As I neared the end I noticed that a goodly portion was blank below my signature, tempting and fertile ground for any forger seeking to put incriminating words into my mouth and “prove” my guilt so that Mary might have sure and certain evidence to condemn me, so I took up my pen again and drew wavy diagonal lines down the length of the page.
By the time I had finished the tide had turned, and it was too late to safely embark, so I must wait another anxious day and night, praying that Mary would remember and keep her promise and send for me so that I might kneel and plead my case directly before her.
Mary was furious when she found out what had occurred. She railed at Sussex for disobeying her, but he took it well, knowing he had done the right thing, and earned my everlasting gratitude.
But my words failed to soften her heart and she sent not one single word to me in response.
“My Lord of Sussex, I have a good memory,” I said softly, laying my hand on his arm and fixing him with a meaningful gaze when he returned the next morning to convey me to the Tower.
“Thank you!”
I added in a fervent whisper.
He nodded and bowed his head deferentially, to show me he understood, as he draped my gray velvet cloak about my shoulders.
We departed at dawn even though the wind howled and the rain shot down from the pewter sky like arrows, pelting and piercing us, stinging any exposed skin it touched. We had barely set foot outside before we were soaked to the skin, but still we made our way to the barge, trudging through the mud, our pace hampered and slowed by our water-logged clothes. The weight of water in my skirts caused them to slap and cling to my limbs, and more than once nearly caused me to fall. Kat and Blanche Parry, who accompanied me, had the same difficulty, and Winchester and Sussex, and our guards, were all most solicitous, reaching out each time to catch and steady us as we tripped and trudged our way to the jetty.
The oarsmen had to fight the raging current, and more than once the barge came close to capsizing; it was as if the swirling brown waters of the Thames were loathe to take me to Traitor’s Gate and would rather drown me instead. Kat, Blanche, and I clung fearfully together as the barge pitched and rolled, and Winchester and Sussex debated what to do, whether to make for shore or continue, expressing concern that we would be dashed against the piers of the bridge, but in the end we made it safely to that grim and foreboding fortress and docked at Traitor’s Gate, where Sir John Bridges, the Lieutenant of the Tower, and six yeomen guards waited to receive me.
I could not bear to pass through that portal, knowing that most who entered there never came out except to lay their head on the block on the hill or the green. To do so seemed to be an admission of my guilt, and in despair I sank down upon the steps, even as the water rushed over my shoes.
“Your Grace, you must not sit here!” Sir John Bridges implored, concern etched deep upon his kindly face, as he held out his hand to me.
Sniffling, I turned my head away from that kind face and proffered hand. “Better to sit here than in a worse place!” I said, with a defiant toss of my head.
I shivered and wept and thought about my mother. Eighteen years ago she had passed through this portal, to a prison she would never emerge from except to die. Even now her headless body lay moldering in the crypt of the Tower’s chapel, St. Peter ad Vincula, St. Peter in Chains. Some even believed her ghost still walked the Tower, an unquiet spirit protesting the injustice that had robbed her of her life. Would I catch a glimpse of her phantom shade, I wondered as I sat there shivering, chilled to the bone, on the cold, wet, slimy stone steps. She also had worn a white gown and a gray cloak when she was taken by barge, I suddenly remembered hearing, and, glancing down at my own attire, shivered all the more.
Suddenly an ineffectually stifled sob intruded upon my miserable reverie and I turned to see one of the yeomen, a fair young fellow with hair the color of straw, sniveling, with his eyes full of pity as he looked down upon me from his great gangling height.
It was like a sudden slap across my face.
“Don’t cry for me!” I commanded. “No man need ever weep for me!”
I shot up, as fast as my sodden skirts would allow, trying not to stumble as they tangled themselves around my limbs, and walked boldly through Traitor’s Gate, into the Tower of London, with all the majesty and dignity I could summon, defying my resemblance to a drowned red rat, and vowing that I would hold my head up high until the instant the headsman struck it off, but it would
never
droop or fall of my own free will!
