The Boleyn Wife

by Brandy Purdy

  “Well, Madame,” he frowned and said coldly, “I see you are faithful to neither of your husbands!” And he turned on his heel and kicked the door shut behind him.

  Culpepper turned inquisitively to Kat, but she just lay down in the center of the bed, drew her knees up to her stomach, curled up in a ball, and said not a word.

  He prodded her for an explanation, but when she continued to lie there mute and unresponsive, he stood up and began to put on his clothes.

  “Very well then, Kat, when you decide who you want, be so good as to let me know,” he snapped, and slammed out the door, reckless in his anger.

  “Oh my darling, my poor, poor darling!” I cried as I ran over and lay down on the bed beside her, curling my body around hers, and hugging her close.

  But Kat just lay there in silence, sucking her thumb.

  41

  As you may well have guessed by now, as I am writing this account from my prison cell in the dark heart of the Tower of London, the whole sordid truth came out, as it always will.

  Mary Lascelles, the “pious, sour-faced prude” who had frowned so upon the lusty late-night antics in the Maids’ Chamber, told all to her equally pious brother. He insisted it was her duty as a good Christian woman to confide what she knew to the proper authorities and arranged for her to have a private audience with Archbishop Cranmer.

  Ironically, on that very day Henry was kneeling at the altar in the royal chapel, where the entire court had assembled for a special Mass of thanksgiving in honor of “that jewel of womanhood,” Queen Katherine.

  Sitting serenely in white satin and pearls, Katherine listened to the King singing her praises with her eyes demurely downcast and hands folded modestly in her lap. Nothing about her betrayed the truth that she was a wanton adulteress about to be found out. She looked the very picture of wifely perfection that Henry’s words painted her to be.

  That afternoon when Cranmer’s feeble courage at last sufficiently asserted itself for him to seek audience with the King, Henry refused to believe it. He dismissed these allegations as slander, base and false, a jealous, vindictive slur upon his wife’s good name. But, ever cautious, he ordered Kat to be confined to her apartments until an investigation could clear her name. He commanded Cranmer to see to it at once, so that his darling would not languish too long in secluded anguish. Henry vowed he would see her persecutors brought to justice, and then all England would see what happens to those who dared to cast aspersions upon his most beloved wife’s good name.

  “Is she not my ‘Rose Without a Thorn’?” he demanded time and again of Cranmer, as if he were seeking reassurance.

  Cranmer cowered like a whipped dog before his royal master and said meekly, “I hope so, Sire, I certainly hope so,” before he bowed his way out and ran to find Norfolk.

  Meanwhile, in her apartments, Kat, seemingly without a care in the world, was making merry. The musicians were playing and she was dancing with her ladies.

  Like a flock of colorful birds in their bright, beautiful gowns, they swirled and spun about, skirts billowing and rustling, swishing and swaying, laughing and chattering as they changed partners and linked hands.

  Abruptly the music died as Cranmer, grim and solemn-faced in his scarlet vestments, swept in with the Duke of Norfolk, hatchet-faced in a humor black as a storm cloud beside him, and four guards following after.

  The musicians hastily set aside their instruments and knelt, and the ladies curtsied deep. Only Katherine was left standing, like a white candle surrounded by a wreath of colorful flowers.

  “It is no more the time to dance,” Cranmer dolefully announced.

  “Lady Rochford, you will remain,” said Norfolk. “All others await me in the adjoining chamber.”

  Mystified, they filed out. When the door closed behind them, Norfolk purposefully approached Katherine, his face, like his heart, hard as granite.

  “Tut, tut, you little slut!” he said, clicking his tongue and shaking his head. Then his hand shot out and dealt her a stinging slap.

  “Was ever a man more accursed in his nieces than I? Your cousin Anne Boleyn did not drag me down with her and neither will you! The King is in the chapel now, weeping, bewailing his misfortune, and I shall go and condole with him. I shall crawl to him on my hands and knees and beg his forgiveness and tell him that you should be burned alive for the infamous harlot that you are! And it would please me immensely to light the flames myself!”

  Around me the room began to waver and spin. My knees began to buckle and quake and I had to grab hold of the mantel to keep from falling.

