by Alison Weir
Kingston’s gray eyes were full of sympathy. She suspected he had grown to like her, and that he did not believe what they said of her. “I will do my best for you,” he promised.
—
That afternoon, Archbishop Cranmer was ushered into her presence chamber. She fell to her knees weeping when she saw him, seizing the hem of his surplice and kissing it. “Oh, my dear friend! It is such a comfort to see you.”
Cranmer knelt beside her, his heavy features contorted with emotion. “The King has appointed me your confessor,” he told her. “Oh, Anne! I am exceedingly sorry that the charges have been proved against you. I told them I could not believe it of you. I said I never had a better opinion of a woman, and that I loved you for the love you bear to God and the Gospel—but the things they told me!”
“All lies,” she assured him. “My enemies have united to get rid of me, and they have turned the King against me. Tell me, does he really believe it all?”
Cranmer looked miserable. “I fear he does. But I have hardly seen him. No one has. He has shut himself away, and will see only me and Cromwell. When I saw His Grace today, he was in a pensive mood. But you know him of old, Anne. It’s impossible to know what he is thinking. He spoke of the succession. He said that the Princess Elizabeth cannot stand in the way of any heirs he might have with a future wife.”
“Then he really does mean to be rid of me,” she whispered, feeling again the rising terror she had fought so hard to control. He meant to make Jane Seymour queen. A fine queen she would be, who was sly, deceitful, and never had a word to say for herself!
“All I can say is that he has charged me with finding cause to dissolve your marriage,” Cranmer said.
“The marriage you found to be good and valid just three years ago!” Anne retorted bitterly. “And what will that make my daughter—a bastard?”
“I fear so,” Cranmer admitted, wringing his hands.
Anne stood up. “Has anyone pointed out to Henry the absurdity of charging me with adultery if I was never lawfully his wife?” She laughed mirthlessly. “Of course, it makes little difference, for they cleverly added that charge of plotting the King’s death, which is high treason by anyone’s reckoning!”
She regarded Cranmer. He loved her, but his admiration for her counted for little against his desire to please the King, his sense of self-preservation, and his zeal for reform. She would be a hindrance to that now, with her reputation in tatters. But she must be fair. Cranmer was in a difficult position. Her fall might well have an adverse impact on him, the man who had facilitated her marriage to the King. He needed to survive to fight for the cause another day.
“So what is it to be?” she asked. “Consanguinity? A precontract with Harry Percy? Insanity? By the way, how is Harry Percy?”
“Mortally ill, I fear,” Cranmer said, rising to his feet. “Madam, I cannot argue that the King’s union with the Princess Dowager was lawful after all. We’d all be a laughingstock. And Percy has again denied that there ever was a precontract. That leaves the impediment raised by the King’s relations with your sister. Now I know that the Bishop of Rome issued a dispensation covering that, but the recent Dispensations Act provides that it cannot be held as valid because it is contrary to Holy Scripture and the laws of God. Thus your marriage may be deemed null and void. I have come to summon you and the King to appear before my court at Lambeth Palace to hear my judgment. I advise you not to contest it.”
All she could think of was that she would see Henry. She would have this one last chance of convincing him she had never betrayed him, and of telling him she would make no fuss if he divorced her, but would go abroad and disappear into a nunnery. Anything would be better than facing the flames.
“The King will be there?” she asked eagerly.
“Neither of you will be there,” Cranmer said. “You will both be represented by proctors.” It was crushing to hear that, but then hope sprang again. If Henry meant to have her executed, why go to the bother of annulling their marriage? Sadly, the answer was plain. He must ensure an undisputed succession.
“My daughter was born before the Dispensations Act was passed, when the King and I believed we had entered into marriage in good faith. Surely she must be deemed legitimate?”
