Anne followed his example and then displaying great self-control, spoke of her own fate. “Has the King made his pleasure known?”
“It is to be the block” replied Cranmer shortly. “He thought it would be the method you yourself would choose”.
“It may be the last kindness he ever shows me” she whispered. “Thank him for his mercy, for God knows I have lain awake at night sweating with fear lest he choose the fire”.
Cranmer was shocked to his priestly core. “Oh no, my lady. He would never wish to cause you such suffering. The very thought of sending a Queen to the fire …” he shook his head from side to side, unable to contemplate such horror.
“He has not stinted though, in his efforts to be rid of me” Anne reminded him. “I shall be the first Queen in history to die on the scaffold; the first woman, in fact. But then, I was always one to set the fashion!”
Cranmer crossed himself hurriedly yet again, seeking heavenly guidance to protect himself from her frivolity. Getting awkwardly to his feet, he murmured “I must take my leave now, my lady. May God protect you now and in your hour”.
Anne looked up at him. “I have one last request to make. Will you convey it to the King?”
“Willingly”.
“Good”. She smiled with satisfaction. “As you know, I was brought up in France, I speak the language fluently; my dress and manners are all French”. She paused, seeking the words with which to frame her final request. “I have lived in the French manner and I wish to die likewise. Beseech His Grace to spare me the butchery of the English axe and allow me to die by the French sword!”
“I will do my best” he promised, his voice thick with emotion.
She knelt before him to receive his final blessing, and then as he left her said softly “Farewell dear Cranmer. If we do not meet again on this earth, then we shall in the hereafter. God keep you”.
Finality
It was over; everything was done. Nothing remained but for the final scene to be played. Her death.
With fortitude and from a distance, she had witnessed the butchery of her brother and the others, but to her remote gaze it had seemed that with each fall of the axe, a tangible entity rose heavenwards from the decapitated trunks. It was a sign that God was comforting her; underlining her belief that although their lives on earth were done, their spirits awaited hers in the hereafter. Absently her lips formed the words “We shall be together soon, very soon”. She was no longer afraid of death because she was sure that a better existence awaited her on the other side.
It was 6 o’clock on the morning of May 18th 1536; the day was hazy, with the promise of bright sunshine to come. She looked round to where her dear friend Margaret Wyatt Lee lay sleeping; it was due to Meg’s arrival the previous night that she had remained calm and been happy for perhaps the last time, recalling happier days with her childhood friend.
Anne was about to wake Meg and ask her to assist her robing when she was startled by the sound of her door being unlocked. Immediately she was afraid that maybe she had mistaken the hour and that it was already time for her death. Frantically she looked from her window and saw that the scaffold was incomplete; there were workman’s tools scattered across the platform and the straw was yet to be spread.
Lady Kingston let herself quietly into the room. “What is it?” Anne hissed fearfully. “It is not already time?”
Lady Kingston raised her hand to still Anne’s anxious questions. “There is to be a slight delay Madam; the swordsman is not expected to arrive before eleven, so it will be nearer noon before you are called”.
“Then that is the cruellest blow of all” Anne replied bleakly. “I had hoped to be long gone by noon and past my pain”.
“Oh there is no pain” the Lieutenant’s wife assured her quickly. “They say it is quick and painless, the sensation like a fingernail running quickly and firmly across the neck”.
Intrigued, Anne lifted her heavy hair and ran her own fingernail across her neck. “Then it is almost like a caress?” she whispered. “And I have only a little neck!”
Once Margaret was awake and acquainted with news of the delay, there was little for the two friends to do except wait and pray. Occasionally Anne rose to her feet and walked slowly about the room; not from any agitation, more to exercise stiff muscles. Gazing through her window at the lush grass and trees, she realised that for most of her life her eyes had been half closed to the beauties of the world; she had been too busy running the race that was life. She wondered if such revelations came to all condemned prisoners; that nothing was ever truly appreciated until there was danger of losing it. And she was soon to be deprived of that most precious commodity of all; life.
