The Light in the Labyrinth_BooksGoSocial Historical Fiction

by Wendy J. Dunn

  She sang her song, for the first and final time:

  Oh death rock me asleep,

  Bring me on my quiet rest,

  Let pass my very guiltless ghost

  Out of my careful breast.

  Ring out the doleful knell,

  Let its sound my death tell;

  For I must die,

  There is no remedy,

  For now I die…

  Defiled is my name full sore

  Through cruel spite and false report,

  That I may say for evermore,

  Farewell to joy, adieu comfort.

  For wrongfully you judge of me

  Unto my fame a mortal wound,

  Say what ye list, it may not be,

  Ye seek for that shall not be found.

  Aunt Nan always sang beautifully, but never as beautifully as that dark, dreadful night. Like an angel, she sang, pure and heart touching, like one who had already left life behind. Her narrow face tense with thought, she seemed a sprite or spirit flame not of this world.

  She still played her lute when Master Kingston and Mathew Parker came with guards lighting the way with torches, their footsteps advancing closer and closer, the bell tolling out the hour for Matins. With the last toll of the bell, a group of men gathered at the open door. Very still, they listened for a time. One guard and then another watched the Queen with faces alight with pity, but also admiration. Usually so stern, even Master Kingston seemed moved. He murmured to Parker, loud enough for Kate to hear.

  “I have seen many men and also women executed, and they have been in great sorrow. This lady has much joy in death.”

  Not answering Kingston, Parker came into the chamber and shook his head. The hopelessness of the good father twisted a knife into Kate’s heart. She covered her face, everything in her desiring to scream out, No! She should have known. The death of George Boleyn had snapped the last straw of hope for reprieve.

  Her courage retreating in a tidal wave of emotion, Kate reminded herself that women in her family faced their fears with bravery. She would swim and not drown. She would survive this awful day. She would survive for her aunt, for her mother, and for Bess, who would soon have no living mother.

  Aunt Nan stopped playing and straightened on her stool. The silent men approached. Master Kingston bowed, followed by the priest. “Madam,” Kingston said, “your chaplain has come as requested.”

  Laying down her lute beside her, Aunt Nan rose with a welcoming smile. “That I see, Master Kingston.” She held out her hands for Parker to take. “My heart is glad to see you, Matthew. We’ve much to speak of.” She turned back to Kingston. “How many more hours do you make it, good sir?”

  He shook his head and straightened his shoulders. “We’re been told to make ready by the ninth hour.” He swallowed. “Forgive me, I cannot even vouch for that.”

  Aunt Nan sighed. “It cannot be helped. The good Father will give us solace as we wait.” She frowned. “Is Cranmer still coming to give me the Host?”

  “Aye, Madam.”

  “I request a boon of you, Master Kingston. When I receive the Host, pray remain here, too. I wish you to witness my confession so you’ll possess no doubt about my innocence and the manner of my death.”

  He seemed to shutter away his thoughts, but even so, Kingston nodded and bowed. “As you wish, Madam. I leave you now with the good Father. Expect my return at daybreak.” He bowed again, exiting from the chamber with the guards.

  As if her legs refused to hold her up any longer, Aunt Nan collapsed onto the window-seat. Father Parker stepped towards her. “Your Grace, have you not slept?”

  She knotted her hands together on her lap. “Sleep, Matthew? I’ll soon have eternity to sleep.” She gestured beside her. “Pray, sit. I wish to speak to you.”

  For all that, she bowed her head and remained silent. He sat, folding his hands in his lap, and waited. As he waited, he turned and smiled at Kate with compassion.

  At last, Aunt Nan lifted her head. Wavering candlelight danced shadows upon her hollowed face. “Shall I speak now of my sins, Matthew?”

  He stirred uneasily. “Your Grace—”

  She smiled slightly. “You have come to see me every day of my imprisonment, and we’ve been too long friends for you not to call me by my given name on this night of nights. Pray, put away the title. 'Tis worthless now. Call me Anne, or Nan, if you wish; I care not. Do not forget that the King, my husband, has taken back everything.” Grief carved into her pale face. “What did George say before his death? ‘Trust in God, and not in the vanities of the world.’ If only had I done so, I would not be here waiting to die.” She licked at the tears running over her trembling mouth. “I brought this on myself, on my brother, on my friends. Too many heads now rot on the gates of London because of me.” She bent her head and repeated, “Because of me.”

