by Fatal Throne- The Wives of Henry VIII Tell All (retail) (epub)
“Your daughter, the Princess Elizabeth, visits us today. Would you like her to come give her papa a kiss?”
“Did you think you would bring that child here and all would be forgiven, Anne?” Henry shakes his head.
There are many things I could say in response, but before I launch a retort, Elizabeth shouts merrily, “Bonjour, Papa!”
Henry spits out the window. “That girl is too much like her mother.”
“She is your daughter and your heir!” I snap back at him.
“That little bitch of yours will never be my heir!” Henry screams, and slams his window.
Elizabeth begins to wail, but not before every servant within the palace has heard the awful exchange between Henry and me.
Without warning, the rain arrives in an angry downpour. I cover my little girl’s head and run for shelter. “Your papa loves you, Elizabeth. Always remember that no matter what he says, he loves you very much.”
2 MAY 1536
From Greenwich Palace to the Tower of London
The call of a bird draws my focus from the tennis match. I look up, but see only sky. No one else stirs, so perhaps the sound was a figment of my imagination, one further sign that I’m losing control of all that surrounds me.
I feign interest in this game, even place a bet on my champion, yet ever since Henry’s abrupt departure from the May Day tournament yesterday I can’t shake the fear that something’s terribly wrong. But I say this to no one, not even my cousin Madge.
Now I hear wings flap loudly overhead. In a wink of sun, I catch a flash of pointed feathers and hooked beak.
Sure as I am the Queen, a falcon hovers ten feet above me, midair. He eyes me as if he wishes to devour me, then swiftly takes his leave. I tap Lady Rochford, my brother’s wife, on the shoulder. “Did you see that?” I ask.
She glances to the tennis court as if I mean to discuss something about the match. “See what, Your Grace?”
“Le faucon.”
Lady Rochford registers utter confusion.
“The falcon?” I repeat. “The bird on my royal crest.”
Before I can explain further, a messenger presents himself. “By order of the King, Her Highness Queen Anne is summoned to present herself to his Privy Council chamber.”
The tennis ball may still be volleying back and forth, but I feel all spectators’ eyes on me. Henry must be very upset to humiliate me in this fashion. In the past he would never air our private squabbles in front of dignitaries. My foolish words of flirtation with Sir Henry Norris deserve reprimand and I wish that I had spoken not a one, but why does the King go to such lengths? I tried to make amends for this already. I will just have to argue my case with greater energy and devotion.
I stand up to follow the messenger, but my legs become heavy as granite, and I can’t seem to move. From my neck to my toes, I feel that something is not right. And then I know what it is.
Mon temps est venu. My time has come.
* * *
—
The Privy Council chamber feels colder than a dungeon, even though the sun shines brightly through the windows and a fire blazes in the hearth. My uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, a man who has never been a friend to me; Sir William Fitzwilliam; and Sir William Paulet arise at my entrance, all with sombre faces.
My uncle delays a good minute before he begins. “Anne Boleyn, who rose so high, must you now fall so low? By your evil behaviour you have disgraced yourself and your family. And most grievously, you committed treachery and treason and dishonoured the King.”
My uncle clears his throat. “Queen Anne, you are hereby formally accused of committing adultery with three men: Mark Smeaton, Sir Henry Norris, and another as yet unnamed.”
“Pardon me?” I must have misheard him. “Did you say I stand accused of adultery?”
My uncle nods.
I stagger, confused for a second, before I turn hot as boiling oil. “These are ludicrous accusations! There is a grave difference between flirtatious banter and adultery, Duke Norfolk. You ought to be ashamed of yourself for giving credence to such nonsense.”
My uncle shakes his finger at me. “Tut, tut, tut. Her Highness had best avoid adding perjury to the list of her offences against God and the King.”
I would like to scream and knock my uncle to his knees. Instead, I look to the other men on the Royal Commission, Sir William Fitzwilliam and Sir William Paulet.
