Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) (30 page)

"Because you have offended our sovereign, the King's
grace, in committing treason against him, the law of the realm is this: that
you deserve death." There was no pause, he hurried on as if he wanted to
rid himself of feces that soiled him.

"You shall be burnt here within the Tower of London on
the Green, or you will have your head smitten off. As the King's pleasure
decides."

Pleasure. Such an odd word to speak within that sentence.
But Anne supposed it fit, after all. They were all here for Henry’s pleasure; a
pleasure he was probably imagining right now. Dining with sweet Jane. Modest
Jane. Humble Jane. Everything that Anne was not, Jane. And as her mind toyed
with the word, she realized that pleasure was the bottom line after all.

Henry had tired of her finally; after many long years of
enjoying her spirit, her vitality and sharpness, he had had enough. He had used
it well, though; blaming her for his every mistake. Using her as an excuse for
everything his subjects hated him for; the massacres of the priests, his
unpopularity, the revolution. All her fault. All her doing. If I hadn't been
bewitched by this supplanter, I would still be married to Good Queen Catherine.
Thomas More would still be alive. All would be well. But for evil Anne Boleyn.

So, now she would be punished for his delusions. He would
free himself of her the only possible way that would benefit the succession—and
his frivolities. Her death—his freedom—his pleasure. Oh, all would be well,
after all, my sweet Jane, you will bear me sons. England will love you; they
will love me. With every particle of energy within her, she prayed; not a
silent prayer, but an audible one. One the whole assembly would hear and
remember. If she had to die, then die she would, but Henry would not win.

"Oh, God, you know if I deserve this death." It
was an entreaty meant for the assembly. An appeal for them to understand what
was really happening; that Henry was playing at God, a dangerous game. One that
was costing God's subjects their lives. But she was not content—what if they
didn't comprehend the message she tried to send? This would be her last chance
to impress it upon them.

"I think you know well why you have condemned me to be
other than that which has led you to this judgment. My only sin against the
King's great goodness..."

She nearly choked on the last words.

"Has been my jealousy and lack of humility. But I have
prepared myself to die. What I regret most deeply is that men who were innocent
and loyal to the King must lose their lives because of me."

"But since you have found me guilty, I have nothing
left to ask of you, except some time to clear my conscience of anything which
lingers and for your prayers." There was no more to say, no more to feel.
Justice had been miscarried, as she had only half believed it would. But now
all was done, except for her brother. She prayed he would not meet the same
sentence. Guilty of loving her, of being loved by her.

She left the hall escorted by two ladies and by her jailer.
With all the dignity she could collect, she held her head high, her eyes level.
She heard someone collapse behind her as she walked slowly from the room.
Someone wept. She had received the justice that any of Henry's subjects would
receive if they displeased him.

George heard the sound of weeping as he entered the Great
Hall. At first he strained to see past the two men who held him, thinking it
might be Anne who wept. But then he realized it was Nan Gainesford, and he felt
just as pitiful. Her large green eyes were red and puffy, pooling like a
flooded pond.

"Is my sister present?"

One of his holders was kind enough to slacken his grip.
George noticed how the man avoided his eye.

"No, she’s being returned to her rooms."

Guilty then, as the others had been found. But he dared not
ask the sentence; the others had been sentenced to die the traitor’s
death—hanging, disembowelment, castration, then finally beheading. A terrible
fear gripped his chest so that his heart jumped within it erratically. He
didn’t know if he could suffer this through without losing his sanity. Sweet
Jesu, could he squelch the panic? They led him to the bar.

It felt smooth beneath his palm, smooth and worn. How many
innocents had handled it? He swallowed and took a deep breath to calm his
nerves, didn’t dare look around the room. Instead he stared straight ahead at
the twenty-six men who waited to try him. His uncle Norfolk sat swiping at his
eyes, and it made George want to cry himself as he thought of the hardened man
weeping for a niece he had ever argued with.

His father-in-law sat his bench without looking up. In fact,
all were well known to him. He wondered briefly if they’d sleep well tonight
knowing they would all find their own justice by a more powerful court. George
studied each of them, using the distraction to keep calm. The one thing he
noticed about them all, was that each stared at Henry, who sat across from
them. It seemed they were entranced by the King’s determination.

