Will they burn me, I wonder, or will I follow my brother to the scaffold? There was once a prophecy that a queen of England would burn—I used to joke that it would probably be me. But it was just a jest, I never thought it would come to pass, not really.
The women creep around me, casting curious glances, watching and waiting for me to break, to fall into madness so that they can carry tales into the wider world. But I am done with screaming. There is nothing left to do but wait and pray, pray for a swift end. There is no use in wishing for a reprieve.
I see that now.
It is a dead sort of day, the type of day where the sky is white, and there is not even the hint of a breeze. Clouds muffle the horizon and I want to push them away, thrust back the oppression and the fear, and revel for one more day beneath blue skies, feel the wind on my cheeks, the scent of Hever in the air. Instead I am here, in my palatial prison, with no future, no next week to look forward to, perhaps not even a tomorrow.
Just after noon, the door opens and Archbishop Cranmer is announced. He stands just inside the door, his furrowed face dead white. His long fingers are restive, fiddling with the tassel of his book binding. He is the king’s servant but a good man nonetheless, and I move forward, breaking convention, to greet him.
“Thomas,” I say, grasping his hands that are clammy and cold in mine. It is the first time I have used his given name, usually it is “Cranmer” or “Sir”, but today I have need of a friend.
I call for wine and usher him toward a table beneath the window, where the light will fall upon his papers and ease his eyes. “Have you come to hear my confession? I fear it will disappoint Cromwell.”
I pour him a cup of wine and hand it to him. He takes it but doesn’t drink, instead he places it on the table and runs his tongue across dry, cracked lips.
“Your Grace.” He indicates that I should sit, and I do so. He seems more distraught by my approaching death than I, and I have the curious desire to put him at ease, make his task less hideous, although it strikes me that it should really be the other way round.
“Tom, do not worry for me. I know I have to die, whether to suit the king’s need or Cromwell’s, there is no wriggling out of it. I am ready and if … if George has to die for my sake, then living is a thing I no longer wish for.”
“Your Grace,” he repeats, leaning forward in his chair, “there might yet be a way. I have instruction from Cromwell that if you agree to certain things, your life may well be granted after all.”
Time slows and I can hear the blood thumping in my ears, my heart hammering loud beneath my ribs.
“How? What things?”
Suddenly, life is sweet again. I remember Hever in the sunshine; Mary, George, Wyatt and I crawling through meadows of sunshine, the scent of apples and summertime. I remember Grandmother’s horrid little dog, his relentless scratching, his turds curling ripely on the lawn. I remember the boredom, the everyday dreariness of the familiar. I want to experience all that again.
I want to go home.
I want to see my mother.
“How?” I repeat. “Tell me what I must do.”
He takes a deep breath and looks me in the eye, speaking all in a rush as though he has little time to say it.
“Admit that your marriage to the king is invalid. Confess to a pre-contract. If you are not the king’s true wife, then no crime has been committed.”
I do not answer right away. The only sound in the chamber is the crackling flames in the grate. It is so quiet that I know Lady Kingston and my aunt, Lady Boleyn, are listening on the other side of the door. All my life, ever since I came to court, there have been spies carrying tales to my enemies, looking for a way to come between me and the king. Yet even now, I will not whisper.
“And what of Elizabeth?”
“She will be cared for. As a royal bastard, she will receive every honour.”
“Like her sister Mary, you mean?”
He does not answer. What can he say? The only person preventing fair treatment of Mary was me. I can only hope that Henry’s next wife will be kinder. I slump back in my seat, the brief hope of reprieve forgotten. “She is the king’s heir, whatever they may say. I cannot sell her legitimacy for the sake of my life.”
He sighs, flicks the edges of his pile of papers, taps his finger as he decides how best to respond.
“She may wish you to do so. You are her mother. Think how she will feel to grow up the daughter of a disgraced and executed queen …”
“Better to be the daughter of a whore, you mean?”
He closes his eyes against my profanity and we both sit in silence, each thinking our own thoughts.
“Why does Cromwell need my confession to get his annulment? Why not just press some poor innocent into perjury? Why not just promise my sister Mary a fortune in exchange for declaring a pre-contract between the king and herself? Why do you need me?”
Even as I speak I realise that they have already exhausted those avenues. Mary has refused to play their game, and Percy, poor weak Henry Percy, has chosen not to betray me either. Perhaps he is not so weak livered as I thought.
I look Cranmer in the eye. I see pain, discomfort, and much sorrow. I begin to weaken. “If I do admit to a pre-contract, what will happen to me? Will I be free to return to Hever, to marry again and forget I was ever queen, or will I be a prisoner, like the late queen, Catherine?”
He hesitates. “I believe it would be best were you to take orders and enter a nunnery.”
I raise my eyebrows. “A nunnery? This has been carefully planned. So I am to be closeted to pray for the king’s soul while he continues as before, and is free to marry whomever he pleases … Tell me, Cranmer, do you think he would ever be able to forget me?”
A long silence, a ragged sigh, a dropped head. “No, Your Grace. There is not a soul on this Earth who has met you who will ever be allowed to forget.”