Fitzwilliam stares hazily out the window like a boy wishing to escape a tedious lecture. And Paulet, more statue than man, hasn’t shifted since I entered the room.
“I am innocent. I protest these dubitable charges against me, and will bear no more abuse to my character.” I indicate to my ladies that I intend to leave this chamber.
But the guards bar our exit.
“The charges are not dubitable. Witnesses have come forth,” my uncle rebuts.
“They are lying. I am the King’s true wife, and no other man has ever touched me!” I have inadvertently raised my voice. I gather my wits and breathe. “This must be a terrible misunderstanding. I will go to Windsor and speak to Henry. Someone has put forth wicked and false rumours.”
William Paulet bows his head. “Do forgive me, Your Grace, but His Majesty was adamant in his refusal to speak with you.”
“Might someone then petition the King on my behalf?” I find myself almost pleading.
All three men on the Royal Commission shake their heads.
“You are hereby under arrest and will be escorted by barge to the Tower of London as soon as the tide of the Thames turns down,” my uncle proclaims, as if my guilt is already a foregone conclusion. Further argument is fruitless.
I force a smile at my ladies-in-waiting. “Well, it seems we are moving houses.”
William Paulet looks at me with sympathetic eyes. “Your Grace can bring nothing and no one from your household. All will be provided.”
My breath halts. “Might I see my brother before I depart? My father? My baby.”
My uncle and Fitzwilliam shake their heads, and Paulet looks away.
I close my eyes. I am to be alone in the Tower without friends or family to comfort or counsel me. I try to hold fast to the brave and dauntless Anne, the one whom Henry fell in love with. I swallow hard. “If this be His Majesty’s pleasure, I am ready, as ever, to obey.”
* * *
—
In full daylight, not under the cover of darkness as is afforded most state prisoners, but so that the people may gape at me from the shore, I’m conducted up the Thames to the Tower of London—a Queen and a prisoner.
Three years ago, on a pleasant May afternoon not so unlike this one, Lord Thomas Cromwell orchestrated a very different trip up the Thames for me. I was on my way to be crowned Queen of England. The people flocked to these shores, if not to wholeheartedly laud me, to observe the great spectacle. Led by a golden dragon that breathed fire from its metal jaws, three hundred barges sailed in procession. The sky exploded with endless fireworks. Cannons tremored the land. So much pageantry, and all of it to proclaim, once and for all, that Henry had made me his Queen.
As we pass through the Court Gate of the Tower, cannon fire blasts and the barge rattles. The sound shatters me and I must grasp the side of the boat. Today, instead of celebrating my coronation, the cannon signals to the world that I shall be imprisoned.
Sir William Kingston, as Constable of the Tower, disembarks the barge ahead of me. When my feet touch ground, I feel queasy and unsteady and sink to my knees. I plead with the men who escorted me here, “God help me, I am not guilty of these accusations. I never sinned against the King. I am innocent!”
But they are unmoved. The lords commit me to the Lieutenant of the Tower.
I follow the constable and lieutenant through the Tower grounds, wrenching my neck to guess where my cell mi
ght be, and ask, “Sir William, shall I go to a dungeon now?”
Sir William is said to have been a formidable knight before age set in. And still his stare is intimidating. He shakes his head as my father used to when he corrected me. “No, madam. You shall go into the lodging you lay in at your coronation.”
Once again I crumple to my knees. Then Henry must still care for me. He houses me as his Queen. The words spill out. “It is too good for me! Jesu, have mercy on me!” I wail and tremble, sloppy with tears. The foul-breathed liars who accuse me will be licking my boots or losing their heads, God help them! I break into sudden laughter, a laughter with teeth, a headless, heedless chortling.
For if the King still loves me, there is hope that he might pardon me. And then nothing else matters. Not this Tower prison or the false accusations against me. Il y a de l’espoir. There is hope, for the King has power over all.
