I wear a black gown, a black hood trimmed with jet, and a black furred cape. I carry an open prayer book in my hands and I read it as I walk, though the small print jiggles before my eyes, and, to tell the truth, I can see nothing. It doesn’t matter; I know the prayers off by heart. The point is that I am carrying it, that I appear to be reading it, anyone looking at me can see that I depend on the Word of God, as spoken by His Son, as written in His testament, as translated by Queen Kateryn and me. I do not depend on the mumblings of a priest or the long service in Latin that greets me at Guildhall. I am redeemed by my faith in the Word, not by the crossings and the dippings and the fancy robes and the censing that goes on before the judges come in and cross themselves and whisper “Amen” and do everything they can to show that this is papist against reformer, lies against truth, heresy against God, sheep against goats, them against me.

* * *

The trial is nothing but a recital of nonsense from men who know perfectly well what happened, but dare not say it now, to those who know it just as well but whose future depends on denying it. Everyone lies. I am not invited to speak, only to make a confession. There is no chance for me to explain the power of the Word of God.

The judges, who are as guilty as the accused, condemn all the men to die by being dragged to their place of execution and there hanged, and then being cut down, their bellies opened and their entrails drawn out, and then their arms and legs cut off. This is hanging, drawing, and quartering, and it is exactly like a crucifixion. It will take place on Tower Hill, which they should rename Calvary. I listen to the verdict and I don’t even tremble because I simply cannot believe it. Queen Kateryn’s dearest friend and mentor to be eviscerated for heresy? It was Thomas Cranmer who gave extreme unction to the dying King Henry. He wrote the Book of Common Prayer. How can he be a heretic? How can his friend’s daughter disembowel him?

As for me, my position is worse and equally contradictory. They sentence me to death by either the axe, like a traitor, or fire, like a heretic, on Tower Green. I listen to the lies they say and the deaths they threaten, and I am stony-faced. Anne Askew, a common woman, was burnt to death at the stake at Smithfield for our faith. Do they think that Our Redeemer, who supported her, will fail me? Do they think I don’t dare martyrdom as she did? I dare it—will they?