He pulls me to my feet, gripping my shoulders. “Now, now, this won’t do. I have too much to think about for this nonsense. Go to sleep. Think of something pretty, anything you like, and I’ll see that it’s yours if only you leave this room.”
“I only want one thing, and that’s a child—you can’t give me that!” I cry.
“Mary! None of that filth!” he says, pushing me away. “Go!”
I turn, quitting the room, containing my sobs until I reach the maidens’ chamber where I throw myself on the bed, losing myself in the manner I always have, through sleep.
A strange escape comes in the form of sitting for Hans Holbein the Younger, the court painter, who has been commissioned to render my likeness. Norfolk chooses my gown and hood, a monstrosity bearing a ghastly feather that I detest—not the stylish French hood that Anne has made so popular.
Other than these inconveniences, I find sitting for the gentle painter a relaxing experience that gives my mind plenty of time to engage in the activity of wandering to happier places.
Holbein doesn’t say much. Now and then he’ll arrange my hands a certain way or remind me to bend my head. I am to look modest and prayerful; surely this is a device of my father, for Anne would have me appear strong and proud.
After the first sketch, where Holbein jots some notes about the color of my gown—a dainty yellow—he raises his head and smiles.
“You are very beautiful, Lady Richmond, if I may say so,” he tells me.
“Of course you may, Master Holbein!” I cry, thrilled to be receiving a compliment from a man whose profession is to seek out beautiful things.
“My only concern is that I will never be able to capture it.” He laughs. “You’re rather like a rainbow, you know. Sort of translucent, something one can admire and exclaim over but never really”—he squints as though the rainbow in his mind’s eye is somewhere just beyond his point of vision—“grasp.”
“Thank you, Master Holbein,” I tell him, taking the man’s chalk-stained hands in my own and offering a gentle squeeze. “Your words touch me in a way I cannot express.”
He sinks into a graceful bow and takes leave.
I will never forget him or that last day of my innocence.
Anne tries to distract herself from the king’s waning affections by holding court in her usual festive manner. Like her unfortunate predecessor, however, she watches as mealymouthed little Jane Seymour collects a group of courtiers in her own vulgar fashion. Jane’s mind is not possessed of the keen wit that Anne has, and her strategy, guided by her brother Edward no doubt, is to be as pious and tranquil as possible. Always she walks with her little head bowed, attending Mass at every opportunity, but making sure to be on King Henry’s lap when he calls.
I am fuming. I hate her. I am not fool enough to think she is better than Anne. Anne played the same game; one could (and many do) say that she is getting only what she deserves, but the difference between Jane and Anne is that Anne—temperamental, spoiled, vain Anne—is my cousin, my family. I am sworn to her.
The king’s neglect drives Anne to distraction. She throws her tantrums. There is nothing anyone can say or do about it. She sinks into deep melancholies and sobs for hours. She breaks into immoderate laughter that rings out a little too loud and a little too long. Sometimes she just sits on her chaise while Mark Smeaton, her favorite musician, flirts with her while playing his lute and sings soothing odes of adoration for his queen.
She still has her admirers. Francis Weston and Henry Norris are always about, eager to shower her with empty words of praise and adulation. Anne’s responses are a little colder toward the men. They are not what she wants—who she wants. It is not wise of them to be so open in their admiration, she subtly cautions.
But no one really listens.
And then one April day Mark Smeaton is arrested.
Madge Shelton is in a frenzy of terror as she relays the details to me. “They tortured him, Mary,” she says as tears stream down her cheeks. “They tortured him and made him confess…”
“Confess what?” I demand.
She cannot say it. She chokes on a sob.
I take her shoulders gruffly, then release her as an image of my father swims in my mind. “Confess what?” I cry.
“He is under suspicion of—of treason. Criminal knowledge of the queen.” The words are pulled forth in a whisper. Madge’s little face is white. We are in a terror.
