Anne the Saint

by Leigh Jenkins

  “Why has she taken off in the middle of the night?” I asked as a shirt was thrown to Edward.

  “A letter had reached her last night that Prince Charles was sick.”

  “Sick?” I asked immediately. “Then the doctors must be sent for!” I was ready to storm out of the room in only my hose and shirt when Sir Francis quickly spoke.

  “Peace, Your Majesty, please. A note was quickly dispatched by Lady Margaret Bryan to quell the Queen’s fears. Prince Charles is well. However, Queen Anne had already taken to the road before the letter arrived. When it could not be delivered to her they brought it to your outer chambers where I intercepted it, being the groom on guard this evening.”

  During this speech, Edward and Francis worked quickly together to get me fully dressed.

  “Has anyone been dispatched to retrieve the Queen?” I asked urgently. Anne, worried about our son, would be a difficult woman to deal with.

  “Yes, Your Majesty, but her party must be riding swiftly.”

  “Well,” I said, looking around me. I was suddenly dressed and wrapped in Francis’ urgency, but had yet to think through exactly what had been said to me.

  “Sir Francis,” I said, raising a hand. “Why the urgency? Send a messenger to Richmond, telling my wife that I will follow behind, but I see no reason that we all must leave right now while the roads are still dark.”

  “Your Majesty,” Francis said in a slightly exasperated tone. “Who do you think sent the notice to the Queen?”

  I thought about this for a moment, horror suddenly washing over me.

  “You believe this to be a trap?” I asked, lurching towards the door, Francis and Edward quickly following with their candles.

  “After the plot against Her Majesty and the recent business with Cortaz at the Tower, yes I believe it must be connected.”

  I stopped in the hallway, causing the two younger men to nearly trip with their efforts to stop behind me.

  “How do you know of Cortaz?” I demanded.

  If Sir Francis thought he could get away with rolling his eyes, I am sure he would have.

  “Sir, gossip around the court spreads quickly,” he said instead, obviously ready to continue running down the corridors.

  “And the Queen?” I asked. “What does she know?”

  “Nothing, obviously,” Sir Francis snapped back. “Or else she would not have run possibly straight into danger.”

  I nodded and continued my hurried walk down the corridors; I could feel Francis’ irritation at having to walk at a slower pace than he could run behind me. Had it not been for the terror I felt for Anne and the obvious distress she had caused Francis, I would have cuffed him and demoted him immediately for his insolence. Now, however, we were merely brothers in fear.

  The men in the stables had been hastily awoken, but my horse was prepared, along with another for Sir Francis.

  “Edward, how can you ride?” Francis asked, turning towards the boy.

  “Swiftly, sir,” Edward answered.

  “Then you must join us,” Francis decided as he swung into his saddle. “Prepare a horse for Edward Stafford here!” Francis barked out to a stable hand. Two more men helped me into my saddle. By the time I was ready, Edward was preparing to mount another steed.

  “If anything should happen,” Francis said, leaning across his horse and grabbing the reins out of Edward’s hands. “Then you must return here and sound the alarm. Do you understand, Edward?”

  The boy nodded, his face pale with fear. Francis threw the reins he was holding at the boy and turned to face me. With a nod at the two men, I kicked my horse into a canter and listened as they followed.

  We moved swiftly, and as we set a pace I felt my mind begin to wander. I would not think of Anne and the danger she could be in — to distress myself would do me no good. More than likely Francis had merely overreacted, hearing the rumors of the court and believing that evil was hiding behind every tree.

  But he had reacted well. Whereas I had been somewhat paralyzed by my fear for Anne, he had been driven into action for his Queen, first by putting together the idea that this could be a trap and then by realizing that Edward could be helpful to us. I glanced behind me and took in the young boy, riding like an expert in the saddle.

  The sun had just begun to creep over the hilltops, casting strange shadows on the ground, when Sir Francis suddenly pulled up.

  Edward and I halted as well and turned to trot back to where Francis was now peering into the woods beyond the road.

