by V. E. Lynne
Will grabbed her wrists and told her brutally, “I do believe it! My master has all the evidence. It is all there, and it cannot be disputed. The queen has very little time left, Bridget. I am sorry, but she will die for this.”
“No,” she broke his grip, “she is innocent, and I cannot believe that the king would actually execute her. The men yes, but Anne? After his great love for her? She is his wife, and kings do not put their wives to death. No. There must be another way . . .”
“Bridget,” Will kissed her in an attempt at comfort, “there is no way out. You must prepare.”
Bridget could feel her composure slipping for the first time since she had been in the Tower with the queen. She missed her former life with a wrenching ferocity—the peace and security of the abbey, the blessed remoteness of it all, the timeless rhythm of life, from matins and lauds, vespers and compline, and everything in-between. She would have given a great deal to be back there now and away from all this.
Pressing a fist to her eyes, she reined in her emotions. “If you have any influence with your master,” Bridget said shakily, “you will ask him to dismiss the ladies who currently surround the queen. If these are her last days . . . then let women she is actually fond of, and who are fond of her, be with her.”
Will beheld her with sadness. “Yes,” he said, “I will try. For you, I will try.” They embraced and parted.
Bridget returned to the queen’s rooms to find that four men had arrived—the Duke of Norfolk, Lord Chancellor Audley, Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, and Master Secretary Cromwell. “Oh, I am sorry,” Bridget exclaimed, backing out of the chamber, but Anne ordered her to stay.
“These men have just arrived,” she said, indicating the quartet ranged against her .“I would rather have you hear what they have to say than any of the other ladies. At least I know you will not immediately run and tell Master Kingston all about it.”
A little silence fell until Cranmer cleared his throat and spoke. “Please be seated, Your Majesty,” he said, with a benign smile. Thomas Cranmer was a mild-mannered, slightly harried-looking man who had always been loyal to the queen. The current situation had wrong-footed him, and he had the air of one who found himself acting in a play without knowing his lines or what his part involved. The other three men, by contrast, looked on casually, their expressions revealing nothing.
Bridget retreated to the back of the presence chamber as the occupants seated themselves and the meeting began. The archbishop gazed mournfully at the queen and said, “Madam, there is no one, save for the king, who is as distressed by your conduct as I am. I well know that I owe my place in the world to your good will. However—”
Anne raised her right hand and Cranmer stopped speaking. “Do not waste your words, my lord, I know why you are here. Even though I am innocent, as you all know, and I have never wronged the king, I see he has grown tired of me, just as he did Catherine. All that remains is for you gentlemen to provide the pretext for my banishment.”
Cranmer pursed his lips. “Madam, no such pretext is required. I am sorry to say, but your evil doings are now widely known. Smeaton has confessed, I can show you his confession if you like.”
Anne’s face flushed a fiery red and her black eyes sparked with fury. “And you believe him, Cranmer? Then go and do what you will!” she cried. “You cravenly obey the king’s every command; I can see that you have managed to convince yourself, in your mind, of my guilt. But in your heart,” she stood up, “in your true heart you know, all you gentlemen know, that this has been done because the king wishes to marry Jane Seymour and therefore I must be disposed of. You all know it and you all just follow along, with not a word of protest. Well, you may do as you like, but if you are here to garner a confession from me, you will have to leave empty-handed. I shall not confess to something I did not do, and as for Mark Smeaton,” she stared at Cromwell, “I pity him, for the fires of Hell will be the only reward he receives for his false words. God knows what manner of torture forced him to utter such a lie. Jesu pardon him.”
The four men absorbed the queen’s spirited reply with relative equanimity. They conferred amongst themselves for a few minutes, their voices so low that none of their discussion could be heard, and then they made to leave. It seemed that they were finished with the queen; they would not get what they wanted from her today. But before they left, the Duke of Norfolk could not resist aiming a barb at Anne. “Niece, you have greater matters than Smeaton to worry about. If it be true that you have dallied with your brother, then a great punishment awaits him, as it does you.”
