“Names… names… names….” The words beat on her ears.

“Oh, God,” she prayed, “I had not thought of this. I had not thought I could endure so much and live. I had thought of the quick sharp pain. Death by the flames could not bring such agony as this.”

She heard the voice of Wriothesley beating like an iron bar on her shattered nerves:

“I will have those names. I will. I will. Again. Again. Give it to her again. You men are soft. You are too gentle. By God, I’ll have those names.”

Sir Anthony Knevet intervened: “My lords, I protest against this additional racking. The lady has been put to the test. That is enough.”

“And who, sir,” demanded the Chancellor, “are you to say what shall and what shall not be done?”

“I am the Lieutenant of this Tower. I am in sole charge in this Tower. The lady shall not, with my consent, be tortured further.”

“And who has placed you in command of this Tower? You forget to whom you owe your honors. This is rank disobedience to His Majesty’s orders. I will carry reports of this to the King, and we shall see how much longer you remain Lieutenant of the Tower, sir.”

Sir Anthony grew pale. He was afraid of the Chancellor and the Solicitor-General, for the two stood firm against him. But when he looked from them to the halfdead woman on the rack, he boldly said: “I cannot give my consent to the continuation of the racking.” He turned to the torturers. “Hold!” he ordered. “Have done.”

Wriothesley laughed.

“Then must we do the work ourselves. Come, Rich!” he cried; and he threw off his cloak. “We will work this together. We will show the lady what happens to those who defy us. As for you, sir Lieutenant, you will hear more of this matter. I, personally, shall convey the tale of your disobedience to the King.”

Knevet walked out of the chamber.

Rich hesitated; the two professional torturers, who dared not disobey the Lieutenant’s orders, stood watching. But Wriothesley had pushed them aside, was rolling up his sleeves, and, signing to Rich to do the same, he took an oar.

And venomously and most cruelly did those two go to work.

Anne was past prayers, past thought. There was nothing in the world for her, but the most exquisite agony ever inflicted on man or woman; there was nothing for her but the longing for death.

Sweating with their exertions, Wriothesley and Rich paused.

“She cannot endure more,” said Rich. “She is on the point of death.”

Rich was also thinking: And Knevet will be in his barge at this moment on his way to Greenwich. And what will the King say? His Majesty would not want this woman to die on the rack; he only wanted her to betray, as a heretic, the woman of whom he was so tired that he wished to rid himself of her.

Wriothesley followed his thoughts.

“Remove the ropes,” he said. “She has had enough.”

The professional torturers untied the ropes and laid the broken body of Anne Askew on the floor.

KNEVET SOUGHT AN AUDIENCE WITH THE KING.

“Your Majesty, I come in great haste. I come to lay before you my sincere apologies if I have disobeyed your orders. But I cannot believe Your Most Clement Majesty ever gave such orders.”

“What orders are these?” asked the King, his shrewd eyes glinting. He guessed that the Lieutenant of the Tower had news of Anne Askew.

“Your Grace, I have come straight from the racking of Anne Askew.”

“The racking of Anne Askew!” The King’s voice was noncommittal. He wished Anne Askew to betray the Queen’s guilt, but he did not care to have his name connected with the racking of a woman.

The Lieutenant of the Tower lifted his eyes hopefully to the King’s face.

“It is the woman, Your Grace, who is condemned to the stake.”

“The heretic,” said Henry. “She is condemned with three men, I understand. She has offended against our Holy Church and slandered the Mass. She has been tried and her judges have found her guilty.”

“That is so, Your Majesty. The sentence is just. But… they are racking her to death. Your Chancellor and Solicitor-General are racking her for information.”

“Racking her! Racking a woman!”

Knevet was on his knees, kissing the King’s hand.

“I knew that Your Grace in your great mercy would never have given your consent to such treatment of a frail woman. I could not allow myself to be involved in the matter unless I had written orders from Your Majesty. I trust I did right.”

The King’s lips were prim. To rack a woman! He had never given his consent to that. The rack had not been mentioned in his talk with the Chancellor.

“You did right,” said the King.

“Then I have Your Majesty’s pardon?”

