The Mer- Lion (40 page)

From out of the shadows stepped the young Margaret Douglas. She was as Anne Boleyn had described her and as de Wynter remembered: big boned and clumsy. Whether she had bad breath or no, de Wynter was sure he would never find out. There was a flush
to her face and a vicious set to her mouth as well as a fiery look in her eye. Here was a female out to exact revenge. "On behalf of my mother, I accuse him," she said: "He took advantage of a woman's grief for loss of her husband, a queen's care for her country. He led my mother astray"—this was a fanatic who believed she spoke God's truth—"down the ways of irresponsibility, plying her with the drugs and seductions of the flesh. He made a god-fearing, loving mother and devoted wife into an avowed adulteress. Archbishop, judge you and punish him. Let him be dealt the Biblical punishment, let him be stoned to death."

"Hear also the woman's husband," intoned the bishop without change in inflection.

A tall man, an older, masculine, soft-fleshed version of the girl, stepped forward. It was Douglas, he who had made marrying an avocation. "Your Grace, before this court stands a man wronged by a lecher, a man who cries to you in the voice of loving husband and concerned father for justice. My wife, my daughter's mother, has deserted her marriage bed to cling to this man. I remind you, Your Grace, that the Lord God said, 'It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him an helpmeet for him.' So says the Book of Genesis. Again in Genesis it says, Thy desire shall be to thy husband and he shall rule over thee.'"

Such pious mournings coming from such a man? De Wynter could not decide whether to laugh or gag. A look at Cranmer decided him to do neither.

Douglas continued, "Your Grace, I rule not my wife who chooses to stay in the North sending her lover south to tempt my daughter to stray from her path of righteousness. My Lord Archbishop, I remind you that in the Gospel according to Mark, we are told 'What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder,' and The woman which hath an husband is bound by the law to her husband so long as he liveth.' Need I remind you, Your Grace, that when Moses, according to Exodus, went down from the mount of Sinai, ten commandments did he speak, the seventh being 'Thou shah not commit adultery'? Archbishop, judge you and punish him, stone him to death!"

De Wynter could restrain himself no longer, but his manner remained respectful, his voice cool and dispassionate. "The ninth

commandment seems grossly neglected here. Then, too, does not John say, 'He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone
...
neither do I condemn thee: go and sin no more'?"

Cranmer eyed the man speculatively; such words bespoke more than casual knowledge of the scriptures. The other two had first to be rehearsed before they could quote so. However, such interruptions just delayed the foreordained course of this trial. "My Lord Gentleman Gaoler, have you other witnesses?"

"Ten, save your Grace, all kenneled here in the Tower."

De Wynter's pulse raced more quickly. The companions and servants were taken.

"Do they bear willing witness?"

"Nay, Your Grace, they remain stubborn though food and drink have been withheld from them."

"What do you suggest, My Lord Gaoler?" The archbishop addressed one man while covertly studying the elegant face of another. On the Scot's reaction to the keeper's answer depended the success of their plan.

"That they be put to the question. His Majesty's craftsman with rack and boot will shortly loosen their tongues."

A slight thinning of de Wynter's lips, the tightening of a muscle in the cheek—in these small signs did Cranmer find cause to rejoice. He had again advised the king right. Loyalty was the weakness of 'this man, his friends the key.

"Very well, My Lord Gaoler, I shall take that under advisement. Now, James Mackenzie, what say you in your defense?"

Feverishly be had been seeking some defense. Not in truth could he take skelter, that would condemn him out of his own mouth. Nor could he perjure himself by lying; if his men were put to torture the truth would out. Desperately, he seized upon a bold defense.

"Your Grace, what would you have me say? I cannot in good conscience stand by and let these slander the reputation of His British Majesty's good sister and his Scottish Majesty's revered Queen Mother."

He studied Cranmer's countenance. Not a whit had it changed. "Therefore I, as Margaret Tudor's emissary, challenge the Red Earl to Trial by Combat, the Jouse a l'Outrance. Let sharpened lances determine the truth of the—"

"Let it be recorded," interrupted the Archbishop, speaking over his shoulder to the clerk scratching away at his lectern in a deserted comer of the chapel, "the accused enters no defense."

"But—" De Wynter would have continued, but he was given no chance.

"So be it. I shall consult my God and my conscience and render my decision. Return him to his quarters."

"No!" de Wynter shouted. "I have not finished. Let me speak."

"Come, Your Lordship, if you cease your struggling, perhaps His Grace would allow you to see your men." All eyes sought out the archbishop.

That such a visit was part of the strategy to bend de Wynter to the king's will, none would have known by looking at Cranmer. His impassive gaze rested long and speculatively on the young Scot where he stood held fast in the grip of four burly Beefeaters. Personally, he regretted sacrificing another victim to the king's fascination with his Boleyn. However, what the king wanted was the archbishop's desire. Almost imperceptibly, Cranmer gave his consent.

"When?" de Wynter demanded.

Unseen by the herald, the keeper signaled the archbishop—all was in readiness. "Would the present suit Your Lordship?" "Very much."

"Good. My Lord Gaoler, you will conduct our young friend direct to see his men."

They did not retrace their steps. Instead, led by the keeper, they left the chapel, pacing the length of the banqueting room, de Wynter counting his steps off silently. It measured twenty-seven paces, an enormous room.

A door in the northeast corner revealed another stair built in the wall. De Wynter lost count of the steps as they made their way down into the depths of Tower Hill. Finally the stairs ended and they came out in a large room. But the torches carried by the warders revealed no Scots.

Bewildered, de Wynter looked to the keeper for explanation. Was this some sort of trick? Was he to be done away with secredy? The keeper forestalled his questions: "They be kept in the Little Ease."

