Anne Boleyn: A King's Obsession

by Alison Weir

  “This is becoming farcical,” she declared. “I pray you, Lady Kingston, send for your husband so that I might speak to him.”

  Sir William, duly summoned, was soon standing before her, hat in hand.

  “I hear that my lord my brother is here,” she said.

  “It is true,” he confirmed.

  “But why?” she asked.

  “You know I cannot discuss that with you.”

  She sighed. “I am very glad that we are so near each other.” It struck her that, without George and Norris to speak for her, she really was utterly friendless.

  Kingston cleared his throat. “Madam, I may also tell you that four other gentlemen are in the Tower on your account: Sir Francis Weston, Sir William Brereton, Sir Thomas Wyatt, and Sir Richard Page.”

  That made six men beside her brother! Wyatt she could perhaps understand, for he had loved her once, but she barely knew what Page looked like. What sort of sexual predator did they suppose her to be? Or were they trying to suggest that, being so desperate to get a son, she had resorted to lover after lover in the hope of filling the royal cradle? It was ridiculous. Had they not remembered that she had had no trouble at all making sons with Henry? Or were they trying to imply that those sons—and even Elizabeth, God forfend—were not Henry’s?

  Something was becoming clear. This whole stinking matter was not just Henry’s doing: it was Cromwell’s, of that she had no doubt. He had feared her enmity, and he had counterattacked. The arrest of Brereton proved it. Cromwell had a score to settle with him. The hand of Master Secretary was becoming all too evident in this business. This was not about adultery or murder!

  Well, she would deal with him!

  “Master Kingston, I desire you to bear a letter from me to Master Secretary,” she said.

  “Madam,” he replied, “tell it me by word of mouth, and I will do it.”

  “I beg you, say to him that I much marvel that the King’s Council does not come to see me. They have not questioned me at all, and yet they have arrested these seven gentlemen. I should like an opportunity to explain everything and clear my name.”

  Kingston said nothing.

  Anne looked up at the cloudless sky. “If good men will do nothing to remedy my situation, God will make manifest His displeasure. I’ll wager we shall have no rain till I am delivered out of the Tower.”

  “Then I pray it will rain soon, because we need fair weather for the crops,” Kingston said, and left her.

  When he had gone, Lady Kingston gave her a frame, some fabric, and some silks, and she tried to concentrate on embroidery. As she stitched, she warmed even more to her theory about Cromwell. None of her women had been arrested for abetting adultery, and it would have been impossible for her to have indulged in a succession of liaisons without the collusion of at least one trusted maid. In accusing her of whatever crime she was supposed to have committed, Cromwell had taken a breathtaking risk, which showed how desperate he must be.

  But Cromwell was no fool—whatever proofs he had shown Henry would have had to be convincing, or the consequences for Master Secretary could be horrific.

  —

  By the following evening, Anne had grown so sick of the unwelcome vigilance and barbs of her attendant ladies that she could stay silent no longer. At dinner, when they were all present, she turned to Kingston.

  “The King knew what he was doing when he placed my aunts and Mistress Coffyn about me, for they tell me nothing about anything.”

  Lady Boleyn snorted. “Your love of intrigue has brought you to this, niece.”

  “I have never intrigued against the King,” Anne declared.

  There was a silence. Mrs. Stonor filled it. “You know Mark Smeaton is the worst treated of all the prisoners here, for he wears irons.”

  Anne was disturbed to hear it. “That is because he is no gentleman,” she observed. “I know of no wrong he has done. He was only ever in my privy chamber at Winchester, when I sent for him to play for the company. I did not speak with him after that till the Saturday before May Day, when I found him standing in the window in my presence chamber.” She related what had happened. “Is it for this he was arrested?”

  The ladies said nothing. She hoped they would report her defense of Smeaton.

  After dinner, her spirits sank again at the thought of another night spent agonizing about her situation. When Kingston was preparing to escort her back to her lodging, she broke down. “My lord my brother will die!” she wailed.

