MOTH TO THE FLAME
The Story of Anne Boleyn
By
Angela Warwick
Text Copyright © 2013 Angela Warwick
All Rights Reserved
Cover Art © 2018 Nick Warwick
All Rights Reserved
REALITY
The setting sun slanted through the windows of the Lieutenant’s lodgings, creating diamond shaped patterns upon the black velvet gown of the young woman who sat motionless in the window seat, one long slender arm resting along the buttoned back. She could not be still for long though; frequently she sprang to her feet and paced restlessly from window to bed and back again, clenched hands pressed to her mouth, before resuming her seat at the window for often just a matter of seconds.
Her mind was in turmoil, her eyes fixed unseeing somewhere in the middle distance. Only minutes before the news had come that the day was decided. She had known she was to die, but that it should be so soon, the next morning at eight o’clock! In her shock and distress she had shouted at them, tears springing to her eyes, “I am innocent. Innocent!”
All protestations were useless of course, she knew that. But how to accept a fate which was undeserved and unjust? She so desperately wanted to live her proper span, see her children grow up and enjoy a dignified old age. Her eyes fell to her clenched hands and she held them away from her, relaxed and extended, up to the light; narrow hands with long tapering fingers which were suffused with a rosy glow from the window. She could see the fine tracery of veins, the smooth skin, all the signs of youth and health. Even the tiny blemish which had been the bane of her life seemed inconsequential; in a few short hours nothing would matter anymore. She had been a gentlewoman who had been raised far beyond her wildest imaginings but all was to count for nothing. It seemed to her that Henry, finding no further earthly honours with which to shower her now sought to endow her with a martyr’s crown.
Anne Boleyn, her queenly estate stripped from her with the annulment of her marriage the previous day, rose to her feet once more and resumed her pacing. To a casual observer she may have seemed calm, but her serene countenance only masked her inner terror. Against her will her eyes strayed to the window and across the green towards the partially erected scaffold as she desperately tried to focus her mind on her present situation.
Realisation took hold of her “I should have guessed” she said aloud, more to herself than any other present. “Try as we may we have no control over our destinies; all is marked out for us from the moment of conception”. She fell silent, her eyes closed, hands wringing together. Her mind would not focus, could not accept that life was almost done. Then without warning her eyes snapped open and she burst into cynical, hysterical laughter.
The women who had been sent to watch her and report her every word and action, exchanged meaningful glances. Her mind was obviously unhinged and hopefully she would soon let slip some snippet of information for which, suitably twisted, Master Cromwell would pay well. Condemned she may be, but nothing was to be spared in the effort to blacken her reputation still further, lest the fickle masses should see through the farce and rise in her favour.
However they were to be disappointed. Displaying the sudden change of mood for which she was legendary, their victim assuming calmness once again, climbed on to the pallet bed in the corner of the chamber and carefully arranged her skirts before laying back and closing her eyes.
Any hopes she might have had for restorative rest immediately dissipated. Instead of the dreamy blackness she craved, weird images flashed beneath her eyelids. The shapes were blurred and indistinct at first but would then come into sharp focus, each successive image bearing the smiling face of a dear friend; a friend no longer of this earth, all having met violent ends at the hands of the King’s executioner. Despite the nightmarish qualities of the visions it seemed to Anne that each in his silent way was reassuring her that when her life too was brutally ended they would all be reunited in a far greater Kingdom.
Her thoughts turned to Elizabeth, her baby, her most treasured possession. When it became clear that the King no longer wanted her mother it was suggested that rather than be divorced she may prefer to admit a pre-contract with Percy of Northumberland. Thus her marriage to the King would be invalid and Elizabeth illegitimate. However she would still die, even though she could hardly be guilty of adultery if she was unmarried. Percy himself had sworn on the sacrament that no binding contract or public promise of marriage was ever exchanged between them, so she was mystified as to why so much pressure was brought to bear on her to admit such a thing. In the end though, she had said the words they demanded of her. Despite her best efforts her life was forfeit and the stigma of illegitimacy had fallen on her small daughter. Elizabeth was a Tudor and was born to rule; bred to rule.
Later, when she opened her eyes, the sun had gone leaving the room gloomy. And she was alone. Her women - or spies, as she knew they were – believing that she slept, had left her in peace on this, her last night on earth.
As ever totally alert the moment her eyes opened, Anne slid across the low bed and swung her legs to the floor. Once upright she smoothed the folds of the black velvet, thinking as she did so that the worn pile would need to warm her for little longer.
She found the gloom comforting, only brightened as it was by tiny flickers from the small fire. Even though it was May, spring had come late in this year of 1536 and although the days were bright and warm, the nights were cold and her room was chilly. The lodging house had been built but a few years previously and seemed as draughty to the prisoner as the lofty chambers of Greenwich and Windsor had seemed to the Queen.
Immersed in her thoughts she did not hear as the door softly opened and closed, admitting a cloaked figure. What she did hear was her name, a whispered question “Anne?”
