Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) (29 page)

A
nne suffered a terrible sense of entombment, couldn’t
stand how she felt as if she were being buried alive—and with a gaggle of women
she hated. She had been pacing for hours now, and with each turn the dust on
the cold stone floor scattered to the walls, fearing her step. How ragged her
body felt, and her heart—it beat so quickly she thought it must be tatters by
now, flailing madly around in a chest that ached from fear and panic. She
couldn’t keep her feet still. If she stood, she paced. If she sat, they tapped
the floor. Even when she did manage to keep herself still, her entire body
shivered with convulsions so strong she had to hold herself. But no amount of
hugging would warm her insides for her arms were cold. And her mind. Oh, how it
rambled and rambled. The same incoherent thoughts ran over each other in their
haste to be admitted,

"Oh God, oh God, oh God..." That was the worst
one. She’d voice the litany aloud and once it started it wouldn’t stop until
she thought her head would sway like a pendulum. The only way to dislodge the
thought was to laugh, and even the laughter would stick ’til she had to cry.
Then the uncontrollable weeping would usher in the hysteria.

"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God..." Circles, circles,
circles. She stared dumbly at the cold stone walls, so carefully shrouded in
elegant tapestries. Wafts of cool spring air filtered through them, bearing the
aroma of must and mortar. She refused to admit the fragrance of burning
grass—someone seared their field to ready it for seed, not knowing there would
be no harvest. The rain held off, and would hold off ’til she was released—or
so she told herself. The smell of fire and smoke frightened her. During one
turn, she glimpsed the looking glass that hung serenely from the armoire door
and started at the reflection she saw there. Black eyes stared back at her with
tiny pupils. Even in the dim light they wouldn’t enlarge, as if they had some
fore-knowledge and were squeezing themselves shut, trying to protect
themselves.

"How elegant you look, Nan," she whispered.

"Regal, calm. And how slim. Barren-slim. No tiny corpse
lies in your belly, Nan. No. For he has purged this wicked flesh." A
terrible humor took hold of her throat, choking off her breath. Gagging her.
The laugh had to escape. She let it go. Soon she laughed so hard her hair
whipped her face with the frenzy of it. The momentum stole her limbs and she
danced a wild, raw jig in front of the mirror.

"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God." She sang as loudly as
she could.

"Father, spirit, and Son. Your son, my son. Lost, lost,
lost. To Hell with the whore’s babies. To Hell with the whore!" Then a
calmness as wicked and wounding as the dance descended on her. It stilled her
limbs and feasted on her fear. Pulsing, this calmness, as a mausoleum pulsed
with a faint, mad energy that frightened the living soul. She paused long
enough to survey the room. Her quick glance took in all the regal trappings of
Queenship; the luxurious bed, the reams of gowns hanging just there in her
favorite armoire, the crushed crimson velvet drapes. Luxury lay in every
crevice of the room, for Queen she was still, and due luxury. But it was a
pretentious luxury, reserved for an unwanted Queen.

In the dread stillness of the damp room, she paused,
chuckled. Four days gone, still she had been denied a trial. Instead she
languished here waiting for her confessor, the Archbishop—Thomas Cranmer.

She waited in near panic for news of George. But she didn’t
want to think about George. Her hand swept up to her hair, tangled there within
the thickness. She pulled at it, thinking how faintly mad she must look to the
women who hated her. Cursed wardresses who noted every word she spoke, and
reported them to Cromwell. Prim, proper spies.

Henry had selected from her women four of her most hated. He
had hand-selected them especially for her. And of course, because Henry had a
good sense of humor, he had even thrown in a good joke, knowing how Anne loved
a good joke. She searched the area for the subject of the jest even now.
Instead, she spied her own aunt who stood just there, beside the door, picking
at her fingernails as if she was bored to the point of death. Then the jailer’s
wife, Mistress Kingston. Oh, she was a good one. Hair always frazzled, like a
madwoman. Her breath stank. Peeking out the window was Mistress Stoner, who
appropriately had the face of a stone. Never a smile, or comforting word. Her
name fit perfectly.

