guilty. The case was that Suffolk had sought aid to come against the King, he had received certain monies, he had planned rebellion, and Sir James Tyrrell had been his accomplice.
Where was Suffolk? He heard that he had been arrested and accused at Paul’s Cross as a traitor with William de la Pole and William Courtenay. They were in confinement somewhere. He did not know where.
But he, Tyrrell, had been condemned to death. It was strange that Suffolk and his accomplices had not been sentenced, yet James Tyrrell who had played no part in the rebellion and whose only sin was that he had received an old friend who called on him, should be condemned to death.
The next day he was to be taken out to Tower Green and there he would suffer the fate of traitors. He should be grateful that it was to be the axe and not that worse fate which was reserved for some.
It was dusk when the door of his cell was opened. No word was said but a figure heavily cloaked came into his cell and stood watching him.
The door of the cell was shut behind him and the two of them were alone.
A shiver ran down Tyrrell’s spine. He thought it was the angel of death already come for him.
Then a voice said: “James Tyrrell, you are to die tomorrow.”
“Who are you?” he asked.
“No matter. You are to die and your son with you.”
“I am innocent of what I am accused. I may have committed crimes in my life but I had no part in Suffolk’s plan. As for my son he is completely innocent of anything that could be brought against him. He is wrongfully accused. . . .”
“He will meet his death tomorrow . . . unless you save him.”
“Save him. How?”
“It is not impossible.”
“Have you come to help him?”
“I will make a bargain with you. You can save your son’s life.”
“How? How?”
“It is easy. You cannot save your own life. That would be too difficult to achieve but you can save your son’s.”
“Only a pardon from the King could do that.”
“I could get that pardon.”
“Who are you?”
“Shall we say that I come from one who can pardon your son.”
Tyrrell was silent. His heart was beating wildly. It could not be . . . But perhaps it was.
“What . . . what should I have to do?”
“To confess to something . . . something that happened a few years ago.”
Tyrrell was silent. He felt his hair beginning to rise on his scalp; it seemed to him that the walls of his cell were closing in on him. Whenever he passed this place he had felt uneasy and it was ever since . . .
But that was long ago. That was another man’s crime. Could he be blamed for seeing that it was carried out? He had had to do so. So much depended on it . . . his future . . . his family . . . his beloved son . . .
“What is wanted is a confession from you, James Tyrrell.”
“What . . . must I confess?”
“You know, do you not? Cast your mind back . . . Remember Dighton . . . Miles Forrest . . . remember that night . . . two little boys . . . innocent young boys whose existence could have started a civil war. They had to go. You realized that. You helped them to it, Tyrrell. What you have to do is tell the story. Make a confession. It is what you would wish to do, is it not? You are shortly to leave this world. Can you go to your Maker with that sin on your conscience?”
“Who are you?” said Tyrrell again. There was no answer and he went on: “I do not hold myself guilty . . . completely . . . not as guilty as he who instigated the crime. I arranged for it to be carried out. But the heaviest guilt does not rest with me. It is that one to whose advantage it was to have those two boys removed.”
“You did what you did for gain, Tyrrell.”
“My gain was not to be compared with that of another.”
“Was it not? It was your whole life. You did not want to live as an outcast, Tyrrell. You wanted your share of the good things that are given to faithful servants. You are guilty, Tyrrell, as guilty as any man . . . as guilty as Forrest or Dighton . . . You would have to confess your guilt.”
“The King would not wish that.”
“The King does wish it.”
Tyrrell caught his breath. Could it indeed be the one he thought it was who stood before him wrapped in concealment?
“The life of your son, Tyrrell. His estates will be restored to him. He will go on living . . . His only sorrow will be that his father lost his head because he had played the traitor. Will you do this for your son?”
“How can I be sure?”
