For the Love of Anne

by Margaret Brazear

“I know these, my last words, will avail me nothing but for the justification of my chastity and honour. As for my brother and those others who are unjustly condemned, I would willingly suffer many deaths to deliver them, but since I see it so pleases the King, I shall willingly accompany them in death, with this assurance, that I shall lead an endless life with them in peace and joy, where I will pray to God for the King and for you, my Lords.”

  She was led away then, quickly, before she decided to say more and she could not avoid the sight of the axe, turned with its blade toward her, a sign of the guilty verdict.

  In her apartments, she said nothing, only looked from the window to see the building of the scaffold upon which her friends would meet their end. But not her, not Anne. She might be tied to a stake with faggots piled around her feet. Those faggots would be lit and as the flames approached, as they crept stealthily toward the flammable fabric of her clothing, her flesh would be melted until it slid off her bones.

  No! She could not bear it! Surely he would not do that, surely not, after everything they had been to each other. Beneath her breath, she cursed the King, cursed him to Hell; why had he not left her alone? She had never wanted to be Queen, she had never wanted to marry him, she had never loved him. True, she had been pleased by the break with Rome and was proud to be the cause of it, but not proud to have ousted Katherine.

  She needed to be careful now, or her words would be reported and if she was heard to curse the King, she would have no chance of a less brutal death.

  “Your Majesty.” A soft voice caught her attention. “Forgive me for disturbing you, but I heard a rumour that I thought might bring some small peace.”

  It was one of the ladies sent in to report on her every word and Anne knew she should not trust her, but she seemed sincere. She spoke in whispers, so that only Anne would hear. Anne nodded.

  “Go on,” she said.

  “The others say it would make you angry, but I fear you might worry about your sentence. I was told, from one in the King’s household, that His Majesty had sent to France for an expert swordsman to carry out the sentence.”

  “A swordsman? So I am not to be burned.” Those wretched tears were back, this time tears of relief. “When did he do this? The verdict has only this morning been given.”

  “It is said that His Majesty sent for him on the day you were arrested, Your Grace,” she said. “I am sorry.”

  Anne had no reply for her. The entire charade was for the benefit of any who would say she had no fair trial. Henry had already decided on the outcome and the sentence, and nothing she said or did was ever going to change his mind.

  WHEN HARRY OPENED HIS eyes, he found himself in a strange chamber surrounded by tapestry covered stone walls. The shape of the windows told him he was still in the Tower, likely the apartments of one of the Yeoman guards, but he had no idea how long he had been here.

  Memories started to come back, memories he hoped were but bad dreams. He had to pronounce her guilty; it was what the tyrant wanted and he had no choice. Even if he had held out for a not guilty verdict, all it would have meant was Harry losing everything. It would have changed nothing for Anne, because the other jurors all said ‘guilty’, the others who had been carefully chosen. Harry was the only friend she had among them, and his friendship had availed her nothing.

  He felt ashamed of himself, but what else could he have done? The King had only summoned him for the task to see what would happen; Harry was sure of that. It amused the royal humour to put him in this position.

  He did not expect to faint, of course. He hoped to comfort her somehow by his presence, since he could not avoid the task, but all he had done was make a fool of himself.

  He closed his eyes and prayed silently that they would not burn her. He could not tolerate the thought and if they did, he would be tempted to leap into the flames beside her. He could not bear for his lovely lady to be burned.

  His eyes opened and he realised he was not alone. A page stood beside the bed, a goblet of wine in his hand.

  “My Lord,” he said. “Are you recovered?”

  Harry managed a nod of his head, then he scrambled into a sitting position and reached for the wine.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  The page left him alone with his thoughts, with his grief. Soon Anne would be dead, dead at the hand of a man who swore he would love her forever, and after only a few short years. Three years, that was all since the marriage. She had given him a beautiful daughter, even though she had miscarried of his sons, but three years? He had hardly given her time to breed those sons.

  ANNE WAS TOLD SHE WAS to die at dawn on 18th May, just three days after her trial. The gentlemen accused with her had already met their deaths, but Anne was to have a scaffold built specially for her.

  The initial sentence for those innocent men, that they be hanged until almost dead, cut down whilst still living and their entrails cut out and burned within their sight, had been commuted to beheading. Even Mark Smeaton, a lowly fellow, escaped that horrific end. It was Anne’s only comfort as her fervent prayers and pleas had not saved them.

  On the morning of her expected execution, she rose early, dressed with care in a grey damask gown over a crimson kirtle, an English hood covering her dark hair. Then she awaited the arrival of Archbishop Cranmer, who was ever her friend, to hear her final confession and give the Last Rites.

  Rumours were brought to her that her marriage to the King had been annulled. Having failed to persuade Harry Percy to admit to a pre-contract with her, Henry had achieved his wish for an annulment by citing his previous relationship with her sister, Mary. Strange how that had never bothered his famous conscience when it suited him.

  The bitterness that churned away inside her threatened to destroy her long before the swordsman arrived. She still could not grasp how she had come to this, from one day being Henry’s beloved wife, his only love, to the next day wanting to consign her to oblivion, erase her from existence.

