by Byrd, Sandra
Anne allowed herself a little smile. “Dear Meg. You are always constant.”
“Well, ’tis in Holy Writ!” I exclaimed. That brought a fuller smile from her, and it was lovely to behold.
“You are right,” she said. “’Tis easier to be meek when you know false charges will not go unanswered. I shall follow in the path of my Master. To do otherwise would be a burden on my soul—and a weapon for Henry to use against my daughter.” Her black eyes grew sharp again. Her mind had lost nothing to grief.
We prayed for a time and then, nigh on daybreak, she awoke me. When I looked at her, I saw she was firmly in control of her emotions. Her hands did not tremble. Her smile was steady. Queen Anne was back.
“Rise, Meg. We must dress.”
TWENTY-SIX
Year of Our Lord 1536
The Tower of London
In my final duty as mistress of robes I dressed Anne in a modest gown of gray damask, which had been lined with fur against the morning chill. It was good English fabric for a good English queen. She insisted on wearing an English gable, for modesty, and not the French hood for which she was so well known. “I was born an English girl, and I shall die an English woman,” she said. I brushed her long, beautiful hair one last time, so it would glisten, and for her comfort, and for memory of our long friendship, before tucking it into the gable and draping her with royal ermine.
“Here.” Anne handed something to me in her gloved hand.
“What is this?” I asked, taking it from her.
“It’s my jeweled prayer book. I no longer need it,” Anne said with a smile. “Do you remember how, on the night Will Ogilvy declared that he would become a priest, you handed me your prayer book? Said you had no use for it, nor for Will, nor for God any longer?”
I smiled and laughed with her. “Yes, Anne, I recall it well. ’Tis not a night I am likely to forget!”
“I read from it, your beautifully rendered Latin, your thoughtful notes, whilst I served Queen Claude.”
I took it from her hand. “I shall think of you each time I read it.” I opened it up and on the front page she had written, Remember me, when you do pray, that hope doth lead from day to day.
“To remember me by,” she said.
I took her in my arms and we clung to one another as we had when one of us had tumbled from a steed as girls. “Nihilo quo tui meminerim mihi opus est,” I said.
I need nothing to remember you by.
I opened the door to the Queen’s Lodging and let my lady lead ahead of us. It was a short walk past the great hall, where she had once celebrated her coronation and then, recently, defended her innocence, along the west side of the White Tower, built five hundred years past by William the Conqueror. We passed by it and we caught the first glimpse of the scaffolding upon which she must stand.
There were nigh on one thousand people come to watch—the king had decreed that only Englishmen and Englishwomen might view the beheading, no foreigners of any rank. There were some catcalls and some jeering and nary a word of encouragement. We passed by my lord the Duke of Suffolk and his young bride, Katherine Willoughby. We passed by the Duke of Richmond, the king’s bastard and Anne’s stepson, who bowed his head just enough for the crowd to notice. I silently thanked him for it. Anne’s cousin, his wife, Mary Fitzroy, was not there.
We stopped at the bottom of the scaffold and she turned to me and put her mouth close to my ear. “You know why I say what I will say and I do it willingly. But if you ever have occasion, do not be reluctant to commend me to His Grace and tell him that he hath ever been constant in his career of advancing me; from private gentlewoman he made me marquess, from marquess a queen, and now that he hath left no higher degree of honor he gives my innocence the crown of martyrdom.” She wanted to have the last word, our Anne, up to the last day. I was gladdened to see the spark had not left her.
She kissed my cheek and looked me in the eye. I nodded my agreement, knowing I could say no such thing if I wished to retain my head. I let the tears slide freely down my face and I could hear Nan Zouche sob in the background.
The constable took Anne’s arm and helped her up the hastily built wooden stairway and I alone followed. She walked to the edge of the platform and addressed the crowd, voice firm, face bold.
