The Boleyn Wife

by Brandy Purdy

  It all happened very quickly after that. There was no recess; the jury was polled right where they sat. The verdict was guilty; not one man dared dissent. George was condemned to suffer the same fate as Anne’s other lovers: to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. As Norfolk read out the verdict in a flat, toneless voice he was hissed and booed loudly by the crowd.

  I had to lean forward, my stays creaking in protest, and put my head between my knees to keep from fainting. George had made his choice, public and plain. He had chosen her over me. He had declared to the world that he would rather die a traitor’s death with Anne than live with me.

  “Guards, you may remove the prisoner,” Norfolk directed from his seat beneath the gold-fringed canopy of state. No remorse shadowed his voice or his features.

  As George descended from the platform, Anne leapt up and ran to him. A guard made a move to intercept her, but with a single look she froze him.

  “Oh, George, why?” she asked tearfully. “Why? You could have saved yourself!”

  George flashed her his most winning smile. “You know why—because I cannot imagine my life without you in it!” He enfolded her in his arms and held her long and close against his heart as she clung to him and wept. When they stepped apart, still holding hands and standing at arm’s length, gazing at one another with such loving tenderness, he began to speak, quoting scriptures solemnly, and, recognizing the verse, Anne joined him.

  “Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee, for whither thou goest, I will go.”

  Tears streamed down Anne’s face and he cupped it between his hands and pressed a lingering kiss onto her brow.

  Then the guards were upon them, pulling them apart. Anne caught George’s face between her hands and kissed his brow just as he had hers; then he was led away, back to the cell he shared with the other condemned men in the Beauchamp Tower.

  Anne shook off her guards and stared defiantly out into the crowd. “I do love my brother!” she said proudly. “Shame on anyone who tries to sully that love with lewd and evil imaginings!”

  Every eye was upon her as she mounted the platform. She moved with such elegance, black velvet skirts whispering against the steps as they trailed behind her, hanging sleeves with their deep fur cuffs swaying gracefully. As she reached the top, a shaft of sunlight poured in through the high arched window and she was bathed in golden light. Anne knew all about appearances, and she paused there, just for a moment, artfully posed, her right hand rising to pluck at the golden B resting in the hollow of her throat.

  For the first time in her brief reign, willing cries of “God save the Queen!” reached Anne’s ears. The woman they had once reviled, damned, and cursed had become a martyr to wronged wives, and every woman whose husband or sweetheart had ever strayed was firmly on her side. Now, when it was too late to matter, the people of London had fallen in love with Anne Boleyn. But at least she could die knowing that in the court of public opinion she had won.

  Seated upon the bench with the other peers, Harry Percy gasped aloud. His face drained of color and he pressed a hand against his heart, complaining to those around him of a sharp pain, and begging to be excused.

  “Sit down, man, it will all be over soon!” Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, barked, grabbing hold of Percy’s red velvet robe and pulling him back down onto the bench.

  The picture Cromwell painted of Anne was all evil black and harlot scarlet. He depicted her as a rampant adulteress. She was, he insisted, a woman unable to curtail her carnal lusts and impulses, a woman who went after what she wanted, seducing and beguiling the men she desired, brazenly touching and kissing them to stir their lust, and showering them with gifts and money afterwards to ensure their silence. She shamelessly made use of the condemned men, including her own brother, as her personal stable of studs, in a vain attempt to conceive a male child and deceive her husband into believing that it was his legitimate heir. A tale was told, supposedly straight from the lips of the dying Lady Wingfield, about Mark Smeaton being concealed inside a cupboard in the Queen’s bedchamber and brought out whenever Anne called for “something sweet.”

  “There never lived a greater whore than Anne Boleyn!” Lady Wingfield was reputed to have said upon her deathbed.

  Again, as in the previous trials, dates were cited, all of which Anne vehemently contested, many occurring when she was great with child or recovering from a birthing or miscarriage.

  Imperiously, she demanded that the midwives, doctors, and nurses be summoned to testify that she was incapable of intercourse upon these dates.