  Kate shivered, and not with cold. Five months before, she had arrived in London—it seemed a lifetime ago—a lifetime since she first paid true attention to those very gates, and saw the ravens flocking amongst skulls, gore and blood. She imagined them feasting now on fresh skulls, one the head of her uncle. Already, his beautiful eyes would be gone, gorged out and eaten by scavenging birds.

  “Katie. Our Katie. How dare you grow,” Uncle George had said to her, welcoming her that first day at court. He had laughed, lifted her in his arms and kissed her. “You make me feel old. Not so long ago, a child, and now—look at you; you’re a young woman.”

  She had made him feel old. She clenched her jaw, fearing any moment her teeth would chatter, and shifted around to Aunt Nan. Her ebony hair fell long and loose, undressed around her shoulders; blue lights gleamed in her tresses whenever she moved. The candlelight showed her clear eyes, wide mouth and firm chin. The last few months had drained her of youth, but these days in the Tower, when the battle for survival finally approached a brutal end and there was nothing left to lose, had seen a return of her moments of true beauty. In the candlelight, she could be mistaken for a girl. Uncle George would never be old, and neither, it seemed, would his sister.

  Kate listened as Aunt Nan spoke to her chaplain. She spoke first of the Princess Mary. “On my knees, I begged Lady Kingston to go to her and do as I did to her and beg Mary for her forgiveness of what I brought upon her and her mother.” She confessed to ambition and jealousy, the many, many angry words spoken in haste and now regretted. “I brought this on myself,” she repeated again to her chaplain. “But to die the death of a traitor? Do I deserve such a death, my name blackened by lies? Adulteress, foiled murderess, witch they call me. My name is defiled, cruelly and falsely.” She licked her lips. “And to die knowing I have brought those I love also to death? To die knowing my daughter will be left motherless before the day is old.”

  Parker took her hands. “Your sins are shared by many, but none give reason for this end.”

  Aunt Nan turned towards the window, and Kate turned, too. While still dark, the hour had come when all remained hushed and waited for dawn. She sighed. The last dawn for her aunt.

  Her aunt moved restlessly. Shoulders hunched, mouth trembling, she gripped either side of the stone seat. “Can love disappear like this—utterly and without trace?” She rubbed the side of her face. “I did not love the King at first. I refused to listen to his promises. Believe me, Matthew, I sent his gifts back. But then he promised me marriage, a crown…” Staring out into space, she swirled a finger in her loose hair. “I did not know my ambition until then. Six years… six years to be ruled by ambition. Strange, by the time we did marry, I found another passion ruling me.” She sighed. “I love Harry. I will die loving him. I cannot believe he has stopped loving me. He swore to love me to his dying day.” Pain darkened her face. She whispered, “Perchance my Harry is dead.”

  Parker leaned back, hands palm-to-palm, fingers steepled under his chin. “Mayhap he is. Since he came close to death earlier this year, I, too, have thought the King a different man. His desire for a son has become all to h
im. I believe he would do anything to begat his true born prince.” He leaned closer to Aunt Nan. “Even murder.”

  “Even murder,” she repeated. Her lips twisted as if she tasted something vile. “Kings do not murder. All that they do is right in God’s eyes; my husband told me so.”

  Parker shook his head. “I would beg to differ, madam.”

  Aunt Nan rounded on him. “Then you dispute with your King and commit treason.” Her face pale with fear, she bent forward. “Be careful of what you say, Matthew. I need you to be careful. Very, very careful. Remember your vow to me: to keep Elizabeth safe and guide her. Help her make not the mistakes of her mother.”

  “If the good God permits, Nan, I vow I will keep Bess under my watch.” He blinked at the window. Moment by moment, the dark sky lightened. “Cranmer will be here soon. Do you wish for time alone in prayer before then?”

  Aunt Nan shook her head and picked up her lute. She took his hand, smiling in reassurance. “Nay. I think God will forgive me if I just allow myself the pleasure of staying with those I love these last hours. I shall play and sing a little while I wait for Cranmer to bring the Host.”

