by G Lawrence
Apparently, according to these charges, I was so lost in lust that I could not stop enticing men into my bed, even when pregnant, or recovering from childbirth. There was also the implication that the children I had lost, my sweet, innocent babes, were not Henry’s, but had been fathered by these men.
And as for plotting Henry’s death in October of 1535, it was absurd. Katherine had still been alive then. Henry’s death would have brought about rebellion, on behalf of Mary, and Katherine, daughter of the Most Catholic Kings, surely would have been enlisted to aid her child. The Emperor would have been called to defend his cousin’s rights, England would have risen for Mary, and all I would have had in my arsenal was a babe only just in my belly, and my infant daughter.
It was also notable that I had apparently not committed adultery until after Elizabeth’s birth. Only then had I begun my reign of scandal.
This is one thing I may thank you for, Henry, I thought. He did not want his daughter included in this nightmare. He was sure she was his, and would allow no man to take her from him. At least I could thank him for that. If he would not protect me, at least he was sheltering our child.
But why had this carnal passion suddenly burst from me after her birth? Had I always been a woman of frail temptation, yet had somehow kept it imprisoned until the birth of my daughter had set it free? And how had I done all this? They said nothing of the mechanics, of the plotting, the planning and the work that this career of vice would have required. As Queen, I was surrounded by women and men all day and night. My ladies slept in my bed. Guards followed my every step. Even in the privy I was never alone! There were servants about me every hour, every minute, every second of every day. How had I managed to slip in a lover, or five, not once, but many times, without their notice?
And there was my husband. Jealous, envious, covetous Henry. My husband whose eyes glittered with suspicion to see another man look at me, read verse for me, or dance with me. Would he not have known immediately if I was bedding all the men in his chambers? Would he not have strangled me with his bare hands?
But it is easier to believe in evil than in good. The world contains so much ill that we become used to it, we expect it. That which is good is harder to believe, yet it is just as possible. A thousand tiny deeds of goodness are done each and every day, yet go unnoticed. We should pay more attention to that which is good. Then, we might recognise what is true and what is fiction.
Strangely, the conversation I had with Norris, the one bit of evidence that I had, albeit unwisely, actually said, was not listed in the charges. I realised then it was not included for a good reason. I had handed Cromwell something to use against me. He must have been plotting this for some time, but had nothing solid to take to Henry. My reckless words had given him fodder to feed the beast of accusation, and he did not want it now to be known.
Presented here, it might sound damning to those who wanted me to be found guilty, but to others it would not. They would think it was perhaps but a foolish jest. They might think all this was made up, and they would be right.
“I have never offended against the King with my body,” I said. “I have never been unfaithful. I have never plotted his demise, nor encouraged any soul to do so.”
“Did you promise to marry Henry Norris when the King was dead?”
“I did not.”
“Did you send tokens and messages to your lovers?”
“I have no lovers, other than the King, my husband, and I sent no such items to any other man than he.”
“Did you hope for the King’s death, that you might marry your lover, Norris?”
“I have no lover, and all I have ever wished for the King was peace and happiness.”
“Did you give love tokens to Francis Weston, as well as money?”
“I gave money to Sir Francis,” I said. “As I have to many men and women in my royal household who have served me well, such is my privilege as Queen.”
“So you admit giving him money and love tokens?”
“I admit granting him money and a medal when he served me and my gracious husband well,” I said. “Have you never rewarded a servant, Your Grace?”
“That is not the issue in contention.”
“If you have not,” I said. “I pity your servants. All men should serve generous masters, as it is the will of God for those more fortunate to support those less able.”
They ignored me.
“Master Smeaton has confessed to his crimes,” Suffolk said.
“Yet none of the other men have,” I said. “And the false witness of one man is not enough to convict a person of high treason.”
“In your case, madam, it is sufficient.”
“Will you not call witnesses to affirm the charges against me?” I asked. “It is usual, is it not, when a person pleads not guilty?”
“It is not required in this case.”
“How strange,” I said. “It would seem the rules of our courts have been altered, just for me.”
I made each answer with a calm voice. I held up my head. I answered well. The muffled hum in the stalls was growing, rumbling over the stands, reverberating about the hall, and, sensing they were losing the crowds, who might report my courage to England, they changed tactics.
“Did you poison Lady Katherine, Dowager of Wales?” asked Suffolk.
“I did not.”
“Did you plot to murder her daughter, Lady Mary?”
“I did not.”
On and on they went. The ‘evidence’ they had was spare at best, entrenched in innuendo and rumour. Much that was old and forgotten had been rooted out by these hogs. At one point they said that my old friend, Bridget Wingfield, had made a deathbed confession against me. They said her son had witnessed it, and Bridget had spoken about my sins.
