him instead. An apoplexy. He had been ill for so long, as you know.”
“But what about me? What am I to do?”
“Ah.” Thomas paused. “That is the message I have for you from Peter. He dared not write it of course: so I am to tell you. He wants you to live. Your family needs you. He reminds you of what he said: you have already earned the martyr’s crown because you were ready to die. By doing this, however, he has prevented you.”
“His taking the oath, then . . .?”
“Was part of the plan. Father Peter Meredith is spared and you must now become him. It will not be too difficult. No one will trouble you here. To the monks you are an outcast. They will avoid you. The king’s commissioners are not interested in you; and besides, you are believed to be very sick. Remain in this cell, therefore, Old Will Dogget will look after you. In a little while, I can probably arrange for you to go to another place.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then,” Thomas made a face, “both I and the two Doggets, father and son, will accompany you to a terrible death and your wife will not have even me to protect her. Peter hoped you would not do that.”
“And Susan? The children?”
“You must be patient,” Thomas answered. “For your safety, and for her own, she must believe, truly, that you are dead. Later,” he continued, “we will see what can be done. But not yet.”
“You have thought of everything.”
“Peter did.”
“It seems,” he said sadly, “that I should thank you all. You risked your lives.”
“I felt guilty.” Thomas shrugged. “Will Dogget did it because Peter asked, and the old man loved him.” He smiled wryly. “Simple souls are nobler, aren’t they? As for Daniel,” he grinned. “Let’s say he owed me a favour.”
Rowland sighed. “I suppose I have no choice.”
“There was one other message from Peter,” Thomas added. “It’s a little strange. He said: ‘Tell him he may only be a monk for a time. Then he must return to his wife.’ I’d have thought that was obvious. Does it make sense to you?”
“Yes,” Rowland said slowly. “Oh, yes. It does.”
Of all the horrors which marked the birth of Henry’s new English Church, one single execution in June that year truly shocked his people.
It was occasioned by the Pope. In May, still urging Europe’s monarchs to depose the schismatic English king, the