Doomed Queen Anne (20 page)

Henry was entertaining friends at a joust in celebration of Catherine’s death when ill fortune overtook us yet again. On the orders of my physician, I was not present. Henry insisted upon entering the lists, as he had done to such good effect as a younger man. But he was unhorsed, and his enormous war-horse fell upon him, knocking him senseless.

My uncle, duke of Norfolk, brought me the news of the mishap when Henry had awakened. I was much distressed and moaned and wept, and it was not until I had seen with my own eyes that the king was alive that I felt somewhat easy again.

But the shock was too great. Six days later, on the twenty-ninth of January, I lost the child. Nell, her poor face stained with tears, told me that, according to the physician who attended me, the tiny life I no longer carried had been a male. I was inconsolable. I blamed Mistress Jane, and I blamed Henry.

“My lord,” I cried, “can you not see that it was my too great love for you that was at fault?”

But he had few words of comfort for me. “I see that God will not give me male children,” he said ruefully, “as he will not allow you to bear them.”

His jaw set hard as stone, he turned away from me. I knew at that moment that the king had closed his heart against me, and I sank into fathomless despair.

CHAPTER 17: Last Days, 1536

The king rode off to London to his own amusements while I was still recovering from the shock of the loss of the babe in my womb, and I was left alone, tormented with grief and worry.

I had no need to be told what everyone was saying quite openly: that my marriage to King Henry was over, that he would banish me as he had Catherine, that he would lose no time in marrying his new love, Jane Seymour. Thomas Cromwell, who now held the post of king’s secretary, would arrange it all. Cromwell was the most powerful man at court, and scarcely anyone would protest what he did. What had happened to Catherine was now happening to me. But the former queen had many friends and supporters; I had none.

My brother called upon me. The usually high-spirited, good-humored George Boleyn appeared deeply troubled, his face drawn and haggard. “There are matters of which you must be aware,” George confided when we were alone. “You have not much time.”

“Then tell me quickly,” I said, my heart hammering fiercely against my ribs.

“I have learned that Cromwell has turned over his apartments here at Greenwich to Jane’s brother, Edward Seymour. The apartments have a private passage leading from the king’s privy chamber, and the king often uses this passage to visit Lady Jane. Chaperones are always present. He sends her lavish gifts, which she thanks him for and then returns. She flaunts her virtue. Cromwell misses no opportunity to remind the king that she is the opposite of you in every way. The king appears enchanted.”

The gravity of my situation fell heavily upon me. “What can I do?” I cried, nearly undone by my anguish. “Cromwell’s influence on the king is greater than even Wolsey’s was!”

“Pray that the enchantment ends, and soon.”

When Henry returned from London days later, I sought again to speak to him, although it was clear that he wanted to avoid me. He gazed at me with cruel, glittering eyes as I knelt as his feet.

“It was because of the love I bear you that I lost the child,” I wept, my hands lifted in pleading. “You know that I love you more than Catherine ever did. She did not care when you dallied with other women, or even if you loved them. But I am not like Catherine! Whenever I hear that you have been with another, my heart is broken.”

“Enough!” he said harshly. “I will hear no more of this, madam.”

And when I stammered out more protestations, he rose and walked away. I remained on my knees, weeping. At the door he stopped, turned, stared down at me. For a moment my heart, and my hopes, lifted. “You have seduced me by witchcraft,” he said. “I wish only to be free of you.”

He was gone, and I collapsed, sobbing, upon the cold floor.

DURING THIS WRETCHED time, my only consolation was music. I had once made the acquaintance of Mark Smeaton, a commoner with an uncommon musical talent. Now it became his habit to visit me each afternoon in my chambers. There, in the presence of Nell, he played for me upon the clavichord, giving me some pleasure—perhaps the only pleasure of those dreary weeks when I had nothing to think about but my failure and the pale face of my young rival, Jane Seymour. I longed for a glimpse of my daughter, Elizabeth, and planned to visit her when I was stronger.

Music could do only so much to heal me. I was distraught. My best hope was my brother, who, like my father, was one of the most influential members of the privy chamber. If the Boleyns could only defeat the power of Cromwell, perhaps I still had a chance.

