and she could never forget the days when she had been a poor humiliated daughter of a great King who, when the fancy took him, chose to call her “bastard.” Elizabeth then, favored the new faith but she would never be a strong adherent to it. She would always trim her sails according to the wind that blew.
And the Queen? Ah, the Queen was a good and earnest woman, but was she made of the stuff of which martyrs were made? That would doubtless be proved. Anne prayed for the Queen—not for her safety, but that she might show courage when the time came.
She went to her apartments and as soon as she entered the room she was aware that something had happened to it during her absence.
It was some seconds before she noticed the disorder; and a few more before she saw that in the shadows by the hangings were men-at-arms.
One of them came forward as she entered, and two more took their stand on either side of her.
“Anne Askew,” said he who stood before her, holding a scroll in his hand, “I am ordered to arrest you on a charge of heresy. It would be well for you to come quickly and make no resistance.”
She saw then that they had found her secret store of books and the writing she had done; but instead of fear, she felt an exhilaration. She had expected this for a long time and she found that she could welcome it.
They took her down the river by barge.
Calmly and silently she watched the play of light on the river. She looked at the great houses with their gardens which ran down to the water’s edge, and she wondered, without any great emotion, whether she would ever see them again.
The great gray bastion of the Tower was visible now, strong, invulnerable.
Her eyes were shining as they took her in by way of the Traitors’ Gate. She remembered that through this gate they had taken the martyrs, Fisher and More.
She was helped out of the boat; she stepped on to the slippery bank and followed the jailor into the cold building, up a staircase, through dark passages that stank of blood and sweat and the damp of the river.
The jailor jangled his keys and to many the sound might have been like notes of doom; but to Anne Askew it was but the jingling of the keys which would open the doors of Paradise to the martyr.
THE ELEGANT AND most witty Earl of Surrey was sprawling on a window seat in his apartments at Hampton Court Palace. He was in that reckless mood which was becoming habitual to him. Thirty-one years of age and a poet, he was a member of the greatest and most noble family in the land, and there were times when he felt his ambition to be so strong that he was ready to do the most foolhardy thing to achieve it.
Death! He thought of it often. He had lived so near to it all his life that he felt an intimacy with it. So many of his House had died violently and suddenly. None of them could ever be sure which one of them would be the next to die. His family was guilty of the gravest offense against the King: They had a claim to the throne. The Howards of Norfolk were, some said, more royal than the Tudors. The King could never forget that, and he was constantly on the alert for a sign that the Howards were giving this matter too much consideration.
“Have a care!” said Surrey’s cautious father often enough. But, pondered the young poet, idly playing a few notes on his lute, there comes a time in the life of a man when he no longer wishes to take care, but rather to be reckless, to stake everything…to win, or pay the price of failure with his head.
Wild plans were forming in his mind. This had begun to happen when the King had told him that he had decided to send Edward Seymour, Lord Hertford, to Calais as Governor in place of himself.
These accursed Seymours! Who were they? Surrey asked himself rhetorically. An upstart family! And because young Jane had married the King, the Seymour brothers were fast becoming the most important pair in the country.
Surrey called one of his men to him and cried: “Go to the apartments of my sister, the Duchess of Richmond, and tell her I would have speech with her.