For the Love of Anne

by Margaret Brazear

  A memory of his dear face crept into her mind, his kind, loving eyes, his playful smile and that slim, tempting body. She wondered how he looked today after all the illnesses she had heard tell of.

  But she must not think of him now. She must think of that other Henry, that royal Henry, her husband, who had gone to great lengths to intimidate her, make her believe she was in danger so that she would be forced to beg for her life.

  But if that were true, he would have given her a chance to beg for her life, would he not? If her subservience was his aim, he would not have refused to see her.

  Tears filled her eyes as she began to write, but her hand shook so much she could not form the letters. She looked up at the ladies who witnessed her every move.

  “Leave me, please,” she said evenly. “I wish some privacy.”

  Some of the ladies dropped their eyes to their feet, all except one.

  “We are not permitted to leave you alone, Your Grace,” said Lady Boleyn. “It is the King’s order.”

  “It is Cromwell’s order!” snapped Anne. She drew a deep breath. “Very well.”

  She bent her head low and covered the paper with her hand, a hand that still shook.

  Your grace’s displeasure and my imprisonment are things so strange to me, that what to write, or what to excuse, I am altogether ignorant.

  That was as far as she got. Her hand was shaking so much, her heart beating so wildly, her pulse bouncing so that she could almost see it beneath the skin in her wrist. She gathered up the paper, flung the quill so that it pierced the wooden surface.

  “Find me a scribe,” she said, standing up. “And quickly.”

  THE LETTER THE SCRIBE finally produced was lengthy and, after declaring Anne’s innocence, begged the King not to allow to suffer those innocent men who were arrested with her.

  By declaring the innocence of those men, Anne was effectively telling the King that she knew he was taking some revenge on her alone, that he knew well she was innocent of the charges. But she doubted he would listen.

  She spent many days in silence, saying nothing to anyone and eating nothing. She would watch from the window, think about the poor souls imprisoned in less luxurious surroundings behind those tiny windows, and know that from this place there was no escape.

  She was satisfied with the letter and if Henry ever saw it, it might just be enough to touch his heart. It might be enough to remind him of what she had once meant to him, when he was prepared to go to any lengths to have her, when he would give her anything, except her freedom. Anne had no idea when Henry first noticed her, when he first decided he wanted her, but she knew only too well that, from that moment, she was captured and could never escape, never be free again.

  But he might never see her letter. She was sure Thomas Cromwell would receive it, would read it, would decide whether the King should see it. It was a risk; if Henry ever discovered that Cromwell was keeping things from him he would not be best pleased. Cromwell might tell himself it was to save the King more heartache, but Anne knew what it really was. Among those innocent men were those whom Secretary Cromwell had made an enemy of, would value the opportunity to rid himself of.

  Poor Mark did not stand a chance. He was a fragile soul, humble and besotted. She could not fathom why he had confessed as he had, possibly because he liked the idea that someone might think him dear enough to the Queen to share her bed. It would be like him and he would never realise the danger such a confession would cause to both him and her.

  She was most surprised that Sir Henry Norris was here, accused with her. She knew it was because of that argument she had so carelessly had with him, but he had known the King since childhood. They had always been close friends; surely he would not take Norris’ life, surely not.

  But there had been other close friends. Sir Thomas More was one. He and the King had always been close, had dined together, talked together till long into the night. It had not stopped him from separating More’s head from his body and again, once he had decided on a trial for Sir Thomas, he had refused to see him again.

  Even his own daughter, the Princess Mary, he had banished from court. Anne disliked Mary with all her soul, as Mary disliked her, and had never regretted anything that happened to her. Now she realised for the first time just how cruelly her father had treated her. She had been Princess of Wales, the only girl ever to wear the title in her own right; she had been the heir to the throne, feted all over Europe by important princes wanting to join with her in marriage.

  Then one day she had lost her title, her status and been forced to serve her half sister, recognise Elizabeth as the true heir to the throne. And no matter how she begged in many letters, Henry would not allow her to return to court. He needed her to sign the Oath of Supremacy, to recognise him as the head of the church in England, and that was something the fiercely Catholic Mary could never do.

  If Anne failed to survive this crisis, her little Princess Elizabeth would be treated the same, because she was a girl, because her father wanted sons, not useless girls.

  But he did not mean it! He intended this only to frighten her, nothing more. She knew it! Henry loved her; such a great love as his for Anne could not simply turn to hatred overnight. Surely she was right.

  She lay down on her bed, turned her back to the curious eyes that never gave her a moment’s solitude, and quietly wept.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I have A Little Neck

  AT HIS HOUSE IN NEWINGTON Green, Harry Percy drank far more than he should have. He was already feeling dizzy and now he wanted only to sleep the day away. That was just as well; his beloved Anne was imprisoned and would soon be tried for her life, a trial that was deemed to have but one outcome. She had no chance of a fair trial, not when the King himself had already decided her fate.