  I saw the color drain from Katherine’s face until, except for the smarting red mark Norfolk’s slap had left on her cheek, she was pale as sepulchral marble. Then she began to scream, great, long, keening wails. Cranmer winced and Norfolk scowled and ordered her to cease. But Kat, standing there white as her dress, stared past them blindly, as if terror had robbed her of her sight, uttering scream after piteous scream.

  Though my limbs felt weak as water and starry darkness was fast encroaching upon my sight, I shoved myself away from the mantel and lurched unsteadily towards her.

  “Now is your chance, Kat!” I cried as my knees gave way and I crumpled to the floor. “Run to Henry, Kat! It is your only hope! Run!”

  Somehow, my words broke through the wall of terror surrounding her and, gathering up her skirts, she ran, darting this way and that to evade the guards. When Cranmer moved to block the door she lowered her head and plowed into him, butting his soft stomach like a goat.

  Down the corridor she ran, screaming Henry’s name at the top of her lungs. Behind her came the guards, in heavy-booted pursuit. Kat flung herself full force against the chapel door, hammering it with her fists until they bled.

  Inside the chapel Henry sat alone in his pew, head bowed, as tears dripped down his quivering pink jowls. Muted by the heavy wooden door, Kat heard him command the musicians to play and the choir to sing. “Louder!” he bellowed at them. “Louder!”

  Kat slumped tearfully against the door, pounding it halfheartedly with the flat of her palm, pleading with him to hear her. But he would not; with the music and singing he had made himself purposefully deaf and drowned out her screams.

  Kat was doomed. As she slid to the floor, weeping, the guards caught up with her. They grabbed her wrists and pulled her up and began to lead her back to her rooms, where she was to remain for the time being, under guard.

  “Let me go! I am the Queen! Unhand me now, you brutes! I am the Queen!” she cried, childlike and petulant, as she tried to break free. They had to drag her, kicking and screaming, back down the corridor. In the tussle her French hood fell off and her auburn curls came tumbling down. Her gown was torn, and as she dug in her heels she lost both of her little white satin slippers. They were left lying there in the corridor, midway between Katherine’s rooms and the royal chapel, in mute testimony to her mad and futile dash for mercy.

  “When the King learns how you have treated me he will have you boiled in hot oil for laying hands on me!” she threatened.

  “Let me go! I am the Queen! I am the Queen!” Kat sobbed piteously, as they thrust her back inside and she fell weeping on the floor beside me.

  The door slammed shut and there was the rattle of halberds as the guards took up their posts, barring any from entering or exiting without permission.

  In the next room, Cranmer and Norfolk were already addressing Kat’s attendants, apprising them of the allegations that the Queen was guilty of light and immoral living. Any who had relevant knowledge were urged to come forward; failure to do so would be deemed concealment and considered treason.

  When Norfolk came out, Kat grabbed hold of his ankle. “Uncle, please! Help me!”

  “Let go of me, you slut!” he spat, kicking free of her.

  Kat next grasped Cranmer’s robe. “Mercy!” she implored. “I am but a young and foolish girl, my lord!”

  “I know you are”—Cranmer paused to look down at he
r, grave but kind—“and I shall remind the King.” Then he too was gone.

  “Lady Rochford!” Norfolk paused imperiously at the door. “Come!” he commanded, as if I were a dog.

  Kat struggled up onto her knees, slipping on her satin skirts, tearing them at the waist, and falling down and banging her chin upon the floor, before she finally regained her feet. She flung herself into my arms and buried her face against my shoulder.

  “If any word of Culpepper comes out I will deny it,” she whispered, “and I beg you to do the same!”

  Before I could answer, a guard took hold of my arm.

  Kat fell weeping to the floor again.

  As I was led away, she caught hold of my black skirt.

  “Promise me, Jane!” she pleaded tearfully. “Promise me!”

  I could not, so I did not, and instead pulled my skirt free and let myself follow wherever they would lead me.

  More than three months would pass before I would see Kat again.

  I was taken to the Tower of London and lodged in the Beauchamp Tower, in the same cell where George had spent his final days. I found this comforting; it made it easier to pretend that he was still with me. My whole body tingled and shook with the sense of his presence. The fear left me and I felt alive again. I made a tour of the cell, letting my fingers roam over the walls, caressing the cold stone, for surely his hands had touched it sometime, somewhere. I was like one in a trance, until my fingertips sank into a rough indentation. My fingers explored further and found it was not some pit or flaw in the stone, but some kind of carving.

  I banged upon my cell door and screamed for Master Kingston. When he came, I implored him to please shine his lantern’s light upon that wall and let me see.

  “Oh, that,” he said as he obliged me. “Anne Boleyn’s falcon. Your husband carved that while he was…waiting.”

  And there it was, as Master Kingston said, Anne’s falcon emblem carved into the wall, the crude, hasty work of a man who knew he had little time. But, as I peered closer, I noticed certain discrepancies. This version of Anne’s falcon wore no crown and did not clutch a scepter, like Anne herself, it had been stripped of royal regalia.

  Lovingly, because George had carved it, I traced it with my fingertips, just to touch where he had touched.

  “He thought of her to the last,” Master Kingston remembered, as he stood beside me gazing at the falcon.

  I nodded as tears filled my eyes, and swallowed hard to force down the lump rising in my throat. “He loved her more than life itself,” I said, my voice a choked and bitter whisper.

  “Indeed,” Master Kingston acquiesced, eyeing me carefully, no doubt fearing I would at any moment fly into a frenzy. “Their devotion to one another was quite remarkable.”

  Soon afterwards I was taken from my cell to be questioned by Norfolk and Cranmer.

  For the second time in my life, I betrayed someone I loved.

  The moment the door was opened before me I rushed in and threw myself at Norfolk’s feet.

  “Do not let her misdeeds tarnish me! I am innocent; I swear it!”

  Norfolk stared down at me coldly. “You were never innocent, Lady Rochford!”

  “I am!” I insisted. “I did only what the Queen bade me, though I did warn and plead with her constantly to desist. I am the King’s loyal servant! I wanted to tell him, I swear, but he loved her so, and I could not bear to break his heart!”

  Suddenly I heard laughter, her laughter—I recognized it at once. Then she was there, plain as day—Anne Boleyn in her black velvet and pearls. This was no misty, diaphanous phantom; she was real and solid as a flesh and blood woman! But only I could see her, though when she moved to stand behind Cranmer’s chair and laid a hand on his shoulder, he shivered mightily and ordered another log to be thrown upon the fire.

  “Loyal?” Anne’s voice dripped with disbelief. “You? I doubt you even know the meaning of the word!”

  “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” I screamed, clamping my hands tight over my ears, stamping my feet, and circling wildly.

  Cranmer cleared his throat nervously. “Lady Rochford, are you quite well?”

  “I am loyal, I am!” I cried.

  “No, Jane, you are as cowardly as they come,” Anne insisted. “You are not only a coward but a turntail; you will say anything to save yourself. Did you learn nothing from George and me?” She sighed and shook her head sadly, answering her own question. “Neither you nor my little cousin Katherine has profited from our example. George knows how to be true, Jane, but not you, not you.”

  I screamed and lunged forward, staring hard at her from across the table that separated us.

  “True to you, you mean! George loved you best, he always did! That is why he never loved me. You stole the love that belonged to me! Was he not my husband? Was I not his wife? His love was rightfully mine. But you came between us. How dare you? How do you dare come here now to torment and distract me when I must justify myself before these men? I must convince them of my innocence! Kat is guilty, but I am not! She is guilty, just like you were! But at least she did not take George away from me; she only hurt an old man’s vanity and puffed-up pride! What a little harlot she is, always naked, always strutting about touching herself, playing with her breasts and cunny, making me stay in the room while she frolicked in bed with Culpepper, just to taunt me and remind me that no one has ever wanted me the way they want her, and never will! Even Culpepper taunted me! Once when I fell asleep by the fire he woke me by pinching my nipple, tweaking it hard through my gown. When I leapt awake he laughed at me and asked how long it had been since a man had touched me, and when I blushed he laughed and said there was no need for me to thank him! Even when I was young I never had even a hint of the beauty God gave that little harlot, nor did you either. But you had other talents! You cast a spell to make men believe you were beautiful, to make them fall at your feet and swear their undying love and devotion to you, and only the purity of Jane Seymour, God rest her sweet soul, could break the spell!”

