Anne Boleyn's Ghost (8 page)

Henry entered her room, a maniacal air about him as he looked virulently at his ailing wife, not uttering a single word or phrase whilst all the time strangely transfixed on Anne’s dark eyes. His demeanor said what his voice would not: That I, your master, stand before you,
dear
, having woken from my ‘long nap’ only to find you have miscarried,
again!

When Anne did try and speak
–
the shock of his presence having set her nerves on fire
–
he interrupted her before she could start.

‘I
–
’

‘I see clearly that God does not wish to give me male children …’ he said; and, falling silent, Henry walked over to the window and gazed blankly before him. Anne remained quiet and frozen in her bed, and dared not speak.

As the silence went on and on, seeing the King was lost for words, Anne meekly approached the window, wishing to comfort him in his fretfulness, when he said decisively,
‘You will get no more sons by me!’

He took leave of her room; Anne weeping despairingly as he went.

Henry’s loyalty to Anne was diminishing as quickly as it had flourished. He soon began to consult his new chief minister, Thomas Cromwell, on the best way of getting
rid
of Anne Boleyn.

The King was determined to avoid another questionable divorce or be humiliated with yet another public scandal. He now needed to make the woman he went to so much trouble to be with, appear to be someone he completely mistook for being sophisticated and charming, and who was, underneath it all
,
a whore
–

After many long, arduous nights alone in his bed, thinking how best to bring about his master’s wish, Cromwell’s strategy was to have Anne proven guilty of treason. And the only way he could do that was to prove she had committed adultery (the only woman in England who could be executed on such a charge). That’s not to say the task Cromwell had set himself was one that was going to be easy to achieve; but being a somewhat scrupulous individual, Cromwell could get done almost anything he set his mind to.

Devising a Plan

In the sixteenth century, it was all but impossible for someone like the King or Queen to get away with the odd affair, without the knowledge of those in their circle. They were the celebrities of their day; rumour and gossip was to the people who knew them the equivalent of today’s news media, celebrity magazines and newspapers.

Cromwell invited a musician called Mark Smeaton over for a very special, one-to-one dinner with him at his home in Stepney. Smeaton was
the ideal man to achieve the King’s aim: as a talented musician who could play several instruments and sing, Anne had requested on some occasions for Smeaton to perform in the royal household. He lacked friends and family, and had no influence beyond the stage.

All that was needed now was a bit of ‘persuasion’, and that’s where Cromwell came in.

Thomas Cromwell

As soon as Smeaton had arrived in Stepney and stepped out of his carriage (kindly provided for by His Grace), Cromwell went to his front window and beckoned him in.

Smeaton meandered his way inside and sat down at the table where a few dishes had been prepared for him to tuck into.

There was duck and pheasant (both well roasted and slightly charred), grapes, apples, chestnuts, and one bottle of wine, which Cromwell prowled over as though his guest’s lips might infect its contents.

Cromwell sat quietly, the tips of his short stubby fingers together, observing Smeaton intently with his beady black eyes.

Smeaton looked somewhat tense and was hopelessly trying to hide it behind mouthfuls of Cromwell’s victuals.

After ten minutes had gone by, Cromwell asked if Smeaton was enjoying his cooking; and before he could ask him anything else, Smeaton began chatting freely with the highly educated Cromwell by talking about the pleasant weather, and focusing on his musical talents: expecting that was the reason why he had been invited to dine with him
–
he had brought along his violin,
just in case
.

Cromwell seemed pleased to hear a tune or two, and smiled widely as he played; though it soon contorted itself into a sneer, as Smeaton prowess led him on and on.

Cromwell began to mutter words, better left to the imagination, under his breath, and averted his eyes to his blissfully at home guest. ‘Shut up now, Smeaton …
Smeaton!
’ he said, the blood now rushing to his head.

Smeaton obviously hadn’t ever heard someone say ‘
SHUT UP’
before
–
or perhaps he couldn’t hear them, through the loudness of his concerto.

Half an hour later, Smeaton suddenly ceased playing: he had finally noticed the sour look on Cromwell’s face. He took up his glass and resumed eating, trying hard to avoid Cromwell’s fathomless eyes.

The long silence was broken when Cromwell attempted to converse with his very awkward guest. With a hint of cynicism in his voice, he told Smeaton what a skillful musician he was, and talked a bit about the time he learned to play the harpsichord: how he never could get to grips with it, because of his fat fingers (holding them up so Smeaton could admire them for their imperfectness).

Smeaton laughed.

Cromwell glared back at him.

After an hour had gone by and a few more goblets of wine had been swallowed, Cromwell began to insinuate the reason why he wanted to speak with him. He asked, somewhat bluntly, whether ‘Her Grace’ had taken Smeaton to her bed.