Between 10 and the half hour, Anne dressed carefully for her last public appearance. She chose a dark grey damask gown with white trimming to the neckline and sleeves, and a crimson underskirt. She had Margaret coil her long hair about her head, then covered it with a plain linen cap which in turn was hidden by a wide brimmed black velvet hat, pinned at a jaunty angle. With her body dressed to her satisfaction and her mind calm, she knelt in prayer to make her peace with the world. That done, she sat close to the meagre fire Margaret had coaxed into life, to warm her cold hands. “How do you feel Anne?” Margaret ventured at last.
After a moment’s thought, Anne replied “Strange … more as though I am ready to go to a court function rather than the scaffold. It may sound macabre, but I am looking forward to noon, for already I look towards eternity.
“It is so quiet” wondered Margaret. “Almost as though the whole world is holding its breath”. Then into the silence came the harsh chiming of the Tower clock. It was eleven o’clock.
Weary footsteps were heard mounting the oaken stairwell and both women turned expectantly to the door as William Kingston opened it. Always perceptive to others’ moods even when under extreme duress, Anne was at once puzzled by the expression Kingston wore. Slowly she walked towards him, her brow creased in consternation. “Mr Kingston?”
William Kingston bowed and then raised troubled eyes to hers. “Madam” he began. “I scarcely know how to tell you this …” His glance flickered across to Margaret, whose eager expression told him that she was hoping to hear news of a reprieve for Anne. Reluctantly he dragged his gaze back to the former Queen, and continued. “The gentleman from Calais still has not arrived, so it has been decided that your appointment must be postponed until the morrow”.
Anne bowed her head, closed her eyes and shook her head slowly from side to side. Kingston watched her anxiously, afraid that the delay would cause another bout of the unstable behaviour which was so prevalent during the early days of her incarceration. He was however greatly relieved when Anne raised first her eyes, and then her arms, before proceeding to unpin her hat. “I confess I am disappointed” she told him, occupied with spearing the two hatpins into the hat she now held in her hands. “However, God will help me through these hours and I shall use them to prepare myself all the more diligently for the hour of my death.
Saying nothing, Kingston bowed and left the room. As the sound of his footsteps died away, Margaret’s soft sobbing broke the silence. At once Anne dropped her hat to the floor and crossed the floor to take Meg into her arms. “It should be I who comforts you!” Margaret blurted tearfully. “How can you take such news so calmly?”
After a final hug, Anne stood away from her friend and shrugged her shoulders. “I feel I am fully prepared for death” she told her. “If God sees fit to delay the hour, who am I to question his judgement?”
Once Anne was changed back into the faded black velvet, the two knelt in prayer and remained at their devotions until Lady Kingston brought in their supper. Later, Anne’s Almoner was allowed to join them, and it was with him that Anne prayed throughout the night whilst Margaret withdrew to sit and gaze thoughtfully into the depths of the meagre flames in the hearth.
As she bade her Almoner farewell soon after dawn, Anne felt rested and calm, almost as thou
gh she had enjoyed a long restful sleep. As she and Margaret sat down to a light breakfast at 6am, she found that she had a good appetite whereas Margaret could force very little down, her red eyes proclaiming how she had spent the previous night.
Yet again, Margaret helped Anne don her outfit of choice, reverently kissing the discarded black velvet gown as she lifted it from the floor. Her final task was to dress Anne’s hair for the last time, brushing the luxuriant locks until smooth, then twisting and pinning them high on Anne’s head. If Anne felt the hot tears Margaret shed as she lovingly performed this last favour, she made no mention of it, only reaching up to squeeze Meg’s shaking hand momentarily, causing their eyes to meet in the small mirror set on the table in front of them. Anne smiled; Meg could not persuade her anguished features to form even the semblance of a response.
Once all was done, Meg busied herself tidying the chamber before pulling a chair close to Anne’s and taking her hands in hers. “Thank you Meg” Anne told her.
“For what?”
“For being here”.
The last minutes ticked resolutely away then suddenly Kingston was at the door and soon the sad procession was making its way down the staircase and out of the front door. On the threshold Anne paused for a second and breathed deeply of the fresh May air, then with great dignity walked slowly along the path to the low scaffold. The spectators, few in number but specially chosen to witness her death, turned to watch her as she mounted the four shallow steps to the platform.
