The Boleyn Wife

by Brandy Purdy

  28

  On the 12th of May 1536, before a crowd of two thousand people, lowborn and high, crammed shoulder to shoulder in Tower Hall, Francis Weston, William Brereton, Henry Norris, and Mark Smeaton stood trial for committing adultery with the Queen and conspiring to kill the King.

  I was there before dawn, and even then the crowd was so thick I had to fight my way through. Fortunately I did not have to fight for my seat; Cromwell had sent one of his servants to hold a place for me.

  Anne was not allowed to attend. Cromwell thought it was better to keep her confused and ignorant, and thus, hopefully, dull the knife-edge of her wit. When it was her turn to stand trial, he wanted a broken, terrified woman who would cower and weep before her judges.

  Weston, Brereton, and Norris entered Tower Hall as confident and calm as if they were attending just another court function—some banquet or entertainment, nothing to be solemn or upset about.

  All three of them were dressed elegantly. Brereton wore jet-beaded mulberry satin, Norris fawn silk accented with deep brown velvet, and Weston dazzled every eye in a gaudy green doublet encrusted with emeralds, pearls, and gold embroidery.

  Weston’s delicate young wife and aged mother were seated in the row behind me, and as he passed Weston paused to smile down at them and lovingly caress his wife’s tearstained cheek and squeeze his mother’s wizened hand. These two women had offered the King a fortune of 100,000 crowns to save their beloved rogue, but Henry had refused them. Why accept, when if Weston were condemned, all his goods—his money, property, and lands—would be forfeit to the Crown?

  The lowly born Smeaton came last. He could not walk; he had to be carried in. Upon arriving at the Tower after his torturous dinner with Cromwell, he had been racked for four hours, leaving his body broken and crippled, before they moved on to other tortures. Both of his eyes were swollen purple and black to such an extent he could scarcely open them, and his mouth was puffy and distorted, with both lips scabbed over. But his hands—his beautiful musician’s hands!—were a mangled mess of purple, black, and red flesh, every finger broken, and all the nails torn out. Master Smeaton would make no more music, and for this he wept copious tears, sobbing piteously again and again “my music, my music!” as he held up his ruined hands.

  The three gentlemen took their places, standing tall and defiant before their judges, while Smeaton’s broken body was draped over the back of a chair, since he could not stand unaided.

  The evidence against them was a litany of the absurd, and all about me the crowd exchanged incredulous glances. Anne had given money and gifts to all of them. And with Weston, Brereton, and Norris she had danced, laughed, and played cards. “Well, what of it?” The people shrugged. Were they not all firm friends of years and years? And she was Queen of England and entitled to dispense gifts to those she favored. Why make such a to-do and pother over a few coins and trinkets, jests, and dancing? Each of the gentlemen had at one time or another worn her favor while competing in the joust, or dedicated poetry or songs to her. Again the people asked, “What of it?” They were gallant gentlemen of the court and such things were expected of them. As for Smeaton being summoned to her chamber to play his lute and sing, well, “What of it?” He was a court musician; was that not what he was paid to do? Yet all of this, Cromwell claimed, constituted proof of adultery. The people shook their heads, clucked their tongues, and rolled their eyes.

  Dates were cited, but they were easily disputed and discredited. The accused were either not at the same place on the date in question or else Anne was confined to bed recovering from a pregnancy and thus in no condition to dally with a lover. As for the plot to kill the King, that was even more absurd. Weston had ridden against him in the joust and unhorsed him, causing His Majesty grievous bodily injury and his life to be, for a time, despaired of. Hearing this, eyebrows shot high and people shook their heads, utterly dumbfounded. King, knight, or commoner, any man who competed in the tiltyard risked injury and death. How could this possibly be construed as a murder plot? Then there was that damning remark about Norris looking for “dead men’s shoes.” Unwise, yes, but in what context had it been said? Might it not have been an ill-advised jest? But to Cromwell the context was irrelevant; the fact that it had been said was enough for him.