“The Lady Wingfield is now dead,” I said. “And unable to speak for herself. But she was a good friend to me, and I to her. I cannot believe she would have said anything against me, especially when she was about to meet God.”
If Bridget had said anything, it was more likely to be in sorrow about the problems between us. Besides which, she had died after a terrible and bloody childbirth. Perhaps fever had stripped her of reason, and she had spoken ill of me, but something in me did not believe it.
A letter was produced. It was the missive I had written to her before my trip to Calais. There was nothing in it which could possibly be construed as evidence, but not having any knowledge of the reason it had been penned they tried to wield it against me.
“This is evidence of blackmail,” said Suffolk after the letter had been read. “The Lady found out about your affairs and was attempting to blackmail you.”
“It is not so,” I said. “I was counselling the lady, who is now dead and cannot defend me, that there were rumours about her relationship with her third husband. Some said they had started courting before the death of her second, and it had been much talked of at court, damaging her reputation. I had heard the rumours and was saddened by them, but wrote that letter to say that I believed in her protests of purity, and would hear them no more. That is the trouble I mention.”
You never liked me, did you, Tyrwitt? I thought. How long did you dig through Bridget’s old papers to find this ridiculous ‘evidence’? And how happily did you skip on the way to hand this letter to Cromwell, betraying not only me, but your wife too, who loved me? I hope her ghost comes for you, wails at your gate each night and grants you no rest.
I fixed a glittering eye on Suffolk. “Besides, my lord,” I went on. “The false accusations you put to me say nothing of anything before October 1533. Lady Tyrwitt died in January of 1534 and was not at court for some time before that as she was with child. How could she have witnessed anything to give cause for blackmail? And that letter was written in 1532 before the King and I went to Calais, which is before any of the dates you have specified. This, then, has no bearing on the accusations I am judged upon, accusations which I say again are false.”
S
uffolk leant backwards to whisper something to the scribe. I was certain he told him to strike what I had said from the court records.
“Some of the ladies of your bedchamber, when questioned, said that you had lived a life of gross impropriety,” said Suffolk.
“May I know who these women are, or what their allegations were, so I might answer them?”
“You may not. They are to be protected, by order of the King.”
“Then all I can say against this unfounded and unsupported allegation is that I have never done anything to warrant such treatment as this,” I said. “I am the King’s one, true and devoted wife. Since the day he offered me marriage, I have been his alone, and before that I knew no man carnally. One man alone has come to my bed, my lords, and that is my husband. As God is my witness, I was a maid when I gave myself to him and true to His Majesty thereafter. Whatever has been said of me by these women, who were no doubt terrified into speaking against me, is false.” I looked to the stands. “I am being condemned on rumour and hearsay, procured through threat and intimidation,” I said. “On the word of people unnamed and not presented to this court, and on the basis of fiction, not fact.”
Again, that whisper, that docking of the records. When Henry saw these papers, they would no doubt say that I had said nothing in my defence.
No witnesses were called to give evidence. Nothing firm was said. It was all rumour, all unfounded slander, and it was all accepted as fact. At one stage they accused me of lèse-majesté, by mocking Henry’s clothes and poetry. I could not deny I had done this, but I wondered.
Is this your true reason for wanting me dead? I asked my husband in my mind. Did I damage that fragile pride, Henry? Did I hurt your poor, insecure, little heart? Is your illusion of power damaged because I thought your poems poor and your clothes garish? How weak you are, dear husband. How small is your soul.
Do you forget you hurt me too? I lashed you with ill words, but you betrayed me, betrayed me over and over, and told me to remain silent.
I had wounded Henry’s male pride, not only in accosting him about his affairs, but by his belief in these false charges. If he believed Cromwell, then I had held him in the deepest of contempt, for I was able to disregard our sworn vows of love and had lain with other men. How frail is your majesty and your authority, husband, I thought. That mere lies, fantastic in their fabrication, may unseat you from your throne of power.
“Did you mock the King, your husband, with your brother about his clothes and his poetry?” asked Suffolk.
A light flush spread over my cheeks. I could think of only two people who might have overheard that conversation; the two Janes. I hoped for my sister-in-law’s sake that she had not been the one to betray us.
“If I commented on the King’s clothing, it would have been in passing and never meant with disrespect.” I looked up at them. “I do not say I have always been the wife I should have been. But if I spoke with any disrespect, it was not intended.”
Thankfully, there were no accusations of witchcraft. At least that stain was not upon my name. But there was plenty that was; plenty to paint me a black-hearted villain.
Over and over they repeated the dates of the alleged offences and asked me anew if I had allowed these men to violate me. I was painted as the instigator, the one who had run after these men, tempting them with my feminine wiles into lust so strong it could not be contained. I had played the masculine role, the aggressor, and so I was doubly guilty, not only of adultery, but of failing to behave as a woman should.
