oar.
And venomously and most cruelly did those two go to work.
Anne was past prayers, past thought. There was nothing in the world for her, but the most exquisite agony ever inflicted on man or woman; there was nothing for her but the longing for death.
Sweating with their exertions, Wriothesley and Rich paused.
“She cannot endure more,” said Rich. “She is on the point of death.”
Rich was also thinking: And Knevet will be in his barge at this moment on his way to Greenwich. And what will the King say? His Majesty would not want this woman to die on the rack; he only wanted her to betray, as a heretic, the woman of whom he was so tired that he wished to rid himself of her.
Wriothesley followed his thoughts.
“Remove the ropes,” he said. “She has had enough.”
The professional torturers untied the ropes and laid the broken body of Anne Askew on the floor.
KNEVET SOUGHT AN AUDIENCE WITH THE KING.
“Your Majesty, I come in great haste. I come to lay before you my sincere apologies if I have disobeyed your orders. But I cannot believe Your Most Clement Majesty ever gave such orders.”
“What orders are these?” asked the King, his shrewd eyes glinting. He guessed that the Lieutenant of the Tower had news of Anne Askew.
“Your Grace, I have come straight from the racking of Anne Askew.”
“The racking of Anne Askew!” The King’s voice was noncommittal. He wished Anne Askew to betray the Queen’s guilt, but he did not care to have his name connected with the racking of a woman.
The Lieutenant of the Tower lifted his eyes hopefully to the King’s face.
“It is the woman, Your Grace, who is condemned to the stake.”
“The heretic,” said Henry. “She is condemned with three men, I understand. She has offended against our Holy Church and slandered the Mass. She has been tried and her judges have found her guilty.”
“That is so, Your Majesty. The sentence is just. But… they are racking her to death. Your Chancellor and Solicitor-General are racking her for information.”
“Racking her! Racking a woman!”
Knevet was on his knees, kissing the King’s hand.
“I knew that Your Grace in your great mercy would never have given your consent to such treatment of a frail woman. I could not allow myself to be involved in the matter unless I had written orders from Your Majesty. I trust I did right.”
The King’s lips were prim. To rack a woman! He had never given his consent to that. The rack had not been mentioned in his talk with the Chancellor.
“You did right,” said the King.
“Then I have Your Majesty’s pardon?”
“There is no need of pardon, my friend.” The King laid his hand on Knevet’s shoulder. “Go back to your duties with a good conscience.”
Fervently Knevet continued to kiss the King’s hand.
As he was about to retire, Henry said: “And the woman…did she disclose…er… anything of interest?”
“No, Your Majesty. She is a brave woman, heretic though she be. I left the Chancellor and Solicitor-General working the rack themselves, and with great severity.”
The King frowned. “And…on a frail woman!” he said in shocked tones. “It may be that under dire torture she will betray others who are as guilty as she is.”
“I doubt it, Your Majesty. She was then too weak to know anything but her agony.”
The King turned away as though to hide his distress that such things could happen in his realm. “A woman …” he murmured, his voice half sorrowful, half angry. “A frail woman!”
But when the Lieutenant had gone, his eyes, angry points of light, almost disappeared in his bloated face.
“A curse on all martyrs!” he muttered. “A curse on them all!”
Memories of others came to him in that moment. Norris and Derham; Fisher and More.
And it seemed to him that the ghosts of those martyrs were in the room, mocking him.
IN THAT SQUARE where so many tragedies had been played out, where medieval duels had been fought, where the sixty-two-year-old Edward III had held a seven-day joust for the entertainment of the young woman with whom he was in love, where Wat Tyler had been bettered by the youthful Richard II—in that square of gay triumphs and cruel deeds, men were now piling the faggots around four stakes.
From all over London the people were coming to Smithfield. Today was a show day, and the crowning event of a day’s sightseeing was to be the burning of four martyrs, one of them a woman—the famous Anne Askew. They chattered and laughed and quarreled, and most impatiently they waited for the sight of those who were to suffer.
The hot sun burned down on the walls of the Priory renowned for the fine mulberries that grew in its grounds, picking out the sharp stones and making them glitter. The smell of horses was in the air, although this place was to be used for a purpose other than the marketing of horses on this tragic day.
On a bench outside the Church of St. Bartholomew sat Wriothesley, with important members of his party, among them the old Duke of Norfolk and the Lord Mayor.
