Ambition's Queen: A Novel of Tudor England (28 page)

“Her Majesty speaks of her treatment, but Mark is treated worse than any person in here,” Mrs Coffin said, changing the subject, “for he is kept in irons.”

Anne turned upon her frostily. “What else can he expect? Mark is no gentleman. He has been admitted to my privy chamber a mere handful of times, to sing and to play the lute and the virginals. I did have occasion to speak to him the Saturday before May Day, for I found him moping about in my presence chamber like a whipped puppy. I asked him why he was so sad. He answered that it was no matter, and I told him I could not speak to him as I would to a gentleman, and he said that a look would suffice him. That was all the talk that we had.”

Kingston quietly left, and Anne crossed the room and sat by the fireplace. Despite her matter-of-fact attitude towards Smeaton, his treatment was playing on her mind. “I am sorry that Mark is in irons,” she remarked forlornly. “I hope that the others are better treated. Does anyone make their beds, Lady Kingston?”

Lady Kingston looked startled by the strange question and answered, “No, madam.”

Anne lightened her tone and took a stab at humour. “Those gentlemen make ballads so well and now they must make pallets! But there is none but my brother who is so good at it!”

“Master Wyatt can,” Lady Kingston pointed out, and the queen agreed.

“You speak truth, Lady Kingston. Master Wyatt is most skilful at ballads.” Anne lapsed into silence and closed her eyes for so long that Bridget thought she had fallen asleep. Not so. After a long while, the queen whispered her name and Bridget walked over and sat next to her. Anne grabbed her hand and squeezed it tightly. “Bridget, what am I going to do?” she implored. “George is here! Oh God, help me please, they are going to kill him! He is going to die! My brother is going to die!”

Anne’s mood became wildly inconstant. One day she was sunk in gloom and resolved to die, while the next she determined to fight and win back her husband. She declared that her bishops, the men she had appointed to ecclesiastical office, would intercede on her behalf with the king and she would soon be freed. Bridget and Mrs Orchard tried to keep her spirits up and both encouraged her to eat and get a good night’s sleep. The other ladies continued on their obvious spying mission and were often summoned by Kingston to report to him. Unfortunately the queen, in her anguish and fear, was not always guarded in her speech around these ladies and, as a consequence, they never went to Kingston with nothing to report.

One evening Anne sent for the constable. She had not seen him for a time and she felt suspicious at his absence. “Where have you been, sir?” Anne asked him.

“I have been left here alone with no one of authority to speak to whatsoever. “I have been with the prisoners, madam,” Kingston apologized.

“The prisoners? You have not been meeting with Treasurer Fitzwilliam then?” Anne demanded.

“No, madam,” Kingston said, his eyes not fully meeting the queen’s.

Anne walked up to the constable until there was not three feet between them. Kingston looked disconcerted but he stood his ground. “Master Kingston, listen to me. I asked you a few days ago if I should die without justice and you gave me a courtier’s answer, which is to say no answer at all. But I want you to know that I
shall
have justice. If any man will accuse me, then let him bring witnesses to that effect. They will fail, for there are none to bring. I know that the people of England pray for me, and if I do die, you shall see a great punishment befall this country, within seven years, for my sake.”

Mrs Coffin trembled at this supernatural sounding prediction, Lady Shelton and Lady Boleyn looked to the ceiling, and Bridget willed Anne to say nothing more. But Anne, it seemed, no longer cared.

“I would also say to you that I do not fear to meet God because I am innocent and because I have done many good works during my life.” Kingston nodded and clearly wanted to get away, however, Anne was not finished with him yet. “Sir, I know I have said this before, but I will say it again: I want to have my own privy chamber about me and not these . . . ladies you have provided. I am sure it is well within your power to arrange their removal.”

“Madam, these are honest and good women,” Kingston argued. “Furthermore, they are of the king’s choosing and therefore it is not within my power to remove them. They must remain.”

The women smiled triumphantly. Anne’s shoulders sagged a little in defeat and she did not press the point any further. Kingston took his chance to leave, but the queen called after him. “Master Kingston, I meant what I said. I
shall
have justice.”