Anne rounded on him. “George is blameless! It is true he has been in my chamber many times, and where is the harm in that? He is my brother and therefore above all suspicion. I know the king wants him gone, so there will be no one left to speak for me, no one to take my part. It is all clear to me now.” The anger that had buoyed her up drained away and she leant on the back of a chair for support, her distress plain. “Just leave me, gentlemen; we have no more to say to each other.”
The men trooped out, their faces turned away, and Anne broke into miserable sobbing. “Oh Lord, they truly mean to kill George and all the others, and the king wants it to happen! He has forsaken me utterly. He takes the false word of others all so he can have that Seymour bitch and consign me to oblivion. The prophecy is coming true. He will burn me.”
A vision of Anne tied to the stake reared up in Bridget’s mind, an angry orange fire consuming her, her screams rising above the crackle of the flames. She rubbed her eyes to remove the horrible image. “Madam, there is something I must tell you. I saw Will outside.”
Anne looked briefly confused. “Cromwell’s man?”
“Yes, madam. He told me . . . well, it was so awful and absurd that it must be untrue, but he said that you are to be indicted, along with the men, for compassing the king’s death.”
Anne first looked astonished, then the real import of Bridget’s words hit home and her astonishment turned to fear. “So,” she said dejectedly, “it is not enough for Henry that I should be utterly discarded and disgraced and my family destroyed. He wants me to suffer as well.” Anne walked over to the fireplace and took up a handful of the cold ashes. She stared into their grey depths. “He actually wants me to die.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The next day saw the trials of Norris, Weston, Brereton, and Smeaton at Westminster Hall. Anne and her brother were to be tried separately, as befitted their greater status.
The trial of the four men was regarded as a foregone conclusion and so it proved. Sir William Kingston informed the queen of the outcome in the evening. “Madam, I must tell you that the trial of Norris, Weston, Brereton, and Smeaton has been held and all four of those gentlemen have been found guilty and sentenced to death.”
Even though this was the expected news, Anne swayed slightly on her feet as Kingston delivered it. “Tell me, Master Kingston, did any of the men confess?”
Kingston shook his head a little and replied, “No, madam. Only Smeaton has confessed, the others have not, and did not do so at their trial.”
“But, sir,” Anne countered, her eyes narrowed in concentration, “I was given to believe that Sir Henry Norris had confessed, and now you tell me that it is Mark Smeaton alone? Which is it, Master Kingston?”
The normally unflappable Kingston looked flustered. “Well, madam,” he stammered, “I understand that Sir Henry did confess but he retracted that confession at his trial.”
“For what reason?” Anne demanded.
Kingston hesitated but then his innate honesty asserted itself. “Sir Henry said he had been tricked into confessing by Treasurer Fitzwilliam.”
Anne laughed shortly and clicked her fingers in triumph. “You see, sir, these accusations are based on nothing but trickery and false presumptions! I am innocent, and that shall be clearly shown at my trial.”
“You forget, madam,” Kingston replied, “that Mark has not retracted his confession and all ha
ve been found guilty, according to law.”
“According to law, Master Kingston, but not according to truth!” Anne affirmed, her voice ringing with certainty. “I have the truth on my side and all shall know it. The king shall know it!”
Kingston glanced at his wife and they shared a disbelieving look. “As you say, madam,” the constable replied, “as you say.”
Even though the men were all condemned and now faced the full rigours of a traitor’s death, Anne’s spirits were high over the weekend preceding her own trial. They were further bolstered on Sunday when Lady Shelton and the detested Mrs Coffin were relieved of their duties and, more sadly, Mrs Orchard as well. The old nurse burst into tears upon her departure and so forgot herself that she embraced the queen, whispering shakily that she “prayed for Your Majesty.” Mrs Orchard took Bridget aside just before she left and said, “Make sure you take care of the queen. I am much afraid for her.” Bridget assured her that she would.
