Garden of Heresy

Chapter 1: On the Eve of Death

The clanging of the Jailor’s keys echoed throughout the dungeon. Torches flickered in the darkness. Footsteps on the cobbled floor mixed with chainmail plates beat out a steady rhythm. My eyes could not see much in the darkness of the Tower. As I was dragged with my hands and feet in chains, I could feel the eyes from my fellow cellmates watching the ritual of bringing in more prisoners. The guard’s fingers bit into my bruised skin. Blood dripped in a steady stream from the cuts on my head. An ebbing throb radiated across my body where fists, stones and whips had beaten me upon my arrest. I was on the verge of blissful sleep and yet it did not come. As I turned my head to look behind me, I saw her…The Angel of Death. A cruel creation of God placed upon this earth. A destroyer of so-called heresy…her name? Queen Mary I of England. My Angel of Death. My Punisher, My Persecutor, My Judge, Jury, and Executioner…

My Name is Robert Davis and I am a Protestant prisoner in The Tower of London during the reign of the Catholic Queen, Mary I of England in the year 1555 A.D. As I sit here now in my cell writing this letter to warn others of Mary’s diabolical plans for brothers and sister of our faith on the eve of my execution at the hands of Mary’s enforcer’s I have time to think about how my path lead me to this fate…

Chapter 2: Whispers of Treason

It had been 15 days prior to writing this memoir that the steps to my arrest had first been taken. I had meet in secret with 9 of my closest allies. We had agreed to meet in a room at The Prospect of Whitby in Wapping to discuss our plans to depose the Catholic Queen and place her sister Elizabeth on the throne. We were into the second year of Mary’s reign and many of our protestant brothers and sisters had already been tortured and burned at the stake for our beliefs.

My fellow conspirators in this plan were as follows:

Jonathan Taylor, Samantha White, Benjamin Smith, Olivia Johnson, Marcus Brown, Emily Martin, Christopher Wilson, Victoria Turner, and Father Anthony Robinson.

Our plan was simple, to sow seeds of discontent within the nobility that made up the royal circle and persuade them to our cause that Mary was unfit to rule as her genocide of the protestant faith has clouded her thoughts and brought chaos and unrest to the kingdom. Then when the forces of the rebellion were ready, we would lay siege to the Kingdom and usurp ‘Bloody Mary’ and place Elizabeth on the throne, who would continue the Protestant reformation her father King Henry VIII had started.

We arrived at The Prospect of Whitby to meet with Lord Alexander Harrington 10 days later, we had known he was a sympathiser to our cause and a fellow protestant. Upon arrival we made our way downstairs to our private room. The signs that something was wrong should have been easy to spot yet we still missed them. The establishment was far quieter than normal. Marcus and Victoria had both sent word that they were unable to attend that day. The remaining 7 of us sat around the table waiting for Lord Harrington to arrive. Some time passed and yet he did not show. This was when my co-conspirators and I then knew for certain something was amiss. We agreed it was time to leave. We never reached the steps. We heard the clinking of chainmail from upstairs and knew that the Queen had received word of our plot. Down the stairs they came, the enforcers sent by Mary. We were forced backwards into the room, trapped like rats on a sinking ship.

Thomas Darbyshire entered afterwards. A known Catholic Merchant and supporter of Mary. He took in the candlelit room before settling his eyes on us.

“Arrest them and bring them outside” Darbyshire left as the enforcers closed the circle around us. We did not go gently. The 7 of us fought with all means available to us. Hands, feet, and teeth were weapons given to us by God but they are no match against armour and whips. In that small room, our bodies were beaten and bloodied. We were no longer men and women; we were traitors to the crown and so no rules of chivalry need apply to us. We were stripped to our skins, shackled, and dragged up the stairs and into the streets. Through my blood-soaked eyes, I could see the congregation that had gathered to witness the arrest of the traitors. We were knelt before the crowd, our heads forced downwards to face the street as Darbyshire read out the crimes we were being charged with.

“By the Grace of God, Mary, Queen of England, and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, To All Our Loving and Loyal Subjects, Whereas, it hath come to the Crown’s attention that these disloyal and treacherous individuals knelt before you now, falsely professing allegiance to this Crown, have conspired and plotted against the Throne and the rightful rule of Her Majesty, seeking to disturb the peace and stability of Our realm.”

He paused to soak in the boos and anger radiating from the gathered crowd. Several rocks were thrown at us, upon contact our skin bruising immediately, the sound of breaking skulls where they hit a few of my conspirators’ heads, fresh blood poured into the street.

Darbyshire continued once again.

“Know ye that We, in Our royal wisdom and duty to uphold the security and sanctity of Our kingdom, have uncovered their nefarious designs to subvert the established order and, in their misguided pursuit, to jeopardize the peace of Our subjects Therefore, we hereby proclaim that the following individuals, having been found guilty of conspiring to usurp Our royal authority, are to be forthwith apprehended and conveyed to the Tower of London.”

As he read out our names, our heads in turn were pulled upwards so the crowd could put our faces to them. As I looked at the crowd, I could see friends booing at us. Friends who also shared the same faith now mocking us, belittling us, revelling in the knowledge that soon torture awaited us who dared to make a stand against a murderous queen.

The crown settled when Darbyshire raised his hand for silence.

“Let it be known to all that these individuals stand accused of high treason and other heinous offenses against the Crown. I, Thomas Darbyshire under orders from Her Majesty, now decree that they shall be remanded into the Tower of London’s care where they shall be interrogated for information and tried for their crimes. Let a reminder be heard that we urge all loyal subjects to assist in swift and just apprehension of traitors to the crown. Any attempts to aid or abet conspirators shall be met with the full force of the law. God Save the Queen!”

The crown joined him in chanting for Mary as we were dragged to our feet and tethered to a nearby cart, the crowd now in a frenzy. Rocks flew at our bodies cutting and bruising skin. If we fell to the floor, we were whipped until we stood and walked again. We cried and cried out to God to set us free. No salvation was offered from the heavens, no angels to cut our binds and take us to eternal paradise. God had willed that we suffer and our suffering had only just begun.

Chapter 3: Welcome to The Tower of London!

