Anne Boleyn: A King's Obsession

by Alison Weir

  If she had not known that Cromwell was ill at Stepney, she would have sworn that his hand was in this. His enmity had been made clear, and she had threatened him. Maybe he was not ill at all: maybe it was a front for plotting her ruin. The more she thought about this, the more she believed it. Anything was better than believing it of Henry.

  Her ladies offered some words of comfort to her in her distress, but they were keeping a wary distance. That taint of treason again! Anne picked up her embroidery, but her hands were not steady enough to wield a needle and thread. She wondered if she would ever finish it.

  Toward four o’clock, by which time her heart was thumping in anticipation of what lay ahead, the Countess of Worcester suddenly emitted a moan. She had had her hands on her pregnant belly for some time.

  “The child does not stir,” she said, her face tragic.

  “How long have you noticed this?” Anne asked, as the ladies clustered around.

  “Since they came for you,” the Countess whispered. “It was the shock.”

  “You should lie down,” Mary Howard urged her, and helped her away to her bed.

  Again Anne felt faint.

  The lords came for her soon afterward, accompanied by a larger detachment of the King’s guard and Sir William Kingston, the Constable of the Tower, a tall, distinguished knight in middle age who had long served Henry well and was high in his favor.

  “Madam,” he said, bowing, “I am to have charge of you during your stay at the Tower. You must come with me now.” His gray eyes were not unkind or devoid of humanity, and his grizzled head was respectfully bowed. Although Anne knew he had been a friend of Cardinal Wolsey, and had been rumored to be an admirer of the late Princess Dowager, she sensed that he had some sympathy for her.

  She bade a brief farewell to her attendants, gave Urian a last pat—poor boy, he was looking at her so soulfully, perhaps sensing her distress—then walked with her custodians through the palace to where her barge was waiting. Passing between the ranked stone statues of heraldic beasts, she descended the privy stairs and stepped on board, as the lords climbed into the vessel behind her. Norfolk indicated that she should enter the cabin, then sat down heavily beside her on the cushioned bench and himself drew the curtains so that she should not be seen from the shore. It was one small mercy.

  As the barge began its journey, she tried to ignore his sanctimonious tut-tutting.

  “You should remember that your paramours have confessed their guilt,” he said.

  She flared. “I am innocent! I have had no paramours! I beg of you, take me to see His Grace.”

  “Tut, tut!” Norfolk repeated, shaking his head, until she thought she would scream.

  “We’re nearing the Tower now,” he said presently, and she started as a deafening burst of cannon fire almost rocked the barge. “They’re announcing your arrival. It’s done when a person of high rank is brought here under arrest.” There was the sound of shouting and loud voices from outside, and the Duke peered through a chink in the curtains. “People are running to see what’s happening.”

  Anne looked out too, and at the sight of the great fortress looming up in front of her, her courage almost failed her. She remembered that More and Fisher and the Nun of Kent had left this place for the scaffold.

  She waited as the oarsmen steered the vessel toward the Queen’s Stairs, which led up to the Court Gate, the postern entrance where she had entered at her coronation. The difference between that day and this was too monumental to bear thinking about. Back then, Henry had been waiting here to welcome her; he had kissed her in front of everyone. Now she was alone—and terrified of what he might do to her.

  Sir William Kingston appeared at the door of the cabin. “Please come with me, madam.” She rose and clambered along the footway behind him, between the rows of staring oarsmen, Norfolk and the other lords bringing up the rear. She could hear the roar of the crowd on Tower Hill as she ascended the Queen’s Stairs. Waiting at the top was Kingston’s deputy, Sir Edmund Walsingham, the Lieutenant of the Tower, flanked by a detachment of guards.

  When she reached the dark passage below the ancient Byward Tower, Anne faced the stark reality of her situation. It was rare, she realized, for anyone accused of treason to escape death. She felt so ill with fear that she thought she might collapse. As her stoutly maintained composure disintegrated, she sank to her knees. “Oh, my God, my God, help me, as I am not guilty of those crimes of which I am accused!” she wailed. The councillors stood there looking down on her pitilessly.

