by Norah Lofts
Margaret had then returned, having hastily splashed her swollen face with cold water and brushed back her hair.
“I am sure this means something good,” she said. “I was always certain that the King would never…”
“I think we should go,” Lady Kingston said.
So here they were, and Cranmer came forward to meet them, nervously rubbing his hands together, as though washing them. He greeted them gravely and then said,
“I have something to say that is for Lady Pembroke’s ear alone; so I must ask you to leave us together. If you wish, Sir William, you may examine this room and assure yourself that there is no other exit.”
Perfunctorily, Sir William examined the place. He had never suspected that this excursion was a trick to help the prisoner to escape. He could guess its purpose. Cranmer had been given the job of trying to extract a confession; for the truth was that since the trial nobody had been quite easy. The perverse London populace who had accepted Anne so reluctantly, had, the moment she was condemned, turned about and espoused her cause; the amateur street lawyers had fastened on three points. One piece of evidence brought against her had rested upon the word of a Lady Wingfield, dead for some years, and “that ain’t evidence. Anybody can put what words they like into a dead woman’s mouth. Hearsay ain’t evidence.” Then there’d been two specific dates for misconduct which the sharp-witted London women made mock of. “October that year she was still a-laying in with the white-leg; whoever said that didn’t know much about white-leg nor adultery.” And they said, “January this year, when she was five months gone! Tell that to somebody that never had a big belly. The last thing you think of such times…”
And if the evidence could be so obviously contrived in three places, how much of the rest could you believe?
That was the talk in the London streets, and Sir William, aware of it, had no difficulty in guessing what Cranmer had been ordered to procure by some means or another.
Inside the little crypt Cranmer said,
“Please be seated, my lady.” He waited until she was seated and then sat down himself. “I wish you to believe that what I am about to say is said from a most earnest desire to spare you pain.”
That was simple truth. The idea of anybody being burned appalled him. They could say what they liked about the smoke deadening the senses before the fire reached the living flesh; that was all a matter of chance, what the fire was made of, which way the wind blew. No matter how heinous the crime, burning alive was a punishment out of all proportion…whoever it was. And with this woman he was involved. He owed her so much. If the King had not been determined to marry her, where would Cranmer have been? Not here, not Archbishop of Canterbury.
Anne looked at him, and thought of Catherine. In her cold, calm moments—this was one of them—she thought often of Catherine. Catherine had had a chaplain, a Thomas Abell who had gone to the block for his loyalty to her. Cranmer, once her own chaplain, was so much a King’s man that he had not uttered a word of protest at the way she had been treated, and sat here now, plainly about to divulge some distasteful little scheme…
“I wish,” Cranmer said, “I wish with my whole heart that none of this had ever happened. I was incredulous. When I first heard of the business I wrote to the King. I said “I am clean amazed, for I never had a better opinion of a woman.” I wrote that, my lady.”
“But since, you have altered your opinion.”
He washed his hands violently.
“I am not a lawyer; I cannot judge. You were tried by your peers, my lady, and they condemned you…” He looked at her and imagined to what they had condemned her; that living flesh, that hair, those eyes…Oh God, help me to help her to avoid such a fate. “You must listen,” he said urgently, “you must listen to me and agree. His Grace demands it and only he can spare you now.”
“If it is a confession you ask of me…my lord, I cannot make it. I never did commit adultery with any of the men named. When I think of burning…” She clasped her hands together against her breast. “I try not to think of it, but it’s there. All the time. They say that the smoke chokes you before…but…” She gave a great convulsive shudder.
Cranmer leaned forward and took one of her wrists, circling it between his finger and thumb.
“I’m not asking a confession,” he said quickly. “Oh no. It is easier than that. The King says that you shall have a quick, easy death if you will agree that you were never his lawful wife. A specially skilled headsman, brought over from Calais…”
What a nightmare situation; to sit here and offer a healthy young woman, once his friend, his patron, the choice of two forms of death, both horrible.
“I should prefer the block to the faggot. Anybody would.”
“Anybody would,” Cranmer echoed; and his flesh shuddered, too, as though, from a distance of twenty years, it had felt the lick of the flames that were to consume it.
“But you, at the Dunstable Court, ruled our marriage good and valid. And to deny that now will make my child a bastard.”
“That will be done, I fear, with or without your consent. His Grace has set his mind upon that.”
Pliable as he was, he had a feeling of dismay as he contemplated the manner of man whom he must serve or face ruin.
“Then I will agree. On what grounds?”
“Precontract.”
“So I was never married!”
“That is the argument.”
She jumped up and began to walk the little room. “But that I fear the fire, I would never agree. The Concubine. That is what the Spanish Ambassador always called me. The Concubine did this and said the other. I always hated it; but I could laugh then, knowing it untrue. All those years and years of waiting. This makes mock of them.” She stood still, struck by a thought; for five months she had deserved the name; and now it would be hers forever. And she had committed adultery, so secretly that the sin was known only to God. Yet she would be remembered as an adulteress, too. She swung round on Cranmer and said, “God is said to be a stern yet merciful judge, my lord. I only pray that His mercy matches His sternness!”