With horror, she felt her carefully mustered courage slipping away from her as she looked down on the small gathering; each face wearing an expression either of triumph or pity. The sly triumph she could face, it was the pity which so nearly broke her. Then Kingston touched her elbow. “You are expected to say a few words, Madam” he reminded her.
She swallowed hard and nodded “I have prepared a short speech” she told him, in a faint voice.
Turning again to the spectators, she took a deep breath and began. “Good people, I am here to die; for according to the laws of this country I am judged to die and therefore will not speak against it”. She paused, looking about her again before continuing, her voice growing in strength with every sentence. “I am here to accuse no man, or to speak of that which I have been accused and thus condemned. I pray God save the King and grant him long to reign over this land, for to me he was ever a good and gentle sovereign lord. If any person seeks to meddle with my cause, I pray them to judge their best”. Again she paused and out of the corner of her eye, saw Margaret sink to her knees in misery. She continued. “Thus I take my leave of this world and of you all and I heartily desire you all to pray for me”.
Her speech finished, she backed away from the wooden rail and stood, her feet amongst the straw, taking in the last essences of the life she loved so dearly. For the last time she heard the birdsong, saw the bright beauty of the grass and flowers. Tilting her head slightly to one side she fancied she could hear the tramp of horses feet through the golden russet carpet of autumn along the paths of the Kentish woods near Hever. She would never see another autumn; she would never see Hever again.
Kingston touched her again. “Madam, I beg you. It is time”.
“One moment more, Kingston” she begged. “So many thoughts and so little time in which to think them”.
With a last look at the bright sky and the shifting clouds, she retraced her steps to where Margaret stood and gave her a tremulous smile. As she reached up to unpin her hat, she could not disguise the trembling of her hands however hard she tried. Turning again to Margaret she gently refused the proffered binding for the eyes and into her hands delivered her hat and a small book of hours she had carried at her girdle since childhood. “Give it to Tom when you see him” she urged. “And tell him … tell him I was grateful to see his dear face in these my last moments”.
Margaret gasped. “But where is he?”
“In the Beauchamp Tower, behind me and to my left”. Anne replied quietly. “But now I must say goodbye to you and thank you most gratefully for your love and friendship all these years. Give my love to my family and to yours. Watch over my baby. Be brave Meg, for I am glad to die”.
Squeezing Margaret’s hands in a final farewell, Anne moved away from her and stood tall as her executioner knelt at her feet and with bowed head begged her forgiveness for the task he must undertake. Lapsing into the French tongue, Anne delivered the required forgiveness before handing him a leather purse containing the fee for his grisly work. Turning away, she knelt carefully in the straw at the centre of the platform, for there was no block for this French-style execution. After fastidiously arranging her skirts to cover her feet, she raised her head and boldly and for the first time, looked fully at her executioner; his sinister duty greatly enhanced by the severe mask of his trade which covered the head entirely apart from slits for the eyes and mouth. For the last time, Anne smiled, a beautiful, grateful smile solely for him, for she realised that to spare her further agony he had hidden his sword from her sight amongst the straw.
Before she took up her final position, she looked away to her left and focused her gaze upon the solitary face at the barred window high in the Beauchamp tower, then raised her hand in a silent, poignant farewell to Thomas Wyatt.
Her earthly duties done, she bowed her head and said her last prayers; she knew the swordsman would not strike until she gave the required signal. She could feel her heart pounding, yet felt a strange sense of disembodiment; almost as though she was moving through a dream and watching another preparing to die, not suffering the fate herself.
She murmured “To Jesus Christ I commend my soul”, then lifted her head for the last time and held her arms away from her sides in mute signal of her readiness. Her senses as sharp as ever, she heard the rustling as the sword was drawn from its hiding place, thought she heard the soft approach of her executioner. Her eyes wide open, she stared towards the blue horizon of paradise and thought of her family, Tom Wyatt, Meg, the friends who had gone before, and, as the sword swished through the air, Elizabeth.
Moth To The Flame Page 27