She did not have to turn to know the identity of her visitor. “Margaret!” she cried. “I had not thought to see you again”
Margaret Wyatt, Lady Lee, pushed back the hood of her cloak and undid the clasp at her neck. “Why Anne” she said, infusing a false brightness into her tone. “All alone in the dark? That is not like you. Not on this…” Her voice faltered and trailed away. Anne finished the sentence for her “Not on this night of all nights?”
Returning to the door, Lady Lee threw her cloak on to a convenient chair then called for lights and wood for the fire.
A little later they sat together before the rejuvenated flames. Seeing Anne’s face for the first time since her farcical trial Margaret noticed that apart from its paleness, in itself unremarkable for she was always so, there were few visible signs of the strain that she had been under since her brother and the others were arrested on May Day.
After a while Anne spoke “How did you manage to gain entry Meg? I was not expecting to be so blessed”. Margaret reached for the fire poker and shifted a chunk of wood in the heart of the fire, which fell into the cinders below emitting a shower of sparks. “I went to the King” she explained. “I begged him to allow me to come to you for these last hours and he agreed”.
Anne fumbled for her friend’s hand “It is good to have you here Meg. It will mean much to me tomorrow to have a friendly face beside me”.
“I have seen Tom, Anne” Margaret lowered her voice. “He sends you his best love and urges you not to give up hope for a last minute reprieve’
Anne smiled at Margaret, her dearest friend since childhood and sister to Thomas Wyatt. “Bless him” she whispered. “I only thank God that he was not taken with the others”.
Then there was silence, for between such friends words were not needed. The presence of each was comfort enough for the other.
Looking away from Margaret and in to the fire, Anne swallowed hard as
she formulated the question she knew she had to ask. “Have you heard if he was sent for? The swordsman from France?”
“Even now he travels” replied her companion. “The King sent to Calais the moment Cranmer made known your wish to him”.
“No doubt he considers it a last boon for a traitorous wife!” This was Anne the betrayed Queen speaking. Turning to Margaret she continued “And the Seymour bitch, what of her?”
“Sent to Wolf Hall yesterday”.
“I’m glad of it!” Anne exclaimed. “When my blood spills that’s one little cat I would not wish within lapping distance. I wish Henry luck in his quest for sons. He’ll not get a child on her with the health and beauty of my Elizabeth!”
Her voice, which had been rising close to the edge of hysteria, the edge over which she had toppled countless times, dropped low with misery. “Why didn’t he give me another chance Meg? Why? I proved I could have a healthy child; I proved I could get boys. One more chance and I know I could have given Henry his heir and made myself safe for life”.
“Don’t think of it Anne” Margaret soothed, dropping to her knees beside the other’s chair and taking both hands into hers. “It does no good now to brood. You cannot change what is past, only pray that when your time comes you can look the world in the eye and die with dignity”.
“You do not believe there will be a reprieve?”
Margaret took a deep breath “To be truthful, no. The others are dead and he wants you dead too. He wants no impediment to his next marriage even though he must know in his heart that you never betrayed him with any man, except in your dreams”.
“You know me so well, Meg. So well”.
Leaning closer to her friend Anne whispered urgently “Take care of my daughter. Watch over her as she grows and when she is old enough, tell her I was innocent of all charges. Tell her that her mother loved her very much and was so proud of her; my sole crime in her father’s eyes being that I did not provide her with a brother. Promise me you will do this!”
Burying her face in Anne’s lap, Margaret sobbed out her promise. Seeing the other finally break down stirred in Anne something of her inner strength. “Meg, Meg, no more tears now”. She lifted Margaret’s chin until the tearful face was on a level with her own. “I thought you came here to cheer me, not to dampen my only gown with salt water!”
Anne’s small attempt at gaiety was rewarded with a tremulous smile from her friend. Anne embraced her, glad of the human contact and whispered “Let us not think of tomorrow, but of the past. Long ago when life was simple and we were but children, at Hever.
Chapter 1- Small Beginnings
The ageless sounds of children at play floated across the Kentish garden. Sir Thomas Boleyn paused in his meditations as he caught sight of the five brightly dressed youngsters chasing across the grass, clustered around the very old, very small and exceedingly bad tempered pony which Sir Thomas had recently acquired for his daughter Anne.
Anne herself was mounted upon this steed, being led at a somewhat hurried trot by young Tom Wyatt whilst in close pursuit were Wyatt’s sister Margaret and the other Boleyn children, Mary and George.
“Yet another game of damsels in distress!” Thomas Boleyn spoke his thoughts aloud as, hand stroking his beard, he watched them turn in to the copse at the edge of the park.
His train of thought totally disrupted, Boleyn resumed his walk towards the house; for although it had the impressive title of Hever Castle, it was little more than a moated manor house. Sir Thomas liked to think of it as a family home and was very proud of his little brood. He had his heir, young George, a bright, healthy little boy now ten years old. It was a great pity that neither of his two brothers had lived, but infant mortality was high and losses were both expected and accepted.