But the jest. Ah, here she came, swaggering a bit like a
drunk, though Anne knew it to be her normal walk. A bit dumb, a bit clumsy was
Mistress Coffyn. Oh, such a good joke; she laughed as she had been laughing for
hours, not understanding why they looked alarmed at her merriment. A jest was
to be funny after all, too bad Henry couldn’t know how much she enjoyed it.

"Have you lost your mind, then?" Her aunt asked
aloud with her annoyingly grating voice. Anne merely snuffed, not about to
grace the question with an answer. It was none of her business if she’d gone
mad. And maybe she had, the whole world had done so.

"Ah, you’ll be talking before long," Lady Norfolk
jeered, sitting her plump hind quarters on Anne’s satin coverlet, upon the bed
that was made everyday. Even through her mad moments, Anne smoothed out the
wrinkles and pulled the blankets over the mattress. It was one small project
that helped her keep her senses, or recover them, as the case might be.

Her women gathered around her aunt then, chattering and
clucking—talking about the outside world and bits and pieces from it. Anne left
off listening, it was all nonsense anyway, meaning nothing to her. Though she
tried to drown out the conversation, it still came in small snips.

"I heard from my husband last night," Lady
Kingston said, and Anne rolled her eyes as she began to walk away. The jailer’s
wife no doubt spoke of some trivial gossip that would only bother her if she
listened.

"Which one of them did it?" Her aunt asked,
raising her voice so it would catch Anne’s attention. It hurt her ears, that
shriek, but she knew her attention was wanted for something. She paused in her
step.

"Hmmm. He knows not. Thinks it may have been
Weston," Lady Kingston replied, lowering her voice just enough so Anne
would think she kept a secret. But the bait was easily recognizable; they must
think she had lost her intelligence as well as her wits.

"What of Francis?" Anne demanded, knowing that she
was still Queen and they’d dare not refuse her. Her mind felt thankfully clear.
Mistress Kingston cringed; her shoulders slumped forward, cheeks hollowing
where the few teeth were missing.

"He scratched a prophecy into the wall of his cell, my
lady," Pitiful quality to her voice, but still a bit jeering. How strange
that they could dare taunt her.

"What kind of prophecy?" Anne took a menacing step
forward, a blaze of madness fueling her anger. The woman stepped back
instinctively, snared the hem of her gown. Anne would have let her fall but the
woman caught herself just before she stumbled.

"Speak, woman."

"A falcon, my lady. Your badge." The spittle wet
the wardress’ lips, making her look like a sick dog. Anne wanted to kick her
under a table.

Mistress Kingston must have sensed it, for she kept
speaking, trying to fill the gap of uneasy silence.

"But the falcon is headless atop the stump. And the
fruitless tree bears a single branch." Anne’s coronation badge, of a
falcon’s touch giving a barren stump the bud of life. A headless falcon. She
wanted to fall into a chair and weep. This prophecy struck way too close to her
heart to be shrugged off like the others over the years. Sounds of metal ground
together. Anne looked up and stared at the door. The bolts worked in the grave
silence, making her catch her breath. The women clustered at the handle,
whispering hoarsely.

"Ah, husband." Lady Kingston's voice shredded the
air.

"Supper already?" Already? Anne couldn't stand the
thought of eating, she wanted news. What more could he tell her? Calm your
mind. Breathe deeply. Walk without trembling. There. Small steps, once taken,
easier going.

"My lord Kingston." She heard the nervous creak in
her voice, echoing the sound of the door, and hated that the others should hear
it as well.

"Any news of my brother? Of my Father?"

"None." As usual, her jailer would tell her
nothing; his comment no different than any other day, or any other hour.

"Will I have justice, then?"

"You'll have the same justice any of the King's
subjects would have." His answer, though she suspected he thought it
comforting, sounded bleak. She laughed when she heard it. The same justice
anyone else would have—she knew the kind of justice Henry meted out; cruel,
heartless, death.

"Oh, God," she sobbed.