“According to the law and by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it. I am come hither to accuse no man, nor to speak of that whereof I am accused and condemned to die, but I pray God save the king and send him long to reign over you, for a gentler nor a more merciful prince was there never, and to me he was ever a good, gentle, and sovereign lord.”
She did not admit guilt nor make a false confession. I knew upon what she stayed her mind: the Henry of nearly a decade, who had wooed and won her, who sent her sweet letters and fine jewels and argued points of religion with her and offered her the choice bits off of his plate. If ’twere to be that which she chose to hold in her last moments, and not the tyrant the man had of late turned into, I should not begrudge her, nor anyone, fine memories at the end of her life.
“And thus I take my leave of the world, and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me,” she finished.
The crowd, of a sudden, turned and grew respectfully silent. “God bless you, Your Grace,” one called out loudly, and there was a wave of hums of approval and agreement.
Anne returned to the center of the platform. I gave her an encouraging look and removed her ermine mantle, leaving her gracious white neck unencumbered. She stayed me from lifting off her headdress; instead, she took it off herself, first shaking free her magnificent black hair one last time afore tucking it under a modest white cap.
“Jesu, receive my soul; O Lord God, have pity on my soul,” she spoke as she knelt. I knelt near her to tie a blindfold around her eyes—she, unlike many others led to this place, needed nothing and no one to restrain her in her place. I had scarce stepped back from tying the blindfold when the sword of Calais sliced through the air and through her neck, severing her head in one clean blow. I heard gasps and sighs from the crowd and then nothing.
Her head rolled but a little way from her body, and I could see her lips still moving in silent prayer for a few moments while the blood pumped outward from the body and from the head. I was stuck firm in my place by the horror of it, jarred loose only by the clattering of Nan Zouche and Alice as they ran up the stairs with linen. I quickly leaned down and picked up her head, eyes still open and aware as the linen slipped from them, as they looked at me. I willed the bile back down my throat and forced myself to look into those eyes with love for the few moments before awareness dimmed from them.
Within seconds, she slipped away. I took the head into the smallest and finest of the linens and carefully wrapped it, her blood running thickly between my fingers, under my nails, and staining my forearms as I sought to save her from any indignity. Gorge rose in my throat but I swallowed it back every few seconds and tried not to feel the spidery trickle of blood running down my arms. Nan and Alice quickly wrapped the body and, while the guards held back the crowds, we made our way the hundred or so feet toward the chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula. On the way we passed the freshly dug graves of the men of the privy chamber, so recently laid to rest.
Do not waver. Do not stumble. Do not faint. Keep walking.
Once inside the church we removed her outer garments: much like the Roman soldiers casting lots for Christ’s clothing, Anne’s clothing were required to be parceled out to those who worked in the Tower keep, though she was allowed to keep her shift for modesty. We placed head and body together in a hastily emptied elm chest. It would be buried, and guarded, immediately.
“Good-bye, dearest,” I whispered afore they closed the lid. “Till we meet again.”
Sir William’s men escorted us back to the Queen’s Lodging. Nan Zouche was sick on the green along the way. “Get moving, and get your things,” one guard roughly commanded.
“Where are we to go?�
� Alice asked. She looked wan and ill.
“You”—he pointed at her—“will go to the household of your son. You”—he pointed at Lady Zouche—“will go to the keep of your husband. And you”—he pointed at me—“will be escorted back to Greenwich Palace, where you shall await your brother, who is now your guardian. He shall come to collect you shortly.”
We were to keep our lives. But mine would be enslaved to Edmund. I looked up to where my brother Thomas was still imprisoned and sent a prayer his way. I had no strength to do more.
Before we left Anne’s quarters I was sick over and over again in her privy basin.
As we left the Tower my anger grew. The man charged with delivering us back to our quarters carried on, either out of ill will or stupidity, about how the king was now free to marry Jane Seymour, and he would do so, anon, at York Place, and then present her as queen after Mass at Greenwich on Whitsunday, June 4. She was, I’d heard, at that moment being fitted for her wedding gown! Have a care, Mistress Seymour, I thought. You know not whom you marry. Or mayhap you do.
