In the dread stillness of the damp room, she paused, chuckled. Four days gone, still she had been denied a trial. Instead she languished here waiting for her confessor, the Archbishop—Thomas Cranmer.
She waited in near panic for news of George. But she didn’t want to think about George. Her hand swept up to her hair, tangled there within the thickness. She pulled at it, thinking how faintly mad she must look to the women who hated her. Cursed wardresses who noted every word she spoke, and reported them to Cromwell. Prim, proper spies.
Henry had selected from her women four of her most hated. He had hand-selected them especially for her. And of course, because Henry had a good sense of humor, he had even thrown in a good joke, knowing how Anne loved a good joke. She searched the area for the subject of the jest even now. Instead, she spied her own aunt who stood just there, beside the door, picking at her fingernails as if she was bored to the point of death. Then the jailer’s wife, Mistress Kingston. Oh, she was a good one. Hair always frazzled, like a madwoman. Her breath stank. Peeking out the window was Mistress Stoner, who appropriately had the face of a stone. Never a smile, or comforting word. Her name fit perfectly.
But the jest. Ah, here she came, swaggering a bit like a drunk, though Anne knew it to be her normal walk. A bit dumb, a bit clumsy was Mistress Coffyn. Oh, such a good joke; she laughed as she had been laughing for hours, not understanding why they looked alarmed at her merriment. A jest was to be funny after all, too bad Henry couldn’t know how much she enjoyed it.
"Have you lost your mind, then?" Her aunt asked aloud with her annoyingly grating voice. Anne merely snuffed, not about to grace the question with an answer. It was none of her business if she’d gone mad. And maybe she had, the whole world had done so.
"Ah, you’ll be talking before long," Lady Norfolk jeered, sitting her plump hind quarters on Anne’s satin coverlet, upon the bed that was made everyday. Even through her mad moments, Anne smoothed out the wrinkles and pulled the blankets over the mattress. It was one small project that helped her keep her senses, or recover them, as the case might be.
Her women gathered around her aunt then, chattering and clucking—talking about the outside world and bits and pieces from it. Anne left off listening, it was all nonsense anyway, meaning nothing to her. Though she tried to drown out the conversation, it still came in small snips.
"I heard from my husband last night," Lady Kingston said, and Anne rolled her eyes as she began to walk away. The jailer’s wife no doubt spoke of some trivial gossip that would only bother her if she listened.
"Which one of them did it?" Her aunt asked, raising her voice so it would catch Anne’s attention. It hurt her ears, that shriek, but she knew her attention was wanted for something. She paused in her step.
"Hmmm. He knows not. Thinks it may have been Weston," Lady Kingston replied, lowering her voice just enough so Anne would think she kept a secret. But the bait was easily recognizable; they must think she had lost her intelligence as well as her wits.
"What of Francis?" Anne demanded, knowing that she was still Queen and they’d dare not refuse her. Her mind felt thankfully clear. Mistress Kingston cringed; her shoulders slumped forward, cheeks hollowing where the few teeth were missing.
"He scratched a prophecy into the wall of his cell, my lady," Pitiful quality to her voice, but still a bit jeering. How strange that they could dare taunt her.
"What kind of prophecy?" Anne took a menacing step forward, a blaze of madness fueling her anger. The woman stepped back instinctively, snared the hem of her gown. Anne would have let her fall but the woman caught herself just before she stumbled.
"Speak, woman."
"A falcon, my lady. Your badge." The spittle wet the wardress’ lips, making her look like a sick dog. Anne wanted to kick her under a table.
Mistress Kingston must have sensed it, for she kept speaking, trying to fill the gap of uneasy silence.
"But the falcon is headless atop the stump. And the fruitless tree bears a single branch." Anne’s coronation badge, of a falcon’s touch giving a barren stump the bud of life. A headless falcon. She wanted to fall into a chair and weep. This prophecy struck way too close to her heart to be shrugged off like the others over the years. Sounds of metal ground together. Anne looked up and stared at the door. The bolts worked in the grave silence, making her catch her breath. The women clustered at the handle, whispering hoarsely.