  “Sir William, we commit the Queen, here prisoner, to your custody,” Norfolk said to Kingston, then he turned to his colleagues, nodded, and made to depart.

  Anne struggled to her feet, despairing. “My lords, I pray you, beseech the King’s Grace to be good to me!” Her voice rose on a sob, but still they ignored her and headed back through the postern—to freedom. They knew not how blessed they were!

  “Sir William, may I write to the King?” she begged.

  “You may not write to anyone, madam,” he told her.

  “Please! He is my lord and husband.”

  “Orders is orders,” grunted Sir Edmund Walsingham.

  “Come this way,” Kingston said. The guards surrounded Anne and she followed the constable along the outer ward of the Tower that led toward the royal lodgings.

  “I was received with greater ceremony the last time I entered here,” she recalled. “Master Kingston, do I go into a dungeon?”

  He looked at her in surprise. “No, madam, you shall go into the lodging that you stayed in at your coronation.”

  The relief was indescribable. Henry, for reasons she could not fathom, was doing this to teach her some sort of lesson. They did not house traitors in palaces. But then no queen had ever been accused of treason in England…

  She thought of Norris, of how nearly she had sinned with him, had indeed sinned in her heart. He did not deserve to be caught up in this.

  “Where are those accused with me being held?” she asked.

  “I am not allowed to discuss them with you, madam,” the constable said.

  “They are in dungeons—you don’t need to tell me.”

  “We cannot say,” Sir Edmund barked. “Orders is orders.”

  “Then this lodging is too good for me!” she cried, imagining Norris in chains, and veering back from optimism to terror. What did they intend to do with her? “Jesu, have mercy on me!” she cried out, and fell helplessly to her knees on the cobbles, great sobs racking her body. Kingston and Sir Edmund stared down at her in dismay, but neither ventured to help her up. It was not done for a lesser mortal to lay hands on the Queen of England. At the thought, she burst out laughing hysterically. They might be preparing to put her to death, but they dared not lift her up!

  With an effort, she rose, and they continued past the Lieutenant’s House to the entrance to the palace, where Kingston preceded her up the stairs to her lodgings. It was as if three years had melted away. The rooms smelled musty, but they were just as she had left them to go in triumph through the City. It seemed like yesterday that she had admired the spacious chambers, the great mantel, and the mischievous putti gambolling along the antique frieze.

  Those who had been chosen to attend her were waiting for her. She was dismayed to see that chief among them were four ladies she disliked. There was her Aunt Boleyn, the wife of her Uncle James, who had recently incurred Anne’s enmity by switching his allegiance to the Lady Mary. There too was Lady Shelton, who greeted Anne with undisguised venom.

  Lady Kingston came forward and curtseyed. She too was a friend of the Lady Mary, and had once served the Princess Dowager. Anne did not expect her to be sympathetic. Lastly, there was Mrs. Coffyn, the wife of her Master of Horse.

  Was this some added refinement of cruelty on Henry’s part, forcing upon her the company of four women who hated her? How could he! But he had sent her old nurse, Mrs. Orchard, who was shaking her head in sorrow, and the amiable Mrs. Stonor, her Mothe
r of the Maids. These two ladies, Kingston explained, would serve as her chamberers and sleep on pallet beds in her bedchamber at night.

  “Madam, it is customary for prisoners of rank to take their meals at my table,” he said. “Supper is ready, and I should be pleased if you would join me and my wife.”

  Anne was surprised by this unlooked-for courtesy, and allowed herself to be escorted to the Lieutenant’s House, a crumbling old building facing Tower Green and the chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula. A table was set with linen and silver, and good fare was placed before her. Heartened, she managed to eat a little, under the watchful eyes of her host and hostess, but the conversation was awkward, punctuated by tense silences. There was so much she wanted—nay, needed—to know, but dared not ask, for fear of what she might hear.

