To Die For: A Novel of Anne Boleyn

TWENTY-FIVE

Year of Our Lord 1536

The Tower of London

There are many ways to arrive at the Tower of London, though there are few ways out. Kings and queens ride in before a coronation, retinue trailing like a train of ermine. Prisoners, however, arrive on foot, shoved through one cavernous gate or another by the wardens, who live, as all do, at the mercy of a merciless king. Some unfortunate few are delivered to the Tower by water.

The Thames lapped against our boat as it stopped to allow for the entry gate to be raised. The metal teeth lifted high enough for the oarsmen to row us into the Tower’s maw, called Traitor’s Gate. This beast never ate its fill and, like all beasts of prey, ate only flesh. It brought to mind the words of King David: My soul is among lions: I lie even among them that are set on fire, even the sons of men, whose teeth are spears and arrows, and their tongue a sharp sword.

I glanced up as Lady Zouche caught a sob in her handkerchief. I then looked to my older sister, Alice, for comfort. She held my gaze with a somber shake of her head. Our falsely accused brother was even now waiting, being digested in the belly within. For the first time Alice had no comfort to offer me, no tonic of hope.

Momentarily we bumped up against the stone stairways leading out of the water and were commanded to quickly disembark.

I had half expected Henry to quarter her in some kind of dungeon, but no, Sir William Kingston informed us upon our arrival that Anne was staying at the Queen’s Lodging, which had been refurbished to her tastes just three years past, in advance of her coronation. We walked up the green and to the doors that led to her apartments. Four armed burly guards stood in front of the door. When we arrived, they parted like the Red Sea and let us through.

I opened the door and went in first. Her receiving room was simpler than when we were last there: one bed and several pallets, now pushed up against the wall. A study desk. Cold stone walls—no tapestries to warm nor cheer had been sent. A pitcher of water sat on a basin. There was a privy pot squatting under her bed. Then I saw Anne, in the corner of the receiving room, sitting on her bed, her hair pulled back but not done, her shoulders back, not wilting in defeat. Her aunt, Lady Norfolk, gossiped in a corner with Jane Rochford. Clearly neither was there to serve.

“We’ve come, darling,” I said, rushing to her bed and taking her into my arms. She fell into them for a moment, then regained her composure.

“I’m so glad you’ve arrived,” she said. Her voice and her hands tremored slightly. “The ladies here will want a break from their strenuous service, for certes.” At that she began to laugh, not the low, husky laugh I was accustomed to hearing from her but one with the high pitch of hysteria hiding just behind the jollity. “If you’re allowed to me then it must be done and over with. What of the king’s council? Why have they not questioned me to see if there needs be a trial?”

“The king’s men told us on the way to the Tower that the trial has already been scheduled, Your Grace,” I said. “The gentlemen of the privy chamber will be tried today. You and George are to be tried on Monday next.”

“On what have they based these charges?” she asked. “When they bring them to me, I can but say nay.”

“On hearsay, Anne.”

Jane Rochford kept her distance. While my sister, Alice, unpacked some new garments for Anne, and Lady Zouche brought her copy of Tyndale’s Scriptures, I addressed myself to the ladies taking leave. Lady Norfolk turned her back on me afore I could speak.

But Jane pulled herself up into an arrogant stance and shot me a buttery grin. “If you’re kind to me, Mistress Wyatt, I shall see to it that Jane Seymour offers you a place in her privy chamber, along with me.”

“I am not surprised that you sold yourself so cheaply. But to sell your husband too?” I said. “Even Judas held out for thirty pieces of silver.” I drew near to her, near enough to see the bloodshot veins in her eyes and to inhale her putrid breath, which smelt of her many black teeth. “Recall you this, Jane Parker. He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword.”

She recoiled from me at that and crossed herself.

“You needn’t cross yourself, madam,” I said. “’Tis a promise from the Lord Jesus Christ Himself.”

She, Mrs. Cousins, and Lady Norfolk took their leave; the king had sent a litter to carry them back to court so they need not suffer the indignity of the waterway. I was glad to be rid of them. Nan Zouche kept herself busy unpacking some things we’d brought for Anne and my sister went to visit my brother Thomas, lodged nearby in the Bell Tower. Anne seemed deeply grieved to learn that he’d been imprisoned too. I did not share with her that our final fate had not yet been clarified.

I attended to Anne. “How do you fare?” I asked quietly. Now that Jane and the others were gone she settled in.

“As well as I may,” she said. “How does my mother? My father? My daughter?”

“They grieve, and the babe, of course, knows naught. Lady Bryan shall be loving to her, as ever. I, I took your pearls and your locket ring and hid them. I shall ensure she receives them if….”

“If I cannot,” Anne finished. I nodded.