“His mercy is infinite,” Cranmer said. And it had need be, with men so sinful. His own conscience was far from easy.
Anne resumed her pacing.
“And how do we go about this making void of a marriage?”
“A mere formality. Those gentlemen who were here with me will constitute a Court. Dr. Sampson will stand proctor for the King, Dr. Barbour and Dr. Wootton for you. I shall conduct the inquiry. You through your proctors will admit to a previous betrothal which invalidates your marriage to the King.”
“To whom was I supposed to be betrothed?”
“To Lord Harry Percy, now Earl of Northumberland.”
She was at the end of the small room, and turning, faced him, leaning back against the wall.
“Oh no!” she said.
“If you prefer to name another gentleman…”
“Harry Percy will do,” she said and began to laugh. The crazy sound filled the crypt, bouncing back from the low ceiling and stone walls.
“Please,” Cranmer said, “my lady, this is no matter for Lady Pembroke, I beg you…I’ll call your women…”
But to reach the door he had to pass her and she put out her right hand and caught him by his full sleeve. Without engaging in an unseemly struggle he could not release himself and was forced to stand rocked by the laughter that shook her. She made a fist of her left hand and beat with it upon her chest. “It will stop,” she gasped, between gusts of laughter, speaking as though it had nothing to do with her. And presently it did stop. She said, breathlessly,
“I’m not mad. There is a joke—such a one as only God could have devised. I had to laugh or cry. And jokes are meant to be laughed at, even the cruel ones.”
Cranmer regarded her miserably and without understanding.
“It all began with him,” she said. “We were in love, we would have married, but they parted us. Thirteen years ago
they would not allow us to be betrothed, now to destroy my marriage they claim that we were. When I was young and able to love they took him away; now, in this guise they give him back to me. Did he laugh, too?”
Cranmer thought it best not to say that Northumberland had not been consulted or that he had twice denied the betrothal. He said,
“Evidence of the betrothal was given by George Cavendish who was gentleman-usher to Cardinal Wolsey at the time. He affirms that Lord Harry Percy told the Cardinal that he was so bound in honor to you that he could not in conscience marry another woman.”
“If only they had heeded him then,” she said bitterly, “none of this would ever have happened.”
And again the little self-seeking strain in Cranmer came uppermost and he thought the inevitable thought—And I should not be Archbishop of Canterbury. He said,
“Will you agree that there was a precontract?”
“I would deny it, but I don’t want to burn. I thought just now of Catherine, how stubbornly she stood upon her rights, but she wasn’t threatened with burning. My lord of Canterbury, threatened with burning anybody would agree to anything.”
“Then this business should take but little time,” Cranmer said. And then, thank God his part would be done.
It took about fifteen minutes to unmake the marriage which had taken so long to make: which had brought the Reformation to England; which had produced Elizabeth.
WHITEHALL, GREENWICH, RICHMOND, HAMPTON COURT, WINDSOR, MAY 17TH, 1536
In all the royal palaces the needlewomen were working late. With red eyes, aching backs, and tired fingers they were working at bed-hangings and covers, at chairbacks and cushions and tablecloths, everywhere where the H and the A had been worked in interlinking stitches, the A was to be removed and a J put in its place. A lot of work to do in a little time. The woman the A stood for was to go to her death on the day after tomorrow; the woman the J stood for would be married that evening or next day, and all must be in order.
One old woman could remember the time when all this stuff was new and everybody was busy embroidering H and C on everything. The new king was then being freehanded with the money his tightfisted old father had saved. They’d been the days; everything young and full of hope and promise.
Yes, she’d worked H and C; and then, her sight still good, thank God, she’d picked out many a C and worked A instead, and now here she was, her sight still good, thank God, picking out A and putting J in its place.
Some of her neighbors had a lot to say about the rights and wrongs of it, but she didn’t bother. She was glad the King was so changeable in his mind. He could change again next year, for all she cared, if only her sight remained good. It all meant work for such as her.
XLIII
…who, whilst I lived, ever showed yourselves so diligent in my service…as in good fortune ye were faithful to me, so even at this, my miserable death ye do not forsake me.
Anne Boleyn to her attendants
THE TOWER. MAY 17TH, 1536
THE GUARD AT THE GATE eyed Emma Arnett and thought—Drunk; disgusting! Her black gown had been decent once, but now the whole front of it was plastered with mud, she must have fallen flat on her face, and one sleeve was half ripped out. Her cap was awry on her head and from one side of it the gray hair tumbled. There was mud and a graze on her face and her whole manner had the demented kind of confidence that came from too much liquor.
“Orders,” he said. “Nobody to come in or go out.”
“But I have the King’s own permit. Look, read for yourself, Or can’t you read?”
The guard could not read; but he knew a trick when he came up against one. He took the paper and held it so that the smoky light from the torch fixed in the wall fell on it. A plain piece of paper, no heading, no date. Some writing done in ink, very level and nice and across the bottom, huge and sprawling, the letters H R done in, well, for all the world they looked as though they’d been done with a burnt stick.
