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Spring 1534 — London, Court of Whitehall
The hall smelled of damp wool and fear.
Thomas D’Arcy stood with the other landowners, each of them clutching the same parchment, each of them faced with the same choice. It was treason now to believe what their fathers had believed.
Treason to kneel where they had always knelt in worship.
Treason to call the Pope head of the Church.
And standing proudly before them, resplendent in new robes of scarlet and ermine, was Sir Reginald Fitzwilliam, smiling like a cat caught in the cream.
Henry’s latest toadying favorite,D’Arcy thought with disgust.
Fitzwilliam’s estate, Matlock, was separated from D’Arcy’s lands by a river and a long-standing distaste. The Fitzwilliams had been new men once, rising quickly under the Plantagenets, and faster still now under the Tudors. Where the D’Arcys traced their name to Normandy and their roots to conquest, the Fitzwilliams traced theirs to the King’s bastard and their wealth to flattery.
And today, flattery had won.
Sir Reginald had knelt before the King that morning and received a barony.
Sir Reginald Fitzwilliam, Baron of Matlock.
The crowd had cheered. Cromwell had smiled.
And Thomas D’Arcy had stood in silence, the oath in his hand, burning through the wax like poison.
He read it again.“We do acknowledge His Majesty’s full authority, as Supreme Head of the Church of England…”
He could feel the words seeping into him like rot.
“We do renounce all foreign powers and potentates…”
That meant the Pope. Rome. His church.
His soul.
He looked at the men to either side of him. One was sweating so profusely that his collar had darkened with damp. Another held his paper so tightly the parchment was tearing at the edges. Their fathers had fought for Henry VII. Their grandfathers had died at Bosworth for Lancaster or York.
And now they were to unmake their faith with a stroke of the quill.
"Well, D'Arcy?" came a voice behind him, silken and smug.
Sir Reginald.
Thomas turned slightly, enough to see the man’s smug expression and the chain of new office gleaming on his breast. His beard was waxed to a sharp point. His eyes, cold and amused.
"You seem pensive. Surely His Majesty's wisdom does not trouble you."
Thomas inclined his head. "His Majesty’s wisdom is not mine to question."
"Ah, very wise. Very safe. But come—let us be men of the world, you and I." He gestured with one gloved hand toward the line of peers signing their names at the long oak table. "No one will remember who signed first or last. Only who refused."
He leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "And those men will burn."
Thomas said nothing.
He could feel the oath trembling in his hand.