  “Do you think I was so lust-mad that I would couple with a lover upon bloody sheets while suffering the agony of white leg mere days after my daughter was born?” she demanded.

  In the audience old Mistress Orchard, Anne’s childhood nurse, who had been present throughout all her pregnancies, stood up and begged to be allowed to speak. “I am an experienced nurse, my lords, and I can tell you it is not possible, no woman would…”

  Norfolk ordered her to sit down and be silent or else she would be evicted from the court. Such testimony, he said, was unnecessary; the jurors had enough facts to render a decision.

  Impulsively, Anne spun round and threw her arms wide, as if she would embrace the crowd. “I appeal to every woman here who has ever borne a child or helped birth one!”

  Almost every woman in Tower Hall jumped up and shook her fist or shouted abuse at Norfolk and Cromwell, all of them speaking at once, creating an unholy din. They knew Anne was telling the truth and that justice was turning a blind eye, and now, thanks to George Boleyn, they knew why.

  “Sit down!” Norfolk bellowed. “If another person speaks without my permission I shall clear the court! Silence! I will have silence!”

  Grudgingly the women fell silent and resumed their seats, but by the looks they gave him I could not help but think, woe to Norfolk if ever he encountered them alone in the street. Oh, how they hated him!

  “I now call upon my fellow judges to render the verdict. As for myself,” Norfolk announced, “the evidence is clear; I find the prisoner, beyond a doubt, guilty on all counts.”

  One by one the twenty-six peers were polled and each man raised his voice to echo Norfolk and pronounce Anne “Guilty!”

  When Percy’s turn came he sat there trembling and ashen-faced, his mouth gaping open and closed. His jaw quivered so he was unable to speak.

  Suffolk elbowed him sharply. “Go on, man, say it and have done! You know what you have to do; now do it!”

  “I can’t! I can’t!” Percy sobbed, doubling over and clutching his belly, being gnawed from within by the cancer that would soon kill him.

  “My Lord of Northumberland,” Norfolk said sternly, “may we have your verdict, please?”

  “G-G-Guilty!” He stammered the one word they expected of him, for he had not the courage to say otherwise, and then he fell in a dead faint onto the floor.

  Norfolk glared at him with marked distaste—never could he stomach a weakling—then proceeded to pass sentence on his niece.

  “Because you have offended the King’s Grace and committed treason against his person, the law of the realm is this: that you deserve death and you shall be burnt or beheaded at the King’s Pleasure.”

  Anne’s eyes closed briefly, then opened again and gazed heaven-ward as she clasped her hands and raised them. “O Lord, O My Creator, Thou knowest whether I have deserved this death!”

  All about me people were crying, women were wailing and fainting, and men were shaking their heads and grumbling in protest at this parody of justice.

  But Anne was not done. She had more to say and, breathing deep to steady herself, she turned once more to face her judges.

  “Gentlemen, I think you know well that the reason why you have condemned me is something other than the evidence presented here today….”

  In the crowd there were murmurs about “another marriage” and “Jane Seymour.”

  “My only sin
against the King has been my jealousy and lack of humility. But you must follow not your own conscience, but the King’s. I have prepared myself to die, and regret only that my brother and other innocent men must lose their lives because of me. I would most willingly suffer many deaths to save them, but, since it is the King’s Pleasure, I shall accompany them into death, content in the knowledge that I shall dwell with them forevermore in endless peace and joy at the foot of the throne of Our Lord.” With that she turned and swept gracefully down the steps.

  Percy was then being carried out upon a door that had been hastily unhinged to serve as a makeshift stretcher. Anne paused to allow him and his bearers to pass, and his hand shot out and grasped her sleeve.

  Summoning what little of his strength remained, Percy raised his head and croaked one plaintive word: “F-F-For-g-g-give!”

  It was then that Harry Percy was granted his moment of grace. Anne took his hand in both of hers and squeezed it reassuringly. “Willingly!” she declared. “Most willingly!”

  Percy fell back gratefully, smiling wanly. “Th-Thank you!” he whispered fervently as his eyes shut and he drifted from consciousness once again.

