Around that time another disturbing rumor reached me: The embalmer of Catherine's body had confessed to Catherine's physician that when he opened the body he found the dead queen's heart to be black through and through. It was a sure sign, the physician said, that poison had been administered to her in small doses over a long period of time. Who had ordered the poisoning? Queen Anne? King Henry? Cromwell, perhaps? And who had carried it out? There was no one to whom I could put the question and expect a truthful reply.
Nor could I find the answer to another question: Shall I be next?
By all accounts my father seemed gripped by madness. He was by turns mirthful or melancholy, bursting with vitality or overcome with lethargy, affectionate or wrathful. There seemed no peaceful middle ground. Suddenly he undertook an ambitious project: the remodeling of Wolsey's former palace at Hampton Court. He was so eager to have the work done quickly that he had a brick kiln set up nearby and ordered the craftsmen to work through the night by torchlight. This was followed by a spell of despondency.
In an effort to cheer the king, his friends arranged a tournament. It seemed to be precisely the right medicine; Henry never missed an occasion to show off his skill with sword and horse. He bested several mounted knights, easily knocking them from their horses, before he found himself whacked out of his saddle and onto the ground, knocked senseless. Word of the king's injury sent the queen into early labor. The next day Anne gave birth to a son. The baby was stillborn.
Chapuys arrived at Hatfield late in April, soon after these events. When Shelton and Clere both descended upon him like harpies, he waved them away. "Your power is gone," he informed them. "Over and done with, like a summer thunder-shower." Shelton and Clere gaped at him, and I observed his boldness in wonder.
"The king is unpredictable," he told me when we were alone. "But one thing is quite clear: He is done with Lady Anne. Henry raved at the queen when the child was lost, and a boy at that, blaming her for it all. She weeps that it was the shock of his injury that brought on premature labor."
"Is it true that the king has a new mistress?" "So it would seem. Anne found him with Lady Jane Seymour perched upon his knee and threw a most unqueenly tantrum. She yanked a jeweled necklace from Jane's neck and drew blood. This was only days after the stillbirth. There have been no sons by his union with Anne, and in his mind this renders the marriage invalid. He claims now that she seduced him into the marriage by means of witchcraft and sorcery. It is my belief that he will soon rid himself of Anne and marry Jane."
"But how can he?" I asked. "Another divorce?"
Chapuys smiled and shook his head. "Nothing so complicated as divorce," he said. "Henry has given the matter over to Cromwell, who is well known for unraveling complicated situations."
My heart quickened. "Then I shall be restored as his legitimate heir!" I exclaimed.
Chapuys quickly dampened my spirits. "No, madam. Henry will marry Jane. You will still be nothing but a bastard. And since you have not yet sworn the oaths he demands, your position will not change. You are still in mortal danger, Mary. The king is in a vengeful mood—he ordered the beheading of the bishop of Rochester and of Sir Thomas More. I witnessed the executions."
"But More was his dearest friend!" I exclaimed.
"No matter. Henry will kill anyone who comes between him and his tyrannical will. Something in the king has died. The goodness in him has given way to the evil impulses in his soul. There is no compassion to temper his cruelty."
"All of this is because of that woman," I said angrily. "Anne is a witch! She put a spell on him. I can think of no other explanation for his cruel behavior. Once he's rid of her, then perhaps he can regain his soul and his sanity."
"I, too, would wish it, madam," said Chapuys. "But at this moment I confess that my sole concern is for you. Your position becomes more perilous with each day that you refuse to sign the oaths. Although I do not want to believe that your father will allow you to suffer the same fate as others who have refused, neither can I guarantee your safety. And as for hope of any future happiness ..." Chapuys lifted his hands and looked toward Heaven.
After Chapuys had gone, I sat slumped at my table, fingers pressed to my aching head. Even if Anne was quickly losing her power, I was no better off than before. I was still alone. Any hope of wearing the crown of England was more remote than ever. And I knew that if I didn't relent and sign the papers, I would remain forever cast out—if I lived to tell of it.
There seemed no remedy for it.
To sign was to go against everything I believed. I would show weakness and cowardice where others had shown strength and courage and died the death not of a traitor—as my father insisted—but of a martyr. Not to sign was almost certainly to die. And wretched as my life was, I still wanted to live.
SCARCELY A WEEK had passed when Bryan burst into my chamber, her gray hair flying wildly about her wrinkled old face. "My nephew has been arrested, madam!" she cried, waving a crumpled bit of parchment. "Francis, accused of adultery with the queen and flung into the Tower! And Queen Anne herself taken as well!" She pressed the parchment into my hands and sank to the floor.
"Anne is in the Tower? Surely—," I began. But I stopped myself and read the scribbled message. Sir Francis had written only a few lines, explaining that he and four others had been charged with treason. The queen, too, was a prisoner.
Bryan paced the floor of my chamber in a hysterical state. I knelt down and tried to console her. I had been about to say that surely Sir Francis was not Anne's lover. We both knew how much he despised the queen! But I also knew that what Francis had done or not done mattered not in the least. The king had decided to get rid of them both. Although I rejoiced at the fall of my enemy, I was dismayed that she had taken Sir Francis down with her.