  Like starving dogs, these three clever gentlemen fell upon the evidence, tearing it to shreds. Indignant and contemptuous, haughty and witty, they swaggered about, made jests, and laughed in Cromwell’s face.

  Only Mark Smeaton, always the obedient servant, obliged by falling down and washing the floor with his tears as he repeatedly insisted, “I am guilty and deserve death!”

  Aye, Smeaton was guilty of fornicating with a Boleyn, but it was not Anne. Her he had only worshipped and adored, but with my husband George he had committed sodomy, a crime and a sin that led to the stake and eternal damnation. Perhaps he saw his mangled hands as God’s just punishment?

  “May God have mercy on you and forgive your lies,” Francis Weston said as he stared down at the sniveling Smeaton.

  “Can you not see they have broken his mind as well as his body?” Norris cried. “A man in such a state would admit to anything!”

  “Poor gentle songbird, would you not rather the truth be your last song instead of Cromwell’s infernal lies?” Brereton shook his head and sighed pityingly.

  Aye, it was a grand performance. And with these three gentlemen the crowd fell completely in love. But none of that mattered. The trial was a farce that had nothing to do with justice, only the will and whim of the King.

  “The evidence is such that it can stand on its own!” Cromwell declared when Brereton challenged him.

  “Liar!” Brereton shouted, his voice ringing in the rafters. “It is a house of cards so fragile no man dare approach too near or breathe upon it lest it topple!”

  “Even with only one eye I can see that it will not stand up to scrutiny!” Weston exclaimed.

  The jury did not even retire from their bench. All four men were condemned to die a traitor’s death, the most ghastly and painful imaginable—they would be taken to Tyburn and hung, drawn, and quartered.

  “Weep not for us, but for the absence of justice from England!” Weston advised the crowd as they were led back to their cell in the Beauchamp Tower.

  29

  Three days later it was George’s turn, and Anne’s. As peers of the realm, they were required to face a jury of twenty-six peers, including Anne’s old love, Harry Percy, the Earl of Northumberland.

  My father, Lord Morley, also sat upon the jury. He hated to be a part of “this mockery of justice,” as he called it, but he knew that the King’s will must be done.

  Thomas Boleyn wanted to be there too. Hoping to ingratiate himself with the King, he had openly reviled his children and said it would be his pleasure to sit in judgment on this pair of incestuous traitors it had been his loins’ misfortune to sire, but Cromwell decided to excuse him lest it reflect poorly upon the Crown that the father of the accused had been allowed to sit upon the jury.

  Apparently it was not considered in poor taste to have the uncle of the accused preside over the trial, and Norfolk happily obliged by acting as Lord High Steward.

  May 15 dawned a beautiful day. The sky was a clear, cloudless blue and the weather pleasantly warm, but inside Tower Hall it was sweltering. Once again, two thousand people of all classes were crammed together, even sitting on each other’s laps, and lining the walls; and more waited outside. The odors of unwashed bodies and sweat were so oppressive that perfume and pomander balls were not just a nicety but a necessity, though in the end they did little good. Several women fainted from the heat and stink.

  Anne was led in first. Every head turned in her direction; people stood, craning their necks and on tiptoes, trying to get a glimpse of her. She was infinitely calm and regal, which surprised many, given all the talk of mad, hysterical laughter, wild, uncontrollable weeping, and alternating bouts of desperately rising hope and deep, plung
ing despair. She wore a gown of black velvet, open in front to reveal a kirtle of lustrous copper satin. Large, creamy pearls alternating with beads of amber and gold, edged the low, square-cut bodice. Her long, hanging sleeves were trimmed with deep fur cuffs of the softest brown sable, with a reddish sheen that hung bell-like over her hands. Pearls also edged her black French hood; and about her neck, so slender and long and easy to sever, she wore her favorite pearl necklace with the distinctive gold B with three dangling teardrop pearls.