3 MAY 1536
The Tower of London
The Queen’s Lodgings
Spies. I’m surrounded by spies. Except for my childhood nurse, Mary Orchard, the five ladies who attend me in the Tower are enemies all—Lady Boleyn, my aunt and the wife of my father’s younger brother, who ought to stand beside me but instead is a staunch supporter of the Lady Mary; Lady Anne Shelton, the mother of my favourite cousin, Madge, who never loved me, sometimes fears me, and would rejoice to see my head on a stick; Mrs. Stonor, the wife of the King’s sergeant-at-arms, who serves only the King; Mrs. Coffin, the wife of the Master of the Horse, who sleeps beside me on the pallet and says little but records in her mind everything I do or say for Lord Cromwell; and Lady Kingston, the constable’s wife, who makes reports to him. They are all elder ladies and smell of dust mites and disappointment. I question now whether the King has shown me any favour at all, lodging me in these quarters.
No one has occupied these chambers since my coronation, and they could yet use some airing out. Perhaps stuffed air suits a cloistered nun, but I am accustomed to palaces and gardens. Otherwise the lodgings are as I remember them, quite luxurious and in the antique style of my preference.
The spies and I gather in the large presence chamber. Even though I wish to cry and curse my misfortune, I try to say little, in the hopes that the ladies might reveal who is behind the treachery that has befallen me.
“Lady Kingston, would you ask the constable if I might not see my brother, George?”
The other attendants titter at my question, which elicits a very scornful stare from Lady Kingston.
“You should make your requests directly to the constable,” she says sternly. “The ladies and I can provide you nothing.”
“Then what, may I ask, is your purpose?”
Lady Kingston answers with a very wide smile. “To serve Your Grace, of course.”
Serve me to the wolves, perhaps.
Eventually, the other ladies become distracted with embroidery, and I’m able to sidle up to Mary Orchard and ask, “Why did they laugh when I mentioned my brother?”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but the rumour is that George has been arrested and imprisoned in the Tower,” Mary whispers.
I try not to gasp. “For what?”
“For”—Mary’s eyes fall to the floor—“being with you in an improper and carnal way.”
I turn red. My brother is the third man with whom I am accused of having been adulterous? I feel as if I might smash everything in the room. “Surely no one can believe—”
Lady Kingston interrupts. “What are you two whispering about? Mrs. Orchard, go busy yourself with the chamber pot.” She looks at me. “Your Grace needs to prepare for dinner with the constable.”
* * *
—
Except for its exquisite wainscot mantel etched with roses and the initials “H” and “A,” the dining chamber of the Queen’s lodgings is unremarkable. Across its long table sits Constable Kingston, with whom I am forced to take all my meals. At first I thought this loathsome, but today I’m eager to pull any information regarding my brother out of the man. But even with my clever tongue, Sir William is a brick.
I take a sip of wine. “I asked to have an audience with the King and was soundly denied. I asked to see my father and was told I could not seek his counsel. So now I enquire as to whether I might have a visit from my brother.”
“You have been told, madam, that you are allowed no visitors while you are in the Tower,” Sir William says sternly. He sniffs at his plate, clearly eager to dine.
“So Lord Cromwell will never visit me?”
“Well, perhaps he will.”
“Please enquire as to whether the Lord Chancellor will visit me.”
Sir William nods. “I will provide you the answer tomorrow.”
“Thank you, I am much obliged.”
Sir William tucks a napkin under his chin, picks up his knife, and prepares to settle into his meal. He assumes that our conversation is at a pause.
He must not often dine with women.
I wind the strand of pearls at my neck slowly around one finger. “If Lord Cromwell does not wish to visit me, would you enquire whether he knows anything further about the charges against me?”
The constable again nods, but with less patience.
“And does Lord Cromwell know if I shall be questioned and make a deposition? And if I shall give a deposition, who will question me?”
Another even less genial nod from Sir William.
