“What can he do, hang me?” I say.

He laughs shortly, not at my feeble quip, but to honor my courage. Handing me a large sprig of rosemary, he helps me on with my thin cloak and gently steers me from the cell and through the great hall.

The sight of the tumbril is as fearful as expected and I climb up quickly, before my legs fail me. There are no seats, so I stand as we trundle from the City through St. Giles and along Oxford Street to Tyburn village. People stare, they hiss and jeer, but I keep my head low and concentrate on my hands gripping the rail as I sway and jolt. The rosemary is crushed against my palms and I am grateful for the scent that distracts me a little from my terror. I whisper the prayers Dr. Whiting has taught me. God is waiting for me.

After an hour or more the tumbril slows, a huge crowd blocking the way. For a wild moment I think some incident has occurred and the hanging will be postponed; in that time, could Frankie find a way to have me pardoned? Even under arrest, I expect miracles of her. I raise my eyes and with a great jolt see the monstrous Tyburn Tree rearing up ahead; the shock of it floods me, my ears ring and my vision grows dark at the edges. The crowd will not stop my execution; they are here to see it.

It takes time for the tumbril to force a way through the spectators and the many carriages carrying courtiers, wealthy merchants and, for sure, the Lord Chief Justice. I do not look to see if Arthur is among them. The tumbril finally halts beside a cart carrying my coffin. It is very cheap.

The tumbril is unlocked and the back lowered. Dr. Whiting climbs up beside me.

“Someone wishes you Godspeed,” he whispers, nodding toward a meager figure at the front of the crowd. It is Mistress Bowdlery with Eustace beside her. When the lace maker spots me looking at her, she cries out: “God sees your kind acts. He will have mercy!”

Those around Mistress Bowdlery stare at her in surprise. The words start a new possibility in the crowd; the potential for good will toward this sinner. In my simple black dress and veil, with my thin white face and praying hands, I do not look like the malicious, spiteful, greedy whore they expect. I lift the hand in which I grip her handkerchief. Mistress Bowdlery vigorously nods encouragement and keeps calling out, “God bless you, God bless you!”