  “That is by no means certain,” he said.

  “I have never heard of a queen being so cruelly treated,” she told him. “I think the King does it to prove me.” And suddenly she was laughing again. It was the thought of Henry, who had been constantly unfaithful, testing her devotion. With an effort, she controlled herself. “I shall have justice.”

  “Have no doubt of that,” Kingston assured her.

  “And if any man accuses me, I can say nothing but nay, for they can bring no witness. I wish, though, that I could have made some statement of my innocence. If I had done so, my case would be won. I would to God I had my bishops with me, for they would all go to the King for me if they knew the truth.” It appalled her to think that those who had known her as a friend to true religion might now believe the worst of her.

  Kingston was looking skeptical, which aroused her anger.

  “I think the most part of England must be praying for me,” she said, “and if I die, you shall see the greatest visitation of divine punishment that ever came to England. But I shall be in Heaven, for I have done many good deeds in my days.” And, at the thought, she wept again.

  —

  She had been in the Tower nearly a week when a deputation of councillors visited her.

  “Make a full confession of your crimes and it will go better for you,” they exhorted her.

  “What crimes?” She faced them boldly, holding herself regally, as their Queen. “My lords, I have no further hope in this world, but I will confess nothing, certainly not to things I have not done. All I want now is to be delivered from this purgatory on earth, so that I can go and live in Heaven. I no longer care about dying.” It was true. She was calmer now, resigned to the worst. Her life had become such a living hell that death would come as a welcome release.

  They stared at her, astonished. Had they expected tears and pleading?

  She returned their gaze. “I can confess no more than I have already spoken.”

  —

  Two days later, Kingston stood before her. “I am to tell your Grace that I have this day received orders that I am to bring up the bodies of Sir Francis Weston, Sir Henry Norris, Sir William Brereton, and Mark Smeaton to Westminster Hall to be tried for treason on Friday next.”

  Two days hence.

  “And what of Lord Rochford and myself?”

  “I have received no instructions about that, madam.”

  “This is outrageous!” she flared. “We should all be tried at the same time. The outcome of the one trial may prejudice the other.”

  “Madam,” Kingston said patiently, “these men are commoners and will be heard by the commissioners who brought the case against them. You and Lord Rochford have the right to be tried by the peers, your equals, in the court of the High Steward of England.”

  She knew that whoever tried whom, and when, the law was heavily weighted against anyone suspected of treason. She had heard of only one person ever being acquitted.

  “What of Master Wyatt and Master Page?” she asked.

  “Again, I have received no instructions,” Kingston said.

  —

  She was on a dagger’s edge on the day the men were tried, and kept sending to know if Kingston had returned. The sight of his grave face when, late in the afternoon, he appeared before her made her fear the worst.

  “Tell me!” she begged. “Were they found guilty?”

  “All,” he said, swallowing.

  “Of what?” she cried.

  “I may
not discuss the indictments with your Grace.”

  “Tell me at least if they protested my innocence,” she pleaded.

  “Only Smeaton pleaded guilty,” Kingston told her, “but the verdict was unanimous.”

  This was a worse nightmare than any she had suffered in the hours of darkness. “What will happen to them?” she whispered, dreading the answer.

  Kingston looked distressed. “They will suffer the death meted out to traitors.”

  Not Norris! her heart cried out. Not that true, loyal man. Nor Weston, who was young and full of life, or Brereton, whose only crime had been to offend Cromwell, or Smeaton, for all his insufferable pride! This could not be happening. And what did it portend for her and for George? They were all doomed.

  —

  The next day, Kingston returned. “Madam, I have received the King’s writ commanding me to bring your Grace and Lord Rochford before the Lord High Steward on Monday for trial here in the King’s Hall.”

  So she was not to go out of the Tower. No doubt they feared demonstrations on her behalf—or more likely, against her.