"Oh, God. Oh, God." She couldn't stop the laughter
from passing her lips, and when she tried, it bubbled in her throat making her
choke with the effort of keeping it still. It finally rested there, with
extreme effort, and as it clumped near her voice box, she realized she had to
let it free. But it came out in sobs. Strange-sounding laughter, wretched. Most
peculiar laughter she had ever heard. She watched him as if he were clouded by
fog, unreal. He shook his head curiously. He too must think it the strangest
sounding laughter he had ever heard.

"T
o be tried the 15th of May."

The words echoed throughout her mind. And by now, some ten
days after her arrest, Anne finally dared hope she’d be released. Her original
panic was slowly receding and being replaced by memories, forgotten in the rush
of hysteria that came with her imprisonment. Henry loved her—and through his
many affairs, and all their quarrels, they had always reconciled. She couldn't
allow the latest verdicts of her four companions to dampen the hope that
mercifully stole through her heart. Guilty verdicts—all four. Hal Norris,
Francis Weston, William Bryerton, Marc Smeaton; Just names— they must be just
names to her.

Any sentiment might start the panic again. She wouldn't let
herself envision the execution they would face. She kept shaking her head to
lose the image of them dangling from a noose, alive and aware; dismembered and
castrated. Their heads intact long enough to register the pain of being
disemboweled.

She mustn’t think of it. Couldn't let it grip her. The worst
of it was that they didn't deserve the death—none of them. The concocted
allegations of adultery with her and treason against the King were
preposterous. They were all close to him; loved him, served him. And worse
still was that Marc had confessed to the crime of adultery with the Queen. She
knew it. She knew too, that in his mind he had. Biblical teaching held that
adultery within the heart was still adultery and therefore a sin.

She had heard it preached a thousand times, and held no
doubt that Cromwell preached it long and hard to Marc as he languished within
his clutches. Rumors even reached the tower of his torture. Marc had always
desired her. And if thoughts were sins, he surely was guilty. But that was in
God's court, not the court of man. The difference, plain to Anne, was lost to
Marc. He had never touched her, and she would never have allowed him to. God
forgive him, simple as he was, he knew no better.

All of that was done, though. She had yet to be tried. She
would be taken to the King's hall, just around the corner from where she was
now. It wasn’t safe for the Queen of England to be taken through the streets to
Westminster. And at least she would be tried with her title and honor still
intact. That in itself bolstered her hopes.

It might just be that Henry was trying to teach her a
lesson. Though she waited and waited, patiently, fearfully, the days crept by.
Despair replaced hope and hope replaced despair, and despair replaced hope
until she stood before the trial bar, cynical, afraid.

The deep grains of wood where her peers sat looked dreary
and foreboding. The dim light intensified her fear. If Catherine had given in
to Henry those long years ago, would Anne be standing here now? Surely to be
found guilty and in danger of death only because Henry wanted an easy way out for
a more promising union.

She faced her peers, all twenty six of them who sat opposite
her—grave faces all, and many of them intimately known to her. Behind them,
masses of faces assaulted her eyes, grins, jeers, hatred, plain upon them. She
ignored Henry, whose glittering stare transfixed all who looked at him. No one
would dare disagree with his conscience. Not now—not ever again. She ignored
those, and concentrated on the seated judges who would inevitably decide her
fate.

Her Uncle Norfolk presided as High Stewart. She saw the
sweat clinging to his face like a madman clutches his last thread of sanity,
much like Anne felt herself clinging to her senses. She could tell he was
nervous, either unable or unwilling to refuse the King. He avoided her eye. George’s
father-in-law sat on the panel—he would judge his own son-in-law as well as
herself.

It shocked her to see Henry Lord Percy. Dear Harry. He
trembled nearly uncontrollably and was the worst for her to see. He sat ready
to condemn her—barely able to conceal his own fears and remorse. She allowed
her glance to linger on him, tried to tell him with that gaze she forgave him;
she knew better than any, the dangers of refusing the King. She hated this, all
of this. To even have to pretend that this trial was a natural course of
events, and that poor Lord Percy should be sitting there—his fair face visibly
sweating, lips contorting with emotion—was preposterous. If only she had been
allowed to marry him those years ago... but then, what good to think of it now?