But it was too late. Cromwell had already begun to gather my personal enemies, together with those staunch supporters of the former queen and now of Mary, and even some of my disgruntled servants, all of whom were happy to condemn me. “There was never such a whore in all the realm,” one of my ladies-in-waiting. Lady Wingfield, told the king, according to George.

My brother and I sat in the privy garden, where there was less chance of an eavesdropper, for we both believed ourselves surrounded by spies. The warm spring sunshine and birds twittering in the trees seemed an insult and only added to my sense of foreboding. “The king listens to all these rumors and reports, mostly from Cromwell, and he says nothing,” George said quietly. “He no longer listens to me, or to our father.” George hesitated before he asked, “What can you tell me of Mark Smeaton?”

To calm myself, I kept my hands busy with a piece of needlework, a book cover intended for Henry with our intertwined initials,
H
&
A
, embroidered upon it. “Mark Smeaton is a fine musician. He comes often to play for me. Surely you are not suggesting—?”

“I suggest nothing, dear sister. But others have. That same Lady Wingfield claims that Smeaton has visited not only your privy chamber but your bedchamber as well, where he hides in a cupboard until you summon him to join you behind the bed-curtains.”

“But it is a lie!” I cried, leaping to my feet and dropping my stitchery. “Nothing that you suggest has even a grain of truth to it! I have never been unfaithful to the king.” Infuriated, I trampled the stitchery in the dirt. But even as I protested, I realized what was happening. The king would not simply have our marriage annulled and send me to rot in some country manor. He would have me accused of being unfaithful to him. Adultery against the king is treason, punishable by death.

Death!
Did the king, my husband, mean to have me killed? Surely not! Surely not! I stared at the muddied piece of linen, the
H
&
A
ruined, realizing that
he surely would
. Faint with terror, I fell upon my knees and lifted my eyes to George. “Help me,” I pleaded. “For God’s sake, help me!”

“I cannot,” he said, slowly shaking his head. Then he added grimly, “God help us both.”

AT THE END OF APRIL, I learned that Cromwell, by order of King Henry, had begun an investigation of treason against the king. I scarcely dared imagine what this might mean. On the first of May, so undone and frightened that I could scarcely still my trembling hands, I attended a May Day joust with Henry and members of the court. I remember almost nothing of what transpired at the joust. Barely halfway through the events, the king abruptly summoned several of his friends and rode off without even a farewell, leaving me sitting alone and terrified of what might happen next. Later I was told that he claimed to have seen me drop a handkerchief, which he chose to believe was a signal I had given to a lover.

Within hours, three of Henry’s closest friends—the men who had ridden off with him—were arrested: Henry Norris, William Brereton, and Francis Weston. So was the musician, Mark Smeaton. So—unbelievably—was my brother, George. All were accused of treason.

Had the king gone mad? Surely it was not simply his desire for a son that was behind this. Surely it was not simply his lust for a younger wife. Half mad with terror myself, I could only conclude that the king had taken leave of his senses and that Cromwell fueled the flames of his madness.

Nell stayed close by me during those last terrible hours, as I waited to learn if I, too, would be taken away Distraught, I asked her to send for Elizabeth, my bright and winsome little daughter, who had at last been brought to Greenwich for a visit a fortnight before. When Nell carried her to me, I held the child tightly to my breast, bathing us both in tears.

The king’s messenger appeared at my apartments.

At the sight of him, I began to tremble so violently that I nearly dropped my daughter. I tried to speak to him haughtily, but no words would come. The messenger’s eyes were cold, his words even colder: I was to be arrested within the hour and tried for treason, “by order of His Majesty, the king.”

“Take the child to the king,” Nell urged me, as soon as the messenger had gone. “Let him look upon you both!”

I begged permission to stand outside the palace, beneath the windows of the king’s privy chamber with the child in my arms, hoping the sight of us would open his heart once more. I knew that Henry was there; I was certain that he saw us, although he gave no sign. I stood there until the guards appeared and dragged me away. Elizabeth, my daughter, my last hope, was taken from me.

