The Baker's Daughter Volume 1

by Bonny G Smith

  The Tower of London, May 1536

  The night sky was a dream-like blue, mixed with inky black, and glittering with cold, white stars. A lot had been taken from her in the past weeks, but in the small hours, when she was finally alone even if that only meant that the spies in her rooms slept, Anne would steal to the window, a mere lozenge that revealed the heavens beyond, and just stare. This oneness with oneself was something that could not be taken away from her until the moment when the sword struck and they ended her life. She had always loved the soft quiet of the hours just before dawn. She supposed that others in her place had mourned the sunrise, I shall never see a sunrise again; but Anne mourned the still of the night.

  She wished that she could sing, or at least hum a tune. That was another thing, which, evidently, would be with her to the last: her music. She had even made some new songs during the time of her imprisonment in the Tower. Morbid songs, it was true, but songs all the same. She suspected that Kingston thought her mad, with her hysteria and her weathercock moods. But perhaps not; mayhap he understood what she was going through better than she knew. He had seen it so many times. It was his profession. So if she started to sing now, would the guards call Kingston and would he think her mad? She suppressed the urge to cement the day’s earlier work by singing it aloud. She would confine her singing to the daylight hours, and hope that someone heard and would capture these last few songs. So that they did not die with her…

  Die. “I am come here to die…” her speech was to be. Why? How had she got here, to this place, to this time, to this fate? All she had wanted was Harry. If she had never caught the king’s eye, none of this would ever have happened. What had she done to deserve this?

  Looking back on it, the events that followed each other and led her to this moment were like the ripples that resulted when one tossed a stone into a pond. Follow each ripple and the path led here.

  The first little wave on the water had been when Henry had closed Parliament in mid-April. Why? So that she would not be able, as queen, to appeal to them to support her claim to immunity from arrest and trial?

  And then she had heard that Cromwell had vacated his apartments in the palace so that Henry’s brother-to-be could live in the rooms right next door to the king’s. Anne almost laughed out loud, and then caught herself just in time. That was another thing…her thoughts lately wandered many paths and sometimes if whatever she was thinking about or remembering was funny or ironic, she would laugh, apropos of nothing. Another reason good Kingston thought her mad. But that couldn’t be helped, she supposed.

  It wasn’t Edward Seymour that Henry wanted access to, it was Jane. It was so exactly what Henry had done in her own case; he became close friends with George, because, as his quarry’s brother, he would have access to her.

  The next ripple was when George was passed over for the Garter. If she had been unsure up to that point, there was no longer any doubt. Even if George was not to receive the honor that was instead bestowed upon Sir Nicholas Carew, as queen she should have been at the ceremony. It was an undeniable snub, and the court had known it. The jackals were closing in.

  She knew who was working her destruction; this was a job for Cromwell, and he was eminently suited for it. On the strength of that alone she counted herself doomed. Cromwell had learned his trade from Cardinal Wolsey; how fitting, she thought, how ironic, that through his instruments, the king and Cromwell, Wolsey was reaching out to her from beyond the grave and exacting his revenge. And then she would laugh out loud, and Mrs. Cosyns, one of the Greek Chorus of ladies that Cromwell had appointed to spy on her, would write it down and show Kingston what Her Grace had said, or done; she had laughed as if she were speaking to the devil himself and only she could hear his replies.

  The Devil. Anne had been thinking a great deal lately about the Devil. She had prayed to the Devil, all those years ago, to deliver her from the Butler marriage that her father had arranged for her. Her prayers to God had availed her nothing; she first grew impatient and then desperate, and ended by begging Satan for help. She had pricked the laurel leaves and buried them in the light of a full moon. She had cursed her enemies. And the Devil had delivered her, but not for Harry. She had been saved only to fall into another trap, that of Henry’s making. The Devil had betrayed her. Satan, the Father of Lies, had tricked her, and now he was come to claim her soul. Perhaps those who called her witch were not so far off the mark…and then she would laugh and Mrs. Cosyns would write it all down, and then Kingston would think her mad.

