Shaking the Throne

by Caroline Angus Baker

  The heavy door opened, and Nicòla jumped up, her black Cromwell livery looking as fine as possible in a cell, and there stood Kingston.

  ‘Mr. Frescobaldi, I must ask for your total discretion.’

  ‘I am at your command, Sir William,’ Nicòla said as she got down from the ledge by the window.

  ‘I have spoken with Secretary Cromwell. Cromwell proposes he, yourself, and Sir Thomas Wyatt attend the executions from the rooftop walkway which leads from Bell Tower to Beauchamp Tower. As I have not gotten word from the Duke of Norfolk that they can release you today, this is all I can do without being accused of letting prisoners roam.’

  Nicòla allowed Kingston to chain her at the wrists, and the constable led her from her cell and along the hallway for the first time since her arrest. Through narrow walkways, Kingston led her out onto the top of the fortified wall which connected the two strong prisoner towers on the east side of the castle. Guards stood ready all the way along the wall, but there stood Cromwell and Wyatt, who also had his hands in irons.

  Nicòla walked as fast she could without appearing to try an escape, and embraced Wyatt, the pair a mess of bound hands trying to embrace one another, to Cromwell’s laughter. All manners were gone, for both had spent weeks locked away, knowing none of events, scared during every minute God gave them.

  ‘I must go down to the scaffold to bear witness,’ Kingston said. ‘Guards shall escort you back to your rooms in a moment.’

  A moment, for that is all it would take.

  ‘I fear we are shaking the throne today, Secretary Cromwell,’ Wyatt commented as the three of them stood above everyone gathered by the wooden scaffold. They watched Kingston push through the crowds to stand where the executioner had arrived to do his duty. The crowd was ready, almost restless at the wait.

  ‘If today shakes the throne, then tomorrow shall threaten to destroy it,’ Nicòla noted as the sound of the crowd grew. The prisoners were being led out of the ground exit of the Beauchamp Tower. The three leaned over the edge of the wall to get a glimpse of the men walking towards the scaffold. They stopped all but George Boleyn, who, according to his rank, would die first.

  ‘I cannot believe such a thing could occur,’ Wyatt said. ‘Forgive me, Mr. Secretary, but George Boleyn’s guilt cannot cross my thoughts. He is a gentleman, a scholar, a diplomat.’

  ‘None of the female witnesses spoke well of him,’ Cromwell replied. ‘Quite the opposite. They spoke of lewd behaviour.’

  ‘We all make blunders with women.’

  ‘Rape is no blunder,’ Cromwell snapped back. ‘And that is what women described, so for him to have carnal knowledge of his sister is not too hard to believe.’

  Boleyn, dressed in a white linen shirt and black hose, climbed the few stairs of the scaffold to the jeering crowd. They quietened as Boleyn came to address the world of the living for the final time.

  ‘Christian men, I am borne under the law, judged under the law, and die under the law, and the law has condemned me… Masters all, I am not come to preach, but to die, for I have deserved to die, for I have lived more shamefully than can be devised… I am a wretched sinner, and I have sinned shamefully. I have sinned so openly it would be no pleasure to you to hear them, nor for me to repeat them, for God knows all… Masters all, I pray you take heed by me, and especially my lords and gentlemen of the court, take heed by me and beware of such a fall… I pray to God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost that my death may be an example to you all. Beware, trust not in the vanity of the world… and especially in the flattery of the court. I cry for God’s mercy, and ask the world’s forgiveness, as willingly as I would have forgiveness from God… If I have offended any man that is not here now, either in thought, word or deed, I pray you to heartily, on my behalf, pray them to forgive me for God’s sake. I say you all, if I had followed God’s word in deed as I did read it and set it forth to my power, I would not have come to this. I read the gospel of Christ, but I did not follow it; if I had, I would be among you now: so, I pray you… masters all, for God’s sake, stick to the truth and follow it, for one good follower is worth three sinners, as God knows.’

