"I am to have planned the King’s murder and this is the charge I fear the most, for if the King believes it, I am truly lost. Not only lost to this world, but lost to his heart. I can hardly bear this last." She had to bite down on the words that she wanted to say, knew meekness would be her only salvation now.
"I stand here in great humility, begging you to believe in my innocence, and my dedication to the King and his realm. May God judge my soul should I be lying, as he certainly will judge it." She sat then, exhausted and spent. A great hush fell over the room, one so loud, she could feel it in her chest. They believed her, and nothing else could matter now. She sat composed and awaiting the verdict she knew would come. Her uncle stood, turned to his jury.
"Your decision?" One by one, without pause she heard the voices fill the hall, emptying it of justice.
"Guilty."
"Guilty."
"Guilty." Twenty six times the verdict sounded. Twenty-six times she gasped with involuntary intakes weighted by the dissolution of hope. Her uncle spoke again, last, his voice wet and salty.
"Because you have offended our sovereign, the King's grace, in committing treason against him, the law of the realm is this: that you deserve death." There was no pause, he hurried on as if he wanted to rid himself of feces that soiled him.
"You shall be burnt here within the Tower of London on the Green, or you will have your head smitten off. As the King's pleasure decides."
Pleasure. Such an odd word to speak within that sentence. But Anne supposed it fit, after all. They were all here for Henry’s pleasure; a pleasure he was probably imagining right now. Dining with sweet Jane. Modest Jane. Humble Jane. Everything that Anne was not, Jane. And as her mind toyed with the word, she realized that pleasure was the bottom line after all.
Henry had tired of her finally; after many long years of enjoying her spirit, her vitality and sharpness, he had had enough. He had used it well, though; blaming her for his every mistake. Using her as an excuse for everything his subjects hated him for; the massacres of the priests, his unpopularity, the revolution. All her fault. All her doing. If I hadn't been bewitched by this supplanter, I would still be married to Good Queen Catherine. Thomas More would still be alive. All would be well. But for evil Anne Boleyn.
So, now she would be punished for his delusions. He would free himself of her the only possible way that would benefit the succession—and his frivolities. Her death—his freedom—his pleasure. Oh, all would be well, after all, my sweet Jane, you will bear me sons. England will love you; they will love me. With every particle of energy within her, she prayed; not a silent prayer, but an audible one. One the whole assembly would hear and remember. If she had to die, then die she would, but Henry would not win.
"Oh, God, you know if I deserve this death." It was an entreaty meant for the assembly. An appeal for them to understand what was really happening; that Henry was playing at God, a dangerous game. One that was costing God's subjects their lives. But she was not content—what if they didn't comprehend the message she tried to send? This would be her last chance to impress it upon them.
"I think you know well why you have condemned me to be other than that which has led you to this judgment. My only sin against the King's great goodness..."
She nearly choked on the last words.
"Has been my jealousy and lack of humility. But I have prepared myself to die. What I regret most deeply is that men who were innocent and loyal to the King must lose their lives because of me."
"But since you have found me guilty, I have nothing left to ask of you, except some time to clear my conscience of anything which lingers and for your prayers." There was no more to say, no more to feel. Justice had been miscarried, as she had only half believed it would. But now all was done, except for her brother. She prayed he would not meet the same sentence. Guilty of loving her, of being loved by her.
She left the hall escorted by two ladies and by her jailer. With all the dignity she could collect, she held her head high, her eyes level. She heard someone collapse behind her as she walked slowly from the room. Someone wept. She had received the justice that any of Henry's subjects would receive if they displeased him.
George heard the sound of weeping as he entered the Great Hall. At first he strained to see past the two men who held him, thinking it might be Anne who wept. But then he realized it was Nan Gainesford, and he felt just as pitiful. Her large green eyes were red and puffy, pooling like a flooded pond.
"Is my sister present?"
One of his holders was kind enough to slacken his grip. George noticed how the man avoided his eye.