Finding myself touched by his words, I stand up and move to the window, kneel upon the seat. Outside, the castle green is alive with people, and beyond on the river, the world goes on without me. If only I could board a wherry and make my escape upriver, take horse to Hever and never come to court again.
For the first time, a life of obscurity sounds like Heaven. Life is very sweet. It will be less so without George, and I would never know true happiness again, but he would not want me to die.
He would tell me to live.
I make up my mind.
“Very well, Cranmer. You have your confession. I was pre-contracted to many men in my youth, and have lived a disgustingly dissolute life. My marriage to the king has as much substance as gossamer. Go tell him so, and let us be done with this nonsense.”
“You will go into seclusion and not seek to visit or communicate with the king, or your daughter?”
“Elizabeth? I must not write to Elizabeth?”
He shakes his head. “But remember, your compliance will ensure her well-being. If you want her to be well cared for and happy, you must remain a stranger to her.”
Can I do that? Can I bear to live my life estranged from her, never to share her triumphs, or comfort her in dark times? I would hear news of her, of course, but second hand news is not the same. She is my beloved daughter, I cannot and do not want to live without her.
But life is calling me, singing its sweet tempting song, and I find myself agreeing. If I live, everything else will come right.
I have to live.
17th May 1536 – The Tower of London
I am still awake when dawn breaks in a wave of pink sky. Today is the day my brother must die, and our innocent friends along with him. I cannot stand it. How, knowing they die for me, can I continue to breathe, continue to eat, to sleep, to live?
Perhaps I should have stood firm and denied the pre-contract. Perhaps I would be better off dead than suffering a life of torment, without Henry, without Elizabeth, and without George. I wish I could just prevent my next breath from happening, close my eyes, never inhale a
gain, just stop, put an end to everything. Yet somehow my body continues to function, my heart continues to beat … and slowly break.
Why is Henry doing this? Why does he not come and save us? How can he let his friends perish in this way? George, Weston, Brereton, and Norris are men whom he has loved as brothers; men who have served him intimately and devotedly for so many years. What can be urging him to take such a horrible, irreversible step? How can he do this to me, for the sake of whom he took on the mighty power of Rome?
And then I realise. It is all suddenly quite clear. It is not Henry at all. It is Cromwell, manipulating the king to his own ends, and Henry believes it all. He believes I never loved him, that I slept with his friends, laughed at him in secret.
Poor Henry! He must be suffering the most horrible torment. I almost feel his sense of betrayal, imagining me indulging in heinous depravity, laughing at his prowess, his talents, every one of his friends disloyal and spiteful.
He thinks we have made him a fool, but it is Cromwell who does that. Poor gullible Henry, deceived and controlled by the son of a draper; tricked by a servant into destroying his real friends. After this day he will have no one to trust, never again will Henry know the comfort of an honest friend for he is letting them all die.
I cannot sit still; all morning I stride back and forth, chewing the skin around my fingernails, taking neither food nor drink, and speaking to no one. Until, a little after noon, Master Kingston arrives.
“Is the deed done?” I already know the answer for I heard the cannon that signals to the people the fate of all traitors. He nods his head, looks at the floor. “My brother is dead? And the others too?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I am sorry, but take comfort in the knowledge that they died nobly and well.”
Nobly and well! What comfort is that? I wring my hands as if trying to wash them clean.
“Tell me,” I gasp through dry tears, although part of me has no wish to hear it.
He clears his throat. “Lord Rochford, your brother, went first. He stood bravely, spoke to the crowd of his faith and love for the king …”
“And his innocence?”
“Of course, Your Grace. All men spoke of that, bar one …”
His voice fades away.
“Smeaton.” I cannot help it, I spit the word.
“Yes, Your Grace, although he had the chance to retract his confession.”
“So, he did not clear me of the public shame he has brought to me? Then I fear his soul will suffer for such false accusations.”
Kingston accepts my outburst without words. I look at him, sensing he has something more to impart. “Well, what more have you to say?”
“Your Grace, forgive me but … the council have decided … your confession regarding the pre-contract … it is not enough to save you.”
For the first time in his presence I almost fall, but swiftly he reaches out and holds me firm, his strong hands clasping my elbows until I am steady again. I slowly raise my eyes to his, hating the truth I discover there.
“So I am to die anyway. I need not have perjured myself?”
He shakes his head once.
“When is it to be?”
“Tomorrow, Your Grace. You must make your peace with God.”
Someone is laughing. “It doesn’t really matter,” I hear a voice saying. “I have lost all that I cared for. My brother is dead, my friends are slain, my daughter is stolen from me. What use is life to me now? Although … I would have liked to see Hever just one more time.”
I come back to myself with a jolt, realise that I am clutching Mr Kingston’s collar. I draw back, stand like one chastised, smile an apology for my brief lapse of manners.
“Is it to be by fire, or the axe?”
“The king, in his mercy, has sent for a swordsman from Calais. It will be both swift and painless.”
“His Majesty is so kind.”
Mistaking my irony, he closes his eyes in silent agreement.
“It is extraordinary, is it not, Mr Kingston, that on paper I am not and never was the king’s wife, yet I am still to die for infidelity and treason? How determined he must be to be rid of me.”