  Boleyn gently knelt to the block as the crowd fell as silent as the tears upon his cheeks. Standing all close together, Nicòla took the chance to take Cromwell’s hand, his billowing black overcoat shielding their hands from the guard’s eyes. The executioner took a heavy swing, struggling a little with the strong wind. With a thump, the axe fell upon Boleyn’s neck, yet it did not sever his head. As people shrieked in the crowd, the axeman swung quickly again, this time missing the head, hitting the shoulder. As the body, still moving, blood spilling, slipped away from the block, he swung his axe once more, this time the head coming from the body in the black pool of blood. Cromwell held Nicòla’s hand tight and Wyatt did his best to rest his bound hands on Nicòla’s shoulder, to comfort her and himself from the vicious execution.

  The crowd moved like the choppy Thames in the breeze, all stretching to see the twitching body pulled to one side of the scaffold, the head of Boleyn tossed into a large basket. A servant tried mopping up some blood, but the man fought a tide of red.

  The noise of the crowd rose again as Norris approached the scaffold, pushed up the stairs by the guards. More people jeered and booed at Norris, his lower rank giving him less protection. He too addressed the crowd as they quietened to hear a dead man’s words.

  ‘I think no gentleman of the court owes more to the King than I do or has been more ungrateful than I have. But I loyally believe in my conscience, I think the Queen innocent of these things laid to her charge; but whether she was, I will not accuse her of anything. I will die a thousand times rather than ruin an innocent person.’

  Nicòla felt Cromwell squeeze her hand again as Norris raised his hands to pray. Beside Nicòla, Wyatt cried.

  ‘Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, I accept from Your hands whatever kind of death it may please You to send me this day with all its pains, penalties and sorrows; in reparation for all my sins, for the souls in Purgatory, for all those who will die today and for Your greater glory. Amen.’

  Norris dropped to his knees at speed, like a final angry gesture to the world. He placed his face in the blood of George Boleyn and laid down his arms. With a single stroke, the man of three and fifty years was dead.

  The crowd talked among themselves as they pulled Sir Francis Weston to the scaffold. ‘I feel saddened for the Weston family,’ Cromwell commented. ‘They so desperately petitioned me, but we had witnesses talking of Weston’s love for the Queen.’

  ‘Was Weston, or any of these men, guilty of these crimes?’ Wyatt asked, tears on his face.

  ‘They are all guilty of something,’ Cromwell replied. ‘We are all guilty of something.’

  Weston, a man only half the age of Norris, whose blood he stood in, his bare feet red with his coming fate, seemed confused by his surroundings. He had written goodbye letters to his family and begged forgiveness from his young wife Anne. Cromwell had promised to pay his debts on his family’s behalf, at least giving Weston a little comfort after living a life of waste. Tears rolled down Weston’s gentle cheeks, pooling somewhere in his short dark beard.

  ‘I had thought to live in abomination for another twenty or thirty years, and then to have made amends… I thought little I would come to this. Everyone, you would do well to take the example of this, and to live clean lives under God.’

  With those few sentences, Weston knelt in pools of blood, whose blood no one could quite be sure, and laid his head. With one swipe of the axe, Weston’s head fell into the basket, blood spraying the nearby observers.

  Nicòla silently prayed in thanks to God for allowing Cromwell to elevate her above the killings, for it made them all separate from the truth. Standing in the crowd would be too much to bear as her plan made all of this happen.

  Up next was the final man of the nobility, Sir William Brereton. Brereton walked alone after pushing the guards away with angry
turns of his shoulders. He stood before the crowd on the scaffold, now a mix of shock and horror at the sight of piled up bodies to one side, heads tossed in a basket. The wood of the scaffold now looked black with the blood of the three men who came before him.

  Brereton looked out over the green and its crowd, his face appearing angry. ‘I have offended God and the King; pray for me!’ Brereton yelled as loud as any frightened man could. He stood defiantly on the scaffold, as if he could fight destiny with an angry face. ‘I have deserved to die if it were a thousand deaths, but the cause whereof I die, judge me not. But if you judge, judge the best. But if you judge, judge the best. But if you judge, judge the best. But if you judge, judge the best!’

