Somehow, it feels like the most important one in the place.
Two
“The line for the Jewels is a lot shorter now. Let’s go,” Kat says as we stand near the exit. Walking out, I glance up at the small window that marks the prisoners’ room. I have the nagging feeling that I’m leaving something important behind. For eternity. Goose bumps appear on my arms despite the rising temperature.
In fact, the sun is beginning to blaze as we cross the pavement toward the entrance to the Crown Jewels exhibit, and I unzip my jacket for the first time today. Spring has finally shown up—just in time for us to be heading home. The path is wider here, and there are fewer people wandering around. Apparently, hunger calls to most families a lot more strongly than the royal diamonds.
I can see the small line at the entry door, and next to that is a narrow wooden hut with a redcoated soldier standing at attention. He has on one of those huge fur hats like at Buckingham Palace. As soon as Kat sees him, I know what’s coming next.
“Ooh, take a picture of me with this guy,” she says, unwinding the strap of her camera from her wrist. Most of Kat’s photo collection from this trip consists of her posing with various soldiers and guards at all of the tourist sites in the city.
I back away, waiting for people to pass while she stands in front of the small iron railing near the soldier. “Can you get everything in from there?” she calls, shading her eyes with her hand. “I want the whole thing. I think you need to step back a little ways, otherwise you’re going to cut stuff off.”
I move back a few feet toward the White Tower, knocking hard into someone walking behind me. As he reaches out to steady me, I start to feel dizzy, and it’s like sparks are racing through my body. My ears fill with a rushing noise and the blazing sun is replaced with the cold, gray fog of a winter morning.
There is a hush in the air, a feeling of dreaded expectation. In one hand I hold a small book, and in the other, a white lace handkerchief and the silk bag containing some coins and the silver pendant that is the last thing Connor gave me. My heart is beating so fast, it feels that at any minute it will rip out of my chest. I know that as much as I want to run and scream, I am to comport myself like a lady and to behave in a manner that is expected of my station in life. My heavy black dress is scratchy at the neck, and I rub the material between my fingers as the wooden surface above me is prepared. There are few other people in the yard, although there is a great deal of low whispering. The air is heavy with the threat of rain and the smell of the straw that is strewn about the wooden floor of the platform. The soldier standing next to me nods sharply, and I know it is time.
My feet find their way first to one step and then the next, until I am standing on the raised surface. A muffled cry comes from my lady-in-waiting, and I glance at her briefly before focusing my attention to the matter at hand. I am compelled to believe that someone will call off this insanity before it is too late. I have done nothing wrong, only loved my husband with all my heart—and for this we are both to die? I go through the motions, secure in the knowledge that a just God will never allow the deed to be carried out.
All eyes are on me as I open my little money bag and draw out the coins and Connor’s pendant, the ruby in the center blazing brightly despite the somber morning. I run my finger quickly over the curve at the top of the cross. The money means nothing to me, but handing a stranger the necklace that is the symbol of my most cherished relationship is devastating. I know Connor is dead, executed in the chaos of Tower Hill, and this feels like the last connection to my beloved.
My fingers tremble, and for a moment I fear I will drop the coins and pendant before they land with a soft clink in the palm of the masked executioner. I find myself surprised that his waiting hand also trembles, and I glance up into his dark brown eyes, which are the only visible parts of his face. Rather than look into mine, he turns away and stares across the lawn, folding the payment into his palm with an air of finality.
I press my handkerchief and prayer book into the waiting hands of my lady, whose silent weeping is escalating into what I fear will be a noisy crescendo. I give her tiny pale hand a squeeze, attempting to assure her, despite my pounding heart and shortness of breath, that all will be well in the end. The executioner kneels at my feet, his eyes averted, and I grant the customary forgiveness with a wave of my hand. It is as if we are in a play, with each person knowing his assigned part and dispatched to complete the tasks in order.
With forgiveness granted, he stands and indicates the small, square block positioned toward the front of the platform. I search the crowd, wondering which one of the men standing at attention will be the one to stop this. I decline to make the expected declaration of guilt, standing tall before the assembly and saying only, “In my life I have never so much as imagined a traitorous thought against His Majesty.”
The masked headsman holds out a simple white handkerchief to cover my eyes, but I push it away. “I do not fear the axe,” I say, loudly enough for those standing closest to the scaffold to hear. I stare into his eyes and can feel his indecision as he helps me onto my knees, for with a light touch, he holds my elbow, only reluctantly releasing it when I am positioned before the block.
As is my part, I put my neck on the wooden block, pulling my plait aside so that the cold wind reaches the bare white skin of my neck. My breath is coming rapidly, as if I cannot force the air into my lungs quickly enough.
The signal must have been given, for next I hear from below the scaffold, “What dost thou fear, headsman? Strike as you must!” and I am confident I will be spared. The headsman will not raise the axe to an innocent neck! Turning my head only slightly, I see his boots take one step back and the curved metal blade of the axe lift from the straw. “I cannot save you, my lady,” the headsman whispers hoarsely, and I glance up to see a blur of motion and a flash of metal as the blade rips through the air—
“Damn, Cole, what happened?” Kat is standing over me, blocking out the bright sunshine that has reappeared over her head. “One second you’re taking a picture, and the next minute you’re flat on your ass.”
I shake my head to clear it, panic filling my chest. The other visions I’ve had were short, like quick glimpses into another time, but this one is different. I can still feel the emotions that were running through the girl’s mind as she stood on the scaffold. Her pounding heart, the sense of betrayal. It all felt so real.
“Don’t get up too fast,” the guy I’ve run into says. He puts his hand on my back to help me up, but as we touch, he pulls away as if he’s been shocked. “What are you doing here?” he whispers. His voice holds both recognition and astonishment.
“What are you talking about?” I ask. “Visiting the Tower.” What else would I be doing here? I study him more closely. His eyes are a distinctive shade of light brown rimmed with gold, and his skin is just dark enough to make them startling. I’d definitely remember if I’d seen him before.
He seems completely flustered. “Of course. Sorry. I thought you were someone else.” He puts his hand out. “Let me help you up.”
“I’m okay,” I say, struggling to my feet. I look around to see if anyone else has noticed. So far it just looks like this guy and his friend. I can feel my face heat up with embarrassment. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”