When Alice returned to the Queen’s Lodging she whispered to me that all of the men of the privy chamber had been found guilty of adultery with the queen, though none save Smeaton would admit anything at all, nor malign Anne, even when promised leniency if they’d admit.

“Speak up, Lady,” Anne called from her chair. “I wish to hear the details. You’ve naught to spare me from.”

“The jury was packed with noblemen sympathetic to Katherine and Mary, madam, as well as those who favor Jane Seymour.”

“Who has, I suppose, taken up residence in my bed?”

I shook my head. “She says she will not partner with the king till after they are married.”

Anne laughed. “She’s only just clever enough to imitate but has not the wit to generate an idea of her own nor the morals to hold to them if she had.” She quieted some. “And the men tried today?”

“Have been returned to the Tower to await traitors’ deaths, my queen,” Alice said. No one needed to elaborate on what that meant.

“Even Ambassador Chapuys, a Spaniard whom you know to be no friend to you nor to your faction, stated, ‘They were condemned upon presumption and certain indications without proof of confession.’”

“Methinks he will not repeat that to the king,” Anne said bitterly.

“No, my lady,” Alice said. “I think not.”

When Anne dozed off for a moment Alice and I clung to one another and grieved for our brother Thomas, whose fate was still undecided. When I stepped outside of Anne’s chambers for some air I could see the tower in which he languished.

Some time passed and Sir William came to check on us and deliver the evening meal. Anne took it graciously and then asked, “If these men have already been convicted of fornicating with me, then there is no hope that I shall be found innocent, is there?”

“The poorest subject the king has will see justice,” he replied.

Anne laughed again, but it was controlled.

We quieted her with food and wine and spent the weekend at prayer. I did everything within my power and beseeched God, on her behalf, to do what was in His, to help her remain calm and dignified on Monday.

Although the men of the privy chamber had been tried at Westminster, Anne and George were to be tried within the Tower itself. Special stands were constructed within the King’s Hall, as if for a great sporting event; we could hear them building all weekend long.

I chose a somber yet royal dress of purple for her to wear, modest and yet becoming. She wore a cloak trimmed with ermine, as was her right.

“Thank you, Meg,” she said to me. Her voice was steady, as were her hands.

“’Tis my pleasure to dress and prepare you for whatever your needs are, Anne,” I said.

She leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Your friendship is a constant reminder to me of God’s goodness.”

I turned away then, so she could not see my tears, and prayed that I, too, would find God’s goodness in these spiderwebbed corners of life.

Nearly two thousand spectators sweated and grunted and leaned a ready ear in the great hall when we entered. ’Twas like a baiting—all seated round watching the prodding in hopes of provoking a response to bring the crowd to their feet. As it was summer, no candles were needed in support of the light streaming through the great, veined windows. Anne’s uncle, the faithless Lord Norfolk, presiding as lord high steward for the day, was seated at the center of a large planked table in front. A chair, comfortable but certainly no throne, was placed for Anne. As the Scripture exhorting me not to return evil for evil came to mind, I repented of my wish that there would be a warm corner in hell for Norfolk someday soon and instead prayed for his eyes to be opened this day and justice to be served.

Sitting on the panel of peers was Henry Percy, Lord Northumberland, Anne’s first love. What, I wondered, would her life have been like had she married him? Would Wolsey, now with plenty of time in eternity to consider his life anew and again, wish himself back in time and offer his assistance to the marriage rather than blocking it and making way for the king?

“Madam,” Norfolk began, “you are principally charged with having cohabited with your brother, George, Lord Rochford, and other accomplices. You are charged with having promised to marry Henry, Lord Norris, upon the king’s death, which you both hoped for. You are charged with having favorites in the court, men and boys, and plying them with gifts so they could slake your lusts. You are charged with witchcraft. To these charges, what do you plead?”

Anne stood, waited till all eyes were upon her, and answered. “I plead not guilty to each offense, My Lord of Norfolk.”

Norfolk read off the dates of the supposed adulteries. I was exultant as I heard them. In many of them, Anne was in a completely different place than the accused spot of rendezvous. A simple review of the king’s books could affirm that. Or the men charged were elsewhere. Or she had been recovering from childbirth, surrounded at all hours by her ladies, and still bleeding.

Anne refuted each charge. The spectators, all two thousand of them, seemed with her. I heard some cheers on her behalf from the crowd, which Lord William’s men quickly quieted.

“It may be so that you can lay claim for these dates, but the document specifically claims that there were divers other dates and places, both before and after,” Norfolk boomed out.

“Unless specific times and places are named I cannot answer the charges,” Anne said. To that, there was no reply. I knew then that she was done. One look at Anne’s face and I knew she knew, had long known, that guilty was the foregone conclusion of the “trial.”

