The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn (37 page)

W
ILLLAM CECIL LOOKED UP
to see the Queen as she entered the Council Chamber. The sun had barely risen and most of the court was still asleep. But he was an early riser and now he sat alone, lost in quiet contemplation just behind the door, so Elizabeth did not immediately see him. Her unusual demeanor — a kind of determined stillness of the soul, he thought — deterred him from breaking the silence and announcing his presence.

He watched as she moved direcdy to her desk where lay a pile of state documents and letters, and began thumbing through them till she found the one she sought and held it up before her.

It was then he saw the blade clutched in her long ivory fingers, the glint of steel flashing in the morning sun. She raised the dagger and with short punctuating strokes slashed at the parchment once, twice … perhaps a dozen times till it lay in ribbons on the polished wooden floor. When she turned to go she saw her trusted advisor.

It seemed to Cecil in that moment Elizabeth pulled herself yet further erect than her normally proud carriage. She did not smile at him nor did she impale him with an icy expression. She merely acknowledged him with a reserved nod as she passed him on her way out the door.

When some minutes were past Cecil stood and walked to the document lying in tatters on the floor. He bent and lifted the pieces in his hands and laid them on the desk. It only took a few moments to reassemble the page, that which had been destroyed by the Queen’s displeasure. It was the patent creating Robert Dudley an Earl.

“Show her in, Kat, and then leave us.”

Elizabeth’s waiting woman opened the door and, beckoning Lady Matilda Sommerville into the Queen’s bedchamber, removed herself from their presence. The old woman’s painful curtsy was cut short by Elizabeth’s gende hand on her arm.

“Come,” she said. “Won’t you sit down with me, Lady Sommerville?”

As they moved to the window seat the old woman’s eyes fell on the Queen’s silver-topped table where lay a dozen identical embroidered badges — the kind sewn onto the livery of royal servants. She stopped and squinted at them with interest, though she did not dare act so familiarly as to pick one up. Elizabeth, seeing her interest, handed her one of the badges and she brought it up close to her eyes.

The design was a crowned and sceptred white falcon which stood upon a root sprouting white and red roses. The lady smiled.

“‘Tis a proud symbol, is it not, Lady Sommerville?”

“Aye, and you honor your mother’s memory in using her favorite badge, Your Majesty.” She moved to lay the badge down but Elizabeth stayed her hand.

“No, keep it if you wish, as a token to remember us both,” said Elizabeth. “Come, let us sit.”

They sat together in the window seat overlooking the river, a gendewoman of much advanced age and the young Queen.

“I wish you to tell me of my mother’s death, Lady Sommerville.”

The crone sat quiet and still for so long a time staring out at the wherries on the Thames that Elizabeth wondered if she had perhaps not heard the question, or could not answer for the pain of her reply. But finally Lady Sommerville spoke. Her gnarled fingers worried the embroidered badge, her faded eyes seeing again the events of a day many years past.

“The sun was shining so bright and beautiful on that terrible morning. Somehow the Queen, your mother, had found within her poor battered soul a last draught of strength and greatheartedness to see her through to the end. She had us dress her in a simple grey damask gown, low cut about the neck, and we’d put her long hair up inside a linen cap. Though her face was bare of all paint and powder she looked — oh, she looked so beautiful that morning, and so young. And she was smiling, smiling and almost happy. Lord Kingston was unnerved by her demeanor, saying the Queen looked to have much joy and pleasure in death. But I knew ‘twas not true, for she did not wish to leave this world or her young daughter, a lamb among the lions.

“She walked proud onto Tower Green. She did not weep nor faint at the sight of the scaffold and the unruly crowd which fell silent at her approach. Even the French headsman from St. Omer was so awed by her pure beauty and calm acceptance of this fate, that he seemed to shrink and waver in his deadly resolve.

“She stepped up the stairs to the platform which had been lowered since her brother and friends’ executions, on the King’s orders, so fewer citizens could see the death. She looked about confused, for she saw no block. But the executioner — as she handed him the fee for his services — kindly explained that his skill was such that he did not need one. He urged her then to say her piece, so she turned to the gathered crowd and did not flinch from their blood-hungry stares.

“Her voice was strong and unwavering as she said her fare-thee-wells and bid the people pray for her. And then she did as all those who die thusly do, to protect the ones they love — she lied to mightily praise the King her husband, saying that a gender or more merciful prince there never was.

“Then she knelt, arranging her skirts ever so carefully over her feet and ankles, and tied a blindfold over those lovely, lovely black eyes. The headsman, still wishing to ease her final fear and pain, conceived a clever ruse. Concealed beneath the straw was his sword which he took up in his hands and walked away from her toward the scaffold steps calling loudly, ‘Bring me the sword!’ In that instant when your mother turned her bandaged eyes toward his voice he wheeled and struck the head from her neck in one bold sweep. The ploy worked. She never knew the blade was coming.”

Lady Sommerville stopped, overcome with as much sadness and horror, it seemed to Elizabeth, as the moment of her mother’s death.

