February 12th in the year of our Lord 1554

February 12th in the year of our Lord 1554

For a few days, I have not been able to sleep. My wife's hand squeezes my arm gently during the night to let me know she is struggling to come to terms with this day to come. As I climb from my bed, her eyes throw shafts of sympathy to me through the gloom. If not me – who? So, well before daybreak, I leave the house and make my slow and painful journey to the Tower.

I break from my walk for an hour by resting on a river bank and studying the Thames with its thick gluey movement. Apart from a couple of barges taking advantage of the tide, I see no-one. My stomach is empty but still I retch as my mind travels forward over this day to come. I have not eaten nor felt like eating for the last twenty-four hours. I wipe my mouth and once again curse the day to come before I continue across London. As a dull and lifeless February sun struggles to rise, I pass through the Tower gates. The guards hardly take notice of me. It is just another day for them, something to tell their children.

I walk down into the bowels of the Tower; one of the cooks offers me a reluctant smile and passes over a bowl of hot porridge. I devour it and demand a further two bowls.

“Well done,” the cook says and brushes my cheek with her fist. She's younger than me by a good ten years and gives me the saddest smile as I leave the kitchen to make my way over cobbled stones before climbing up tight stairways to the waiting cell.

“Full house today,” the gaoler grunts, and unlocks the door. I walk in and there we stand in the inner sanctum; five of us, still as a portrait in history. Sir John Brydges, the Lieutenant of the Tower, Dr Feckenham, the chaplain, Mrs Ellen, the Lady in waiting, myself, and the frail child - Lady Jane Grey.

All eyes turn to me, I stifle a cough and drop my head. My heart seems to burn with shame. The King's sovereign lies heavy in my pocket, burning through the cloth and scorching my skin. I carry the dreadful smell of death upon my breath. Every fibre of my being is insulted by the deed of this day to come.

She is a young thing, fragrant and alone. Her voice quavers in whispered Latin well beyond my comprehension but I seem to understand every word as she prays for redemption and release from the evils of this world.

Does this act make me evil? I have never considered this before. From the most common thief and adulterer to Lords of the Land; they have humbled themselves before me like pigs to the swine-herder's blade. Their curses and pleas fell so easily on my death ears.

The lady-in-waiting sobs the tears of a young widow. I cannot meet her eyes. Maybe it is the silence of the room that affects me. Today, there is not the usual hubbub I associate with the Tower; no smell of roasting meat, no jostling and jeers of a waiting crowd, of vendors pursuing their trade, of pickpockets earning their living. Am I not better than a common thief? If not me, then someone else. Justice or imagined justice must seem to be done.

Brydges taps on the cell door. It is opened and we make our way down the steps and across the courtyard to the green. The crowd is thin and restless and even as we approach, several people turn their backs and walk away. They have seen the young Lady and their innermost thoughts are confirmed.

Oh, poor, poor girl. So lovely, so innocent. Just sixteen years on this earth. Her long flowing virgin white gown gilded with Belgian lace will soon be sullied beyond recognition. The priest whispers gently in her ear. I long to pierce this dreadful silence but inwardly scream, “Pray for me as well, holy man!” If prayers could be answered, I would fly from this place; I would use my axe for felling trees, not...not this.

My thumb runs down my blade. My God, it needs to be sharper than this! I am not prepared. My strength is all that can protect her from a worse death than she now imagines. I may take her head but I wish her no harm.

For a few days, this girl was my Queen and through no fault of her own she shares this miserable space with me. Dank stone walls around us drizzle with death. The cold cobbled floor is strewn with old straw dragged from nearby stables. The dull smell of horses’ dung overpowers my Lady's perfumes. Her death is mine. I need to keep busy.

“Excuse me, Ma'am.”

I cover my mouth so that the strong onion smell of my breath does not disturb her. I need to check the block is stable and truly balanced. This patch of grass was not designed for such a use as this and I probe the ground for a spot where the oak will stand still. Her pale white skin looks aged and weary. Her teeth chew at her lips. She says something I do not understand. Her lady-in-waiting, however, misses nothing.

“Can my Lady have a sip of water?” It seems such nonsense. Does it really matter whether her throat is parched or not? She is to lose her head, for God's sake! She is younger than my eldest daughter who is with child and may even now be a mother. They would gladly have changed roles a year ago. How strange this life is.

Five minutes takes an eternity to pass as we wait for word from Parliament, my throat dry as we hold matters in abeyance just in case, she receives a pardon for her supposed crimes. It is nonsense, there is no possibility of reprieve but we wait, all lost in our own thoughts.

I just want this done and out of the way. I cannot take this suspension of the unavoidable any longer. It is time. The priest makes the sign of the cross. I take her fragile arm with a firm hand, lead her to the block and guide her knees to the floor. I kneel alongside her and ask for her absolution.

“Oh, grant me your forgiveness for this most unjust and ungodly deed I am about to perform.”

With the gentlest twist of her hand, she bids me stand and her voice is the sweetest whisper, “I forgive you. May the Lord be with you and your spirit.”

This is so very wrong. I return to kneel alongside her and firmly place her white throbbing throat on its last resting place. With every remaining ounce of strength, I have in my body, I bring my axe down. It removes her head with no difficulty. A collective agonised cry hovers in the air and the sun hides behind pewter grey clouds. It is done and I am grateful to leave the Tower within minutes.

My steps through London blur. Deep inside of me, I am desperate for the comfort of family and, without knowing how, I find myself at my daughter's lodgings. Her husband greets me at their door. He scowls, spits on the floor and leaves, shouting over his shoulder as he stumbles towards the inn:

“We have a daughter.”

With heavy limbs, I climb the stairs to see my daughter and her newborn child. This is a good place to be. I stand by the bed and hold my daughter's hand, unable to speak for fear of contaminating the room. My daughter smiles and gestures for me to lift my first grandchild. The child is pale and beautiful and as light as a sixteen-year-old girl's head.

“We shall call her Jane,” I say, smiling at my daughter and holding tight to the new life in my arms. I can do no more.