Her Highness, the Traitor - By Susan Higginbotham Page 0,114

laughter; asked whether his wife had poisoned Jane, he had lost his temper for the first time since his arrest and had demanded to know the name of the whoreson who had made such an allegation. Reluctantly, the queen and her council had decided there was no ground for charging him with the king’s demise. In any case, there was no need; there were plenty of other grounds on which to sentence him to death.

There were at least ten thousand people at Tower Hill, I guessed, but Harry and I stood well away from the common people, who were busy jostling for a better view and taking bets over how many strokes it would take to sever Northumberland’s head. We were in a little stand by the scaffold that had been set up for the nobility, for many others besides Harry and me had decided this would be an apt occasion to demonstrate their loyalty

Beside me stood the Earl of Hertford and his younger brother. Somerset’s death, like everything else that had gone wrong in England since the death of King Henry, was now being blamed entirely on Northumberland’s ambition and greed, and it had been deemed fitting that the former Protector’s sons attend the beheading. People kept coming up to the boys to grasp their hands and congratulate them, as if the duke’s downfall and execution had been arranged especially for their gratification, and I had seen that they looked more uncomfortable than triumphant. I smiled at Hertford, who looked resigned to yet another congratulation upon the duke’s imminent demise. “Your mother must have been thankful beyond words to see you again.”

Hertford looked startled, then smiled—the first genuine smile I’d seen from him that morning. “Yes. And I was glad to see her, too.” He paused. “Is Lady Katherine here?”

“No. She stayed home. She is very softhearted. She cannot stand to see people suffer, even traitors.”

“I like a soft heart in a woman.”

I resolved to invite the young earl to supper one day.

A beating of drums sounded, and we all turned to see the Duke of Northumberland, wearing a gown of pale gray damask and surrounded by armed men, as he slowly made his way up Tower Hill. Beside him, chanting in Latin—to the puzzlement of the crowd, which had grown used to English—were Nicholas Heath, the Bishop of Worcester, and several other priests.

Northumberland climbed the scaffold where the executioner, wearing a white apron, limped as he stepped aside to make way for the duke and his party. The duke quickly removed his gown, revealing a black jerkin and gray doublet, and handed it to an attendant. The crowd grew still and silent as he walked to the east rail of the scaffold. “Sirs and friends,” he said, “I have come to die as you see, having been condemned by the law, and I declare and confess that I have grievously offended God, and I beseech you earnestly that you would implore God for my soul, and if there be any here or absent whom I have offended, I crave their forgiveness.”

“God forgive you,” the people chorused dutifully.

Beside me, the Earl of Hertford stared at the ground. I patted him on the shoulder.

Northumberland went on, “I beg you to accept humbly the work of God, because He does all for the best, and as for me, I am a miserable sinner and have deserved to die, and I am rightfully condemned by the laws. But although it is true that I was chief in bringing those things to pass for which I have been condemned, it is also true that I did it by the instigation of others.” He paused, and I felt everyone on the platform with me tense. “But I will not name them, for I will hurt now no man. I forgive them as I myself desire the forgiveness of God. And I beg you all to bear witness that I am taking leave in perfect love and goodwill with everybody, and to aid me with your prayers in the hour of death.”

The duke paused and stared out over Tower Hill before he continued, “Brethren, you are not ignorant in what troubles this realm has been and now continues, as well as in part of the reign of King Henry, as from then until this day, all of which are notorious. I know well that there is no one of you but knows what has befallen us for having departed from the true Catholic church, and