“Do you admit to nothing at all, madam?” Norfolk said, after being prodded by Anne’s longtime nemesis the Duke of Suffolk.

“I do not say that I have always borne toward the king the humility which I owed him, considering his kindness and the great honor he showed me, and the great respect he always paid me. I admit, too, that often I have taken it into my head to be jealous of him where other maidens were concerned. But may God be my witness if I have done him any other wrong.”

’Twas not a wife in the world who could not confess likewise. The crowds in the stands made it plain that they were now on Anne’s side. Alas, the peers summoned by His Majesty’s council were not.

“Gentlemen? Your verdict?”

One by one they stood and declared, “Guilty.” And then sat down. To a man.

Anne stared directly at Henry Percy as he choked out the word “guilty.” She had been right. It was not good to pledge yourself to a weak man. Mayhap, she’d learnt to her distress, not to one overly strong, either.

Norfolk now stood and declared the sentence. All knew that the typical method of death for a traitoress was burning alive, and that was what we all expected. I stiffened my back so I should not let my friend down at her hour of need.

“Because you are queen,” Norfolk said, “we declare that you should be burned, or beheaded, at the king’s pleasure. His judgment will be sent for.”

Anne swayed slightly but did not fail. “I am resigned to die, but I regret that so many others, innocent and ever loyal to the king, would die with me.” She waited in the silence. No one responded. “I would ask a short space for shrift, to settle my accounts and make things right with God,” she finished. It was always possible that the king would have her slain the next morning or even afore.

“You will be notified of the king’s response,” was Norfolk’s reply. At that, the peers turned and left. The guards held back the crowd while Anne, and we ladies, returned to Queen’s Lodging to prepare her for her death, by burning, or beheading, we knew not which.

Later that day George Boleyn was tried. All expected him to be acquitted but, alas, what did him in was a letter from his wife stating that her husband had certainly had a sexual relationship with his sister, the queen. The queen herself had told her, Jane Rochford went on to state, that the king was unable to perform as a man. Mayhap that is why the queen sought comfort often with other men, including her brother.

Anne hung her head when she heard the news. “I am filled with regret,” she said. “I recall, of a moment, advice that Margaret of Austria gave to me and the other maids of honor when we were but young girls serving in her court. ‘Trust in those who offer you service, and in the end, my maidens, you will find yourself in the ranks of those who have been deceived.’ For Jane Rochford deceived me, and now she has deceived all. I trusted in her, once, to my peril and to George’s.”

The next day the king allowed Archbishop Cranmer to visit with Anne, to offer spiritual comfort and hope, and we ladies took our leave to walk and offer her some privacy. But Cranmer brought ill tidings as well as comfort. I should not have thought that things could have grown worse. But they had.

When we returned Anne sat, motionless, in her chair. “What is it, my lady?” I asked.

“Cranmer has just told me that my marriage has been annulled,” she said.

“Wonderful!” I cried. “Then you cannot have been adulterous to the king—if you had no marriage at all. Is that not true?”

Anne turned to me and smiled wanly. “Seems sensible, Meg, but alas, while I have had no valid marriage, my charges still stand.”

Would no one speak up against this nonsensical offense? But who could, and retain his head?

“By what charge has your marriage been voided?” Nan Zouche asked.

“By the king’s carnal knowledge of my sister, Mary,” Anne said quietly. “It seems his conscience has now quickened inside him and he is taken with regret that he allowed me to ‘bewitch’ him when he knew all along that it was not right to marry me, his having been with my sister. Cranmer has agreed, in form, anyway, and annulled our marriage.”

Naught could be said.

“Elizabeth has been made a bastard,” Anne said, her voice growing dull as the wash water in her basin, which had not been refreshed.

She stood, walked to the window, and stared out. I joined her.

“The princess will be all right, dearest,” I said, rubbing her back lightly for comfort. “Mayhap as the king’s bastard she will be safer than as his heir.”

“Mayhap,” Anne said. “I have written to Master Parker and sent the letter with Cranmer. Cranmer did for me what he could, I know, but he is not as strong as I would have hoped. I have therefore given Matthew Parker charge over my daughter, her spiritual life and well-being. With Henry as sire and me as a mother I trust Elizabeth will need a quiet mind and a steady wit to guide her. I believe Bishop Parker will see that she comes to the truth of our Lord.”

“Parker is trustworthy. And I will ensure that Elizabeth receives your jewels. When I have occasion to speak to her I will speak of you.”

Anne drew near to me. “I heard some in the crowd afore my trial whisper that this is justice served. That I forced Henry to set aside Katherine, now I am being set aside for Jane.”

“You did not force the king to do anything, Anne,” I said. “And Katherine was not foully charged as an adulteress and a witch, nor set to die by public beheading or burning.”

