Without worrying about propriety or rudeness, she bolted from her seat, and ran as fast as she could from the field. She must find shelter, she must find some harbor, and the only place she could think of was in her apartments. She thought only of her old armoire from her stay in France. Her favorite piece of furniture, the heavy, engraved, cumbersome reminder of a past day.
So familiar, the musty smell of put away dresses, the faint scent of satin slippers that were too worn. It seemed her one escape, the only place she could return to, where in an instant she was taken back to her innocence. To a time when she was just a lady-in-waiting and Henry had demanded nothing of her, and courtiers sought another for their dreams. Crazy, it was, to open her armoire, that one piece of furniture she hadn't replaced, and sit on the edge of the platform, doors closed around her as far as they would. The armoire doors only partially closed, barely hiding her as she huddled within. Her feet stuck out, with knees beneath her chin. But it didn't matter. She was more frightened than she had ever been. And this place, this haven, was the only place that beckoned her.
The doors closed enough to hold the smell, and harbor her. If anyone were to come in, oh, what a sight they'd see. The Queen, England's Queen, half-hidden behind the reams of old gowns she had kept.
"Sweet mother of God," she said, over and over, unable to say anything else. Her mind stuck in that one prayer, closed around it, hugged it close. She wasn't certain why she was so afraid, only knew Marc's arrest was tied to her future. Why else would she have been informed of it? And why would Henry leave the joust in such a fit, especially after staring at her with such hatred. What did Hal Norris have to do with it—Hal, as loyal to his King as a dog to its master.
She simply didn't know, and was afraid of that ignorance. But the one thing she did know, was that Jane sat at the heart of it. Anne, during all this time, had failed to win him back, and all the while, as she failed, she watched the symptoms appear one by one. Symptoms she recognized from the other side of the fence. From Jane's viewpoint.
Would Henry be as lax with his present unwanted queen as he was with Catherine? Not likely. He had not been kind to Catherine in the end, and he had spent nearly twenty years with her, a meek, humble woman. What lay in store for strong-minded, willful Anne, she dared not think.
As she sat, and lucidity returned, she realized she had little choice. Divorcing Henry was out of the question—she felt certain he wouldn't even offer it. He had been too happy over Catherine's death. Dread shivered down her spine. Finally, she crawled from the closet, weak, frightened, but sure of her fate. She collapsed on the floor next to the armoire, and waited, wide awake ’til Henry's men came for her the next morning.
"My Lady, you must accompany us." She heard no sympathy in the gruff voice, saw only a glint in the pale eyes. They were wicked eyes, squinted together like a ferret's. She merely nodded, not trusting her voice. They waited while she rose from the floor. With a leisurely hand, she brushed the dust and rush pieces from her skirt. She took a furtive look around the room, only to see if perhaps she could take something with which to cling to, to anchor her to reality. They must have thought she was seeking escape for one grasped her quickly by the shoulder.
"Come. You must answer to charges."
"Charges?" She asked sweetly. "And what am I to be charged with?"
The three guards looked at their feet, and the leader spoke again.
"We know not, my lady. Only that you must stand before a tribunal."
"And may I have support there? My brother would comfort me." She hoped Henry would be kind enough to allow George to stand next to her, but she doubted it. Squinty eyes widened suddenly as if surprised.
"Your Father may, perhaps, but your brother cannot." And then Anne knew. George had been arrested. Oh, dear God, he would be implicated in her descent. And what of Elizabeth? Was she still safe in her lodgings outside the city? When she faced her commissioners, they spared no leisure, but spoke her charges with calm face. Her uncle Norfolk, stern face unusually soft, presided and gave the accusations.
"You are hereby ordered to the Tower by His Great Majesty King Henry."
"By what charge am I ordered so?"
"Charges of treason will be laid at your trial. You have greatly offended our Sovereign. His Majesty the King has already assigned some women to you, as well as had them pack some clothing for your stay."
Treason? Ah God. She had thought to be put away at most, perhaps asked to join a nunnery, but this? Surely Henry meant to frighten her. Perhaps he wanted to remind her of her station. But for all her rationalizations, her legs took to a mad trembling.