"Ah, husband." Lady Kingston's voice shredded the air.
"Supper already?" Already? Anne couldn't stand the thought of eating, she wanted news. What more could he tell her? Calm your mind. Breathe deeply. Walk without trembling. There. Small steps, once taken, easier going.
"My lord Kingston." She heard the nervous creak in her voice, echoing the sound of the door, and hated that the others should hear it as well.
"Any news of my brother? Of my Father?"
"None." As usual, her jailer would tell her nothing; his comment no different than any other day, or any other hour.
"Will I have justice, then?"
"You'll have the same justice any of the King's subjects would have." His answer, though she suspected he thought it comforting, sounded bleak. She laughed when she heard it. The same justice anyone else would have—she knew the kind of justice Henry meted out; cruel, heartless, death.
"Oh, God," she sobbed.
"Oh, God. Oh, God." She couldn't stop the laughter from passing her lips, and when she tried, it bubbled in her throat making her choke with the effort of keeping it still. It finally rested there, with extreme effort, and as it clumped near her voice box, she realized she had to let it free. But it came out in sobs. Strange-sounding laughter, wretched. Most peculiar laughter she had ever heard. She watched him as if he were clouded by fog, unreal. He shook his head curiously. He too must think it the strangest sounding laughter he had ever heard.
Chapter 58
"To be tried the 15th of May."
The words echoed throughout her mind. And by now, some ten days after her arrest, Anne finally dared hope she’d be released. Her original panic was slowly receding and being replaced by memories, forgotten in the rush of hysteria that came with her imprisonment. Henry loved her—and through his many affairs, and all their quarrels, they had always reconciled. She couldn't allow the latest verdicts of her four companions to dampen the hope that mercifully stole through her heart. Guilty verdicts—all four. Hal Norris, Francis Weston, William Bryerton, Marc Smeaton; Just names— they must be just names to her.
Any sentiment might start the panic again. She wouldn't let herself envision the execution they would face. She kept shaking her head to lose the image of them dangling from a noose, alive and aware; dismembered and castrated. Their heads intact long enough to register the pain of being disemboweled.
She mustn’t think of it. Couldn't let it grip her. The worst of it was that they didn't deserve the death—none of them. The concocted allegations of adultery with her and treason against the King were preposterous. They were all close to him; loved him, served him. And worse still was that Marc had confessed to the crime of adultery with the Queen. She knew it. She knew too, that in his mind he had. Biblical teaching held that adultery within the heart was still adultery and therefore a sin.
She had heard it preached a thousand times, and held no doubt that Cromwell preached it long and hard to Marc as he languished within his clutches. Rumors even reached the tower of his torture. Marc had always desired her. And if thoughts were sins, he surely was guilty. But that was in God's court, not the court of man. The difference, plain to Anne, was lost to Marc. He had never touched her, and she would never have allowed him to. God forgive him, simple as he was, he knew no better.
All of that was done, though. She had yet to be tried. She would be taken to the King's hall, just around the corner from where she was now. It wasn’t safe for the Queen of England to be taken through the streets to Westminster. And at least she would be tried with her title and honor still intact. That i
n itself bolstered her hopes.
It might just be that Henry was trying to teach her a lesson. Though she waited and waited, patiently, fearfully, the days crept by. Despair replaced hope and hope replaced despair, and despair replaced hope until she stood before the trial bar, cynical, afraid.
The deep grains of wood where her peers sat looked dreary and foreboding. The dim light intensified her fear. If Catherine had given in to Henry those long years ago, would Anne be standing here now? Surely to be found guilty and in danger of death only because Henry wanted an easy way out for a more promising union.
She faced her peers, all twenty six of them who sat opposite her—grave faces all, and many of them intimately known to her. Behind them, masses of faces assaulted her eyes, grins, jeers, hatred, plain upon them. She ignored Henry, whose glittering stare transfixed all who looked at him. No one would dare disagree with his conscience. Not now—not ever again. She ignored those, and concentrated on the seated judges who would inevitably decide her fate.
