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AT HIS HOUSE IN NEWINGTON Green, Harry Percy drank far more than he should have. He was already feeling dizzy and now he wanted only to sleep the day away. That was just as well; his beloved Anne was imprisoned and would soon be tried for her life, a trial that was deemed to have but one outcome. She had no chance of a fair trial, not when the King himself had already decided her fate.
Harry’s servants were very efficient at bringing him the latest news and gossip from court and he had been told that the King had sent to France for a swordsman to behead his Queen, as soon as she was arrested. He had no intention of even considering that she might be found not guilty; of course not. That outcome did not suit him, not one little bit.
Harry wondered if Anne knew and if she did, did the knowledge plunge her into deeper depths of despair, to know that it was all pointless, that she was already condemned?
Now he sat beside his open window and clutched in his hand the letter he had dreaded, the summons that ordered him, Harry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, to attend on the day of the Queen’s trial and form part of the jury.
He could see why he was being asked and it had nothing to do with his status as one of the most important Earls in the country. It was to do with Henry Tudor and his vicious need to punish everyone who had ever loved her, everyone except himself.
But the King had never loved her. He had only wanted her, lusted after her and he had interfered in her life, used her for his own selfish needs and now he would condemn her to death, knowing full well that she was innocent. God, how he loathed that man!
There could be but few motives for the King’s choice of Northumberland for this task, malice, spite, hatred. But was his hatred greater for Harry, or for Anne? It was certain that both would be hurt by Harry’s presence at the trial, and that was just what the King wanted.
He drank some more, sought oblivion in the alcohol and wondered if there was any way out.
***
THEY HAD ALL BEEN JUDGED guilty, all the men who had been tried. Sir Francis Weston, Sir William Brereton, Sir Henry Norris, even poor Mark Smeaton. Sir Thomas Wyatt had been released without charge, probably because his father was such a good friend of the King. There could be no other reason, for had he faced the same, unfair trial as the others, he, too, would have been now awaiting death.
Anne’s brother was to be tried later, in the Tower’s great hall, but not with his sister. It was quite pointless now to have any sort of sham trial for her, since if she were proven innocent, then so must those poor gentlemen already condemned. Their guilt meant her guilt and there was no escape from that verdict. George might yet have a chance; what law made it incest to be close to one’s brother? King Henry’s law, obviously.
While his Queen, his wife, the woman he professed to love, awaited her fate, accused of adultery, the King seemed to be enjoying himself. Anne heard from whispers among her attendants that he had been seen out riding, hunting, at balls, dancing with his Seymour slut, without a single word or look of grief or shame.
That told her, if she was still in any doubt, that he knew full well that Anne was guiltless. What man, believing his wife had shared herself with other men, would be enjoying life so well? The charges made him a cuckold, and that was something against which Henry would ever protest. But he did not and Anne knew why; because he knew it was all an evil lie.
She was not alone in her belief. It came to her ears that the Spanish ambassador, Chapuys, ever her enemy, had remarked that he never knew a man to wear a pair of horns so happily. Even he knew she was innocent.
“He said he loved me, you know,” said Anne, seemingly out of nowhere. “He pursued me for years, built a new church to have me.” Her eyes wildly followed the faces that formed a sea of hostility around her. “What do you think? Do you believe a man who does what the King has done for me, could really hate me this much?”
She said no more. Her own trial would be in a few days, if one could call it a trial, and the verdict was a foregone conclusion. George might still have a chance, but that was unlikely. She wondered briefly why the King hated George so much, but it took only a moment to realise that, like all the others, it was Cromwell who wanted George among them.
“My brother must be suffering so,” said Anne. She looked about to see if anyone were really listening. “He’ll not be in lush apartments like these, will he? He’ll be in a prison cell with few comforts.”
One of the younger ladies spoke up and earned a glare from the others.
