The Lady in the Tower (30 page)

‘I daresay he’ll soon settle in,’ said my aunt.

‘Yes, if Sir Thomas turns his home into a jousting ground and a sword-fighting arena,’ I remarked. ‘And if he buys him horses.’

‘You should not be so censorious of your brother, Eleanor. Your mother is happy, I’m sure.’

‘Yes, and I am truly glad for her, and for Walter too,’ I replied more generously. ‘Perhaps I am just a little jealous … ’ It cost me something to admit it, but I had been thinking over my aunt’s words just before Dr Horde’s visit and I had come to believe she was right. There was nothing really amiss with Sir Thomas. My own hurt and envy had made me dislike him.

My aunt nodded kindly. ‘Is there anything else in the letter?’ she urged.

‘Oh, just some nonsense about Lord Stanton being our friend,’ I said carelessly. ‘You can read it if you wish.’ I passed her the letter and began to pace the room.

‘Dearest, you know very well that I cannot read,’ objected my aunt. I stopped short and stared at her.

‘But you wrote me a letter!’ I exclaimed.

My aunt shook her head. ‘Of course I did not, Eleanor. Your uncle wrote it. Generally, women do not read, my dear. You and your mother are an odd—I mean you are unusual,’ she corrected herself.

I could picture Lord Stanton clearly, his handsome dark face and his laughing eyes. Something stirred in me that was neither anger nor dislike. Had we been wrong about him after all? His recent actions seemed all unselfish kindness. I wondered if he had been at Farleigh when Sir Walter was arrested. It only surprised me that he had not left at once, knowing that his bride had fled.

Hearing of his generous behaviour made me see my own conduct in a different light. I remembered how I had planned to humiliate him by leaving him standing at the wedding without a bride, and I felt ashamed. I had not treated him well, either, in Bath. How childish he must have thought me. That was an uncomfortable notion. I hoped my aunt would not say too much about him. I did not think I could bear it.

‘Eleanor, come and read the rest of your letter,’ my aunt chided me. I picked it up and looked through it.

‘Oh, my mother asks me to bring my visit to an end soon, and join her in Bath,’ I said, dismayed. I dreaded joining Sir Thomas’s household. ‘Could I … could I not stay a little longer? At least until we hear more news?’

‘Of your father?’ asked my aunt. ‘Do not depend on that matter being resolved in a hurry. Prisoners often languish in the Tower for months before the king takes a decision about them. But your uncle and I would be happy to have you.’

‘Thank you, Aunt Jane!’ I said, embracing her affectionately.

‘And you see, Eleanor, I think we must not be too hasty in our judgement of Lord Stanton. He has acted honourably here it seems, at no small trouble to himself.’

I hung my head a little at her words. ‘Yes, Aunt,’ I said meekly. ‘But indeed, I cannot make him out.’

‘If you assume Sir Walter was lying to you about his involvement in his plots, his character makes perfect sense,’ Aunt Jane pointed out.

It was possible. I had to admit it.

It was the last week of July when my uncle came in with a grave face once more. Lady Jane and I had just sat down to supper, but I jumped to my feet at once, flinging aside my napkin and overturning my soup bowl.

My aunt cried out at my heedlessness and called a servant to clear up the mess. But I paid no attention, running instead to my uncle. He took both my hands and held them in a firm clasp.

‘Prepare yourself, Eleanor,’ he said sombrely. ‘Sir Walter Hungerford is to be executed at Tower Hill tomorrow morning at dawn. The vicar of Bradford dies with him.’

‘The charges?’ I said weakly.

My uncle looked uncomfortable for a minute.

‘There are many,’ he said evasively.

‘Please tell me,’ I begged.

‘Well, among other things, he is accused of having ordered a horoscope to be cast to predict the date of the king’s death. That is reason enough on its own. Further he is accused of having imprisoned his wife.’

My heart jumped into my mouth. The king
had
listened to me that night. Seeing my face, my uncle added comfortingly: ‘There are worse ways to die, Eleanor.’