  “Well?” I asked, my anger and anxiety preventing me from fully wording my question.

  “I thought I saw — yes!” Francis said, before he started a soft clicking noise. It took a moment but then Edward gasped and I saw it too. A horse was walking towards us, saddled but with no rider.

  “This is the horse taken by the messenger I had sent ahead,” Francis whispered once the horse had reached us.

  “Then we must —“ I began, glancing wildly around but unsure what we must do. I was preparing to begin charging further up the road when suddenly Edward spoke.

  “There, Your Majesty,” he said gently. He had ridden slightly up the road and was pointing to a thick bustle of trees. I led my horse into the woods, mindlessly brushing away branches as they hit at me. A soft rustle alerted me to Francis entering behind me, and I could see Edward start towards the clearing on his horse as well.

  Sure enough, as we closed in, I could see another two horses from my stables, including Anne’s palfrey. Time seemed to slow down and I could feel each branch as it snapped against my body. The only thing that seemed in a rush was my heart as it pounded against my chest, as if trying to escape my body.

  “Your Majesty —“ Edward started, having reached the clearing first. His voice then died off, for I had reached the clearing as well.

  Two guards were dead, their throats slit; one’s arm had been snapped behind his back. A page lay next to where Edward had entered the clearing, a sword through his stomach and into the tree behind him, his body limply hanging around it.

  And beyond them all was Anne. Her throat had been cut like the guards, but her body had been lifted and strapped to a tree, upside down, with her arms spread out and bound to other trees in a reversal of Christ on the cross.

  I had often dreamed that I was incapable of moving my body or using my voice, but never had this happened to me while awake. The sounds of Edward retching reached my ears, but I did not react. My gaze merely moved from one victim to the next, always ending with Anne.

  “Your Majesty,” I heard behind me, but paid it no heed. Gently, I dismounted my horse as easily as I had at the age of twenty. I walked, still in my dream like state, towards Anne.

  I reached her before I was ready and I knelt down in the grass by her head, sticking my hand out to touch her cheek. It wasn’t until my hand was before me that I realized I was shaking.

  Her skin was still warm, but the blood that had run from her long neck onto her face was cool. As I pulled away, the stickiness of her blood came too, marking my hand.

  “Henry.”

  I turned at the sound of my name and was faced with Sir Francis, who had dismounted along with me and was now right behind me.

  “Your Majesty, I’m sorry, but we must leave. Whoever did this must be near and we are not able to fight them.”

  I nodded at the sense of this and followed Francis to my horse, where he helped me into the saddle. As he swung himself up he looked to Edward.

  “Edward, you must ride back to Hampton Court. Raise the alarm, fetch the guards to these woods, awaken the Duke of Suffolk, and have a message sent to Richmond Palace to place further protection around Prince Charles.”

  Edward, now collected, nodded and turned his horse out of the woods. I could hear the hooves pick up speed when he reached the road.

  Francis urged me out of the woods at a steady pace. When we reached the road he pulled a long red sash out of his jacket and tied it around a tree, a sad marker
to what had taken place there.

  We did not canter or trot down the road, Francis seeming content that we were moving. He kept a handle on the sword he carried, but I had no such protection and would not have been able to use it if I did.

  There seemed to be nothing to say, and we continued steadily on the road, the sun rising along our backs and warming the day.

  A great noise suddenly came from the road in front of us and a giant cloud of dust was visible. I peered towards it, enough shadows still being cast that it was hard to see what was coming. Sir Francis stopped his horse and reached out gently to pull on the reins of mine, and we waited until the large party arrived.

  My guards reached us first, surrounding me, standing to protect on all sides. Hounds were suddenly overtaking the woods, looking for any sign of the attackers and a smaller set of guards continued up the road as Sir Francis quickly described the scarf he had left behind.