“I have it on good authority, Your Grace,” she said, “that Viscount Rochford has a comfortable place. Lady Rochford has been sending him comforts, and paying for extra food.”
She blushed a dark crimson, then dropped her gaze to her embroidery.
“Thank you for that,” said Anne. “I am so pleased to know that his wife has not forsaken him, that Jane does not believe these lies. I often thought she envied our closeness; perhaps she did, but at least she does not accept the falsehoods. Thank you.”
For the first time her thoughts turned to her sister-in-law, to Lady Jane Rochford, George’s wife, and she was ashamed to admit that she had given her not a single thought until now. It had been an arranged match, but Jane and George had been content together. She must have been devastated by this, but Anne had not thought of her at all. How selfish that was; she hoped Jane would forgive her.
In her letter to the King, she had pleaded with him for a fair trial, a lawful trial, but she could see that was not the sort she would receive. And she finally realised, after telling herself that Henry was doing this to punish her, that he did mean it, that he intended her death. Once King Henry of England intended a thing, that thing would come to pass, no matter who had to suffer for it to happen.
She dressed with care for the trial, not wanting to appear overdressed or superior. Her clothing was plain, a black velvet gown with a crimson petticoat. She wore no jewellery, other than her wedding ring and she followed Master Kingston to the King’s Hall within the Tower itself.
She looked about for George, presuming he was to be tried with her, but there was no sign of him as she took her place.
In the centre of the hall, a great scaffold had been erected and on it, in an elaborate chair, sat one of Anne’s worst enemies, her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk. So another request of hers had gone unanswered, that she should be judged not by her enemies.
Henry must hate her! He had sent this man, who had plotted to bring her down, to arrest her and now he had sent this man to preside over the proceedings, proceedings upon which her life depended. She might as well submit her neck to the block here and now.
She mounted the platform and took the seat opposite her uncle. Her dark eyes wandered to the jury and she saw that each one was an enemy, each one was a man who had always been against her, blamed her for Katherine’s fall, blamed her for the separation of the church, for the bastardisation of the Princess Mary. Even Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk and the King’s brother-in-law, a man who despised Anne with all his soul, sat grave faced, his arms folded, his eyes filled with loathing.
There was but one who might be on her side in this, who might still care enough to fight for her – Lord Harry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, the man she had always loved. But why was he here, among her enemies? This must be some cruel jest of the King, to force Harry Percy of all people to sit with these men in judgment on her.
She scarcely recognised him, he looked so ill, so drawn and thin. His skin was of a shiny texture, tinted with yellow, his hair and beard dull and lacklustre. And as she watched him, she could see he did not want to be here. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his mouth a thin line of misery, and as he turned his head away, she saw the tears which gathered in his eyes.
She did not bother to ask herself again why the King now hated her so much, did not care to question why he would subject her to this further humiliation of having her former sweetheart sit in judgment on her. And some twisted need for vengeance made Henry want to punish Harry Percy as well, to force him to be here, to sit among her enemies.
Anne’s memory showed her those first days at court, not so very long ago, when she had danced with Harry Percy, had courted him, kissed him, loved him. She remembered those secret meetings and how they had promised each other marriage, promised to belong to each other forever.
They could have been happy together, she and Harry, had the King not wanted her for himself, had he not been determined to have his own way in all things. And look what he had done, look to what he had brought those two young lovers.
The trial did not last long and Anne was not allowed to speak. There was no real evidence, only false statements, Mark Smeaton’s confession which could well have been made under torture. If not, he may well have thought himself important that someone would think he was having intimate relations with the Queen. He was such a child in a lot of ways, a talented child who had no understanding of the real world.
Forced to sit and listen to the lies that were being told about her, forced to keep silent while those lies were accepted as truth, Anne fought against self pity. After the years of hearing lies which made her responsible for all the woes of the nation, she should be accustomed to them by now.
She opened her mouth to speak a few times to begin with, to refute the false evidence, but she was firmly told that any such interruption would result in her removal from the court.
