A Christmas Story I wrote in Grade 11

            December 24, 1554:  It seemed like it would be an ordinary enough Christmas. Father was shut up in his study with a messenger from Sir Robert Lombard, finalizing his purchase of a fine black gelding for my brother, Thomas, before Christmas began and work was banned. Mother was busy supervising the decorating of the house, dictating which doors could have kissing boughs, and which doors absolutely could not.  The cooks had been busy for days preparing for the Christmas feasting to begin. Thomas, Cecily, Stephen, baby Isabel, and myself, Susanna, dutifully bore the torment of the delicious smells of mince pies, roasting boar, and, cruellest of all, the aroma of a Christmas pie baking. It was impossible to focus on a game of backgammon surrounded by those smells tempting us to break our fast. Twelve hours until Christmas morning, when we could eat again. Myself, I was looking eagerly forward to the next day for another reason; Nicholas Daunce and his family would be at the feast and mass tomorrow. He had been courting me for several months, and, though my mother had hoped that I would marry his elder brother, who had the greater part of the inheritance, my father was willing to give his consent to our marriage.

            Though we were very excited to have Thomas back from grammar school, he had proved insufferable upon his arrival. Despite being four years younger than me at twelve, he acted as if he were my elder brother. Our parents had had a total of nine children, but my eldest sister, Alice, was already married, and they had lost two children between me and Thomas, and between him and eight-year-old Cecily, John had died at two years old. After that, Stephen, four, and Isabel, two, had both been born healthy. But enough about us; this supposed be an account of the Christmas that changed my life.

            We rose early on Christmas morning, and, after about an hour of getting dressed in our finest, we ate a meal of manchet, a fine white bread, with beef and beer for the adults and I, while the rest of the children drank milk. We then left in our carriage for the cathedral for the first mass of the day. I was disappointed that I could not locate Nicholas at any of the three masses held that day. I saw his family, but they told me he was taking mass at a chapel elsewhere. I wondered greatly at that; where would he be taking mass without his family? They assured me that he would be at the feast at our estate that afternoon, so I resigned myself to wait.

            When the time for the feast came, I waited near the doorway for him. I couldn’t help noticing the kissing bough over the door; maybe… I felt myself blush a little thinking of it. As people slowly arrived, I watched the mistletoe berries disappear from the bough as kisses were stolen from pretty serving girls and guests alike. By the time the Daunce family arrived, there were none left, to my disappointment. I wanted to run forward and embrace him, but I chose to make him pay for my disappointment. I greeted him coldly with a stiff, formal curtsy, and forced myself not to laugh at his confused expression. I turned away from him as if I had found something better to do, and left him standing in the entrance way. Just as I had expected, he came over to me in the main room to ask me to sit with him.

            “Why should I sit with you?” I replied icily, “You did not sit with me this morning at mass.”

            “Hey, that’s unfair, Susanna. I was in Gravesend. I could hardly have ridden all the way to London in time for mass this morning.”

            “I suppose I will forgive you this time—if I can have you for every dance tonight.” He laughed and heartily agreed to my conditions.

             That evening, on a break after one dance, Nicholas asked me to come on a walk with him in the gardens. I went, heart pounding, hardly daring to hope that today would be the day that he would ask me to marry him. Once we were far enough to be neither seen nor heard from the house, he released my hand and walked a few paces away. Twice he turned to me and began to speak, but rather turned back to pacing. I’d never before seen him so obviously agitated.

            “Susanna, if I were to—Susanna, I love you very much, and I desperately hope you love me as much, so I believe I can trust you with a secret—”

            “Of course you can!”

            “Yes, but this is a bit different. If this secret were to get out, I would be killed. Your knowing of it could put you in danger.” Nicholas turned again, and returned to his pacing for a few moments. Finally, he went down on one knee before me, grasping my hand. “My love, I did not go to any mass this morning—nor have I taken mass for more than a month. I have found a new Church—a true church. A Church made of people, not wood, stone, silver, or gold—a church ruled, not by a fallen, sinful man, like the pope, but rather by Christ himself!”