Then there was the elder of his two girls, Mary, the beauty of the family. Even at nine years old she was already displaying the softness and submissiveness which would no doubt endear her to many in later life. With such a nature coupled with her dark eyes and fashionably blonde hair, Thomas felt sure that she would attract the attention of a wealthy husband.
Thomas’s eyes softened as he thought of the last of his children, six year old Anne. Not a conventional beauty by any means, not in an age when paleness of skin and hair was most admired. No, Anne could not even be considered as pretty, but then she was not one who would need to rely on mere looks to attain her desires. At so tender an age she already had the stirrings of a mysterious charm, a magnetism that drew every man into her snare, be he six or sixty. And what was more; she was always the damsel to be rescued in all the children’s games. The others had to let her have her way unless they wanted a show of temper as black as her hair and eyes.
Reaching the castle, Sir Thomas entered by a side door then climbed a narrow stone spiral stairway to his writing chamber. Once seated with quill in hand, he set about penning a letter to the Archduchess Margaret of Austria. “It has come to my notice” he wrote, “that your Highness’s court is highly regarded as a moral and educational institution for the rearing of young ladies of good parentage…” Here he paused, quill poised, wondering if he had over exaggerated a little. No, he decided. Such compliments could only please the Archduchess and make her all the more likely to comply with his request. He went on to tell her that his daughters were greatly desirous of a place at the court of such an esteemed lady, then threw in a few more flowery phrases to further appease her Highness.
On reading through the finished article, Sir Thomas found himself deeply satisfied with his effort. He had managed to pen a letter of great admiration for the person of the Archduchess and the moral fibre of her court, whilst the main reason for his writing, in order to procure places as maids of honour for Mary and Anne, seemed incidental.
Sir Thomas sanded and sealed the letter with a flourish, then calling for one of the four messengers he kept on standby in case of urgent communications, immediately dispatched man and missive to Brussels with strict instructions to remain at the court until such time as an answer should be forthcoming.
Standing at the small casement window watching the messenger gallop on his way, Sir Thomas wondered idly whether to call the girls to him and let them know of his plans. After careful consideration, he decided against it for childhood was precious and short enough as it was. There would be plenty of time to prepare them once he had his answer.
Almost in response to his thoughts, Mary, Anne and Meg Wyatt shot into view, closely followed by Tom and George amid much shouting and screaming. Seeing them again brought Thomas’s plans for his son to the forefront of his mind. George, he decided, must soon be sent away to some great house where he would learn all manly skills. As Sir Thomas firmly closed the casement to keep out the childish voices he decided that should the Archduchess decline Anne’s services on account of her extreme youth, she could remain at home for a little longer, until another opportunity presented itself.
With a sigh he returned to his writing table laden with documents and correspondence to continue with his duties as King Henry VIII’s Ambassador to the Court of Brussels, making up his mind to, in the course of his official duties, remind the Archduchess again of his modest request regarding his daughters, should the lady not immediately comply.
Chapter 2 - Debut
The Boleyn girls had been barely twelve months at the court of Brussels before another more glorious opportunity arose for them.
The much talked-of alliance between England and France had finally materialised and Mary Tudor, the King’s adored younger sister was to become the bride of the elderly Louis XII. It had taken careful and protracted negotiations, but Louis had finally agreed to take Mary because she was young, beautiful and enjoyed the excellent health required to produce the sons he needed to make his dynasty secure.
Thomas Boleyn managed to secure a place for Mary in the Princess’s entourage and also a minor post for Anne. With George already safely placed elsewhere honing his skills as a gentleman, the ambitious f
ather felt that his plans for his children were progressing satisfactorily.
Mary was now ten years old, very pretty and sure to be popular with the Princess. Anne was seven; young it was true, but displaying both manners and boldness well in advance of her years. Sir Thomas felt sure that his daughters would distinguish themselves since they were already in possession of valuable court experience and fluent in the French language. Lady Boleyn was less inclined to allow her girls, Anne in particular, to travel to yet another foreign court at such tender ages. Sir Thomas stressed to his wife that it was too good an opportunity to let slip and the girls would at least have each other for company. However the first priority was to persuade Margaret of Austria to release them from her service in Brussels.
Sir Thomas concocted a humble letter, emphasising that the Princess Mary herself had requested that his daughters accompany her to France. Not that such a statement was entirely true, but Sir Thomas was well versed in the diplomatic phrases which made it seem so. It was with great reluctance that the Archduchess Margaret released her youngest and most amusing maids of honour, who on arriving in England immediately travelled to London to take up their places with Mary Tudor.
So in the middle of September in the year 1514, a cavalcade of more than 1,500 headed by King Henry, Queen Catherine and the Princess Mary, left London and wound its way through the Kent countryside to the port of Dover. The conditions remained fine and they made good speed to the King’s impressive fortress on the coast. However once they had arrived at the castle, the ever mercurial English weather changed for the worse and the King declared that he could not possibly risk his sister on such treacherous seas.
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