  Then George was brought in, and though their guards tried to keep them apart, they found each other. George swept her up in a fervent embrace, and Anne wound her arms tightly around his neck and buried her face against his shoulder. Then Master Kingston intervened, and George was led to the platform where he must face his judges, and Anne to a chair nearby.

  How my heart ached at the sight of him! Its beating was so fast and furious I thought I would die. Thank God, they had not tortured him. He was all in somber black relieved only by the immaculate white ruffles at his throat and wrists, and his black hair and beard were immaculately combed and trimmed.

  Then the trial began. How ably he defended himself! He made me blush and feel stupid and ashamed at the absurdity of the evidence, much of which I had supplied and Cromwell had twisted to make his case.

  George was accused of always being in his sister’s company, often entirely alone with her in her private rooms. He had even been seen to lean down and kiss her as she lay abed.

  “Can a brother and sister not speak privately without being suspected of incest?” George interjected. “My sister is not just my sister, she is also my dearest friend; our understanding is perfect and complete, and we have always taken great delight in each other’s company.”

  “The Queen,” Cromwell intoned gravely, “incited her own natural brother to violate her, alluring him with her tongue in his mouth, and his tongue in hers, and also with gifts, base conversations, and other infamous acts; whereby he, despising the commandments of God, and all human laws, violated and carnally knew his own natural sister.”

  “That is a foul lie!” George exclaimed hotly.

  “Silence! It is not your turn to speak!” Norfolk said sharply, then nodded to Cromwell and bade him continue.

  Together with their friends, Cromwell alleged, George and Anne had ridiculed the King; making fun of his clothes, his great puffed and padded shoulders and enormous codpieces, saying two men could fit inside one of Henry’s doublets. And they disparaged his poetry and songs, deeming their own compositions superior.

  Cromwell claimed to have evidence that the so-called “Princess” Elizabeth was in fact George Boleyn’s daughter.

  When she knew for certain she was pregnant, Anne had sent the joyous news by letter to her “beloved brother.”

  “Was that natural behavior?” Cromwell asked insinuatingly.

  After the child was born, he continued, George had been seen sitting most familiarly beside the Queen upon her bed, expressing great admiration for the child, and was heard by two witnesses—one of them his own wife, and the other the late, but much esteemed Lady Wingfield—to declare, “This little one is one of us!” Old Lady Wingfield had testified to this on her deathbed, asserted Cromwell, “and that, my lords, is not a place one wants to be with a lie upon one’s lips!”

  George folded his arms across his chest and cocked his head. “How very inconsiderate of Lady Wingfield to die when we have need of her! Is there a necromancer present so we might have this evidence direct, instead of as hearsay?”

  The whole room erupted in laughter and Norfolk leapt to his feet, shouting for silence.

  George, Cromwell continued, had even been heard to threaten the King’s life, saying he would like to kill Henry for all that he had done to Anne. To this statement his wife could attest, having been in the room at the time it was said.

  “Oh, let us have it plain!” cried George. “The principal instigator of these accusations is my own wife; is that not so, Master Cromwell?”

  “Who better to supply such evidence than that much aggrieved and greatly wronged woman who has suffered long and much for love of you?” Cromwell countered.

  “Aye, I daresay she considers herself such,” George agreed. “My wife is a volatile, vindictive shrew, whose jealous fancies often surpass the bounds of reason. Can we not have some witnesses to her character? It would only be fair, since upon the word of this one woman you are prepared to believe this great evil of me!”

  “There is no need to besmirch the reputation of Lady Rochford,” Cromwell said pointedly. “She is not the one on trial.”

  “If there were any real justice here, she would be—for perjury!” George exclaimed. “As for her love for me, you can see how well she loves me, to bring such a false, foul, and malicious charge against me and to blacken my name and that of my sister!”

  All about me people were turning in their seats and murmuring to each other. Bets were being laid ten to one that George would go free; some were so confident they staked all that they possessed upon it. The evidence against him was laughable, paltry, insane!