            “Stop, Nicholas! You cannot talk like this—calling the Holy Father himself sinful! You’re speaking heresy” I lowered my voice to a hiss, “Don’t be a fool. We all know there is only one Holy Mother Church. People are taken by the Inquisition every day for saying less than what you just said. Just stop it—stop it before I have to confess having listened to heresies. You know what that would mean for you. I don’t want to hurt you, Nicholas, but I cannot be expected to risk my soul for your safety.”

            “But that exactly what I’m talking about! There’s no more need for confession—I’ve already made my confession to God, and I’ll never need to confess again! I’ve been reading the Scriptures, and I’ve found that many of the church’s core teachings disagree with them. In fact, God’s Word says that church leaders should marry, that forgiveness comes through faith, not penance or any other work, and it make no mention of the Assumption of Mary, let alone her being crowned Queen of Heaven, and it even says that every Christian is a saint, not just those who’ve been canonized. And it even indicates that Mary was a normal sinful woman, had several children after Christ, and—”

            “No!” I interrupted him, “You can’t talk like that, not about the Blessed Virgin! That’s blasphemy!” I turned to leave, but he caught my hand.

            “Let go!” I pulled away. “And I would strongly advise you to leave London tonight, because I’m going to confession first thing tomorrow morning.” I tried to speak coldly, but my voice shook.

            “Do what you wish, Susanna, but please except this gift from me.” Nicholas put a small black leather bound book in my hand. “This is half of the Holy Scriptures—in English. Please read it, my love. And please, don’t turn it in to the priest. Surely it can be no crime against God to possess a copy of His Word.”

            “Just go away!” I half screamed, but I took the book anyways. Nicholas offered to walk me back to the house. I refused, and he went to the stables instead, took his horse, and rode away. I felt so cold and empty inside. There was my future, my lover, leaving forever, and tomorrow I would have to expose him as a heretic, deserving of death. I hated him, but not enough to stop loving him.

            I did not sleep that night. I cried a lot. I couldn’t stop thinking over all the wonderful times Nicholas and I had shared—the first time he gave me a ride home from mass; the afternoon we had spent riding together, and had stayed out so late; the family had been thoroughly scandalized; and then there was the day he had kissed me. I could almost feel his arms around me again, see his sea green eyes, and hear his voice whispering his love in my ear. Oh, why him? Of all people who could turn on the Holy Mother Church, why did it have to be Nicholas? Suddenly another thought came to me Who did this to him? Who filled his head with this heresy? Anger washed over me. I may not have been able to bring myself to hate Nicholas, but I could hate the one who converted him. That murderer. This was all his fault. And now I would have to report my Nicholas to the priest. It could not be wrong to pray that they do not catch him; maybe he could recant and return to the church without facing the Inquisition. I knelt before the crucifix on one wall of my room, and implored the Blessed Virgin for his safety. Still, I could not sleep. Out of sheer curiosity, I open the Book Nicholas had given me. I started at random somewhere near the middle of the Book and read “There is none righteous, no not one: there is none that understandeth, there is none that seeketh after God. They have all gone out of ye way; they are all made unprofitable. There is none that doeth good, no not one.” A faint sound outside my window nearly made me jump out of my skin. I quickly tucked the Book away under several things in my night table, and snatched up my rosary, praying silently for forgiveness for looking at a forbidden book.  I lay wide awake in bed clutching my rosary all the rest of the night.

            The next morning, I could hardly eat at all. The jester Mother and Father had hired for the Christmas season could not make me smile. Someone asked if I was sick, and I, seeing a chance to get away, said I was and asked to leave the table. I went straight to the church. I paced up and down in front of the door for a while, trying to make up my mind—would it be a sin to not betray Nicholas? Why, I could be saving his life! But no, I’d be hiding him from the church—perhaps there was still hope for his soul if he were to face the Inquisition. Perhaps he would see his error. On that thought, I walked into the church before I could change my mind. Father Ambrose met me. I told him I wanted to confess, and he led me to the confessional.

            “What do you wish to confess, my child?” He asked through the grating.

            “I have—I mean, I…I know a heretic!” I blurted out. There was a long moment of silence. I could feel my heart pounding. I had heard stories of friends of heretics, even informers, who were arrested simply for listening to their friend. What if they searched my rooms? The Book. Maybe I should tell about it? No! They’d arrest me for sure!

            Finally, Father Ambrose broke the silence. “This is grave indeed, my child. Pray give the details. Who was this heretic, and how did you learn of his heretical beliefs?”

