The Crown A Novel

4


I watched the sun slip down behind the church spires of London. There was no more fine drizzle. By late afternoon, the sun had become a fiery orb, shriveling all the clouds and devouring the clammy mist that clung to feet and wheels and horses’ hooves. As that sun now trembled atop the crowded western horizon, my eyes itched and stung, though whether it was because of the sun’s rays or the black smoke of Smithfield from hours past, I couldn’t tell.

I sat facing backward in a royal river barge, my wrists shackled. I couldn’t see where I was going, but I felt the sureness of the four oarsmen’s sticks, their deep rowing. These men, wearing the green-and-white livery of the House of Tudor, knew my destination. And the other boats on the Thames River, even the Londoners on the shores, I was sure they knew. Whenever we passed someone, I could feel the curious stares crawling over me, hear the burst of gossip: “Who’s that they’ve got now?” An old woman dumping slop jars into the river watched me for as long as she could, her neck craning while she leaned out so far I expected her to fall in.

All of the time, I sat straight and still, my shoulders as far back and my chin as high up as I had been schooled from the time I could walk. I didn’t want to show my fear. And I most definitely didn’t want anyone to see the man lying on the bottom of the barge, his bandaged head propped up on my skirts. My calves ached from the pressure of Geoffrey Scovill’s head, but I couldn’t send him back down onto the wet bottom of the barge. His slack face, his closed eyes, the trickle of dried blood on his right cheek filled me with furious guilt. I had so much to think about, to pray over, to try to understand, before arriving at whatever place they were taking me to, but here was an immediate difficulty thrown into my very lap.

Just as the sun disappeared, and a sickly dusk bathed the river in orange-violet light, Geoffrey woke with a groan.

His wrists were unshackled, and he reached out, feeling the bandage around his head with confusion. Slowly, shakily, he sat up and turned to face me, heaved himself up to find a seat. Uncertain eyes met mine. I dreaded the coming confrontation.

“Do you know where you are?” I asked.

Recognition filled his face. “I appear to be in a king’s barge,” he said, his voice raspy. “Why?”

I looked forward at one pair of oarsmen at the bow and peered behind at the other. The barge was so long they shouldn’t be able to hear us.

“I’ve been arrested with my father, and I believe you have been as well,” I said softly.

He took it much better than I expected. His face stayed calm. “What are the charges?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “I told them my name, and my father’s name, and then they went away for a long time and left me under guard. They put us both in a wagon, and we went to a building; but then they seemed to change their minds and brought us to the river. We sat in the wagon for two hours before they put us into this boat. I never saw my father again. I know he was injured, much worse than you. But no one would tell me anything.”

I took a breath, fought for calm.

“How was he injured?” Geoffrey asked.

I shook my head, frustrated. “I don’t know. There was a great deal of smoke after the thunder. When it cleared, I saw him lying on the ground, but from a distance. They moved him soon after, and I didn’t see him again.”

“The ‘thunder’?”

“My father threw something into the fire, at Margaret. A bag. That is what he must have been running toward her to do. It caused a loud noise like thunder and a great deal of smoke.”

Geoffrey nodded. “Of course.”

“Do you know what it was?”

“Gunpowder,” he said with certainty, and I remembered he was a constable, and so must be familiar with such things. “When a criminal is sentenced to burn and the king wishes to show some mercy, he permits the wearing of a bag of gunpowder, tied around the neck. The bag catches fire and explodes. It hastens death, cuts short suffering. But the amount of gunpowder must be precisely measured and mixed. It seems your father used too much.”

I swallowed.

Geoffrey peered at me more closely. “You called her ‘Margaret.’ So you knew the prisoner?”

There no longer seemed any point to concealing things.

“Lady Margaret Bulmer was my cousin,” I said. “I came to pray for her. I didn’t know my father would be at Smithfield as well.”

“You’re not from the North?” he demanded, his voiced grown strong. “You took no part in the rebellion against the king?”

“No, of course not. Margaret went to live in the North about four years ago, and married Sir John. I haven’t seen her since then; it’s too far to travel. Only letters, and just one since last year. I know nothing of the rebellion. I don’t understand why Margaret involved herself.”

Geoffrey frowned. “Then why would you and your father risk attending the burning and behaving this way, why risk so much? It doesn’t make sense.”

I didn’t answer. There was the sound of the oars slapping into the river. And the faint tinkle of women’s laughter as our boat glided past a manor built close to shore. On the other side of the manor walls, as impossible as it seemed, people were making merry.

Geoffrey’s next words flew out of his mouth as sharp as a slap.

“If I am to be taken to the Tower of London because I intervened on your behalf, mistress, then I am entitled to know all.”

“The Tower?” I whispered.

“Yes, of course—where else?” he asked impatiently. “That is why they delayed so long before setting out on the Thames. They have to wait until the tide is just right to shoot the bridge to River Gate. But now we are almost there, if I remember the bend of the river. So tell me.”

Somewhere deep inside, I had known, too, that that was where the barge was taking me. I wasn’t surprised, truly. But hearing the name of the ancient castle still sent a cold rush through me. I remembered a game that my boy cousins played, with toy swords. “To the Tower, the Tower,” they’d shout at the loser of the swordplay. “Chop off his head!”

