Ambition's Queen (Bridget Manning #1)

by V. E. Lynne

  Anne walked slowly but the path to the scaffold was short. They reached the wooden steps, five in all, and Captain Gwynn halted. He turned to the queen and bowed, his chin wobbling a little. “Your Majesty, I shall pray for you,” he said, and Anne smiled in acknowledgment.

  “Thank you, Captain, you have acted towards me with great respect and kindness and I wish to give you a token of my gratitude.” She produced a small gold pendant, shaped like a pistol. She handed it to the astonished man and said, “The king gave this to me. I hope it brings you greater fortune.”

  The captain accepted the gift, stammered his thanks, and stepped aside. Kingston took the queen’s hand and escorted her up the stairs. Bridget and the three ladies followed. Anne blinked a little as a ray of sunshine hit her eyes, and she seemed taken aback at the sight of the great concourse of people that she now looked out upon. Her gaze still lingered stubbornly on the gate that lay in the distance, as though the intensity of her stare contained a special power, and if she only stared hard enough she could conjure up a messenger all on her own. Bridget refused to look at the gate and tried instead to focus her attention on the heaving throng. It wasn’t long before she spied some familiar faces amongst them.

  Norfolk was there to watch his niece die, his face devoid of expression, as were a satisfied-looking contingent of the queen’s enemies—Suffolk, Fitzwilliam, Carew, and Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond, the king’s bastard son. None of the Seymour family was in evidence. Bridget could not see Wiltshire amongst the sea of faces either; obviously witnessing his daughter’s death was a step too far, even for him.

  Bridget’s eyes continued to sweep over the horde, and then she felt her heart turned over. Will was there. Stationed just behind his master, a nervous and peculiarly gloomy-looking Cromwell, his green eyes could barely meet hers. In fact, he could only maintain eye contact for a few seconds before looking down in embarrassment. Or was it guilt?

  Anne had finally stopped looking at the gate and she turned to Kingston. “Master Kingston, I have a mind to speak. Do not be concerned. My words will not offend; I shall only speak well.”

  Kingston appeared beyond reply and indicated by a gesture of his hand that Anne should begin her address. The queen took a breath, smoothed her gown, and walked towards the front of the scaffold. A heavy silence descended as she began to speak.

  “Good Christian people, I am come here to die, according to the law, for by the law I am judged and therefore I will speak nothing against it. I yield myself to the will of the king and if, in life, I did ever offend His Majesty surely with my death I do now atone. I desire you all, good friends, to pray for the king, my lord and yours, who is one of the best princes on the face of the earth and who has always treated me so well. I submit to death with a good will and if any person,” here she paused, “if any person should seek to meddle with my cause, I require them to judge the best. Only the best.”

  Several people in the crowd had begun to cry, including the hard-bitten Norfolk and the compassionate Paget. Cromwell kept his face turned away and, behind him, Will did the same. Suffolk and Richmond were unmoved.

  The queen faltered just a little as she came to her final sentence: “Thus I take my leave of the world, and of you all, and I ask you to pray for me. To God I commend my soul.”

  Anne finished speaking and walked back to where her maids stood. Bridget could see that the light of hope had completely faded from her eyes and was replaced by a dawning fear. Only her innate courage was bearing her up now. She looked at Bridget. “He is not going to save me. This is the end.” Joanna burst into tears, and Catherine Carey began to cry quietly. Lady Lee put her arm about her and wiped her own tears away.

  The sight of her ladies crying seemed to galvanise Anne. “Hush, my maids, do not cry for me. I am not afraid to die. You have all been so faithful to me, so diligent and devoted, and I cannot thank you enough for it. I have asked much of you and now, in my last hour, I ask a little more. Always be loyal to the king and to whomsoever shall follow me as your mistress. Hold your honour in higher esteem than your life and do not,” her voice cracked, “do not forget me. Pray for me, always.”

