Rose held it for a moment longer than she needed to. She held onto Margaret’s hand, wanting to hold her here, before the day made her coarse. Margaret would not return to these steps as she was. She would return as an orphan, fury being her constant companion. The bile of bitterness would constantly rise in her throat, giving her a frozen, mean look. Rose knew. She had seen these women. She had been one when More found her.
They pushed their way from the Old Swan Stairs to a platform above which they could watch for More to be brought here. A crowd was already gathered, mainly boys who shifted from odd jobs and found themselves with leisure when they cared for it. Today would be too juicy to miss. How many of them had been clapped into irons by More when they stole bread or robbed an old mother? He lectured in the courts about the need for law and justice, and today he would get a good taste of its blade.
More’s barge came into view, and the boys went wild, catcalling and hurling insults. Other people came, hearing the noise, waiting for a sign that More had at last come to the Tower. Sir Thomas held his head high, looking them all in the eye, one by one, until his gaze fell onto Margaret and Rose. Rose saw his chin tremble and he looked away.
The constable of the Tower led More off the barge. Rose saw More had not faired well in his captivity. His frame was much thinner, and he walked with great effort. His shift was thin and a cheap-looking wool, not thick enough for the cold nights he had spent sleeping on soiled straw.
The constable led him through Old Swan Lane to Thames Street, the crowd growing with every step. One man brandished an unlit torch, his face contorted in hatred. She drew in a sharp breath. The man’s other arm hung limp at his side. He was surely one of the heretics who had walked this path himself, scorned and carrying the torch More threatened to light under his feet someday.
The entrance to the Tower was upon them. Margaret broke through guards and knelt at her father’s feet. The crowd was pushing and screaming, and Rose fought to get near to hear his words. He placed his hand on Margaret’s head as if to pronounce a blessing over her. She rose and kissed him on the cheek.
“Be off! No family is permitted to watch!” the constable ordered.
“This woman,” More said, “this woman is not family. Pray allow her to attend me in my final moments.” He was pointing to Rose. The constable looked between More and Rose, chewing his lip. He grunted and nodded an agreement.
More motioned for Rose to draw near. Trembling, she started to kneel before him as well, but he grasped her, hard, and drew her face to his—he stank of rot and sour decay—and put his mouth over her ear.
“My Rose.” His voice was breaking.
Rose threw her arms around him, supporting him as he leaned further in, his thin frame rattled by a wet, bubbling cough. There was still something of the old man there, the man always at the edge of revealing himself, the one whose hunger for life was not restrained by order. It was this man she held.
He took another breath and spoke in her ear again. “Hutchins is dead, Rose. You paid for his betrayal and burning. It was my last wish, for I could not leave this world to meet God if this man were still alive. Everyone knows it was you, Rose. You will never be safe among the heretics. I saved you from yourself.”
She tried to push him off her, her mouth open for a scream, but his bony hands dug into her skin, forcing her to hear every last word, forcing them to resonate in her ear.
The constable, seeing More falling onto Rose, and Rose unable to bear the weight, pulled More up and off her, and began the final procession to the scaffold.
“Pray for me in this world, good men,” More called out, his words taking what life he had left. “I will pray for you in the next. I die the king’s good servant, and God’s first.”
He knelt at the stained block and began murmuring in Latin. If he was repeating Scripture, he alone knew what it meant.
The executioner was receiving final instruction from the constable, and More stood on his feet, rising fast. The crowd screamed, thinking he would run. The constable lurched and grabbed him, but More spoke something that calmed him, and he released More, who kissed the executioner on his cheek.
The executioner was wearing a red robe, spattered and stained. He was a local man, rumoured to be a barber in his other hours, who did not waste his fees on washing. Henry despised More in this, that he would give a common man the task of taking off his head.
“Be not afraid to do thine office,” More said to the man.
He knelt again, laying his head on the block, looking at Rose. She froze, her heart stopping its rhythm, everything in her perched to watch the end of his days.
With one swing, More’s head was off and in a basket.
A wind swept over the crowd, like the beating of the wings of a great bird, and a wave of peace rippled over them all, who did not know its taste. All were dumbfounded at that moment.
The executioner above them looked confused but grabbed the head to finish his job and get home. “Here be a traitor!” he pronounced.
This shook free the crowd from their pause. Their bloody appetites awakened, they forgot the sudden, fleeting taste of grace.
Chapter Twenty-nine