‘I can think of few,’ I said bitterly. The good memories of my father rose unbidden in my mind: Sir Walter playing with my baby brother, and making Mother laugh. Sir Walter smiling at my joy the day he brought home Arianna for me. His shouts of laughter echoing round the hall in the happy days. Now he was to die, and it was my fault. If it had not been for that, I could have borne it better.

‘We must pray to God for a swift and painless blow,’ said my aunt. I nodded blindly.

‘I could have wished for a long imprisonment for my father,’ I said at last. ‘That he might know how Mother suffered.’

‘No, Eleanor,’ said my aunt at once. ‘It is better for you and your family that this is settled at once.’

I could not sleep that night. I tossed and turned on my bed as though it were a pile of rocks. Was my father dreading the dawn? I could find it in me to pity him.

I could not stop thinking about my part in all this. My mind was drawn irresistibly to Tower Hill. And inevitably, as though I had known all along what I intended to do, I climbed out of bed, pulled my clothes on as noiselessly as I could and crept out of my room.

The boards of the hallway and the stairs creaked unpredictably. I eased myself cautiously forward, making almost no sound. I groped my way down the stairs and along the hall. The bolts on the front door were well oiled and slid back noiselessly.

The night was hot and humid as though the very air was breathing out damp, noxious fumes. I hurried along the deserted, dark streets, lifting my skirts to keep them clean and side-stepping the piles of refuse that lay strewn everywhere. From time to time, a tavern door opened, spilling light out onto the dark, narrow street. I could hear drunken voices and smell the fug of stale air mixed with ale. I shrank into doorways each time someone came along the street, terrified that they might notice me. It was not safe on the streets of the city of London at night. That much I knew.

I had no idea of the time, and looked fearfully at the sky expecting at any moment to see the grey of first light appearing. I also was not sure of the way. Used to the hills and valleys of Wiltshire, I quickly became confused by the tangled maze of streets and alleys that made up London. Eventually, as a few people began appearing on the streets, I was forced to stop and ask an old woman the way. Her eyes lit up when she heard my question.

‘The Tower, is it?’ she said in a harsh, grating voice. ‘And what does a pretty young mistress want there? Goin’ to see the executions, are we?’ She grinned at me, exposing toothless gums.

I recoiled from her in disgust. ‘Just tell me the way,’ I begged her.

‘For a coin, I’ll lead yer there,’ she offered.

‘Very well,’ I nodded, ‘but as quick as you can, please.’

‘Two coins, if you wants me to ’urry,’ she added, shooting a sharp look at me. I felt in my purse for the few remaining coins of the allowance that my uncle and aunt had so generously bestowed on me, and agreed. Muttering about her old bones, the crone started to hobble along the street. ‘You’ll not get a good view this late,’ she paused suddenly to tell me. I lifted my handkerchief to my nose to keep out the stench of rottenness that hung about her. ‘What you goin’ to do about that?’

‘I hadn’t thought,’ I responded faintly. ‘Surely one can get close enough to see something?’

‘’adn’t thought, ’adn’t thought,’ she echoed, resuming her lurching gait. She led me through narrow, unfrequented ways until I became disorientated and afraid. I asked once or twice where we were going, but she only muttered in response. Eventually we came to wider streets and grander buildings. Finally the shadow of the Tower itself fell upon us. The old woman pointed up the hill. I could make out the outline of a scaffold silhouetted against the sky. The hillside was teeming with people. The scaffold was on the summit and surrounded by a ring of soldiers, every one of them armed with pikes and swords to keep the crowd back. My heart thumped at the sight and I felt a cold sweat break out on my skin.

I offered the woman my coins, which she took eagerly. And then I climbed the hill towards the crowd. The confused noise of voices grew louder as I approached, and the stench of unwashed bodies, of sweat, and of urine grew stronger. Most people were on foot, others on horseback, or seated in carts. More and more were arriving every minute.

