by G Lawrence
No, this will not be easy for him. He will pretend it is, but I will haunt him. Katherine, Wolsey, Fisher, More, George, Brereton, Norris, Weston and perhaps even the craven Smeaton will come for him.
No man may murder his friends, and rest easy.
There are many wraiths in Henry’s mind, and today I join them. By nightfall, Henry will have another presence at his back, another voice in his mind, another set of eyes watching him. Today he gains another ghost.
“It is almost the end,” Margaret whispers, her face a blank mask of horror.
“You think this is the end?” I ask with a smile, touching Margaret’s cheek.
Did Katherine place that thought in your mind, sweet friend? I wonder. Does my sister of fate seek to bring me courage?
“It is not the end,” I say. “All endings are beginnings, old friend… all dusks but dawns of another day. The strands of stories are frayed. There is a circle which forms about the lives of men. It takes from one story a thread, and loops it upon another, so the story never truly ends, as it never begins.”
I look from the window at the gathering crowds. I thought I would feel fear at this moment before death, but strangely, I am calm.
This is not the end. Not for me, not for my soul, and not for my blood. As my soul ascends into Heaven, so my body will become of the earth. My blood will seep into the soil, my flesh will melt into the water. My bones will rest atop the caverns of the world.
I will become England.
For as much as the earth is the source of all life, it is also where we go to die. She is a womb and a tomb; creation and destruction, light and dark… a circle with no end and no beginning. A snake swallowing its tail. The love of a mother to her daughter, returned and reflected back, as two mirrors held before one another.
From the earth springs all life and into her flows death. She is the maiden and the mother, the infant and the death crone.
Elizabeth will not lose me. I will always be with her.
I will be in the earth, the wind, the water… in the skies, the air and the ground beneath her feet.
I will be upon the wind she breathes; in the green, undulating fields bending to the bright skyline. My bones will stand amongst the last line of trees on the horizon. In the sigh of the oceans, slipping up the sandy beach, I will wait for her. Every pebble she plays with will hold a part of me. My energy will be in the grey skies and the blue; in crashing thunder and feral lightening. From within the clouds I will watch over her. I will dwell in the kind sun and the glaring, in lashing rain and creeping mist, in birdsong and the whispering woods.
My blood will be in the earth on which she walks. The flowers she plucks will be born of my body. The warm air of the day and the blessed coolness of night will be fed by my bones.
Heaven claims my soul, and there I will wait for my daughter, but England will take my blood, my flesh, my bone, marrow and sinew… and they will surround her. They will bind Elizabeth to England. They will hold her close, they will keep her safe.
I will be everything and nothing, a presence not at her side, but surrounding her, suffusing her, filling her… a part of her life, her future and her past.
All things are joined. Nothing is wasted.
So cry not, Elizabeth, I think. The dead do not die. They become a part of the world around you, part of the majesty and beauty of life. Look for me in the wild places. Find me in the hush of midnight. When you reach out to feel the wind, you will take my hand. When you stand on a hilltop, I will stand beside you. When you take to your bed, I will lead you to gentle dreams. When you laugh, I will laugh with you.
I will dwell in the peak of honest laughter, and the crisp, fresh scent of a new book. In the birdsong of dusk I will linger. In the life of the world will I live. There I shall wait for you. I will be your comfort.
Crown me not with henbane, as the ancients did to their dead. I have no wish to forget those I loved or the memories of my life. I will remember and I will linger. I will not forget you, nor you me.
Cry not, my blessed daughter. I will always be with you. I will always love you.
“This is not the end,” I whisper. “I go back to the earth from which I was taken. Dust I am, and to dust I will return.”
Epilogue
The Tower of London
The Bell Tower
May 19th 1536
Thomas Wyatt
I watched them kill the woman I loved today.
Watched her walk, brave as a lion, pale as a ghost. Through the streets of the Tower she came, past the crowds where she distributed alms, and onto the platform where her killer stood in the bright light of day.
Anne had never been more beautiful. She was afraid, even at this distance I could see that, but she was brave, she was powerful; as fragile as she was forceful, as light as she was dark.
Cromwell stood in the front row. No coward heart was he. He would face the woman he had brought down, as his master never would dare to. As Anne mounted the scaffold, she saw him. Their eyes met. She inclined her head. It was brief as the passing breeze, yet it was there; two foes acknowledging each other; acceptance of what had passed.
Did she know the King demanded her removal, and Cromwell found a way? I suspect so. Clever Anne… she missed little. Falsehoods have convinced others. Lost in this web, they think they see truth, but they are surrounded, wrapped tight, by lies. The greatest power is to make people see what you wish them to. But even that may be thwarted by one more potent.
By love.
Love allows me to see through this mist. The King wants her gone, and so will it be. He wants an empty vessel, to shape and fill as he wishes. Anne would never have been that to anyone. That is why she had to die.