  Nicòla had less fear of watching Brereton die. He had been a cruel man in the lands of Cheshire and the Welsh lands where he ruled. He took bribes, he had men killed. Yes, he was innocent of sleeping with the Queen, but he was no innocent young man like Weston.

  ‘I have committed the goods, chattels, rents and fees of Brereton’s lands to his widow, so she can raise her son,’ Cromwell commented as they dragged Brereton’s heavy body onto the pile, which oozed blood over the others. ‘Even though Elizabeth Brereton’s sister-in-law was one witness who spoke against Brereton, his wife still thinks him a good man.’

  ‘I knew Brereton the least,’ Wyatt replied, ‘but many spoke well of him. But none of us are innocent men.’

  The crowd rose again, making angry noises, of booing and hissing. It was time for Mark Smeaton, the commoner, to die. Tears dripped from Nicòla’s eyes at once; she had no warning, they plucked themselves from her eyes with a hot terror against cold skin. Wyatt too wept for his dear, dear friend. Nicòla, Wyatt and Smeaton had spent much time together as close friends, different in their own ways, all outsiders at court since Nicòla first came to England. Wyatt fell to his knees as he cried, only his face peering over the wall. Nicòla placed one hand on Wyatt’s shoulder, unable to do any more to comfort her friend as she watched their companion being dragged to the scaffold.

  Smeaton got to the stairs and paused. Two guards grabbed him by limp and bruised arms and pulled him forth to the block. Mark’s clothes were filthy; the white linen shirt he arrived in at Cromwell’s Stepney house now stuck to his bloodied skin, his beautiful curly black hair matted with blood. Bruises circled around his eyes from the frightful torture at Cromwell’s demands. Nicòla could not dare imagine what else had befallen sweet Mark in the Tower.

  Nicòla sobbed aloud like Wyatt, as Smeaton, still held by guards, lifted his weary head to speak.

  ‘Masters, I pray you all to pray for me… for I have deserved the death… I shall be justly punished for my misdeeds and my lies.’

  ‘His only lie was his false confession,’ Nicòla sobbed as Wyatt nodded his head.

  The guards stepped back for Smeaton to fall to his knees by the block, so thick with blood it no longer resembled wood. Before he rested his head, Mark turned and looked right in Nicòla’s direction. With a wail of tears, Nicòla reached out her hands down to him, bound tightly together.

  Smeaton raised one hand in her direction for a moment before a guard pushed his young head to the block. Nicòla heard the thump of the axe but saw it not as she buried her face against Cromwell’s shoulder and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her to standing as she gave way to the horror. She and Wyatt both wailed openly, Cromwell silent. It made no sense to cry on the shoulder of the man who arranged the killings, but Nicòla had no choice in this incredible defeat.

  Wyatt found his voice after a minute, and as the crowd dispersed, he pointed to the pile of bodies. ‘Where, Mr. Secretary, shall they be buried?’

  ‘Hither in the churchyard of Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula. Boleyn shall receive his own plot, and they shall bury the others in pairs, their heads included.’

  Nicòla lifted her face from Cromwell’s shoulder and stood on her own. It was time to return to their cells. She could not bear to look at Cromwell, for he was the master of this plan, and yet the only source of her comfort, all in one man. God could be cruel. ‘This is all my fault, in wishing to condemn one woman, I have killed five men.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Wyatt sniffed as guards came to fetch him.

  ‘I spoke against Anne in the first after Jane Seymour threatened me. God have mercy on my soul.’

  Nicòla let the guards take her by the arms and drag her away from Cromwell, who stood helpless to stop her and Wyatt from being removed to their cells. The worst was still to come the following day, when Anne Boleyn took the scaffold to be reviled and humiliated for all time.

  C

  Chapter 46 – May 1536

  one syngle lye can destroy a whole reputaytion

  Greenwich Palace, outer London

  ‘But how could that be?’

  Cromwell yelled at the messenger, knowing it was of no use. But the King would accept no excuses. Weary humours after a night praying rather than sleeping made everything harder. The Seymours still occupied Cromwell’s magnificent apartments, so that left Cromwell in Nicòla’s tiny room, which she used as a dressing room when court stayed at the palace. If only today would end; if only the Queen was dead.