I knew Anne had been required by our times, by our God, and by her hopes for her daughter to speak well of the king. And I knew she was at peace. But it did not seem right that His Grace—the man who had not a sense of the meaning of the word yet carried the title—should be frolicking with Jane Seymour.
“Commend me to His Grace….” Anne’s words came floating back to me.
I would. I would do exactly that. I knew not how but afore I was banished from the palace I would do it. With a life with Edmund ahead of me I risked little, if anything at all.
Once at the castle, I packed my items and sat in my small quarters, wondering when Edmund would arrive. I did not leave my room at first. I closed my eyes and I saw Anne—her eyes staring at me, last bits of life being snuffed out. They had looked at peace and yet I was not. The next time I closed my eyes I saw the two of us dancing together as girls, learning under the steady gaze of the dance master. I willed myself to read Scripture till I was tired, and then I tried to sleep again. This time, I saw Anne as she was on her Calais wedding night, the air crackling between her and Henry. She was so happy. I saw her snapping her fingers at a servant. She was certainly born to be royal. I heard her witty ripostes to Suffolk, unmanning her lifelong enemy to the bemusement of the king. I opened my eyes to stop the pictures and words.
Mayhap sleep would elude me. I wandered the hallway, toward the kitchen, and as I passed the great hall I could see her, dancing, for many years past. Unwell now, I returned to my room without eating. I felt my own head; ’twas feverish, and yet I had no lady servant to assist me.
That night I put my own dressing gown on afore bed. Hours later, I woke up screaming and clawing at my arms. I’d been dreaming that her blood was still running down my arms and I could not get it off. When I awoke I saw that I had scratched deep streaks into each forearm. They bled now, with my blood, along the same rivulets that Anne’s had. I wiped them off with a linen.
Someone kindly sent a servant with food the next day; I knew not whom, but I suspected it was someone sympathetic to Anne, of course. Afraid to sleep, I spent the second night trying to think of a way to speak with the king, but of course, he was already at York Place with Mistress Seymour. Late that night I left my things in my traveling chest and made my way in the blackness down the hall to the chapel. I pushed open the door—it squeaked but a little—and made my way to a pew, wherein I looked up at the Lord on the cross and prayed. After an hour or so I began to make my way back toward the door out of the chapel and stopped, of a moment, at the royal box. In a feverish moment, I knew how to convey Anne’s final message to Henry, to superstitious Henry, in a way he would never forget and would, I hoped, haunt him forever.
I crept back to my chambers and dug through my chest till I found what I was looking for—a quill and ink. I pulled a plain cloak about me so that if I should be seen in the hallway I should not be recognized. As the court was mainly with Henry at York Place there was little likelihood of being found out. And then I snuck back into the royal box at the chapel and opened the Scriptures to Acts of the Apostles, chapter 2, which should surely be read at the celebration of Pentecost, Whitsunday, when His Grace should be in this very place with his new bride.
In the margins next to the Scripture I disguised my hand as best I could and wrote, You hath ever been constant in your career of advancing me; from private gentlewoman you made me marquess, from marquess a queen, and now that you hath left no higher degree of honor you give my innocence the crown of martyrdom. Your beloved wife, Anne.
Once done, hand shaking, I blew on it till ’twere dry and then raced back to my rooms and finally, in the dead of night, allowed myself to sob aloud and collapse into fevered sleep.
When I awoke, it was not Edmund come to collect me.
“Thomas!” I leapt up and hugged him. “You are freed!”
He smiled at me. “I am freed. Father had written to Cromwell and Cromwell had me let go. The king is too distracted with Mistress Seymour of a moment to have a care for those he’d worried had once dallied with Anne.”
I let the tears slide again. “I know not what to do.” I gulped back my sobs. “Am I to remain with Edmund, who may not have me? Or burden Alice on her widow’s portion? Or you?”