  Harry’s servants were very efficient at bringing him the latest news and gossip from court and he had been told that the King had sent to France for a swordsman to behead his Queen, as soon as she was arrested. He had no intention of even considering that she might be found not guilty; of course not. That outcome did not suit him, not one little bit.

  Harry wondered if Anne knew and if she did, did the knowledge plunge her into deeper depths of despair, to know that it was all pointless, that she was already condemned?

  Now he sat beside his open window and clutched in his hand the letter he had dreaded, the summons that ordered him, Harry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, to attend on the day of the Queen’s trial and form part of the jury.

  He could see why he was being asked and it had nothing to do with his status as one of the most important Earls in the country. It was to do with Henry Tudor and his vicious need to punish everyone who had ever loved her, everyone except himself.

  But the King had never loved her. He had only wanted her, lusted after her and he had interfered in her life, used her for his own selfish needs and now he would condemn her to death, knowing full well that she was innocent. God, how he loathed that man!

  There could be but few motives for the King’s choice of Northumberland for this task, malice, spite, hatred. But was his hatred greater for Harry, or for Anne? It was certain that both would be hurt by Harry’s presence at the trial, and that was just what the King wanted.

  He drank some more, sought oblivion in the alcohol and wondered if there was any way out.

  THEY HAD ALL BEEN JUDGED guilty, all the men who had been tried. Sir Francis Weston, Sir William Brereton, Sir Henry Norris, even poor Mark Smeaton. Sir Thomas Wyatt had been released without charge, probably because his father was such a good friend of the King. There could be no other reason, for had he faced the same, unfair trial as the others, he, too, would have been now awaiting death.

  Anne’s brother was to be tried later, in the Tower’s great hall, but not with his sister. It was quite pointless now to have any sort of sham trial for her, since if she were proven innocent, then so must those poor gentlemen already condemned. Their guilt meant her guilt and the
re was no escape from that verdict. George might yet have a chance; what law made it incest to be close to one’s brother? King Henry’s law, obviously.

  While his Queen, his wife, the woman he professed to love, awaited her fate, accused of adultery, the King seemed to be enjoying himself. Anne heard from whispers among her attendants that he had been seen out riding, hunting, at balls, dancing with his Seymour slut, without a single word or look of grief or shame.

  That told her, if she was still in any doubt, that he knew full well that Anne was guiltless. What man, believing his wife had shared herself with other men, would be enjoying life so well? The charges made him a cuckold, and that was something against which Henry would ever protest. But he did not and Anne knew why; because he knew it was all an evil lie.

  She was not alone in her belief. It came to her ears that the Spanish ambassador, Chapuys, ever her enemy, had remarked that he never knew a man to wear a pair of horns so happily. Even he knew she was innocent.

  “He said he loved me, you know,” said Anne, seemingly out of nowhere. “He pursued me for years, built a new church to have me.” Her eyes wildly followed the faces that formed a sea of hostility around her. “What do you think? Do you believe a man who does what the King has done for me, could really hate me this much?”

  She said no more. Her own trial would be in a few days, if one could call it a trial, and the verdict was a foregone conclusion. George might still have a chance, but that was unlikely. She wondered briefly why the King hated George so much, but it took only a moment to realise that, like all the others, it was Cromwell who wanted George among them.

  “My brother must be suffering so,” said Anne. She looked about to see if anyone were really listening. “He’ll not be in lush apartments like these, will he? He’ll be in a prison cell with few comforts.”

  One of the younger ladies spoke up and earned a glare from the others.

  “I have it on good authority, Your Grace,” she said, “that Viscount Rochford has a comfortable place. Lady Rochford has been sending him comforts, and paying for extra food.”

  She blushed a dark crimson, then dropped her gaze to her embroidery.

  “Thank you for that,” said Anne. “I am so pleased to know that his wife has not forsaken him, that Jane does not believe these lies. I often thought she envied our closeness; perhaps she did, but at least she does not accept the falsehoods. Thank you.”

  For the first time her thoughts turned to her sister-in-law, to Lady Jane Rochford, George’s wife, and she was ashamed to admit that she had given her not a single thought until now. It had been an arranged match, but Jane and George had been content together. She must have been devastated by this, but Anne had not thought of her at all. How selfish that was; she hoped Jane would forgive her.

  In her letter to the King, she had pleaded with him for a fair trial, a lawful trial, but she could see that was not the sort she would receive. And she finally realised, after telling herself that Henry was doing this to punish her, that he did mean it, that he intended her death. Once King Henry of England intended a thing, that thing would come to pass, no matter who had to suffer for it to happen.

  She dressed with care for the trial, not wanting to appear overdressed or superior. Her clothing was plain, a black velvet gown with a crimson petticoat. She wore no jewellery, other than her wedding ring and she followed Master Kingston to the King’s Hall within the Tower itself.

  She looked about for George, presuming he was to be tried with her, but there was no sign of him as she took her place.

  In the centre of the hall, a great scaffold had been erected and on it, in an elaborate chair, sat one of Anne’s worst enemies, her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk. So another request of hers had gone unanswered, that she should be judged not by her enemies.