Framed by the dark yawning mouth of Traitor’s Gate, I paused suddenly and spoke in clear, ringing tones, my eyes commanding all who heard me to believe each and every word: “Here landeth as true a subject, being prisoner, as ever landed at these stairs. Before Thee, O God, do I speak it, having no other friend than Thee alone. O Lord, I never thought to come here as a prisoner!” Then I turned and looked at each of the yeomen guards one by one, meeting each man’s eyes. “I pray you all, good friends and fellows, to bear me witness that I come in as no traitor but as true a subject to the Queen’s Majesty as any as is now living.”
One of the yeomen muttered approvingly that I was indeed Great Harry’s daughter. “Aye, the livin’ spit o’ him!” he said proudly. “God preserve Your Grace!” he called after me, and I could hear his heart in every word, and those of the other guards as they took up his cry.
I paused a moment to face him, to nod my thanks. “Great Harry’s
and
Anne Boleyn’s daughter as well!” I said proudly; I could never forget the woman who had, out of her own tragedy and proud, defiant spirit, taught me never to surrender.
“Lead on, Lieutenant Bridges!” I said with feigned bravado. “Take me to my dungeon!”
“Oh no, Your Grace!” he hastened to assure me as he caught up with me. “We have a nice, comfortable room all prepared for you, with a fire to chase the chill out of your bones!”
The room was indeed pleasant for a prison cell—a goodly sized circular chamber with a vaulted ceiling and a great fireplace. There was a bed for me and pallets for my ladies, and there were three tall, arched windows with seats set deep into the thick walls where I might sit and take advantage of the light to sew or read, and also breathe in a little fresh air.
I was told, somewhat abashedly by Sir John, that my mother had lodged there before me. And for a few moments, curiosity overcame my fear, and I walked around touching the furnishings, hangings, and walls, wondering if she too had also touched these things. Had she sat in this chair, had she leaned her forehead against this glassy pane as she looked out, had her fingers idly caressed this tapestry, perhaps lingering to fastidiously pluck away a piece of lint or stray thread, had she lain awake and restless, her mind consumed with worry, in this very bed, had her anxious, restless, pacing footsteps worn at this very floor?
There were inscriptions carved crudely into the walls.
To mortals’ common fate thy mind resign,
My lot today tomorrow may be thine.
and
While God assists us, envy bites in vain,
If God forsake us, fruitless all our pain—
I hope for light after the darkness.
I ran my fingers over the words, reading them with my fingertips, and wondering if she, or some other doomed soul, had carved them. It might even have been poor Jane.
For the first time in many years I felt my mother was close to me. It gave me a strange sort of comfort to know what had been her prison was now mine. That I now walked where she had walked and slept where she had slept. Though I knew the floors had been swept many a time since she had walked here, I was sorely tempted to kneel down and lay my palms upon the floor, as if that senseless gesture could make me feel even closer to her. And I wondered if these feelings were a portent that I would soon be very close to her indeed, that I would follow in her footsteps up the thirteen steps of the scaffold. I thought I heard a rustle of skirts beside me then, and a voice from out of my past whisper urgently into my ear,
“Never surrender!”
The memory was so real it made me shiver. And seeing this, Kat and Blanche hurried to shoo me over to the fire and into some warm clothing, and with a weary sigh I gave myself over to their ministrations and soon found myself sitting bundled in a fur-trimmed robe by the fire as Kat vigorously toweled my hair and Blanche brought me a cup of warm spiced wine.
That night as I slipped wearily between the cold lawn sheets, the first of many nightmares in which the ax loomed large came to plague me. The headsman’s ax swooped down on me, and I heard the flap of the ravens’ wings, like a dark angel’s, as they cackled and cawed. I saw my own head, gray and ghastly with blind, clouded eyes, impaled upon a pike, my red hair whipping in the wind, as the ravens ravenously picked at me, tearing at my rotting flesh, until the bone showed pearly white beneath. Each time I would bolt up in bed with a scream on my lips, shivering as if the cold of death had already invaded my bones; try as I might, in the Tower, I simply could not get warm enough.