We arrived at the Tower of London and collapsed to our knees, two of our kin, Jonathan Taylor and Olivia Johnson lay on the ground, their eyes staring into the sky, their bodies had become so broken on the journey over, they had collapsed and had been dragged the last part. We watched as they were unshackled from us and thrown onto a cart where they were then taken away to the Thames to be thrown in. Their final resting place among the fish and filth of the Thames.

The doors to the Tower opened and the guards and Jailor came to greet us. We were taken into the tower’s embrace where we would spend the rest of our days. Mary had been waiting for us, she enjoyed meeting her prisoners, to gloat and ridicule us. Her little heretics.

Chapter 4: Donkeys and Cockle Shells

Our torture began on the second day of our imprisonment. I had never seen men cry or women curse before. Our interrogators were spoilt for choice on the methods they could use to elicit a confession. Some I heard of before whispered in the dark corners of taverns, The Rack, The Donkey, Thumbscrews, The Pear of Anguish…I had even heard rumours of the fabled Iron Maiden.

My female conspirators, Samantha and Emily were assigned to The Donkey, they were forced to sit on the wooden donkey, weights tied to the ankles to pull them down further. The rest of us could only sit helpless in our chains as we were made to watch. The small metal spikes piercing into the flesh of their inner thighs and privates. Blood dripping down onto the wood staining it dark as it soaked in as if a perverse feeding was taking place. I remember one of the guards would force them to walk forwards and backwards ensuring maximum pain was inflicted. When they were released at the end of the day, both would spend time pulling splinters out from their skin while nursing open wounds with the raggedy blankets we were given.

My male conspirators and I were subjected to the humiliation and depravity of The Pear of Anguish. A device named so after the fruit because of its shape. Our torturers relished in the suffering it brought us. The pain as the device was forced into me, the cold metal on flesh, I tried hard to not show signs of pain as my body tried to reject the device. Under the eyes of God, I wonder if he now viewed me as a heretic and an abomination as I recalled the bibles verse that had warned us about committing acts of sin with other men. When the devices were in, we placed into the stocks one by one. The devices’ handle was then turned and the pear’s three sides would open. As the sides opened, I could feel the barbs on each end digging into me. More turns of the screw forced my orifice wider still, it was on the fourth turn of the screw that I felt the barbs rip my flesh apart, a warm stream of blood and faeces began falling onto the floor. I could not hold my screams anymore, I cried and screamed until my throat was sore and my voice cracked. Yet this did not stop the pain, but encouraged it further, the torturer gripped the handle of the device and harshly pulled and pushed it, the barbs shredding my internal flesh and my body shook with delirious pain. I pleaded with him to stop.

With one hand on the device, he gripped my cock and balls with the other squeezing them tightly. I could barely hear him in my near unconscious state. “Tell me you’re a heretic you fucking sodomite!”

I did not respond as I was trying to push through the darkness that was clouding my thoughts.

“I said” His grip tightened. He rotated the level, the device opening further. I screamed as the pain racked through my body. “Tell me you’re a fucking heretic you FUCKING SODOMITE!”

I sobbed as I repeated his words more blood and shit hit the floor. Finally, after what could have been hours, he released his grip and turned the handle the other way, the device’s barbs re tracing their steps through my lacerated flesh. I gasped as he pulled the device out. My legs buckled and I blacked out.

When I came to, Benjamin and Christopher had been subjected to the same punishment as I. Father Robinson had been stretched out on the rack and I could hear him with the physician having his joints put back in again. It sounded more painful that the rack itself.

Chapter 5: Silver Bells

It was on the 4th day that we were ‘granted’ and audience with Queen Mary. We were taken from our cells and brought to St. James’s Palace. We were made to kneel before her as she sat on the throne. To her right side was a table covered in a cloth. She smiled at us with an evil grin.

“So, we meet again, I am sure my associates have not treated you that harshly? Nothing at least that a bunch of heretics could not handle anyway.” She stood up and paraded up and down in front of us. Finally stopping in the middle, she clicked her fingers and the tray was brought forward. The cloth was raised and the contents revealed. Thumbscrews. A perfect method at extracting information and confessions, whether they were true or not.

Our feet were bound in a modified stock and the thumbscrews put in place. The metal was cold. They had tightened the devices just enough so they would not fall off. I could see my conspirators preparing themselves for the pain to come. As I looked to my left and right, many of their faces shared the same look. Tiredness, a sickly pallor most likely caused from the filthy conditions we were kept, or from the infections we had developed from being placed onto unclean torture devices. It was the complete look of resignment that we all shared the most. There was no chance of escape for us, no chance of a last-minute reprieve to free us from our impending execution. I knew that one or more of us would crack during this round of torture and no blame would be placed if they did, at this point if it hastened our deaths…I would say we would all welcome it…

Mary’s Bellman, stepped forward and pulled out a parchment.

“Hear ye, Hear ye! By the command of Her Majesty, Mary, Queen of England, and Ireland, let it be known that those who kneel here accused of treachery and conspiracy shall face the gravest consequences for their actions! To the prisoners now displayed before our glorious Queen Mary, take heed! You are hereby informed that, unless swift cooperation is forthcoming, the thumbscrews shall be tightened upon your digits with unyielding force. The pressure shall persist until either your thumbs are shattered and crushed, or the names of your co-conspirators are revealed. Let this be a clear and unambiguous warning: divulge the secrets that fester within your hearts, or endure the excruciating consequences of your silence. Issued under the authority of Her Majesty's decree, this 5th of March, in the 1555 of Our Queen's Reign. God Save the Queen!”

The Queen’s council joined him in echoing God Save the Queen. Mary stood to address herself. “Let it be known that whoever gives up the name or names of your brothers and sisters, shall be free from imprisonment and torture and will not return to the Tower. This offer will only be gifted to one of you however…so think wisely.”