  She played and sang. Dawn broke behind her, its light engulfing her in a net of gold. Birds chirped and twittered their joy and welcome to another day’s awakening. Too soon, approaching footsteps echoed outside the chamber. The heavy fall of thudding feet became louder and louder, like the beat of a drum, like the drub of frightened hearts. A march that trampled upon all songs.

  24

  THE SCAFFOLD WAS NOT YET FINISHED. Aunt Nan received the message that the execution was delayed once more and she would need to wait longer to meet her doom. Master Kingston followed the news. He bowed as she rose from her seat. Rising from the floor, Kate stood beside her aunt, wanting to support her in whatever way she could.

  “Mr. Kingston, I hear I shall not die afore noon and I am very sorry therefore, for I thought to be dead by this time and past my pain.”

  Kingston paled. His mouth moved, but no words came at first. “It should be no pain, or but a little,” he blustered, as if she somehow accused him.

  Aunt Nan answered with a peal of laughter, bending a little, her hand to her side. “The executioner is very good, I hear…” she put her hands around her throat “…and I have but a little neck.”

  Kingston bowed and made a hasty retreat.

  Kate gathered the garments her aunt had chosen for her execution. A loose robe of dark grey damask with a wide collar of white ermine, a red underskirt—the colour of blood—a small gable, and a white coif to cover her hair. Kate first picked up the coif. Her heart in her throat, Kate stilled and tried to swallow. Only one hour ago, she had combed and plaited her aunt’s hair for the last time. For the last time ever.

  “Kate,” her aunt called. “'Tis time for me to dress.”

  Kate straightened her shoulders. Picking up everything, she walked back to her aunt, determined to serve her well until the end.

  By close to ten, the muted sounds of building ceased and a strange quiet settled outside. Inside, it was time for the last prayers, the last words of comfort, the last farewells. Aunt Nan kissed her ladies, even Lady Boleyn and Mistress Cosyns. Last of all, she took Kate in her arms. “God bless you. I rely on you; do not let Bess forget me.” Gently, Aunt Nan lifted her chin with a finger. “I have another boon to ask of you.” She took from the top of her clothes chest a large white handkerchief and handed it to Kate. “I beg you, don’t let them see my face after … after I’m dead. Kate, pray use this….” She turned to the nearby altar for a moment. “Do not give my enemies time to gloat and mock, Kate—or point out how I look in death.”

  The Tower bell tolled out the twelfth hour when they walked into the spring day. Escorted by Father Parker and Master Kingston, Aunt Nan was also guarded front and back. Kate swallowed and raised her face. The sky was blue silk, laced here and there with white cloud. The deep, sweet perfume of flowering red roses wafted in the warm breeze, coming before the rich, heady odour of horse droppings. Flies swarmed and buzzed around. This month of May had given them many days of feasting.

  At first, the Queen’s apartments hid the scaffold from them, but then it came into view. Aunt Nan stood still, glancing behind her. Kate’s heart thumped harder. There could be no turning back, no escape, for her aunt.

  Aunt Nan straightened her shoulders and walked forward, every inch the Queen. Assisted by Master Kingston, she made her slow, careful way up the high platform. She paused, turning again to murmur something to Meg, her eyes scanning the huge crowd watching her every movement.

  Kate swallowed down her tears. Beauty was always something that came and went for Aunt Nan. She was like the sea. Happy, she shone with bright sunlight. Sad, she could not hide the darkness of her melancholy, and light became night. On this day of all days, she was all beauty, as if she held all the essence of life in her hand.

  Coming up behind her, Kate became aware of her heart beating loud in her ears. All of it felt dreamlike. Her desperation made it more and more difficult to breathe. Mayhap it is…? She stepped up another step. Let it be a dream, she begged God. Pray, let it be a dream. Let me wake up and find this a dream.

  Grief strangled her almost to suffocation. Each step swirled and crested within her a tide of fear. What if she broke down? What if she failed Aunt Nan? Her courage felt as flimsy as butterfly wings. One touch could break it into nothingness. She licked her dry lips, deafened by the drubbing of her heart.