Smeaton reacted like someone who had just heard a sentence in a foreign language. As he stared and blinked blankly into oblivion, Cromwell said he had been informed by one of Her Grace’s servants of some ‘mischievous goings-on’, which had taken place, late at night, while Smeaton was in her house.

Smeaton grew increasingly confused at this, scratching his head and seemingly lost for all words. Occasionally, he would open his mouth, like a baby on the verge of saying its first word, but merely breathed and continued looking perplexedly at his host.

Finally, after the longest and most painful silence Cromwell had endured in his life, Smeaton asked if it was some sort of a joke, and forced a small laugh, acting as though he had taken a little while to get the gist of it.

Again, Cromwell stared at him with those beady black eyes, took a swig of wine from its goblet and dug his dirty nails into an apple he had recently picked up, before taking a large, wet bite. ‘Do you like Her Grace?’ he said smoothly, having emptied his glass and devoured his apple.

‘Very much … well, I did
–
I mean
…
’

‘You did? Explain
.
Hast thou
ill feeling
towards Her Grace…?’ Cromwell’s gaze hardened, and the colour in Smeaton’s face drained white.

‘It’s nothing, nothing at all, re
—
’

‘Come on. Spit it out!’

Smeaton stammered for some time, trying to find his tongue. At last, he said that Her Grace had been unkind to him some time ago. Looking as though he was trying to find the right words, he mouthed a few indistinct words, but there was no noise.

Then, suddenly, his face turned a curious shade of reddish-purple and he swelled up and shouted,
‘SHE’S A HEARTLESS W
—
’

Breathing heavily and feeling he had gone quite far enough, his voice fell away; though Cromwell had a good idea what he was about to say. Cromwell knew all about Smeaton’s infatuation for Anne Boleyn, which Mark would never admit to a soul, though it was apparent to almost everyone that knew him.

Cromwell was elated to hear this and waited to spring his trap, upon which he casually stated, as if it had been long since rehearsed, ‘There’s no need to feel like the hare chased by the fox. His Grace is of a most beneficent nature, and would be grateful for any
honest
man who gave evidence regarding Her Grace’s
abhorrent
conduct; and will reward him rightly
on his degree of
–
er
–
helpfulness
.

‘But as for those who stand in the King’s way,’ Cromwell informed him, ‘he can be the most merciless creature to walk the earth,’ and he scowled with animation as he said this.

Smeaton looked warily around him.

Cromwell stood up, took a few small steps forward, patted Mark on the shoulder and said softly, ‘You know what to do … Don’t let it be
thy
head
.
’

He led Smeaton to the front-door, and without so much as a ‘good-bye!’ he looked on as Smeaton wandered out. Cromwell placed his hand on the door and was just about to close it, when Smeaton glanced over his shoulder. Cromwell drew a finger across his throat, smiled menacingly, and slammed the door shut behind him.

Smeaton walked clumsily away.

The following week Smeaton had confessed to committing adultery with Anne Boleyn, and had named four other men who he said had done the same. With the desired confession attained, and more, Smeaton was taken to the Tower of London to be held prisoner, while a messenger was sent to Greenwich to give the King the ‘good news’.

*

It was May Day at Greenwich Palace, and there was that familiar sense of electricity in the air as on that turbulent, unforgettable day of the jousting tournament. It was a sunny, windy day, and the air was chill. Once again a jousting tournament was the main entertainment at the palace (though today the King was content to watch from afar, with seemingly more important matters to attend to).

It was around two o’clock and Anne was talking with one of the palace’s servants about the attire she should wear to accompany the King into the festival, when suddenly she heard several horses’ hooves shifting gravel in the courtyard.

Anne went to the window and saw Henry and six other men mounting their horses and exiting the grounds at a gallop. There was a sense of urgency to their departure, and Anne quickly sought information regarding the King’s unexpected leave.

With no insight coming from any of her staff, at around four o’clock the Queen went to enjoy the festival, hoping to keep her mind off her husband.

Lots of noise was still coming from the jousting tournament, so she stopped there first, receiving several bows and curtseys as she passed.

Growing tired of the sound of clashing steel, Anne made her way towards the lively music, where she found people dancing or eating happily outside around several bonfires. Hearty foods were being cooked: pigs were roasting on spits and stews were bubbling lazily in cauldrons; the smells permeating in the fresh, early summer air. Couples could be seen hiding behind trees, where they kissed, and children ran around playing with one another or having make-believe duels with wooden swords.

Anne looked on and took in the sights and smells for some time
–
but something didn’t feel right. The King was up to no good … and she knew it … however much she didn’t want to admit it to herself. As her mind wandered to places far from where she stood, her eyes fell upon the fire nearest her as the sounds around her seemed to drift miles away.
Lively, silky flames danced betwixt the jovial faces all around it, shining brightly on each like a spotlight, as if their souls could never fade, never worry …

As the sun descended below the horizon and the thought of Henry surfaced again, Anne made her way back to the palace, to see if any news regarding him had finally arrived.