            “His name is” I swallowed hard, “Nicholas Daunce, the eldest son of Sir Gerard Daunce of Shropshire. Yesterday, he took me aside into the garden. I anticipated a proposal, as he has been courting me for some time, but to my horror, he began telling me that he had left the Holy Mother Church, and finally fell to blaspheming against the pope, the saints, and the Blessed Virgin herself.”

            “And how did you receive his words?”

            “I was horrified, of course, and implored him to return to the church. When he refused, I told him to leave.”

            “My child, reasoning with heretics is unadvisable and best left to the Inquisitors. You should have called for help and immediately turned him over to the church. None the less, your confusion at the time is understandable, and you do well to tell me this now. I shall not report you, and I shall pray for you to be forgiven. Forget this matter, and leave it to the church. You may leave, my child, unless you have more to confess.”

            I instantly pictured the little Book lying hidden in my night table, but I quickly suppressed that thought, and replied, “No, there is nothing else, Father.”

            It was two days until I heard word of Nicholas again. He had been caught in Reading the very day I had confessed to the priest and betrayed him—not betrayed, just done my duty to the church, I corrected myself. They had, apparently transferred him to Newgate Prison so he, as a nobleman, could stand trial before some of the higher ranking officials of the Church. I recalled all the horrible tales I had heard of Newgate—oh, my poor Nicholas! Was there nothing I could do? If only I could get permission to visit him—but what if he did not want to see me? I wouldn’t blame him if he hated me. After all, this was all my fault. But if I hadn’t, surely someone else would have turned him in eventually; after all, if he had a bit of common sense, he’d recant and everything would be all right again. But no, they recanted so rarely—most were so obsessed with this new faith of theirs that nothing could make them change their minds. Maybe if I were to go talk to him I could convince him otherwise—he had always been open minded and willing to listen to other people’s thoughts on matters; that was probably why he believed whoever gave him that book. Suddenly I felt a strong urge to find that Book, throw it into the fire place, and burn it to ashes. I wanted to take out all my anger on it, as if it were what was condemning Nicholas. I dug it out of my drawer and sat there for a few moments, just staring at the plain black leather cover. It looked so pathetic; it had obviously been bound by a rather poor man, probably with some leftover shoe leather. Somehow, I couldn’t burn it, at least not now. I tucked it away again, and went down stairs.

            With my father’s permission, I had our coach driver take me to the prison. Gaining permission to see Nicholas was easier that I expected. I had feared a search and possibly even to get questioned, but the guard just got up and led me to a cell, unlocked it, let me and locked it behind me, telling me to yell for him when I was done. Perhaps that was because of the coin I gave him.

            Nicholas quickly rose to his feet with a clank of chains when I entered. He swept a low bow and greeted me by name, sweeping up one of my hands with his own bound hand and kissing it lightly, as if nothing had changed since the feast on Christmas Day. I couldn’t help staring at him—he looked so different. His fine clothes were rumpled, torn and dirty, his hair was unkempt and matted with dried blood, and his face was drawn and pale despite his wide smile.

            “My lady, I beg your pardon for appearing before you thus. You see, I was not given adequate warning of your coming today, and, I am afraid, my accommodations here are not quite designed for entertaining guests,” Nicholas began with all his typical exaggerated courtesy.

            “Stop it, Nicholas! How can you joke at a time like this? Don’t you realize that you might be killed? Doesn’t it matter to you that I love you? Can’t you see that I don’t want you to die? You have to prevent this—turn back to the church, Nicholas; it is your only chance to get away. Please, my love, do this for me!” I begged him, tears streaming down my cheeks.

            “Susanna, my sweet Susanna, can’t you see that I am not afraid? I have found Christ—I have no reason to fear death. I know that if they were to kill me this moment, I’d be in paradise instantly!” I drew back; stunned by the arrogance of that assumption—he thought he was good enough to avoid purgatory all together! “My love, it is you I am worried about,” He continued, lowering his voice. “Do you still have the book I gave you? The church cannot save a single soul. Only Christ can do that—all the prayers and penance in the world will not bring you an inch closer to paradise; only repentance and faith in Christ can save you from eternal punishment. You are in far greater danger than I—the Scriptures I gave to you say “Fear ye not them which kill the body, and be not able to kill the soul. But rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body into hell.” I nave nothing to fear from the Lord, who can destroy both body and soul, but you do—turn to Christ, my love!”

