by G Lawrence
Suffolk turned to me. “Henceforth, you, Anne Boleyn shall be stripped of your noble titles,” he said. “The title of Queen remains yours, as it is not in the authority of this court to remove it, no matter how unjustly you deserve such a noble title. You will be taken from this place and returned to your quarters in the Tower until such a time as the King has decided your sentence. Do you have anything to say?”
I drew myself up and set my shoulders back.
“My lords,” I said loudly. “I will not say your sentence is unjust, nor presume that my reason can prevail against your convictions. I am willing to believe that you have sufficient reasons for what you have done, but they must be other than those which have been pronounced in this court.”
I looked about. “For I am clear of all the offences which you have lain to my charge. I have ever been a faithful wife to the King, though I do not say I have always shown him that humility which his goodness to me and the honour to which he raised me merited. I confess I have had jealous fancies and suspicions of him which I had not the discretion and wisdom to conceal at all times. But God knows, and is my witness, that I never sinned against him in any other way. Think not I say this in the hope to prolong my life. God hath taught me how to die and He will strengthen my faith. Think not that I am so bewildered in my mind as not to lay the honour of my chastity to heart now in mine extremity, when I have maintained it all my life long, much as ever a queen did. I know these, my last words, will avail me nothing, but for the justification of my chastity and honour.”
“As for my brother and those who are unjustly condemned,” I said, sticking my chin in the air. “I would willingly suffer many deaths to deliver them, but since I see it so pleases the King, I shall willingly accompany them in death, with this assurance; that I shall lead an endless life with them in peace, under the light of God.”
I stared into the crowds. “The Judge of all the world, in Whom abounds justice and truth, knows all, and through His love I beseech that He will have compassion on those who have condemned me to this death.”
I could see heads shaking, for many had been sure I would escape with my life. Nothing of this kind had ever been done before. I would be the first Queen of England to die for treason. This was a strange and different thing… But Henry had already done much that had never been done before.
I curtseyed to my judges, my heart hammering as though it meant to take flight from my body and flee to freedom. But I would not show my terror. I would not. They had taken my titles, my family, and they would take my life, but they would not take my dignity. They would not claim my soul.
I was escorted from the court by Kingston. As I left, the guards at the door turned the blades of their axes to face me, to show I had been sentenced to death. Behind me, the roar of voices became a deafening wave of sound. Londoners were already talking about the trial being held so quickly, and now such a swift sentence of death to follow… it was clear my husband wanted me gone, and quickly.
I was to die. To burn to death or be beheaded, at my husband’s pleasure.
Chapter Seventy-Six
The Tower of London
May 15th 1536
George was taken in after me. I was escorted back to my rooms to sit and attempt to digest the notion that I was to die.
I could not. There was nothing within my mind that would latch on to that thought. Yet terror was within me. I kept hoping that Henry would arrive, to say it had all been but a jest or a test; something to scare me witless and make me meek and compliant.
But such grace did not come. There was no hero left for me. All my knights were here, sentenced as was I, to death.
Like my ancestor, Thomas Beckett, I would be killed by my King. One day, would people know I had died innocent, as he had?
Would Henry burn me? Would he? Would I die in flames as I had lived in them? I thought back to the day when I had told Jane Seymour that I was a phoenix. It was not so. This was no way for me to stand unburned in these flames. She had achieved that. She was the phoenix, not I.
Mistress Aucher was not brought back to the chambers. I would not see her again. They would not allow one who had shown public sorrow at my fate to return to me. There was little more she could do for me in any case. My fate was sealed.
I heard whispers of George’s trial. He had acquitted himself well, calmly, and as a gentleman, and many had thought he might escape death. He, like me, had denied all the charges and spoken of his innocence. But George had gone further. They had handed him a note, as they had to me, but my bold brother had read it aloud, calling the question of Henry’s potency into clear and public knowledge. I laughed when I heard that. George was not about to go to his death without insulting the friend who demanded it.
He was convicted on the evidence of one woman, apparently, although no one would tell me whom. It could have been one of the women who spoke against me, these anonymous creatures, more likely to be a figment of Cromwell’s imagination than real people. George had objected, saying, much as I had about Smeaton, that he was being found guilty on the evidence of just one person.
I had to wonder who the person was. If they were real… and if they were, then who? I could not but help suspect Jane. I would never find out if it was the truth, but she had overheard our conversations. She was always listening at doors. And although we had been close at one point, her banishment had made her only more bitter. Had she, like Henry, found her heart had turned to hatred for the one she loved, and had taken revenge? Had she, like my father, capitulated to save herself when she realised we were doomed? Had she been forced to confess against us, like Smeaton? Or had she wanted to… Wanted to bring us down after lingering so long on the fringes of friendship and family?