“No…no…” I sink onto the bed, trembling. “No. Poor, dear man. They must have tortured him mightily for him to confess such lies—”
Madge is sobbing. “What will this mean for Her Majesty? What will this mean for Anne?”
I take her in my arms.
Madge is no fool.
The king has made his move. Anne’s brief reign is at an end.
Hopefully the temperamental queen will cooperate better with King Henry than the last one.
Anne is summoned before the Council led by William Fitzwilliam, the royal treasurer, and my father. My father. He led the examination against my cousin, his niece. I repeat these facts to myself over and over. I wonder what he is asking her. How does he look when he speaks to her? Does he appear reluctant to execute this dubious task? Is there any gleam of sympathy to be found in those black eyes?
I soon find out.
When Anne leaves the room she eyes me. “Your father has used me. All my life I’ve done nothing but his bidding, and this is what it all comes to.”
I cannot respond. What can I say to the truth?
We accompany her to her chambers, a court of frightened ladies, all pretending life is normal. We are always pretending. We do not talk about her examination proceedings, nor do we talk about Mark Smeaton. We embroider. We erupt into nervous giggles about nothing. We ramble about any nonsensical thing to strike our fancy, anything to distract us from these dark days.
My fingertips are bleeding from the needle pricks. It is foolhardy to try to embroider—it sits on my lap, abandoned, and I stare at nothing, trying to will myself somewhere else, anywhere but here.
And then Norfolk arrives.
His face is taut. “Come along, Your Majesty,” he says, proffering his arm.
Anne answers him with a questioning arch of her exquisite black brow. “Where are you taking me, Uncle Thomas?” Her voice sounds very young.
He draws in a breath. I cannot tell if he feels sorry or not. I pray the hesitation means it is so. “The Tower,” he says. “You are under arrest for high treason.”
I am sobbing. I retch from sobbing. Madge is holding me, rocking gently back and forth.
“How could he?” I cry over and over. “How could he?”
She shakes her head. We are all in awe. Nothing makes sense any more.
“What about Princess Elizabeth?” I ask. “What’s going to happen to the little princess?”
“Rest, Mary,” Madge coos. “There’s nothing you can do about anything. Rest and try not to upset yourself so much. You make yourself ill. Please. We can do nothing but ride the tide of events.”
“No…” I sob. This answer is not good enough for me. There must be something. Surely someone will come forward to speak for Anne, someone strong and credible.
But her most credible witness is her uncle, the premier duke in the land, Thomas Howard.
And he has made it clear where he stands.
He will not see me. No doubt he knows what I will say and he does not wish to expel any needed energy in beating me, so decides the best course is avoidance. Perhaps it is better this way.
The next few days are spent in a stupor. In three days five more men are arrested for having criminal knowledge of Her Majesty. They are Sir Francis Weston; Sir William Brereton; Sir Richard Page; my brother’s rival, the poet Sir Thomas Wyatt; and, worst of all—oh, the very worst of all—my dear, handsome cousin George Boleyn.
George has been accused of adultery with the queen, his own sister. His wife, the evil Jane Boleyn, is all too happy to accuse
him, also claiming that Anne confided to her once in French that the king had “neither potency nor force” in the bedchamber.
My cousin, among all those other dear and pretty men, now suffers in the cold, damp cells of the Tower.
All of them are innocent. The knights, the poets, my dear George.
And Anne. Always Anne.
I cannot contain my hatred for Jane Boleyn. It spills over onto my cheeks in a torrent of hot tears as I regard her now, alone in the maidens’ chamber.
“She is your sister-in-law,” I tell her. “Your husband’s sister. How can you say such wickedness? How can you even think it?” My shoulders quake with sobs. “You and George have a child together. How can you risk George’s life? How can you risk the life of the father of your child?”
Jane shakes her head. “I’m doing what I have to do,” she tells me. “I have my reasons.”
“What reason can possibly justify this?” I demand, lunging at her. I pin her to the wall by the shoulders, in a show of strength I do not even know I possess. “Explain, Lady Rochford! Explain these despicable actions!”