  Head held high, with no sign of hysteria or tears, Anne left the courtroom. As she passed, people sank to their knees, weeping openly, men doffed their caps, and hands reached out to touch her skirts.

  “Good people”—Anne paused in their midst—“with all my heart I thank you and humbly beseech you to pray for me and the men who are unjustly condemned to die with me.”

  When she was gone the crowd quickly dispersed, with much grumbling and lamenting. Had the King heard them, his heart would have trembled at the hatred and disgust. “A tyrant no better than Nero!” I heard a young scholar call him.

  I waited until they were nearly all gone before I left my seat. In the last row Mary Boleyn sat weeping and hugging her great belly. Her husband, Will Stafford, sat beside her with his arm draped round her shoulders, speaking in soft, soothing words.

  “Uncle Norfolk would not let me speak!” she sobbed. “I begged him, but he would not let me. He said I must think of my children and—for their sake—I agreed. I kept silent and now they are condemned! Oh, Nan! Oh, George!”

  “Darling, nothing you could have said would have made any difference,” Will Stafford gently insisted. “It was not justice that was done here today, but the King’s justice, and those are two very different things!”

  When she saw me, Mary struggled to her feet and lumbered towards me. With great alarm I noticed the trail of blood she left behind her, dripping from beneath her skirts.

  “Jane!” she gasped. “Why? Oh, how could you do such a terrible thing? You must go to Cromwell, or Norfolk, the King himself if you can.” She grimaced and doubled over gasping, grasping her belly. “You must!”

  “Darling…” Will Stafford put his arms around her and tried to lead her away. “Come, there is nothing you can do here. We must get you home if we can, and summon the midwife.”

  Mary dropped down, squatting and grimacing, clenching her teeth, as blood seeped through her skirts in an ever expanding stain.

  I looked away; I could not bear to see the blame in her beseeching blue eyes.

  “Jane, please, tell them you lied! You must explain; tell them why! Please, Jane, this goes beyond right and wrong—it is life and death! Do not let my brother and sister perish because of your lies! Recant now, while there is still time. Do you really want to live with this on your conscience? And when you die, you must face God….”

  I stepped back, evading the hand she stretched out to me. “I will summon help!” I said as I fled Tower Hall, running as fast as my feet could carry me. I did not stop running until I reached my barge.

  But, to my everlasting shame, I did not summon help. I left Mary to miscarry a stillborn child and nearly die herself in the same courtroom where her brother and sister had been condemned.

  30

  Iran straight to Cromwell’s rooms, tearing off my cloak and pushing past his startled manservant, rushing straight into the bedchamber. Though I was shivering mightily, as if I had just come in from a snowstorm instead of a warm May day, beneath my clothes my body was slick with sweat and I struggled to be rid of them. I could not unlace myself and ordered Cromwell’s man to do it for me, ignoring his modest protests and offers to send for a maid. When he did not act fast enough, I seized the dagger from his belt and, angling it clumsily behind my back, sliced through the laces of my gown and stays. Gratefully, I shrugged out of my burgundy damask gown, petticoats, and leather stays. I left them where they fell and, kicking off my shoes and tearing off my gable hood, I crawled into Cromwell’s bed wearing only my shift and stockings.

  I had just pulled the covers up over my head when my stomach churned and I almost tumbled out of bed as I groped frantically beneath it for the chamberpot. I retched into it, shuddering at the taste of the bitter bile.

  Gasping and wretched, I fell back limply against the pillows and stared up at the canopy as my head reeled and spots danced before my eyes. My mouth tasted vile, but I had not the strength to raise my head and call for a drink. When I could no longer stand the sight of the dancing dots, I shut my eyes and rolled over onto my side, drawing up and hugging my knees. It was then I noticed a soreness about my breasts. Gingerly, I touched them, but my courses were due any day, so I thought no more about it. Instead, I thought of all the hours that I had spent here in this bed betraying my husband. Almost every night since I had opened my heart to Cromwell had been spent here. If my pleas for clemency failed, I would be responsible for his death and I could not bear that. Weeping, I let myself drift into an uneasy, guilt-racked slumber.

