The Tower

The Tower of London loomed over the Thames and London, a constant reminder of the fate that awaited all accused of treason against the King. Or Queen.

Edward Courtenay lay on his back watching the play of shadows on the wall of his cell fiddling with a quill in his right hand. He had not intended or expected to spend half his life in the Tower. Old King Harry had grown more paranoid with age and had deemed Courtenay too much of a threat to release. Harry's son, Edward, had left Courtenay languishing in his cell rather than deal with a Catholic cousin who could conceivably try for the throne.

A cloud obscured the sun and the entire cell dimmed. Getting to his feet, Courtenay went to his desk to light a candle. Life wasn't all bad. He received regular meals, if gruel could be considered a meal, had books to read and parchment and quills to write letters. His days stretched one into the other, sliding by, one much the same as another.

Sitting in his only chair, Courtenay reread a letter from his mother, savouring the words. He paid no attention to the footsteps in the corridor until his door swung open.

"Queen Mary has decided to release you."

The letter fell from his fingers as Courtenay gaped at the gaoler.

"Well, don't just sit there. You need to be washed and dressed before Her Majesty receives you."

Grumbling, the gaoler grabbed his arm and shuffled him into another room with a wooden tub. "This is it. My fortunes are changing at last." He closed his eyes against the sting of lye as the servant girl scrubbed the top layer of skin off his body. "I have been true to the Church and now God is rewarding me." The girl doused his head with a bucket of water.

And this could be just the beginning. The queen needed a husband. She needed heirs. As a descendant of Edward IV, Courtenay was one of the last nobles of English royal blood. He was an optimal candidate to be the queen's husband.

He snorted. Optimal. He was the best candidate.

Edward Courtenay, King of England. It had a nice ring to it.

Upon her ascension to the throne, Mary had Catholic supporters released from incarceration. Among them were the Duke of Norfolk, Bishop Gardiner and her cousin, Edward Courtenay, whom she made Earl of Devon.

Courtenay hosted a dinner in his new castle a week later, celebrating his return to society. A messenger rushed in. "My lord! The queen has announced that she will be marrying Philip, king of Spain."

Courtenay spit out a mouthful of wine. "What?"

"She said she could never marry an Englishman because he would be her subject and would not be a king in his own - "

Courtenay threw his cup at the messenger. "Get out!"

Sketching a quick bow, the man scurried away. Sir John Woods filled another cup with wine and shoved it at the glowering Courtenay. "Her Majesty does have a sister."

Courtenay took the wine, sipping slowly. Seeing him consider this possibility, others offered their opinions.

"And she's not married."

"The queen is old, she may not be able to have children."

"She's also not as popular as Elizabeth."

Courtenay finished his wine with a gulp. "Keep talking," he said, refilling his cup.

It came to the attention of Queen Mary that Lord Courtenay, Earl of Devon, had declared Elizabeth Queen of England and himself, her most beloved bedfellow, King.

Courtenay sat in his chair upon a dais, dressed in velvets and furs and jewels. He watched as his people came to kneel and pay their respects to their new overlord. Knights and barons brought gifts of beautiful cloth, finely worked leather and intricately wrought swords. The smallfolk brought gifts of animals and crops for his kitchens. In return he promised to rule them fairly, hear their complaints and settle their disputes.

Courtenay was enjoying the view when the hushed murmur of his vassals was overwhelmed by shouts outside. Courtenay signaled for Woods to investigate, but before the man could take ten steps, royal guardsmen swarmed into Courtenay's mini-court.

"What is the meaning of this?" He stood, outraged.

A man he recognized as the Duke of Norfolk declared, "Lord Courtenay, you are hereby charged with treason against Her Majesty, Queen Mary. You will be taken to the Tower to await your trial."

As Courtenay's hand went to his sword, he saw five guardsmen mirror his actions. Gritting his teeth, he stepped forward, hands at his sides. "I will go with you willingly."

Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon was escorted from his new home to his old one. He was taken to his old cell and left. He sighed and slid down the wall to sit in the straw. The desk was still against the far wall. A pallet across from it. Straw strewn on the floor for warmth. Light played with shadows on the floor. It was like nothing had changed.

Only this time he was actually guilty.

The queen left Courtenay in the Tower for months as she dealt with Wyatt the Younger's Rebellion. When asked what she planned to do with the Earl of Devon. She sighed and wished the matter was already resolved.

Courtenay huddled in a corner trying to keep warm. However brief a time he had spent outside the Tower's walls, he had managed to forget the bone-chilling cold that seeped from the stones. He looked up as he heard the jangle of keys in the lock.

"Up you get, Courtenay."

"Wh-What's happening?" he asked, stumbling to his feet.

"The queen has asked for your presence at court."

Relief, strong and warm poured over him. Of course she would free him. He was her cousin.

The gaoler clapped manacles around his wrists and ankles, leading him down the hall. Two guards fell into step behind him. Courtenay glanced back at his escort, an unease shoving aside his relief.

"So, I'm to see the queen?"

"Yep."

"Has she said anything else?"

"Nope."

Courtenay fell into silence, following behind, eyes on the stones beneath his feet, glistening in the torchlight. As they reached the stairwell, a voice cried out.

"My lord gaoler! Please, I beg of you, I need a doctor."

"What's this now?" he muttered, stomping over to the cell and peering through the little window in the door. He fumbled for the ring of keys, saying over his shoulder, "Head downstairs and wait for me at the bottom."

"But it's dark, you have the torch - " Courtenay felt a jab in back.

"Get moving."

Courtenay reached out with both hands, inching his way down. The steps were smooth and slippery. Walking on a flat surface was difficult enough in chains, but down a spiraling staircase was terrifying.

"Hurry up!"

He turned to look over his shoulder, but he could see nothing. He felt another jab. He jerked forward. The chain caught on something, wrapping around his legs. He pitched forward, hands outstretched.

He fell.

Queen Mary was finishing lunch in her solar with her ladies-in-waiting when the Duke of Norfolk arrived.

"Your Majesty, there's been an accident. Lord Courtenay slipped and fell down the stairs in the Tower. He's dead."

"Pity," she said, waving her bejeweled hand at a page. He rushed forward with more wine. She took a sip and stood. "Ladies, come. I think we'll walk in the gardens. It's a beautiful day."

And the matter was resolved.