  Bridget’s eyes blurred with unshed tears and she could not speak. They all curtseyed to the queen and assured her that they would do as she said. Lady Lee began the task of preparing Anne for the sword—her beautiful ermine mantle was removed, and her necklace, the ruby and pearl cross, was unclasped. Bridget attempted to remove the gable hood, but Anne stayed her hand. “I shall do it,” she said, and in a matter of moments, her shining hair was exposed to the light. Little Catherine Carey handed her aunt a linen cap and Anne quickly donned it.

  Time was fast running out. Anne called Lady Lee to her and handed her the prayer book she carried with the words “for your friendship.” Lady Lee wept and could barely thank Anne. The queen then plucked two small brooches from the front of her gown and handed one each to Joanna and Catherine. Both of the maids were so distressed they could hardly stand. Anne touched each one on the cheek and whispered “courage.” Bridget twisted the garnet ring on her finger and said “Majesty, is there anything you require of me?”

  The queen shook her head. “No, Bridget, there is no more that anyone in this world can do for me. But I thank you. From the depths of my heart.”

  The four ladies, their arms about each other, stepped away from their mistress and towards the back of the scaffold. Anne stood alone. The creeping man, on a signal from Kingston, came towards her and she smiled at him, as if he were not the man who had stalked her dreams but in fact her saviour. He dropped to his knees and said, “Madam, I crave your pardon, for I am ordered to perform this duty.”

  Anne regarded him in silence for a moment before she replied, “I pardon you most willingly.”

  The man sighed in relief. “Then, madam, I must ask you to kneel.”

  The queen did so, but as she lowered herself upon the wooden boards, a breeze blew up and disarranged the hem of her gown. Delicately, she reached back and tucked her dress in close, so that it covered her feet. Bridget looked about for the headsman’s sword and realised she could not see it. Anne had begun praying in a low voice, repeating over and over “God have pity on my soul, to Jesu I commend my soul,” but her magnificent courage was starting to fail her and she had taken to looking about her again.

  “Madam, do not be afraid,” the headsman said. “I will not strike till you tell me.”

  Bridget realised that Anne was fearful that she would see the blow coming. She needed a blindfold, to shield her eyes from the sight of her death’s approach. Taking a piece of cloth from Lady Lee, Bridget walked toward her mistress and, with her tears threatening to spill over, secured the cloth over the queen’s eyes. She jumped a little at Bridget’s unexpected touch and the maid whispered, “It is only me, Your Majesty.” Anne laughed, the sound of it harsh in the stillness. She reached up and touched Bridget’s hand as she finished tying the blindfold. Her fingers were cold, but they did not shake.

  Everyone on the scaffold and almost everyone in the crowd knelt down as the final moment had clearly arrived. Bridget noticed, in disgust, that Richmond and Suffolk remained standing, their faces suffused with the light of self-righteous approval. All was quiet, except for the sigh of the gentle wind and the sound of the low voice of the queen continually praying. Bridget looked across the expanse of the lawn, towards the huge mass of the White Tower, and the prophecy popped into her mind. “When the Tower is white and another place green . . .” It had all come to pass. Anne had become the Queen of the White Tower.

  “Fetch my sword!” the executioner shouted, and his assistant, a small, nimble man, scurried over to the scaffold steps. Anne turned blindly towards the sound of his footfalls but it was all a feint. The headsman already had his sword, retrieved from under a pile of straw. With her head angled away from him, as had been the point of his ploy, he wasted no time. Shoeless, he crept up behind the queen and swung his sword with fearsome power. The fat
al blade arced upwards, high into the air, the silver shimmering in the sunlight. It hung for a moment, as though suspended in time, and then it fell, striking like a snake. At the last moment, Bridget closed her eyes, squeezing them firmly shut, in the childlike hope that if she did not see the act take place, then she could be spared from the reality of it. It did not work.

  The sound of the blade hitting home, the noise of it cutting through flesh and bone, the groaning and screaming of the spectators, and the coppery smell of newly spilt blood hit Bridget all at once. Joanna had flung herself around her shoulders and was sobbing fearfully. She could hear Catherine crying and Lady Lee, despite her own upset, frantically trying to soothe her. She could even hear many of the men on the scaffold forcefully clearing their throats in an attempt to control their own emotions. Knowing that she had no alternative, Bridget disentangled herself from Joanna’s embrace and opened her eyes.