She could only sit, helplessly, and shake her head in denial. The ‘evidence’ was not only ludicrous, ridiculous, laughable even, it was offensive. She had always been faithful to the King. She had not wanted him, had never loved him, but she had known no other man but him. And he knew it.
The verdict of all the men was ‘guilty’; that came as no surprise and as her eyes met those of Harry Percy, her slowly shook his head, attempted a smile, then dropped his gaze to his trembling knees. She knew he had no choice but to agree. This was Henry’s doing, this was what the King had ordered, and just like his forced marriage to Mary Talbot, no one defied the King.
When sentence was passed, Anne’s heart jumped and she caught back a scream. She was to be taken to prison in the Tower and then, at the King’s command, to the Green within the Tower, and there to be burned or beheaded, as shall please the King.
Burned. That was the word that assaulted her mind. It was the prescribed sentence for female traitors but, try as she would, she could think of no woman who had suffered that horrific death for the crime of treason. And she wondered if the man she had married could really see her screaming in agony as the flames caught her clothing and seared her flesh. But he would not see it, would he? He would make himself scarce, would want to know nothing about it, because that was what he did, that was how cowards behaved.
His beloved Anne, the woman he would love forever, the woman who was dearer to him than anyone or anything. She laughed shortly, then composed herself to give her speech, as it was the only speech she would be permitted to give.
“My Lord,” she began. “I will not say your sentence is unjust, nor presume that my reasons can prevail against your convictions. I am willing to believe that you have sufficient reasons for what you have done, but then they must be other than those which have been produced in court, for I am clear of all the offences which you then laid to my charge. I have ever been a faithful wife to the King, though I do not say I have always shown him that humility which his goodness to me, and the honours to which he raised me, merited.”
Her words were interrupted by a loud thud, as of something heavy falling, and she stopped and turned her gaze to the sound. Harry Percy had collapsed and lay unconscious upon the floor as several of the pages hurried to lift him and carry him out of the Hall.
Anne knew for certain this was all too much for him, knew too that his verdict had been forced upon him. So he did still care for her, as she still cared for him.
She continued her speech, lest someone use this interruption as an excuse to cut off her words before they could be spoken.
“I confess I have had jealous fancies and suspicions of him,” she went on, “which I had not discretion enough, and wisdom, to conceal at all times. But God knows, and is my witness, that I have not sinned against him in any other way. Think not I say this in the hope to prolong my life, for He who saves from death has taught me how to die, and He will strengthen my faith. Think not, however, that I am so bewildered in my mind that I will not maintain my chastity as I have done all my life.
“I know these, my last words, will avail me nothing but for the justification of my chastity and honour. As for my brother and those others who are unjustly condemned, I would willingly suffer many deaths to deliver them, but since I see it so pleases the King, I shall willingly accompany them in death, with this assurance, that I shall lead an endless life with them in peace and joy, where I will pray to God for the King and for you, my Lords.”
She was led away then, quickly, before she decided to say more and she could not avoid the sight of the axe, turned with its blade toward her, a sign of the guilty verdict.
In her apartments, she said nothing, only looked from the window to see the building of the scaffold upon which her friends would meet their end. But not her, not Anne. She might be tied to a stake with faggots piled around her feet. Those faggots would be lit and as the flames approached, as they crept stealthily toward the flammable fabric of her clothing, her flesh would be melted until it slid off her bones.
No! She could not bear it! Surely he would not do that, surely not, after everything they had been to each other. Beneath her breath, she cursed the King, cursed him to Hell; why had he not left her alone? She had never wanted to be Queen, she had never wanted to marry him, she had never loved him. True, she had been pleased by the break with Rome and was proud to be the cause of it, but not proud to have ousted Katherine.
She needed to be careful now, or her words would be reported and if she was heard to curse the King, she would have no chance of a less brutal death.