Who was to know? For her sake, I hoped my suspicions were incorrect. For when George died, no matter what hatred she nurtured for him now, her life would be empty and bereft.
“Your brother was accused of saying the Princess Elizabeth was not the King’s daughter,” Kingston told me.
“My brother would never have said such a thing,” I replied. The only time I could remember was when George had jested of it. That was no accusation, if it were every fool in England should be in this Tower.
“He was also most concerned about his debts, and read a list of them in court,” Kingston went on. “He is troubled that if the King takes his property, as is likely, the people he owes money to will face ruin.”
“Let us hope the King shows more mercy to George’s debtors than he does to us.”
“Your brother said that since he must die he would no more claim innocence,” said Kingston. For a moment I wondered if George’s hale spirit had deserted him, but the man went on. “He said all men were sinners and deserved death.”
George was simply admitting he had sinned in life, like any man aware of his soul. Pride and adultery lay upon him. My brother, a staunch reformer and evangelical, was more than aware of the ills upon his conscience. In admitting them, he was confessing, cleansing his soul so it might be received by the Almighty.
But I was glad; glad he had insulted Henry with his last breath. Let the people know their King was not the man he pretended to be! Let them know that he betrayed me with others and found himself wanting! Let them know… Let them know… It was, too, a strike against Cromwell. He had ordered that this note be given to George, so he had provided the means for my brother to publicly insult Henry.
I’ll wager you squirmed when you heard of this! My mind exulted. Will you fear the wrath of your King, Master Cromwell? Fear that you allowed this to be said before his people?
I hoped this was the case.
“He was found guilty,” said Kingston. “Like the others, he will be taken to Tyburn to be hung, drawn and quartered, or beheaded on Tower Green, as the King decides.”
“Of course,” I said, amazing myself with my collected tone. “We were condemned before the moment of arrest, Master Kingston. His Majesty decided we were to die long ago. These trials
were but a formality to procure a doom already decided… a way to defame us, so His Majesty might trick his people into thinking he is justified.”
I flicked my chin up as I saw his face grow pale with fright. “Leave me,” I said. “I wish to pray for the King. He needs my prayers.”
*
That night, I sat at my window, thinking.
Why these charges? Would it not have been easier, simpler than slipping from a step, to accuse me of heresy? The penalty was the same, after all.
But I had taught my pupil well.
“In recognising necessity, my lady, and setting it above our most ardent wishes, a soul shows itself wise.” That was what he had said to me.
Cromwell the pragmatist had done what was necessary to remove me before I came for him, but he had also done what he could to save the reform that had brought him and Henry such wealth. Accuse me of heresy and all his plans for England’s monasteries might go awry, for all knew I had supported the investigations. Were I accused of heresy, Cromwell’s investigations might become suspect by association. Accuse me of adultery and only I and those accused with me would die. I had told him this, had I not? When I said that to accuse a woman of being a whore allowed people to believe anything against her? My apprentice once told me he had learnt something from each of his masters. I had shown him how to allow Henry to leave people; I had taught Cromwell how to destroy me.
He had used my most powerful weapon against me; Henry’s love. He had told him that I loved others. To accuse me of adultery would lace seeds of doubt and horror into Henry’s paranoid mind. He would fly into a rage, deeper and darker than anything he had suffered before. It was enough… enough to drive him to murder. Enough to destroy me.
Cromwell knew he had to be rid of me now, and with speed… so quickly that none could have the chance to rise to stand and speak for me, least of all the King. If Henry forgave me, Cromwell would be ruined.
I had no doubt Cromwell had been convincing. His life depended on his tales. Henry would have been convinced of my unfaithfulness, of imagined betrayals… perhaps he would have seen his own sins in mine, and been revolted by them. Perhaps he would have thought of all the times I had disappointed him, argued against him, defied him, and had decided his life might be easier without Anne Boleyn.
Perhaps he had finally heard my enemies, who whispered I was a witch, who had seduced him from the side of light to that of dark. Perhaps he had listened to all those who called me whore, looked at the way the men of court worshipped me in games of courtly love, and wondered if it was not all a game, and I had indeed betrayed him. Our arrests and trials had been so quick. There had not been time for Henry’s rage to dim, and questions to break through.
Cromwell must have known he had to move fast. He could not allow doubt to overcome the wrath in Henry’s soul. Could not allow there to be a chance he might consider my innocence. The ruthless nature of the slanders, and the speed at which he had moved showed how greatly Cromwell feared me. But never would it have gone this far, without Henry.
My husband must have wanted rid of me, otherwise he would have immediately dismissed Cromwell’s accusations. Henry was far from foolish. He must have known how absurd the charges were. But there were many times he had believed in the absurd over the rational. This was his excuse. Just as my pregnancy had given him a reason to betray me, so now these lies would allow him to kill me.