She looked me full in the face. “I truly believed him. That his marriage to Katherine had been dead for years, all knew. He said his marriage had been invalid, cursed, because of Arthur. That God had told him he must marry anew and get him a son for the realm. I trusted in him and carried forth with honest intent certain in the knowledge that Henry would not lie to me.”

“Do you still believe he told you the truth?” I asked her. It was plain to me that His Majesty was not only willing to lie, but that he convinced himself that the lies were truth and therefore had full confidence in them.

Anne did not directly respond. Instead, she said, “Mayhap he has convinced Mistress Seymour that our marriage was invalid, cursed, due to his knowledge of my sister. And that I am a witch. And she, as I did, carries on with honest intent.”

“You’re more charitable than I, dearest,” I said.

“Meg, I must confess to you.” She drew me back toward the window. “I did perhaps have a nagging suspicion that all was not as he said. But I was desperately in love. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to be married. I wanted to be queen. Mayhap I did wrong by Katherine because I wanted her to be a shrew who was not a maid at her marriage. I am not invulnerable to self-deceit.”

“None of us is. Let your soul be easy, Anne,” I said. “God will sort it out. And you acted upon the words spoken to you by the king, whose word is law.” She nodded weakly so I took her by the hands to steady them and led her to table to partake of a cold meal of cheese, meat, and bread. Whatever self-deceit she had allowed herself would be paid for a hundred times over at Tower Green.

We stayed up late that evening; Lord Kingston was kind enough to give us extra candles. We talked and, yea, even laughed over some of our girlhood adventures and discussed which gowns had been particular favorites. Even till the end, Anne cared about her clothes. She remained true to herself and I loved her for it.

The next morning we heard the scaffolding being built, early, on Tower Hill. By noon on the seventeeth of May each man falsely accused of adultery with Anne was beheaded.

My brother Thomas was able to watch from the Bell Tower, and he copied down George’s last words so I might bring them to Anne for comfort. She read them over. He confessed his sins, spoke his regret that he was more often a hearer of the gospel than a doer, and entreated his listeners to do the opposite. I saw both the keening grief at his loss and her pride that he died strong in his faith in her face, etched already beyond its age with fatigue.

The king rested from his midnight festivities and rendezvous long enough to declare that Anne would die by beheading on Friday, May 19. Sir William told us that a French swordsman had been sent for and that it should be no pain, it was so subtle. No one commented that in order for the executioner to arrive from France in time he would have had to have been sent for well in advance of Anne’s “trial.”

As Anne heard Lord Kingston out I heard the note of hysteria creep into her voice for a moment. “I have heard say the executioner was very good, and I have a little neck.” She put her hand round it and laughed. Sir William backed away and out the door.

We stayed up with her, and her almoner, all night afore and she grew calm again. She asked me to read aloud in the first epistle of Saint Peter the Apostle.

Submit yourselves unto all manner ordinance of man for the Lord’s sake, whether it be unto the king as unto the chief head: or unto rulers, as unto them that are sent of him…. for so it is the will of God, that ye put to slander the ignorance of foolish men…. for it is thankworthy if a man for conscience toward God endure grief, suffering, wrongfully…. For Christ also suffered, leaving us an example that ye should follow his steps, which did no sin, neither was their guile found in his mouth: which when he was reviled, reviled not again, when he suffered, he threatened not: but committed the cause to him that judgeth righteously.

I closed the book.

“You have lived a good life, my dearest, loveliest friend. You have borne the weight of England’s Reformation on your shoulders. You have used your influence to place men who stand solely on Scripture”—I looked at her almoner—“throughout the Church of England and they will stand, and lead others, long after you are gone. You have borne a good daughter. You have been a most excellent wife and loyal friend. The rest is now to faith.”

Anne nodded. “Saint Peter reminds me that I am called to suffer wrong and take it patiently and without rebuke.”

“And Saint Paul writes to the Romans, ‘Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but give room unto the wrath of God, for it is written: vengeance is mine, I will reward, saith the Lord.’ I admit to an unseemly eagerness to see what vengeance our Lord has in mind for Henry.”

Anne allowed herself a little smile. “Dear Meg. You are always constant.”

“Well, ’tis in Holy Writ!” I exclaimed. That brought a fuller smile from her, and it was lovely to behold.

“You are right,” she said. “’Tis easier to be meek when you know false charges will not go unanswered. I shall follow in the path of my Master. To do otherwise would be a burden on my soul—and a weapon for Henry to use against my daughter.” Her black eyes grew sharp again. Her mind had lost nothing to grief.

We prayed for a time and then, nigh on daybreak, she awoke me. When I looked at her, I saw she was firmly in control of her emotions. Her hands did not tremble. Her smile was steady. Queen Anne was back.

“Rise, Meg. We must dress.”