The Sword of Calais

They call me the Sword of Calais, and I’ve been summoned to England to kill the Queen.

It is, I assure you, an act of kindness. She wishes, I am told, to die in knelt prayer. The Lord God knows it is the best way to die, hands clasped and the name of Jesus as her final breath.

She – clever as she is reputed to be – knows such a thing cannot be done with a chopping block under one’s throat and all mercy resting on some clumsy youth with a badly-sharpened axe hacking away at shoulders and neck.

It’s happened before. Word reached me of the deaths of others who have been sentenced to execution under this king. There was the shameful episode with the King’s relative, Countess Salisbury. Rumours say the old woman died running away whilst some oaf hacked at her with an axe.

Shameful.

Queen Anne will be dead, I assure you, before she knows I have taken up my sword.

Pierre, my young servant is with me. He knows no English, and although Calais is an English city, I admit my own knowledge of that foreign tongue is poor. It is fortunate then that Queen Anne speaks French. I will not speak to hear – I have no need to – but she needs to hear words though she will know not why I speak them.

A few words: that is all she will hear.

Otherwise the courtyard will have silence. My shoes have soles padded with wool so she will not hear me step close; she will not hear me breathe; she will not hear the blue velvet fabric of my shirt. She will hear and feel nothing for the simple reason that I trade in that most impossible of gifts: a merciful death; a death as sweet as if the Lord above were to bestow it.

It is true that my reputation commands a fortune, and so it is that King Henry of England will be parted from rare treasure. Only when my work is done may he be removed from his wife and with her the threat of the return of the Catholic church.

My blade is, I think, not a blade but rather an instrument of policy; an instrument to cut England permanently away from the Papal See, to render a cut so fine and clean that it can be healed over, free of rot and decay. The King will marry again, soon I suspect. He will marry so that he will have a son. And that son will mean his legacy is secure, that his new Church with a king at its head will continue on.

But I care not of such things.

I will take my prize and return home to the last English city in France.

Calais.

And I will rest – for a while at least – for with the payment I am due to receive I will never swing my execution sword again.

Pierre is signalling to me. That means she will be here soon.

It is a beautiful morning to die.

I have been told of the softness of an English summer, and in truth my passage from Dover through Kent and to London was as pleasant as ever I have experienced: white sprays of Hawthorn blossom lining every lane, the delicate scent of young cow parsley, the well-fed sheep and cattle chewing and watching. Maybe I could stay. I have no family in Calais after all. Maybe I could start again.

But no, such fanciful dreams will not be: my ambitions will forever lie across the Channel.

I step back from the low dais. This stage should be for the Queen alone, without me here, waiting. She should not even see me, so I stand amongst the witnesses that have gathered. There they are, men clothed in black, some ruddy-cheeked and young, most sallow and old and coughing up their morning sputum. All, however, relieved that it is not them come to meet my blade this day. None dare meet my eye; life is precarious these days under this king, particularly it seems for the nobility.

I have no title. I have no nobility or blue ichor in my veins. I am but a common man with an uncommon skill. But after today that will change. My payment will ensure it.

I see Thomas Cromwell, Chief Minister to the King, has entered the courtyard. It was he who sent me message and agreed my terms. He alone holds my eye, one commoner to another, employed by kings for no other reason than the exploitation of their peculiar skills.

And then his eyes are lowered as Queen Anne – Anne Boleyn as she was known to the people in France – enters the courtyard flanked by her maids. Her neck is exposed and whilst I am not a stranger to intimacy, the sight causes me to intake breath. Still she is beautiful, even with her hair shorn away, even with the clouds beneath her eyes from a night of prayer.

She is ready for death, as ready as any I have ever known. Unaided she steps onto the dais and stands, her presence commanding awesome silence.

She speaks: “I pray God save the King, and send him long to reign over you, for a gentler nor a more merciful prince was there never.”

The crowd is still, fascinated, eager and aghast.

She kneels in prayer.

I step onto the wooden platform and approach. The wooden boards creak and she knows I am here, but unmoving she remains, her chin tight on her chest, hands clasped, awaiting judgment before God.

“Boy,” I shout to Pierre, “you have forgotten my sword, go fetch it!”

Pierre rushes off and out of sight.

The Queen, curious, raises her chin to look and all time slows. Outside the tower walls a dog barks and children run and shout their eternal games, their voices high in the clear morning blue. And in that moment the velvet that covered the Toledo steel has silently crumpled to the floor, the blade is behind my head and swept like wind through that beautiful, pale neck.

Her eyes flutter and her lips still murmur in prayer as the head falls to rest upon the wooden boards.

Beautiful.

I stand and look at her, the face now a mask of red as the neck expels its ichor from the still kneeling body. Pierre appears beside me and asks for my sword. He cleans it. I will let him keep the bloody rag.

Although some linger, some drawing closer, most witnesses are dispersing. Cromwell approaches me and so I step down to meet him.

He says nothing but hands over my payment: two bags, one heavy with silver, the other light and soft.

I hand back the silver with a shake of my head. He should have known it was not needed; it would not be right. Then, without further word I turn and summon Pierre and leave that accursed castle on the banks of the Thames.

***

My name is Jean Rombaud and it is the twentieth day of May, the year of our Lord 1536, and I have in my possession perhaps the rarest item in Christendom. The ship is leaving the harbour and it is only now I feel safe enough to open the black leather pouch, to reach inside and run the soft, plaited hair through my fingers. Then, because I must, I put the pouch to my nose and inhale.

Rosewater and musk.

The hair of an executed queen.

A payment that less than three people on the earth could extract.

A treasure that only my infamy can guarantee.

Hair that will be made into soft, firm spheres – playthings that will be gifted to the King of France so that he may take a racquet to them and laugh as he knocks them around the court.

And my payment will be a title.

A real title.

I will no longer be the Sword of Calais.

I will no longer be a demi-myth with his short Toledo blade. I will be a nobleman. I will be a man of standing; a commoner elevated to Court.

And so the gift that God gave me – the gift of a strong arm and a steady nerve – will gain for me more.

A thousand times more.

So whilst I have taken a life, so that life unto me will grant life anew.

The Queen is dead.

And I will be reborn.