“If I let you in with that, old woman,” he said, “my back’d smart tomorrow.”
“It’ll smart if you don’t,” Emma said. “Can’t you recognize the King’s hand? All right. Go fetch somebody that can read.”
“You go home and sleep it off. You should be ashamed.”
“I’m asking you for the last time,” Emma said—but her voice was still breathless and excited—“to fetch somebody with some sense. All right then, I will!” She threw her head back and screamed. The noise she made was not quite so loud and piercing as that which she had made a little time ago at the Westminster landing steps because with one thing and another her voice was wearing down, but it was a loud noise and it carried. In no time at all two other guards and a young officer were at the gate.
“Sir, sir,” Emma said, singling out the officer. “I beg you look at this. Signed by the King not an hour ago.”
“Stand back,” the officer said. They’d been warned that there might be trouble, even an attempted rescue, and though the old woman looked harmless enough one never knew. He looked right and left. All quiet.
“Bring me the paper,” he said.
When he had it he held it under the torch and read, “His Grace, the King gives permission for Emma Arnett to go to the Tower and remain with her mistress, Lady Pembroke, until she is needed no more.” That much was neatly written in ink. Then, in what looked like charcoal, were the letters H R which, if not from the King’s hand, were remarkably good forgeries.
“Come here,” he said. “Now, how did you come by this?”
“I wrote it,” Emma said. “I took it and a piece of charred wood, so he could sign anywhere, and I’ve been following him about. I’d tried other ways but everybody was against me. And it wasn’t easy to catch up with him and get close enough. Tonight I did. I was roughly handled, but he did hear me and he signed. You’ll let me in?”
“This could be a trick.”
“Of course it was a trick. How else could I do it? They knew very well that if I’d been let to speak…I’ve been under restraint till the trial was over. Once it was I was turned loose and I wanted to come to her, but I couldn’t get leave. Till tonight. There it is, and if you don’t believe me, send and ask. He’s at Westminster.”
The young officer looked right and left again. Nothing stirring.
“You must come in and wait,” he said. “I’ll make inquiries.” Emma was shown into a small bare room, and the officer went to find Sir William Kingston who, not wishing on the one hand to ignore an order which seemed to be signed by the King’s hand, nor, on the other, disturb His Grace at supper, sent someone along to Westminster steps to ask if there had been a scene there, earlier, and if anyone could remember an old woman being given the King’s signature to her paper.
There were upwards of two hundred. It had rained in the afternoon but the evening was warm and fine and people had gathered, as they had lately, to stare at their monarch and wonder.
Every evening he’d gone out to supper in this great house or that, or had entertained guests, behaving like a man with nothing on his conscience and absolutely no shame. Cuckolded five times over, by his brother-in-law, by his closest favorite, by a lowborn musician, and two other men; and he behaved as though nothing had happened at all. What a man!
An ordinary citizen, suspicious of his own wife, would go to stare and think—How well he wears his horns; maybe I take things too much to heart.
Another, tired of his wife, would think—Lucky fellow, he’s worn out two and is ready for the third.
Some, happily married, had comfortable thoughts—I’m poor and humble but I’m lucky. I wouldn’t change my Joan, Alice, Margery, Mary for any woman alive.
Several sober decent citizens described the scene when one of their own kind, sober and decent, had screamed and tried to get near His Grace, and had thrown herself face downward at his feet and been hauled up again so roughly that her sleeve had been torn. Yes, but she’d had her way. The King had written on a paper she had and mut
tered something about loyalty, and she had then picked up her skirts and run—they pointed the direction—as though the Devil himself was after her.
The torn sleeve was identification enough. Also, one man who had pushed near, vouched for the act that His Grace had signed with a bit of burnt stick; some of the black had come off on his hand and he’d sworn and rubbed his hand on his tunic.
The messenger sped back to the Tower and presently Emma was admitted.
And she, that tower of strength, that rock in an emergency, that unemotional woman, gave way at last. She went down on her knees and took Anne’s hands and kissed them again and again, and wept. The tears came with difficulty, accompanied by harsh, chest-rending sobs.
For when Anne had been taken away, Emma Arnett had at last faced the truth. A terrible truth. For thirteen years she had served Anne, on this excuse, or that, always deceiving herself, telling herself that Anne was a mere instrument, to be used for the furtherance of a common cause. She’d thought about the Bible in English, the protection of Lutheran merchants, of Latimer, of the prince who would save England from Mary.
And it was all lies.
The truth was that she loved Anne Boleyn; always had, always would; and now it was too late. Anne Boleyn was to die on the day after tomorrow.
THE TOWER. MAY 18TH, 1536
The headsman, imported in advance, Henry being so certain that Anne would choose the easier death, said,
“For all Calais is reckoned part of England, it’s really part of France; and we do things differently there.”
XLIV
The day before she suffered death, being attended by six ladies in the Tower, she took Lady Kingston into her presence chamber and there, locking the door upon them, willed her to sit down in the chair of state…Then the Queen most humbly fell on her knees and…charged her…that she would so fall down before the Lady Mary’s grace and in like manner ask her forgiveness.