I stood awkwardly on the edge of the crowd, feeling vulnerable and alone. Why had I come? I was not sure I knew the answer. I had been drawn here by a kind of horrified fascination and a sense of fate. I began to push through the crowd, working my way steadily forwards. I could see little. I was not even sure I would be able to make out my father from here. As I moved further forward, the crowd became more tightly packed, and people were less and less willing to let me through.

There was a sudden cheer from the crowd. I looked up and could see the prisoners being led to the scaffold. It was time. There was no drum roll, no parade of soldiers, no speeches. Just two figures bound and led to their deaths by armed guards. I had to stand on tiptoe and crane my neck to see the men. The first man was being dragged onto the platform already. Even by the pale morning light, I knew my father.

They blindfolded him as he stood there before the crowd. But as they tried to lead him to the block, there was a sudden commotion. My father was fighting the guards who held him, screaming obscenities at them and refusing to move. The crowd roared with excitement around me. My view was obscured suddenly as the unruly onlookers surged forward. I was pushed backwards and came up against the bulk of a horse. Its rider leaned down and put a hand on my shoulder.

‘Eleanor!’

I looked up, and saw Lord Stanton leaning down towards me. I was so preoccupied that I was not, at that moment, surprised to see him.

‘My father … ’ I said distractedly, standing on tiptoes to try and get a glimpse of the scaffold. I could see nothing.

Stanton held his hand down to me. ‘If you are sure you want to see, climb up before me,’ he said.

I did not hesitate. The last moments of my father’s life were slipping away. If I was to see him once more, this was my only chance. I put my foot on Stanton’s, took his hand and he pulled me up onto the pommel of his saddle, seating me sideways across it.

The scaffold was a scene of commotion. Sir Walter was still twisting and yelling like a madman. He had torn off his blindfold. Four guards were attempting to restrain him. I watched, transfixed with horror, as Sir Walter was pulled forward inch by inch towards the block itself, where the executioner waited, axe resting on the platform and a black hood covering his face. Sir Walter fought every step of the way. When he reached the block he refused to kneel down. Clearly impatient at this delay, one of the guards kicked him behind the knees, causing his legs to buckle under him. Now he was kneeling down, but still he would not lay his head upon the block.

‘A thousand curses rain down upon you,’ I could hear him screaming at his gaolers. I felt sick. It was a terrible thing to see a man, once brave and strong, brought to face such a terrible death.

‘Oh, why will he not submit?’ I moaned quietly.

‘He is beside himself,’ Lord Stanton said. His voice so close to me made me jump. I had forgotten whom I was with. ‘I would say he is frenzied—quite mad.’

‘It is not usual, then … to resist execution?’

‘No,’ said Stanton quietly. ‘Are you sure you want to watch this, Eleanor?’

I made no reply, my eyes fixed upon my desperate father.

The guards had forced his head down now, but the executioner could not swing his axe without risk of injury to them.

‘They are binding him,’ said Lord Stanton. He was right, I could see the ropes now, being pulled taut around my father’s resisting body. The guards stepped back. The executioner raised his axe. There was a moment’s sudden hush, and the blade fell. I heard the thud, and saw the great spout of bright blood that sprayed the scaffold.

A wave of nausea rose in me. I turned my face away, and pressed it into Stanton’s shoulder. I felt his arms around me and was a little comforted. At this moment he was not my enemy, but a friend in a time of need.

I became aware of the crowd around me cheering, and looked back to the scaffold. I should not have done. The axeman was holding my father’s head up by the hair, displaying it to the bloodthirsty spectators. I felt sick and dizzy once more, and closed both my eyes and mouth tightly.

When next I opened my eyes, they were half leading, half carrying Father Bird to the scaffold. He appeared to be shaking uncontrollably, almost unable to walk. But unlike my father, he did not attempt to resist his fate. They made him kneel at a block already slick with my father’s blood.

I did not want to watch as this miserable man’s life was snuffed out. I turned my face into Stanton’s shoulder once more and breathed in the scents of rosemary and lavender that hung about his clothes, shutting out the rank, unwashed stench of the mob around us.