Much to Bridget and Anne’s, delight, the three women were replaced by Catherine Carey, Joanna De Brett, and Margaret Wyatt, Lady Lee. Lady Lee was the sister of Thomas Wyatt and had known Anne since childhood. Bridget had never met her but was heartened when Anne greeted her warmly as an old friend. Clearly, Lady Lee was there as a slightly older woman both to attend the queen and act as a guide to the younger maids. Lady Boleyn and the constable’s wife kept their places. Bridget hoped that Will had had something to do with the removal of the other ladies and she silently thanked him.
Catherine and Joanna greeted her with tears and fierce hugs. “Oh, Bridget, I have missed you,” Joanna said. “It has been terrible at court—the queen’s apartments are deserted, there is nobody to attend to anything, and the stories we have heard! Lady Rochford says that the men are all condemned for adultery and for conspiring to murder the king!” Joanna dropped her voice to a whisper. “She says they will all die.”
Bridget had no difficulty imagining Lady Rochford conveying such information, no doubt with that strange smile upon her face as she did so. Unfortunately, she was mostly right. “It is true the men have been condemned,” Bridget answered, “but the queen and Lord Rochford have yet to be tried. That will take place tomorrow.”
“Joanna, come over here!” Anne called from across the chamber, where she was talking animatedly to Lady Lee. “Come here and tell me how the dogs are! Has anyone been walking them?” Joanna joined the queen, and soon the room was filled with her excited chatter. She did not appear to fully appreciate the seriousness of the situation, but Catherine Carey was under no illusions. The young maid moved closer to Bridget and said, “Tell me the truth. The queen is doomed, isn’t she?”
Bridget looked down at her hands and nodded once in reply. She found she could not speak the words aloud, not yet. Catherine said, “The court is a ghastly place now. The king is gone; he spends most of his time at Chelsea, where Mistress Seymour has been moved to. He travels only at night, never during the day; I suppose he wishes people to think that he is distraught.” Her face screwed up in disgust. “Meanwhile, several men have arrived to seek after Norris and Brereton’s goods and offices. They are not yet dead and already there is a scramble for advancement.”
Bridget was sad to see the normally good-natured Catherine so disillusioned. She was only a young girl, but her childhood was now effectively over. The events of the last month had forced her to grow up quickly and, as Anne Boleyn’s niece, her own prospects were in dire jeopardy. It was unlikely that Jane Seymour would want her as an attendant, although her extreme youth could yet prove to be her saviour.
Evidently, Catherine herself was entertaining the same thoughts. “The queen is my aunt, and if she falls, as seems certain, what will become of me? I do not want to be selfish, but I have to think of these things. I suppose I will have to return to my mother and stepfather, but I do not relish the prospect of rusticating in the country forever. Not that I have a say in the matter. What about you, Bridget? What will you do?”
“Well, I have no family, but fortunately I always have a place with the abbess. I have no fears on that account. But I still have a small hope that the queen will be exiled and that perhaps I will accompany her.”
Catherine regarded her with surprise. “Exile? There is still a chance of that?”
The sensible part of Bridget’s brain said no, but she chose to ignore it. “The queen has not been tried yet, and exile is the worst that has ever happened to a Queen of England. The king loved her once, they have a child, and surely he will be merciful . . .”
Catherine leant in close, so close that their noses almost touched. “Bridget, the queen may believe that, she has no choice but to believe it otherwise she will go mad. But you know better. The king, this king, is not merciful. He sent More and Fisher to the block—the former his friend, and the latter an old churchman who could have been left to rot to death in his prison cell but the king would not allow that. He had to die, publicly and bloodily, because he had defied him. The king abandoned Catherine; he shunned the Lady Mary and would not allow her to see her mother, not even when she was dying. There is no mercy in the king. Anne has made him a cuckold, for all the world to see, and for that, and other things besides, he will kill the men first and then he will kill her. The rest is just a formality. And before you say it, I know she is innocent.”