I WRITE THIS NOW from my chamber in the Tower, to which I was brought by barge on the second of May. On that day I was questioned by a tribunal headed by my uncle, the duke of Norfolk. My father was not present, for which I am grateful, for I could not have borne to have him point an accusing finger at me, as he did at my brother and the others. How could he do this to his own son? I know not, unless it was to save his own life. My uncle undid me from the start when he showed me a paper signed by Mark Smeaton, confessing that he had been my lover.

“But it is a lie!” I cried. “We were not lovers! You forced this confession from him, so that you can unjustly condemn me!”

“Silence!” shouted my uncle Norfolk. “The accused is forbidden to speak!”

Then I was brought here, to the very chamber where I spent the night before my coronation. I am in the custody of the constable of the Tower, Sir William Kingston, and his wife. I try my best to retain my dignity, but I confess that my composure often deserts me, and I veer from wanton laughter to crushing tears in a matter of moments—a trial, I am sure, to him and Lady Kingston.

George was taken elsewhere in the Tower, charged with having been my lover. My own brother was condemned by the testimony of his jealous wife, who claimed that I bragged to her of sleeping with several men to ensure that I would conceive a male child! The others, too, were imprisoned here—Norris, Brereton, Weston. And poor Smeaton.

Four ladies have been sent to attend me, none of whom I would wish to spend even a pleasant hour with, let alone these horrible ones. Mistress Coffin, whom I know to be a spy, is assigned to report my every word to my jailer. Are they waiting for me to confess to amours with the accused men?
With my own brother?
For that they will wait a lifetime, for it is the invention of Cromwell, and I swear there is no truth to it.

But no one wants to hear the truth.

Despite my most devout prayers, the indictments against me and the others were handed down on the tenth of May, charging me with engaging in carnal pleasure with the accused. There were even dates given for the occasions on which I supposedly lured them to my bed! The one that pained me most deeply was the charge against my brother. It was even suggested that George is the father of my daughter, Elizabeth! How could anyone believe such a thing?

The men were found guilty, without a shred of evidence, of conspiring the king’s death. On the twelfth of May, the convicted men were condemned to die as traitors.

My trial took place on the fifteenth. I was allowed to offer no defense. Perhaps it would have made no difference if I had had the most skillful lawyers in the land to plead my case. I swore my innocence. I begged that I might be spared, allowed to live out the rest of my days in a nunnery, but my pleas went unheeded. I was found guilty and escorted from the courtroom by six guards whose axheads were turned toward me, a signal to the crowds waiting silently for a verdict that I was condemned to die.

Kingston tells me that Archbishop Cranmer has declared my marriage to Henry invalid—not because of the king’s prior marriage to Catherine, but because of his affair with my sister, Mary. My daughter, Elizabeth, has been declared a bastard. I think often of the other Mary, Henry’s daughter, and wonder what will become of her. I have told Lady Kingston that I now understand how deeply I have wronged my stepdaughter, and I would go to my death more easily if Princess Mary could find it in her heart to forgive me. I doubt that she will. If I were in her place, I could not.

AND SO MY STORY ENDS. Today I will die on the scaffold on Tower Green. I still cling to a fragile hope that my beloved husband, King Henry VIII, will reconsider—that my life will be spared. Surely he will not kill me, the mother of his daughter! His loving wife, his loyal queen! But that hope weakens with every passing hour. I have known the man, the lover, the husband, the king, and in truth I know in my heart that he will not change his mind. His only gesture of mercy has been to send for a swordsman from Calais whose work is known to be swift and more merciful than the axman’s.

Soon it will be first light. Nell will help me dress in my gown of gray silk. My chaplain will come to hear my last confession and to spend with me my final hour on earth. I will swear again by all that is holy: I have never been unfaithful to the king, in thought, word, or deed. Perhaps I should confess to him what I now understand to be my greatest sin: Pride. That I desired too much, reached too high. Whether or not I confess that, the ultimate sin against God, the priest will absolve me of all sin and offer me the holy sacrament for the last time.

Two days ago, I watched as the five men accused and condemned with me—each one of them as innocent as I—were taken to Tower Hill, outside the walls of the Tower. There they were executed as traitors: hanged, drawn, quartered, beheaded.