Mary sat back down and picked some grapes with one hand. With the other, signalled the torture to begin. The pain from thumbscrews can happen two different ways. Slowly and gradually or quickly and immediately. That was the benefit of the thumbscrews, either way, it did the job. Our torturer moved up and down the line tightening each one as he went. The metal plate crushing my bones was unlike any pain I had experienced before. While the Pear had been a constant throbbing pain, it had an end point as no confession could be spoken by a prisoner who could not speak or had died from the shock and wounds inflicted upon them. This was where the thumbscrews were perfect. Prisoners did not need their thumbs or fingers or toes for that matter. So, they could all be crushed if needs be.

As the screws turned tighter, I felt my bones crack, blood squirted out like pus from a boil and the jagged bone fragment pierced holes in my skin. The pain could not be described. The 5 of us could not help but scream. Our bodies thrashed like wild boars as they were punctured by a hunter’s arrows. Some took to bashing the device into their legs to try and distract themselves but it did not work.

I do not know how long it had been since our torture began but for Christopher, it had been long enough.

“Please No More! I will give you names! I will tell you everything! Just stop it please!”

Mary stopped eating her grapes and leant forward. “Well?

“Please…the thumbscrews…” He whimpered under the pain.

“No, names or I’ll have him start on your other fingers” Mary flashed that grin again.

“Nathaniel Turner, Victoria Turner, Marcus Brown, Samuel Barrett, Rebecca Morgan! Please that is all I know!” He sobbed as he raised his hands up to her.

Mary nodded, the torturer released the thumbscrew, we could all see Christopher’s thumbs or what was left of them. A bloody mess of smashed bone poking through torn flesh, muscles severed and dark blood in a steady stream. Christopher did not say much, pain is one thing but his shock at seeing what remained of his thumbs was a different feeling entirely. Once the torturer had released his feet. Mary rose to stand next to him.

“There now, was that so hard? Go on, these two will take you to your freedom.” Two guards marched to Christopher and pull him up by his armpits. Mary returned to her throne and looked at her executioner. “Another few minutes and turns for this lot. I have not finished my grapes yet.”

I did not know how many more minutes we endured, after constant exposure to intense pain, one’s mind tends to shut down, I remember staring at my mangled thumbs, surprised that I could see they were beyond repair yet I felt nothing of the pain, just a comforting numbness spreading across my hands.

“Free the heretics!” The Bellman’s voice broke through my stupor. Finally, the thumbscrews were to be removed. I looked at my fellow conspirators, only 4 remained. All had the same stupefied expressions. A shared thought among us as I would find out later was that at some point during the thumbscrew torture, we had all thought about confessing the names of others in the cause, it was just Christopher was the first one to do it. We all prayed together that night, in the hope that the names of our brother and sisters would be able to get word that Mary was onto them.

As one of the torturers got to me to undo my restraints, I discovered I was wrong in my belief that there could be no further pain once the thumbs had been crushed to pulp. Once the screws had been released enough, blood that had been held back by the pressure raced into my thumbs, bringing with it, hot piercing pain, my hands convulsed as feeling returned, the numbness giving way to pricks of agony. I could just about hear the other 4 enduring the same pain as I. More blood squirted out from what remained of my thumbs. I cradled them as gently as I could in my cupped palms.

“Take them to Mary’s Garden.” The Bellman called out. “Let them enjoy its beauty before they return to The Tower.” Mary smirked at this. Whatever Mary inflicted upon her prisoners, it was never pleasant, perhaps for her but never the prisoners. We were raised to our feet and marched out of the palace into the gardens.

Chapter 6: A Memory of Better Days

The gardens of St James’s Palace had been planted for Mary’s father Henry VIII in the years 1531-1536. As a young boy at the age of 10, I would often find myself surrounded by the hustle and bustle of life within St James's Palace once it had been constructed as my father secured work there as a servant. While my father was kept busy, with the duties and responsibilities that came with serving the court, I would find tranquillity within the palace gardens. During the warm summer months, I often sought solace amidst the verdant beauty of the palace grounds. As I wandered through the pathways, bordered by neatly trimmed hedges and blooming flower beds, I could not help but be captivated by the sights and smells that surrounded me.

The vibrant colours of the summer blooms never failed to lift my spirits – from the delicate petals of roses to the fragrant blossoms of lavender, each flower seemed to exude its own unique charm and beauty. The air was heavy with their intoxicating scent, mingling with the earthy aroma of the surrounding trees. I would often find myself pausing beneath the shade of an ancient oak, gazing up at its towering branches as the sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows upon the ground. The sound of birdsong filled the air, their melodic tunes serving as a soothing backdrop to my thoughts.

In the distance, the grand facade of St James's Palace loomed, a constant reminder of the world beyond the tranquil sanctuary of the gardens. Yet, in that moment, surrounded by the sights and sounds of nature, I felt a sense of peace and contentment that seemed to transcend the worries of courtly life. As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow upon the garden, I would reluctantly tear myself away from the tranquillity of the outdoors, knowing that soon my father’s duties would end and he would call me back as we started out journey home. Yet, in my heart, I carried with me the memories of those summer evenings spent amidst the beauty of St James's Palace, a sanctuary amid bustling court life.

As I stood once more taking in its beauty, I wondered if I would walk among the flowers or shelter under the shade of the trees ever again as a free man…my heart beat yes, but my mind knew not.

Chapter 7: Mary’s Garden

We were made to stand by the edge of a white sheet laid out on a patch of grass. I am sure that we all had the same thought. This is where we will meet our end. A white sheet to be stained with our blood. A white flag of our surrender to our heretic ways that could be paraded around London, another win for Mary and her Catholic supporters. Mary arrived shortly after us, she sat down a chair on the other side of the white sheet. A servant brought out a small table and placed it next to her.

She gave us that sickly smile as she spoke.

“Let us take a moment to discuss the rat. Rats, my dear heretics, are filthy creatures that inhabit our world. They scurry through the alleys and streets of our fair city, their sleek fur glistening in the sunlight as these repugnant creatures infest our homes and streets, spreading disease and despair wherever they roam. Rats, are not the charming creatures of children's tales, but rather the foul vermin that scuttle in the darkness, leaving a trail of filth and destruction in their wake. Their fur is matted with grime, their eyes gleaming with malice as they gnaw through our food stores and defile our dwellings with their excrement.” Mary looked down at the box as she whipped off the sheet.

