Ambition's Queen: A Novel of Tudor England (33 page)

Anne reached across to a side table, opened a small jewellery box, and extracted from it a little yellow object. It was a ring, a square cut garnet set in gold, flanked by two pearls. Bridget regarded it with amazement. “Do not worry,” Anne laughed. “I did not jump into the icy river to retrieve it. The king gave me this ring many years ago, only the stone is bigger in this one than the similar ring he gave to the Seymour woman. That is why I did not want her to keep it; I did not want her to have what is mine, even if it was only a copy. Now, I give it to you. I know that you are more deserving of such a ring than she is.”

Bridget protested at such a lavish gift, but the queen took her hand, opened it, placed the ring on her palm, and closed her fingers over the top. Bridget had no choice but to accept it. “Thank you, Majesty,” she said. “I will treasure it always.”

“I know you will and, before you say anything, do not be concerned for the other ladies. I have something for Joanna, Catherine, and Lady Lee as well. You have all been so good to me, so loyal. My four young ladies, I call you. Well, perhaps Lady Lee is not so young,” Anne chuckled, “but she is close enough.”

The women woke early and set about making the queen ready for her appointment with the French swordsman, again. After talking with Bridget, Anne had spent the remainder of the night in prayer with John Skip and then, just after sunrise, she had heard Mass and received the Sacrament.

She managed to eat a morsel of bread for her breakfast and she sipped a little wine. She had gone days without proper sleep and the food and drink, though scanty, seemed to have a slightly restorative effect upon her.

The lack of rest had not affected her looks. In fact, once she was fully dressed, even with the heavy, unflattering gable hood upon her head, she looked eerily lovely, every inch a queen. “Oh, Your Majesty, you look beautiful!” Joanna exclaimed, and she could not hold back her tears. Lady Lee and Catherine were similarly moved. Bridget was astounded that anyone facing death could look so calm and majestic, as if she were preparing for a happy occasion and not for the end of her life. Her courage was truly exceptional.

At about eight of the clock, Sir William Kingston arrived, his old face mournful. “Madam, the hour approaches. You must make ready.”

Anne drew herself up tall and answered him with utter serenity. “Sir William, you may acquit yourself of your charge, for I have been long prepared.”

Kingston bowed and handed a leather purse to Anne. “It contains money, so you may give alms to the poor.”

“Thank you, Master Kingston.” Anne accepted the purse gratefully.

Sir William opened the door and said, “Follow me please, madam.”

Anne took one look around the rooms, her eyes taking in every detail, before she walked out the door, the constable leading the way. Catherine and Lady Lee were directly behind with Bridget and Joanna following them. The younger maid took Bridget’s hand and whispered, “I’m frightened.”

“I know, but we must be strong for the queen,” Bridget replied, as much as to suppress her own fears as to soothe Joanna’s.

The small party left the royal apartments and made their way slowly down the steps to the courtyard, where Anne’s escort awaited them. There, arrayed before them, were at least a hundred Yeomen, a sea of red, amongst them Captain Gwynn, who had led Anne to see the executions of the men from the Bell Tower, but had not forced her to watch. He now had another sorrowful duty, this time to lead Anne to her own death.

The contingent set off across the courtyard, past the King’s Hall where Anne had been tried and condemned, and through the huge Coldharbour Gate, its twin towers looming menacingly above their heads. “God almighty,” Bridget whispered as they entered the Inner Ward of the Tower and encountered the vast crowd who awaited them there. There were thousands of them, their breath rising as one in the crisp morning air. They turned as the procession arrived and a sigh rippled through them as they beheld Anne, like a soft breeze blowing through a meadow. Behind them stood the scaffold.

It was the same scaffold as the one Bridget had seen on Tower Hill—fairly tall, possibly five feet in height, draped in black, and covered with straw. The officials in charge of proceedings and a tall gentleman, no doubt the headsman, whose eyes were locked onto the queen, stood upon the scaffold. Anne stopped still when she saw the headsman, and glanced behind her. For the first time that morning, Bridget saw real panic in her face. “It’s him,” the queen said. “It’s the creeping man.”