  The sight that met her was straight from a nightmare and so much worse than the awful scenes she had so recently witnessed from the Bell Tower. Anne was lying on her side, a river of blood flowing from her severed neck. Her head lay in the straw, which was fast turning crimson, the linen cap still upon her hair. The executioner, his mighty two-handed sword stained red, was hurriedly collecting his things, his face dripping with perspiration, his eyes wide. The crowd, clearly shocked, seemed eager to get away from the arena of death, only a few of the hardiest women making the attempt to come forward and dip a piece of cloth into Anne’s blood. According to folklore, the blood of the executed was supposed to have magical properties. The blood of Queen Anne Boleyn, convicted whore and traitoress and rumoured witch, would be quite a prize. Thankfully, the yeomen, with Captain Gwynn to the fore, kept the vultures at bay.

  Sir William Kingston, his eyes wet, walked towards the broken body as if he intended to move it. At the same time, a sound like a thunderclap broke across the sky, the sudden noise reverberating off the fortress walls. It’s the guns, Bridget thought, realising that all London would now know that Anne was gone and the king was free. It was over.

  The burst of cannon fire jolted Bridget out of her horrified daze. She drew in a very deep breath and took a handkerchief from Lady Lee. Walking slowly, and refusing all offers of assistance from Kingston and his other officials, she put the cloth over Anne’s face, obscuring her dead eyes from the gaze of strangers, the blindfold having come loose. Lady Lee and the other maids followed and they now formed a vanguard around their fallen mistress. They were all weeping pitifully, all except for Bridget, whose own tears would not fall. As the one most in command of herself, she took charge.

  “Master Kingston,” she said, “is there a coffin prepared for Her Majesty?”

  Kingston answered sombrely, “Yes, Mistress Manning, an elm chest from the armoury has been provided. It lies there,” and he pointed to the ground beside the scaffold.

  So, only an old box intended for bows and arrows was good enough for Anne, Bridget reflected grimly. But there was nothing to be done about it, it would have to do.

  “Lady Lee, there is a sheet here to cover the queen. Will you help me wrap her in it? Joanna and Catherine, we will need your assistance as well.” The sorrowing trio did as they were bid, carefully lifting the blood-soaked body and gently winding it in the sheet.

  Bridget looked over at the head, the white handkerchief no longer white, and knew that it was her duty to retrieve it. Steeling herself, she walked across the bloodied boards and bent down. Knowing she must do this quickly, before the screaming in her skull forced its way out of her mouth, she picked the queen’s head up in both her hands. It was light and the hair that Bridget had so carefully arranged that morning was still warm. Bile rose up her throat and she had to take a moment to swallow it back.

  The four ladies, laden with their gruesome bundles, walked down the steps, watched in wonderment by several men, and placed Anne Boleyn’s remains in the elm chest. It was only just long enough to accommodate them. Kingston followed and Bridget now turned to him. “Do we take the queen to the church now?”

  “Yes, but some of the yeomen can do that, Mistress Manning. There are plenty here.”

  Captain Gwynn came forward and declared that he and his men were ready for the task.

  “No, Captain, we will do it. It is our duty. Just lead the way”.

  He did not argue and the ladies formed a little procession, the makeshift coffin carried between them, and were lead to the Tower chapel of St Peter ad Vincula, which lay just across the green.

  They came to the door, two maids on either side of the chest, and walked inside. The chapel interior was cool and there were candles burning. Kingston directed the women to lay their burden down near the back of the church, which took Bridget by surprise. “Are we not going to bury the queen in the chancel, sir? Why do we place her here?”