            “Nicholas! What is wrong with you? Do you have any idea what they’re going to do to you? We could have been so happy—you could have believed as you pleased, if only you kept quiet about those beliefs. How can you expect me to listen to this? It was because you talked like this that I had to turn you in to the Inquisition. And now they’re going to kill you! Oh, Nicholas, this is all my fault!” I rambled on and on. “I was the one who turned you in! I don’t know why I did it—I love you! I love, love, love you!”

           

            “Susanna,” Nicholas put his hands on my shaking shoulders, “calm down. I love you too; the fact that I’m behind bars hardly can change that. I know you turned me in. I can’t say that what you did was right, but I’ve forgiven you, and God can too, if you will only ask Him.”

            “Stop saying that! I—I  can’t stay any longer.” I staggered back a few steps, and called, “Jailor! I would like to leave now!” I will never forget the look in Nicholas’ eyes as I left the cell; that mixture of grief, pity, and love made me want to cry. I hated to leave him, but I could not stay. He would not change his mind—I could not help him. He even refused comfort; all he wanted was to preach his heresies to me. I managed to hold back my tears until I was alone in my room, then I sobbed my heart out. He would be burned. They always burned heretics. I had seen a burning once, and I could not block the images of the fire devouring human flesh from my mind.
            Why had this happened? Why God, why? Read. I started—had I simply been remembering what Nicholas had said to me, or did I just hear a voice? Surely I had just imagined it. Still, I took out the book and began reading. “Therefore if any man be in Christ he is a new creature. Old things are passed away behold all things are become new…” The more I read the more fascinated I became. This was not the rule book I had always thought the Holy Scriptures to be; rather, it spoke of love and freedom and peace. Some parts puzzled me, like where it said “Ye are temples of the living God”, other parts frightened me, “Satan himself is changed into the fashion of an angel of light. Therefore it is no great thing though his ministers fashion them selves as though they were the ministers of righteousness: whose end shall be according to their deeds.”, and other parts thrilled me, like where it talked about God’s love and mercy, but I kept skimming—what I wanted was to know if it really did disagree with what the church taught. I wanted to go back to the jail—I had so many questions for Nicholas! But if I went to visit him too many times, they would get suspicious. Then, I reached a part which spoke of peace—about Christ leaving peace for His followers, and I began to understand a little bit. Peace was what Nicholas had—that was how he could jest in the face of death. I knew I had no such peace…but he was the heretic and I was the faithful follower of God! It should be the other way around, shouldn’t it? Oh, if only there was a way that I could know the truth!  The church could not be wrong—everyone knew that—but what Nicholas believed seemed so much more real. I needed to talk to someone, but Nicholas was the only person who I trusted enough to reveal my doubts to, and he was going to be killed! Maybe Father Ambrose could help me free myself from these doubts…or maybe he would turn me into the inquisition as a heretic or assign me some horrible penance, or, worse yet, I had heard stories of priests who used girls, threatening to turn them in if they did not comply—I shuddered.
            I scarcely slept that night, and went to the jail again first thing in the morning, though my father admonished me not to. Nicholas was not there; the guards explained that he was on trial today and the next three days. I went home and prayed every prayer for safety I knew for Nicholas. Once the trial was over, I went again to the prison, and was let to visit him, though I had to bribe the guards far more than last time, they finally let me go to see him.
            Nicholas looked terrible when I entered the cell. He was lying on the floor, with his cloak wrapped around him. Fresh blood streaked his face, and his lip was badly swollen. He made a feeble attempt to rise when he saw me, but fell back with a gasp of pain. I quickly knelt down beside him
            “You have one hour,” the guard told me and left, locking the door behind him.
            “Nicholas, what have they done to you?” tears choked my voice as I spoke.
            “They tried a few of the Church’s gentle and loving means of correction on me,” Nicholas replied, rather bitterly. “Please forgive me for not rising, but I was briefly introduced to the rack this morning.”
            “The rack!” I had heard of that horrible torture device—many died on it. Others were left with broken and dislocated limbs. “Nicholas, please end this! Just recant—just say the word; I can’t bear to see you suffer like this!”