Kingston lingered for a moment and replied enigmatically, “I do not doubt it, Majesty. I do not doubt it.”

Over the next few days, there were a lot of comings and goings at the Tower. Cromwell returned, together with Will Redcliff, but there was no summons for Bridget this time. Instead, she had to go looking for them and, after some effort, she managed to catch Will in a corridor. He was about to sweep past her, but she caught his arm and pulled him back, anxious both to touch him and to find out something, anything, that was going on outside the walls. Will let her stop him and for a time they stood together, his forehead against Bridget’s, letting everything that was unspoken lie between them.

“Will, I must know what is going on outside this place. We are so isolated here. Kingston tells the queen only what he cannot avoid, no doubt at Cromwell’s instruction. And as for the ladies that have been provided for the queen,” Bridget paused, her mouth forming a thin line, “they are here solely to act as informants. They seem positively delighted at her predicament. They tut-tut night and day and never cease their carping.”

Will did not respond. “Please,” Bridget urged, “you must know something. When will the king move the queen elsewhere? When will the Council question her? She has accepted that exile is to be her fate.”

Will sighed and looked at her intently. “Perhaps it would be exile if she were only charged with adultery, as that is not treason in a queen. It is only treason for her lover. But that is not all Her Majesty has been indicted for. She and her lovers compassed the king’s death.
That
is treason. For them all. You do know the penalty for treason, Bridget?”

“Death,” Bridget answered dully, her mouth wrapping itself unwillingly around the word. Compassing the king’s death? Her mind flew back to the day of the king’s accident at the tiltyard at Greenwich, before Anne had miscarried and everything had gone wrong. Bridget had seen the naked fear in the queen’s eyes at the thought that Henry might not survive. His death was the absolute last thing she wanted. The idea of her actually plotting his demise was laughable, but Bridget was unable to laugh any more.

“Will, this is nonsense,” Bridget said quickly. “The queen has never wanted, or planned, the king’s death, quite the opposite in fact. Why would she? It makes no sense. Surely you see that?” He did not answer, and Bridget lost her control and shook him.

Will grabbed her wrists and told her brutally, “I do believe it! My master has all the evidence. It is all there, and it cannot be disputed. The queen has very little time left, Bridget. I am sorry, but she will die for this.”

“No,” she broke his grip, “she is innocent, and I cannot believe that the king would actually execute her. The men yes, but Anne? After his great love for her? She is his wife, and kings do not put their wives to death. No. There must be another way . . .”

“Bridget,” Will kissed her in an attempt at comfort, “there is no way out. You must prepare.”

Bridget could feel her composure slipping for the first time since she had been in the Tower with the queen. She missed her former life with a wrenching ferocity—the peace and security of the abbey, the blessed remoteness of it all, the timeless rhythm of life, from matins and lauds, vespers and compline, and everything in-between. She would have given a great deal to be back there now and away from all this.

Pressing a fist to her eyes, she reined in her emotions. “If you have any influence with your master,” Bridget said shakily, “you will ask him to dismiss the ladies who currently surround the queen. If these are her last days . . . then let women she is actually fond of, and who are fond of her, be with her.”

Will beheld her with sadness. “Yes,” he said, “I will try. For you, I will try.” They embraced and parted.

Bridget returned to the queen’s rooms to find that four men had arrived—the Duke of Norfolk, Lord Chancellor Audley, Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, and Master Secretary Cromwell. “Oh, I am sorry,” Bridget exclaimed, backing out of the chamber, but Anne ordered her to stay.

“These men have just arrived,” she said, indicating the quartet ranged against her. “I would rather have you hear what they have to say than any of the other ladies. At least I know you will not immediately run and tell Master Kingston all about it.”

A little silence fell until Cranmer cleared his throat and spoke. “Please be seated, Your Majesty,” he said, with a benign smile. Thomas Cranmer was a mild-mannered, slightly harried-looking man who had always been loyal to the queen. The current situation had wrong-footed him, and he had the air of one who found himself acting in a play without knowing his lines or what his part involved. The other three men, by contrast, looked on casually, their expressions revealing nothing.

