A Traitor's Tears Read Free Page B

kitchens with open windows, middens beginning to steam in the warmth. But all such things, sunlight and smells alike, were part of living. Life was pulsing everywhere. It was no day for anyone to die.
    Tower Hill was beyond the Tower of London itself, just outside its walls. There were barriers to keep the crowds back from the scaffold, which was a high platform, with the block in the middle and thick straw all around it. My stomach churned more than ever. I knew why the straw was there. It was to absorb the blood.
    Grooms were waiting to take our horses. They led them away – probably, I thought, to some convenient stabling or hitching posts. I was sure that the grooms didn’t intend to miss the spectacle through having to hold horses’ bridles. We continued on foot. Most of the crowd had to stand but members of the court had the privilege of seats and there were benches ready for us. They were closer to the scaffold than I could have wished. We were going to have an unpleasantly good view.
    It was quarter to eight when we sat down. I was between Brockley and Ryder. Glancing to my right, I saw that Roland Wyse was a few yards away and at that moment, a man I didn’t recognize pushed his way along the row of benches and took a seat next to him. The stranger, who was dressed in black, with a style of hat that didn’t look quite English, hadn’t been with us on the ride to the Tower and probably wasn’t from the court. Perhaps Wyse had arranged his seat in advance for they embraced as they met, as friends do, and then sat talking with an air of intimacy.
    I looked away, not wanting to be caught staring, and found myself looking instead at a group of younger people, men and girls, all in black. The girls were tearful and, after a moment, I identified one of them and realized that the group consisted of Norfolk’s children and stepdaughters. Ryder had noticed them, too. ‘I suppose they’re here so that Norfolk will see friendly faces at the last,’ he said. ‘I wonder, does it really help a man, to see his family grieving?’
    I shook my head, not knowing the answer.
    There was a pause, tense, like the air before a thunderstorm. Then, in the distance, trumpets blared and we heard a slow drumbeat. The sad procession appeared, calling forth a murmur from the throng, half excited, half distressed. The trumpeters walked first, as heralds, clearing the way with noisy blasts, since the crowd was spilling in all directions. The drummers followed, sounding a regular, muted roll like the tread of heavy and inexorable feet. It pounded at one’s nerves.
    After the drummers came a man who, Ryder told us, was the constable of the Tower. Behind him were guards with halberds and, in the midst of them, a small forlorn figure in doublet and hose but without a ruff, was Norfolk. A chaplain walked beside him, reading from a prayer book and behind them was a man in the dark gown of a clerk.
    I looked up at the horrible straw-bedded platform and saw that the headsman had arrived, masked and dressed in skin-tight sable. He held his long-handled axe at his side, not attempting to conceal it.
    Silence fell as the guards took up positions round the scaffold, except that I could hear sobbing from Norfolk’s family. The guards had their backs to the block, and were watching the crowd in case of trouble. Of all the people present, they would be the only ones who wouldn’t witness the end.
    The constable came to Norfolk’s side and motioned to him to climb the wooden steps to the platform. He did so, looking, as he climbed, smaller and more forlorn than ever. The chaplain and the clerk followed him, and I realized that in a corner of the platform, incongruously, there was a small table where paper, held down by stone weights, an inkpot and a quill pen in a holder were set ready. The clerk at once went to dip the quill in the ink. I wondered what he was about and then understood, because as