This is his true reason. Those who have been fooled will say she died for her sins. Those who have not will say it was because she could not grant him a son. But these are not the true reasons.
He feared her. He always did. From the first moment he set eyes on her, from the first stirring of lust, it was there… a canker in his soul. He wanted to possess her so he might control her, and control his fear… but even when she became his, even when he won her heart, he did not own her. Her strength made him feel weak. Her courage made him a coward. He could not diminish Anne, so he took the craven path, and murdered what he could not master.
This is no victory. He is still the same, as is she. He has not triumphed, he has not won. The fear in his heart will not lessen as she dies. The craven soul within him will never grow strong.
She walked to the front of the platform and spoke gently, her sweet voice ringing against the stone walls of the Tower. She chilled the crowds with her majesty. And she was smiling; a gentle, contemplative expression. She was ready to die.
“Good Christian people,” her voice rang out, that lilt of France which had never abandoned her, sung against the white walls of the Tower.
“I have not come here to preach a sermon. I have come here to die. For according to the law and by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it. I come here only to die, and thus to yield myself humbly to the will of the King, my lord. And if, in my life, I did ever offend the King’s grace, surely with my death I do now atone. I am come hither to accuse no man, nor to speak of that whereof I am accused and condemned to die, as I know full well that aught I say in my defence doth not appertain to you. I pray and beseech you, good friends, to pray for the life of the King, my sovereign lord and yours. I pray to God to 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, a gentle, and sovereign lord.”
Her chin came up, displaying her long white neck. In how many dreams had I kissed that throat? In how many dreams had I longed to hold her… hold this wild, strange creature, this vision of beauty and grace?
“And if any person will meddle of my cause,” she said loudly, “I require them to judge the best. And thus I take my leave of the world and of you a
ll. I heartily desire you all to pray for me. Jesus Christ have mercy on me. To God I commend my soul.”
The crowds were crying. They had all noted she had admitted no guilt, which was striking at such a time. As bold as she had lived, would Anne die.
She handed a prayer book to her maids, thanking them, and spoke to the executioner. She was asking him to wait until she had finished her prayers. The woman I love would command even Death to wait until she was ready.
Her mantle was removed, stripping away the last touch of royalty granted to her. Her gable hood was taken too, replaced with a linen coif. She covered her glorious hair, shining midnight against the sun’s cruel light.
She knelt and prayed. I could almost hear her melodious voice, so charming, even when used in rage. Her face was bowed. I could not see her beautiful eyes, those deep, dark pools glittering like the sea under moonlight.
Many was the time I thought myself lost in those eyes. I could have drowned in them. There, I could have died a contented man.
I could not look away. I had to see her, no matter how much it hurt.
She was the breaking dawn, the light to which we were all drawn.
The crowds were moved to pity. They had witnessed many executions, yet this one touched them. Women wept and men grumbled. As she sank to her knees, they did too, even Cromwell. Only Suffolk and Fitzroy remained standing.
The swordsman waited, respecting her last request. He was no clumsy child brought to kill her, but an expert sent for from France. She was nervous as her lips sped over their prayers. Her eyes searched for the sword. If she wanted to die quick and clean, she had to keep still, but she could not. She glanced back time and time again, fearing he would steal upon her before she was ready.
“O Lord have mercy on me,” she said, her eyes flashing forth and back. “To God I commend my soul. To Jesus Christ I commend my soul. Oh Lord God, receive my soul. Lord Jesu, receive my soul…” Her eyes were dazed. She swayed like a stalk of golden hay in the summer wind. I held my breath. If she faltered it would take more than one strike to kill her. She would suffer horrible, unimaginable agony.
“Madam,” said the executioner. “Do not fear. I will wait until you tell me.”
“You will have to take this off,” she said, gesturing to her coif, but he shook his head. He knew he would be quicker than she imagined.
“O Lord, have mercy on me,” she said, her prayers stumbling as they blindfolded her. “To God I commend my soul…”
He called to a boy to bring his sword; tricked, she turned her neck. She could see nothing through her blindfold, but still she looked. Swiftly, he pulled the great, blunt-tipped, sharp-sided sword from under a pile of hay. He came up, bare of shoes, upon her.
Anne was still looking blindly behind her, her neck twisted, elongated at just the right angle. “Into Thy hands…” she said as the sword swung.
The blade caught the sun as it flew up. Silver glinting against gold. She did not see Death as he stole upon her. He was quick, He was clean. The sword cleaved her neck. Her head fell into a stack of hay.
Her lips were still moving in prayer.
She was not born a Queen, but she died as one.
Her beautiful body remained upright for a moment, then fell, slumped on the dusty platform, pumping bright red blood onto the ground. Her head thumped to the floor, bouncing on the dusty surface. Her maids rushed to cover their fallen mistress with cloths and with their tears. There was a dull cheer from the crowd, but it held no enthusiasm.
