Ambition's Queen: A Novel of Tudor England (34 page)

The sound of the blade hitting home, the noise of it cutting through flesh and bone, the groaning and screaming of the spectators, and the coppery smell of newly spilt blood hit Bridget all at once. Joanna had flung herself around her shoulders and was sobbing fearfully. She could hear Catherine crying and Lady Lee, despite her own upset, frantically trying to soothe her. She could even hear many of the men on the scaffold forcefully clearing their throats in an attempt to control their own emotions. Knowing that she had no alternative, Bridget disentangled herself from Joanna’s embrace and opened her eyes.

The sight that met her was straight from a nightmare and so much worse than the awful scenes she had so recently witnessed from the Bell Tower. Anne was lying on her side, a river of blood flowing from her severed neck. Her head lay in the straw, which was fast turning crimson, the linen cap still upon her hair. The executioner, his mighty two-handed sword stained red, was hurriedly collecting his things, his face dripping with perspiration, his eyes wide. The crowd, clearly shocked, seemed eager to get away from the arena of death, only a few of the hardiest women making the attempt to come forward and dip a piece of cloth into Anne’s blood. According to folklore, the blood of the executed was supposed to have magical properties. The blood of Queen Anne Boleyn, convicted whore and traitoress and rumoured witch, would be quite a prize. Thankfully, the yeomen, with Captain Gwynn to the fore, kept the vultures at bay.

Sir William Kingston, his eyes wet, walked towards the broken body as if he intended to move it. At the same time, a sound like a thunderclap broke across the sky, the sudden noise reverberating off the fortress walls.
It’s the guns
, Bridget thought, realising that all London would now know that Anne was gone and the king was free. It was over.

The burst of cannon fire jolted Bridget out of her horrified daze. She drew in a very deep breath and took a handkerchief from Lady Lee. Walking slowly, and refusing all offers of assistance from Kingston and his other officials, she put the cloth over Anne’s face, obscuring her dead eyes from the gaze of strangers, the blindfold having come loose. Lady Lee and the other maids followed and they now formed a vanguard around their fallen mistress. They were all weeping pitifully, all except for Bridget, whose own tears would not fall. As the one most in command of herself, she took charge.

“Master Kingston,” she said, “is there a coffin prepared for Her Majesty?”

Kingston answered sombrely, “Yes, Mistress Manning, an elm chest from the armoury has been provided. It lies there,” and he pointed to the ground beside the scaffold.

So,
only an old box intended for bows and arrows was good enough for Anne,
Bridget reflected grimly. But there was nothing to be done about it, it would have to do.

“Lady Lee, there is a sheet here to cover the queen. Will you help me wrap her in it? Joanna and Catherine, we will need your assistance as well.” The sorrowing trio did as they were bid, carefully lifting the blood-soaked body and gently winding it in the sheet.

Bridget looked over at the head, the white handkerchief no longer white, and knew that it was her duty to retrieve it. Steeling herself, she walked across the bloodied boards and bent down. Knowing she must do this quickly, before the screaming in her skull forced its way out of her mouth, she picked the queen’s head up in both her hands. It was light and the hair that Bridget had so carefully arranged that morning was still warm. Bile rose up her throat and she had to take a moment to swallow it back.

The four ladies, laden with their gruesome bundles, walked down the steps, watched in wonderment by several men, and placed Anne Boleyn’s remains in the elm chest. It was only just long enough to accommodate them. Kingston followed and Bridget now turned to him. “Do we take the queen to the church now?”

“Yes, but some of the yeomen can do that, Mistress Manning. There are plenty here.”

Captain Gwynn came forward and declared that he and his men were ready for the task.

“No, