by V. E. Lynne
Sir William and Lady Kingston looked at each other and Cranmer had tears in his eyes, whether from grief at the imminent death of his former patroness, or from guilt at the deception he had played upon her, Bridget could not tell.
He departed and all they could do was wait. Anne had chosen to wear a beautiful gown of grey damask, trimmed with ermine, with a crimson kirtle, the colour of martyrdom, showing underneath. The four ladies dressed the queen carefully and Bridget arranged her hair for the last time, combing out her long, dark brown locks and deftly pinning them up before the English style gable hood was placed over the top.
All was nearly in readiness when a dismayed Lady Kingston entered the chamber and said, “I am sorry, madam, but the execution has been delayed . . . it shall not take place before noon.” Anne looked at her confusedly and asked Lady Kingston to fetch her husband. She scurried away, and in the interim before the constable arrived, Anne’s composure began to slip.
She took the gable hood off and said almost to herself, “I was prepared! Why does he torture me so?” And then she laughed.
Bridget recognised the old hysteria of her first days in the Tower reasserting itself. She hastened to the queen’s side. “Sit down, madam, everything is all right. Sir William will soon explain things.”
Kingston knocked once and walked in and Bridget knew, with a sinking heart, that the queen’s torture would be prolonged yet further. “Master Kingston,” Anne exclaimed, “I hear that I shall not die before noon and I am very sorry, for I thought to be past my pain by then.”
“Oh no, madam,” Kingston soothed, “there will be no pain, the blow will be so subtle.”
Anne nodded. “I have heard that the executioner is very good and I have a little neck.” She laughed, shrilly, and put both her hands around her neck and squeezed. Kingston looked horrified and quickly took his leave. He returned a little later and told the queen that she must wait until night. Her death, without a doubt, would take place tomorrow.
Afternoon slowly turned to evening and, by some miracle, Joanna, Catherine, and Lady Lee had fallen asleep. None of them had slept very much in the last few days and tiredness had finally overtaken the three ladies. Anne, however, did not sleep. She was still dressed in her grey damask, a jewelled cross hanging heavily about her neck, the leaping flames from the great fireplace reflected in its depths.
“What do you think they will call me?”
Bridget startled a little, unsure of the meaning of the question.
“Call you, madam?”
“Yes, Bridget, an infamous queen always has a nickname, like ‘Catherine the Good’ or ‘Mary the Mad.’ I wonder what they will come up with for me—perhaps La Royne Anne sans tete? Queen Anne Lack Head!”
She laughed, the sound bouncing hollowly off the walls of the chamber. Anne ran her hand up and down her neck, so slim and narrow, and her black eyes filled up with tears. “The king used to call me his midnight swan. Some people liked to call me the midnight crow you see, it was a favourite term old Wolsey loved to employ, and Henry knew that I despised it. So, to make me feel better, he called me his midnight swan. He said that with my dark hair and my dark eyes and my long neck that I more resembled a swan than a crow. Now, he has hired someone to slice my neck in two.”
Anne got up and walked over to the window. The moonlight bathed her in an ethereal glow and caught the new streaks of silver in her hair. “He loved me so much. Not with the love of a young boy, which is what he felt for Catherine, or this muted, insipid, imitation of love that he seems to feel for Jane Seymour, but real, passionate, all-consuming love. The kind you imperil your kingdom and defy the Pope for. The kind of love that changes the world. And it did. We did. But now all that is gone, gone and forgotten, and he means to kill me. Why?”
Anne stared into the darkness, her eyes searching the green outside and beyond, where her scaffold lay. “Does the king actually believe that I have lain with others? I loved him, he knows that, I would never have lain with anyone else. Besides, he is aware that a queen is never alone, she is watched constantly. How could I have contrived to have five lovers for so long without anyone knowing about them? It is absurd. He cannot believe it. He kills me for other reasons, he must do.”
“What about the testimony of Lady Worcester and Lady Rochford, madam? Perhaps their treachery convinced him.”
Anne leant against the window embrasure and ran her hand slowly down the stonework. “I pray for those ladies. They shall surely suffer for their lies. But for the king to accept their word, without questioning me, is ludicrous! Besides, what did they actually say? That I danced and laughed and flirted with courtiers? Many queens have done so and they did not find themselves facing execution.”
“Lady Rochford said more than that, Majesty,” Bridget ventured. “She was filled with resentment against you and Lord Rochford, and once she showed me your brother in an . . . embrace with Mark Smeaton. She believed that a great intimacy existed between yourself and her husband. Her words gave Cromwell the opening he needed.”
“Poor Jane,” Anne said quietly. “Looking back, George should never have married her; they were not suited, but she comes from a good family and Father wanted the match. They were never happy. She always hated me; she especially hated the bond between George and me, because she could never get near him. I loved my brother, but he was not a good husband. He was too wild, too . . . loose with his affections.” Anne smiled wryly before darkness spread once more over her face. “But for all that, for all his faults, he did not deserve to die. Not like that.”
Bridget shuddered at the image of George Boleyn on the scaffold, the axe falling and falling. Anne did not know the full extent of how horribly he had died and Bridget saw no reason now to enlighten her. “No, it was not the tales of those two ladies that turned the king against me. It must have been Cromwell’s doing and the loss of our boy in the winter. Henry wants a son so much, he needs one so badly, and I had promised to give him one. And I did. Once.”
She turned towards Bridget and laughed at the puzzled expression she saw there. “Oh yes, it is true. It happened two years ago and the whole thing was hushed up because the king was so embarrassed about it. After I had Elizabeth I became pregnant again very quickly and gave birth to a baby boy on a summer’s day. He took one solitary breath of life. He was beautiful. I remember his fingers—long and elegant like mine, though no sixth fingernail of course! Tragically, he was small and born too early and he could not survive. I held him for a long time after he died, til he grew cold in my arms. Henry felt humiliated and angry at another lost son. He wanted him forgotten and so he was. Forgotten by the world, but not by me.”
Anne sighed and played with the cross that hung around her neck. “Since his death, I was not able to carry another baby, and it was not always easy to conceive one. The king could not always perform. He started to draw away from me and look at other women. And then I made an error. I misjudged Thomas Cromwell.” Her voice hardened.
“I thought that we were allies, that we wanted the same things. He was ‘my man,’ after all. I then learned that Thomas Cromwell works only for his own interests. I did not want all of the religious houses dissolved. He does, and no doubt they will be. I wanted some to be converted to better uses, for educational purposes, for example. Cromwell is not interested in that. He merely wants their money to fill the king’s coffers and to buy loyalty from wavering noblemen with the monastic lands he will take. I saw what was happening and I reacted, I admit, foolishly—I threatened him and I had Skip preach that sermon. I thought that I was being clever and that the king would take my side once his eyes had been opened. But they were not and he did not.”
Bridget silently agreed that the sermon had been a terrible mistake. Cromwell was not a man who would take any threat to his position lightly, let alone one from the queen, a woman with the power to place him upon a scaffold. Therefore, he determined to place her upon one first. He certainly had not flinched from the task.
> “I lost the king’s confidence and I could not reach him again. Then everything happened so fast, I could barely draw breath. I had that stupid argument with Norris, the king left me on May Day, and before I knew what was afoot I was arrested and taken here, my brother as well, and now he is dead, they’re all dead, and I am to follow them. Unless of course, Henry only does these things to test me.”
Bridget looked at her mistress in astonishment. Anne still held on to the hope that Henry would not execute her. “Majesty, I do not think that the king is testing you. If that was so, he would surely not have gone as far as this. He has executed five men on your account. Men who were his friends.”
“I know he has, but to kill me?” Anne argued. “I am still queen, and I will always be the mother of his daughter. Executing one such as I has never happened in England. He may divorce me, discard me, and send me away, but to spill my blood? No, there is still a chance for exile, for the nunnery. I have not given up entirely. After all, there has been a delay. Perhaps this is not meant to happen.”
Bridget turned her face away to hide the stricken expression upon it. The queen still harboured hopes of reprieve when all chance of that had gone. She did not have the heart to try and persuade her otherwise. Let her dream, for one more night.
Anne fell into a long silence. After a time, she shivered and drew her fur-lined robe more closely about her slight shoulders. “Madam,” Bridget said, “come and sit by the fire. You are cold.”
Anne nodded and seated herself as near as possible to the flames, the better to warm her frozen hands. Once the colour returned to her cheeks she said, “If I am not saved tomorrow, what shall you do, Bridget? Where will you go?”
Bridget considered her answer for a moment. “I will go back to the abbess with Joanna. There is a home for me there and I have a little money for my upkeep. Beyond that, I do not know.”
Anne leant forward. “I want you to stay at court, Bridget. There is no future for you stuck in the country somewhere with your abbess. The court is the centre of the world. You could go far there.”
The old light of ambition flared in Anne’s eyes and Bridget realised that nothing, not even imprisonment and the threat of death, would ever be enough to extinguish it. She should not have been surprised. Everyone was driven by the lust for advancement, for privilege and position, for power. High born and low, nobles and new men, Norfolk and Wiltshire and Cromwell. Will too, she thought sadly. It was what, above all else, drove Anne—she was Ambition’s Queen, and she had been consumed in its dark fire. But it will not consume me, Bridget vowed. If she stayed at court, if such a course of action were possible, she would have to let it claim her, she would have to become both a creature and a servant of ambition, in order to survive. She did not relish the prospect of such a fate.
“Madam, the abbess has always been very good to me; life with her will be no hardship. Besides, what future could there be for me at court? The king and the Seymours will not want anyone with even a slight Boleyn connection around them. There will be no place for me there.”
“Oh nonsense!” Anne disagreed loudly. “You are a pretty, young girl, which is half the battle at court. Your link with me will be discreetly forgotten. In any case, are you not going to marry Will Redcliff? Cromwell will put in a good word for you and he is a most powerful man.” Anne’s features dimmed as she saw Bridget’s reaction. “You are not certain that you want Master Redcliff? Is that it? Perhaps that is wise, there may be other opportunities for you. Just do not dismiss the possibility. I do not want you wasting your life and that is what a life with the abbess would be for you. A waste. In any case, that is all for the future. In the meantime, I have something for you.”
Anne reached across to a side table, opened a small jewellery box, and extracted from it a little yellow object. It was a ring, a square cut garnet set in gold, flanked by two pearls. Bridget regarded it with amazement. “Do not worry,” Anne laughed. “I did not jump into the icy river to retrieve it. The king gave me this ring many years ago, only the stone is bigger in this one than the similar ring he gave to the Seymour woman. That is why I did not want her to keep it; I did not want her to have what is mine, even if it was only a copy. Now, I give it to you. I know that you are more deserving of such a ring than she is.”
Bridget protested at such a lavish gift, but the queen took her hand, opened it, placed the ring on her palm, and closed her fingers over the top. Bridget had no choice but to accept it. “Thank you, Majesty,” she said. “I will treasure it always.”
“I know you will and, before you say anything, do not be concerned for the other ladies. I have something for Joanna, Catherine, and Lady Lee as well. You have all been so good to me, so loyal. My four young ladies, I call you. Well, perhaps Lady Lee is not so young,” Anne chuckled, “but she is close enough.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The women woke early and set about making the queen ready for her appointment with the French swordsman, again. After talking with Bridget, Anne had spent the remainder of the night in prayer with John Skip and then, just after sunrise, she had heard Mass and received the Sacrament.
She managed to eat a morsel of bread for her breakfast and she took a few sips of wine. She had gone days without proper sleep and the food and drink, though scanty, seemed to have a slightly restorative effect upon her.
The lack of rest had not affected her looks. In fact, once she was fully dressed, even with the heavy, unflattering gable hood upon her head, she looked eerily lovely, every inch a queen. “Oh, Your Majesty, you look beautiful!” Joanna exclaimed, and she could not hold back her tears. Lady Lee and Catherine were similarly moved. Bridget was astounded that anyone facing death could look so calm and majestic, as if she were preparing for a happy occasion and not for the end of her life. Her courage was truly exceptional.
At about eight of the clock, Sir William Kingston arrived, his old face drawn and mournful. “Madam, the hour approaches. You must make ready.”
Anne drew herself up tall and answered him with utter serenity. “Sir William, you may acquit yourself of your charge, for I have been long prepared.”
Kingston bowed and handed a leather purse to Anne. “It contains money, so you may give alms to the poor.”
“Thank you, Master Kingston.” Anne accepted the purse gratefully.
Sir William opened the door and said, “Follow me please, madam.”
Anne took one look around the rooms, her eyes taking in every detail, before she walked out the door, the constable leading the way. Catherine and Lady Lee were directly behind with Bridget and Joanna following them. The younger maid took Bridget’s hand and whispered, “I’m frightened.”
“I know you are, but we must be strong for the queen,” Bridget replied, as much as to suppress her own fears as to soothe Joanna’s.
The small party left the royal apartments and made their way slowly down the steps to the courtyard, where Anne’s escort awaited them. There, arrayed before them, were at least a hundred Yeomen, a sea of red, amongst them Captain Gwynn, who had led Anne to see the executions of the men from the Bell Tower, but had not forced her to watch. He now had yet another sorrowful duty, this time to lead Anne to her own death.
The contingent set off across the courtyard, past the King’s Hall where Anne had been tried and condemned, and through the huge Coldharbour Gate, its twin towers looming menacingly above their heads. “God almighty,” Bridget whispered as they entered the Inner Ward of the Tower and encountered the vast crowd who awaited them. There were thousands of them, their breath rising as one in the crisp morning air. They turned as the procession arrived and a sigh rippled through them as they beheld Anne, like a soft breeze blowing through a meadow. Behind them stood the scaffold.
It was the same scaffold as the one Bridget had seen on Tower Hill—fairly tall, possibly five feet in height, draped in black, and covered with straw. The officials in charge of proceedings and a tall gentleman, no doubt the headsman, whose eyes were l
ocked onto the queen, stood patiently upon it. Anne stopped still when she saw the headsman, and glanced behind her. For the first time that morning, Bridget saw real panic in her face. “It’s him,” the queen said. “It’s the creeping man.”
Bridget looked at the imposing fellow, Anne’s nightmare figure made flesh. He stood about six feet in height and was dressed in ordinary clothes, not clad in black and masked as executioners usually were. Despite his nondescript apparel, there was something strange about him, an otherness that set him apart. He was actually quite handsome, with black hair, a strong, square face, and large, light grey eyes. He looked completely at ease, his muscular arms hanging loosely by his side. This was the man King Henry VIII of England had hired to behead his wife.
The poor people in the crowd pressed forward when they saw the queen open her leather purse and begin to hand out alms. Anne performed the task as regally as she could, all the while studiously avoiding making eye contact with the creeping man upon his dreadful stage. She looked behind her often, past her maids, back towards the gate, her gaze ever searching. Bridget knew she looked for a messenger from the king, a messenger who did not come. As Anne continued to search, the crowd in front of them parted a little and Bridget could see beyond them to the green and the adjacent churchyard, where little mounds of dirt marked the site of fresh graves. That’s where they have put the queen’s supposed lovers, Bridget surmised. Fortunately, by the time Anne stopped looking behind her, the crowd had closed up again and the view to green was blocked.