"And may I see my brother once more? Where is he?" She dared ask, black eyes steady on her uncle’s sweating face. He lowered his eyes, mumbled a reply.
"No. His grace, the King, says you are to be denied a meeting with your brother. As part of your retribution." Since she couldn't speak, she was pulled from the room, and led callously to a waiting barge. Ah, Henry had wasted no time, the barge supported five women and a helmsman.
A thought occurred to her; it was a two hour journey, she remembered it from her coronation. Surely she’d never endure it. Torturously the hours dragged by. Even the chirping of the birds sounded solemn, and her women refused to speak to her. The fields looked silent and barren. Now and again purple clover peppered the green as if to relieve her or bolster her. Clover, such sweet weeds. She thought of the taste and how she and George often picked them and nibbled at the white flesh beneath the purple crown. Purple, the color of royalty. Crown, the symbol of power.
"Sweet Jesu." She clenched her chest with tense fingers. George. Brother. Nibbling at weeds or winding them into her hair. Such odd visions for such a devastating day. Day of danger. Danger such as those monks had faced. She recalled them and their sickly gray faces and mass of blood spilling over ragged brown cassocks. Blood, blood. Flesh, flesh. She rocked to and fro against the rail, imagining blood, recalling flesh. Flesh of babies only two years in the ground.
"Sweet God." She swallowed and swallowed the spit that would not go down the tight cavern of her throat ’til, like a specter through mist, the tower loomed into view. Her throat began to tighten. Her breath grew short, and shorter still ’til she had to gasp at the spring air with great effort. It felt cold and chill within her bosom, and it burned her lungs from the crispness. She held tightly to the rail, feeling all the while her legs tremble and her body sway. Sway and sway and rock always in time to her ragged breaths, always creating an odd melody that should be accented by some song. But when she opened her mouth to accompany the tune, she could only scream. And her legs collapsed when she realized she had done so.
"I was received with greater ceremony the last time I was here," she sobbed aloud to the clouds and sat there on the damp barge floor, ’til she felt the bump of it touching the wharf. The jailer lifted her, a little tenderly, a little hesitantly. Lord Kingston who had ushered her into the tower three years before to wait upon her crowning. Now he came to usher her to her death.
"Come now, my Queen, you will not be housed in the dungeons, but in the same lodgings as you had before." He touched her arm, and she recoiled from it. His voice may sound comforting, but his eyes held a different emotion, a callousness that belied his soft words. And when he would try to lift her, she clung to his leg instead. No, she couldn't go. Simply couldn't.
"It’s too good for me," she wailed.
She managed to make it through the court gates, but at the clanging of the metal as they closed behind her, she fell once more to the ground.
"Please, please, sweet Jesu, I am not guilty. I am not guilty." She rocked back and forth on the ground, unable to keep still. How could she possibly escape? How could this be happening—she was innocent.
"I beg you." She grasped the leg of Kingston as he knelt to help her to her feet. She gazed at the faces of the men who stood around, sober faces. Judgmental faces.
"Please. Ask the King to be good unto me. I beg y
ou." Her face felt wet.
"I am innocent of these charges." She peered up to the heavens, hoping, praying God would be there, showing himself to her, rescuing her.
Chapter 56
June 1536
George sat alone in the gloom. A rat made a small chirping sound like a bird and he cursed at it, but the rodent kept its own counsel on the expletive, scurried across the cell to the door. He could see the disgusting vermin in the hazy light of the hall’s torch that shone through the one small window in the heavy wood. It sat in the stained wooden plate that held the remnants of his supper last eve. As if mesmerized, he watched the rat chew on a piece of spoiled meat, cursed that the jailer hadn’t brought him anything fresh. So much pity was shown to the Whore’s brother, he found himself laughing aloud.
"So, my vermin, you dare eat such atrocity? Careful it’s not poisoned." With the statement, he wondered (not for the first time) why he was here. He hadn’t been told of his crime or when he’d be tried. He could only guess that it had to do with Marc’s arrest—but the only connection he had to Marc was Anne. In the urine stench of the dungeon, George shivered.