Bridget looked at the imposing fellow, Anne’s nightmare figure made flesh. He stood about six feet in height and was dressed in ordinary clothes, not clad in black and masked as executioners usually were. Despite his nondescript apparel, there was something strange about him, an otherness that set him apart. He was actually quite handsome, with black hair, a strong, square face, and large, light grey eyes. He looked completely at ease, his muscular arms hanging loosely by his side. This was the man King Henry VIII of England had hired to behead his wife.

The poor people in the crowd pressed forward when they saw the queen open her leather purse and begin to hand out alms. Anne performed the task as regally as she could, all the while studiously avoiding making eye contact with the creeping man upon his dreadful stage. She looked behind her often, past her maids, back towards the gate, her gaze ever searching. Bridget knew she looked for a messenger from the king, a messenger who did not come. As Anne continued to search, the crowd in front of them parted a little and Bridget could see beyond them to the green and the adjacent churchyard, where little mounds of dirt marked the site of fresh graves.
That’s where they have put the queen’s supposed lovers,
Bridget surmised. Fortunately, by the time Anne stopped looking behind her, the crowd had closed up again and the view to green was blocked.

Anne walked slowly but the path to the scaffold was short. They reached the wooden steps, five in all, and Captain Gwynn halted. He turned to the queen and bowed, his chin wobbling a little. “Your Majesty, I shall pray for you,” he said, and Anne smiled in acknowledgment.

“Thank you, Captain, you have acted towards me with great respect and kindness and I wish to give you a token of my gratitude.” She produced a small gold pendant, shaped like a pistol. She handed it to the astonished man and said, “The king gave this to me. I hope it brings you greater fortune.”

The captain accepted the gift, stammered his thanks, and stepped aside. Kingston took the queen’s hand and escorted her up the stairs. Bridget and the three ladies followed. Anne blinked a little as a ray of sunshine hit her eyes, and she seemed taken aback at the sight of the great concourse of people that she now looked out upon. Her gaze still lingered stubbornly on the gate that lay in the distance, as though the intensity of her stare contained a special power, and if she only stared hard enough she could conjure up a messenger all on her own. Bridget refused to look at the gate and tried instead to focus her attention on the heaving throng. It wasn’t long before she spied some familiar faces amongst them.

Norfolk was there to watch his niece die, his face devoid of expression, as were a satisfied-looking contingent of the queen’s enemies—Suffolk, Fitzwilliam, Carew, and Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond, the king’s bastard son. None of the Seymour family was in evidence. Bridget could not see Wiltshire amongst the sea of faces either; obviously witnessing his daughter’s death was a step too far, even for him.

Bridget’s eyes continued to sweep over the horde, and then she felt her heart turned over. Will was there. Stationed just behind his master, a nervous and peculiarly gloomy-looking Cromwell, his green eyes could barely meet hers. In fact, he could only maintain eye contact for a few seconds before looking down in embarrassment. Or was it guilt?

Anne had finally stopped looking at the gate and she turned to Kingston. “Master Kingston, I have a mind to speak. Do not be concerned. My words will not offend; I shall only speak well.”

Kingston appeared beyond reply and indicated by a gesture of his hand that Anne should begin her address. The queen took a breath, smoothed her gown, and walked towards the front of the scaffold. A heavy silence descended as she began to speak.

“Good Christian people, I am come here to die, according to the law, for by the law I am judged and therefore I will speak nothing against it. I yield myself to the will of the king and if, in life, I did ever offend His Majesty surely with my death I do now atone. I desire you all, good friends, to pray for the king, my lord and yours, who is one of the best princes on the face of the earth and who has always treated me so well. I submit to death with a good will and if any person,” here she paused, “if any person should seek to meddle with my cause, I require them to judge the best. Only the best.”

Several people in the crowd had begun to cry, including the hard-bitten Norfolk and the compassionate Paget. Cromwell kept his face turned away and, behind him, Will did the same. Suffolk and Richmond were unmoved.

The queen faltered just a little as she came to her final sentence: “Thus I take my leave of the world, and of you all, and I ask you to pray for me. To God I commend my soul.”

Anne finished speaking and walked back to where her maids stood. Bridget could see that the light of hope had completely faded from her eyes and was replaced by a dawning fear. Only her innate courage was bearing her up now. She looked at Bridget. “He is not going to save me. This is the end.” Joanna burst into tears, and Catherine Carey began to cry quietly. Lady Lee put her arm about her and wiped her own tears away.