Mr Kingston bows and asks if there is anything I require, but there is only one thing left.
“I would like to take the Sacrament and make my peace with God.”
“It shall be done, Your Grace.” Silently and reverently, although I am no longer owed any such allegiance, he bows from the room, softly closing the door, leaving me for one more night, alone.
Just one more night.
18th May 1536 – The Tower of London
Even if the hammering of the scaffold builders stopped, I’d know no rest. It is long since I slept but, somehow, the need for it has passed. I spend my last night on Earth in prayer, reflecting upon my life, what I might have done differently, where I might have taken an alternative path.
Had Wolsey not intervened I might be married to Percy now, and the mother of a dozen boys, but fate decreed otherwise. Had I been made of lighter morals, I might be mistress to Tom Wyatt and likewise a mother to a troop of tow-headed rascals, all looking just like their father. For a few moments I linger happily on the thought, regretting his marriage to Elizabeth Brooke; perhaps we’d all have been happier without it. Perhaps it would have been better to become his mistress, and my mistake was in clinging to chastity. I am to die a whore anyway.
Or perhaps, had negotiations gone differently with the Butlers, I might be mistress of the Ormond estates and mother to a bevy of Irishmen. But instead of all those opportunities I took the eye of a king, and from that moment my path was forged.
I do not regret it, not really. I repent of my behaviour to Mary and Catherine, but only because Elizabeth is now in a similar precarious position. I pray that my actions will not reflect ill upon her, and I pray her step-mother will be kind, whoever she may be.
Ah, Henry. At first you were just the king, a light entertainment; I had not realised you would come to want me in earnest. I had not foreseen you would overturn the country, bring down the Church, and fall foul of the Pope just for the honour of bedding me.
Perhaps I should have been a light skirt like Mary and freely given you my body, thus ensuring life after Henry. Had I done so I might now be living, fat and happy, in the countryside as she is. I can never know and there is no use in dwelling on the might-have-been. I can only hope I have left some good behind me, and that my work for reform is not undone by my successor.
Surely he will not marry Jane Seymour, the pale-faced ninny who loves the Roman Church? That cannot be. Henry will tire of her in the month.
Henry. He runs like a loop in my mind. I wish we could say goodbye. I wonder how he is, if he misses and grieves for me, or if he has cast me out of his mind as well as his life. No news reaches me in my prison. All I can do is hope he is not too unhappy.
Tomorrow—oh no, it is today—I am to die, and I have sought God’s forgiveness for all my wrongs, all my small sins, and I pray He is ready to receive me into His arms. It has been a good life, if a little short. I pray that the world treats Elizabeth better.
I dress in my best, most regal clothes. A gown of silver grey damask and a cloak of ermine fur. My hair is tucked beneath a gabled hood, not my usual style but a fine one nonetheless.
After praying a while longer, conscious of each task being for the last time, I pick up my prayer book and rosary and wait for Mr Kingston to arrive.
He is long in coming. My women grow restless and I feel nauseous from nerves and lack of food. There had seemed little point in taking dinner. At noon, long past the hour I had expected to die, Mr Kingston opens the door.
“Mr Kingston, there you are. You are a little late, I had thought to be dead long before noon.”
“Your Grace, I am sorry. There has been some delay.”
“So I understand, Mr Kingston.”
White-faced, with shame in his eyes, he stutters his reply. “I am afraid we will have to postpone
it, until dawn tomorrow …”
“Tomorrow?” The word drops like a stone into a well.
The thought of another night like the last is unbearable. I want it over now. I am ready to die now. I cannot go through it all again! But I do not protest too much. I put down my prayer book and disguise my disappointment with macabre humour.
“I had hoped it might be over soon. Not that I desire death, but I am prepared, and have made my peace with God. It will be such a swift and sudden thing for I have but a little neck, and just think, when I am gone the people will refer to me as Anne Lackhead …”
My laughter is loud, too loud, but a glance at the horror-stricken faces of my companions sobers me. It will not do to break down now. It would not be fair on them.
I fumble again for inner calm and when I turn back to Mr Kingston, it is with a peaceful smile. “So, I shall see you on the morrow. God send you rest, Mr Kingston.”
And so I am given one more night, a night I neither desire nor relish. I pray again, for so long that I am sure God must be tired of me. Once again, I work my way through a long list, asking His blessing on all my loved ones, on the king, and on Elizabeth too. I ask forgiveness of my sins and failures, and beg that He takes me quickly into Paradise where I might be with George again.
When dawn arrives, my women dress me in the cold grey light. I take a little breakfast and prepare once more to make my end.
This time, I pray God it will be so.
At eight of the clock Mr Kingston returns, and tells me the time has come and I must make myself ready. But I am already prepared, I have been for days.
Dressed in the same clothes as the day before, I collect my prayer book and follow Mr Kingston on my final walk. We leave the Queen’s Lodging, pass the Great Hall, through Cole Harbour Gate and along the side of the White Tower. On the green a black-draped scaffold looms, like a monster in the corner of a bedchamber. My steps falter but someone places a hand upon my back, urging me forward.
The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn Page 29