  Cranmer struggled to contain his tears.

  “I am so sorry, Your Grace,” he said. “I had no option. I had to annul your marriage to the King. I thought it might save you, but alas it did nothing to help.”

  She reached out a hand to comfort him.

  “I understand. What happened to your predecessor when he failed to give Henry what he demanded? I am to die; there is no need for you to join me.”

  Then she asked that he commend her to the King and hoped her words would reach him so that he would know for certain she was innocent, that he would know what a terrible sin he had committed against her.

  “Commend me to His Majesty,” she said. “And tell him that he has ever been constant in advancing me. From a private gentlewoman he made me a Marquess, from that he made me a Queen. Now he has no higher degree of honour left, he gives my innocence the crown of martyrdom as a saint in Heaven.”

  If King Henry asked for her words, Cranmer would convey them, and he would most certainly write them down so that the future would see them.

  On her knees, Queen Anne Boleyn gave her last confession and in it she declared her innocence. If the King wished to learn otherwise, he would be disappointed.

  Cranmer stayed with her until after noon, by which time she was becoming restless. She stood at the window, staring out and up at the sun. It was past noon; she should be dead by now, should be with the angels, for she had no fear of anything else. She had a good view of the scaffold, could see the straw ready to accept her head, ready to soak up the blood as it poured from her severed neck. But there was no coffin.

  A little spark of something similar to hope caught at her heart. Perhaps the King had changed his mind, perhaps he had remembered the love he once had for her, or said he had for her. But that was unlikely, as he was eager to wed the Seymour and had already murdered Anne’s friends and her brother.

  She spun around to where the Archbishop still waited with her.

  “Why do they not get on with it?” she asked him. Her
question struggled to pass the ache in her throat, her vision was blurred with her tears. “I was told I was to die this morning; I am prepared to die.” She gestured to the window, beyond which she could see the scaffold awaiting her. “The scaffold is ready. Why do they delay?”

  The sound of footsteps approaching startled her. At last! Finally they had come for her, finally she could have peace from this life.

  But it was Sir William Kingston alone, and he came to tell her that the swordsman was delayed and would not arrive until the following day. Anne’s sorrow at the news overwhelmed her.

  ANNE DID NOT SLEEP that night. With but one night left, she felt it would be better spent in prayer and her most urgent prayer was that there would be no further delay. She also prayed that those innocent gentlemen who were unjustly condemned with her, were now awaiting her in Paradise. She looked forward to meeting with them again, to being able to express her fondness for them without fear that some enemy might be listening and reporting.

  She thought about those words she had spoken to Henry Norris; they were careless words, words that her enemy could twist and use against her.

  And poor Mark. She held no malice toward him for his false confession. He was a simple boy and he was likely in terror; she had felt some of that terror herself these past weeks and for him, the horror must have been greater. They likely promised him his freedom if he spoke as they wanted. She was grateful to the King for commuting his sentence to beheading at least, and she had heard the axeman who despatched him and her other friends was efficient at least.

  Yet she had more to consider as she lay awake and she was not alone in that. She heard the whispered words of her ladies as they repeated the latest gossip from court. She was not the only one who did not sleep that night, for word had it that the King also stayed up, but it was not his conscience that bothered him this time.

  “I was told by one of the grooms that His Majesty spent hours studying the plans for the scaffold,” whispered a soft voice. “He wants to be sure there is no mistake, that the execution will be carried out precisely as he has it planned.”

  “Did he seem distressed?” asked a new voice.

  “No, not in the least. He seemed to be enthralled with it, measuring and scrutinising each piece of the platform, each step up to it. My friend said he looked intense, as though he were measuring the stage for some entertainment. He said the King was displeased that the swordsman had not arrived on time and wanted to make certain that nothing else went wrong.”

  Anne thought she heard a catch in the woman’s voice as she replied.

  “I should not express an opinion, but that is terrible. He was supposed to have loved her so much, look what he did for her. How could he do this now? How could he treat her death like a carefully planned exhibition?”

  “Word is that he is now saying he never loved her, that he was enchanted, possibly even bewitched. He is even saying that he was led astray by her charms. How could he?”

  They were right; how could he? Only a few weeks ago he was still referring to her as his most beloved wife.

  That was all she heard before she turned her face to the wall and shut off the sound, waited for the light to creep through the sky.

  At last Cranmer returned to tell her it was time. Sir William Kingston was with him, ready to escort her to the scaffold, to take her last steps.

  “I hear the swordsman is very good, Master Kingston,” she said. Then she put her hands up to encircle her throat. “And I have a little neck.”

  Her silent prayers were for Harry. She had not dared to ask about his condition since he collapsed at her trial, but he did look ill. Who knew? It might be that he, too, would soon join her in Heaven.

  Unlike her friends and her brother, Anne’s execution would not be a public one o Tower Hill. Hers would be within the Tower grounds, on Tower Green, where only those invited were allowed to attend.