"We must not lose hope that Francis's life may be spared," I told the weeping Bryan. Privately, though, I held no hope for him or for the four others, whoever they might be.
CHAPTER 20: The Executions
For days we prayed for God's mercy and waited for news of Anne and Sir Francis and the others— a message, a visit, something, anything! Poor Bryan in her pitiable state could only weep and ramble and blame her misfortune on Cromwell. "Cromwell has concocted this tale. He invented the charges against Francis in order to convict the queen of treason. Oh, Lord have mercy!" she wailed.
I thought she was probably right.
At last I received a long letter from Chapuys, who must have been confident that Shelton and Clere no longer dared interfere. Chapuys wrote:
On the first of May, at a May Day joust, Queen Anne was seen to drop a handkerchief in the presence of Francis Peacham. The king, believing that this was a signal to her lover, left the tournament, abandoning the queen. He called for Peacham to ride back to Greenwich Palace with him and his friends Norris and Brereton. The following day Henry ordered the arrest of all three men, as well as a court musician named Mark Smeaton. The fifth and most shocking was Anne's own brother, George, viscount of Rochford. All were accused of adultery with the queen — even her own brother!
Anne was seized by Cromwell's men, who took her to the Tower by barge in broad daylight so that everyone could witness her humiliation. She was charged with adultery, incest, and treason. The five men have been charged with treason. All denied the charges. Then, under torture, Smeaton broke down and confessed.
I remembered Mark Smeaton, a commoner whose musical talents had won him a place at court. I, too, had enjoyed his lively playing and sweet voice. Could he have been Anne's lover? I continued reading Chapuys's letter.
Smeaton's signed confession stated that he had on several occasions been hidden by an old serving woman in the queens chamber in a cupboard where a box of sweets was kept. When Anne called for sweets to be brought to her, it was the signal for Smeaton to come out of his hiding place.
The next to confess was Francis Peacham, He admitted that his little flute recitals for the queen usually ended in lovemaking, Miraculous changes
occur when a man is stretched upon the rack and his joints begin to separate. Norris and Brereton acknowledged their guilt under similar circumstances. Only Anne's brother, George, steadfastly maintained his innocence.
On the tenth of May the trial began. The last to be tried was Anne's brother, damned by the testimony of his jealous wife.
That vengeful woman to whom I was once forced to turn over my home and belongings!
The viscountess swore that Queen Anne had stated publicly on more than one occasion that the king was incapable of producing offspring. And also that Anne said she had slept with several men to ensure that she would have a male child to pass off to the king as his own son.
As I write this on the fifteenth of May, Anne and all five of her "lovers" including her brother, have been found guilty of treason and sentenced to death. Queen Anne is to be burned or beheaded, as shall please the king. The condemned have but four days left to ponder their fate and to make their peace with God. The clock ticks relentlessly toward the hour of execution.
Once this dreadful business is done I shall call upon you.
I was so upset that I could not bring myself to show Bryan the letter or even to say much about its contents. We resigned ourselves once again to wait and to pray.
Three more days had passed when Bryan, white as a ghost, wordlessly handed me a letter from Sir Francis. She leaned against the wall, moaning, while I read.
"Dearest Aunt," he had written in a hand so crabbed and irregular that I could scarcely make it out, "take this as my farewell letter to you." The letter continued:
I have not much longer to live. I swear to you my innocence, as I have sworn before the judges, but I have been put upon the rack and forced to confess that I am guilty of an offense I did not commit I am condemned to die, and I shall go to that fate as bravely as I know how.
It was dated the eighteenth of May. This was the twentieth. I said a silent prayer for the repose of the soul of Francis Peacham and went to put my arms about his grieving aunt.
TRUE TO HIS WORD, Chapuys arrived at Hatfield within the week. I greeted him immediately with the question "Is Aime dead?"
"She is, madam. And the others also."
I was nearly overcome by a combination of emotions that swung dizzyingly between elation that the false queen had at last been brought down, compassion for stricken Bryan, and sorrow for Sir Francis, who had taken many risks in my behalf.
The ambassador guided me to a seat in my favorite corner of the Scent Garden at Hatfield. Amid the chamomile and violas, he described the unfolding of events.
"It all began in April when our friend Cromwell, acting on the king's orders, compiled a list of men with whom Anne was rumored to have had love affairs," he said. "It may be that Cromwell himself invented the rumors to accomplish his ends. In any case, there was the incident of the dropped handkerchief at the May Day joust."
"Would she be so bold?" I wondered. "Anne is not stupid." Then I corrected myself: 'Was not stupid."
"Exactly. But this all played into the king's hands. It solved his problem."
"And were you present?" I asked.
"I was. I was in the crowd on the streets of London as Anne was escorted from the courtroom back to her Tower chamber. All looked to the axheads of her six guards for the verdict. Axheads turned away from the prisoner meant that she had been found innocent. The axheads were turned toward the queen! People were afraid to utter a sound. There was no love lost for Anne but a good deal of pity for the five condemned men, for most did not believe the truth of the allegations."
