At the end of the third day I began to be afeared that none of my kin actually knew that I was here, imprisoned in this ill lit and, worst, damp cell. Indeed, I began to think that maybe the Duke of Suffolk had planned for me to just simply disappear. It had happened before, I knew, so why not to me? However, late in the morning of the fourth day of my imprisonment, my door was opened, not to admit my daily supply of food, but my father struggling to carry into my cell a large saddlebag. I felt overjoyed to see him, and I rushed over to embrace him in my arms.
“Thomas, my lad, what fix have you got yourself into this time?” he asked, just like he would ask me when I was a youth entangled in some scrape and gone to him in hope that he would get me quick out of my trouble.
I laughed, leading him over to seat him on my bed. It was so good and such a relief to see again someone whom I loved. I took his hand and kept it in mine.
“Dear father, you always did tell me to watch my tongue when I spoke to my betters. But I do not recant any word of what I said to that bastard Duke… Even now do I wish I could ram my knuckles down his filthy mouth.”
My father gave a short grim laugh and shook his head.
“Those words will not gain you release from this place. Do your poor old father a favour, Tom: try your best to get out of this appalling mess in one piece. I have been so worried about you, my lad.”
I sat beside him.
“I am sorry that you have been worried, father. But I am not sorry, nor will I ever be sorry, for my words to Suffolk! But tell me, I beg of you, father, what is happening at court?”
My father looked at me and gave a brief smile his eyes shared not.
“You are a very fortunate man, Tom. I cannot help feeling so very grateful that you are liked by most people—even if only for your poetry. More importantly, Tom, you are liked by our Master Cromwell. If you were not, my son, then you too could have been one of those ill-fated men facing charges of committing adultery with the Queen. Cromwell has already written to me a letter assuring me that he will do everything in his power to save your skin. I wrote back to him only yesterday, thanking him and pledging to him our family’s eternal support.”
I deeply sighed, and rubbed my forehead with my hand. My head so ached with all the thoughts passing through it.
“’Tis all so completely mad, father… Mad! Mad! Mad! And that they accuse Anne and George…”
“Aye, I know, Thomas. But they were helped with that madness, my son. George is a good man; liked and respected by many people. I have always been proud to count him as one of our kin. It is a shame that the one person who should be closest to him hates him so much that she now contrives for his death.”
“Who do you mean, Father?” I asked him, though I was beginning to have firm suspicions of whom he referred to.
“That vixen who calls herself his wife. She was the one to give the Privy Council the basis for that vile slander.”
“Jane,” I said sighing. “I never realised that Jane could be capable of such wickedness.”
“Aye, that she is, Tom. I cannot think of a better way to describe the hussy. Aye, Tom, Jane is a very wicked woman, and poor George is in the Tower because of that woman’s wickedness,” my father responded with a grimace of disgust.
“Who else have they charged, father? I know of only George, but the good Duke gloated that there were to be others.” I put my hand on his arm. “Please tell me, father, who else have they accused?”
My father looked at me with very bleak eyes, as if he was deeply afeared of what my reaction would be. At length he said: “Young Francis Weston, Brereton and Henry Norris. All good and gallant men. May the good God have mercy on them all!”
I sat there stunned and sick. All these men were my good friends, and had been so for many, many long years. They were all Anne’s good friends too—men who had stayed loyal to her when others would not. Yea, often we had been together in Anne’s chambers, either making music or talking of new books just read. Certainly the talk with Anne sometimes took on an edge of flirtation, but all in innocence. All in innocence! By God’s holy word, I swear to you that these men thought only to comfort Anne, not to bed with her. One name that my father mentioned shocked me more than all the others.
“I am finding all this so hard to comprehend, father, so very, very hard. Most of all, I cannot believe that they have accused Henry Norris. He has been with the King since they were both young lads. If the King had one true friend in the entire world, I always believed it to be Henry Norris.”
“Aye,” my father said with a deep sigh. “Such is the danger of being loyal to a King such as ours. Every moment, even when you think you are safe, there is a chance that our Master will turn on you, and make you into a scapegoat for his own ends. Even if you believed yourself to be his friend! His father was a better man, and I loved him and supported him unfailingly in the days even when he was not my King… Tom, I cannot help recalling what Sir Thomas More said of this second Tudor, this son of the King I so loved. Sir Thomas said that if his head would give our King a new Castle in France, then off his shoulders it would roll. ’Tis strange and tragic, Tom, that More’s head rolled to make Anne Queen in truth. Now I am afraid that the King craves a new wife, and other heads need to roll before he can gain this new desire.”
My heart stopped still in my chest, and I felt my eyes fill with tears. I had tried so hard these last few days to avoid facing what the end would be. Now I could avoid it no more.
“There is nothing to be done to save them?” I hoarsely asked him, struggling to control all my emotions of despair and feelings of hopelessness.
My father bowed his head over his hands, as if praying for guidance. He then turned to me.