  Above all, she had a burning need to proclaim her innocence, and that of Norris and Smeaton. She also craved spiritual comfort. “Master Kingston, will you please move the King’s Highness to agree to my having the Blessed Sacrament in my closet, so that I might pray for God’s mercy?” she asked.

  “I can arrange for that, madam,” he told her, dabbing his mouth with his napkin. “Would you like me to ask one of the Tower chaplains to give you Holy Communion after supper?”

  “I should like that very much,” she faltered, trying not to cry. “God will bear witness that there is no truth in these charges, for I am as clear from the company of man as from sin, and I am the King’s true wedded wife. Master Kingston, do you know why I am here?”

  Kingston looked troubled. “If I did, I would not be allowed to discuss it with you.”

  “When did you last see the King?” she persisted.

  “I saw him in the tiltyard on May Day.”

  “I pray you tell me where my lord my father is,” she begged. Father had influence. Surely he could intercede for her.

  “I saw him before dinner at court,” Kingston replied. Had Father been aware of what was happening? He was a member of the King’s Council—and he had been appointed to that Grand Jury. She remembered how distracted he had been when she saw him last. Had he known about this and not warned her? And George? If George knew, he would move Heaven and earth to save her. He would speak to the King on her behalf and fearlessly defend her. She could not bear to imagine his distress when he heard of her arrest.

  “Where is my sweet brother?” she cried desperately.

  “I left him at York Place,” Kingston said.

  Lady Kingston reached across and touched her arm. “Madam, there’s no use working yourself up into a frenzy,” she said. But Anne was lost in terror, deeply agitated, and remembering that someone unnamed had also been charged with committing treason with her. Who could it be?

  “I hear that I am accused with three men,” she said, “and I can say no more but nay, I have done nothing wrong, unless I should open my body to prove it!” So saying, she pretended to hold wide her bodice, and then found herself laughing hysterically again at the absurdity of what she had just said, until Kingston reminded her that Norris and Smeaton had testified against her. She could believe it of Smeaton, for he was no gentleman, but not of Norris. Surely he would not betray her?

  “Oh, Norris, have you accused me?” she burst out, laughter turning to weeping. “You are in the Tower with me, and you and I shall die together. And Mark, you are here too,” she lamented, remembering that he too was innocent. Then she thought of her mother, still lying sick at Hever, and how badly the news of her arrest, with all its shocking implications, would affect her. “Oh my mother, you will die for sorrow!” she cried. The thought of her mother was too much to bear, so she quickly changed the subject and spoke of her fears for Lady Worcester, whose child might have died inside her.

  “What caused it?” Lady Kingston asked.

  “It was for the sorrow she felt for me,” Anne told her. There was a silence.

  Anne turned to the Constable. She desperately needed to know if she was to face trial. “Master Kingston, shall I die without justice?”

  “The poorest subject of the King hath justice,” he replied.

  She laughed at that. She could not stop herself.

  —

  It was ten o’clock. The chaplain had long gone, and Anne was completing her light penance in her closet when she heard Lady Kingston, in the outer chamber, say to her aunts that Smeaton had at last been found a lodging in the Tower, and that it was meaner than Norris’s. Would to God she knew where Norris was lodged. But as she fell, exhausted, into her bed, at the close of what had been the most dreadful day of her life, it was a small comfort to know that he could not be far away.

  Sleep was impossible. She had suffered night terrors before her arrest, but they were a hundred times worse now. Henry, she was convinced, wanted to be free to take a third wife who could give him sons, but without the trouble that had ensued when he had tried to set Katherine aside. But she, Anne, would go quietly, if only she were given the chance—and she would say so as soon as the opportunity arose. It might be her only hope of saving herself. Unless, of course, he was just trying to frighten her into submission. How many times had his threats proved to be mere bluster? He did not really mean to put her to death, not after all she had meant to him. She tried not to imagine herself kneeling before the block, waiting for the ax to fall—the thought was too terrifying. And she had thought rape was the worst thing a man could do to a woman! Her thoughts kept revolving, an endless, convoluted torment, until she saw another bright May morning dawn outside her window.