Anne lay dumbstruck and numb on her bed. The quilts felt heavy, like a blanket of earth. She kicked at them, stared up into the heavy canopy. The crimson velvet reminded her of blood. Her women hadn’t awakened yet; she could still hear the snores of one, but Anne hadn’t slept all night. She had watched the blackness transform to gloom and now in the early dawn, grey. She could hear the chirping of the birds as they began their morning forage. Otherwise the air was still. She sighed, rolled over. The blankets tangled in her legs, annoying her. But then, what did it matter. She ignored the way they pinioned her limbs to the mattress, just hadn’t the energy to unravel the covers and free herself. It would be for nothing anyway; she planned on laying her forever. Or at least, as long as forever would be for her. For a terrible moment in the gloom of her chamber, she imagined the Barbican gate as she had seen it the day before. It opened wide, to swallow her.
She shivered. She felt so alone, isolated. The sounds of her women did nothing to assuage it. Throughout the night she had tried her best to pretend she slept in her own chamber, and the snoring came from Nan Gainesford, or some other lady-in-waiting. She failed. Nothing worked. She remembered Elizabeth on a visit to the castle just last month. Sweet babe, russet curls tousled all over her head, blue eyes blazing with a toddler’s passion. Beth had cried when Anne took her from the nurse, held her hands out to the woman who had nurtured her, and away from the one who had borne her.
How horrible it had felt, to have her own child cry from being held. Anne had tried to comfort her, kissed her small white cheek, and tried to shush her with a mother’s cooing. Even worse was that Anne needed her and felt sick at having to use her. She had brought Beth to see her father, who stood in one of the corridors of the castle, staring out into the courtyard.
"Rex," she’d said in a whisper that was both hoarse and sultry.
"Look how our daughter has grown." He’d spared her a glance, the first one in weeks.
"Yes." His voice sounded dull.
"She has indeed." Her chest tightened then, while Beth squirmed and strained to be loosed.
"Would you like to hold her, My Lord? See how she strains to be taken?" She swallowed the desolate thought that the babe strained only to leave her mother’s arms. He turned away.
"No." The sickness threatened to come up, and in desperation Anne held her daughter out to him.
"Please, Rex. We made this child in love. Can you not remember it? Can you not take the babe and feel again the joy we shared in her?"
"There is no joy in remembering."
Anne moaned in her bed, remembering the answer. She hugged her belly tight as she recalled the look on his face as he said it. She had run from him with Elizabeth bouncing as she fled. The child had laughed, enjoying the game of being jostled. It sounded to Anne like mockery.
Now she wondered if Elizabeth was safe, if Henry would harm her. He doted on his children only when all was well with his world, or when it was in his best interest to do so. Now Beth's greatest safety lie in Anne's worry for her. The child's worth that Henry could torture the mother with concern.
No, Beth would be safe for the time—but what of later? Would Henry dare lose an heir, even a daughter? She sighed again, rose from the bed. Sleep hadn’t come all night—it certainly wouldn’t come now.
She wandered through the chamber, fingered a tapestry. The dank stagnant smell of the moat crept up her nostrils. It’d smell foul by afternoon. She had to escape, had to find a way out. Elizabeth must have someone to uphold her right to love and security. And what of George and father and Mary and Nan? What of Marc and Francis and William? Were they imprisoned in the Bloody Tower, with rats for company and darkness for a blanket? Did they think of her, worry, as she did?
Her throat constricted so she had a horrible time swallowing, and the small birds in her chest fluttered their wings, made her want to vomit. Instead she cursed in a hoarse whisper, moaned. She made her round of the room, touching objects, staring, thinking. She peered out the window, watched the early morning mist gather around the stones and settle on the cobble. Gray on gray, gloom on gloom.