"But, my dear ambassador, why has the king chosen this way to rid himself of Anne?"
"Because the king is in love once again. All during the trials. King Henry amused himself with his courtship of Jane Seymour. He did, however, take the time to divorce Anne before she died, thus making Elizabeth a bastard. He visited Jane's barge every night, dressed in his grandest court clothes with feathers in his bonnet and a ruby on his thumb taken from the shrine at Canterbury. Drinking, dancing, making merry within sight of the Tower' I found myself disgusted at his behavior, madam."
Disgusted, yes—so was I. But I was also relieved that he was done with Anne, my nightmare, my worst enemy. And I was frightened. Clearly my father had lost his reason. Even without Aime, I was still in danger.
"I have brought you a letter from Lady Kingston, wife of the constable of the Tower," said the ambassador, drawing a sheet of parchment from his official pouch. "It is said to contain a description of Anne's final hours. Do you wish to be alone to read it, madam?"
"No, no. Please stay," I begged. And with trembling hands I opened the letter and read:
She never thought she was going to die. Then came word that the king believed her guilty hut would show mercy. She would not be burned for incest, as many thought she deserved, but beheaded. As a further sign of his compassion, Henry promised to send for the best swordsman from Calais with a fine steel blade to do the deed, rather than leaving the work to a clumsy axman.
She had wild laughing fits, and the next minute she'd be down on her knees and sobbing "Who will save me? Who will save me?" One time haughty, the next time pitiable, and never a place in between.
On the nineteenth of May, Queen Anne began her last day on earth. Long before dawn the queen was down on her knees in prayer. Early in the morning, she called for her ladies-in-waiting to help her dress. Only two of her maids were willing to assist her in her final hour. The rest had fled in fear that they might be found guilty of something as well. At last she was arrayed in a gray damask gown opening upon a crimson petticoat. Over this she draped an ermine-trimmed robe. Her long, dark hair was caught up in a net of gold.
I wondered if Anne had worn her customary silk ribbon with a jewel to cover the witch's wen that I still believed grew upon her throat. There was no mention of it Lady Kingston ended her letter with this:
I believe that Queen Anne truly repented the wrongs she had committed. It may surprise you to know that she prayed most strongly for your forgiveness, madam. Privately she told me she knew now that she had wronged you and would go to her death more easily if she could believe you might find it in your heart to pardon her.
The letter slipped from my fingers. Pardon Anne? I thought bitterly. Never. Never!
"Madam?" said Chapuys, who had been watching me with his usual solicitude.
"Anne prayed for my forgiveness," I murmured.
"Not unusual when one faces death," Chapuys said. "And much easier than when one expects to remain alive."
"Were you there when she died?" I asked him.
"I was. It was my duty to be present, as representative of Emperor Charles at the execution of a monarch.
"As the first rays of the sun reached above the thick walls surrounding Tower Green, the executions began. Anne was forced to watch as the five men were brought to the scaffold one by one. Blindfolded, each man knelt—some said a few words, others were silent—^and placed his head on the wooden block. Each time the black-hooded executioner swung the heavy ax high above his head and brought it down on the neck of the prisoner. The severed head rolled away, and blood spurted from the neck. Assistants quickly carted off the body for burial and gathered up the head to be placed on a pike along with all the others on Traitors' Gate by London Bridge.
"First came Smeaton," Chapuys recalled, "so broken by torture that he could not climb the four steps of the scaffold unassisted.
"Then Norris. Then Brereton. The fourth was Sir Francis Peacham. He met his fate bravely, with grace and humility. He offered a short speech that sounded as though he was sacrificing his life for the good of the kingdom."
"His poor aunt does not share that view," I said. I had done my best to console the old nursemaid, fearing that her grief would drive her mad. She had raised him from babyhood after the death of his mother, her sister, and she loved him like a son.
"The last to die was George, Anne's brother. She was forced to witness them all."
"I prayed for Anne's death," I confessed to Chapuys, "but not for all of this blood to be shed."
"And there was indeed a great deal of it," Chapuys said. "A new scaffolding had been erected on Tower Green by the king's orders, to give more privacy than the usual place of execution on the hill outside the walls. The block was well-polished wood with a carved groove where the condemned was to rest his neck. But so much blood flowed during the beheading of the four gentlemen and the lowborn Smeaton that there was insufficient sawdust to sop up the gore. The axman called for servants to clean up the mess.
"The small crowd allowed to gather on Tower Green was restless, noisy—until the appearance of
Anne, accompanied by the priest who had heard her confession. Then all fell silent."
I drew a deep breath. "And my father? Was the king present to witness this?"
"He was not seen. It is possible that he watched from one of the windows overlooking the green."
"Did she speak as she went to her death?" I asked.
"Not a word that any of us could hear. She walked with her head held high, but she was trembling—all could see her steps falter—but she continued on, the priest at her elbow ready to catch her if she stumbled. Down the path to the steps of the scaffolding. Up each step, one by one. The priest halted below, looking up at her.
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