“As custom dictates, the executioner removed the blindfold from her eyes and held the bloody head aloft for the crowd to see. They cheered, Your Majesty, but if truth be told their hearts were not behind it and few came to dip a rag in her blood as a ghoulish souvenir. She had died so boldly, and their King seemed, just then, litde more than a royal murderer of women. Contrary to rumor, the Queen’s lips did never move after her head was struck off her body. I can say honesdy that she felt no pain and died fully in that instant.”

• Elizabeth placed her long graceful fingers over the old woman’s bony hand and held it there comfortingly, though she could not bear to meet the lady’s eyes.

“The other waiting women and myself wrapped her body and her head in a winding cloth. Henry had not seen fit to provide her with a coffin, so we placed both parts in an arrow box, and several men carried it to the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula just off Tower Green. There she was laid beneath the choir, and there she remains till today.”

The two women sat quietly for a time, listening to the shouts of boatmen on the river. Finally Elizabeth spoke.

“Did you read the diary, Lady Sommerville?”

“Aye. I read every word of it, Majesty. All but the last, which was written for your eyes only.”

Elizabeth smiled.

“As you have given me a gift: most priceless, I wish with all my heart to give you one of equal value. So please, tell me how I can reward your faithfulness.”

The crone thought only for a moment, as though she had known such an offer would be made. “I have a granddaughter, Your Majesty. A sweet child of seventeen. She has never been to court and as she much enjoys the country life, has no ambition to come.” The old lady paused again to form her words carefully.

“She loves a young man, the son of a local artisan who himself is apprenticed to his father’s trade. He is likewise devoted to her. As custom demands, my son and his wife have made plans to marry their daughter to a toothless old widower to enrich their own estate.” She gazed imploringly at the Queen. “It will break the child’s heart, Your Majesty, into a hundred thousand pieces.”

Lady Sommerville’s eyes filled so suddenly with tears that she was herself taken by surprise. Elizabeth pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and offered it to the woman, who gratefully dabbed her eyes.

“Forgive me,” she implored.

“There is nothing to forgive, good lady. I have heard your request … and I grant it. I will see that your son and his wife are generously recompensed for the sacrifice of allowing their daughter to marry whom she wishes.”

“Oh, Your Majesty!” Lady Sommerville murmured, overcome.

Elizabeth’s eyes found her mother’s diary where it lay on her bed. “Consider it a gift from … my mother Queen Anne.”

“She was a great woman, Majesty. As misunderstood as could be. But you should be most proud to have the Boleyn blood rushing in your veins.”

Elizabeth helped Lady Sommerville to her feet and saw her to the door.

“You do me a great honor with such an audience as this, Your Majesty.”

Elizabeth regarded the woman’s world-weary eyes.

“It is you who have done me the honor, good lady. You have returned to me a treasure I had no idea I had lost. And a love I had forgotten I owned.”

As Lady Sommerville rose from her curtsy she found herself engulfed in an embrace the warmth of which her old body had never known from man or mother.

“God bless you, child. We are lucky in England to have you for our Queen.”

When the door closed behind the woman Elizabeth moved to her bed and reached for the diary. She held the claret leather volume to her breast and closing her eyes, tried with all her mind’s power to find within her memory the image of her mother’s face, but nothing came.

“Kat,” she called, and instandy her companion was at her service. “Call for my barge. I’m going downriver this afternoon.”

“As you wish, Majesty. What shall I say is your destination?” “My destination? The Tower of London.”

Devoid of fanfare the royal barge floated downriver in silent grandeur. The afternoon sky was crowded with rolling black thun-derheads pierced by brilliant beams of golden sunlight which set the illuminated portions of the river afire. Elizabeth sat on the upper deck quite alone, for she had instructed all her ladies to stay behind, sending Kat into a righteous blather.

“‘Tis not fit behavior for a Queen,” she’d scolded, “to go off unattended by her lords and ladies. And the Tower. What business have you at the Tower on such short notice, I ask you?”

“My own,” Elizabeth had answered mildly, quite unperturbed by Kat’s unrelenting bossiness. “My own.”

As she watched the sun play upon the waters and between the clouds Elizabeth felt a great calm descend upon her soul. She suddenly felt more well and strong and whole than she had in all of her life. There was urgent business that needed attending. Business that none of her councillors — not even William Cecil — could possibly conclude.

Mother
.

The Queen’s unceremonious arrival at the Tower wharf had taken the yeomen at the Traitor’s Gate entirely by surprise. They scrambled to their feet and snapped to attention, straightening their helmets and mumbling formal greetings as Elizabeth debarked from her barge and passed under the raised portcullis into Tower Green. As she strode alone through the huge courtyard the bald Constable scurried to meet her, still brushing bits of dinner off his black bib.

“Your Majesty, what an honor! Oh, but we were not expecting … how can I serve you?… careful where you step. You can see that we’re replacing this walk, Majesty, and it wouldn’t do if you were to slip and fall. Would you care to take my arm?”