From Restitution: Fire and fury:
“John Dee peered through the drizzle, over the heads of the sizeable crowd, toward the simple wooden scaffold on Tower Hill.
This was the first execution he had ever attended, and by preference he wouldn’t be here now. He had no desire to witness the state-ordered ending of anyone’s life.
He shivered, though whether from the mist that had already soaked through his woollen cloak, or because of the imminent elimination of Baron Thomas Seymour, nobody would ever know.
Dee had foiled two attempted coups by the Baron, the most recent just three months ago, and he had little sympathy for the conniving, treacherous Lord Admiral, even if he was the King’s uncle and the Lord Protector’s brother.
The smell of roasted chestnuts mingled with that of a thousand rain-damp Londoners pressed close. A pie-seller eased his way through the gawping multitude, calling out his wares, while someone near Dee crunched into an apple, both audible during a momentary lull in the crowd’s cacophony.
His stomach rumbled.
He slipped further back through the crowd – those behind him were all too willing to take his place. Spying a fellow with a brazier and a winning smile, he approached and asked for a bag of roasted chestnuts. Secretly, he hoped that he’d miss the action on the scaffold during the interaction, but the man’s movements were deft and efficient.
“Shocking, isn’t it?” the man offered as he smoothly transferred crispy nuts to a small paper cone. His jovial tone suggested he actually thought no such thing.
A goodwife beside Dee butted into the conversation, the excitement caused by the scandal overcoming normal social graces. “I heard that his own brother signed the warrant!”
“And the King,” replied the chestnut seller. “They say young Edward put his name to it himself. To behead his own uncle!”
“Blood means nothing to these people!” answered the indignant woman.
Dee said nothing, just paid his penny and took his nuts – warming his fingers around the packet.
Reluctantly, he surveyed the crowd again, even rising on his tiptoes to give the impression that he wanted to worm his way to the front.
Tutting loudly to nobody in particular, he ambled around the rear of the press of bodies, still pretending to look for a spot with a better view, whilst all he really wanted was the ability to say he’d attended without actually being subjected to the sight itself.”