“Your Majesty.” A soft voice caught her attention. “Forgive me for disturbing you, but I heard a rumour that I thought might bring some small peace.”
It was one of the ladies sent in to report on her every word and Anne knew she should not trust her, but she seemed sincere. She spoke in whispers, so that only Anne would hear. Anne nodded.
“Go on,” she said.
“The others say it would make you angry, but I fear you might worry about your sentence. I was told, from one in the King’s household, that His Majesty had sent to France for an expert swordsman to carry out the sentence.”
“A swordsman? So I am not to be burned.” Those wretched tears were back, this time tears of relief. “When did he do this? The verdict has only this morning been given.”
“It is said that His Majesty sent for him on the day you were arrested, Your Grace,” she said. “I am sorry.”
Anne had no reply for her. The entire charade was for the benefit of any who would say she had no fair trial. Henry had already decided on the outcome and the sentence, and nothing she said or did was ever going to change his mind.
***
WHEN HARRY OPENED HIS eyes, he found himself in a strange chamber surrounded by tapestry covered stone walls. The shape of the windows told him he was still in the Tower, likely the apartments of one of the Yeoman guards, but he had no idea how long he had been here.
Memories started to come back, memories he hoped were but bad dreams. He had to pronounce her guilty; it was what the tyrant wanted and he had no choice. Even if he had held out for a not guilty verdict, all it would have meant was Harry losing everything. It would have changed nothing for Anne, because the other jurors all said ‘guilty’, the others who had been carefully chosen. Harry was the only friend she had among them, and his friendship had availed her nothing.
He felt ashamed of himself, but what else could he have done? The King had only summoned him for the task to see what would happen; Harry was sure of that. It amused the royal humour to put him in this position.
He did not expect to faint, of course. He hoped to comfort her somehow by his presence, since he could not avoid the task, but all he had done was make a fool of himself.
He closed his eyes and prayed silently that they would not burn her. He could not tolerate the thought and if they did, he would be tempted to leap into the flames beside her. He could not bear for his lovely lady to be burned.
His eyes opened and he realised he was not alone. A page stood beside the bed, a goblet of wine in his hand.
“My Lord,” he said. “Are you recovered?”
Harry managed a nod of his head, then he scrambled into a sitting position and reached for the wine.
“Thank you,” he said.
The page left him alone with his thoughts, with his grief. Soon Anne would be dead, dead at the hand of a man who swore he would love her forever, and after only a few short years. Three years, that was all since the marriage. She had given him a beautiful daughter, even though she had miscarried of his sons, but three years? He had hardly given her time to breed those sons.
***
ANNE WAS TOLD SHE WAS to die at dawn on 18th May, just three days after her trial. The gentlemen accused with her had already met their deaths, but Anne was to have a scaffold built specially for her.
The initial sentence for those innocent men, that they be hanged until almost dead, cut down whilst still living and their entrails cut out and burned within their sight, had been commuted to beheading. Even Mark Smeaton, a lowly fellow, escaped that horrific end. It was Anne’s only comfort as her fervent prayers and pleas had not saved them.
On the morning of her expected execution, she rose early, dressed with care in a grey damask gown over a crimson kirtle, an English hood covering her dark hair. Then she awaited the arrival of Archbishop Cranmer, who was ever her friend, to hear her final confession and give the Last Rites.
Rumours were brought to her that her marriage to the King had been annulled. Having failed to persuade Harry Percy to admit to a pre-contract with her, Henry had achieved his wish for an annulment by citing his previous relationship with her sister, Mary. Strange how that had never bothered his famous conscience when it suited him.
The bitterness that churned away inside her threatened to destroy her long before the swordsman arrived. She still could not grasp how she had come to this, from one day being Henry’s beloved wife, his only love, to the next day wanting to consign her to oblivion, erase her from existence.
Cranmer struggled to contain his tears.
