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Tower Hill, July 28, 1540.

The summer air is soupy, irritating, even.

A restless crowd gathers on Tower Hill, straining for a glimpse.

The scathold looms above them, casting harsh, angled shadows on the ground.

Thomas Cromwell, once the second most powerful man in England, climbs the steps with a steady resolve. He is dressed simply, his face pale but calm. Once atop the platform, his eyes scan the

crowd with what some will later interpret as defiance. Others, though, will call it resignation.

Then he begins to speak.

I am by the law condemned to die, and thank my Lord God that he hath sent me to the end of my life, says he, his voice clear and steady. The crowd falls silent,

mesmerized by the dignity of a man who knows his fate is sealed. He asks for forgiveness,

both from his king and his god, then kneels before the block, a figure humbled yet unbroken.

The executioner, however, is not so composed. It is whispered that he is woefully inexperienced

when it comes to dispatching nobleman, a man more used to wool and weaving, they whisper, than the heavy axe now in his hands.

He shifts nervously, his grip uncertain.

His first swing comes down with a sickening thud.

But it is not enough. Gasps ripple through the crowd.

Blood pools quickly staining the wood.

The executioner adjusts his stance, lifting the axe again.

...