Bridget recognised the frightening truth in Catherine’s words, but still the stubborn little spark of hope remained alight within her. “I know you are right,” she said, “I know it. But I refuse to completely give up. There is still life. Maybe there is still hope.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
If Bridget closed her eyes, she could almost believe they were back at Greenwich, the maids rushing around laying out the queen’s clothes, Anne herself selecting her jewellery and what style of headwear she would don—the English gable or the French hood? The air filled with the buzz of activity at the start of a normal day. Only this wasn’t Greenwich and nothing was normal anymore. This was the royal apartments at the Tower of London, and the Queen of England was dressing for her trial.
Anne selected a black velvet gown with a scarlet underskirt and a small, delicate cap with a black-and-white feather. She looked serene and heartbreakingly young, her high cheekbones jutting out like blades, and her brow smooth as silk. It occurred to Bridget that she did not actually know how old the queen was. Somewhere between thirty and five and thirty she estimated. Not youthful, but not decrepit either. A woman who should have many years left to her.
The maids had just finished dressing Anne when Kingston’s familiar knock sounded upon the door. He entered accompanied by his deputy, Sir Edmund Walsingham. “Madam, we have come to escort you to your trial in the King’s Hall.”
“I am ready, Master Kingston,” Anne answered, and she walked forth with stately dignity, the constable and Walsingham leading the way, followed by a gentleman gaoler, his ceremonial axe turned away from the queen. The four maids of honour, as well as Lady Boleyn and Lady Kingston, completed the company. It took them only a few minutes to walk from the apartments to the ancient Hall, situated with the river on one side and the White Tower on the other. A great, murmuring crowd had gathered within the precincts and they all pressed forward when they saw the queen. Anne smiled and waved as if she were on her way to a ball.
The little party reached the door of the battlemented building and waited until a booming voice from within cried out, “Gentleman gaoler, bring forth your prisoner!” Anne obeyed the command without a moment’s hesitation and entered the Hall. The interior was big and echoing, with aisles to the side and two wooden arcades in the middle. In the centre was a platform, with many noblemen sitting on benches, and all along the walls were more benches, holding a large crowd of spectators, crammed in shoulder to shoulder. Bridget gasped and whispered to Joanna, “There must be a thousand people in here,” to which she replied, “The king wanted as many people as possible to attend. Lady Rochford said so.”
The comp
any continued to move further into the Hall, and Bridget saw that there was a dais at the far end, upon which sat the Duke of Norfolk perched on a throne under a canopy emblazoned with the royal arms of England. Norfolk was Lord High Steward, which meant that for these proceedings he was effectively acting as the monarch. He carried a white staff in his hand and a supercilious expression on his face. At his feet sat a handsome though haughty-looking youth, no older than eighteen. “That is Norfolk’s son, the Earl of Surrey,” Catherine said to Bridget’s look of inquiry. “He is a proud young man.”
Beside Norfolk was Lord Chancellor Audley, and on the other side was Anne’s long-time enemy Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. His heavy lidded eyes were alive with anticipation. Bridget could see the queen scanning the crowd of noblemen assembled to try her and freezing for a moment when her eye fell on one in particular—the Earl of Wiltshire. Thomas Boleyn had come to pass sentence on his daughter and no doubt on his son in due course. He kept his gaze resolutely averted from Anne’s.
Gathering her composure, the queen presented herself at the bar and curtseyed deeply to her judges. A chair had been provided for her, and she seated herself gracefully upon it. Bridget and the other ladies took seats just behind their mistress. So far, the queen’s spirit and bravery were bearing her up, and Bridget observed many people in the crowd looking at her admiringly. By contrast, the only person in the court who was exhibiting strain was Thomas Cromwell. He was leaning forward in his chair, his hands on his knees, a vein in his forehead swelling dangerously outwards. Bridget had never seen him so worried before and she felt a little spark of optimism rise in her. It was, however, soon extinguished.