  However, knowing who was working her destruction only assured her of the success of the venture. How would Cromwell bring her down? It was then that the news reached her that Chancellor Audley had called a commission to review the treason laws. Treason! The last charge she had expected. She was no traitor. When the commission set to work, the first order of business was to review, refine and revise the Treason Laws as they applied to adultery.

  So Henry planned to charge her with adultery, and was ensuring that her guilt would be a death sentence. It all made sense; divorce or annulment wouldn’t do at all, it had to be annihilation. Henry’s desire for Jane must be very strong to induce him to wear a cuckold’s horns. She would not have wanted to be the one who put that suggestion to the king! Cromwell might be clever, but she knew him for a coward. Whom, she wondered, had been given that bit of dirty work to do?

  She was truly frightened then. So frightened that she had sent for Elizabeth. With the child in her arms she had gone to Henry’s rooms unannounced and begged him to give her another chance, for Elizabeth’s sake. As she begged, another part of her mind wondered if this was how Katharine had begged Henry, with her plump hands on Mary’s thin shoulders. Had Katharine seen that same hard set of the jaw, the compressed lips, the narrowed eyes, and known herself lost? The scene ended in a shouting match, as all their attempts to discuss anything ended, Elizabeth had begun to whimper, and Anne could see in Henry’s eyes that he wished them both a thousand miles away. At last, she knew, it was over. He was going to take everything. The house of cards had finally fallen.

  Adultery supposed a partner. Who was she supposed to have slept with, she wondered? Woe unto him, whoever he was. When Smeaton had been missing for two days, she enquired after him and officially sent to find out where he was. After all, he was her servant, and owed her some service. What she found out made her blood run cold. Smeaton was in the Tower. Oh, Henry, she thought, how cruel. He was sending the message that she had been just a commoner, even if she was now queen.

  The arrest of Norris had come as a surprise.

  Then they had arrested George. So, to the shock at her liaison with a commoner was to be added disgust at her liaison with her own brother.

  And then Weston, Brereton, Wyatt, and Page. Someone was cleaning house. Cromwell was using her own ouster to rid himself of anyone in Henry’s sphere who had been troublesome to him. Cromwell was doing the king’s bidding, but was able to exercise a personal vengeance against herself, and coincidentally, others. Opposing Cromwell on the issue of the wealth realized from the Dissolution of the Monasteries was the worst blunder she had ever made. The timing was extremely unfortunate. She was right, but that was beside the point. All truly was lost. All.

  Thank God her cousin Wyatt had been spared, and Page, too; God knew how innocent they all were.

  A warm breeze sighed past and brushed her cheek. She closed her eyes, but opened them again; it would soon be light and the stars would fade. And she would never see them again…

  Dear Kingston. Poor Kingston. Perhaps Margaret had been right when she had teased Anne about her effect on men. In the time she had been in the Tower she had observed Kingston go from the indifference that was his normal demeanor to his prisoners, to curiosity, to admiration, and finally, to pity. He was a little in love with her. He had to be because in his profession, he could not afford to become emotionally involved with his charges. But he had with Anne.

  She was supposed to be told n
othing, but Kingston had come to her with the news of how her sentence was to be carried out as soon as he knew it. He offered it to her almost as a lover offers a gift; it was to be the block instead of the stake. Knowing Anne’s anxiety over the dreadful uncertainty, Kingston had petitioned Cromwell to tell him whether he was to build a scaffold or a stake. A reasonable enough request from the Keeper of The Tower. He had been told to build a scaffold, lower than usual, within the precincts of The Tower. And immediately this order had been given him, he had come to tell Anne.

  “Good Kingston,” smiled Anne. “You are kind to tell me. I must confess that I was bedeviled by the uncertainty. Thank you.”

  It struck him that she was thanking him for telling her how she was to die. Why had this sort of thing never mattered to him before? No, that was not quite right, it had mattered to him always; but it had never occurred to him to seek to ease a prisoner’s lot. That was the difference. For some reason, he wanted to help Anne, do something for her. It was all very odd.

  The next night when Kingston came for his evening visit, he slipped her a small vial. “It is poppy syrup, my lady. If you should need something to steady you…” His eyes reminded her of a hound she’d once had at Hever.