  Breathlessly I sagged, weak and panting, against the chair I gripped.

  Norfolk and Cranmer just stared, the first utterly unruffled, and the other nibbling his lower lip and growing more anxious by the moment. And the ghost of Anne Boleyn threw back her head and laughed long and heartily.

  “You’d do well to say no more, Jane,” Anne advised me. “You have shocked poor Cranmer with all this bawdy talk.”

  Furiously, I flung myself across the table, overturning inkwells and scattering papers and quills.

  “I will kill you!” I screamed so loud my throat felt as if it were being raked raw.

  Cranmer leapt up, his chair crashing to the floor, and ran out, shouting for the guards and Master Kingston.

  Norfolk just stepped back and continued to regard me coolly. The man really did have ice water instead of blood in his veins.

  “Poor Jane!” Anne laughed. “You cannot kill me. Have you forgotten? I am already dead!” To remind me, she reached up and lifted off her head.

  As they led me away, I hung my head and wept.

  “It is all because of that foolish, wanton girl that I have come to this!”

  “No, Jane.” Anne, her head now seamlessly back in place, looking as if it had never been cut off, appeared walking beside me. “Justice has brought you to this place.”

  With a piercing scream I broke free and ran blindly along the dark corridors, screaming, begging them to let me out, to send me to another prison, anywhere where the ghost of Anne Boleyn could not reach me.

  But, of course, they ignored me, and back into my cell they thrust me.

  I stood at the door, listening to the clank and screech of the old heavy bolts and locks, and the footsteps of Master Kingston ringing against the flagstones, the keys rattling on his belt as he walked away.

  When I turned around she was right there behind me. I stumbled in midstep and fell right through the phantom shade of Anne Boleyn. Instantly I felt as if a thousand knives, s
harper than the sharpest blades and colder than the coldest ice, were stabbing into every part of me.

  With my skin turning blue and my body shivering uncontrollably, colder than I have ever been, I fell screaming to the floor. Try as I might, I could not still the spastic twitching and jerking of my limbs. I lay there writhing and convulsing helplessly, like one in the throes of a fit, and there was nothing I could do but wait for it to stop or for someone to heed my screams.

  I heard raised voices and running feet followed by the rattling of keys and locks. Then, mercifully, Master Kingston flung wide the door.

  With my lips, blue as indigo, and my teeth chattering so hard I felt their edges chip, I smiled my gratitude as my body stilled, and before my eyes everything went black.

  With painful cuppings and blisterings, douches alternately scalding hot and icy cold, and powerfully strong purges intended to make me puke and shit out my demons, they tried to restore my sanity, but only succeeded in pushing it further away.

  They twisted my nipples with hot pinchers, and wrapped my body in cold, wet sheets, and placed me deep in the dark, dank bowels of the Tower where no one could hear my screams. They put leeches on my breasts and between my legs, letting them suckle until their shiny black bodies grew fat on my nether lips, then they plucked them off and sprinkled my wounds with salt.

  But still the ghost of Anne Boleyn did not depart; instead, more phantoms came to join her. Francis Weston, Henry Norris, William Brereton, and George—my beloved, darling George! Round and round they circled me, cool and detached, bearing witness to my suffering. “He who sows the whirlwind must expect to reap the storm,” they reminded me.

  As I lay there wretched and wracked with pain, shivering, naked, and degraded, I heard Master Kingston conferring with the King’s chief physician, Dr. Wendy, who had replaced old Dr. Butts.

  “His Majesty desires her recovery chiefly so that he may have her executed as an example and a warning to others,” Dr. Wendy explained.

  When I did not recover my wits fast enough to suit them, Henry simply created a new law allowing for the execution of deranged persons found guilty of treason. This was how he repaid the debt of gratitude he owed me. I had helped rid him of that she-devil! How could he forget so easily?