The Lady in the Tower (60 page)

“Poor Mark,” I said. “He is a tender boy… little more than a child. Always so gentle. He told me once that when beggars came to his father's door he wept for them; and when he came across a man hanging on a gibbet which others were looking at, he ran away, for he could not face violence of any kind. He loved beauty… And to come to this…”

“It was only at the end that he lied,” insisted Mary. “It was only when those wicked men tortured him beyond endurance. The others would not give way. There is not one, Anne, who has spoken against you… only poor Mark, and that under torture.”

“They know it is false.”

“They know … but they are determined to believe it.”

“Mary, what will become of me?”

She shook her head. Her tears unnerved me more than the brutal treatment of Norfolk had been able to, or the spying of my aunt and her familiar.

“Why is George in the Tower?”

Mary shook her head.

“And my father?”

“He has not been arrested.”

We could not go on talking because my jailers—those two hateful women—would not leave us alone for long.

The nights seemed endless. I would lie staring into the darkness.

He would be rid of me so that he could marry Jane Seymour, just as once he had wished to be rid of Katharine that he might marry me. Silly little Jane Seymour. How long did she think she would last? He would cast off wives as he did a garment he was tired of.

There were two counts on which I had thought he might be rid of me. One was of course his relationship with my sister Mary which would have made a close bond between us. He had thought of this before for there had been a time when he had sent to Rome for a dispensation. He would not have had to send to the Pope for that now. Obliging Cranmer would have done what was necessary. But he did not wish to stir up old scandals from which he would not emerge too well. I had dismissed Mary as a possible method. There was one other—my pre-contract with Northumberland. That I had thought was very possible. It could be said that I had been pre-contracted to Henry Percy and therefore my marriage to the King was no true one.

That would have been the most likely method if it had not been raised before and he had most definitely quashed it. Then he had wanted me passionately—now he wanted to be rid of me with equal passion.

I would not have believed he would have considered… death.

And yet why should he not? That would have been Katharine's fate but for her royal relations. I had no such assets. My relations held the power they did through me… and some from Mary, too, of course.

So, if it was not to be Mary or Northumberland, there was only one alternative.

I had sometimes wondered how people felt when Death looked them in the face. Sir Thomas More? Fisher? Those monks who had refused to take the Oath of Supremacy? “She will spurn our heads off like footballs, but 'twill not be long ere her head will dance the like dance.” More had said that. He was prophetic.

He had known the King as well as I knew him. He knew that mean,
selfish nature, that determination to have his way, that ruthless destruction of all those who stood to prevent it. He knew of the conscience which worried Henry when he wished to be worried. It was worrying him now. He had been bewitched by a sorceress; he had discarded his first wife—he could safely regard her with affection now as there was no fear of having to take her back—and all because he had been the victim of a witch…as any man might be through no fault of his own. But God had opened his eyes now. He saw the way clear ahead. God had put Jane Sey-mour in his path to tell him that, if he escaped from the spell which had been put upon him and married this gentle, simple girl, Heaven would smile. He would have a succession of boys. God was showing him the way, and, as once before, God's instrument was Cromwell, who had prised the truth from the boy musician, and now it was known that the Queen had sinned against him with those whom he had called his friends.

I could well imagine how he would prepare his defense with God. What amazed me was that he thought he could deceive the Almighty as he thought he did his courtiers. They had to feign belief; God did not.

When I arose, I wrote him a letter, signing myself “The Lady in the Tower.”

“… if you have already determined of me, and that not only my death but an infamous slander must bring you to the joy of your desired happiness, then I desire of God that He will pardon your great sin…”

How I laughed. I could imagine his pallor as he read that. I hoped it would make him shiver. I hoped I would see that despised conscience of his on a course independent of its owner's control.

How did he think of me? I was sure he thought of me often. Did he think of the garden at Hever; that night when I had come to him in my black satin nightdress; of my coronation?

Or did he think of me as “The Lady in the Tower?”

It was 10 May—only eight days after I had been arrested. It seemed like years.

The Grand Jury at Westminster had issued an indictment against “Lady Anne, Queen of England, George Boleyn, Viscount Rochford, Sir Henry Norris, Groom of the Stole, and Sir Francis Weston and William Brereton, Gentlemen of the Privy Chamber, and Mark Smeaton, a performer on musical instruments, a person of low degree, promoted on account of his skill to be a Groom of the Chamber.”

George and I were to be tried on the 16th of May; the others on the 12th.

I waited for the verdict…I knew that Henry wanted to be rid of me, but surely he must have some compassion for his friends. He must know they were innocent. Or was he so determined to be rid of me that he would take any life which helped him to achieve that end?

The result of that trial was horrifying, although it was what I had expected. They had tried hard to make them all admit their guilt. None of them would, except Mark. In spite of the fact that he had lied to save himself and to destroy me, I could forgive him. I knew of his delicacy, his weakness. I could imagine how he had collapsed under extreme torture. His body had been broken and his mind distracted and when they told him that, if he signed a confession he would be free, the boy signed. Poor foolish Mark! He had bartered his honor, his pride, for the hope of saving his life. He was not wise enough to know that he would never have been allowed to live; he had perjured his soul for nothing. He was condemned to be hanged. What a sad end for a young man who had music in his soul and because of it believed that he had escaped from poverty to a pleasant life—when all he had escaped to was Death.

I wanted to see him, to comfort him, to make him look at me and see if then he would persist in his lies. Of course that would not be allowed. Mark would have broken down and told the truth when confronted by me—and they knew it.

What a sad end for a young man.

Norris, Weston and Brereton, though urged to confess, stoutly maintained their innocence. Henry had been very attached to Norris, and he sent word to him that if he would confess to adultery with me, he would be granted his life.

