* * *
—
Elizabeth was only two months old when the King decided he would establish a household for her at Eltham. As my baby received titles, an estate, a livery, an inheritance, and a large staff, her half sister was stripped of all that makes one royal. Because of her shameful disobedience, Mary had nothing, and so was forced to live in Elizabeth’s household. Henry sent me to Eltham and asked me to oversee the change in rank.
When I arrived, I was appalled. “Those draperies are dreadful,” I said to Lady Shelton, whom I had chosen to be Elizabeth’s governess. “Dour and Spanish. Have them changed to something cheerful for the Princess.”
“Yes, Queen Anne,” Lady Shelton said, and made careful notes of all my commands.
I ran my glove over the mantel and held up a finger of dust. “Not acceptable,” I told her as I crossed to the window. “Where is the Lady Mary?”
Lady Shelton hesitated. “She complained that the smell of your perfume makes her ill.”
“What? How dare she disrespect me! She will address me at once!” I cried.
With fear in her eyes, Lady Shelton explained, “Lady Mary has barricaded herself inside her bedchamber and refuses to come out until you leave.”
I gritted my teeth and said, “She has, has she?”
I hoofed upstairs faster than a horse on fire. Lady Shelton trailed behind me.
I banged on the chamber door. “Mary!”
No reply.
“Mary, I know you are in there.” I pounded harder. “The consequences will be dire if you do not answer your Queen!”
A muffled giggle and then Mary said, “No Queen is at Eltham today. And I have no obligation to speak to my father’s mistress. The only Queen I will ever acknowledge is my mother.”
“You dare to disgrace and defy your father?” I screamed. “I should rip out your insolent tongue!”
Mary laughed. “My father would never allow that.”
“Let me in this minute!” I commanded. I repeatedly kicked Lady Mary’s door, almost demolishing it, before she finally released the lock. As I rushed towards her, she grinned.
I wanted to claw the smile off her face. I narrowed my eyes. “This chamber is too grand for the likes of you. You will serve the Princess Elizabeth and eat and sleep in the servants’ quarters.”
I turned to Lady Shelton. “No one shall call this bastard a lady until she learns respect.”
Mary sniped back, “I respect those who deserve respect.”
I exploded, “I should throw your proud Spanish blood into the sea!” and slapped her soundly across the face.
Mary gloated as if she had bested me.
So I hit the spoiled brat again. A large red bruise surfaced on her cheek.
The crease in Mary’s forehead furrowed exactly as her father’s does when he becomes enraged. She sneered at me. “Everyone hates you.”
I ordered Lady Shelton, “Hold her in place,” then drew back my arm and struck Mary with enough force to knock her to her knees.
Tears rolled out of her eyes, but still Mary did not cry out or recoil.
My palm stung as if I had burned it. I told Lady Shelton, “No food for the insolent bastard unless she wishes to apologize to me. She can repent or eat only her indignant words.”
Lady Shelton nodded as a tear trickled down her cheek.
Elizabeth began to cry softly in a chamber below. A great need to cradle my baby welled up within me. I quickly abandoned Mary and followed my daughter’s voice downstairs.
Mary ate nothing during the two days I remained at Eltham. She never spoke to me again.
* * *
—
“That’s horrid,” Mrs. Stonor says.
I inhale deeply. “Several times I offered to reconcile Mary with her father. In return, all I asked was that she recognize me as her Queen. But Mary refused to acknowledge me. I wanted to punish her. I deprived her of all comfort. I ordered Lady Shelton to lock Mary in her room and nail the windows shut when visitors came, so that no reports of her ill-treatment could be made.”
Lady Shelton glowers at me with absolute loathing.
I use Mrs. Orchard as a crutch to help me rise. “I hate to remember all the vile things I did to a girl who chose to stand up for herself and her mother. I fear I have cursed Elizabeth to a similar fate. I pray that with the penance of my death, God will forgive me and spare my daughter.”
Lady Shelton shakes her head. “There are not enough prayers in Heaven for that.”
My lip trembles as I hold back tears.
Mrs. Orchard pats my shoulder. “Queen Anne, all children pay for the mistakes of their parents. And all parents make mistakes.”
15 MAY 1536
The Tower of London
The King’s Hall
Like a snake unfurling its long, venomous tongue, Lord Cromwell unrolls the list of charges for which I will be condemned. He looks at me, somewhat unnerved by my composure. Did he expect me to break down and weep? Did he imagine I would beg forgiveness for crimes I didn’t commit? The man ought to know me better than that.
I am still unsure of what accusations I’ll be asked to defend, nor have I been told what evidence will be used against me, but I am clear about the outcome of this trial. Nothing I do or say today will sway the jury of my peers. For they, as I, serve the King. I will be sentenced to death.
But that does not mean I must cower before my enemies.
Cromwell clears his wretched throat. He reads the paper without meeting my eyes. “ ‘Queen Anne, who has been the wife of Henry the Eighth for three years and more, despising her marriage, entertaining malice against the King, and following daily her frail and carnal lust, did falsely and traitorously procure by base conversations and kisses, touching, and other infamous actions, the King’s daily and familiar servants to be her adulterers and concubines.’ ”
A crowd of over two thousand has assembled to watch the Attorney General and Lord Cromwell present their case against me. They gasp at Cromwell’s words, for the charges are designed to alarm.
Still I hold my head high. I have decided to think of this trial as just another royal event. It will likely be my final appearance as the Queen of England, and I intend to maintain grace and dignity. I chose my wardrobe carefully—a black velvet dress over a petticoat of scarlet damask and a small black cap with a white feather. My fashion has always been my armour. I suit up, and it makes me feel impenetrable.
Lord Cromwell continues, “ ‘On the sixth of October 1533 at Westminster, and diverse days before and after, the Queen procured, by sweet words, kisses, touches, and otherwise, Henry Norris, Gentleman of the Privy Chamber, to violate her, and at Westminster on October twelfth, 1533, they had illicit intercourse at various times, both before and after, sometimes by his procurement, and sometimes by that of the Queen. Also the Queen on November second, 1535, and several times before and after, at Westminster, procured and incited her own natural brother, George Boleyn, Lord Rochford, Gentleman of the Privy Chamber, to violate her, alluring with her tongue in the said George’s mouth, and the said George’s tongue in hers, and also with kisses, presents, and jewels; whereby Lord Rochford, despising the commands of God, and all human laws, on November fifth, 1535, violated and carnally knew the said Queen, his own sister, at Westminster; which he also did on diverse other days before and after at the same place, sometimes by his own procurement and sometimes by the Queen’s.’ ”
Someone in the crowd yells, “Filthy whore!” and then is echoed by many. Murmuring and spitting abound. My uncle, Lord Norfolk, who presides over this trial as the Lord High Steward and stands as proxy for the King, demands silence and order.
Lord Cromwell speaks more loudly, bolstered by the jeering spectators. “ ‘Also, the Queen, on December third, 1533, and diverse days before and after…’ ” He recites a staggering list of my carnal crimes. December this, October then, names, dates, and locations bounce around the courtroom like tennis balls. “ ‘At W
estminster, William Brereton, at Hampton Court, Sir Francis Weston, at Westminster, Mark Smeaton…’ ”
I shake my head and prepare to enter my plea. But Thomas Cromwell, who clearly likes the sound of his own voice, isn’t finished.
“ ‘Lords Rochford, Norris, Brereton, Weston, and Smeaton, inflamed with love for the Queen, became very jealous of each other, and gave the Queen secret gifts and pledges while carrying on their illicit intercourse. And because the Queen could not endure any of them to converse with any other woman, she gave them great gifts to encourage them in their crimes.’ ”
He eyes me up and down with a look of contempt that might be dismantling if there were any truth in his words. “ ‘And further, the said Queen and these other traitors conspired the death and destruction of the King. The Queen also said she would marry one of them as soon as the King died, and that she never loved the King in her heart. And thus, the Queen and the other traitors have committed treason in contempt of the Crown, and against the issue and heirs of the King.’ ”
The court roars and rumbles with such fervour it feels as if the ground might crack apart. Lord Cromwell almost smiles as he asks me, “How do you plead to these crimes?”
“Not guilty,” I say with absolute resolve.
“Your plea is so entered,” the Attorney General says, and gestures for the clerk to record it thus.
“Now we shall present the evidence against you,” Lord Cromwell says. “On the first account with Henry Norris, a gentleman of the King’s privy chamber, you stand accused of adultery on October sixth and twelfth, 1533, at Westminster, and we have sworn statements that—”
“October 1533?” I ask.
“Yes, that is what I said, madam.”
“In October 1533 I was at Greenwich, not Westminster,” I say. “It was not a month since the Princess Elizabeth was born.”
“Perhaps you are mistaken about the date?” Thomas shuffles through some papers.
“I am not,” I say firmly. “The birth of my first child was an eagerly anticipated event. I did not leave Greenwich for two months. And I entertained no visitors; I rarely saw even the King. Only the newborn Princess and my attendants. And I could most definitely not have had carnal relations on October twelfth, Lord Cromwell. It was but a month since I gave birth.”
“Well, perhaps that date was miscopied in my papers, then. It matters not; what is important is the act of adultery you committed with Sir Henry Norris,” Cromwell says as he readjusts his collar.
“I committed no adultery with Sir Henry Norris, then nor at any other time,” I say. “And if the date does not matter, then why did you specify it? Perhaps the use of dates makes it appear as though you have a valid case against me, when in fact you do not, Lord Cromwell? May I ask, did Sir Henry confess to this?”
“Sir Henry was convicted of this crime and sentenced to die,” Lord Cromwell says. “Whether he confessed is irrelevant.”
“Indeed.” I nod.
The crowd no longer screams “Filthy whore!” but sits quietly, listening to my every remark. Many heads shake in disbelief.
“As to the accusation of adultery with William Brereton on December—”
“I am not guilty of any of these accusations, Lord Cromwell, despite what your witnesses might have told you. I can directly dispute several other dates you mentioned, for either I was not at the palace you allege or I was in seclusion or I was miscarrying the King’s child.”
The crowd is dead silent. It appears the people of England, for once, are considering my side.
After I have caught Lord Cromwell five more times using an impossible date or location for my alleged adulterous act, the state rests its case. I am not allowed to present any defence beyond this.
My uncle as Lord High Steward calls on each member of the jury to announce his verdict. One by one, all twenty-six men say, “Guilty.” The axe head turns towards me.
I sit unmoving, knowing that all eyes watch as the crown is removed from my head. Then my uncle strips me of every title ever bestowed upon me, and all my property. With each retraction, I feel as if he rips away pieces of my gown so that I’m left standing before the court in nothing but my shift.
As Lord High Steward, my uncle must read aloud my sentence. He took pleasure in arresting me less than a month ago, but now tears stream down his face. “Anne Boleyn, because you have offended our sovereign, the King, in committing treason against his person, the law of the realm is that you deserve death, either to be burned here on the Tower Green or to have your head smitten off, whichever the King prefers.”
It’s not that I had no expectation of receiving a death sentence. The four men accused with me were sentenced to die. And my brother, whose trial follows mine, will certainly be convicted and sentenced to die as well. But hearing my uncle read aloud that I will be burned alive or beheaded is something I couldn’t entirely prepare for. My nurse, Mary, shrieks so loudly and dreadfully at the news that the Earl of Northumberland collapses and must be carried out of the hall.
Through all the chaos and shock, my eyes look to Heaven. And when the room settles enough for my voice to be heard, I address the judges and people. I try to maintain an even tone. “My lords, I won’t say that your sentence is unjust. I believe you have reasons for what you have done, but they must be other than the offences laid against me in this court, because I am innocent of those. I’ve been a faithful wife to the King. I admit that I haven’t always shown him the humility he deserved. I confess that I’ve been jealous and suspicious of him. And I wasn’t wise enough to be discreet about it all the time. But God knows, I haven’t sinned against the King in any other way. I don’t say this because I hope to prolong my life. I have Christ’s example of how to die, and I accept that that is now my fate. As for my brother and the others who are unjustly condemned, I would willingly suffer many deaths to save them. But if it so pleases the King, we will die together. Heaven holds for us endless peace and joy, and from there I will pray to God for the King and for you, my lords.”
I don’t know how the crowd or jury responds to my words. Because before I can lose courage or the balance required to walk with grace, I pick up my skirt and exit the hall.
What evident truths were found within
The trial of Anne and George Boleyn?
Hearsay and rumours of vague origin,
Vile perversions and myriad sin,
But positive proof of their crimes—
That was thin.
16 MAY 1536
The Tower of London
The Queen’s Lodgings
His Excellency the Archbishop Thomas Cranmer enters my chambers. He looks uneasy at first, but then smiles with the warmth of one who has known me a long time. “How fare you, Anne?”
“As well as can be expected,” I say. “Almoner Skip has been praying with me and preparing me these past days. And I feel ready to be with God.”
His Excellency pats my hand. “That is good, child, very good. And I see that the King has returned to you this day your own ladies-in-waiting.”
“Yes, he shows me great kindness in sending Madge, Lady Rochford, and young Caroline to be with me in my final days.”
The archbishop indicates that I should be seated. “You were convicted yesterday and sentenced to die—stripped of your titles, your crown, and your property. But you are still married to the King.”
I nod.
His Excellency rubs his chin. “As it stands, the line of succession gives your daughter, Elizabeth, primacy. For as long as your marriage remains valid, Elizabeth is Henry’s one and only legitimate heir. Mary has been declared illegitimate, and Henry FitzRoy is a bastard. Should the King have no more legitimate heirs, Elizabeth would sit on the throne when Henry dies.”
I nod again, though I don’t like where I think this is leading. “Elizabeth is a baby. I ache to leave her motherless, but knowing she shall have a place with the King eases my pain a great deal.”
“I imagine it would,�
� the archbishop agrees. “However, the King requests that your marriage be annulled.” He opens his satchel. “I have brought some papers for you to sign to that end.”
I clasp my hands together and try to remain calm. “Why would I want to annul my marriage and make my daughter a bastard?”
“Because the King bids you to do so!” His Excellency responds sternly. He softens his tone and pats my arm. “He could yet commute your sentence and send you to a nunnery.” The next moment his voice explodes with terror. “Or he could have you burned on the Tower Green!”
I tremble. If I disobey Henry, he will surely take out his wrath on Elizabeth. But if I sign the papers, I make ma petite motherless and illegitimate, which is as good as orphaning her.
In this moment, I understand Katharine in a way I never have before. Above all else she had to do what was best for her child. And now I must do what will be best for mine.
“I will do as Henry asks, of course,” I say, and begin to weep.
His Excellency hands me a quill. “This is right and good—for yourself, for your daughter, for your King, and for God. I will tell Henry how agreeable you have been, Anne.”
I sign the papers, then fall to my knees. “Archbishop, please pray for and be kind to my Elizabeth.”
“Of course,” he assures me. But even though His Excellency gives me his word, he seems much more concerned with the papers before him. He gathers them and is quickly away.
And I am alone.
17 MAY 1536
The Tower of London
The Queen’s Lodgings and Byward Tower
Five men, including my brother, George, will lose their heads early this morning. Following Sir William Kingston’s orders, three guards drag me and my ladies to a different prison tower and force us to witness it.
A draught whistles through the Byward Tower as we stand silent at the window. We can hear nothing of the crowd or the men’s speeches. After the axe falls, sometimes the head rolls in the sawdust; sometimes it just drops from the block like a clay brick. The executioner holds up each severed head for all to see before they cart the body away. My brother takes only one stroke of the axe, but Smeaton requires several blows before his head is smitten from his body. I try not to imagine the pain of that. By the fifth execution the whole platform is soaked red.
Fatal Throne: The Wives of Henry VIII Tell All Page 11