            “I cannot and will not recant,” Nicholas whispered through his teeth; I was certain from the way he said it that this was not the first time he had given someone that response. “The verdict has already been passed. They aren’t likely to torture me any more. After all, they say I need to regain my strength in time for the burning next week. I suppose burnings are more interesting when the victim is strong enough to struggle.”
            “Stop it! Don’t you dare mention the burning again to me!” I snapped, and instantly regretted it. He grasped my hand.
            “I’m sorry, Susanna, I’m sorry. I spoke without thinking—I spoke out of pain and anger. Please tell me why you came to visit me.”
            “I’ve been reading it, Nicholas, and I must know if what you believe is true. Can the church be wrong? Think of how old it is, think of how many believe it—think of all that must fall if it is wrong.”
            “I—can’t speak—not without some water!” He gasped, struggling to sit up. I grabbed a cup which was lying nearby and filled it from a stone pitcher. He took the water gratefully and continued. “Think, my love, of what we know of the time when Christ lived. The Jews had been following their false form of worship for centuries, and many, many followed it, yet it was still wrong. Their whole culture was built around it—there was indeed much to lose if it was false, and it was. Just because everyone believes something does not make it right; everyone in the world could believe that they could fly and go jump off a cliff to prove it, but their belief would hardly save their lives when they reached the rocks below. The Bible is truth. If you seek Christ, you will find Him in that Book.”
            “I need some kind of proof, Nicholas. I’m sorry, but I can’t just take your word for this, and if the church is right, I am damning my soul to hell by reading that book!” As I sobbed, Nicholas rather clumsily stroked my hair with his left arm—his right was twisted in such a way that I was certain both his shoulder and elbow were dislocated.
            “Susanna, will you believe in something which gives people courage, even joy in the face of death?”
            “I don’t know—probably.”
            “Then come to my execution, my love. I know it won’t be easy to watch, but please, come and see if Christ gives me the courage to die without fear.”
            “No! You can’t expect me to watch. That would be horrible—I can’t believe you’d ask such a thing! Please, my love, won’t you reconsider? You only have to say the words—you don’t actually have to give up these new beliefs. You cannot let yourself be killed—I cannot let you be killed. I can’t live without you!”
            “Did they put you up to this, Susanna? I didn’t endure their interrogations and tortures to deny my Lord for a chance at a good life,” He replied wearily. “I love you, but I love Christ far more. I’m sorry Susanna, but there is no point in trying to convince me to recant; I’m not going to.”
            “Just stop talking this way. How can you expect me to sit and listen to this? You may be resigned to your fate, but I am not! I’ll leave if you keep this up.”
            “Susanna, you know as well as I do that I have a very short time left to live; how can I not try to make every moment count? All I want is to see you in heaven one day. Is that too much to ask?” He moved a little, and sucked in his breath sharply, clearly suppressing a cry of pain. After several moments, he began again, much more quietly. “I am afraid. Afraid of the fire, but more afraid for you—afraid of you suffering in hell fire. I love you.” His voice was hardly audible, and his eyes were closed, “I love you, God’s truth, I do. I would give almost anything to live out my life with you at my side, but I could never be so unfaithful to my Lord as to deny him to get out of here. God loves you, darling, and His love is far greater than mine. Please think again—how can the Roman Church be the church of Christ? How could Christ, who loves us so much, be commanding His people to torture and kill those for whom He died? How can—” A fit of coughing interrupted him; I offered him the cup of water, but he turned his face away, blood splattering his lips. Finally, he stopped coughing and lay back, eyes closed, breathing heavily. The guard came and told me my visiting time was over. Nicholas gave my hand a weak squeeze, and I rose and left the cell.
I spent the next few hours pacing up and down in my chambers, carrying on a heated argument with myself. I can’t watch his execution—it would kill me!
            This may be my only chance to know for sure who is right.
            No! The church is right—it has to be; after all, it’s been around for far longer than Nicholas’ heretical cult.
            But what if it does disagree with the scriptures? What if Nicholas is right? What if Christ really is a God of love?
            What if he is wrong? Is it a risk worth taking? Look what it cost him!
            That’s exactly the point—how can someone have the courage to face all that for something false? What if it is true and you do not believe it? Is that a risk worth taking?