She waved to a servant standing off to the side. “But it is not just their physical repulsiveness that makes rats so abhorrent – it is the diseases they carry, lurking in the shadows like silent assassins, waiting to strike at the most vulnerable among us. The Black Death, the scourge of our time.” Mary once again paused as she laughed to herself. “Of course, aside from yourselves, is but one of the many plagues that these vile creatures spread with impunity.”

The servant returned carrying a large wooden box, we did not need to see inside the box, from the scratchings and squeaking coming from the interior, we knew it contained rats. The servant put the box down on the table next to Mary. “For rats are not creatures of love and loyalty, but of disease and despair. They care not for the well-being of others, but only for their own survival and they must be eradicated from our midst if we are to preserve the health and safety of our city.”

Mary scratched her nails into the wood, the rats inside become more agitated in the darkness. Her smile faded away, her tongue of venom ran over her teeth, savouring the lashing it was about to unleash. “Which brings us to you, you are not men and women of civilisation but a band of rats, wallowing in the filth of heresy and betrayal. Your presence in this sacred court is an insult to all that is holy and righteous. You, who have turned your backs on God and country, are nothing but foul vermin, unworthy of even the lowest pit of hell.”

Mary got to her feet, her hatred radiating throughout her body. “You scuttle through the shadows like rats, spreading your poisonous lies and deceit, infecting the minds of the weak and the gullible. You have abandoned the true faith, forsaking the blood of martyrs and saints for the empty promises of heretics and traitors.”

Mary stopped to draw in breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly as her face grew redder. She sat back down and clicked her fingers. Two guards dragged Christoper from the palace, his body covered in cuts and bruises, one of his mangled thumbs was missing, only minced flesh and a bone remained of it. He was knelt by the side of the sheet in between us and Mary. His eyes stared vacantly, any life that remained in him had all but been beaten out of his body.

“You see, if there is one thing I hate more than your kind…its disloyalty, your friend here, is a perfect example of a rat. First chance he had; he gave up your fellow conspirators to ensure his own survival. Now I have heard that there is a rather interesting practice that involves encasing someone inside a structure and leaving them to die.” Mary nodded to the servant who moved to the large ground sheet and pulled it away. As I looked upon the hole in the ground, I truly understood that Mary had no limits to her cruelty. I whispered a silent prayer for what was about to come.

A grave had been dug with a modified coffin placed inside, near the top of the box was a cut out circle. We heard a cart being wheeled in behind us. The Gravediggers must have put the dirt and cart somewhere out of sight. A pole was used to open the coffin. The guards pulled Christopher to his feet and turned him. As I looked upon him, what remained of his fear, had come to the surface, he fought with all the strength he had left. One of the guards launched their gauntlet covered hand into Christopher’s stomach, he doubled over in pain and the other guard kicked him into the hole where he landed with a thud against the bottom of the wooden coffin. The gravedigger’s wasted no time. They pulled the pole away and the lid closed on Christopher. One of the digger’s dropped onto the lid and began hammering nails into the lid sealing our brother in arms into the coffin. Even through the wood we could still hear Christopher’s cries. The digger by the cart lifted a cylindrical tube and moved it over the hole, together they connected it to the hole in the coffin. The digger in the hole jumped back up and they started to pour in the dirt entombing Christopher alive. He cries still ringing out through the tube. All we could do was watch.

“Heavenly Father, I put on the full armour of God to stand against the schemes of the enemy. I cover myself with the belt of truth, the breastplate of righteousness, the shoes of the gospel of peace, the shield of faith, the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is your Word. I trust in your strength and protection as I navigate the spiritual battles around me. In Jesus' mighty name, I pray. Amen.” Father Robinson was praying repeatedly.

Mary stood up, as I looked upon her, I came to realise that this lady truly had no limit to her cruelty and I knew in that moment, no salvation would come while we were on God’s Earth. She stood next to the tube and smiled. “Do not worry, he will not be alone. We will put in some more of your kind to keep him company.”

The servant picked up the box and moved to the tube. One of the diggers stood next to him and readied his hands. The box lid was lifted and he put his hands into the box and pulled out two giant black rats. Their noses twitching as they sniffed the air, their feet pushing against the hands that held them to try and break free. He placed one at the opening of the tube and feed it head first into the opening, we could hear it sliding down, he placed the second one in quickly afterwards. Claws scratching against the sides, until we heard Christopher scream as the rats landed onto his face at the end of the tube.

As I listened to his screams, I could almost feel the suffocating darkness closing in around him as he imagined Christopher's final moments – buried alive, trapped in a coffin with no hope of escape. The thought of the rats, their sharp claws, and gnashing teeth, sent shivers down my spine. I pictured Christopher, his once defiant spirit broken by the relentless torture, as the creatures clawed and gnawed at his flesh, teeth laced with infections and disease shredding through his flesh, drinking his blood as it flowed out of lacerated holes. The scraping of teeth and claws as they grated down his bones. An ever-present feeling of fur as the creatures burrowed into his body, eating his body from underneath his skin. All while their hungry eyes gleamed at him in the darkness.

“Well as much fun as it would be to sit here and listen to this delightful song all day. I have appointment to keep. Make the rest of them pile the remainder of the dirt back into the hole and then take them back to the Tower.” Mary waved at us and started back towards the palace before turning around to address us one last time. “And make sure that one.” She pointed at Father Robinson. “Is well rested, he has a very busy day tomorrow!” With that she turned back to the Palace.

“If I may ask for a request your majesty?” Samantha’s weary voice cut into the silence that surrounded us. Mary stopped dead in her tracks, hear head turning slowly until she stared back at us.

“You think you can request anything?” If words could kill, Mary would have us all dead within moments. “How DARE you think you can.” Mary rounded on us, her face reddening once more. She moved to snap her fingers but Samantha spoke before she could.

“Please your majesty, allow us the chance to ask God for forgiveness, let us meet with a catholic priest who can take our confessions and absolve us of our sin so we may enter paradise!” she dropped to her knees and sobbed into her hands.