  “But I have not been told what has been alleged against me!” she cried. “How can I prepare my defense?”

  “You will hear the indictment in court, madam, where they will also read out the depositions of any witnesses.”

  “May some lawyer be appointed to speak for me?”

  Kingston was looking increasingly uncomfortable. “Madam, legal representation is forbidden to those charged with treason. Nor may you call witnesses on your own behalf.”

  She laughed bitterly at that. “It is doubtful that any would dare come forward anyway. So how can I defend myself?”

  “You may dispute with your accusers.”

  “You told me I would have justice!” she snapped. “This sounds like a travesty of it.”

  Kingston lowered his guard, and she could see the compassion in his eyes. “As my good friend Cardinal Wolsey once said to me,” he observed, “if the Crown were prosecutor and insisted on it, justice would be found to bring in a verdict that Abel was the murderer of Cain.”

  The realization that she was in the same plight as she had intended for Wolsey stung. “Then I am brought to fight without a weapon,” she whispered.

  Kingston hastened away, saying there was much to be done, leaving her to her frustration and her fears. She spent much of the rest of that day, and all day Sunday, watching from her window as the courtyard of the inmost ward below became the scene of frantic activity, with workmen carrying wood and scaffolding poles into the adjacent King’s Hall, a flustered Kingston directing them, and Tower officials running back and forth to do his bidding. Looking at the rich furnishings being borne in—a great gilded board bearing the arms of England, tables, Turkey rugs, upholstered chairs, and a chest of silver goblets—she realized that she was to be tried with an appropriate degree of state and ceremonial. She was, after all, the Queen of England.

  1536

  She waited in the porch with Kingston, Sir Edmund Walsingham, her four female warders, and—a welcome surprise—four of her former maids of honor: Nan Saville, Margery Horsman, Mary Zouche, and Norris’s sister, another Mary, all of whom it was a comfort to see. She was near tears as she embraced them, although the evident distress in their faces alarmed her. They would have heard the gossip at court. Did they know something she did not?

  At least, as queen, she would be properly attended, but this was no court ceremonial. The Gentleman Jailer of the Tower waited with her, and there were guards before and behind her.

  From inside the hall she could hear a great hubbub of conversation. The place must be packed. She had seen the common folk queuing from before dawn to get in. At least she was to be tried in the sight of the people.

  She heard a voice crying for silence, then the gruff tones of Uncle Norfolk, who—Kingston had told her—was acting as Lord High Steward on this occasion, calling, “Gentleman Jailer of the Tower, bring in your prisoner.”

  An usher appeared at the door, and at his nod, Anne held her head high, as became a queen, and followed him into the vast aisled hall, aware of a thousand eyes upon her. The benches and the stands that lined the length of the walls were packed with spectators. She knew she cut a regal figure in her gown of black velvet, worn over a kirtle of scarlet damask, and a small bonnet sporting a black-and-white feather. They had been among the items of apparel that had been bundled into a chest and delivered to the Tower shortly after she arrived.

  She was heartily thankful that the uncontrollable hysteria of her first week in captivity had abated, leaving her calm, dignified, and ready to face whatever Fate—or Henry—had in store for her. God, she felt, walked by her side, and from Him she would gain her strength.

  She tried not to look at the Gentleman Jailer of the Tower, who walked beside her carrying his ceremonial ax, its blade turned away from her to signify that she was as yet uncondemned. Ahead of her was Uncle Norfolk, enthroned under a cloth of estate bearing the royal arms, for he represented the King. He leaned on the long white staff of his office, and on a chair at his feet sat his son, her cousin Surrey, grasping the golden staff that Norfolk wielded as Earl Marshal of England. At the Duke’s right hand sat Lord Chancellor Audley, and at his left the Duke of Suffolk, who could both be trusted to do the King’s bidding.