“I am so sorry, Your Grace,” he said. “I had no option. I had to annul your marriage to the King. I thought it might save you, but alas it did nothing to help.”
She reached out a hand to comfort him.
“I understand. What happened to your predecessor when he failed to give Henry what he demanded? I am to die; there is no need for you to join me.”
Then she asked that he commend her to the King and hoped her words would reach him so that he would know for certain she was innocent, that he would know what a terrible sin he had committed against her.
“Commend me to His Majesty,” she said. “And tell him that he has ever been constant in advancing me. From a private gentlewoman he made me a Marquess, from that he made me a Queen. Now he has no higher degree of honour left, he gives my innocence the crown of martyrdom as a saint in Heaven.”
If King Henry asked for her words, Cranmer would convey them, and he would most certainly write them down so that the future would see them.
On her knees, Queen Anne Boleyn gave her last confession and in it she declared her innocence. If the King wished to learn otherwise, he would be disappointed.
Cranmer stayed with her until after noon, by which time she was becoming restless. She stood at the window, staring out and up at the sun. It was past noon; she should be dead by now, should be with the angels, for she had no fear of anything else. She had a good view of the scaffold, could see the straw ready to accept her head, ready to soak up the blood as it poured from her severed neck. But there was no coffin.
A little spark of something similar to hope caught at her heart. Perhaps the King had changed his mind, perhaps he had remembered the love he once had for her, or said he had for her. But that was unlikely, as he was eager to wed the Seymour and had already murdered Anne’s friends and her brother.
She spun around to where the Archbishop still waited with her.
“Why do they not get on with it?” she asked him. Her question struggled to pass the ache in her throat, her vision was blurred with her tears. “I was told I was to die this morning; I am prepared to die.” She gestured to the window, beyond which she could see the scaffold awaiting her. “The scaffold is ready. Why do they delay?”
The sound of footsteps approaching startled her. At last! Finally they had come for her, finally she could have peace from this life.
But it was Sir William Kingston alone, and he came to tell her that the swordsman was delayed and would not arrive until the following day. Anne’s sorrow at the news overwhelmed her.
***
ANNE DID NOT SLEEP that night. With but one night left, she felt it would be better spent in prayer and her most urgent prayer was that there would be no further delay. She also prayed that those innocent gentlemen who were unjustly condemned with her, were now awaiting her in Paradise. She looked forward to meeting with them again, to being able to express her fondness for them without fear that some enemy might be listening and reporting.
She thought about those words she had spoken to Henry Norris; they were careless words, words that her enemy could twist and use against her.
And poor Mark. She held no malice toward him for his false confession. He was a simple boy and he was likely in terror; she had felt some of that terror herself these past weeks and for him, the horror must have been greater. They likely promised him his freedom if he spoke as they wanted. She was grateful to the King for commuting his sentence to beheading at least, and she had heard the axeman who despatched him and her other friends was efficient at least.
Yet she had more to consider as she lay awake and she was not alone in that. She heard the whispered words of her ladies as they repeated the latest gossip from court. She was not the only one who did not sleep that night, for word had it that the King also stayed up, but it was not his conscience that bothered him this time.
“I was told by one of the grooms that His Majesty spent hours studying the plans for the scaffold,” whispered a soft voice. “He wants to be sure there is no mistake, that the execution will be carried out precisely as he has it planned.”
“Did he seem distressed?” asked a new voice.
“No, not in the least. He seemed to be enthralled with it, measuring and scrutinising each piece of the platform, each step up to it. My friend said he looked intense, as though he were measuring the stage for some entertainment. He said the King was displeased that the swordsman had not arrived on time and wanted to make certain that nothing else went wrong.”
Anne thought she heard a catch in the woman’s voice as she replied.
“I should not express an opinion, but that is terrible. He was supposed to have loved her so much, look what he did for her. How could he do this now? How could he treat her death like a carefully planned exhibition?”