“Anne, this is no time for legal niceties,” Cranmer warned her. “I am come to obtain your admission of the impediment to your marriage, and your consent to its dissolution, which will mean the disinheriting of your child. In return for that, I am authorized to tell you that the King promises you the kinder death. Already, out of pity, he has sent to Calais for an expert swordsman to do the deed swiftly. Madam, I urge you to consider well and accept the offer. If you do, I am hopeful that you might be spared the extreme penalty altogether.”
There could be no contest. The prospect of a reprieve was too compelling. Even if Henry did not pardon her, it would be easier for Elizabeth to grow up in the knowledge that her mother had died by the sword rather than by fire. The child was sharp, with her wits about her, and had it in her to fend for herself. Henry loved her, there was no doubt of it; he would protect her. As his bastard, she would be safer than if she was a contender for the succession. Look at the misery that had befallen the Lady Mary. Anne thanked God now that, for all Mary’s treason, Henry had never carried out any of his threats. His fatherly love went too deep, and Anne trusted that Elizabeth too would be safe from his anger against her mother. Anyway, who would take up the cudgels on Elizabeth’s behalf now?
“I accept,” she said. “Thomas, will you hear my last confession?”
Cranmer hesitated. Naturally, he did not want to carry the burden of her innocence. But he surprised her. “Of course,” he said. “I will return.”
—
At supper, she felt more cheerful than she had in days. She had wondered all along if Henry would actually send her to her death, and now she was becoming convinced that he would not.
“I believe I will go to a nunnery,” she said. “I am hoping that my life will be spared.”
They were all looking at her with pity in their eyes.
“The gentlemen are to die tomorrow, madam,” Kingston said gently.
She realized she had been cruelly deceived. Henry had meant all along for her to die. There would be no reprieve. She had been tricked, by the lure of a mercifully quick end, into sanctioning the disinheriting of her child. She kept her composure, although her stomach was churning at the thought of what lay ahead of her days, hours perhaps, hence. “I do hope that those poor gentlemen will not suffer traitors’ deaths,” she said.
“I have just had word, madam. The King has been pleased graciously to commute the sentences to decapitation.”
“Thank God!” she breathed.
“That is a great clemency to Smeaton,” Lady Kingston observed. “He is a lucky fellow. Only persons of rank get their sentences commuted.”
“Maybe it is because he confessed to something they knew he had not done,” Anne said, remembering how Cranmer had bargained with her.
“Master Kingston, I desire very much to be shriven of my sins,” she said. “His Grace of Canterbury promised to return to hear my last confession.”
“I will send for him,” Kingston said, “when the time comes.”
“He told me that a French swordsman had been summoned.”
“Not French, madam. It is one of the Emperor’s subjects, from Saint-Omer.”
She managed a smile. “That will please Messire Chapuys.”
“The King is paying the headsman handsomely to ensure you are dispatched humanely,” Kingston told her. “This ‘Sword of Calais’ is of some renown for his swiftness and skill.”
How could the severing of someone’s head be humane? “That is one mercy,” she said aloud, feeling the panic rising again. “At least it will be quick. But it is a pity he could not get here in time to dispatch my brother and the others.”
“It is, alas. But they are all ready and, I trust, at peace with God. They
shall have good warning in the morning.”
She shuddered. She could not bear to think of George and Norris dying for her sake. This time tomorrow, she would be the only one left, and then it could only be a matter of hours…
—
In the morning, Mrs. Orchard woke her early.
“Madam, Lady Kingston is here. Orders have come. You are to witness the executions.”
Anne was instantly awake. “No! I cannot!”
“My dear lamb, you have to. It is the King’s wish.”
Oh, that Henry would go to Hell and be eternally damned! Had he not done enough to her? This was purely vindictive.
She suffered them to dress her in the black gown she had worn at her trial, and emerged to face the waiting Kingston.
“I am very sorry for this, madam,” he apologized, “but I have my orders.”
“I understand,” she said shakily.