  Anne smiled and took the offering. “You are so exceedingly kind, Sir William.”

  She had never used his given name before. A sudden quiver shook him.

  “You are cold,” she said. “Come closer to the fire.” The May nights were unpredictable. Henry had not replied to the letter she wrote him; she had not really expected one. But this man seemed willing to help her, and he had the ear of the king. “There is something else you can do for me, Sir William, if you’ve a mind to. But I will understand if you would rather not.”

  “Dear lady,” replied Kingston. “If it is possible, I will surely do it.”

  “The French are far more elegant than we English, even in a matter as intimate as death,” she said. “Would you be willing to implore the king on my behalf to provide a French headsman? They use swords, you know, for...” She heaved a ragged sigh. “It would spare me the indignity of laying my head on the block.” She smiled sweetly as if she were asking for an extra ration of wine.

  Kingston was nonplussed to discover that tears were stinging the backs of his eyes. This would never do. “My lady, I will see the king tonight.”

  “Yes,” said Anne. “After he has supped, though. He is mood is likely to be sweeter then.”

  She had been granted her request. But she was not to die as a queen after all.

  Archbishop Cranmer had come to offer her the sacrament and to get her signature on the documents annulling her marriage. Cranmer had come to prominence through his service to the Boleyn family, and he owed them much. Anne had been his chief benefactress. He loved and respected her. It broke his heart to see to what she had been brought.

  “Have you aught to confess, my lady?” he asked gently.

  “Yes, but I wish Master Kingston to be present for my confession,” said Anne.

  And so it was that the three of them knelt together and heard Anne confess to nothing more serious than the pricking and burying of a laurel leaf. Both men’s hearts ached for her.

  When Sir William made to leave Anne with the archbishop, Cranmer bade him stay.

  “I need you to witness the queen’s signature to these documents,” said Cranmer.

  “What is this?” asked Anne, reaching her long-fingered, white hand out for the sheaf of papers.

  Anne pulled the ribbon that held the scroll together and unfurled the stack. Her eyes quickly scanned the first page. “This is an annulment of my marriage. This document, with my signature on it, makes me the whore all say I am, and my daughter a bastard.” Inexplicably, an image of Katharine flashed through her mind. So must Katharine have felt. Oh dear God, there was one more thing she had to do before she never saw the stars again.

  “The king will consider banishment if you sign,” said Cranmer. His innocent blue eyes had much the same look Kingston’s had had when he offered her the poppy syrup.

  “Then he is a liar,” replied Anne. Both men blanched, but Anne laughed and said, “What can he do to me now? Tomorrow I die. The scaffold is built, the headsman on his way.” She began to laugh hysterically; Cranmer and Kingston exchanged worried glances.

  “F-forgive m-me,” said Anne, her hands to her lips. “It will p-pass.” And it did, Soon she had regained her control.

  The documents signed, Cranmer took his leave and left, trying not to seem to be hurrying.

  “He means well,” said Anne.

  Kingston nodded. “I know he does. He is a truly good man, I think.”

  “So,” said Anne. “I am to die as Marquis of Pembroke instead of Queen of England. But few will know that, and what matters it? The queen might have tried to be courageous and condemn the use of the poppy syrup; the Marquis may not be so circumspect.” She smiled, and there was a far away, almost amused expression on her face.

  “Oh, my lady,” said Kingston, the lump in his throat almost unbearable. He held out his hand, and Anne clasped it, a comforting, reassuring clasp. “I do assure you, it will all be over very fast, and you will feel nothing.”

  Anne smiled. “Yes,” she said “I know. I have heard that the swordsman is very good. And I have but a little neck.” Anne put her delicate, porcelain hand to her throat, and as she did so, flashed him a dazzling smile. “I have but one more favor to ask, Sir William, and then I promise to become a much better guest!”

  Her humor was subtle; dead guests were always very amenable. Practically overcome with emotion and struggling to hide it, he said, “Anything, my lady.”

  “Fetch Lady Kingston to me, if you please,” she said. “The favor I need is from her.”