Across the way she could see a tiny light through the window of the chapel. She wondered if she’d have a candle lit by someone who loved her. If anyone who loved her would survive to do it? But no. This wasn’t happening. Simply wasn’t. The gloomy thoughts were only that—thoughts from a mind panicked and frightened. There was really no need to believe the worst yet.
Henry had loved her once—may still love her. He just wanted to scold her for meddling in his affairs and nagging him over his new mistress. But what should she have done? He knew her well enough to know she’d not stand by while another woman took him. She’d seen it with Catherine. Had watched Catherine sit idly by ’til it was too late—and then had nagged him incessantly ’til he was no longer even kind to her, let alone inclined to return to her.
Oh, sweet Jesu, no. She’d done exactly that—had nagged and badgered him, reminding him of Catherine and how he spent years in limbo because she wouldn’t let go. Now Anne knew her only hope wasn’t that Henry still loved her, but that he didn’t want to wed Jane Seymour. If he did, then Anne was truly lost. He’d never suffer the same limbo again. She suddenly had the sick feeling she was rolling down a steep incline, and the only thing she could do was scream as she went. He’d have no idea she had been doing just that—screaming at her helplessness and terrified descent. Now she could do nothing but watch the eerie mists ensconce the outer walls and stifle the urge to scream.
Chapter 57
Anne suffered a terrible sense of entombment, couldn’t stand how she felt as if she were being buried alive—and with a gaggle of women she hated. She had been pacing for hours now, and with each turn the dust on the cold stone floor scattered to the walls, fearing her step. How ragged her body felt, and her heart—it beat so quickly she thought it must be tatters by now, flailing madly around in a chest that ached from fear and panic. She couldn’t keep her feet still. If she stood, she paced. If she sat, they tapped the floor. Even when she did manage to keep herself still, her entire body shivered with convulsions so strong she had to hold herself. But no amount of hugging would warm her insides for her arms were cold. And her mind. Oh, how it rambled and rambled. The same incoherent thoughts ran over each other in their haste to be admitted,
"Oh God, oh God, oh God..." That was the worst one. She’d voice the litany aloud and once it started it wouldn’t stop until she thought her head would sway like a pendulum. The only way to dislodge the thought was to laugh, and even the laughter would stick ’til she had to cry. Then the uncontrollable weeping would usher in the hysteria.
"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God..." Circles, circles, circles. She stared dumbly at the cold stone walls, so carefully shrouded in elegant tapestries. Wafts of cool spring air filtered through them, bearing the aroma of must and
mortar. She refused to admit the fragrance of burning grass—someone seared their field to ready it for seed, not knowing there would be no harvest. The rain held off, and would hold off ’til she was released—or so she told herself. The smell of fire and smoke frightened her. During one turn, she glimpsed the looking glass that hung serenely from the armoire door and started at the reflection she saw there. Black eyes stared back at her with tiny pupils. Even in the dim light they wouldn’t enlarge, as if they had some fore-knowledge and were squeezing themselves shut, trying to protect themselves.
"How elegant you look, Nan," she whispered.
"Regal, calm. And how slim. Barren-slim. No tiny corpse lies in your belly, Nan. No. For he has purged this wicked flesh." A terrible humor took hold of her throat, choking off her breath. Gagging her. The laugh had to escape. She let it go. Soon she laughed so hard her hair whipped her face with the frenzy of it. The momentum stole her limbs and she danced a wild, raw jig in front of the mirror.
"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God." She sang as loudly as she could.
"Father, spirit, and Son. Your son, my son. Lost, lost, lost. To Hell with the whore’s babies. To Hell with the whore!" Then a calmness as wicked and wounding as the dance descended on her. It stilled her limbs and feasted on her fear. Pulsing, this calmness, as a mausoleum pulsed with a faint, mad energy that frightened the living soul. She paused long enough to survey the room. Her quick glance took in all the regal trappings of Queenship; the luxurious bed, the reams of gowns hanging just there in her favorite armoire, the crushed crimson velvet drapes. Luxury lay in every crevice of the room, for Queen she was still, and due luxury. But it was a pretentious luxury, reserved for an unwanted Queen.
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