The White Rose

The Prisoners in the Tower

The bells came early. The bells of Westminster and of London could be heard for miles. In one of the lower cells in the Tower of London, a prisoner's ears perked up. He was listening. There was a bowl of water near him; it had largely been put there to keep him alive as he had been suffering from fever recently. He drank some of it before looking at his reflection. A hollow man, white beard made ragged by his years of imprisonment. Very few of his teeth were left. Those that were left were stained yellow and brown. Courtesy of the King of England. 

"JAMES GREEN! JAMES GREEN! I AM JAMES GREEN, GRAND PRIOR OF THE CARTHUSIAN BROTHERS OF THE SWORD!" he suddenly bellowed. 

There was no answer. No one would answer, he knew that much. Yet for the prisoner, this was his method to avoid going mad. He did it also to remind himself that not so long ago, he was the head of a sovereign order. A sovereign order numbering some 5,000 brothers of the sword, pledged to Christ and the Pope. As if out of spite, the prisoner smashed his fist into the wall. Or, more precisely, what was left of his hand. One finger had been cut off completely, whilst his thumb was a mere stump. 

He recalled the early days of the examination. At first it had merely been punches to the face with gauntlets. When the torturers realized that that would not be enough, they decided to put him on the rack. They had stretched him to the point of breaking in half, all the while the high pitched and sinister voice of Sir John Knox, the Keeper of the Seals hung over him, asking him to confess his crimes. This had not broken his spirit.

But more recently, the prisoner had been threatened with amputation of his lower right leg. Sir John Knox asked him quietly

"My lord knight, why don't you confess?"

This had done the job. The prisoner had begun to scream that he would confess everything, admit every crime, all the crimes of the world. Yes, the Brothers practiced sodomy among themselves; yes, to gain entrance to the Order, it was necessary to spit upon the Cross; yes, they worshipped an idol with the head of a cat; yes, they practiced magic, and sorcery, and had a cult for the Devil; yes, they embezzled the funds confided to their care; yes, they had fomented a plot against the Pope and the King ... And what more besides?

But the prisoner's self hatred for this false confession gave way to hatred. 

"They'll die of it. All of them"

Who would? The Pope was not guilty of this affair, indeed, he had been misguided. There was a new Pope in Rome in any case. But certainly Cardinal Reginald Morton would pay for his violation of the Commandments. The Keeper of the Seals was the second son of a Lollard; he would be greeted by eternal hellfire regardless of when he died. Which left King Edward... No punishment could be harsh enough to do justice against him.

Ever since the failure at Grunwald, the crusader orders had been in decline. The Brothers of the Sword were no different. Yet we'd continued as if there had never been any defeats. We were too haughty, too arrogant, with little to offer in return, thought James Green. It was true that they had effectively outlived their usefulness, while their willingness to boast of launching a new crusade and not doing so had made them deeply unpopular.

It had been eight years ago when King Edward had asked to join the order, so as to become it's Grand Prior. But the Brothers responded with a definite no. Was I envious of power? Should we have refused him? Our principles and rules were clear: no sovereign princes in our ranks. But rules can always been bent or broken. 

King Edward had appeared to not have minded the refusal. But he must have begun plotting the downfall of the Carthusian Brothers of the Sword that very day. He'd offered the Grand Prior an independent investigative committee to inspect rumors of sodomy and idolatry. I was foolish accept that proposal, Sir James thought. The Pope had given it his blessing.

And now here he was. In the Tower of London, some seven years later. The sound of footsteps forced Green to calm himself. It was Piers, the young jailer.

"Has judgement been pronounced?" asked the Grand Prior.

"Not to my knowledge, no." replied the boy. "Francis Lovell has spoken with Brackenbury; you are to be taken to Saint Paul's by wagon. Come with me."

Having opened the cell doors, Piers helped the elderly Grand Prior up to his feet. They then walked out of the cell and into the damp hallway. The two went up the steps, the feet of the Grand Prior bleeding, and exited the building into the blazing sunlight. Lord Lovell and Sir Thomas Brackenbury were speaking to each other beside a wagon. Three other men were also there, all prisoners as well: John of Kingsbridge (the Prior of the Pale), along with the Visitor General and the Prior of Newcastle. 

They had all horribly scarred faces. Piers returned inside, while a dozen of Brackenbury's men stood on standby, bows in hand. Lord Lovell stepped forward.

"You men have the right to have your shackles removed." he said.

"I am prepared to die," muttered John of Kingsbridge.

"I can make that happen more speedily," Brackenbury growled.

In any case, several men removed the chains. The four men were shoved into the wagon, itself covered in iron bars. All the while, James Green continued to think.

They'll die of it. They'll all die of it. They will all die.

The gates to the Tower opened, and the wagon, drawn by four horses, moved off, followed by Lovell, Brackenbury, and the dozen guards from before, all mounted on white Arabian horses. Several people were weeping in the streets. Others were crossing themselves  and even more were shouting.

Death to the heretics!

The Grand Prior felt surging within him one of those half-crazy rages which had so often come upon him in his prison, making him shout aloud and beat the walls. He felt that he was upon the point of committing some violent and terrible act – he did not know exactly what – but he felt the impulse to do something.

He accepted death almost as a deliverance, but he could not accept an unjust death, nor dying dishonored. Accustomed through long years to war, he felt it stir for the last time in his old veins. He longed to die fighting.

They'll die of it. They shall all die!

The wagons came within view of the spire of St Paul's.