Nell by Jeanette Baker

glare, and he lifted his hand to shade himself. His uncles stood in a line between two rows of guards. Averting his eyes, Silken Thomas embraced them quickly. His guilt was nearly a physical thing.
    They were forced to lie spread-eagled and bound tightly on top of the horse-pulled hurdles. The portcullis was raised. Across the evil-smelling waters of the moat into the city of London, by way of Tower Street and into the Shambles, they came.
    Crowds gathered to watch. The spectacle was not an unusual one. Since King Henry’s break with the Church, the citizens of London and the surrounding countryside had witnessed many a noble’s execution, although one family had never before been so unfairly represented.
    The hurdles rolled through Newgate and Snow Hill. At Tyburn, the crowd had swelled to more than a hundred. It was February. A cold wind had risen from the Thames. Five ropes swung against a pewter-colored sky, and a butcher’s block stood atop a high platform.
    Silken Thomas looked at the ropes, and a curious trembling took hold of his body. Garrett, the uncle closest to his own age, laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Dear Jesus, forgive me,” Thomas whispered.
    Garrett nodded and looked toward the ropes. “It will be over soon.”
    John was the first to be hanged. The executioner climbed the stairs of the platform and lifted two knives and a cleaver above his head. A collective murmur rose from the spectators, as if it came from one throat. John was dragged up the stairs. The rope was placed around his neck. Slowly, he was hoisted until his feet left the ground. Silken Thomas saw his uncle’s body jerk and closed his eyes.
    He missed the lowering of John’s nearly unconscious body to the block, missed the first cut of the knife. He did not miss John’s inhuman shriek of pain, the crowd’s roar, the smack of limbs as they were tossed into the wooden bin. He did not miss the scent of fresh blood.
    Five times the procedure was repeated. Five times Geraldine limbs were cut off, heads severed. When it was his turn, Silken Thomas had entered that state of mind where pain did not go. He welcomed the executioner’s blade, welcomed his passing into a place where there was no sight, no sound, no smell.
    While his entrails still lay on the wet boards of the block, the executioner held up the golden head of Thomas Fitzgerald. Silently, the crowd looked on. A woman bowed her head and wept.
    ***
    To the north, in the cold dampness of Donore Castle, Gerald Fitzgerald, tenth earl of Kildare, awoke without the fever. Rubbing his eyes, he looked around the dim chamber. “I’m hungry, Nell,” he said. “Where are we?”
    For the first time in weeks, Nell laughed. “We are at Donore, love. Lie still and I’ll bring you food.”
    Gerald managed most of the weak gruel that Nell spooned down his reluctant throat before he fell back upon his pillow and slept again. Relieved and hopeful that her brother might live after all, Nell stirred the fire, added kindling, and considered the possibility of a bath. It would not be a satisfying one. She was not strong enough to lift the many buckets it would take to fill the wooden tub in the corner of the room. But at least she would be clean.
    More than an hour had passed, and the first bucket of snow she’d lugged up the twisting stairs and heated to boiling was now stale and tepid, but it would be comfortably warm when she added the one that had just now begun to steam. Working quickly, Nell untied the soft leather coil from around her hips, lifted her gown over her head, and dropped them both on the floor. She glanced over at Gerald. He hadn’t moved. Shivering, she pulled off her shift, stepped into the tub, and sat down. Disappointingly, the water only came up to her belly, but the feel of its delicious warmth against her skin was an unexpected shock of pure pleasure. She moaned and leaned back. Gerald would