“Word is that he is now saying he never loved her, that he was enchanted, possibly even bewitched. He is even saying that he was led astray by her charms. How could he?”
They were right; how could he? Only a few weeks ago he was still referring to her as his most beloved wife.
That was all she heard before she turned her face to the wall and shut off the sound, waited for the light to creep through the sky.
At last Cranmer returned to tell her it was time. Sir William Kingston was with him, ready to escort her to the scaffold, to take her last steps.
“I hear the swordsman is very good, Master Kingston,” she said. Then she put her hands up to encircle her throat. “And I have a little neck.”
Her silent prayers were for Harry. She had not dared to ask about his condition since he collapsed at her trial, but he did look ill. Who knew? It might be that he, too, would soon join her in Heaven.
Unlike her friends and her brother, Anne’s execution would not be a public one o Tower Hill. Hers would be within the Tower grounds, on Tower Green, where only those invited were allowed to attend.
Kingston helped her up the steps and onto the scaffold, where she stood to address the crowd. There were her enemies, seated at the front, those same enemies who had willingly condemned her, Suffolk chief among them, his arms folded, a look of triumph on his face.
Her eyes swept over them. There was no sign of Harry and she wondered if he had been excused this sight, or if he was still too ill to attend. She knew he would not have willingly come here to witness her terrible end.
The faces formed a sea, but she could not sense its mood. As Queen, she had grown used to crowds watching her, staring at her, and often they were hostile, but still reverend. This crowd was different; this crowd had come to see her die and they were mostly silent. It was a stunned sort of silence and Anne did not fool herself that it was a sympathetic one. She knew it was because they could not quite believe that a Queen of England was to suffer such a death.
She felt tears gathering, felt a lump in her throat that would likely stop her words and she could not have that. She fought against the need for self pity, fought against those tears; she would be remembered throughout history as the Queen who went to her unjust execution with the dignity of a Queen.
She swallowed the bunch of tears in her throat and began her speech, the last words she would ever speak. She knew that her marriage to the King had been annulled, that her little Elizabeth had been declared a bastard, and that the King could easily have spared her and still had his Jane Seymour.
She had many words she would have liked to say to Henry, but she was afraid. He could easily change this merciful form of execution to that of having her burnt alive; he could do more harm to her daughter if she did not make him sound like the most wonderful man who ever lived. It was what he believed himself to be, but there were those she would leave behind who would suffer for the truth.
She raised her voice and began to speak.
“Good Christian people,” she said, “I have not come here to preach a sermon. I have come here to die, for according to the law and by the law, I am judged to die. Therefore I will speak nothing against it. I am come hither to accuse no man, nor to speak of that whereof I am accused and condemned to die, but I pray God save the King and send him long to reign over you, for a gentler nor a more merciful prince was there never, and to me he was ever a good, a gentle and sovereign lord.
“And if any person will meddle in my cause, I require them to judge the best. And thus I take my leave of the world and of you all and I heartily desire you all to pray for me.”
She wondered if anyone would note the sarcasm in her praise of the King. Her words could be taken either way and that was her intent.
Two of her ladies stepped forward to take her mantle and Anne removed her hood and let her dark tresses fall about her shoulders for the briefest time, before she gathered them beneath a white cap to keep them out of the way of the sword.
The swordsman asked forgiveness, which she freely gave and she paid him his due, then she knelt in the straw and prayed to Jesus to accept her soul, but her hearing betrayed her as she turned her head to see where the swordsman stood.
He, seeing this, asked his assistant to hand him his sword and as her eyes followed the assistant, the swordsman struck.
Anne’s ladies ran to gather up her remains and wrap them in linen, then they looked about urgently for a coffin that was not there. Nobody had bothered to order such a thing, no coffin for the Queen of England.
An arrow box was brought and the remains of Queen Anne Boleyn were placed inside and carried to the chapel of St Peter ad Vincula within the Tower, where they were buried in an unmarked grave.