He sent his manservant to take my case. “I have not always been the brother you needed, but as your appointed guardian, I believe that I can be of assistance now.”
He led me to the litter and I, still in a fever and exhausted, stumbled along behind him. Once in the litter I let it jostle me to sleep till Thomas put his hand on my leg. “Meg. We arrive.”
I woke myself and looked out the window.
“’Tis not Allington,” I said.
He smiled broadly. “No indeed, Mistress Wyatt, ’tis not.”
I watched in wonder as Will Ogilvy came forth from the door of the great hunting lodge and strode toward the litter and I stepped out into his arms. My legs, still weak from the events just passed as well as from the ride, buckled and he scooped me up into his arms and carried me into the lodge. He set me down on a long seat and when I made as if to speak he put his finger on my lips.
“Hush, it will be time for talking later. You are safe now, and you must eat and sleep and become well.”
He leaned over and kissed my brow. When I next awoke I found Edithe standing over me.
“You were right, lady, Master Will found employment for me and for my Roger. Come now”—she helped me to my feet—“I will take you into your chamber and I will help you bathe and bring you some broth and meat.”
I slept on and off for a day or two, and when my fever abated I let Edithe dress me in one of the fine dresses Anne had given me and pull back my still-thick hair into a twist, and then I joined Will for dinner. My brother Thomas had ridden off to hunt nearby, cleansing himself of memories, I supposed, and would shortly rejoin us.
I sat across from Will at a small wooden table. “Thank you for bringing me here, and allowing me to regain my senses and health,” I said after we’d eaten.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” he said.
I nodded and told the whole story—with the exception of my writing in His Grace’s copy of Holy Writ. That secret would remain with me as it would risk the hearer as well as myself should it become known. “You will have to thank your wife for your kind hospitality,” I said. He moved his chair uncomfortably close to me for a married man.
“You shall thank her yourself,” he said.
“Is she here?” I looked about me and caught a smile on Edithe’s face afore she disappeared into the kitchens.
“A man can hope, for certes,” he said. “My father was required to call off my engagement with Lady Jamison. I am not a married man. Mayhap you can remedy that.”
I let my look express my shock, certain I had misheard in my fever. “Call it off? Upon what grounds?”
He reached out and took my hand and then laced his finge
rs through mine. “Precontract.”
“Precontract? With…. oh…,” I said. “You told him you and I were precontracted.”
“Yes,” Will said. “Because, Meg Wyatt, in my heart, in every other way, and near in word itself, I have been promised and pledged to you forever.”
“Was he angry?”
Will nodded. “He sent me from him for a time, here. I have not yet been recalled.”
“Will your father then approve of our marriage?”
“I care not,” he said. “In spite of your misguided judgments I do not always heed his hark.”
I blushed deeply at the memory of that accusation and he laughed aloud and kissed my hand.
In order to regain my dignity I said, “Well, you must care some because we can hardly wander from town to town and beg our bread.”
“Leave those details to me, mistress,” he said. “If my father will not see to keep me as his heir after we are married then we shall go to Antwerp and I will work with printers I know. Printing Scriptures and other works is what I am called to. I know it now. I can put my family’s fortune to good use, if I remain heir.”
“And will you so remain if you have me? I have no dowry.” I hung my head. “I know ’tis a shameful thing.”
He took my face in his hands. “I will gladly take your shame upon me when I let him know what we have done. And now, my lady, you have not yet answered me.”
I looked up at Will, for the first time in many years, feeling hope, and the love of my man, and the love of my God, all at once.
I leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips. “Yes, Will Ogilvy, I shall be your wife.”
Oh blessed Lord Jesus. Thank You.
The next night Will invited a friend, a priest of Reform persuasion, as well as my brother Thomas, who had not yet returned to his wife, and two members of the nearby nobility to witness our vows. As I dressed in my gown, I took the portrait of my mother out of my chest and looked at it, tracing my finger over her face.