Her Uncle Norfolk presided as High Stewart. She saw the sweat clinging to his face like a madman clutches his last thread of sanity, much like Anne felt herself clinging to her senses. She could tell he was nervous, either unable or unwilling to refuse the King. He avoided her eye. George’s father-in-law sat on the panel—he would judge his own son-in-law as well as herself.
It shocked her to see Henry Lord Percy. Dear Harry. He trembled nearly uncontrollably and was the worst for her to see. He sat ready to condemn her—barely able to conceal his own fears and remorse. She allowed her glance to linger on him, tried to tell him with that gaze she forgave him; she knew better than any, the dangers of refusing the King. She hated this, all of this. To even have to pretend that this trial was a natural course of events, and that poor Lord Percy should be sitting there—his fair face visibly sweating, lips contorting with emotion—was preposterous. If only she had been allowed to marry him those years ago... but then, what good to think of it now?
She heard her father had volunteered to serve on the jury; eager it seemed to play a role in his children's death. Anxious to prove his support to Henry. Henry had turned his request down. She didn't care whether Thomas felt relief or sorrow. She hated him in the instant. Hated his selfishness and his fear. And then in the next second, understood it. She was certainly terrified. If anything could be done to stop the madness, she’d do it. How could she hate him for doing the same?
She paused at the bar, trying to show a solemnity; an elegance. With the greatest pretense of grace she could muster, she sat to await the beginning. As did many, she could tell. Her dear Nan Gainesford sat not ten feet away on a hard wooden pew, chewing her lip and hugging herself pitifully.
Now and then, Anne saw her study the dark wooden beams of the ceiling or trace whorling patterns in the cloistering air. The almost insane way she acted helped keep Anne focused. Often, she’d concentrate on Nan and the smothering crowds that moved about her, just to maintain composure. The hushed whispers of the spectators reminded Anne of a nest of hornets—when her stomach ached she pretended it was because that nest buzzed about within, sometimes trying to escape through her chest. As Anne sat, regally stiff, she listened stoically to the charges laid on her; their horrendous nature, their vile innuendoes. She listened raptly, as if her body was not sitting there being assailed by the filth. As if her ears were not being polluted by their impurity.
"...she most falsely and treacherously procured them by foul talk and kisses... through the most vile provocations and incitement... by sweet words, kissings, touchings, and other illicit means... to violate and carnally know... violated and carnally knew... his own natural sister..."
The entire assembly of spectators gasped at the magnitude of the crimes. She could see eyes widen with disbelief and disgust. Adultery, incest, what did the charges matter? She was innocent; she would be found guilty. All sexual crimes—as if her appetites were so uncontrollable that she would risk everything to assuage them, even her own life.
Adultery a few weeks after Elizabeth's birth—insane. Adultery during her pregnancies—dangerous. Adultery, adultery, adultery.
No witnesses. No proof. No motives. And yet the allegations continued.
She sat tense, forcing herself to listen as string after string of accusations were herded into the courtroom for the masses to hear and examine. She listened as it continued. Four of her favorites accused of becoming jealous of each other, vying for place with numerous and extraordinary sexual feats each night, and with gifts and pledges. That she had so ardently desired them that she could hardly stand to see them associate with other women. And that despite all of this; their jealousies, her appetites, they conspired together to murder the King. No one mentioned the fact that gifts from the Queen were as common as dogs in the dining room, or that Henry himself had set the pattern for chaste flirtations within court. No one. And had they bothered, it would have been ignored in favor of the other charges.
All of this she bore sitting still like the statue of the virgin; afraid, regal. She withstood the absurdity that the King, suspecting her infidelity became so upset that grave injuries befell his body. And through this, her composure never wavered. She forced it, like a full puppy gorging on meat. It was her last chance to save herself, and she knew it. Her reaction would seal her fate. She stood, trembling only within her soul. She controlled her body, maintained her face, her dignity.