“You wish to repent and convert?” The scepticism was clear in Mary’s voice. She looked at Samantha and then the rest of us. Finally, she rolled her eyes and continued walking back to the palace. Just before she entered, we heard her speak. “Make your request with the jailor, or don’t.” She disappeared out of sight, her entourage scurrying behind her…very much like rats.

As we were turned to face the palace, I looked back at Christopher’s soon to be gravesite and whispered a silent prayer. As I finished, I looked up at garden, my blood ran cold. I would not have noticed it before, in a line straight down the centre I could see tubes sticking out of the ground. How many were there? The line went all the way down to the far end. Tears rolled down my face. How many of our brothers and sisters had Mary murdered this way? Had any of them given up our plot to try and save themselves? As we made our way back to the Tower, the image of Mary’s Garden never left my thoughts. I could only pray that I would never have to endure such a gruesome end.

Chapter 8: A Candle Prayer in the Darkness

The cell door slammed shut. Keys clinked as locks were closed. The laughter from our torturers echoing arounds the walls as it faded away. I had never heard the cells so quiet, only hoarse breathing from tired bodies.

“Do you think they will pass our request on?” Samantha whispered from her cell.

“I do not know my child, hopefully so. I can only pray that Father Sebastian receives our summons and arrives swiftly.” Father Robinson whispered back. “In the meantime, shall we pray?”

A chorus of yes as we all bowed our heads, in the dim candlelight Father Robinson led us as we prayed for salvation.

"O Lord, in the depths of my despair and the darkness of my confinement, I turn to You, my refuge and my strength. Though the chains of oppression bind my body, let not my spirit be crushed by the weight of despair.

Grant me, O Lord, the courage to face each day with faith and fortitude, knowing that You are with me, even in the darkest of hours. Help me to find solace in Your presence, and to draw strength from Your unwavering love and grace.

Though my earthly chains may never be broken, let my soul soar free in the boundless expanse of Your mercy. Grant me the peace that surpasses all understanding, and the hope that endures through the trials of this life.

And when my earthly journey comes to an end, let me find eternal rest in Your heavenly kingdom, where there is no more sorrow, no more pain, and no more tears.

Through Jesus Christ, In Your holy name, I pray. Amen."

Chapter 9: Defiled In God’s Eyes

Father Robinson was the second of us to be executed. Or if Christopher was still alive in his entombment, he was the first. Mary’s hatred of protestants was known, but she abhorred our holy leaders. We were lead from our cells on the 5th day of our imprisonment, a Sunday of all days and taken to the main entrance. It was there that we knew what fate awaited him. The Breaking Wheel. A device reserved for public executions and gruesome displays of torture. Mary had come to watch, she loved witnessing the executions of our faithful, sadistic pleasure gained from sadistic tortures and morbid deaths. Father Robinson was strung up between two posts and from a nearby pyre a branding iron was pulled out. As the executioner advanced on him, we could hear him praying to God for salvation and protection. He kept praying even when the brand seared into his skin, he prayed still, the stench made stomachs turn. His skin blistered around the brand as it ate into his flesh, when it was pulled away, I could see strands of skin stuck to it that hung loosely like rope between two points. An ugly upside down cross had been burnt into his skin. The executioner looked towards their beloved Queen, a wide smile on her face as she took in their handiwork.

“Brand his head now, then put him on the wheel, he’ll make a perfect example of what we shall do to their lie spreading priests!” Mary settled back into her chair. The executioner returned to the pyre dropping the skin covered one back in. The loose skin sizzling as it cooked. Another brand was pulled out, this time in the shape of the number 666, the number of the beast as stated in the bible. The executioner looked towards his queen. Like a dog waiting for approval from its master.

She looked to the executioner and gave him a sickly-sweet smile. “Proceed.” He nodded and walked up to Father Robinson.

He pleaded to the Queen. “Please your gracious Queen, please, allow me to die without that mark! I beg you, do not allow me to leave this world with the mark of the beast upon my skin! Have mercy just like God would give mercy!”

Mary laughed “Your ‘God’ is false, the Protestant God is a lie, only the true Catholic God gives mercy and he does not save heretics such as you, only burns them in damnation! Mark him!”

The executioner did not need any more instructions. He raised the brand and pressed it firmly into the priest’s forehead…God above…how that man screamed. The demons in Hell, the angels in Heaven and everyone in between would have heard that scream. I remember watching his eyebrows curl up as the heat singed them off, his body shaking violently as if he was in the throes of death. Once more, the brand was peeled off, once more, skin hung like rope. Where the brand had left its mark, I could see the flesh underneath, it bubbled as it burned. Blood pouring out of holes like worms through the soil. Small flakes of metal from the branding iron had stuck to the flesh. The edges around the mark were black where the skin had completely burnt. He must have screamed for 30 seconds after the branding iron was removed before his body went limp and he passed out.

That bitch, Mary howled with laughter, her entourage clapping and laughing as well. If any of them felt sick or harboured sympathy for him, they dared not show it. Mary spoke to the executioner. “How wonderful! Excellent work as always, keep this up and I will have you installed as my personal executioner.”

“Thank you, your majesty, it is my honour and pleasure to carry out you’re bidding.” He knelt on one knee and bowed his head.

“Place the heretic on the wheel and wake him up. Time is running short now and I must return to the castle for meetings with my loyal nobility.” She waved him away.

My allies and I offered silent prayers for what came next, praying a swift death for Father Robinson. It took 3 men to lift the priest onto the vertical wheel and tie him in place. A bucket of cold Thames water was thrown over him. He awoke with a jolt. His breaths in short bursts, within a few moments, the pain from his brands reminded him of his current state. As he looked around, he began praying once more, for he too knew his time on God’s earth was running out.

Mary stood up and looked down towards the priest. “Any last words you wish us to hear?” Father Robinson stared at the sky and continued praying quietly.

“So be it. Execute the heretic!” Mary’s command rang across the silent courtyard. The executioner signalled to the two men who began spinning the wheel. As the wheel spun, the executioner walked to the pyre and took hold of an iron bar the size of a man’s arm. Standing next to the wheel, he lifted the bar, took aim, and waited. He waited for the priest’s right leg to spin round to him and then let fly the bar. With a sickening crunch it connected, bone shattered and ripped through the skin, a blood fountain spewing everywhere. A handful of strands of skin held the broken leg together. Father Robinson had let forth an animalistic scream, all thoughts and attempts of praying vanished from his mind as the pain took over. Mary and her entourage clapped and cheered as the macabre spectacle carried on.