“And has a trial date been set? And if a trial date has been set, then I presume the case against me must be recorded in some manner? And if a record has been made, can I not be told everyone who has been accused and arrested in regard to my case?”
Sir William looks dazed. I straighten the napkin in my lap. “Oh, and ask Lord Cromwell, if you please, that I enquire how fares the King? And Sir William, please do ask Lord Cromwell to pass on my good wishes and prayers for His Majesty.” I smile at the constable.
Sir William stares at me. “Is that all, madam?”
“No, not all,” I say. “Perhaps—”
Sir William interrupts. “Perhaps it would be best if Lord Cromwell paid you a visit, madam.”
“If you think it best,” I say. Before he takes his first bite I add, “I realize you may not frequently entertain royalty, but it is customary to address the Queen with formality.”
Sir William must be starving, because he shoves an entire pig’s foot into his mouth. “Yes, madam.”
So already I am no longer the Queen to you! Well, touché, Constable. But Sir William must not realize that I can sword-fight with words, too, and far better than he.
“So, they have arrested my brother?” I ask him.
“I cannot say.”
I scold him with a mischievous smile. “Are you not Constable of the Tower? How incompetent of you not to know the prisoners in your keeping.” I swallow my first piece of meat.
“I will not say whether or not your brother is in the Tower,” Sir William corrects himself.
“So then, George is a prisoner of yours. I ask you, sir, how am I to defend myself without knowing of what I am accused and who accuses me? I don’t even know all of the men with whom I’ve committed adultery.”
“I believe you know that well, madam.” Lord Kingston smirks as he gnaws on a bone.
I pause.
“True.” I nod.
Sir William abruptly stops eating and looks up at me, shocked that I would carelessly admit this.
My eyes enlarge. “For I have committed adultery with no one.” Pleased with myself, I smile and lift my goblet.
“One man confessed,” Sir William says.
My fist smashes the table. “That cannot be!” One might as well chop off one’s own head. Unless the man was forced into confession. Lord Cromwell is a soulless dog and will go to any lengths, including torture, to get
what he needs. “Shall I die without justice?”
Sir William replies, so earnest I want to wring his neck, “The poorest subject the King hath, hath justice.”
If Sir William believes that, he is an abject fool.
Despite their claims, my hands are clean,
No guilt upon me ever seen,
Except my jealous heart doth mean
A wedge somehow was laid between
The King and his “Most Happy” Queen.
4 MAY 1536
The Tower of London
The Queen’s Lodgings
When I closed my eyes last night, Elizabeth twirled among crimson rosebushes. In my dream, I picked her up and kissed her head, and for a heartbeat fled the confines of this Tower. We played together for several glorious minutes, and then the dream turned dark. Ma petite wandered into a garden maze. I called out, “Elizabeth!” and searched the maze to utter exhaustion, but I could not find her. I feared she was lost forever.
I woke up wet with tears, trembling. And yet I pray that this dream will visit me again, so we are together even if only for a moment.
* * *
—
The spies must have been told not to speak to me, so I can learn nothing further of the case being formed against me. They have been silent as spiders. But this afternoon I’ve decided we’ll engage in a little needlework. We can fashion children’s clothes for the poor out of some of my less ornate dresses. I pass out sewing baskets and some pieces of fabric and lining.
“I have figured out who is behind the false accusations and my imprisonment,” I say as I choose my needle.
Lady Shelton moistens the end of her thread. “We’ll not fall for that, Queen Anne. This is not a game of cards where you can bluff and trick us into revealing information.”
I ignore her. “I prayed this morning and it all became very clear. I feel a fool for not seeing it before.” I measure with my arm how much material I will need to construct a little girl’s skirt. “For to prove that I was unfaithful with multiple men requires a masterful hand. And one man above all others has the ear of the King. Only Lord Cromwell could so quickly build a case against me. But not without assistance. Someone in my court must have fed him lies.” I carefully cut my fabric in two. “Of course, I cannot yet be sure who betrayed me.”