  The French swordsman greeted her aunt. Kate winced. Masked, all in black, he reminded her of a raven, of death soon to come. She clasped her clammy hands together before wiping them on her dress, and steeled herself for what lay ahead.

  On the scaffold, Aunt Nan raised her face heavenward, inhaling and exhaling a deep breath. With shining eyes, she smiled at her women. “I am ready. Pray, help me,” she said softly.

  Meg removed Aunt Nan’s damask cloak, revealing the underdress of crimson.

  The executioner fell to his knees. “I crave Your Majesty’s pardon,” he said in French, his voice hinting at his emotion.

  The King took from her that title only for death to give it back. Rattled, Kate almost broke down. God help me. How am I to bear this? How can I?

  “Willingly.” Aunt Nan gave him a purse of gold as his payment to ensure a swift and easy death. She looked beyond the crowd. Kate’s heart fluttered. Aunt Nan wanted so much to live for her daughter’s sake. Even now, pacing over to the rails to make her final speech, she hoped for reprieve.

  Aunt Nan leaned towards the crowd and began speaking. At first, her voice was thin and trembling, but soon her words reverberated for all to hear.

  “Good Christian people, I come hither to die, for according to the law, and by law, I am judged to die, and therefore will speak nothing against it. I come hither to accuse no man, nor speak anything of that whereof I am accused and condemned to die. But I pray God to save the King and send him long to reign over you, for a gentler nor merciful prince there was never; and to me he was ever a good, a gentle and sovereign lord. If any person will meddle with my cause, I require them to judge the best. And thus I take my leave of the world, and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me.”

  As if in answer, the crowd come to witness the death of a woman crowned England’s Queen fell to their knees before the scaffold. What remained of her aunt’s life could be measured in breaths.

  Kate brushed away her tears. Straightening her shoulders, she reminded herself that she was of Aunt Nan’s blood. If her aunt could be brave knowing death was seconds away, she could too. As if guessing her thought, Aunt Nan moved closer, touched her arm and tried to smile. Meg smothered a sob, and Aunt Nan’s slight smile faltered. She shook her head.

  “Pray, just a short time to go,” she whispered. “Help me now.” She passed to Meg her scarf and the tiny prayer book from her girdle. “Tell Tom,” she said quietly, “'tis for remembrance. Pray, make sure he reads my message
.”

  Kate took from Meg a white linen cap and gave it to her aunt. For several heartbeats, Aunt Nan held it in her hands before taking off her coif. Black and glossy, her hair shone with blue lights in the sunlight. There was not one grey hair to be seen. Her aunt covered her hair with the cap.

  Meg came over to tie the scarf. Robbed of sight, Aunt Nan raised her arms for balance, straight out in front of her. Kate swallowed at the memory of her doing the same during the Christmas festivities. Then she played a game for laughter. Now? She hardly bore to think about now—she only knew it was no game she played. She went to her aunt and took her hand.

  “I’m here,” Kate said softly. “I’m here.” Dear God—please do not let her know I am weeping.

  The executioner stepped forward, his shadow casting Kate in dimmed light before it fell and shrouded her aunt.

  “Madame,” he said, “I beg you now to kneel and say your prayers.”

  Kate and Margaret helped Aunt Nan to the block, holding onto her until she knelt before it. Blindly, fretfully, Aunt Nan straightened her gown and then lifted her arms to the heavens, crying out, “To Jesus Christ I commit my soul! Oh, Lord, have mercy on me. To Christ I commend my soul. Jesus, receive my soul!”

  She felt for the block and gripped it tightly. Her beautiful hands held it as if she didn’t dare let go.

  The French executioner murmured something to his assistant. He reached behind the bale of straw on the stage and passed to the executioner his sword. Kate took in its shine, its beauty—it looked what it was, a perfect instrument of death.

  One breath. One breath was all it took. The executioner swung back his sword in one mighty movement. The sword swished through the air, gathering momentum, power, churning up air into a gust of wind. Whoosh. The sword sliced through Aunt Nan’s slender neck, an awful crunch sounding as it rent through flesh and bone. Aunt Nan had been so right. Cutting off her head gave the executioner little trouble. One breath—one breath, the threshold between life and death.