There was no casket. No one had thought to provide one. An old elm chest, used for storing arrows, was heaved out, and she was put in it. Her ladies stumbled to do their work, hands shaking, faces numbed by grief.
The cannons on the walls of the Tower fired, telling London, telling England, and the waiting King that the Queen was dead.
She was gone.
I fell back from the window and sat on the stool in my bare cell. I put my face into my hands and wept. Hours passed. The crowds dispersed.
*
I am alone.
I know I am safe. Cromwell has told me so. He wants me to work for him, for the King.
To work for the men who slew this lady of fire and grace? Nothing could disgrace me more. Once I loved her. Did I ever cease to? Once she asked me if a heart may stop loving when love has been unleashed. I told her then that it could, but now I know not.
I remember much. The days we spent as children together, playing in the bright gardens at Hever, riding our horses, pretending to be kings and queens, lords and dukes… people of consequence who altered the world.
She had been one of those people.
I remember the night I opened the door to my hunting lodge and found the child I remembered had become a woman; sultry and seductive, beautiful and wise, canny, witty and enticing. She never understood her power. Never saw that those who loved her were bound to her, lashed to the rocks beneath her feet, looking up at this confident, curious creature. This woman so unlike every other we had ever known.
No… she wielded power but did not understand it. Anne was a glorious being. She was not perfect, but that which we love never is. It is the faults in a person that make them real. Flawed as she was fascinating, Anne Boleyn would never leave a heart when she had claimed it.
My friends are dead. The woman I loved is dead. A new world is dawning, and I cannot believe it will be a better one. Not without her, not without them.
Dark clouds are gathering. I know not what the future may bring.
All I know, is what we have lost.
I take up my pen, but I cannot write about her. I cannot bring myself to. To the world, she may become forgotten, but not to me. I will honour her in my heart for the rest of my days.
“These bloody days have broken my heart,
My lust, my youth, did them depart,
And blind desires of estate.
Who hastens to climb seeks to rest,
Of truth, circa Regna tonat.”
About the throne, thunder rolls. About the throne, there is now only death.
We must live with what has been done. Is this life… what is left to me? I know not. Sometimes life becomes but existence. Sometimes in death a person becomes only more alive.
The winter winds will blow, summer light will dim. The spring and autumn will be less bright. But she will not fade.
“And I watched as he opened the sixth seal,” I murmur, “… and the skies became black as sackcloth, and the moon waxed as blood. The stars fell… and Heaven vanished away. Mountains and trees moved, and the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the rich men… every bond man and free man hid themselves in dens, in the rocks of the hills. They said to the hills and rocks ‘fall on us and hide us… for the great day of His wrath cometh, and who can endure it’.”
I walk to the window. A dull hush has fallen. It is night. The skies seem darker than ever before. The stars do not want to shine. The streets of the Tower are empty, smoke tumbles into the air from chimney pots.
Specks of ash float in the skies. Silver particles dancing against the stars.
Amongst them is one of amber, glowing in the night.
Author’s Notes
I started writing this series almost ten years ago. Little ideas, inconsistent scribbles here and there turned into lines and chapters and books. When I first found I wanted to write the story of Anne Boleyn I was deterred; it had been done so many times before, I wondered if I had anything to contribute. But I realised that I did. I had read so many tales of Anne that painted her either as the ice-cold witch-queen who destroyed a marriage and strove only for burning ambition, and others that upheld her as a saint, and, in reading all these tales, I thought something was missing; a portrait of a woman who was not a saint nor a sinner, but was like all of us, something in between.
I also thought that single books on her life skipped over too much that I felt was important. From this thought, the series Above all Others, The Lady Anne, was born.
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br /> Anne Boleyn died on the 19th of May 1536. Her name was defamed. Everything that was important to her had been stripped away and her enemies ensured that her name would go down in history as that of a vilified, shamed and fallen Queen.
I believe she died innocent of what she was accused. Much ill had Anne done in her life, to Katherine, to Mary, Wolsey and to many others, but I do not believe she committed adultery or treason, still less do I believe that a woman of such zealous faith would ever have committed incest.
The charges against her were brought for reasons other than what was protested. Anne was standing in the way. She could not give Henry the son he wished for, at least not in the time frame he desired, and this was her most fatal ‘flaw’. She was standing, too, in the way of peace with Spain and Cromwell’s plans for the monasteries. Although Charles of Spain had agreed to acknowledge Anne as Queen, with her removal, peace would be easier to achieve, and her opposition to the wealth of the monasteries being tossed into the Crown coffers put her in direct conflict with Cromwell, but more importantly, with Henry. Anne did not oppose the investigations, or dissolution, but thought the money or property confiscated should go back into charitable works. Any houses shut down should be used for education, and some houses should be saved. This was what Anne thought, and is upheld by her actions.