I spent many days sitting listless and morose in one or another of the three window seats, watching the ravens, or else beside the fire, staring without seeing into the heart of the flames as if they held the answers I sought, wondering how long I had left. I told Kat and Blanche that I had decided, when the time came, to ask Mary to grant me the favor of the swift and sharper sword, to send to France for an executioner as my father had done for my mother. If he could do that for the woman he had once loved after that love had turned to hate, then so too could Mary for the sister she had once loved and used to pretend was her own little girl.
And yet . . . despite my despondency, somehow I felt I was not alone. There was a benevolent, protective presence that hung about me in that grim place of bloodshed, tears, and tortured souls.
One night, when I lay in darkness after the candle I had left burning had gone out, I saw a spark out of the corner of my eye. I watched as that lone spark multiplied into many, and wondered if I were dreaming or if a horde of fireflies had invaded my room. And then, out of the thick stone walls, seemingly walking upon the air, appeared two beautiful naked, golden-haired little boys walking hand in hand. They were surrounded by a dazzling brilliance that lit up the room and their very skin seemed to glow with an inner rosy-gold radiance of such a startling beauty and innocence it brought tears to my eyes. They came to stand, hovering, beside my bed, smiling down at me with such indescribably sweet smiles lighting up their cherubic faces. There was nothing lewd about their nakedness; they were just beautiful, innocent children, far too beautiful for this world. The eldest one seemed to be about twelve, and the other, his little brother—I instinctively knew that they were brothers—appeared to be a year or two younger. Both had eyes the color of bluebells and thick, curly shoulder-length golden hair.
Suddenly my heart leapt in my chest, and for a moment I feared it would stop and cease to beat forever. In that instant, I
knew
who they were—the boy-king Edward V and his brother Richard, Duke of York, who had been foully done to death here in the Tower in the year 1483, smothered as they slept, it was said, their bodies buried at the foot of the stairs, upon order of their fiendish uncle Richard who coveted the throne for himself.
Still smiling down at me, they began to slowly fade away, the brilliance dimming, fading away, until I was left in darkness once again and fell into a deep sleep. I awoke late the next morning with a slight fever, feeling troubled and uncertain. I knew I would never know for certain if I had truly seen the ghosts of the murdered princes or if it had all been just a dream wrought by my troubled mind and this terrible blood-drenched place.
I continued to brood over it all that day, reliving that encounter, or dream, whichever it had been, over and over again, until, finally, I could stand it no longer and, when they continued to press me about what troubled me, I told Kat and Blanche about the pair of glowing golden naked boys who had come to visit me during the night.
Kat immediately set to weeping and wailing, hugging me so close I feared she would snap my ribs.
“Oh pet, it was a pair of Radiant Boys you saw, and the sight of them
always
means doom and gloom, and death coming soon to the one who sees them!”
“Stuff and nonsense!” sensible Welsh Blanche Parry declared. “Dry your tears, woman, and don’t frighten our princess with such drivel! My own grandam told me about Radiant Boys, and My Lady”—she knelt beaming at my feet and took both my hands in hers even as Kat continued to snivel—“you have
nothing
at all to fear! Rather, you should rejoice! The one who sees a Radiant Boy will rise to the summit of prosperity and wield great power! And you didn’t see just one, My Lady, but
two! Two Radiant Boys!
Oh just think what great things shall come to you!”
“Which is it to be then—Death or prosperity?” I wondered as, shrugging them both off, gesturing for them to leave me be, I went to stand by the window and watch the antics of the ravens while, in whispers, they continued to debate what the sight of a Radiant Boy truly meant. All I knew was that, whether it had been a true visitation from a boy who had been cheated of his chance to be king, or just a fever-dream, I would never forget it, but a part of me liked to think that one who would have been a great king but had been robbed of his destiny had come to smile down on and bless me, to show me that even though I felt lost in the dark now, a bright future lay before me, and he, hand in hand with his little brother, had come to be the candles to show me the way, to illuminate my destiny.