Bridget retreated to the back of the presence chamber as the occupants seated themselves and the meeting began. The archbishop gazed mournfully at the queen and said, “Madam, there is no one, save for the king, who is as distressed by your conduct as I am. I well know that I owe my place in the world to your good will. However—”

Anne raised her right hand and Cranmer stopped speaking. “Do not waste your words, my lord, I know why you are here. Even though I am innocent, as you all know, and I have never wronged the king, I see he has grown tired of me, just as he did Catherine. All that remains is for you gentlemen to provide the pretext for my banishment.”

Cranmer pursed his lips. “Madam, no such pretext is required. I am sorry to say, but your evil doings are now widely known. Smeaton has confessed, I can show you his confession if you like.”

Anne’s face flushed a fiery red and her black eyes sparked with fury. “And you believe him, Cranmer? Then go and do what you will!” she cried. “You cravenly obey the king’s every command; I can see that you have managed to convince yourself, in your mind, of my guilt. But in your heart,” she stood up, “in your true heart you know, all you gentlemen know, that this has been done because the king wishes to marry Jane Seymour and therefore I must be disposed of. You all know it and you all just follow along, with not a word of protest. Well, you may do as you like, but if you are here to garner a confession from me, you will have to leave empty-handed. I shall not confess to something I did not do, and as for Mark Smeaton,” she stared at Cromwell, “I pity him, for the fires of Hell will be the only reward he receives for his false words. God knows what manner of torture forced him to utter such a lie. Jesu pardon him.”

The four men absorbed the queen’s spirited reply with relative equanimity. They conferred amongst themselves for a few minutes, their voices so low that none of their discussion could be heard, and then they made to leave. It seemed that they were finished with the queen; they would not get what they wanted from her today. But before they left, the Duke of Norfolk could not resist aiming a barb at Anne. “Niece, you have greater matters than Smeaton to worry about. If it be true that you have dallied with your brother, then a great punishment awaits him, as it does you.”

Anne rounded on him. “George is blameless! It is true he has been in my chamber many times, and where is the harm in that? He is my brother and therefore above all suspicion. I know the king wants him gone, so there will be no one left to speak for me, no one to take my part. It is all clear to me now.” The anger that had buoyed her up drained away and she leant on the back of a chair for support, her distress plain. “Just leave me, gentlemen; we have no more to say to each other.”

The men trooped out, their faces turned away, and Anne broke into miserable sobbing. “Oh Lord, they truly mean to kill George and all the others, and the king wants it to happen! He has forsaken me utterly. He takes the false word of others all so he can have that Seymour bitch and consign me to oblivion. The prophecy is coming true. He will burn me.”

A vision of Anne tied to the stake reared up in Bridget’s mind, an angry orange fire consuming her, her screams rising above the crackle of the flames. She rubbed her eyes to remove the horrible image. “Madam, there is something I must tell you. I saw Will outside.”

Anne looked briefly confused. “Cromwell’s man?”

“Yes, madam. He told me . . . well, it was so awful and absurd that it must be untrue, but he said that you are to be indicted, along with the men, for compassing the king’s death.”

Anne first looked astonished, then the real import of Bridget’s words hit home and her astonishment turned to fear. “So,” she said dejectedly, “it is not enough for Henry that I should be utterly discarded and disgraced and my family destroyed. He wants me to suffer as well.” Anne walked over to the fireplace and took up a handful of the cold ashes. She stared into their grey depths. “He actually wants me to die.”

The next day saw the trials of Norris, Weston, Brereton, and Smeaton at Westminster Hall. Anne and her brother were to be tried separately, as befitted their greater status.

The trial of the four men was regarded as a foregone conclusion and so it proved. Sir William Kingston informed the queen of the outcome in the evening. “Madam, I must tell you that the trial of Norris, Weston, Brereton, and Smeaton has been held and all four of those gentlemen have been found guilty and sentenced to death.”

Even though this was the expected news, Anne swayed slightly on her feet as Kingston delivered it. “Tell me, Master Kingston, did any of the men confess?”

Kingston shook his head a little and replied, “No, madam. Only Smeaton has confessed, the others have not, and did not do so at their trial.”