"No, she’s being returned to her rooms."
Guilty then, as the others had been found. But he dared not ask the sentence; the others had been sentenced to die the traitor’s death—hanging, disembowelment, castration, then finally beheading. A terrible fear gripped his chest so that his heart jumped within it erratically. He didn’t know if he could suffer this through without losing his sanity. Sweet Jesu, could he squelch the panic? They led him to the bar.
It felt smooth beneath his palm, smooth and worn. How many innocents had handled it? He swallowed and took a deep breath to calm his nerves, didn’t dare look around the room. Instead he stared straight ahead at the twenty-six men who waited to try him. His uncle Norfolk sat swiping at his eyes, and it made George want to cry himself as he thought of the hardened man weeping for a niece he had ever argued with.
His father-in-law sat his bench without looking up. In fact, all were well known to him. He wondered briefly if they’d sleep well tonight knowing they would all find their own justice by a more powerful court. George studied each of them, using the distraction to keep calm. The one thing he noticed about them all, was that each stared at Henry, who sat across from them. It seemed they were entranced by the King’s determination.
He knew at once the men hadn’t believed his sister guilty of treason, but had sentenced her anyway—afraid they’d also be caught in the net. The other thing George noticed was the eerie stillness that sat on the room like a cloak. He peered to the side, saw a thousand or more people blocking the door and hiding the walls. Some spectators sat on the high stands. Most stood. But all waited expectantly for the outcome. He wondered if any of them had wept for Anne, or if they believed justice had been done.
"George, Lord of Rochford, you have come to be tried by your peers for treason against the King and Sovereign of this land, by committing adultery with Her Grace, the Queen of England.” His heart stopped. Adultery? Sweet Jesu, they meant to have his life. And Anne’s. For a fleeting second he thought he would vomit, but swallowed hard. A traitor’s death was one fearful indeed, but incest meant burning.
"What say you to this charge?" His uncle asked, his eyes steady on Henry.
"I say I have not committed it."
He heard the sigh that came from his uncle, as if he’d hoped George would admit it and have done with it.
"Surely you don’t deny being oft alone with Her Grace in her quarters?"
"No, My Lord, for siblings we are, and loyal to each other. When she needed me I was there for her."
"In what manner?" It seemed the entire court stretched forward to hear his answer.
"In the manner of brother and sister, my Lord." George couldn’t help the anger, it threatened to overcome him.
"In ways any brother would comfort a sister who can trust no one."
"Is the witness ready?" His uncle turned from him and questioned the room in general. Jayne stepped forward and George thought he’d die. His own wife. How could she do this. Yet, even as he thought it, he noticed she stared directly at her father, ignoring her husband’s eye. Guilt? Shame?
"Go on, girl," said Norfolk.
"You may speak. Would you tell the court what you have told your own father."
"I said there was undue familiarity between them." Her voice trembled and she turned to George with tears that threatened to spill. George waited for a moment, un
certain of her intent. With a surge of anger and disgust, he turned from her to his uncle.
"On the evidence of only one woman you are willing to believe this great evil of me?"
"You have admitted to always being in your sister’s chambers."
"I admit to it, yes. But surely I have displayed no other such evil." His judges turned to one another, and he thought they would further accuse him. When his uncle spoke again, it surprised him.
"Your sister, our Queen by the King’s good grace, has indeed ensnared many to her cause—that she no longer loved his Grace and desired his death. Lady Rochford, have you further evidence of the Queen’s discontent?"
Lady Jayne Rochford nodded, George could only close his eyes. This talk of Anne had nothing to do with him. Why did they press it?
"Then pass the evidence on paper to the accused so he may read it silently and tell the court if he heard the Queen speak of it."
He knew in the very second he was handed the note and read it, what the mode of questioning meant to his case. They wanted him to show how vile Anne was; to get the Londoners to believe the worst. He knew also that the court couldn’t satisfy justice in this matter. He was being offered the opportunity to condemn her, and save himself. As Jayne had been offered it, as his uncle, as his own father had been offered it.
Damn them, that they’d offer him this hope, this choice. He couldn’t breathe, the muscles that so often expanded naturally to admit the air and expel it, tightened so that they strangled him instead. He found himself gasping and his eyes watering as if he were already being consumed by the fire. The parchment in his hand felt like tinder, and his tears fell upon it silently.
Water to tinder would quench a fire and so he could end this madness and go free. He could leave Anne to her death—the tear told him so, for he wouldn’t cry if he hadn’t at least contemplated it.
"The King is unable to make love to his wife, and has neither the skill, nor potency." He read aloud. George was barely aware of the groans that came from the stands, didn’t care that the judges’ faces blanched to white. He cared only that Henry’s mouth worked in angry, silent curses. He sighed aloud. It was finished.
Henry’s humiliation meant death.
Chapter 59
Two days later, May 17, Anne stood at the window to the tower. She gazed out at the blue spring sky, breathed in the sweet scent of grass. She waited for her brother to die. She loved all of her courtiers; regretted that they should have died because of her; but that burden was not hers alone to bear. The greater burden lay with Henry. At least they had died quickly, because Henry’s conscience forced him to choose mercy.
Strange that his conscience would allow his mercy to go only so far—none of them were guilty, yet he sacrificed them anyway. They had all died quickly—hopefully she would, too. Her fate had yet to be decided. But George, he was part of her; brother, confidante, hero. She had allowed the world to know she loved him more than anything. Had allowed Henry to know she had loved him at all. She heard he would have gone free if not for his cockiness—that characteristic so admired in men, and abhorred in a woman. She smiled reluctantly.
Trust him to be man enough to speak his mind, even endangering his life. Trust him to defend her, on pain of a traitor's death. Her pride in him swelled, the love too. But the smile quickly faded. Bad choice to act hero to a condemned woman—the unwanted Queen. And now she was being forced to watch his execution. God, was there no mercy in all this earthly kingdom?
This window, she eyed it with speculation.
So far today, she had seen four men beheaded from this window on a scaffold built high above the heads of the crowd. Watched helplessly as Lord Kingston held her arms below her, pinioning them against her sides while the men spoke their meager pieces. She witnessed the horrible act of decapitation, the executioner stooping to grasp the hair of the grisly head and hold it aloft for the crowd to see. In her years she had witnessed many executions. Never had the crowds seemed so quiet as today. It was almost as if the city held its breath, afraid of God's judgment.
One boy, crouched at the head of the crowd, caught Anne's attention. He clutched a beaten tablet in filthy hands, sobbed over it as if it were a holy relic. Off and on he hugged it to his chest and wailed to the heavens. And when George, led by two jailors, broke free of the Tower's gloom and walked haltingly into the sun, that urchin sprinted forward only to fall to the ground before the platform. Anne heard his weeping from where she stood. She saw her brother try to reach for the boy. Lord Kingston spoke and interrupted the drama.
"Are you ready, milady?" There was a strange trace of respect in the jailer’s voice—a small measure of regret, of pity.
She didn't answer. How could she be ready to see her brother die? But she nodded, payment for the jailer’s empathy. She felt his rather limp flourish that would signal to those below, that the Queen stood ready to watch her condemned lover's execution. She had felt that signal four times before, but always it had been a wave, always she had felt a joy in it, as if her jailer had believed justice was done. It felt different now, and it didn't matter. A sea of heads eddied and swayed like waves of water as the spectators nodded or spoke to each other. There in the middle, threateningly still, waited the platform, empty save the axe man and George. He stood regally; head high, shoulders back, chest forward. He looked so handsome, so fragile. Her stomach roiled with sickness. She clenched her hands, let the closely cut nails embed into her palm. God, how she wanted to feel the pain of it, but she felt nothing.
"Have mercy on him," she whispered. "May he feel no pain. May you fly him to heaven at first strike."