  On either side stood the peers who had come to try her—two dozen and more of them, all familiar faces, many belonging to men she had once called her friends. Some were staunch partisans of the Lady Mary, others relations or favorites of the King. She could not look for much help there. She noticed Harry Percy, looking drawn and ill. And, God save her, Father was there too, red-faced and not meeting her eye. At the sight of him she faltered for a moment. What kind of monster would command a father to judge his own children? Had Henry sunk so low? Or did she have Cromwell to thank for this?

  He was there, Master Secretary, looking important and smug. His eyes bore down on her in triumph. He had won, he was telling her. He had nothing more to fear from her. She resolved to expose him for the villain he was.

  Her gaze took in the Lord Mayor of London with his aldermen, sheriffs, and guildsmen. There was the French ambassador and other foreign diplomats; but Chapuys—whose derision she had dreaded—was nowhere to be seen.

  A great platform had been raised in the center of the hall. She stepped up to it, walked to the bar, and curtseyed to her judges, her eyes raking them all. She would not show them any sign of fear. To a man, they bowed, and Norfolk invited her to be seated on the fine chair that stood on the platform. She sat down, arranging her skirts elegantly about her. Next to the chair was a small table on which had been placed her crown, as if to remind those watching of her exalted rank. They would have brought it over from the Jewel House next door.

  With much flourishing of papers and clearing of his throat, Sir Christopher Hales, the Attorney General, rose to read the indictment. His voice rang out. “Whereas Queen Anne has been the wife of King Henry VIII for three years and more, she, despising the solemn, most excellent and noble marriage between our lord the King and her, and having in her heart malice against our lord the King, and being seduced by evil and not having God before her eyes, and following daily her frail and carnal appetites, did falsely and traitorously procure, by base conversations and kisses, touches, gifts, and other infamous inducements, many of the King’s close servants to be her adulterers.”

  Anne put up her hand. “Not guilty,” she said firmly. “This is all lies.”

  Sir Christopher glared at her. “Madam, you shall have your say. Pray allow me to finish. Ahem. Several of the King’s servants yielded to her vile provocations.” He named Norris, Weston, Brereton, and Smeaton, then read out a long list of the dates on which adultery was supposed to have taken place. She listened in growing amazement that whoever had compiled it could have been so careless.

  It was shameful having to listen to descriptions of herself enticing, by sweet words, kisses, caresses, a
nd worse, her co-accused to violate her, and having illicit intercourse. But it was the dates that, above all else, drew her attention. They were many of them impossible, because either she or the gentleman in question had not been in that place at that time, or not together. And yet it had been made impossible for her fully to refute the charges because of the frequent assertion in the indictment that adultery had been committed on many occasions before and after the date listed. This, as she had feared, was a travesty of justice.

  “Not guilty,” she said again.

  She was wondering what part George was supposed to have played in all this, and when Sir Christopher would get to the charges of conspiracy, when she heard his name.

  “Also”—and here the Attorney General paused for effect—“that the Queen procured and incited her own natural brother, George Boleyn, knight, Lord Rochford, to violate her, alluring him with her tongue in the said George’s mouth, and the said George’s tongue in hers, and also with kisses, presents, and jewels, against the commands of Almighty God, and all laws human and divine. Whereby he, despising the commands of God, and all other human laws, violated and carnally knew the said Queen, his own sister.”

  She could have died of shame. She was trembling so violently that she thought she would die. This was outrageous! It was bad enough that they had made her out to be the basest and most wanton monster, but they could not seriously be suggesting that she had bedded George? It was foul, abominable and sickening, and if her cheeks were flaming, it was because she was revolted by such filth.

  “Not guilty!” Her voice rang out loudly.

  But Sir Christopher had not finished. “Furthermore,” he continued, “the Queen and the other traitors compassed and imagined the King’s death; and the Queen frequently promised to marry one of the traitors whenever the King should depart this life, affirming she would never love the King in her heart.”