  My eyes finally focused and I looked up to see the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk riding towards me, Mary perched behind Charles Brandon and riding side-saddle. Charles, without meeting my eyes, pulled his horse up beside mine, close enough for Mary to reach out to me.

  “Oh Henry,” my sister whispered, her hand stroking my face in a cruel imitation of how I had last touched Anne.

  It wasn’t until she pulled her hand away wet that I even realized I had been crying.

  Chapter 8

  September, 1534

  There was too much to be done. It was only days from Charles’ first birthday and I sent the present that Anne had so painstakingly commissioned to Richmond Palace, along with news of his mother’s death.

  The guards had found very little in the woods aside from a small golden rosary that could not be identified by any members of the court. Currently Cromwell’s spies were scouring London for any connection to the murder. So far I had avoided most members of the court. After our return to Hampton Court I had disappeared into my rooms and not seen anyone but Cromwell who had visited me twice to update me on the progress his spies gave.

  It was on the third day of my self-imposed exile that Archbishop Cranmer came to visit.

  My herald did not announce him; the entire court seemed to be functioning differently after the first murder of a queen in England’s history.

  “Your Majesty,” Cranmer said reverently, bowing deeply. I did not have the energy to gesture for him to rise or to move from my chair by the fire at all. Finally the Archbishop pulled himself up and came to stand by my chair.

  I dragged my eyes up to meet him and then glanced down at the chair behind him. The younger man took this as an invitation to sit.

  Glancing at the man, I felt my curiosity begin to rise despite my depression. The archbishop wasn’t saying anything, just staring into the fire. The entire ride back to Hampton Court my sister Mary had tried to speak to me; Charles talked in clipped tones and was unable to meet my eyes. Francis had ridden slightly behind us and had begun putting forth theories to the Captain of my Guard on where to look for the murders. Even Cromwell, in his updates on the state of London, had tried to offer some words of comfort.

  “Why have you come?” I eventually barked out, furious that he would impose on my grief. Anne had been my guiding light and my savior; she had presented me with a son and had only been my wife for a year and a half. Not since the death of my mother had I felt anyone’s loss in my life so severely.

  “Because I miss her, too,” Cranmer responded quietly.

  It was perhaps the only response that would have not sent me into a fit of rage. I had not stopped to think of how the archbishop would feel about losing his ally and friend; nor how George and Mary Boleyn would feel on losing such a dear sister. Anne’s ladies must also be distraught, and I had yet to speak to her parents, as well.

  “Sir Thomas, her father —“ I began, sitting up slightly for the first time.

  “Peace, Your Majesty,” Cranmer said. “I took the liberty of writing to him in France.”

  I nodded, relieved that I would not be the one to tell him of his favorite child’s death.

  “Archbishop,” I said after minutes of silence passed. “I confess that I do not know what to do. Anne has been stolen from me, and I do not understand how I can continue.”

  Cranmer looked into my face, his hands folded in front of his chest, fingertips lightly brushing his chin.

  “And yet you must, Your Majesty. Cromwell will bring these men to justice. Your son will celebrate his first birthday and he will continue to grow older. The country will still need to be governed. You must do this all without her.”

  I nodded, aware of the truth of his words. I had ruled for eighteen years without Anne Boleyn, surely I could continue on.

  But I could not explain, even to Cranmer who perhaps knew her best, how she had profoundly changed my life. Anne had been the one to pull me from the wickedness that was the Roman Catholic Church and my slavery to the Bishop of Rome, who I had once called Pope. She had been the first one in my life who had looked at me and told me to rule my country — not as my father had, or as Wolsey had, or even as Catherine had. But to rule it in my name and with my wishes. She had believed that I possessed the power to do so.

  For the first time someone had looked at me and not seen my brother Arthur and what should have been. Instead, Anne had looked and seen only Henry — a strong king who could lead his people out of the dark ages and into a new time of prosperity. And she had brought me men; new men who would help me accomplish these dreams — Cromwell and Cranmer, her brother George, and even new men for my chambers, such as Sir Francis Weston.