            I could not sleep that night. I tried in vain to silence the questions war back and forth in my head; doubts and my desperate longing to know the truth battered against the walls of my old faith—the walls I had thought so unbreachable a few short days ago. Late that night, or rather early the next morning, I finally got up, lit my lamp, and opened the Book. I read, desperately looking for something that clearly condemned or condoned the church system, but I soon was distracted from that by some verses about love. Out of curiosity, I decided to count how many times the book mentioned love; I started at the beginning, skimming, and keeping count of how many times it occurred. Finally, after several hours, I came up with the number 176; I probably missed some, but that number rather overwhelmed me—it could not have been more obvious that Christ was indeed a God of love. I found another thing while I was searching—a book near the end called “The First Epistle of St. John”; that book was so full of love that it made my heart ache for the love described therein. I was startled to find a place where it stated outright “God is love”. This could be real. It was so beautiful and wonderful; how could it be evil? Finally, though I knew it would break my heart, I resolved to go to the burning.
            “God? Please forgive me if it is wrong for me to pray directly to You, but if you really are a loving God; if what Nicholas believes is true, then please give me some kind of proof—please, if Nicholas is really Your servant, let him be brave and not fear the fire—and if he is not, then please let him recant before they kill him.” I prayed hesitantly—it felt so weird to address God rather than a saint; I crossed myself many times, hoping I was not sinning in praying like that.
            The next week was both the best and the worst week I had ever had. I spent as much time as I could spare without raising suspicions reading the Book in my room, and the more I read, the more I longed for the God described in it, the Christ who said “Peace I leave with you; My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” Love, Joy, and Peace were recurring themes in the Book, and they were the three things I would give almost anything for. At the same time, though, my grief for Nicholas, my fear of seeing him burned, and most of all, my guilt for the part I had played in all this tore at me, leaving me sobbing for hours on end. Also, I found I could not bear mass that Sunday. It seemed false, emotionless, and wrong even; I desperately hoped my doubts did not show on my face as Father Ambrose placed the wafer on my tongue. He seemed to pause for a moment longer at me, and my heart stood still, but then he continued down the line, and I could breathe again.
            The dreaded, yet longed for day arrived after a long night of reading, praying, and crying. I managed to hold back my tears as a maid dressed me in the inconspicuous grey dress I had chosen long in advance for the occasion.  My father, who had been very reluctant to consent to my going, insisted that a manservant accompany me in case of trouble. I loathed the presence of the servant at my side as I rode out for the town square; I had to maintain my composure before him, though my heart felt like it would burst if I held in my grief, somehow I did.
            The square was teeming with people of all ages and classes; I pulled my hood forward a bit, hoping no one would recognise me as the daughter of the Earl. I thought for a moment that I caught a glimpse of Nicholas’ youngest sister, Eleanor, standing in the shadow of a building alone, holding a horse’s reigns, but no; there is no way that her family would have let her travel here to witness this horrible event—especially unescorted! I had hardly any time to think about that though, because suddenly a shout rose from the crowd nearest the jail. I turned to see a cart rattling up, surrounded by mounted guards, with Father Ambrose himself leading the procession carrying a tall crucifix. In the cart was my Nicholas; he was on his knees, his hands bound tightly behind him, and his head bowed, whether from weariness, or in prayer, I could not tell. The crowd hurled insults and curses at him and a few threw clods of dirt. It was so horrible; I wanted to somehow protect him; to take him in my arms, wipe away the dirt and blood from his face, and tell him everything would be fine. The cart jolted to a stop a few paces from the stone platform with the stake, and Nicholas raised his head. To my surprise his expression was not one of fear or grief, but calm, happy even, as if he was going to a ball rather than his own death. A guard stepped into the cart, and dragged him to his feet. Nicholas stumbled a few times as he was lead to the stake, and his face was tight with pain; I shuddered, remembering that he had been on the rack. Was he walking on broken legs? They quickly bound him to the stake with a chain around his waist, and steel ring was clasped around his neck to hold him in place. Finally, the executioner stepped aside, and Father Ambrose approached, still bearing the crucifix. Oh, please recant! Oh, God, let him recant; I cannot watch him die like this. I prayed silently.