  “The queen must be stripped of her clothes and remaining jewellery before she is interred. In addition to that, someone must be found to lift the chancel stone and prepare a grave. I will go and see to that and return shortly.” Kingston departed with alacrity, obviously keen to dispense with performing this final duty for Anne as quickly as he could. The four maids were thus left alone with their mistress’s remains.

  The quartet stared at each other. “They will take even her clothes?” Joanna murmured. “They will leave her with nothing?”

  “Her clothes are the property of the Tower officials now and no doubt the king wants them destroyed. He will not want anyone to make a souvenir of them. As for the jewellery, he will want that back. Yes, my dear, they will leave her with nothing.” Lady Lee sounded as weary as it was possible for a person to sound.

  Inwardly, Bridget cursed herself for not anticipating this final indignity. Of course, as a convicted traitor, Anne would go to her grave disrobed and disgraced. No mercy would be extended to her, even after the ghastly sentence of death had been carried out.

  At this point, young Catherine Carey stepped in and hugged Bridget, whispering in her ear, “I know it is awful, but it is just one more task. We must do this.”

  The kindness and the determination of the girl nearly undid Bridget. Forcing back the storm that threatened to overwhelm her, she hugged Catherine back and said, “You are right. This is our task to perform. We must do it.”

  Joanna and Lady Lee, assisted by Bridget and Catherine, lifted Anne’s body from the elm chest and laid her gently on the ground. They unwound the bloody sheet and put it to one side. All four gasped in horror at the gruesome sight they had uncovered, and Bridget could feel her whole body start to quake. She pushed the sensation away and said, “Quick as we can, ladies.”

  Joanna and Catherine started by removing Anne’s shoes, dainty little shoes with a pointed toe, grey to match her dress. Even they were spotted with blood. Then her silk stockings were rolled down, taken off and placed with the shoes. All four women set about stripping off the grey damask gown, stained scarlet all the way to the hem. The gown soon joined the sad, little pile and was followed by the red martyr’s kirtle, still sending its silent message. Finally, Bridget removed the few rings still on Anne’s hands, carefully sliding each one off her long fingers, the flesh still slightly warm to the touch.

  Eventually the queen lay on the flagstones, only her blood-soaked shift covering her nakedness. “Should we take that off too?” Joanna asked.

  “If Master Kingston wishes to send the queen to her grave completely uncovered then he may do that himself. We will not,” Bridget replied.

  They rewrapped the body and placed it back in the chest and waited for the return of the constable. And waited and waited. “If he does not return soon,” observed Lady Lee, “it will be gone noon and past time for Mass.”

  Sure enough, it was past noon by the time a harried Kingston returned with two men, one a petulant-looking fellow, carrying a shovel, and the other a scowling chaplain.

  He glanced at the pile of clothes and jewellery and asked, “Is that all?”

  Bri
dget, her temper rising to the surface, answered, “Yes, sir, we would not steal your perquisites from you. You are welcome to check Her Majesty’s body yourself if you do not wish to take our word.”

  Kingston blanched at the prospect of that and said nothing. He directed the gravedigger towards the chancel, where he set about lifting the paving stone. He made short work of the dirt beneath and soon had fashioned a relatively deep hole for the queen to lie in. The four ladies picked up the chest and processed down the centre of the church, the chaplain walking before them. They laid the box in the grave and each took a handful of earth to sprinkle over the top. They linked their arms and prayed as one as the gravedigger took up his shovel again and the elm chest was lost to sight.

  The chaplain said as brief a prayer as possible over the resting place of Queen Anne, and the small congregation bowed their heads in silence. Once he finished speaking, the chancel stone was dragged over the soft earth. It settled into place with a thud. The digger, the chaplain, and Kingston left as hurriedly as they could, the latter bidding a respectful farewell to the women before he departed. The four stood quietly, none of them quite sure what to do next. It seemed wrong to just walk away and leave Anne lying under the bare stone slab. Then Bridget remembered that she had seen a rose bush outside before they had entered the church. She rushed out the door and picked four buds as fast as she could, before anyone noticed and told her that it was against the rules of the Tower to pick the roses. At that moment, Bridget did not care about rules.