She heard her father had volunteered to serve on the jury;
eager it seemed to play a role in his children's death. Anxious to prove his
support to Henry. Henry had turned his request down. She didn't care whether
Thomas felt relief or sorrow. She hated him in the instant. Hated his
selfishness and his fear. And then in the next second, understood it. She was
certainly terrified. If anything could be done to stop the madness, she’d do
it. How could she hate him for doing the same?

She paused at the bar, trying to show a solemnity; an
elegance. With the greatest pretense of grace she could muster, she sat to
await the beginning. As did many, she could tell. Her dear Nan Gainesford sat
not ten feet away on a hard wooden pew, chewing her lip and hugging herself
pitifully.

Now and then, Anne saw her study the dark wooden beams of
the ceiling or trace whorling patterns in the cloistering air. The almost
insane way she acted helped keep Anne focused. Often, she’d concentrate on Nan
and the smothering crowds that moved about her, just to maintain composure. The
hushed whispers of the spectators reminded Anne of a nest of hornets—when her
stomach ached she pretended it was because that nest buzzed about within,
sometimes trying to escape through her chest. As Anne sat, regally stiff, she
listened stoically to the charges laid on her; their horrendous nature, their
vile innuendoes. She listened raptly, as if her body was not sitting there
being assailed by the filth. As if her ears were not being polluted by their
impurity.

"...she most falsely and treacherously procured them by
foul talk and kisses... through the most vile provocations and incitement... by
sweet words, kissings, touchings, and other illicit means... to violate and
carnally know... violated and carnally knew... his own natural sister..."

The entire assembly of spectators gasped at the magnitude of
the crimes. She could see eyes widen with disbelief and disgust. Adultery,
incest, what did the charges matter? She was innocent; she would be found guilty.
All sexual crimes—as if her appetites were so uncontrollable that she would
risk everything to assuage them, even her own life.

Adultery a few weeks after Elizabeth's birth—insane.
Adultery during her pregnancies—dangerous. Adultery, adultery, adultery.

No witnesses. No proof. No motives. And yet the allegations
continued.

She sat tense, forcing herself to listen as string after
string of accusations were herded into the courtroom for the masses to hear and
examine. She listened as it continued. Four of her favorites accused of
becoming jealous of each other, vying for place with numerous and extraordinary
sexual feats each night, and with gifts and pledges. That she had so ardently
desired them that she could hardly stand to see them associate with other
women. And that despite all of this; their jealousies, her appetites, they
conspired together to murder the King. No one mentioned the fact that gifts
from the Queen were as common as dogs in the dining room, or that Henry himself
had set the pattern for chaste flirtations within court. No one. And had they
bothered, it would have been ignored in favor of the other charges.

All of this she bore sitting still like the statue of the
virgin; afraid, regal. She withstood the absurdity that the King, suspecting
her infidelity became so upset that grave injuries befell his body. And through
this, her composure never wavered. She forced it, like a full puppy gorging on
meat. It was her last chance to save herself, and she knew it. Her reaction
would seal her fate. She stood, trembling only within her soul. She controlled
her body, maintained her face, her dignity.

"Not guilty." It was the truth. Let God judge them
should they prove otherwise. She listened again as Cromwell assisted the
Attorney-General, arguing against her, vehement, and resolute. New accusations.
Further allegations. She felt Cromwell's resolution—he must not fail as Wolsey
had failed so long ago. His career depended on her death, the church's future
depended on it. And the only relief came when the accusations shifted for a
time, and Cromwell demanded Lord Percy had been another of her secret lovers.
Dear Harry, how he blanched to a sick white as the attention was riveted to
him. He licked his lips nervously, and stammered out his defense.

"I’ve known not the Queen in an intimate fashion."

"But you were betrothed to her before she seduced the
King." Cromwell accused. His plump face reddened slightly, as if he were
afraid he’d be proven wrong.

"That’s a lie," Harry yelled, standing quickly in
obvious fear. Anne couldn’t hate him for the lie, so many had been caught in
the net already, she knew he said it to save his life.