  Henry must hate her! He had sent this man, who had plotted to bring her down, to arrest her and now he had sent this man to preside over the proceedings, proceedings upon which her life depended. She might as well submit her neck to the block here and now.

  She mounted the platform and took the seat opposite her uncle. Her dark eyes wandered to the jury and she saw that each one was an enemy, each one was a man who had always been against her, blamed her for Katherine’s fall, blamed her for the separation of the church, for the bastardisation of the Princess Mary. Even Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk and the King’s brother-in-law, a man who despised Anne with all his soul, sat grave faced, his arms folded, his eyes filled with loathing.

  There was but one who might be on her side in this, who might still care enough to fight for her – Lord Harry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, the man she had always loved. But why was he here, among her enemies? This must be some cruel jest of the King, to force Harry Percy of all people to sit with these men in judgment on her.

  She scarcely recognised him, he looked so ill, so drawn and thin. His skin was of a shiny texture, tinted with yellow, his hair and beard dull and lacklustre. And as she watched him, she could see he did not want to be here. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his mouth a thin line of misery, and as he turned his head away, she saw the tears which gathered in his eyes.

  She did not bother to ask herself again why the King now hated her so much, did not care to question why he would subject her to this further humiliation of having her former sweetheart sit in judgment on her. And some twisted need for vengeance made Henry want to punish Harry Percy as well, to force him to be here, to sit among her enemies.

  Anne’s memory showed her those first days at court, not so very long ago, when she had danced with Harry Percy, had courted him, kissed him, loved him. She remembered those secret meetings and how they had promised each other marriage, promised to belong to each other forever.

  They could have been happy together, she and Harry, had the King not wanted her for himself, had he not been determined to have his own way in all things. And look what he had done, look to what he had brought those two young lovers.

  The trial did not last long and Anne was not allowed to speak. There was no real evidence, only false statements, Mark Smeaton’s confession which could well have been made under torture. If not, he may well have thought himself important that someone would think he was having intimate relations with the Queen. He was such a child in a lot of ways, a talented child who had no understanding of the real world.

  Forced to sit and listen to the lies that were being told about her, forced to keep silent while those lies were accepted as truth, Anne fought against self pity. After the years of hearing lies which made her responsible for all the woes of the nation, she should be accustomed to them by now.

  She opened her mouth to speak a few times to begin with, to refute the false evidence, but she was firmly told that any such interruption would result in her removal from the court.

  She could only sit, helplessly, and shake her head in denial. The ‘evidence’ was not only ludicrous, ridiculous, laughable even, it was offensive. She had always been faithful to the King. She had not wanted him, had never loved him, but she had known no other man but him. And he knew it.

  The verdict of all the men was ‘guilty’; that came as no surprise and as her eyes met those of Harry Percy, her slowly shook his head, attempted a smile, then dropped his gaze to his trembling knees. She knew he had no choice but to agree. This was Henry’s doing, this was what the King had ordered, and just like his forced marriage to Mary Talbot, no one defied the King.

  When sentence was passed, Anne’s heart jumped and she caught back a scream. She was to be taken to prison in the Tower and then, at the King’s command, to the Green within the Tower, and there to be burned or beheaded, as shall please the King.

  Burned. That was the word that assaulted her mind. It was the prescribed sentence for female traitors but, try as she would, she could think of no woman who had suffered that horrific death for the crime of treason. And she wondered if the man she had married could really see her screaming in agony as the flames caught her clo
thing and seared her flesh. But he would not see it, would he? He would make himself scarce, would want to know nothing about it, because that was what he did, that was how cowards behaved.

  His beloved Anne, the woman he would love forever, the woman who was dearer to him than anyone or anything. She laughed shortly, then composed herself to give her speech, as it was the only speech she would be permitted to give.

  “My Lord,” she began. “I will not say your sentence is unjust, nor presume that my reasons can prevail against your convictions. I am willing to believe that you have sufficient reasons for what you have done, but then they must be other than those which have been produced in court, for I am clear of all the offences which you then laid to my charge. I have ever been a faithful wife to the King, though I do not say I have always shown him that humility which his goodness to me, and the honours to which he raised me, merited.”

  Her words were interrupted by a loud thud, as of something heavy falling, and she stopped and turned her gaze to the sound. Harry Percy had collapsed and lay unconscious upon the floor as several of the pages hurried to lift him and carry him out of the Hall.

  Anne knew for certain this was all too much for him, knew too that his verdict had been forced upon him. So he did still care for her, as she still cared for him.

  She continued her speech, lest someone use this interruption as an excuse to cut off her words before they could be spoken.

  “I confess I have had jealous fancies and suspicions of him,” she went on, “which I had not discretion enough, and wisdom, to conceal at all times. But God knows, and is my witness, that I have not sinned against him in any other way. Think not I say this in the hope to prolong my life, for He who saves from death has taught me how to die, and He will strengthen my faith. Think not, however, that I am so bewildered in my mind that I will not maintain my chastity as I have done all my life.