The monster in Henry was tired of me. He was older now, looking for an easier life than the one of fire and blood we had forged together. No more fire for Henry. He wanted cool, cold water. He thought I could not give him a child, and he would not make the same mistake he had with Katherine… No more wives left living to call his children’s inheritance into question. No more women to cause upset, hurt and embarrassment.
The monster would sweep the sand clean.
Henry’s madam would die. It was easier for Henry that way… to think of me as the shrew he had despised, rather than the woman he had loved.
Had he asked Cromwell to come up with a reason to cast me off? I knew not, but I suspected such was the case. Henry had asked his men if there was reason to think our marriage illegal. Perhaps he had asked Cromwell to investigate and Cromwell had told him that as he looked for a reason, he had found one, a terrible one. Cromwell could not leave me at liberty, nor send me to a nunnery. My influence over Henry was too compelling… too addictive. No. I had to die. That was the only way to ensure I never came creeping back to court and into Henry’s life.
Henry wanted me gone.
That was the truth. I had shown him how a mere court lady might rise to become a queen. I had shown him how to leave those he loved behind. And he would make a new queen. Henry wanted peace, obedience, and meekness. I brought none of those things. The royal supremacy made him convinced of his righteousness, and all who questioned him were wrong. Therefore I must be wrong, for I challenged him.
He wanted submission. He would get that in Jane.
I harboured no doubt that part of him did not believe Cromwell’s tales. Henry would convince himself that he believed. But there would always remain a part of him that would doubt. I knew it was there, in him. That was why I would die by the sword. Because he knew I was innocent.
Cromwell should watch that doubt, I thought. This is the lesson he has not learned.
Henry knew when Wolsey fell that some of the charges against him were false. When More and Fisher died, he knew they did not die for treason, but because they were in the way.
In time, he will come to doubt the tales against me, I thought. That doubt will make him suspicious of Cromwell and the stories he spins.
Cromwell would be judged one day, by God if not by Henry. And he would be punished, but he would also learn something important.
Setting Henry on this path was dangerous. Cromwell had granted leave to others to bring false charges against foes.
Watch your master close, Cromwell, my mind whispered. Watch that doubt, that suspicion. One day they will come for you, and who will defend you then? All now know you will turn on anyone, even those who were your allies and friends, even those who helped you. Will any sorrow to see you fall? Will any protect you? I think not.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
The Tower of London
May 16th 1536
The morning after George’s trial, I overheard Lady Shelton talking to Mistress Coffin again. “They say the King demonstrated great joy to hear the sentences,” she whispered. “My daughter heard him say that he was certain the Queen had betrayed him with hundreds of men, and he had composed a tragedy about it, which he was carrying in a little book in his pocket.”
More poor, dull verse to show your ladies, Henry? I thought.
I remained in my royal chambers, the Queen’s lodgings, and there Cranmer came to me. “I must beg your forgiveness, Majesty,” he said, his tone humble and meek. I looked at him with surprise. The watchers had gone to the other end of the room and could not hear us, but I was shocked to hear him say such a thing. I thought he was sure of my guilt.
“Then… you do not believe?”
“I do not.” His voice was calm but troubled. “I have been lied to, madam, as have many at court.”
“I am glad you understand,” I said, taking his hand. “I would not have wished to die with you thinking ill of me.”
“I wrote to the King, when first you were taken into custody,” he said. “I protested, although not as vehemently as I should, that I could not believe the charges against you.” His voice dropped still lower. “I have not seen the King since all this began,” he whispered. “I, and many others, have been kept away from him.”
“And then Cromwell came,” I said. “And told you tales.”
Cranmer nodded. “He did,” he said. “And to my disgrace, I believed him. It all seemed too much to be false. He gave me evidence upon evidence until I was so bemused that I accepted it.”
“And therein lies the strength in the story,” I said. �
�He thinks to compound me and those accused with me with a pestle so strong that we will become as paste with his falsehoods. But there, too, he made his mistake. He bombards people now with a stream of such horrors that they can do nothing but nod to hear them, but a lie, in order to be truly convincing, must be simple. This one is not. Whilst the fire of scandal hangs over us, many will be swept along in the hot wind’s breath, and they will believe. But when the dust settles, when people have a moment to think, there will be questions. Their questions may never be asked openly, but they will be there, rotting and festering beneath the pretty skin of court. And I thank God for the questioning minds of England! One day will my innocence and that of my friends be as prominent in the minds of our people as Cromwell’s lies are now. He has spread evil, but there is no darkness over which the light of God may not shine. The truth will come, Eminence, and Cromwell, that man of shadows, will fear its light.”