The White Rose

"God will be your Judge!"

The archers had been well disposed, and police agents mingled with the crowd. Pickets of men-at-arms had been posted on the bridges and upon all the roads leading to Smithfield. There was nothing to fear.

'Pole, you may compliment the Provost,' said the King to the Chancellor who was standing by him.

The excitement, which in the morning had given rise to fears of revolution, had turned to holiday mood, a sort of outlandish gaiety, a tragic show offered by the King to his capital. There was an atmosphere of the fair-ground over all. Tramps mingled with townsfolk who had brought their families with them, painted and powdered prostitutes had come from the alleys behind Saint Paul's where they exercised their profession. Guttersnipes wove their way between people's legs to the front rows

The King himself sat in a royal loggia on a wider section of the city walls. It was dark. A monk cried out from the bodyguard unit, made up of a dozen of Brackenbury's men.

"In a short time you will appear before the Lord! You still have time to confess your sins."

No response came from the pyre. The White Rose narrowed his eyes into a glare. The crowd went completely silent. Would the King forgive the Carthusians at the last moment? Their thoughts were soon confirmed to be wrong. The King outstretched his arm. This was the signal Robert Brackenbury was waiting for. He nodded to his men. Within a few moments, they dropped their torches at the base of the pyre. Smoke quickly billowed from the log mound, and the Duke of Clarence coughed, albeit in an exaggerated fashion.

"We'll all die from the smoke before your Carthusians burn," he said to Knox "You could at least have had the men use dry wood."

Knox had to restrain himself from coughing. Go on then burn. Burn in hell. You've kept the King and myself at bay for far too long. I was in the right all this time He thought.

The King was stoic, silent. The Lord Chancellor was beside him, and followed suit. But the men on the pyre had ceased to be mere political abstractions. They were not numbers on a page. They were about to burn to death. The thought nearly made Sir James Pole vomit.

Anthony Woodville, the King's Lord Chamberlain, always a loyal subject, was praying quietly. The wind stopped, and the smoke now concealed the accused for a moment.

Edward of Luxembourg began laughing hysterically. Richard of March turned his head away. Obviously the whole affair was painful for him to watch. He was nineteen years old; he was slender and had a pink and white complexion. Those who had known his father at the same age said that the resemblance was startling but that Richard had less vitality, and less authority too, a weak copy of the great original. The appearance was there, but the temper was lacking.

"Edward. I've just seen a light at your apartment." he said, trying to keep his mind off of the burning men.

"The guards must want to have a look too." the Duke of Luxembourg responded.

"They could have had my place with pleasure," replied Richard.

"What?! Doesn't it amuse you to see Elizabeth's godfather roast?"

"It is true that Green is Elizabeth's godfather," said the Duke of March.

"I think that's funny!" Edward of Luxembourg giggled.

"Both of you. Shut. Up." said the King, obviously irritated at their whispering.

The fire now leapt up into the air, and began to burn the upper part of the pyre. Smoke covered both Templars for a moment. When it had cleared, it was obvious that John of Kingsbridge had come alight.

"What a fine picture of Hell you've given us, Knox. Were you thinking of your future life?" remarked the Duke of Clarence.

The Keeper of the Seals did nothing except shoot Clarence a nasty look.

The faint cries of "Brother! Brother!" could be heard from James Green.

By now, John of Kingsbridge was nothing more than cinder. But the Grand Master was still alive, untouched by the flames. It was then that he bellowed, in the voice that had served him so well at Westminster Abbey.

"SHAME! SHAME! YOU ARE WATCHING INNOCENTS DIE! GOD WILL BE YOUR JUDGE!" he screamed.

The crowd began to murmur in fear. Flames crept closer to the Grand Master. With his white beard illuminated by flames, it looked as though Moses was being burned. Now the Grand Prior turned to the loggia, and Prince Richard's heart sank.

"CARDINAL MORTON! SIR JOHN KNOX! KING EDWARD! BEFORE THE YEAR IS OVER, I SUMMON YOU TO JOIN ME BEFORE GOD AND ALL THE ANGELS AND SAINTS TO RECEIVE YOUR JUST PUNISHMENT! ACCURSED! ACCURSED! YOU SHALL BE ACCURSED EVEN UNTO THE THIRTEENTH GENERATION OF YOUR BLOOD! YOUR SHALL BE CURSED!"

The fire, having seemingly waited for the end of James Green's tirade, now went in for the kill, and his robes went up in smoke, while the pyre collapsed under him. In a final attempt to spite the King, the Grand Prior's hand went up into the air, clearly visible even when the rest of his body had gone under.

Terrified by the curse, murmurings went up and down the crowd. He didn't curse us, he wasn't talking to us, was he? No, he cursed the King. But did he?

"Well, dear brother," said the Duke of Clarence. "I suppose you're happy now."

"No, brother," replied the King, "I am not happy. I made an error."

"You don't say," muttered the Duke of March under his breath.

"I should have had their tongues cut out before they were burned." The King said dryly.

Clarence had already vanished with his chief retainers, heading back to the royal palace.