The wheel spun again, the iron bar was aimed and this time connected with an arm, making it hang loosely, deep purple welts forming on the skin where blood had begun pooling. The bones of the arm must have shattered to pieces.

The wheel kept spinning, the bar was aimed, bones were broken, skin was pierced and organs punctured. Father Robinson screamed, cried, and prayed. His voice silenced when the bar broke his jaw, it opened and closed like a broken chest lid with each rotation.

How that man endured that much pain, I will never know while I still live.

When the executioner was satisfied, he ordered the wheel to be stopped. Father Robinson’s head hung down, his breathing short and laboured. His body a broken mess. It was only now that I realised how quiet the courtyard had become. No longer did the screams of a dying man echo, nor did the jeers and claps of sadistic spectators. It was only the crackling of the pyre and his laboured breathing that could be heard.

The executioner looked at Mary, who simply nodded and rose to walk away. Her entourage following her. The executioner turned to the two men who untied his feet. They walked behind the wheel and with two hooked poles, raised his legs upwards behind him, the sound of broken bones and dripping blood filling our ears, Father Robinson could only sob as this happened. His mind and body broken completely. The executioner joined the two men and tied the feet up. Blood from his wounds now collecting on the floor below.

He motioned to the two men. “Take the rest back inside, it will be their turn tomorrow. We were marched inside. Before I left, I took one last look at the priest and prayed that his death came swift. As would ours too. As I entered the tower, I could hear the Ravens chattering, excited at the banquet laid out for them.

By the grace of God, we were left alone the rest of that day, our own mental anguish at the morning’s event was the torture of the day. As I sat in my cell, I could hear his sobs as they drifted up from the courtyard below. The Ravens chattering in between ripping his flesh off.

I was grateful when the jailor returned early that afternoon. He was accompanied by Father Sebastian who had come to conduct our ‘conversion’ to the catholic faith. There was a second reason why we had requested Father Sebastian, he was until the year 1550 a protestant who had converted after seeking shelter during a storm at Lord John Clifford and Lady Alice de Grey’s residence in Warwickshire and spent the night conversing with the Lord and Lady on the subject.

While Father Sebastian did not condone of our efforts to usurp Mary, he also could not support the torture and executions of Protestants being carried out under her orders. He provided aid where possible at a great personal cost. So far, it seemed Mary had not found out.

As he approached me for my turn, I place my final words to any protestants in London and Great Britain. Read my story and heed its warning. Queen Mary is a cruel leader and her ability for eliciting confessions whether real or not under torture should not be undermined. So, I leave this passage for you now.

“Robert?” Father Sebastian’s voice was soft yet commanding. “Would you like to confess?”

Chapter 10: Confession

I paused and waited quietly for Robert to finish writing his letter. When I received the summons, I had brought paper and ink with me as I find that many prisoners, I take a last confession from often have words they wanted to pass on to family and friends. I had allowed the prisoners some time to write theirs while I sat at the small desk and bowed my head in prayer. After a short while, I had begun taking their final words and answering any questions they had. I left Robert until last but time was now short and I would have to leave soon, so I prompted Robert gently that it was time to finish his letter. Robert scanned over his words and scribbled down a last passage before moving over to the table and sitting down opposite me.

“Would you like to confess or convert tonight, Robert?” I asked.

Robert sighed deeply and rubbed the back of his neck. “Not in particular Father Sebastian, a favour to be asked if that is alright?

“Of course, Robert, if it is within my power, I will see that it is done.” I had seen to many favours in my time as Priest both as a Protestant and a Catholic, some I had carried, others I could not. “What is it that you wish of me?”

Robert turned the folded letter over in his hands. He placed it onto the table and slid it towards me. “I need this to be delivered to Sir Richard Blackwood, he is situated near the Scotland border.”

I picked up the letter and turned it over. “Robert, if this is anything to do with your plot to remove Mary…You know I can’t deliver it.”

He smiled, “Nothing like that Father, just my story to be told to a friend. He looked at the letter and then back to me. “Actually, I’ll need a second favour if that alright?” Robert did not wait for my answer. “The story is not finished yet. I will need you to write the ending. Place it here before this passage.” Robert pointed to a small area of script. “And then deliver it to Blackwood please.”

I looked at Robert, taking in the dishevelled man. I could not see any hope left. They all knew that once Mary had them in the Tower, they never left even with Mary’s promises of information for freedom. I asked him, “How does the story end Robert?”

“We’ll see tomorrow” he sighed. I could see he had resigned himself to the end. “If that’s all Father, I would like to be alone now.” He stood up and I mirrored him. “Thank you.”

“Go with God my son” I marked him with the cross and watched him head back to his cell, he leaned against the wall and slid down onto the floor, his arms buried in his knees. I took one last look at the prisoners and headed for the door.

Even before I walked out into the courtyard, I could smell the decay. I paused and crossed myself before heading out. I bowed my head in respect for Father Robinson and uttered several small prayers. For his souls but also for Mary’s, for while she was my Queen and a member of the Catholic faith, the acts she was committing in God’s holy name were abominable even if she claimed otherwise. As I walked out into the streets of London, I pulled up my hood and walked into the darkness, preparing myself for the day to come.

Chapter 11: The Fire, The Stakes and The Heretics

By the evening of the next day, a large crowd had gathered, excitement rippled through them. Jokes were made and bets placed on how long it would take. The nearby fires were stoked and the flames glowed in the darkness. The stakes were imposing, around the base they had piled logs and twigs to fuel the fire as it started to burn.

I had positioned myself nearer to the back of the crowd. I never got to near, the stench of burning flesh was an overpowering smell. The crowd started to cheer as Mary arrived to watch. She waved to her adoring public before taking her seat. She signalled to the Executioner to begin.