  ‘Weather becalmed the ship in the night. She was not docked at dawn as planned, Sir Secretary,’ the messenger replied.

  ‘Do you know when the ship shall make land?’ Cromwell said, one hand over his eyes.

  ‘Perchance this afternoon, Sir Secretary.’

  ‘We are executing the Queen of England at nine o’clock this morning and we have no executioner? We have no executioner! How could that ship not arrive from Calais?’ Cromwell screamed.

  The messenger stood before Cromwell’s desk and knew not what to say.

  ‘Go to the dock and wait for that ship,’ Cromwell said through gritted teeth.

  The messenger ran off and Cromwell fell into his seat. Jean Rimbaud had not landed in England. He ordered that French executioner for Anne as soon as possible and yet the weather had thwarted the whole plan. Nicòla would have got that executioner to England on time. She could have organised everything while Cromwell told his lies in court. But Nicòla was still locked in the Tower to save her from a disgraced queen and vengeful king. To see Nicòla’s face as they pulled her and Wyatt back to the cells yesterday, tears staining their cheeks over what had happened… Cromwell knew not the agony they shared. He shared none of Nicòla’s guilt, for he wished to remove the Boleyn faction from court for his own safety, to be in the right side of the coup, and it was Henry who ordered the death sentences. Cromwell wanted no one to die, but he could admit in solitude that having George Boleyn and his supporters dead made life easier. All they needed was to have Anne removed, and now that could not happen.

  Cromwell found Henry in his rooms after morning prayers, sitting at his desk. The chamberlain allowed Cromwell into the privy chamber where Henry sat, not willing to look up from his reading when Cromwell stood before him.

  ‘Your Majesty.’

  ‘Not now, Thomas, for I am busy and have much to attend. Surely you have the same level of work.’

  ‘I do, Your Majesty. But…’

  ‘And we shall announce my betrothal to Lady Jane this morning. Is she not the most kind, most virtuous lady at court, Thomas? Is she not gentle, and honourable, and of good breeding, for her parents had ten children, so I am bound to gain a son. After the wedding, I wish to give out new titles and honours, and I shall need your help in bestowing those awards.’

  ‘Of course, Your Majesty. But I have news, the ship from Calais has not arrived and…’

  Cromwell stopped at the sight of Henry’s angry stare which lifted from his pages to his Chief Minister. Cromwell moved from foot to foot, ready to be chastised for the problem.

  ‘This has to end. I cannot stand any more of Anne!’ Henry screamed. He stood up from his writing table, knocking everything on the floor. Henry grabbed Cromwell by the shoulders and shoved him to the ground, Cromwell unable to de
fend himself, for to resist would be treason. ‘Everyone who attended my wedding is now dead, except for the bride, Thomas. You and your Waif were outside the door. I have pardoned the ladies who attended the wedding; they gave the evidence we needed, but you and the Waif have done nothing.’

  ‘We sold our souls for you!’ Cromwell screamed.

  Henry stood back from Cromwell on the floor and wiped the spittle from his lips. Never had Cromwell spoken back to Henry during his anger.

  ‘I want Anne’s head! I want Elizabeth declared a bastard. I want this done!’

  ‘Archbishop Cranmer has declared your marriage to Anne illegitimate, Your Majesty. You know that occurred yesterday after the executions. Cranmer is at the Tower, hearing Anne’s last confession and taking the Eucharist before her death. You can marry Lady Jane no matter where Anne is now.’

  ‘I want her gone!’ Henry screamed. ‘Look at me!’ Henry paused as tears ran down his cheeks. ‘My son should be the one getting married, expecting the birth of his sons. I should have a household full of sons securing my father’s legacy, securing our nation’s safety. Yet here I stand, at my age, still looking for love, still waiting for a son.’

  ‘You are loved by our whole country…’

  ‘No, I lost the love of my people when I married Anne. I lost their love when I removed Katherine. Well, I am the King! I rule the Church of England and they shall bow in fear if not in love. I want Anne dead!’