Her face lacks expression; indeed, she almost appears amused. “I would have thought you Howards coined the term ‘despicable.’ Let us review the definition of the word so that it is very clear to you. ‘Despicable’ means neglecting your wife in favor of fondling your own sister—your own sister, and any stable boy or pretty-eyed fop that comes along. ‘Despicable’ is conceiving a child with your sister and bringing forth a monster in the hopes of passing him off as a prince!”
I break away in horror. “Stop! You must not say it! Don’t dare say it!” I recall my father’s adjective for her. “You are twisted! Sick! You are evil. May you rot in Hell with the devils that consume you!”
Jane only laughs. “Little Mary doesn’t betray the Howards. Loyal to the end, are you? Well, this is the end, Mary. This is the end of the Howards. We are going down. Nothing can save us—except perhaps betrayal. Your father is the master of that. Let him serve as an example to you.”
She quits the room and I am alone, left with her words playing in my mind over and over, like a relentless melody I despise.
Norris, Weston, Brereton, and poor, tortured Mark Smeaton stand trial and are found guilty of adultery and treason—to the king’s pleasure, no doubt. Their sentences are to be carried out at Tyburn, where they will be hung, eviscerated, and quartered.
My stomach is constantly upset. I cannot eat. My hair is falling out. I can pull out strands when I run my fingers through it. I wind it on top of my head in a simple chignon and try to ignore it.
The poet Wyatt and Sir Richard Page do not stand trial and remain in the Tower, to my relief. I am sure Surrey was hoping Wyatt would hang, just to have a rival poet out of the way, even though he grudgingly admires him.
On May 17, Anne and George’s trials begin. The Great Hall of the Tower of London, that place I found so magnificent when first arriving here, is full of people ready for blood. Everyone believes Anne is guilty; a witch, a seductress, a creature out of Hell.
They are tried before the lord high steward.
My father.
I cannot move. I watch the unraveling of not just our dreams, but of two fragile lives, used and abused in the worst ways possible. And they are tried before family and friends. My brother—yes, Surrey is here, eager to follow in his father’s footsteps—serves as earl marshal. Even Henry Percy, Anne’s first love, is present, white faced and having the good grace to appear agonized. And Secretary Cromwell, once so supportive of Anne, is also here, his manner as foxy as usual.
Only one does not attend. His Majesty.
But he has better things to do: courting Jane Seymour, who has moved into the palace—indeed, into Cromwell’s old apartments, which adjoin the king’s rooms by secret passageway. Even now rumors are rampant that her wedding dress is being made.
Anne dismisses her charges with a cool reserve that can only come from God, for we all know this is not her nature. Each charge is listed: incest with her brother, adultery, witchcraft, plots to marry Henry Norris after the king’s demise, the poisoning of Catherine of Aragon, and the attempted poisoning of Lady Mary. Through it all, her beautiful white face is an impervious mask. Her answers are brief and eloquent. There is no hysteria in her tone, no dramatic appeals for a justice she deserves. She only tells the truth: that she is not guilty, not to even one charge.
My father leads the questioning. He is uncomfortable in his role, at least. He keeps working his jaw and clearing his throat, clenching and unclenching his fists.
I am sweating profusely as I watch. I know my chemise is soaked and I probably reek, but fortunately everyone else is in a similar state. The hall is rank with humanity.
After the questioning, Anne rises. Each noble of the Council gives his verdict.
A single tear slides down Norfolk’s cheek as he utters the word, “Guilty.” Two sets of black eyes hold each other as he continues. “You are to be burned here within the Tower of London, on the Green; or beheaded, at the king’s pleasure.”
The crowd erupts into a clamor of speculation over the unusual sentence. Never is a woman sentenced to beheading.
My brother silences the crowd with an elegant hand.