The sight of her ladies crying seemed to galvanise Anne. “Hush, my maids, do not cry for me. I am not afraid to die. You have all been so faithful to me, so diligent and devoted, and I cannot thank you enough for it. I have asked much of you and now, in my last hour, I ask a little more. Always be loyal to the king and to whomsoever shall follow me as your mistress. Hold your honour in higher esteem than your life and do not,” her voice cracked, “do not forget me. Pray for me, always.”

Bridget’s eyes blurred with unshed tears and she could not speak. They all curtseyed to the queen and assured her that they would do as she said. Lady Lee began the task of preparing Anne for the sword—her beautiful ermine mantle was removed, and her necklace, the ruby and pearl cross, was unclasped. Bridget attempted to remove the gable hood, but Anne stayed her hand. “I shall do it,” she said, and in a matter of moments, her shining hair was exposed to the light. Little Catherine Carey handed her aunt a linen cap and Anne quickly donned it.

Time was fast running out. Anne called Lady Lee to her and handed her the prayer book she carried with the words “for your friendship.” Lady Lee wept and could barely thank Anne. The queen then plucked two small brooches from the front of her gown and handed one each to Joanna and Catherine. Both of the maids were so distressed they could hardly stand. Anne touched each one on the cheek and whispered “courage.” Bridget twisted the garnet ring on her finger and said “Majesty, is there anything you require of me?”

The queen shook her head. “No, Bridget, there is no more that anyone in this world can do for me. But I thank you. From the depths of my heart.”

The four ladies, their arms about each other, stepped away from their mistress and towards the back of the scaffold. Anne stood alone. The creeping man, on a signal from Kingston, came towards her and she smiled at him, as if he were not the man who had stalked her dreams but in fact her saviour. He dropped to his knees and said, “Madam, I crave your pardon, for I am ordered to perform this duty.”

Anne regarded him in silence for a moment before she replied, “I pardon you most willingly.”

The man sighed in relief. “Then, madam, I must ask you to kneel.”

The queen did so, but as she lowered herself upon the wooden boards, a breeze blew up and disarranged the hem of her gown. Delicately, she reached back and tucked her dress in close, so that it covered her feet. Bridget looked about for the headsman’s sword and realised she could not see it. Anne had begun praying in a low voice, repeating over and over “God have pity on my soul, to Jesu I commend my soul,” but her magnificent courage was starting to fail her and she had taken to looking about her again.

“Madam, do not be afraid,” the headsman said. “I will not strike till you tell me.”

Bridget realised that Anne was fearful that she would see the blow coming. She needed a blindfold, to shield her eyes from the sight of her death’s approach. Taking a piece of cloth from Lady Lee, Bridget walked toward her mistress and, with her tears threatening to spill over, secured the cloth over the queen’s eyes. She jumped a little at Bridget’s unexpected touch and the maid whispered, “It is only me, Your Majesty.” Anne laughed, the sound of it harsh in the stillness. She reached up and touched Bridget’s hand as she finished tying the blindfold. Her fingers were cold, but they did not shake.

Everyone on the scaffold and almost everyone in the crowd knelt down as the final moment had clearly arrived. Bridget noticed, in disgust, that Richmond and Suffolk remained standing, their faces suffused with the light of self-righteous approval. All was quiet, except for the sigh of the gentle wind and the sound of the low voice of the queen continually praying. Bridget looked across the expanse of the lawn, towards the huge mass of the White Tower, and the prophecy popped into her mind. “When the Tower is white and another place green . . .” It had all come to pass. Anne had become the Queen of the White Tower.

“Fetch my sword!” the executioner shouted, and his assistant, a small, nimble man, scurried over to the scaffold steps. Anne turned blindly towards the sound of his footfalls but it was all a feint. The headsman already had his sword, retrieved from under a pile of straw. With her head angled away from him, as had been the point of his ploy, he wasted no time. Shoeless, he crept up behind the queen and swung his sword with fearsome power. The fatal blade arced upwards, high into the air, the silver shimmering in the sunlight. It hung for a moment, as though suspended in time, and then it fell, striking like a snake. At the last moment, Bridget closed her eyes, squeezing them firmly shut, in the childlike hope that if she did not see the act take place, then she could be spared from the reality of it. It did not work.