Her legs could barely contain her weight. Kingston remained silent. But her contempt for him grew in the moment. Pity he might feel, but not enough to allow her to wipe her own cheeks, or sop up the pool of tears that blinded her vision. And she had to see, didn't want to, but had to. She needed to know the exact moment. And that one thought kept her from collapsing.
"Masters all," George’s voice rang out clear as a church bell tolling through clean air.
"I am here, not to preach, or make a sermon. But to die. As the law has found me, and to the law I submit." There was a short pause, as he gained breath, and perhaps courage. She caught his eye with a straight and direct stare.
"Trust in God, not in the vanities of the world," he said to her—always faithful, always supportive. Damn God for taking him. Damn George for still believing. Her eyes flooded. She blinked frantically to rid them of the water that blurred her sight.
By the time the water bled from her eyes, George’s body lay hunched against a grisly red block. His truncated and lifeless torso was now bereft of the head that gave it all of its character. The executioner held George’s head high as her mind quickly replayed the scene she had missed; his docile surrender to the block, his long elegant neck stretched against the wood, cords tight, vessels straining against skin.
The next soul that flew in this city would be her own.
Chapter 60
May, 1536
Tower Green: A hush fell over the assembly as Anne stepped into the light. The Londoners hung at the fences, and those who had managed to sneak through the gates, hid in bushes and behind the nobles who were allowed to witness her execution. Her vision keened suddenly, so that a clear path led her eyes to a quiet platform built low so that only the viewers directly in front could see. She thought she saw her mother standing beside the platform, black hair in a beautiful array about her shoulders, trim figure hunched pitifully as she wept. She had lost her son already.
Anne wondered if her mother could ever be content again knowing her husband had abandoned their children. But hers and the faces along the perimeter of Anne’s sight blurred. She concentrated on walking straight and holding her head high, and telling herself with determination that she would truly live in the next moments. Resolution would be the only way she could go with any sense of decorum or dignity. Above all else; her terror, the unfairness of it all,
Elizabeth's safety must be considered. Anne's dignity during this, her last social event, would decide it.
Poor Elizabeth. Anne remembered how Henry had carried her on his shoulders on the day of Catherine’s death, parading her about the court like a proud father. Would her daughter have a safe future when the mother was gone? Would she be told how much the mother loved her, but could not nurture her?
Anne forced her legs to move though they trembled maddeningly. She pasted a smile on her lips to draw eyes away from the careening way she walked. Her head she held proudly and haughtily. The ravens had already gathered, brazenly hanging about the block, ready to fight each other for scavenge. The sight of them pecking at bits of trash made her stomach churn. She had been stripped of her title as Queen, but what did it matter? Henry wanted it all, as he always had, and who was she to hinder him. Merely a woman, no more, no less.
The thought of it broadened her smile and strengthened her legs.
Her pride, her only real ally, her only true friend, returned. It would allow her its support to stand against a man. Merely a man, despite his insistence of being God. He would be waiting somewhere, probably with Jane, to hear news of her death, too cowardly to witness it himself. Some God. The pride came, and so did her spirit, as well as an annoying thought, of a warning from the bible, ‘Pride goeth before a fall.’ It was a peculiarly perverse thought and she couldn't squelch the devilish saunter that took over her legs. The fifty yards uphill to the platform dwindled quickly. The wrinkles of dismay and fear left with each step. By the time she reached the swordsman, her face felt clean and smooth; she had decided to send Henry a message, without endangering Elizabeth.
"Masters," she said,
"I humbly submit to the law as the law hath judged me." She recalled George's words, knew they had been similar.
"As for my offenses, I here accuse no man. God knows them; I remit them to God, asking him to have mercy on my soul." She hoped her meaning would get through—that she didn’t remit her offenses to God, rather the men who falsely accused her. And if the spectators didn’t understand her message, surely Henry would grasp it. He knew her mode of speech well enough.
Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) Page 28