The doors to the Tower of London creaked open. Guards marched out followed by the condemned. Robert, Samantha, Benjamin, and Emily. They were wearing flimsy rags for clothing. Their faces were pale but resolute, their eyes betraying the silent prayers they each whispered to their God. Dressed in a gown of deep crimson, Mary she surveyed the scene with a steely gaze, her hands resting regally on the arms of her throne. She was relishing in the rabid lust for the heretics’ executions that was now racing through the crowd.

I bowed my head in prayer, as the prisoners were bound to the stakes. Mary signalled to the crowd to be silent, an instant hush falling over the courtyard. The only sounds were the rustling of chains and the crackling of kindling being piled at their feet. The executioner, a burly man with a grim expression, stepped forward to address the assembled masses. "These traitors," he bellowed, his voice carrying across the square, "have been found guilty of heresy and treason against our sovereign and our holy faith. Their punishment is death by fire, a fate befitting their crimes."

A ripple of anticipation passed through the crowd, and Queen Mary rose from her seat. "Let this be a lesson to all who would defy the true faith and conspire against their queen," she declared, her voice icy and resolute. "In the flames of their execution, may they find the purification they have so grievously forsaken."

As the executioner approached with a torch, Robert turned to his fellow prisoners, his voice loud and steady despite the terror in his eyes. "Hold fast to your faith," he urged, "We may perish in this world, but our souls will find peace in the next."

Samantha nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks but her spirit unbroken. I could see Samantha, Benjamin and Emily exchanging final words with each other but I was too far to hear them. Emily then looked towards Mary and shouted. "Forgive them, Lord, for they know not what they do."

Mary nodded and with a swift motion, the executioner, with a torch ablaze, stepped forward, igniting the kindling at their feet. Instantly, the dry wood caught fire, sending tendrils of flame snaking upwards. The heat was immediate and intense, and the prisoners instinctively tried to pull away, though their bindings held them fast. As the flames began to rise, they licked at the hems of their garments, the fabric crackling and blackening before igniting fully, leaving them all naked. I watched Robert's legs become engulfed, the fire searing through his skin and muscles, bubbling like hot tar as blood squirted outwards. I could see his giblets shrink under the fire before falling from his body. He screamed, a raw, primal sound, "God, receive my spirit!" His voice cracked with agony as the flames turned his skin into a bubbling, blistering mass. Red welts forming and popping.

I heard Samantha’s scream pierce the night as her skin blistered and peeled away, revealing raw, bleeding flesh beneath. Her beautiful red hair, once a cascading waterfall, burning to a crisp, the smell of burning hair thick in the air. She writhed in pain, her body convulsing uncontrollably. Smoke rose up from her groin as her pubic hair was set alight, replacing the hair with a triangle of red flames and blackened skin a stream of urine pouring out as her body slowly yielded to the fire "Lord, have mercy," she gasped, her voice nearly drowned out by the roaring fire.

I watched Benjamin's muscular frame become consumed by the flames. As his skin sloughed away, the muscled underneath his skin gave way to reveal white bone and organs. They were shrinking in the furnace that was now consuming him. His eyes, wide with terror, began to dry and crack under the intense heat, rendering him blind to his suffering as he gargled before his head fell onto his chest, dead from the smoke he inhaled burning his throat and lungs.

Finally, I watched Emily, a wet nurse, faced a fate even more grotesque. As the flames climbed her legs, her dress disintegrated, and the intense heat and stress caused her body to lactate. The milk pouring out from her nipples sizzled on her burning skin, a sickening hiss that mingled with the crackling of the flames. Her breasts, engorged and burning, added to her torment. Her hair, a fiery halo, burned away quickly, leaving her scalp charred and raw. "Forgive them, Father," she cried out, her voice a haunting wail as her flesh peeled away, her body jerking violently in its final throes.

Most of the crowd were like mad dogs as they howled and laughed at the sickening display. For some the gruesome spectacle was too much; mothers shielded their children’s eyes, and others turned away, unable to stomach the sight. The air was thick with the stench of burning flesh and hair, a smell that would haunt the nightmares of those who witnessed it.

Queen Mary, her face a mask of cold detachment, watched without flinching. To her, this was justice – a necessary act to cleanse her realm of heresy and treason. The executioner, his face set in a grimace, continued his task with a determined efficiency, ensuring the flames consumed every bit of flesh. As the fire finally died down, the remains of the four prisoners were nothing but charred, twisted forms. Their hair, clothes, and identities were reduced to a smoking outline, unrecognisable now. Burnt flesh and blackened bones stood as a grim testament to their suffering.

The executioner, his job done, doused the smouldering remains with water, sending up clouds of steam. The crowd no longer cheering, began to disperse as the horrifying entertainment of the night was now complete. Queen Mary turned away; her heart unmoved by the suffering she had overseen. She left behind the smouldering remnants of those who had dared to defy her, their ashes a stark reminder of the price of rebellion.

As I stood silently, my eyes never left the smoking remains of Robert, Benjamin, Olivia, and Samantha. I gripped my rosary and prayed for their salvation. I prayed for the Lord and his son Jesus Christ to take their souls into paradise. I prayed for guidance and the unification and cessation of hostilities forced upon both factions of our Christian religion. Above all however, I prayed for Queen Mary I’s soul as her cruelty must have been sent to her by Satan and not God as she so claimed.

I was left alone in the square in the silence of the night, I said one final prayer for their souls and headed back to my accommodation. I needed to prepare for my journey to deliver Robert’s letter to Sir Blackwood’s estate and all precautions needed to be in place so not to alert Mary and her spies to my plans, as discovery would see me suffer the same fate or worse as befell the four this night.

Chapter 12: Sir Richard Blackwood

One Month Later

Father Sebastian approached the grounds of the Eldermere Estate. It was approaching dawn when he arrived, the journey from London had left him weary and he was looking forward to sleep. He should have a few hours rest before Sir Blackwood woke and was informed of his arrival.

Father Sebastian was granted access and shown to a room, it was small but he did not mind. He knelt at the edge of the bed and prayed. He had barely touched the pillow when sleep took him.

“Father Sebastian? Father Sebastian? Father!”