He led her, with Lady Kingston following, across the inmost ward, through the Coldharbour Gate and back to Water Lane, which they followed some way around the outer ward to one of the ancient towers. He unlocked the door and they mounted the stone stairs to an empty and very dusty round chamber.
“Your Grace will be able to see from that window,” Kingston said. “I regret I cannot remain with you, but I must attend the prisoners to the scaffold.” He bowed and hastened away.
It was a small window, set in the thickness of the wall. Although Anne shrank from looking out, her attention was drawn by the vast crowds on Tower Hill, beyond the walls of the fortress. They were being contained by soldiers ranked around a high scaffold, and in the front she recognized many courtiers she knew. After a few minutes, the crowd quietened, and every head was turned in the direction of the entrance to the Tower. The ranks of people parted and Anne could see George, surrounded by guards, then Norris, followed by Weston, Brereton, and Smeaton. All appeared calm except the musician. Even from here he looked terrified.
At the sight of her brother and the man she loved, Anne started weeping uncontrollably, and Lady Kingston put a motherly arm around her. Beneath her stolid, taciturn exterior, she had a kindly heart.
“I pray they make good ends,” she said. “It is a pity we cannot hear their farewell speeches, but no doubt my husband will tell us what they said.”
Anne cried out as George mounted the scaffold. She sobbed as she watched him, cool and confident as ever, speaking to the crowd for a long space in a loud voice, which she could just hear. It tore her apart to think it was for the last time. In minutes that loved voice would be stilled forever.
She watched as he knelt before the block and lay down. She saw the public executioner raise his ax.
“No!” she screamed, and buried her face in her hands.
“It is over, it is over,” Lady Kingston soothed. “Nothing can hurt him now.”
“Oh, my God, have mercy on his soul!” she wept. “Is it safe to look?”
“Wait…Yes, they have taken him away.”
Anne opened her eyes. She was trembling violently, bowed by grief. She peered through the window to see the block, and the executioner’s assistant chucking water from a bucket over the scaffold. It was dripping pink with blood—George’s blood. She felt sick at the sight. Soon, her own blood would be flooding a scaffold.
Through the blur of tears she saw Norris addressing the people. He was brief, so she had little chance to gaze for the last time upon those loved features. When he knelt, she sank to the floor, howling, not caring what Lady Kingston made of it.
She stayed there, keening and sobbing, mourning for the only two men who had loved her genuinely and unconditionally. She did not want to live in a world without them. Her only comfort lay in knowing that she would not be far behind them. Somehow she would get through the hours until she could join them.
She did not see the other men die. Lady Kingston did not press her. When it was all over, she helped Anne to her feet, turned her away from the window, put an arm around her, and supported her down the stairs, for she was shaking so much that she could not have stood alone.
Kingston came within ten minutes. His face was grim, and he frowned when he saw Anne.
“They all died very charitably,” he said. Lady Kingston was shaking her head warningly. They helped Anne back to her lodgings in silence.
When they got there, Kingston turned to her. “It is my heavy duty, madam, to inform you that you are to die tomorrow morning.”
All she could feel was relief. “This is joyful news to me,” she declared. “I long only to keep company with my brother and those other gentlemen in Heaven.”
There was one thing she had to know. “Tell me, please, did any of them protest my innocence at the last?”
“Lord Rochford said he had deserved to die shamefully, for he was a wretched sinner and had known no man so evil.” Anne closed her eyes. She was the only person who knew what he meant. “He prayed us all to take heed of his example, and exhorted us not to trust in the vanity of the world, especially in the flattery of the court. He said, if he had followed God’s word in deed, as he read it, he would not have come to this, and prayed that he might be forgiven by all whom he had injured. It was strange, madam. He admitted he deserved a heavier punishment for his other sins, but not from the King, whom he had never offended.”
“He spoke truth,” Anne whispered. “He has proclaimed our innocence.”
Kingston nodded almost imperceptibly. He could not, of course, openly agree with her.
“What did Norris say?”
