Virgin Earth

Sunday, 28 January 1649

John would not attend church with Frances and her husband. He sat at the kitchen table, a glass of small ale before him, while the church bells rang and then fell silent, and then rang again.

Frances, entering in a rush to prepare the Sunday dinner, checked at the sight of her father, so uncharacteristically idle.

“Are you sick?”

He shook his head.

Alexander followed his wife into the kitchen. “They say he is praying with Bishop Juxon. He is allowed to see his children.”

“No clemency?” John asked.

“They are building the scaffold at Whitehall,” Alexander said shortly.

“Not here?” Frances asked quickly.

Alexander took her hand and kissed it. “No, my dear. Nowhere near us. They are closing off the street before the Banqueting House. They are fortifying it against a rescue attempt.”

“Who would rescue him?” John asked forlornly. “He has betrayed every one of his friends at one time or another.”