Would it be so hard for those who hated me to believe all this? Like a man, I had altered the world to my liking, rather than taking a woman’s passive role, so why should it come as a surprise to hear that I had become as a man in other ways… Taking lovers as a man would, whilst retaining the womanly charm that had seduced men into the vilest of sins?
The phrase “treasonably violated the Queen” was said over and over and over again until it was secured in the minds of everyone there. As though lies might become truth, the more they are said. I wondered if the same had been done in the first trial. To have consensual intercourse with a married woman, even a queen, was not something punishable by courts of law, but by Church courts and the charge would have been moral impropriety, not treason. A death sentence was also highly unlikely.
These charges of adultery were there to make it seem possible that I would have committed treason by plotting Henry’s death, for if I had committed adultery, why not treason? Treason carried a death sentence. If they could secure the notion of guilt for one charge, it would bring the other along with it.
And they were abusing the law… attempting to extend the notion of treason by saying these men had “treasonably violated the Queen.” The legal term for rape, felonice rapuit, was avoided at all costs, for then I would be the innocent. Being violated was not a crime, but adding treasonably made it seem as though it was. They were trying to dupe the common people.
A piece of parchment was handed to me. On it was a question they dared not speak aloud. It asked if I had questioned Henry’s strength and virility in bed.
“Without reference to the question,” said Suffolk. “How do you answer the charge?”
They did not want me to read it aloud to save Henry’s pride, and if I dared, I would be doubly condemned. It was common knowledge that impotence was caused by witchcraft. If I said anything about this, it would be believed I had cast a spell on Henry, so I might get a child by one of my other lovers, and pollute the royal line. I was tempted to read it out. What did I have to lose? But for all that he had done, I would not shame my husband as he had done to me.
I was better than that, even if he was not.
“Without being able to respond,” I said. “How may I answer? At times I was made sorrowful as my husband sought the company of other women…” The buzzing muttering in the stands grew loud. Everyone knew of Jane Seymour by now. “… but as an honest and true wife, I was joyous when he returned to me in love and affection, forsaking those who would lead him from the just and good path of marriage.”
Again the nod. Again the strike. Henry would hear what they wanted him to hear. I almost pitied him. They would have him send me to death thinking I was untrue, unfaithful and did not love him.
I almost pitied him… but not quite.
I despised him. There was no love left in me for this monster.
The morning wore thin and eventually Norfolk called for the verdict. Starting with the most junior peer, he went to each and asked them to pronounce their sentence.
Their voices rang out through the hushed chamber; Guilty… Guilty… Guilty… Guilty…
Only Percy’s voice was strained. I let my eyes settle on him. I did not smile but he knew my eyes well. Once he had looked into them with love and seen that emotion returned.
I stood composed. I would not grant them the satisfaction of seeing me weep.
But if I wept not, another did. To my vast and unending surprise, Norfolk had tears in his eyes as he pronounced the verdict. For a moment I was stunned, but a bare second later I realised they were not tears of grief, but of relief. Norfolk had been unnerved by my calm manner and honourable answers. He had feared I might be found innocent, set loose to exact vengeance upon him.
“Because thou hast offended against our sovereign, the King’s Grace, in committing treason against his person, and here attained of the same, the law of the realm is this; that thou hast deserved death, and the judgement is this; that thou shalt be burned here, within the Tower of London, on the Green, or else to have thy head smitten off, as the King’s pleasure shall be further known of the same.”
I struggled to keep a hold on myself. Burned. Would I be burned? Tied to a stake to cough and splutter, to melt and crisp my way to death? How often had my name been linked to the prophecy that a Queen of England would die in such a way? How often had Henry heard me say it? And now that might be my fate. To burn to death as all those worthier than me had done before
for the faith.
As I stared at Norfolk, there was a cry from the stands. I looked up to see Mistress Aucher leaning forwards, her hands on the banister. Her eyes were wild and her mouth open as she stared in dumb disbelief. I offered her a light smile, knowing that after this they would not allow her back to me. She had shown horror at my death, and if they did not suspect before, they knew now she was my friend.
Then there was a noise from the jury. Percy collapsed. They tried to get him back on his chair, but he was shaking so violently that he could not. He was carried from the hall.
Poor man. Did he love me still, or was he simply horrified to have perjured himself?
I was commanded to relinquish my crown, the one upon the cushion, but also the symbolic nature of it. “I surrender it,” I said. “But I do so as an innocent. I have never offended the King with my body.” I cast my eyes up to Heaven. “O Father, O Creator, Thou who art the way, the life and the truth, knowest whether I have deserved this death.”