In the early hours of morning a trusted acolyte has lit candles in a makeshift chapel within Anne’s quarters, their wavering flames fill the room for a private mass being said for Anne, the condemned Queen and her four ladies-in-waiting by Archbishop Cranmer. The acolyte slowly swings his censor, filling the apartment with the smell of incense. Cranmer moves about in a narrow space between the temporary altar and the row of kneeling cushions so Anne and her ladies can take Holy Communion, taking the body and blood of Christ. Cranmer bows and prays uneasily, his lean face full of doubt as his gaze shifts from Anne to the Sacrament.
At the same time this morning, while black material is being hung around the scaffold and fresh straw spread about, the execution sword is being drawn from its scabbard by Raoul who notices it glinting in the morning light. He takes a whetstone which he dips into a bowl of water and draws it along the length of the blade using sharp, angled strokes. When he is satisfied, he gives the blade a coat of oil.
Herbs which have been prepared and mixed are being boiled by Jean. When they are ready, he will pour them into a silver goblet of red wine and place a silk cloth over the top, the herbs and spices floating on the surface.
At this time, Anne’s dark hair is being brushed. With deliberate care she has already chosen the clothing she is to wear, a crimson kirtle, crimson to signify martyrdom, underneath is a loose robe of black damask with ermine trim, the ermine being a symbol for royalty. When she is ready to leave, a cape will be placed around her shoulders.
The candles burn down further as Jean walks in the cold dawn, down a passage toward the Queen’s chambers, carrying the silver goblet. He passes a black cat silently coming the other way. The cat sees something beyond him and snarls, its green eyes glowing.
On entering Anne’s apartments, he notes with some interest the rich tapestries, expensive furniture and beautiful carpets with an approving glance.
Then he meets Anne. He faces a slim woman of dark complexion who holds her hand out to Jean. He bends his head to kiss the tips of her long, manicured fingers, noticing the blue veins on the back of her slender hands. He raises his head to look into dark, expressive eyes, sees an oval face with high cheekbones. As he expects at this meeting, whenever he first stands before a client, there is always a moment of silence. Silence shrouded in awkwardness. Then the client can sometimes be defiant, but more often embarrassed, when introduced to the man who will end their life.
But she has greeted him with a welcome smile, with perhaps a slight tremble in her voice, then gracefully smoothing her skirts, she sits down.
‘There is something familiar about you, sir.’
‘Years ago, my lady, when you were at Queen Claude’s Court, our paths crossed several times.’
‘Those were happier times.’
Jean leans forward to speak softly to Anne, quietly explaining the use of the herbs, which she accepts, nodding her head. He hands her the goblet which she holds awkwardly between her hands, breathing in the aromatic herbs. He studies her curiously as she sips the liquid through pursed lips, especially her neck where he notices a large mole half-way down. She finishes, enjoying the taste and breaths from the goblet once more before she gives him a satisfied nod.
Her thick, black hair will have to be tucked away – he must remember to tell Kingston to relay that to one of the ladies-in-waiting. Here is a queen, he thinks, creative, talented and intelligent. Who had a great influence over the King. He could detect something like a hypnotic attraction emanating from her. Had the King been bewitched by her as some had suggested? She who had caused the king to divorce his queen, even to humiliate her, to have their child Mary pronounced illegitimate. Then to break ties with The Holy Roman Church and create a new religion? All for her? All he sees before him is a noble woman, much like any other noble woman who has to face the position she now finds herself in. The only concerns which are etched on her face are those about her own mortality.
‘Will this make me sleep?’ she asks finally, breathing deeply of the aromatic herbs again.
‘It will give you strength my lady,’ he answers her compassionately. ‘There will be no pain, then you will go beyond this troubled place.’
Anne nods. ‘And then I shall be in Heaven, for I have done many good deeds during my days.’
‘You will hear angel’s trumpets announcing your arrival my lady,’ he replies sincerely.
She passes back the empty goblet with another nod. Jean bows and departs, having nothing more to say, only sensing torment from an uncomfortable feeling of regret and apprehension. The quicker he fulfils this assignment and returns to Calais the happier he will be.
One of the candles expires.
***
Back in his quarters the early morning rays of light shine through his open window. It glitters on the blade where Jean, in his shirt sleeves, swings his sword over his head and around his body, an activity that allows the physical movement, matched with the weight of his sword, to give those muscles of his shoulders and torso a good stretch in preparation for the work that must be done this morning. The constant practice of swordplay in all its forms has kept his fitness and agility well maintained for his age.
His thoughts bounce backward and forward, evaluating the rumours and accusations he has heard these past few days of Anne’s lustful love affairs, her incest, her witchcraft and treason, to be unanimously convicted on all counts. All seeming to be information of questionable quality. She pleaded her innocence both before and after Holy Communion, she would not do so to have her soul damned! Was it merely envy from others who were jealous of her charm, wit and sophistication? When the facts are pondered over, is it all perhaps shrouded in mere gossip which has been vastly exaggerated? Jean thinks that the saying is true, “loose talk costs lives!” Who then, has been responsible for all that has followed?
***
Members of various Guilds begin to arrive on the green, some alone, others in two’s or three’s, nodding and greeting each other. Cromwell arrives alone, stern faced, ignoring most, wearing his dark cloak about his shoulders like a shroud.
A wooden chest for storing arrows is carried toward the rear of the scaffold. The making of a suitable coffin was omitted when arrangements were made. This will have to do for Anne’s mortal body.
Within the Queen’s lodgings all is tense. Every little sound makes those pacing up and down the floor jump, the tension being stretched out by the executions delay of another day.
Finally, a gloved hand knocks on the gilded door of the Queen’s apartment. All turn toward the door at the sound, their hearts beating heavily and one of the ladies-in-waiting fearfully goes over to open it. Sir William Kingston stands on the threshold, behind him several yeomen of the guard.
He looks inside and his eyes meet Anne’s. ‘It is time to take our walk, my lady,’ he calls, arms outspread.
One of the ladies helps her with the cape and another helps Anne puts on an English style gable hood, then she steps outside to join Kingston followed by her ladies-in-waiting. In one hand Anne carries a white handkerchief, in the other, a small prayer book held closely to her chest.
‘I hear the executioner is very skilled,’ Anne speaks distantly.
‘He is indeed, my lady,’ Kingston agrees.
‘Good, for I have a very tiny neck.’ They move off down the passage.
Outside a raven caws a series of short cries as the party step into the daylight to join an escort of more yeomen, followed by several nobles of the court and Aldermen of the City. When they set off, Anne looks behind her a couple of times as if looking for someone. The cortège marches on, past the Great Hall, then through Cole Harbour Gate and down along past The White Tower.
Inside the Queen’s apartment, a last candle burns out, leaving a floating wisp of smoke.