  —

  A few hours later, she was allowed to sit in the Queen’s garden, a walled enclosure with an unkempt lawn and poorly tended flower beds. Her four guardians had to accompany her, and she realized that Lady Kingston, who was ostensibly busy with her sewing, was watching her closely. Lady Shelton’s overt hostility was unmitigated. It hurt, especially after Anne had done her the honor of appointing her to Elizabeth’s household.

  “Why are you so angry with me, aunt?” she challenged.

  “You should know!” Lady Shelton hissed. “Not content with bringing disgrace on our family, you have ruined my Madge’s reputation! Do you deny that you pushed her into the King’s path? Or that Norris, the man she loved, betrayed her with you? Thanks to you, her good name is gone and her happiness destroyed.”

  “None of that is true,” Anne protested. “I have brought no disgrace on our family, for I have been true to the King. Those charges are all lies. I never betrayed him or Madge with Norris. And it was Madge who offered to seduce His Grace.”

  “You lie!” Lady Shelton spat. “My daughter would never do such a thing.”

  “I beg to correct you, but she did. Ask her.”

  “I know what her answer will be. But your wickedness did not end there, as I well know. You forced me to make the Lady Mary’s life a misery; that poor girl, that good girl, lived in fear that you would do away with her. How would you like someone to treat your daughter like that? Think on it, madam, for soon you may not be here to protect her.”

  “Lady Shelton, I think you have said enough,” Lady Kingston said, as Anne sat there trembling. She might indeed be facing death, and if there was anything that should trouble her conscience, it was the vile way she had treated Mary.

  Lady Kingston was looking at her with pity in her eyes. “I suggest you refrain from making wild threats,” she told Lady Shelton, “as we don’t know what is to happen to the Queen here. We await the King’s orders.”

  So there was cause for hope after all. Anne did not know how much longer she could live with the uncertainty, the wild veering between optimism and despair. But she was resolved that, if Henry did spare her, she would be truly kind to Mary and make up to her for all the misery she had inflicted.

  Mrs. Coffyn, who had been feeding the birds with crumbs from the breakfast table, now sat down beside Anne. “I am most sorry for your present trouble,” she said. “I cannot imagine why you are in this situation. I’m told it is because of something your c
hamberlain said. Why would Sir Henry Norris tell Father Skip that he would swear you were a good woman? Why should he even speak of such a matter?”

  It dawned on Anne that Mrs. Coffyn, and the others, had been set to spy on her and get her to incriminate herself out of her own mouth. No doubt every word she said was being reported back to Kingston—and Henry!

  “I bade him do so,” she said, deciding that telling the truth was the best course. “We had exchanged some remarks in jest, no more, that we feared had been overheard and misconstrued.” She recounted the conversation she had had with Norris.

  “You should know that, even now, Sir Francis Weston is being questioned by the Privy Council about his relations with your Grace,” Mrs. Coffyn revealed, watching her closely.

  Weston too! She had wondered if he was the third man. “I fear him talking more than anyone else,” she admitted. “He thinks that Norris is in love with me.” And she related her exchange with Weston about Norris being reluctant to marry Madge. “And that,” she said, glaring at Lady Shelton, “was all there was to this so-called treason.”

  She turned back to Mrs. Coffyn. “I will not be convicted,” she declared. “There is no evidence they can produce against me. If they are twisting silly talk like this, they must be groping around in the dust for a means to get rid of me. But my brother will speak for me, and Norris will declare my innocence, as must Weston and Smeaton.”

  “Lord Rochford has been arrested too,” Lady Kingston revealed. “He is here in the Tower.” She would not meet Anne’s horrified gaze.

  George too? It did not make sense. Why should he be imprisoned on her account? God forbid, had his part in Katherine’s death been discovered? If Chapuys knew of it, Henry would need to make an example of her brother to satisfy the Emperor, whose friendship he desired. And she, Anne, for all Charles’s fair words, remained an obstacle to that. Were they also trying to make out that she and her friends had been accomplices in murder, so that the alliance could go ahead? Was this about adultery or murder?