He knew at once the men hadn’t believed his sister guilty of
treason, but had sentenced her anyway—afraid they’d also be caught in the net.
The other thing George noticed was the eerie stillness that sat on the room
like a cloak. He peered to the side, saw a thousand or more people blocking the
door and hiding the walls. Some spectators sat on the high stands. Most stood.
But all waited expectantly for the outcome. He wondered if any of them had wept
for Anne, or if they believed justice had been done.

"George, Lord of Rochford, you have come to be tried by
your peers for treason against the King and Sovereign of this land, by
committing adultery with Her Grace, the Queen of England.” His heart stopped.
Adultery? Sweet Jesu, they meant to have his life. And Anne’s. For a fleeting
second he thought he would vomit, but swallowed hard. A traitor’s death was one
fearful indeed, but incest meant burning.

"What say you to this charge?" His uncle asked,
his eyes steady on Henry.

"I say I have not committed it."

He heard the sigh that came from his uncle, as if he’d hoped
George would admit it and have done with it.

"Surely you don’t deny being oft alone with Her Grace
in her quarters?"

"No, My Lord, for siblings we are, and loyal to each
other. When she needed me I was there for her."

"In what manner?" It seemed the entire court
stretched forward to hear his answer.

"In the manner of brother and sister, my Lord."
George couldn’t help the anger, it threatened to overcome him.

"In ways any brother would comfort a sister who can
trust no one."

"Is the witness ready?" His uncle turned from him
and questioned the room in general. Jayne stepped forward and George thought
he’d die. His own wife. How could she do this. Yet, even as he thought it, he
noticed she stared directly at her father, ignoring her husband’s eye. Guilt?
Shame?

"Go on, girl," said Norfolk.

"You may speak. Would you tell the court what you have
told your own father."

"I said there was undue familiarity between them."
Her voice trembled and she turned to George with tears that threatened to
spill. George waited for a moment, uncertain of her intent. With a surge of
anger and disgust, he turned from her to his uncle.

"On the evidence of only one woman you are willing to
believe this great evil of me?"

"You have admitted to always being in your sister’s
chambers."

"I admit to it, yes. But surely I have displayed no
other such evil." His judges turned to one another, and he thought they
would further accuse him. When his uncle spoke again, it surprised him.

"Your sister, our Queen by the King’s good grace, has
indeed ensnared many to her cause—that she no longer loved his Grace and
desired his death. Lady Rochford, have you further evidence of the Queen’s
discontent?"

Lady Jayne Rochford nodded, George could only close his
eyes. This talk of Anne had nothing to do with him. Why did they press it?

"Then pass the evidence on paper to the accused so he
may read it silently and tell the court if he heard the Queen speak of
it."

He knew in the very second he was handed the note and read it,
what the mode of questioning meant to his case. They wanted him to show how
vile Anne was; to get the Londoners to believe the worst. He knew also that the
court couldn’t satisfy justice in this matter. He was being offered the
opportunity to condemn her, and save himself. As Jayne had been offered it, as
his uncle, as his own father had been offered it.

Damn them, that they’d offer him this hope, this choice. He
couldn’t breathe, the muscles that so often expanded naturally to admit the air
and expel it, tightened so that they strangled him instead. He found himself
gasping and his eyes watering as if he were already being consumed by the fire.
The parchment in his hand felt like tinder, and his tears fell upon it
silently.

Water to tinder would quench a fire and so he could end this
madness and go free. He could leave Anne to her death—the tear told him so, for
he wouldn’t cry if he hadn’t at least contemplated it.

"The King is unable to make love to his wife, and has
neither the skill, nor potency." He read aloud. George was barely aware of
the groans that came from the stands, didn’t care that the judges’ faces
blanched to white. He cared only that Henry’s mouth worked in angry, silent
curses. He sighed aloud. It was finished.

Henry’s humiliation meant death.

T
wo days later, May 17, Anne stood at the window to the
tower. She gazed out at the blue spring sky, breathed in the sweet scent of
grass. She waited for her brother to die. She loved all of her courtiers;
regretted that they should have died because of her; but that burden was not
hers alone to bear. The greater burden lay with Henry. At least they had died
quickly, because Henry’s conscience forced him to choose mercy.

