“I will not lose sight of her,” answered Richard, “until she be in the Paradise of God!”
Long before nine o’clock on the morning of that 6th of March, a large crowd was already gathered on Tower Hill. Some came there from a feeling of revenge—glad to see a Lollard burned. Among these was Archbishop Arundel. Some, from a feeling of deep pity for the poor young girl who was to be almost the proto-martyr of the new faith. Among these were Pynson and Carew. The chief part of the concourse, however, shared neither of these feelings to any great degree, but came simply to see a sight, just as they would have gone to see a royal procession, or any other pageant.
As nine o’clock struck on the great bell of the Tower, the martyr appeared, led forth between the sheriff and Abbot Bilson. She was clothed in one long white garment, falling from her throat to her feet; and, notwithstanding the inclemency of the weather, her head, arms, and feet were bare. No fastening confined her golden hair, which streamed freely over her shoulders and fell around her. She walked slowly, but quite calmly. Arrived at the place of execution, the sheriff urged her to confess.
“I will confess,” said Margery, “to Him who can alone absolve me.” And lifting up her eyes, she said, “O Lord God, who art above all things, and hast given Thy Son to die for us sely and sinful men, I confess to Thee that I am a vile sinner, utterly unworthy of Thy grace and mercy. That day by day, for twenty-three years, have I done what I ought not, and said what I ought not, and thought what I ought not. That all my life also have I left undone things the which I ought for to have done. Wherefore, O Father, let it please Thee of Thy goodness to forgive me, and to look not on me, but on Thy Son Christ, in whose rightwise-ness I am rightwise, and who hath loved me as Thou hast loved also Him. O Lord God, turn not away the face of Thy servant, whose heart Thou hast moved to pray thus unto Thee!”
The Abbot and the sheriff were extremely annoyed, but they did not dare to silence her, for the multitude hung breathlessly on her words.
“There’s none so much harm in that, any way!” said a woman who stood near Richard Pynson.
“Wilt thou confess, sinful heretic?” asked the Abbot.
“To God I will and have done,” answered Margery; “to man I will not.”
There was a short pause, while the sheriff’s men, under his direction, heaped the wood in the position most favourable for burning quickly. Then the sheriff read the indictment in a loud voice. It was a long document, and took upwards of twenty minutes to read. After this, they passed a chain round Margery’s body, and fastened her to the stake. The sheriff then, with a lighted torch, advanced to set the wood on fire.
“Will ye allow me that I may speak unto the people?” asked Margery of the Abbot.