“Thomas, all that can be done will be done. I know Weston’s family hopes to offer to pay a ransom for his life. He is such a godly man that the King may heed their cries for mercy. I have spoken to no man who believes for a moment that these accusations are anything but what they are: a pack of falsehoods to rid the King of Anne. The King is good at believing what he would to make his conscience rest easier. I have heard him say that he would not be surprised to find that Anne had betrayed him with a hundred men. As if a Queen, completely surrounded by the court, could hide that sort of behaviour… Yea, our King Henry is good at seeing only what he would.”
“Have you heard anything about Anne and George, father? I have heard so many conflicting things from the guards that it is hard to know what lies to separate from truth.”
“Yea. In this place that I can well believe. You can rest easy about Anne and George for the moment, Tom. They are well, and are more comfortably placed than you, my son. But I take comfort from the fact that you are here, in this dismal cell. Placed here, I do truly believe, gives you more chance of escaping the foul wind that blows up above. You know that Anne has even been given the same rooms which she used when she had her coronation?”
“Yea, the guards here have told me that is where Anne now abides. But, that foul wind you spoke of just before, Father, do you not realise any foul wind that blows at George and Anne also blows at me too? Oh, my good sire, I have no desire to escape whatever destiny has in store for them. I swear to you, I want to share with them whatever lies ahead.”
My father looked at me with very frightened eyes, and put his arm tightly around my shoulders.
“Son! Son! Son! I understand how you feel and I admire your loyalty to your cousins, but what of your close family? I am an old, sick man with only one son. Is it too much to ask…Tom, your mother, God keep her blessed soul, is long dead. She is the only woman I ever loved. You and your sister are all I have left of her. It would destroy me, Thomas, to see you go to your death like this. And what of your own son? You must realise young Tom idolises you. Fifteen is an age when boys begin to steer themselves in the direction manhood will take them. Can you not imagine what it would do to him if his father goes to a bloody, traitor’s death? I am having enough trouble as it is keeping the boy calm; knowing that you are placed here has made Tommy want to storm the Tower walls all by himself. If you cannot think of me, Tom, think hard about your son. He needs a father more than a grandsire.”
I stayed silent for a long moment, pulled this way and that way. At length, I inhaled a deep breath and said: “I have spent my whole life thinking of others, father … I suppose ’tis too late to change a habit of a lifetime.”
My father put his arm around my shoulders and hugged me gently. My father was the best of men, and I, even despite everything that was rapidly collapsing around me, could only be thankful that we had grown closer over the years.
“Good lad, I am glad you see sense. There will be blood spilled enough before the month of May comes to a close, without your own blood adding to the flow. Just keep yourself low and I will get you out of here as soon as I can.
“Tom, I must go. The guard has been more than generous with the time allotted me. I have given them coin to care well for your needs, so things should be soon improved in here for the better. I have also taken the liberty of going to your London lodgings and gathering up some of your clothes and belongings. I believe you will find all that you need to keep up with your scribblings.”
My father got off the bed and went back to the door, grabbing the bag and bringing it to me.
“Thank you, father. I must look and smell like something out of a cess-pit.”
My father grunted out a harsh laugh.
“You do at that. You do at that, my dear son. Did you know that your sister attends the Queen?”
“Margaret’s here too? Oh, what happy news, father, that someone of our blood supports Anne in this dreadful time.”
“Aye. I thought that news would make you smile.”
We embraced again, and he departed, saying as he went that he would be back as soon as he could. When I was alone I opened up the bag; inside were several changes of clothes, books, writing tools and the unfinished work that I had meant as a present for Anne.
I took it out of the bag and looked at it. So near completion. Would Anne ever get to see it now? I wondered if it was possible to finish it here and send it to her somehow. I picked out some writing tools, ink and paper and settled myself back on the bed to try to make an end to what I had begun only days ago. And this is what I wrote:
My sweet, alas, forget me not,
That am your own full sure possessed;
And for my own part, as well yet wot,
I cannot swerve from my behest.
Since that my life lieth in your lot,
At this my poor and just behest
Forget me not.
Yet wot how sure that I am tried,
My meaning clean, devoid of blot.
Yours is the proof: ye have me tried
And in me, sweet, ye found no spot.
If all my wealth and health is the good,
That of my life doth knit the knot,
Forget me not.
For yours I am and will be still
Although daily you see me not.
Seek for to save that ye may spill
Since of my life ye hold the shot.
Then grant me this for my goodwill,
Which is but the right, as God it wot:
Forget me not.
Consider how I am your thrall
To serve you both in cold and hot.
My fault’s for thinking naught at all,
In prison strong though I should rot.
Then in your ears let pity fall
And, lest I perish in your lot,
Forget me not.
So it was finished.
I did not think it was the greatest of my poems. I was not entirely sure if Anne would or could understand all that I meant to say in it. I was not even certain I could find a safe means of sending the poem to her. But to be just able to send this message to her—to let her know, for perhaps the last time, that my faith in her and love for her would be forever steadfast. One last message to her. One last message to my dark Lady. One last message to my love.