He awoke to the sound of a servant repeating his name. The light streaming in through the window stung his eyes. “What time is it?” He rubbed his tired eyes as he sat up.

“It is late in the day, near dinner time Father.” The servant replied.

Father Sebastian stood up, “What? Why did no one wake me sooner! I must meet with Sir Blackwood.”

The servant held up his hands. “It was Sir Blackwood’s request that you be allowed to sleep in Father. He sent me up now to wake you so you can join him for a talk before he leaves to have dinner with some guests from north of the border afterwards. He moved to the door. “Please follow me.” He indicated to Father Sebastian to follow him. He picked up his small bag and followed the servant.

Father Sebastian was lead through the estate to Sir Blackwood’s private study. Sir Richard Blackwood stood tall and imposing, his sturdy frame indicative of a life spent in the pursuits of both warfare and courtly affairs. His features, weathered by time and experience, bear the marks of a man who has seen his fair share of battles and triumphs. With a square jawline and a stern countenance, he exudes an air of authority and gravitas that commands respect from those around him.

Clad in formal dinner attire, Sir Blackwood wore a doublet of rich velvet, its deep burgundy hue trimmed with intricate embroidery in gold thread. Beneath the doublet, a crisp linen shirt with billowing sleeves adds a touch of refinement to his ensemble. His breeches are of a matching fabric, tailored to fit snugly around his muscular legs, while polished leather boots complete the ensemble, their sheen reflecting the flickering candlelight of the study.

Despite his formal attire, there was an undeniable sense of strength and vitality about the man. His broad shoulders conveyed a sense of power and resilience, while his firm handshake and confident demeanour leave no doubt of his stature in society. As he moves with grace and purpose, it was clear that Sir Richard Blackwood is a man of influence and distinction, commanding respect wherever he goes. He looks up from a letter he is reading and greets Father Sebastian. “Welcome Father, please make yourself comfortable, I will only be a moment.”

He rolled up the letter and hands it to a servant, who takes nods and leaves. “So, what brings you to my home Father, I don’t usually make a habit of entertaining Catholic priests as of late, even those who were once Protestant.”

Father Sebastion could not help but smile. “It is good to see you too Richard.”

It was Sir Blackwood’s turn to smile. “So, why the visit? I would be a bit more hospitable but I have guests to entertain and I was not aware you were coming.” Father Sebastian reached into his bag and picked out Robert’s letter. He handed it to Blackwood.

“It is the last letter of Robert Davis; he asked me to record the final part of his imprisonment.” Father Sebastian said softly. “Lord above knows, I’ve done quite a few of them.”

Blackwood turned the letter over in his hands, he placed it onto the table behind him. He looked at Sebastian and smiled sadly. “We’ve both lost quite a few friends, on both sides of the church.”

The two men stood in silence both wrapped up in their own memories of friends they lost. It was Blackwood who broke the silence. “Well, take your time, I will have some food brought up to your room. Rest now and we will get you on your way back to London in the morning. Now if you will excuse me, I must take my leave now, I will have a servant assigned to you for anything you may need.”

Epilogue: Treason/Revolution

Two Months Later

Sir Richard Blackwood leaned back against the table as he read through the final part of Robert’s letter. “With the following words my friend, I will leave you and this earth. We know not how our plot was discovered, on the day of our arrest only two never arrived Marcus Brown and Victoria Turner. Start there and see if you are successful in locating the rat who gave us up. Keep fighting my friend and maybe you will succeed in removing Mary and placing her sister Elizabeth on the throne. I finish this letter with a poem. Share it among your most trusted advisors as well as the key and spread it as a warning to our brothers and sisters of the misery that Mary is sowing across the land.”

Mary, Mary quite contrary

How does your garden grow?

With silver bells and cockle shells

And pretty maids all in a row.

Sir Blackwood folded the letter over and placed it onto the table. He placed his hands together and looked at the two occupied chairs in front of him. “Now the main question here is what to do with you two?”

In the lower levels of his estate, in front of him tied to the chairs sat Marcus and Victoria, stripped of all clothing. Both were still showing minor cuts and bruises from 8 days ago when Blackwood’s men had captured them and then smuggled them out of London to Blackwood’s estate in the north. On the night of the executions, Blackwood and a few of his men had attended making sure they remained hidden in the crowd. As Robert, Samantha, Benjamin, and Emily burned, he had spotted them. Marcus Brown and Victoria Turner standing about 10 feet away. He could see their face as they looked up at the stakes, gleeful smiles carved on their faces. Rosary beads hung around their neck.

He whispered to a couple of his men nodded and disappeared into the crowd. Blackwood had tasked them to follow the two without being seen to learn their daily routines. While Blackwood had assumed they had a part to play, it was a culmination of his men’s discovery of other prominent Catholic associates of Mary and the letter delivered to him by Father Sebastian that solidified his conclusion that they were the betrayers he was seeking.

“I knew we were being followed.” Marcus grunted as he spat out a broken tooth.

Blackwood chuckled. “You nearly caught us a few times, you should have listened to your instincts.”

“Mary will get her hands on you, then you’ll burn like they did!” Victoria spat. Blackwood looked at the ball of spit now sitting on his trousers. He pulled out a small cloth from his pocket and wiped it away. He walked up to Victoria and with one hand he grabbed her hair and pulled it down while thrusting his other into her crotch, forcing his fingers inside her. He watched her clenching her teeth together trying to withhold making any sounds of pain.

“Spitting on a knight is dreadfully disrespectful.” He dug his fingers in further, taking in the spasms of pain Victoria was going through. “Don’t worry, we’ll teach you how to properly act around nobility, and then you’ll make a fine addition to the local whorehouse.” Blackwood bit her ear roughly and then removed his and hand and fingers.

As he moved back to lean against the table, he picked up the cloth and wiped it across his fingers. He whistled and the door at the top of the stairs opened. Three men walked down the stairs with the last closing the door. They joined Blackwood at the table.

“Now, my colleagues and I are going to start our own confession process. So please feel free to scream as there is no one nearby who will hear you.” Blackwood stood up and rolled up his sleeves. He reached into a small box nearby and pulled out a small hook and looked at the two.

“So, whose first?”

The End.