Dusk had deepened. It was that uncertain time after the sun vanishes but the stars haven’t yet found their places in the sky. In the middle of the Thames River, away from the freshly lit torches on the shore, the air was thick and dark. I could not see Geoffrey’s face clearly, and that made it easier to try to explain.

“She was more than a cousin, she was my only friend when I was a child,” I said. “I couldn’t let her face this horrible death alone. Not after everything she has done for me. There was something in particular I wanted to do for her, after her death, but I never had the chance. As to my father’s reasons, I don’t know them. We haven’t spoken in some months. But I can assure you he is not a man of politics. He hates and fears all matters political.”

I took a breath, and continued.

“Does the name Stafford mean anything to you?”

He thought a moment. “Wasn’t that the family name of the Duke of Buckingham?”

“Yes,” I said. And then: “He was my father’s oldest brother.”

Geoffrey’s voice went flat and careful. “The third Duke of Buckingham was tried and executed for high treason fifteen years ago.”

“Sixteen years ago,” I corrected him. As if it mattered.

“And he was arrested for plotting to overthrow the king because of his nearness in blood, to take the throne for himself. Some thought he had a better claim to it than Henry Tudor.”

“I don’t suppose this is the time or the place to say that we know my uncle to be completely innocent of all charges?” I asked.

Geoffrey grunted. “No.”

Then came the question I was waiting for. “So you are close kin to the king as well?”

“I am not a woman of the court,” I said defensively. “I was last in the presence of the king ten years ago.”

He repeated, “You are kin to King Henry the Eighth?”

I sighed. “My grandmother and King Henry’s grandmother were sisters.”

“And your cousin Margaret?”

“My uncle the duke’s daughter.” I swallowed and pressed on. “The duke’s illegitimate daughter.”

Now it was his turn to go quiet, to look out the side of the barge.

“Thank you,” he finally said. “I begin to understand.”

“But you don’t understand everything,” I said in a low voice.

I could feel the oars begin to pull in a different way. We were slowing down, and I needed to make Geoffrey aware before it was too late.

“I am a novice at Dartford Priory in Kent,” I said in a rush. “I left my order in secret before dawn to reach London. I don’t expect to be allowed to return, but if so, I intend to take my final vows by the end of next year.”

There was silence from Geoffrey. And then I heard something from him. At first I thought with horror that he was crying. But no, it was more like choking.

Anger singed my veins as I finally realized what it was. Laughter. He was doubled over, shaking with it.

“How dare you make a mockery of me?” I said.

He shook his head and slapped his knee, hard, as if he were trying to stop the laughter, but couldn’t.

“I come to London to represent my master at a state execution,” he said, more to the river than to me. “I save a young woman from harm, then linger for a pair of fine brown eyes, and see what happens? Ah, Geoffrey . . .”

His words were a shock. “So much for your show of chivalry,” I hissed. “I told you at Smithfield to leave me alone, and you wouldn’t. What happens to you now is—”

Suddenly, Geoffrey sprang forward and gripped me by my shoulders. “Close your eyes and don’t turn around,” he whispered, his warm breath curling into my ear.

I couldn’t believe he would touch me. Using my manacled hands like a club, I pushed him away and he fell into the bottom of the boat, hitting his head with a yelp of pain.

And then, as if compelled to do so, I turned around.

Our boat had slowed as it approached a large bridge. Every twenty feet or so a torch blazed, creating a string of soaring lights across the wide dark river.

Between the torches were severed heads on spikes.

There must have been a dozen of them, although I only saw one clearly, the one closest to me. The head’s rotting flesh was black. The flicker of a nearby torch filled its hollow eye sockets and leaped into its gaping mouth. It made it seem as if the head were coming alive and smiling down at me in delight.

A loud noise filled my ears, and sweat curdled on my skin. I shut my eyes tight, trying to erase the horrific vision. But it was too late. My stomach heaved, as if an unruly animal leaped inside me. I bent over and gripped the side of the boat with my manacled hands. “Help me, Mother Mary,” I gurgled.

For what seemed like an eternity, I fought it. But I lost. Doubled over, I vomited into the boat, a sour string, hardly 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 Scovill where 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 orders to 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. Such attire was appropriate for a high court function, a celebration. The ludicrousness of his attire was made even greater by a joyless, sour face.

“I am Sir William Kingston, the constable of the Tower,” he said tonelessly. “You are here by express command of His Majesty.”

“How can that be?” I asked.

Sir William stepped closer still and I saw the deep wrinkles of exhaustion creasing his face. “After the disturbance at Smithfield, a messenger rode to Greenwich, where the king and queen are in residence,” he said. “The king was apprised of the situation, and it was his pleasure that you, your father, and the third party involved be brought to the Tower pending a complete and thorough investigation.”

“Is my father here now, in the Tower?” I asked. “What is his condition?”

Sir William did not answer. Instead, he reached out and, with a long velvet-clad arm, pointed at the dark archway.

“It is time to go inside now, Mistress Stafford,” he said.

They waited to see what I would do, the constable and the lieutenant. I’d heard stories of prisoners dragged screaming into the Tower. I would not become one of them.

I bowed and turned toward the archway, and, with yeomen warders marching in front of me and the rest of the men behind, I entered the Tower of London.