            “My son,” Father Ambrose began in a pleading tone, “Why do you persist in your folly? Even now, you may be saved from the flames of this world and the next if you but say a few simple words. Denounce your heresy, accept the mass, and throw yourself upon the abundant mercies of the church. Even now you can be set free, if you say but a few simple words.”
            “You ask me to deny my Lord? I would rather die a hundred times! I should be proud to die for the name of the Christ who died for me.” I realised that Nicholas was not looking at the priest, but rather, he was gazing straight at me. “As for your offer for me to be saved from hell fire, that has already happened. It happened the day I placed my trust in Christ Jesus as my Lord and Saviour. I am not afraid of what you might do to this body; I shall have a new body today—one which shall never grow old or suffer. My Lord Himself commanded us to not fear those who can destroy the body, but rather to fear God, who can destroy both body and soul. No, I will not recant; I denounce the Church of Rome as perverted, the pope as a liar, and—” His words were cut short by Father Ambrose striking him hard in the mouth. It startled me, as I had never before seen the soft-spoken priest use violence against anyone.
            “He has refused the mercy of the Church,” Father Ambrose announced coldly, turning to the crowd, “So we now hand him over to the secular authorities, for far be it from the Holy Mother Church to shed blood.” As the priest stepped away from the platform, and the executioner stepped forward, Nicholas began to speak again, though blood dripped down his chin from his broken mouth. He was quoting from the Scriptures—I recognised a few of the verses, like “Do not pray with vain repetitions as the heathen do”, “Those who worship God must worship Him in spirit and in truth”, and “By works of the law shall no flesh be justified in His sight”. Others were unfamiliar, like “The wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord”, and “Believe on the Lord Jesus christ, and you shall be saved”. I nearly cried out as the executioner jabbed the torch he bore into one of the faggots piled around Nicholas. The wood caught instantly, and the blaze quickly climbed up, licking his legs and feet; still he pleaded with the crowd. “Today, if you will hear His voice, do not harden your hearts in rebellion! Today is the day of salvation!” The flames wrapped around his chest, and his legs—oh, his legs! I could not bear to look at him, but I could not bear to look away either, even for a second. Finally, when I could scarcely see his face through the flames, he raised both hands into the air and cried out “Death is swallowed up in victory!” His arms remained in the air for a few moments, his face upturned, then they dropped, and I knew it was over. I put a hand over my eyes, and only then realized that tears were streaming down my cheeks.
            So many contradictory emotions crowded my head that I could scarcely think about what I was doing. I only vaguely remember swinging myself up on to the horse and riding away at a mad pace. I rode blindly out over unfamiliar terrain for about an hour before I reigned in my horse and realised that I had been riding astride! But it didn’t matter. Only one thing mattered now. I dropped from my horse to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.
            “Oh God, Christ, Oh, Nicholas’s God, I know You’re real now. I don’t know what to do or say! Why God? Why did it have to be Nicholas?” You know why. It was not a voice I heard—more like a thought, but then I understood. It was me; it took Nicholas’s death to convince me. “Oh, Lord, why do you want me? I’m worthless—I’ve followed a false church, and, God, don’t you know that I was the one who turned in Nicholas? I as good as killed him! You don’t want me!” Today is the day of salvation. “Christ, I want it! I want that salvation!” And that day, lying on my face in an unknown wood, I gave my life to Christ.




            Five years have passed since that Christmas. I returned to my family, and tried in vain (or so I thought) to share the Good News with them. Finally, I was forced to leave my father’s home and fled to Cornwall, were I found other believers, including Nicholas’s sister, Eleanor, who had indeed been at the burning. I also met a young man who had been a close friend of Nicholas’s named James Fenton. As time passed, he and I became very close friends, and gradually, that friendship became something more. We were married three years after my arrival in Cornwall. A few months after the wedding, to my surprise, my younger brother, Thomas joined us there. We lived there in hiding for four years, until Queen Mary died, and good Queen Elizabeth took the throne. She is a ruler truly sent by God. She has abolished all persecution, and identifies herself as a protestant. I am happy. I have a husband who loves me with all his heart, and sweet little girl, and another child on his way; I live in a free country, and I serve a God who can do the impossible—and this God loves me.