  Chapter 8

  “And if a man shall take his brother’s wife, it is an unclean thing; he hath uncovered his brother’s nakedness; they shall be childless.”

  – Leviticus 20:21

  London, May 1536

  The hour of Anne’s execution having been changed several times, no one knew when to expect the thundering boom of the Tower cannon, so when it came, there was a moment of collective confusion. For most of the City of London, the impact of the explosion could be felt in one’s very vitals. In the split second that it took to remember that this moment meant the end of the Queen of England, time was suspended. People stopped what they were doing to stare open-mouthed at each other. They had wanted no Nan Bullen, and now Nan Bullen was no more.

  Suddenly the silence ended and there arose a great roar. The people were cheering. It was as if an evil pall had been lifted; as if the sun, long absent, had come out from behind a dark cloud. The wicked woman who had held the king in thrall these past nine years, who had driven good Queen Katharine to despair and finally to her death of at least a broken heart, if not of poison, was dead.

  A few, a very few, in the English tradition of giving quarter to the beaten underdog, muttered that the queen, regardless of her faults, had been treated unfairly, and was convicted only on the flimsiest of evidence. Indeed, even her enemies admitted that the evidence against her and the luckless men accused with her seemed fabricated and unbelievable. The mayor of London was heard to say that “…he could observe nothing in the proceedings against her but that they were resolved to make an occasion to get rid of her.” But the rejoicing soon overcame the grumblings about fairness and right, and the people looked forward to a new day in which the sun shone, the birds sang, and the king was happy once more.

  Henry was supping at Whitehall Palace when the Tower cannon boomed to announce Anne’s death. The force of it made the plate jump and clatter on the table. Without a word, he arose from his chair, drained his cup, and made for the water steps. He sailed in the royal barge down the Thames to The Strand where Jane awaited him.

  The colorful banners with which the barge was bedecked fluttered in the breeze. It was a perfect spring day. All the way the royal trumpeters blew a fanfare
, their instruments reflecting the sun and looking for all the world as if they were made of gold. The people, hearing the clamorous sound, ran to the banks of the river and cheered, the women throwing flowers and the men tossing up their caps in delight at the royal display.

  Asked to explain their elation, few could have articulated it; but the general feeling was that the bad days were gone, and a new era of gaiety and joyfulness was now upon them. Now would the realm know a peace of mind it had not known for years. It went without saying that it meant that at last England would be returned to her faith of old, and the Princess Mary would be restored to the king’s affections, to the court, and to the succession.

  But within the precincts of the Tower, quite a different scene was taking place. The crowd of hundreds who had come, as was their right, to hear the queen speak her last words and to watch her die before their eyes, had melted away and was gone. All that remained was a group of weeping women, left with the unenviable task of gathering up the queen and placing her into the plain pine coffin that was all that had been vouchsafed one who had, after all, once been a queen of England. A Tower servant, begrudging his noon-piece, heaved the blood-stained box onto a cart and unceremoniously wheeled the erstwhile queen of England into the chapel, lowered the box into the floor, replaced the stone and departed without a word.

  # # #

  In his little house on Fenchurch Street, where he had installed his wife, Cromwell sat in his favorite chair holding a mug of ale. The wine of the court did not suit his digestion, and many were the times he had suffered for it. It had to be good English ale for him, and when in his own home, he would drink nothing else. The hand that held the mug shook uncontrollably. He willed it to be still, but it would not. Violence always upset and unnerved him, even such controlled violence as a beheading. When he was growing up in Putney, he had never been one to make an outing of a hanging, as so many others were wont to do. But as an official witness to justice being done, this day he had been forced to watch. God alone knew how long his dreams would be haunted by the gruesome sight of the blood gushing from Anne’s empty neck, and the sight of her staring eyes as her head dropped to the bloody straw below her. One moment she had been a living, breathing, vital human being with thoughts, fears, and undoubtedly, regrets. And the next she was a mangled corpse. He set the mug down on the side table as carefully as he could, but it clattered as it hit the smooth surface of the wood and some of the liquid spilled.