Giving his torch to a fellow, he advanced toward a dimly lit corner of this windowless room tunneled out of solid rock. Grasping a ring in the floor, he gave a heave, opening a trap door, then gestured for de Wynter to advance. His first hint of what he would see was the stench. By the light of the torches held by his surrounding captors, de Wynter looked down into the upturned faces of his friends. They lay and crouched and sat in a small pit in the ground not big enough for all to stretch out, or high enough for any to stand.

"Jamie! Water! For God's sake, fresh air!" Some merely moaned.

He knew not who cried what. "How long—?"

"They been down there since they arrived. They have not been out since, although we supply them with salt meat and water. They eat little but drink every drop. Their body heat turns the pit into an oven. How long will they last? They are strong young men, one or two might live out the next week."

De Wynter tried to push the menacing pikes aside so his men might escape, but strong arms held him back. "Let them out. They have done nothing. I am the guilty one. Take me to the archbishop. I shall confess." The keeper gestured his men to step back so he might let the door down.

"Drummond, Fionn, Gilliver," de Wynter called back over his shoulder as his warders pulled him back. "Have faith, I'll have you out." His promises were cut short by the hollow thump of the trapdoor closing with fearful finality. Returned to his cell, de Wynter lay dejectedly as the hours passed. The room grew dark. The fire on the hearth grew low, until merely smoldering, scattered coals. Still de Wynter made no move, lying still on his pallet. Even when the door opened and warders bearing torches entered, he did nought but cover his eyes with his forearm.

There came to his unwilling ears a medley of sounds. Logs being put in the fire
...
his furniture, set back on its feet from where he had kicked it in helpless rage
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the door opening more than once
...
and footsteps, many footsteps, scuffling about. With the closing of the door, the sounds died away except for the crackling of the fire. Then, a very faint rustle of cloth. Cranmer spoke.

"I take it you saw your friends and were not pleased," he addressed the still form on the bed. "The gaoler tells me you are prepared to confess?"

"Will it free my men?" "No, I think not."

De Wynter was off the bed and on his feet like a snarling cat. But the archbishop remained unfazed and unruffled as the enraged lordling stalked him, mayhem being his object.

"Lift finger against me and you condemn your friends to die. The gaoler has his orders." With a stifled cry the defeated herald turned away, leaning dejectedly against the chimney place, staring unseeingly into the fire. Helpless. He was at the mercy of this man and his lecherous king.

"There is a way to solve our contretemps. Sit down and I will explain."

"I'd rather stand."

Cranmer chose not to object. "His British Majesty has sent me here personally to treat with you. First, let me make it clear you have no bargaining power. Your fate rests with me. I have in my possession eleven death warrants, signed and stamped with royal' seal. And if I should wish, eleven confessions to confirm their righteousness. Yours has already been heard, and there are ways of making the most loyal friends and servants say what they think the court wants to hear. Which, as we both know, would be simple truth. But for what would you all be giving your lives? To save the nonexistent reputation of a harlot whose whoring is the talk of all Europe? Come now, my friend, you have better sense. The other side of the coin is—if one is convicted of adultery, what of the other? Is she not equally guilty? Naturally, his British Majesty would not, could not sentence his own sister to hang—"

"I thought stoning was prescribed."

"The advantage of hanging is that all voices quickly cease. You can see, His Majesty faces something of a dilemma." "Good! Tell him to let us go free!"

"That would not satisfy the Douglases. No, if it were left to me, I would simply send you to join your friends and let you perish one by one in the Little Ease beneath St. John's Chapel Crypt."

"There will be talk—"

"There already is. Your melodramatic departure did not escape notice. It would be a matter of great embarrassment if the subject of your disappearance should come up during Henry's visit to France
th
is week for the holding of the Second Field of Cloth of Gold."

"He should have thought of that before arresting me."

"What choice had he, the Pope's own proclaimed Defender of the Faith? Of course, the issue being ecclesiastical did not solve the problem of the immunities conferred by your tabard and collar. Naturally, no monarch in his right mind would kill an envoy, a messenger. That would border on an act of war. But killing an adulterer, that would be within his rights. And think how that would enhance His Majesty's own unblemished—"

"Ha!"

"Unblemished reputation. Then again, there is the matter of his sister. And the delicate negotiations for the marriage of the Lady Mary Tudor. You did, of course, know of them." Cranmer wished the man would turn round; his profile, though illuminated to its handsomest advantage by the firelight, helped Cranmer not one bit in judging how well his talk was being received. Despite that, it was time to come to the crux of the matter. No sign of this crossed the archbishop's face nor found its way into his tone of voice.

"It occurred to me, and His Majesty reluctantly agreed, that there might be a way, short of your deaths, to silence our gossips and confound our critics. For did not Our Lord Jesus address the adulterous woman, according to the Gospel of St. John, thusly: "Woman where are those thine accusers? Hath no man condemned thee?" She said, "No man, Lord." And Jesus said unto her, "Neither do I condemn thee: Go, and sin no more."'

Cranmer's voice died away momentarily. Then he began again, his voice tinged with real reverence. "Then did He not say also: 'I am the light of the world: he that followed! me shall not walk in the darkness, but shall have the light of life.'"

De Wynter listened carefully; what he heard puzzled and disturbed him. Standing upright, he turned and faced his judge. Cranmer's eyes were closed, the expression on his face genuine. Servant of king he might be, but he served another, less worldly monarch also. He was a true religious. De Wynter feared him more. The Church in the name of religion did most ungodly heinous things.

Cranmer opened his eyes and stared straight at him. "If you should follow Jesus
..."

"Follow how?" De Wynter's eyes narrowed. In his gut, he dreaded this answer.

"Take orders. A genuine act of contrition. Then could no man criticize you, His Majesty and your Dowager Queen."