Anne is calm. She blinks several times as she addresses the crowd. “I am not afraid to die. If I am guilty as judged, then I will die as the king bids. I only regret that I have caused the death of these innocent men. I have not always borne the king the humility I owed him, but God is my witness if I have done him any other wrong.”
And that is it. She is taken away.
I weep brokenly.
George’s approach to his trial is almost tinged with humor. He mocks the fact that he is tried at all, and is quite crafty with legalities. He is so bold that when my father hands him a paper with an accusation too scandalous to read aloud, he does so anyway; it was the stomach-turning testimony of his own wife, Jane. The hall is in an ecstasy of shock in the way spectators desire to be shocked. It is a compulsion, a strange human need, I find, to seek out the grotesque and unusual, hence the freak-show venue at country fairs.
People like to see suffering.
And so they shall.
His sentence is predictable; hanging, spared the evisceration and quartering, as he is noble.
I can only imagine what it is like to be George. No, that isn’t true. I can’t imagine. I cannot begin to imagine what it is like to learn I will die, betrayed by my own uncle, and not even afforded the comfort of my spouse’s loving prayers.
It is a sorry state we are in.
George, my sweet cousin George, is dead.
I watch him and the other four brave souls swing from the gallows on Tower Green, the same place so many festivities have been held in years past. I will never view this as any place but one of needless slaughter.
I will never see my father-in-law the king as anything but a brutal sadist.
I am numb. I cannot even cry.
George is dead. One moment here, the next gone. My heart is wrought with agony. I am fortunate to be far enough from his widow so as not to strangle her myself, nor do I stand by Norfolk.
I stand with Surrey. We hold hands and watch the handsome courtiers die.
They say Anne lost her mind in the Tower, alternating between tears and laughter, making strange comments and the like. But this is nothing I do not expect; how can one keep one’s wits in her circumstances?
She puts to rest rumors of a shattered mind on her execution day, appearing a font of calm.
A French swordsman is ordered to carry out Anne’s execution. Perhaps it serves to mock her for her love of the French court and its fashions; perhaps the king is merciful, taking into consideration the swanlike throat and the accuracy needed to smite it from the body he once craved. I do not know.
It is a private execution, for the pleasure of the court. The king is not here, of course. I do not think he is very good at farewells. He did not say good-b
ye to Catherine or Lady Mary. He does not see the little Princess Elizabeth, God protect her.
No, there are no farewells or reprieves, even after the glimmer of hope that shone briefly when his marriage to Anne was invalidated days before. We had thought he would divorce her in the manner he had Catherine. It is not so. The end he seeks for Anne is more final.
Once the king wants you out, you’re out.
In all the years I have seen Anne, I find it strange that she appears most beautiful this dark day. She wears a deep gray damask gown trimmed with fur over a scarlet kirtle, a mantle of ermine, her black hair bound beneath her French hood.
I am glad she wears the hood; she has remained true to herself.
Today I am again beside my brother Surrey. I am grateful Norfolk is not near me, but I spy him regarding his niece with tears in his eyes. I am startled at the show of emotion and wonder if the tears are for the fall of the Howards, or the fall of this wronged lady.
My husband is here, too, but we are not able to stand together for the thickness of the crowd. He is white-faced and trembling as he watches the mother of his sister meet her fate.
She stands before the courtiers, with the ladies who attended her in the Tower. Her spine is straight, her little shoulders square as she regards the assemblage. She is Norfolk’s image of perfect posture.
“Good Christian people,” she begins in a clear, calm voice. “I am come here to die, for according to the law and by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it. I am come here to accuse no man nor to speak anything of that whereof I am accused and condemned to die, but I pray God save the king and send him long to reign over you, for a gentler nor a more merciful prince was there never, and to me he was ever a good, a gentle, and sovereign lord. And if any person will meddle of my cause, I require them to judge the best. And thus I take my leave of the world and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me. Oh, Lord, have mercy on me. To God I commend my soul.”
Secrets of the Tudor Court Page 16