Norris's reply was that he would rather die a thousand deaths than accuse the Queen of that which he believed, in his conscience, she was innocent.

Mary Wyatt told me that when the King heard this he was so angry that his great friend had turned away from the hand stretched out to rescue him, he cried out in rage: “Hang him up then. Hang him up.”

Poor Mary Wyatt was in a state of anxiety. Thomas had remained in the background. He was expecting at any moment to join Norris and the rest in the Tower. His name had not been mentioned in connection with the charge—but it was in everyone's mind.

On the 16th George and I were brought to trial, and for this purpose a court had been set up in the great hall of the Tower.

George was the first to appear. I waited in trepidation, but after the result of the previous trial I was prepared for the worst.

George defended himself so well that, for a time, those who sat in judgment on him must have feared it was going to be difficult for them to bring in the sentence the King wished for.

I think even our greatest enemies must have been shocked when Jane Rochford came forward to give evidence against her husband. How she must have hated me! I knew she had loved George passionately, but his indifference to her had turned that love to hatred; and her hatred was especially for me because she knew of the close and loving relationship between my brother and me.

Her accusation of incest was so ridiculous that she could not in any reasonable way substantiate it…except to say that we were over-affectionate toward each other, and my brother sought every opportunity to be in my company. She had found him in my bedroom on one occasion. I was at the time in bed. He had leaned over the bed and kissed me—which she had seen as he came into the room.

They must have despised her; but they had not the courage to defy the King. He wanted me vilified as much as possible; and if it could be believed that my brother, as well as those other men, had been my lover, he could then feel completely justified in putting me from him in the most speedy and reliable way. It would ease his conscience considerably if I could be proved worthy of my intended fate; and the King's conscience must be eased, no matter at what cost. They knew this—and their future depended on the King's favor.

So George was found guilty.

As soon as he left the hall, I was taken there with my ladies in attendance, including Lady Kingston. Sir William conducted me to the bar.

I surprised myself by my calm. I felt rather as though I were outside this scene looking on. I knew that I should be condemned, because I knew Henry. Had I not been beside him during the years when he wished to rid himself of Katharine? So the outcome was clear. It was a waste of time to have a trial when the verdict was a foregone conclusion.

I pleaded Not Guilty to the charges and sat down in the chair which had been provided for me.

I listened to the evidence; the words I was alleged to have spoken. It was all so trivial, so obviously contrived. I answered these charges, which was not difficult because they were all so blatantly false. I could see some of the peers beginning to look uneasy. They believed me. In fact, there was little else they could logically have done.

From the fifty-three peers of England, twenty-six had been selected. These were the Lord Triers, with the Duke of Norfolk at their head. I was
sure that he and my old enemy, the Duke of Suffolk, would make sure that the King had the verdict he required.

Northumberland, as one of the foremost peers of the country, would most certainly be there. I wondered what it would be like to see him after all these years. I had heard that he had changed a good deal. His disastrous marriage and his unhappy life must have had an effect on him. And now he would be one of those who had come to judge me. How strange it would be to see him there and to think back to those years when he and I had had those stolen moments together, when he came to Court in Wolsey's entourage and I slipped away from my duties with the Queen to be with him.

But I did not see him among the peers.

I said to Kingston: “Is not my lord of Northumberland here?”

Kingston murmured: “He came… but was taken ill. He has been forced to retire.”

I smiled. So he could not face it. He could not stand there and condemn me. Dear Henry Percy! What did he think of me now? At least he remembered enough to refuse to sit in judgment on me.

The coolness which had descended on me—that strange aloofness— was good for me. It enabled me to answer their questions with precision and to give them the answers which they found difficult to refute. They had, no doubt, expected me to be hysterical, which would have made their task much easier, and they were discountenanced to find me there aloof, so very calm.

Had it been a fair court, they would not have condemned me, though they did not have to have a unanimous vote; all they needed was a majority. All those accused with me—save Mark—had emphatically denied the charges. Could they condemn me on the evidence of a poor, racked boy?

Norfolk and Suffolk saw that they did.

Norfolk then pronounced the sentence. I was condemned to be burned or beheaded at the King's pleasure.

The numbness remained with me.

I clasped my hands together and, raising my eyes, I said: “Oh Father, O Creator, Thou who art the way, the life and the truth knowest whether I have deserved this death.”

I faced my judges. “My lords,” I said, “I will not say that 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 they must be other than those which have been
produced in this court, for I am clear of all the offenses which you have laid at my charge…”

I could see that many of them were ashamed and that my words would not be easily forgotten by some.

I went on to say that I had never been unfaithful to the King, though I admitted that I had not always shown him the humility which, as one who has been raised so high, I owed him. I said I was not afraid to die. I had faith in God, and He would show me the way. I added that I knew these words would avail me nothing, but I spoke them for the justification of my chastity and honor.

“As for my brother and those 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.”

Having spoken I turned and left them.

Cranmer came to see me. The King had sent him to receive my confession.

I was greatly comforted by his visit.

He begged me not to despair. It might well be that the sentence of death would be lifted. He implied that I might be expected to leave the country. Perhaps I should be sent to Antwerp, where I could live out my life in peace. I had given myself up to the study of religion and I had an interest in matters of the mind: reading, music and a growing understanding of the new religion of the reformation of the Church.

I should never regret leaving the Court. The emptiness of life there was very clear to me now. I never wanted to see Henry again. But there was one of whom I thought constantly: my daughter. What would become of her now? Who would care for her? Her mother disgraced, burned or beheaded, branded a harlot. What of my little baby?