Strange that his conscience would allow his mercy to go only
so far—none of them were guilty, yet he sacrificed them anyway. They had all
died quickly—hopefully she would, too. Her fate had yet to be decided. But
George, he was part of her; brother, confidante, hero. She had allowed the
world to know she loved him more than anything. Had allowed Henry to know she
had loved him at all. She heard he would have gone free if not for his
cockiness—that characteristic so admired in men, and abhorred in a woman. She
smiled reluctantly.

Trust him to be man enough to speak his mind, even
endangering his life. Trust him to defend her, on pain of a traitor's death.
Her pride in him swelled, the love too. But the smile quickly faded. Bad choice
to act hero to a condemned woman—the unwanted Queen. And now she was being
forced to watch his execution. God, was there no mercy in all this earthly
kingdom?

This window, she eyed it with speculation.

So far today, she had seen four men beheaded from this
window on a scaffold built high above the heads of the crowd. Watched
helplessly as Lord Kingston held her arms below her, pinioning them against her
sides while the men spoke their meager pieces. She witnessed the horrible act
of decapitation, the executioner stooping to grasp the hair of the grisly head
and hold it aloft for the crowd to see. In her years she had witnessed many
executions. Never had the crowds seemed so quiet as today. It was almost as if
the city held its breath, afraid of God's judgment.

One boy, crouched at the head of the crowd, caught Anne's
attention. He clutched a beaten tablet in filthy hands, sobbed over it as if it
were a holy relic. Off and on he hugged it to his chest and wailed to the
heavens. And when George, led by two jailors, broke free of the Tower's gloom
and walked haltingly into the sun, that urchin sprinted forward only to fall to
the ground before the platform. Anne heard his weeping from where she stood.
She saw her brother try to reach for the boy. Lord Kingston spoke and
interrupted the drama.

"Are you ready, milady?" There was a strange trace
of respect in the jailer’s voice—a small measure of regret, of pity.

She didn't answer. How could she be ready to see her brother
die? But she nodded, payment for the jailer’s empathy. She felt his rather limp
flourish that would signal to those below, that the Queen stood ready to watch
her condemned lover's execution. She had felt that signal four times before,
but always it had been a wave, always she had felt a joy in it, as if her
jailer had believed justice was done. It felt different now, and it didn't
matter. A sea of heads eddied and swayed like waves of water as the spectators
nodded or spoke to each other. There in the middle, threateningly still, waited
the platform, empty save the axe man and George. He stood regally; head high,
shoulders back, chest forward. He looked so handsome, so fragile. Her stomach
roiled with sickness. She clenched her hands, let the closely cut nails embed
into her palm. God, how she wanted to feel the pain of it, but she felt
nothing.

"Have mercy on him," she whispered. "May he
feel no pain. May you fly him to heaven at first strike."

Her legs could barely contain her weight. Kingston remained
silent. But her contempt for him grew in the moment. Pity he might feel, but
not enough to allow her to wipe her own cheeks, or sop up the pool of tears
that blinded her vision. And she had to see, didn't want to, but had to. She
needed to know the exact moment. And that one thought kept her from collapsing.

"Masters all," George’s voice rang out clear as a
church bell tolling through clean air.

"I am here, not to preach, or make a sermon. But to
die. As the law has found me, and to the law I submit." There was a short
pause, as he gained breath, and perhaps courage. She caught his eye with a
straight and direct stare.

"Trust in God, not in the vanities of the world,"
he said to her—always faithful, always supportive. Damn God for taking him.
Damn George for still believing. Her eyes flooded. She blinked frantically to
rid them of the water that blurred her sight.

By the time the water bled from her eyes, George’s body lay
hunched against a grisly red block. His truncated and lifeless torso was now
bereft of the head that gave it all of its character. The executioner held
George’s head high as her mind quickly replayed the scene she had missed; his
docile surrender to the block, his long elegant neck stretched against the
wood, cords tight, vessels straining against skin.

The next soul that flew in this city would be her own.