  I awoke some hours later when Cromwell came in.

  “You may get up and dress now, Lady Rochford,” he said coldly as he went straight to his desk.

  “But…” Confused and sick, I sat up.

  “You can go now, Lady Rochford; our business is concluded,” he said as he dipped a quill into the ink.

  “It is not!” I flung back the covers and leapt out of bed. “My husband has been condemned to die!”

  “Do not ask me to save him. I cannot. While your husband may or may not be guilty of incest—the truth is immaterial—he is without question the Queen’s most loyal supporter, and as such he cannot be allowed to live.”

  “But if Anne were to die?” I knelt in my shift at his feet like the most wretched and pathetic supplicant.

  “He would openly proclaim the King her murderer and transfer his loyalty to her daughter, the Princess Elizabeth, and we cannot have that,” Cromwell said brusquely, brushing my hand off his knee.

  “But you said Anne would be sent to a convent!”

  “No, Lady Rochford. I said she should be sent to a convent. Recollect, I promised nothing….”

  “And nothing is what I get!” I sobbed bitterly.

  “Was not your conscience eased when you made your confession to me?” Cromwell asked silkily.

  “Yes, but…” I shook my head distractedly. “Nothing has gone as I expected! I care nothing for the other men—let them die!—but George…I love him! And he is to die the most horrible death imaginable!”

  “Perhaps the King will be merciful and commute his sentence to a simple beheading,” Cromwell suggested.

  “Will he?” I asked hopefully.

  Cromwell shrugged. “I do not know, Lady Rochford. I merely do as the King commands me.”

  “You monster!” I struck at him with my fists. “Have you no conscience? Have you no heart? I don’t know how you sleep at night!” Cromwell caught my wrists and thrust me away. “I do not know how I shall sleep at night!”

  “If you will consult an apothecary, Lady Rochford, I think you will find that there are many fine sleeping potions. I am confident you can find one that will suit your needs. Now if you will excuse me, I have work to do.” He called his valet and ordered him to summon a maid to help me dress.

  “It is over between
us, isn’t it?” I asked.

  Cromwell nodded as he picked up his pen and bent over his work again. “You have served your purpose and are of no further use to me.”

  “That is truly all I was to you?” I asked.

  Again Cromwell nodded. “It was the simplest way to get the information I required. You longed for affection and to unburden yourself, and I needed a foundation to build my case upon. His Majesty thought at first to use witchcraft as the means for her destruction. There is the matter of the deformed child, and her sixth finger, and the people have long believed that she bewitched His Majesty, by some spell or other dark, supernatural means. But I am a man firmly entrenched in this world, and I find adultery much more tangible than superstition; and His Majesty chose to be guided by my counsel. He knew I would not fail him.”

  “But you have failed me!” I cried.

  Cromwell put down his pen and looked at me. “How so, Lady Rochford? I never spoke of love or an enduring affair, nor did I make you any promises.”

  “You said revenge would be sweet! But it isn’t! It isn’t sweet at all! I shall have to live with what I’ve done for the rest of my life. You lied, Cromwell, you lied!”

  “No, Lady Rochford, pray recollect I said: I think you will find that after all you have endured, revenge will be sweet. You disagree? Well then”—he shrugged—“I was mistaken, as is everyone from time to time. No one is infallible.”

  He spoke the truth and I could not dispute it; instead I bowed my head and, with shoulders sagging, went to put on my clothes. When at last I put on my cloak to hide my severed laces, I lingered at the door for a moment, but he did not even look up to bid me good-bye. At that moment the only person I hated more than Anne Boleyn and Thomas Cromwell was myself.

  It would be Anne who would do for George what I could not. Like me, she would have moved heaven and earth to save him. Swallowing her pride, she wrote to Henry, begging, “If ever the name of Anne Boleyn has been pleasing to your ears, let only myself bear the burden of Your Majesty’s displeasure.”