  Kingston helped her up the steps and onto the scaffold, where she stood to address the crowd. There were her enemies, seated at the front, those same enemies who had willingly condemned her, Suffolk chief among them, his arms folded, a look of triumph on his face.

  Her eyes swept over them. There was no sign of Harry and she wondered if he had been excused this sight, or if he was still too ill to attend. She knew he would not have willingly come here to witness her terrible end.

  The faces formed a sea, but she could not sense its mood. As Queen, she had grown used to crowds watching her, staring at her, and often they were hostile, but still reverend. This crowd was different; this crowd had come to see her die and they were mostly silent. It was a stunned sort of silence and Anne did not fool herself that it was a sympathetic one. She knew it was because they could not quite believe that a Queen of England was to suffer such a death.

  She felt tears gathering, felt a lump in her throat that would likely stop her words and she could not have that. She fought against the need for self pity, fought against those tears; she would be remembered throughout history as the Queen who went to her unjust execution with the dignity of a Queen.

  She swallowed the bunch of tears in her throat and began her speech, the last words she would ever speak. She knew that her marriage to the King had been annulled, that her little Elizabeth had been declared a bastard, and that the King could easily have spared her and still had his Jane Seymour.

  She had many words she would have liked to say to Henry, but she was afraid. He could easily change this merciful form of execution to that of having her burnt alive; he could do more harm to her daughter if she did not make him sound like the most wonderful man who ever lived. It was what he believed himself to be, but there were those she would leave behind who would suffer for the truth.

  She raised her voice and began to speak.

  “Good Christian people,” she said, “I have not come here to preach a sermon. I have come here to die, for according to the law and by the law, I am judged to die. Therefore I will speak nothing against it. I am come hither to accuse no man, nor to speak of that whereof I am accused and condemned to die, but I pray God save the King and send him long to reign over you, for a gentler nor a more merciful prince was there never, and to me he was ever a good, a gentle and sovereign lord.

  “And if any person will meddle in my cause, I require them to judge the best. And thus I take my leave of the world and of you all and I heartily desire you all to pray for me.”

  She wondered if anyone would note the sarcasm in her praise of the King. Her words could be taken either way and that was her intent.

  Two of her ladies stepped forward to take her mantle and Anne removed her hood and let her dark tresses fall about her shoulders for the briefest time, before she gathered them beneath a white cap to keep them out of the way of the sword.

  The swordsman asked forgiveness, which she freely gave and she paid him his due, then she knelt in the straw and prayed to Jesus to accept her soul, but her hearing betrayed her as she turned her head to see where the swordsman stood.

  He, seeing this, asked his assistant to hand him his sword and as her eyes followed the assistant, the swordsman struck.

  Anne’s ladies ran to gather up her remains and wrap them in linen, then they looked about urgently for a coffin that was not there. Nobody had bothered to order such a thing, no coffin for the Queen of England.

  An arrow box was brought and the remains of Queen Anne Boleyn were placed inside and carried to the chapel of St Peter ad Vincula within the Tower, where they were buried in an unmarked grave.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Aftermath

  NEWS OF QUEEN ANNE’S death cheered the Princess Mary more than anything else could have. The Concubine was dead! Mary’s father had finally realised that he had been bewitched, entranced by her wiles into casting aside Mary’s mother and Mary with her. It was Anne’s fault she had been banished from court and now she was gone, Mary felt sure the King would welcome his daughter back and even restore her to her former position as
the only legitimate heir to the throne.

  Elizabeth was the bastard, not Mary. He had annulled his marriage to the Concubine and in so doing had declared Elizabeth illegitimate. It would not be long before those foreign princes would come courting Mary once more.

  The King had shown his contempt for the Concubine by getting himself betrothed to another the very next day after her demise. That should tell the world that he was admitting to his mistake in joining with her.

  The King had already chosen a new wife, a good Catholic woman who would help him restore the true church. She felt confident now in once again writing to her father, congratulating him on his coming marriage and begging to be allowed back to court.

  She made no mention of Anne. She was unsure about his feelings on that subject and his anger was easily aroused.

  The letter was carefully worded and was delivered to the King that same day, but the King’s reply dismayed his daughter. Still, he insisted that she sign the Oath that recognised him as the head of the church.

  So it was not the Concubine who had wanted this; it was Henry himself. Mary had always believed it was Anne who insisted on this, Anne who wanted Mary to yield to the heresy of the Church of England, but it seemed she was wrong. And if she was wrong, if the King still insisted on recognition as head of this new church, Mary’s hopes that he would return to the fold of Rome were in vain.

  At court, Henry allowed his new Queen Jane to read the letter from his daughter. He was very pleased with Jane. She was meek, obedient and had few opinions of her own, unlike that other one. She would give him sons, he was sure of it.

  Now she rested her hand on his knee, leaned forward and kissed him, a gentle, affectionate kiss that would blossom into passion later, in her bedchamber.

  “Would it be so very bad to allow your daughter back at court?” she said softly. “She has done nothing save defend her mother and her own beliefs.”