  I knew the truth—he loved her more than any. She was the most important person in the world to him, but hearing it spoken aloud it sounded completely absurd; the wild, convoluted ravings of a jealous wife toting up years of accumulated grievances. Even I began to believe that my husband would be acquitted, and that while Anne was banished to a nun’s bleak convent cell, I might have one more chance. I was willing to forgive all, if only he would love me and come back to me.

  Was it not suspiciously convenient that Lady Wingfield had died? those about me were saying. And those of the court who had known her were quick to inform the others that she had been in her dotage and her mind often wandered haphazardly in the past, and confused people and events. She even sometimes failed to recognize members of her own family. Thus, could anything she said of the Queen and her brother really be deemed credible? And in her later years, she had also been quite deaf; so anything she claimed to have heard was questionable.

  And why should the Queen not inform her brother of her pregnancy? As for his remark about the little Princess being “one of us,” could that not be in reference to some shared family resemblance? Again a remark was being bruited out of context, so how could anyone rightly judge it?

  Anne and George had always been devoted to one another, others from the court asserted, and of their affinity Lady Rochford had always been insanely jealous. One woman reported she had seen me standing at the foot of a staircase, screaming at George, accusing him of being in love with his sister. “I have no liking for the Queen,” she said, “but I cannot deny the facts, and what I have myself heard and seen.” And others had similar tales to tell of quarrels between us that they had overheard or witnessed. Another told of seeing me bite a page boy when he contradicted the rumor that the King was dead of his jousting injury. They said I had always been in the thick of things, trying to make trouble for the Queen, wishing her ill, and gloating at her every misfortune.

  Deeply embarrassed, I drew the hood of my cloak down lower and slumped down farther in my seat, hoping and praying that no one would recognize me. It all sounded so silly now; if lives had not been at stake it would have been a comedy!

  “Enough!” Norfolk, followed by a clerk bearing a single candlestick upon a pewter tray, approached George and handed him a small folded square of paper. “Due to the sensitive nature of this question, it will not be spoken aloud lest it cause His Majesty undue embarrassment and distress. Read it and merely answer yea or nay, then burn it in the flame of this candle and we will be done.”

  As George’s long, slim fingers unfolded the paper, a smile spread slowly across his face and a defiant, devil-may-care sparkle lit up his eyes.

  Anne sat forward in her chair, gripping tight its arms, pleading with him with her eyes; she knew exactly what he meant to do, because she would have done it herself had their positions been reversed. Their eyes met.
They both knew her life was forfeit. It was impossible for the court to rule in her favor when four of her supposed paramours had already been condemned. And though George still stood a chance, it all came down to this moment, to this vital piece of paper in his hand.

  George turned and stared out boldly into the crowd, and, I swear, he looked straight at me and smiled. Then he began to speak and the world came crashing round my feet.

  “Did the Queen say that she was unlikely to conceive because the King lacked potency and vigor when he came to her bed?”

  George had just thrown his life away! With that one bold, rash, suicidal gesture he had shattered all hope of his acquittal and ruined numerous gamblers.

  “Nay, my lord,” he said, smiling brightly as he followed Norfolk’s instructions and burned the paper, “those were not her exact words. And I would not want to answer in a manner likely to prejudice any issue that may result from the King’s next marriage.”

  The babble of voices filled the courtroom; everyone was talking at once. Now they knew what this was all about—Henry had his eye on a third wife, most likely Mistress Seymour. And to marry her, he must first be rid of Anne, but he wanted no more messy divorces; no, to kill her was the easiest, quickest, and surest way. To let her live could lead to all manner of trouble, especially about the rights of the little Princess Elizabeth. With Anne dead, he could put an end to all that and simply bastardize their daughter.

  By reading that paper aloud, George had done much more than humiliate Henry by informing the public that the King’s masculine powers were waning; he had transformed “The Goggle-Eyed Whore” into a heroine. He had also signed his own death warrant.