"Not guilty." It was the truth. Let God judge them should they prove otherwise. She listened again as Cromwell assisted the Attorney-General, arguing against her, vehement, and resolute. New accusations. Further allegations. She felt Cromwell's resolution—he must not fail as Wolsey had failed so long ago. His career depended on her death, the church's future depended on it. And the only relief came when the accusations shifted for a time, and Cromwell demanded Lord Percy had been another of her secret lovers. Dear Harry, how he blanched to a sick white as the attention was riveted to him. He licked his lips nervously, and stammered out his defense.
"I’ve known not the Queen in an intimate fashion."
"But you were betrothed to her before she seduced the King." Cromwell accused. His plump face reddened slightly, as if he were afraid he’d be proven wrong.
"That’s a lie," Harry yelled, standing quickly in obvious fear. Anne couldn’t hate him for the lie, so many had been caught in the net already, she knew he said it to save his life.
"A lie, is it, Lord Northumberland? Did you not plead with your father some years ago that you had gone so far with Mistress Boleyn, that witnesses would not allow you to discharge yourself from the affair?" He looked at her quickly, swallowed so hard she saw the lump stick in his throat. Anne shook her head minutely, trying to tell him with her eyes to continue his denial. His eyes remained fixed to hers.
"I swear solemnly, and may that oath be my Damnation if ever there was a contract of marriage between her and me." She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath, let it go slowly.
The courtroom grew still. Anne could hear the chirping of birds above in the bell tower. It seemed precious moments died before anyone dared speak. All the while she watched Harry’s face, his lips that trembled slightly, his eyes so dear, pooling with water. For few spare minutes no one existed in the room, only he and she, voicing their regrets with silent eyes and bated breath. Then the haze lifted and he broke away from her stare. Harry waved his hand before his face.
"Now, I fear I must leave, your graces." He held himself up by propping his hip against the rail.
"I’ve taken a terrible turn; I’ve not been well these last months." Cromwell waved him away. It seemed he lost interest, or had all he needed, Anne wasn’t certain. He may well have decided to let death have Harry naturally. As Percy left the room, the mumblings began. The Attorney General motioned for quiet. Anne waited resolutely for the remainder of the charges. She had planned to marry Norris after Henry's death. She had poisoned the princess dowager and planned to poison Mary. She had writ
ten a letter to her brother telling him she was pregnant—that the child was his. And because Anne knew she would be found guilty, she defended herself soberly, without emotion.
"To Sir Francis Weston, I supplied some money; as I did many men who saw me as a patroness. Of that, I am guilty. But of adultery, no. I stand before you innocent, and ask God to be my witness."
She let her convictions sound in her voice as she spoke. She forced a clarity to her speech, so no one would misunderstand her words. Her peers looked away from her. They looked at the floor or their boots. She ignored them; they were lost to her. Instead she chose the commoners who gathered to watch the farce. Her judges may not care that she was innocent, but the country had to know. She had to make them see what was happening. She couldn't go to her death knowing that those who hated her the most—the English subjects—would believe they had been right about her. That she was a whore; corrupt, unfit for Queenship. She looked each one in the eye, a thousand of them, maybe more. It took forever, and she knew she missed many.
"My only crime is to have offended my sovereign, and of that I am terribly sorry, for I love his grace before all living. He has placed me on this throne and through his great generosity I have enjoyed more than was my due. But I stand here innocent of the charges laid on me; I am accused of committing adultery. I ask you, have you seen proof of my infidelity? Proof save the coinage any Queen must give as part of her duties as patroness. I have supplied money to many men in my court—as well as priests and ladies.
"I have been charged with incest, based only on the fact that my brother and I spent time alone in my quarters. But I ask you all, have you siblings? Do you love them true, so true you feel comfortable with them, that you seek their company to balm your soul on the darkest of nights. I speak truth when I say I love my brother, but it’s a clean love. One which stands before these charges without fear, for it is untrue.
Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) Page 27