"A lie, is it, Lord Northumberland? Did you not plead
with your father some years ago that you had gone so far with Mistress Boleyn,
that witnesses would not allow you to discharge yourself from the affair?"
He looked at her quickly, swallowed so hard she saw the lump stick in his
throat. Anne shook her head minutely, trying to tell him with her eyes to
continue his denial. His eyes remained fixed to hers.

"I swear solemnly, and may that oath be my Damnation if
ever there was a contract of marriage between her and me." She hadn’t
realized she’d been holding her breath, let it go slowly.

The courtroom grew still. Anne could hear the chirping of
birds above in the bell tower. It seemed precious moments died before anyone
dared speak. All the while she watched Harry’s face, his lips that trembled
slightly, his eyes so dear, pooling with water. For few spare minutes no one
existed in the room, only he and she, voicing their regrets with silent eyes
and bated breath. Then the haze lifted and he broke away from her stare. Harry
waved his hand before his face.

"Now, I fear I must leave, your graces." He held
himself up by propping his hip against the rail.

"I’ve taken a terrible turn; I’ve not been well these
last months." Cromwell waved him away. It seemed he lost interest, or had
all he needed, Anne wasn’t certain. He may well have decided to let death have
Harry naturally. As Percy left the room, the mumblings began. The Attorney
General motioned for quiet. Anne waited resolutely for the remainder of the
charges. She had planned to marry Norris after Henry's death. She had poisoned
the princess dowager and planned to poison Mary. She had written a letter to
her brother telling him she was pregnant—that the child was his. And because
Anne knew she would be found guilty, she defended herself soberly, without
emotion.

"To Sir Francis Weston, I supplied some money; as I did
many men who saw me as a patroness. Of that, I am guilty. But of adultery, no.
I stand before you innocent, and ask God to be my witness."

She let her convictions sound in her voice as she spoke. She
forced a clarity to her speech, so no one would misunderstand her words. Her
peers looked away from her. They looked at the floor or their boots. She
ignored them; they were lost to her. Instead she chose the commoners who
gathered to watch the farce. Her judges may not care that she was innocent, but
the country had to know. She had to make them see what was happening. She
couldn't go to her death knowing that those who hated her the most—the English
subjects—would believe they had been right about her. That she was a whore;
corrupt, unfit for Queenship. She looked each one in the eye, a thousand of
them, maybe more. It took forever, and she knew she missed many.

"My only crime is to have offended my sovereign, and of
that I am terribly sorry, for I love his grace before all living. He has placed
me on this throne and through his great generosity I have enjoyed more than was
my due. But I stand here innocent of the charges laid on me; I am accused of
committing adultery. I ask you, have you seen proof of my infidelity? Proof
save the coinage any Queen must give as part of her duties as patroness. I have
supplied money to many men in my court—as well as priests and ladies.

"I have been charged with incest, based only on the
fact that my brother and I spent time alone in my quarters. But I ask you all,
have you siblings? Do you love them true, so true you feel comfortable with
them, that you seek their company to balm your soul on the darkest of nights. I
speak truth when I say I love my brother, but it’s a clean love. One which
stands before these charges without fear, for it is untrue.

"I am to have planned the King’s murder and this is the
charge I fear the most, for if the King believes it, I am truly lost. Not only
lost to this world, but lost to his heart. I can hardly bear this last."
She had to bite down on the words that she wanted to say, knew meekness would
be her only salvation now.

"I stand here in great humility, begging you to believe
in my innocence, and my dedication to the King and his realm. May God judge my
soul should I be lying, as he certainly will judge it." She sat then,
exhausted and spent. A great hush fell over the room, one so loud, she could
feel it in her chest. They believed her, and nothing else could matter now. She
sat composed and awaiting the verdict she knew would come. Her uncle stood,
turned to his jury.

"Your decision?" One by one, without pause she
heard the voices fill the hall, emptying it of justice.

"Guilty."

"Guilty."

"Guilty." Twenty six times the verdict sounded.
Twenty-six times she gasped with involuntary intakes weighted by the dissolution
of hope. Her uncle spoke again, last, his voice wet and salty.