“He said he did not think that any gentleman of the court owed more to the King than he did, and had been more ungrateful than he had. He also declared that, in his conscience, he thought your Grace innocent of the things laid to your charge. He declared he would die a thousand times rather than ruin an innocent person.”
He too had vindicated her, with his last breath. Had ever woman been so blessed in the men that loved her?
Kingston was finishing his account. “The others said little, madam. Smeaton, being of low degree, was last. He acknowledged that he was being justly punished for his misdeeds. He cried out, ‘Masters, I pray you all pray for me, for I have deserved the death.’ ”
“Has he not then cleared me of the public infamy he has brought me to?” Anne cried. “Alas, I fear his soul now suffers for it, and that he is being punished for his false accusations, for his words will give rise to many reflections. But I doubt not but that my brother and those others are now in the presence of that great King before whom I am to be tomorrow.”
The time could not come quickly enough.
—
Later that day, Kingston reappeared to tell Anne that Archbishop Cranmer had declared her marriage to the King invalid. She smiled at that. There was a certain irony in the fact that it had taken minutes to dissolve the marriage that Henry had striven and schemed for six years to make. And look where it had brought her! She had been falsely accused of the vilest of crimes, and she had lost nearly everything that had mattered to her: her husband, her child, her brother, her status, her friends, her wealth, and her reputation. Her daughter had been branded a bastard and there was nothing she could do about it. Five men had died on her account. Her father had abandoned her. Her mother’s grief was unimaginable. And now she faced a violent death. The husband who had won her so dearly had carried out his threat to lower her as much as he had raised her. There was nothing left to live for.
She did not regret losing Henry. He had become a monster and did not deserve her love and loyalty. She felt no sadness for the ending of their wedlock. When she thought back over the three years it had lasted, she could remember only the quarrels, the dreadful insecurities that had driven her to be so cruel to Katherine and Mary, her desperation over not bearing a son, and the slow death of Henry’s love. She was glad to have all that behind her. But she wept to think that innocent young Elizabeth was now branded a bastard, and would grow up believing her mother an adulteress and a traitor. That h
aunted her.
—
That evening, Father Skip came to offer her ghostly comfort in her last hours. They prayed together deep into the night. She could not have slept anyway, for the distant hammering and sawing of wood, echoing across the deserted tournament ground and Tower Green, was a constant reminder that they were building a new scaffold on which she was to die in the morning. Not for her the public scaffold on Tower Hill. She did not want to sleep, for soon she would be asleep in Christ, enjoying eternal rest. Her remaining time on Earth could be used more profitably for the repose of her soul.
She was still up and praying when dawn broke and Cranmer arrived, as he had promised, to hear her final confession and to celebrate Mass and give her Holy Communion. She asked Kingston to be present when she took the sacrament. She wanted him to hear her declare her innocence before God.
She prepared to receive the good Lord with fervent devotion, knowing that she would shortly be in His blessed presence. “I desire to go to Him,” she declared. “I would that I had suffered yesterday with my brother, that we might have gone to Paradise together. But we shall be reunited today. And now I take God to be my witness that, on the damnation of my soul, I have never offended with my body against the King.” It was the truth. That she had strayed in her heart was another matter, one covered by the general confession of all her sins.
Cranmer then administered the Holy Sacrament, and afterward she again affirmed her innocence, so that Kingston, the Archbishop, and all her attendants could see there was nothing on her conscience. Hopefully word would be carried back to Henry and Cromwell. Let them look to their own consciences.
When Kingston left to make the final preparations for her execution, Anne sank to her knees again in prayer. Now that the hour was almost upon her, she was thinking constantly about the moment of death. It was not the dying she feared, but the means of it. It would be quick, she knew, but it would be brutal.
Have courage! she told herself. It would be over in an instant, and then she would be lifted up out of this miserable world and know eternal joy.
As nine o’clock, the appointed hour, approached, she was ready—frightened, but braced for her ordeal. And then Lady Kingston arrived.