  I continued my deep study of Cranmer, aware that he was one of the gifts that Anne had left me.

  “Archbishop,” I croaked out, my voice scratchy with disuse. “Tell me of the poor house in Aughton.”

  Cranmer looked up at me with surprise but complied with my request. His soft voice rolled around the room, describing the tutor who worked with the men and the positive reports of the farming that was taking place. All ready one man had left the house on his own accord, taking the knowledge he had learned and apprenticing himself with a blacksmith.

  “It is as the Queen wished it,” Cranmer said sadly. “The men are learning and able to give back to the society that is helping them.”

  “Where were the other requests for the poor houses?” I asked.

  “Clare, Hertfordshire, and Bath, Your Majesty.”

  “Write to the mayors of those towns,” I said, my mind pulsing. “Have them scout for locations to build poor houses in their communities.”

  Cranmer’s smile was the first cheerful face I had seen since Anne’s death.

  “Yes Your Majesty,” he said with obvious enthusiasm, standing to write them immediately. “I will have their answers here by the end of the month.”

  “No,” I said, waiting for him to stop and turn to face before continuing. “The answers must be here by the end of the week. We have precious little time to spare if they are to be built before the winters.”

  “Yes Your Majesty,” Cranmer said, bowing low to me and hurrying from the room.

  Anne was gone, this was true. But the gifts and visions for England she had given me would remain.

  “Thomas Cromwell!”

  The herald’s announcement was still quieter than usual, even a week after Anne’s death. Funeral preparations were beginning, and she would be laid to rest in Westminster Abby the following week. As was customary for a king and husband, I would not attend the festivities.

  Life had slowly returned to normal. I had begun eating once again, my appetite not scared away forever. A council meeting was scheduled for the next day, and I had even seen George Boleyn the previous day and spoken to him briefly on the plans for Anne’s funeral.

  Cromwell had been the only person, however, who I had regularly seen. He had come to me with daily reports on the search for Anne’s murderer, first telling me that they had linked the name Fredrick Consasuo with the rosary that h
ad been found, and then that they had found a trail of the man.

  Today, Cromwell was offering me a pleased grin that turned the corners of his mouth up into a thin curl. I knew immediately this meant he had news.

  “Your Majesty,” he said with a bow. “We have in custody the man who used the named Fredrick Consasuo.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “And he proved to be a man from Lincolnshire named Geoff Hastings.”

  I balked at the realization that my queen had been killed by an Englishman.

  “And I further regret to inform you,” Cromwell continued, the smile now noticeably absent. “That this Geoff Hastings was working in alliance with Jose Cortaz. He was the man who was arrested along with Cortaz last year before Queen Anne’s coronation. At the time nothing could be found on the man and he was released. However, he has confessed to attempting to release Cortaz from the Tower and now has confessed — somewhat gleefully — to the murders.”

  The shock of these words floored me, and I could think of many questions for Cromwell, but my mind moved too quickly from one implication to the next to formulate a sentence.

  “Why?” I finally choked out. That was not the question I had anticipated asking, but it was the most important.

  “Why did he confess?” Cromwell asked blithely. “I suppose he wants the recognition —“

  “No,” I interrupted, waving a hand at him. “Why did he commit the murders?”

  “Oh,” Cromwell said, looking down to the floor. “He is a Catholic.”

  That was it. No explanation of how his family had been wronged by the Boleyns or how he had been paid off by the Spanish. No connection to Catherine or to the Pope. Just a simple matter of disbelief.

  “Then why did he not make plans to attack me?” I hesitated, even now, to use the word murder in conjunction with myself.

  “He believed the Queen had committed witchcraft and placed a spell on you,” Cromwell answered, speaking as if he was talking about yesterday’s jousts. “He believed if he murdered the Queen, then the spell would be broke and England would once again join the Roman Catholic Church. He called the Queen a witch, citing that she had done no good deeds for England and had brought nothing but misery and the threat of excommunication from the true Church.”