“There is no need of pardon, my friend.” The King laid his hand on Knevet’s shoulder. “Go back to your duties with a good conscience.”

Fervently Knevet continued to kiss the King’s hand.

As he was about to retire, Henry said: “And the woman…did she disclose…er… anything of interest?”

“No, Your Majesty. She is a brave woman, heretic though she be. I left the Chancellor and Solicitor-General working the rack themselves, and with great severity.”

The King frowned. “And…on a frail woman!” he said in shocked tones. “It may be that under dire torture she will betray others who are as guilty as she is.”

“I doubt it, Your Majesty. She was then too weak to know anything but her agony.”

The King turned away as though to hide his distress that such things could happen in his realm. “A woman …” he murmured, his voice half sorrowful, half angry. “A frail woman!”

But when the Lieutenant had gone, his eyes, angry points of light, almost disappeared in his bloated face.

“A curse on all martyrs!” he muttered. “A curse on them all!”

Memories of others came to him in that moment. Norris and Derham; Fisher and More.

And it seemed to him that the ghosts of those martyrs were in the room, mocking him.

IN THAT SQUARE where so many tragedies had been played out, where medieval duels had been fought, where the sixty-two-year-old Edward III had held a seven-day joust for the entertainment of the young woman with whom he was in love, where Wat Tyler had been bettered by the youthful Richard II—in that square of gay triumphs and cruel deeds, men were now piling the faggots around four stakes.

From all over London the people were coming to Smithfield. Today was a show day, and the crowning event of a day’s sightseeing was to be the burning of four martyrs, one of them a woman—the famous Anne Askew. They chattered and laughed and quarreled, and most impatiently they waited for the sight of those who were to suffer.

The hot sun burned down on the walls of the Priory renowned for the fine mulberries that grew in its grounds, picking out the sharp stones and making them glitter. The smell of horses was in the air, although this place was to be used for a purpose other than the marketing of horses on this tragic day.

On a bench outside the Church of St. Bartholomew sat Wriothesley, with important members of his party, among them the old Duke of Norfolk and the Lord Mayor.

Wriothesley was uneasy.

The King had not reproved him in private for the racking of Anne Askew, and he knew that he had done what His Majesty had wished even though he could not be commended for it in public. Still, the torturing had been a failure, for the woman had refused to give the names which were required of her; and it was not wise to forge a false confession, for she was a fearless woman who was quite capable of exposing the fraud when she was at the stake and there would be many to hear her.

Yes, the affair was a failure, for clearly the torturing and burning of a gentlewoman had not in itself been the desire of the King or the Chancellor. The motive had been to implicate the Queen, and that had not been achieved.

On this day a fence had been erected on all sides of the square. It was necessary to keep back the press of people. He was afraid of what they might do, what sympathies they might display toward a woman who had been broken on the rack … whatever her faith. He was afraid of what words Anne Askew might speak while the flames crackled at her feet. Fervently he hoped that if she did speak, the fences would prevent the mass of sightseers from being near enough to hear her. He was, therefore, a most uneasy man.

The victims were now on their way from Newgate, whither Anne had been taken after her torturing, to await the day of her death. Anne came first. She was carried to the stake in her chair, for her limbs were useless. The people shouted when they saw her. The cry of “Heretic! To the stake with the heretics!” was distinctly heard. But so also were the words: “God bless you.” And some pressed forward to touch the garment of one who they considered would shortly be a holy martyr.

Her golden hair lay lusterless about her shoulders, but how fiercely her blue eyes burned. No torture could douse the light which burned within her. She was the fanatical and triumphant martyr. She knew that she had come successfully through the greater ordeal. Death by the flames would offer a welcome release from pain.

With her were three men—three others who had denied the Mass. None of them was considered of any importance; they were humble people. John Lascelles was the most interesting, because he had been the man who had first spread the rumors concerning Catharine Howard and so sent her to her doom.

Wriothesley thought fleetingly that every man was near to death. He who condemned today, was in his turn condemned tomorrow.

He turned to Norfolk. “A woman to die thus! It seems cruel.”

“Aye,” said Norfolk, who had seen two female relatives, wives of the King, lose their heads. “But she is nevertheless a heretic.”