At his condemnation, he gave an eloquent speech, much to the distress of his accusers.
I have written many things untrue, and for as much as my hand offended in writing contrary to my heart, therefore my hand shall first be punished. For if I may come to the fire, it shall first be burned.
And as for the Pope, I refuse him as Christ’s enemy and antichrist with all his false doctrine.
I imagined the gaping mouths and angry starts of the host of Mary’s bishops who’d put the old Archbishop on trial. They’d confidently believed they’d terrified Cranmer into siding with them and supporting Mary’s stance on the heresy laws. But in the end, Cranmer died a martyr, another around whom Mary’s opponents would rally.
I heard that when Cranmer stood on the pyre that was to burn him, he’d stated in a loud, clear voice, “This is the hand that wrote, and therefore shall it suffer the first punishment.”
He’d thrust his hand into the flames and held it there until he died. Mary had been so angry, Colby reported, that she’d overturned the furniture and gone to bed ill.
Stopped. It must be stopped.
I would stop her. No matter if I died for it, as long as I ended Mary’s cruelty, I would consider it a deed well done.
During my stay in London, I received a message from my stepfather. He and my mother were lodging near Lincoln’s Inn, and he demanded that I visit them. My mother had been writing to me all winter, continually hinting about my unmarried state, but this was the first summons I’d had.
I ground my teeth and ignored their first message, but the second one was borne by a large manservant who would not leave until I accompanied him.
“Why should they be in London at all?” I growled as the stoic man led me toward Fleet Street. “They have a snug house in Buckinghamshire in which to roost.”
The manservant said nothing. I could not slip away from him, as he was watchful and strong, and presently we came to a modest house that I entered with trepidation.
My stepfather, Sir Philip Baldwin, was a wealthy man, and the house he’d hired reflected this. Tapestries hung on the walls to guard against drafts, and the floors bore clean rushes scattered with herbs. A gallery encircled the second floor of the house, its elegantly carved railings polished and smooth.
A maidservant met me at the door and led me up the staircase to this gallery, the wooden steps creaking under her tread. The maid was as tall and strong as the manservant—their resemblance in build and taciturnity made me guess they were brother and sister.
If my mother had awaited me alone in the cozy room that the maid ushered me into, I might have tolerated the visit well. As it was, my stepfather sat near the fireplace on a chair filled with cushions. It was the only chair in the room. My mother reposed on a bench, albeit softened with small tapestries, her head bent over some stitchery.
Neither my mother nor Sir Philip rose as I entered. They waited in silence, as though expecting me to pay them the deference I would a great lord and lady.
My mother, once Margaret Champernowne, then Mistress Roussel, and now Lady Baldwin, was complacent and plump like a partridge in a nest. She wore an elegant French hood that lined her rather round face, and had wide rings on every finger. My mother had been slim in my childhood, but good living and rich food had put much flesh on her bones.
My stepfather had dark hair going gray at the temples and a hint of ruthlessness that my mother lacked. Sir Philip was loud in his support of Mary and had benefited from it. Mary had given him a sinecure with an income, and I’d heard that Sir Philip was as proud of his small position as he would be a dukedom.
I curtsied with feigned respect, trying not to let my impatience show. As I straightened, my mother held out her hands without rising from her bench.
“It is grand to see you, daughter.” Her gaze hungrily roved my bodice and velvet sleeves. “Are those facings silk? So pretty you look. A credit to us, I have always said.”
Sir Philip was less impressed. “You will sup with us, Eloise,” he said. A command, not a request.
I went to my mother, took her offered hands, which were warm and moist, and kissed her cheek.
“I cannot stay, sir,” I said, turning to Sir Philip. “We ride to Hatfield soon, and there is much to be done.”
Sir Philip sent me a chilly smile. “You will not be returning to Hatfield, daughter. It is arranged. Tomorrow you will be betrothed to Sir Henry Felsham, a friend who is in need of a wife. As you are in need of a husband, he has agreed to marry you.”
The bottom could not have dropped out of my world more assuredly than if I’d fallen from atop a tower. I gaped at Sir Philip while time slid by, the fire crackled pleasantly, and a group of men passed, arguing, in the street below.
“I would have more words of gratitude.” My stepfather’s growl snapped me out of my daze.
I raised my head and gazed at him with imperiousness worthy of Elizabeth herself. “I will not,” I said in a clear, ringing voice.
The ruthlessness in Sir Philip’s eyes turned swiftly to savagery. I saw in him a man who would do anything to obtain what he wanted, and I understood that my mother had long since learned to be meek for him.
“You defy me?” he said in furious incredulity. “I am your guardian, Eloise Rousell. I would think you delighted to rid yourself of a low name and rise in the world. Felsham is a wealthy gentleman, with three estates. You will be Lady Felsham, and your son will inherit his baronetcy. What I have done for you is far, far more than one of your sort could hope.”
“One of my sort,” I repeated. “How dare you?”
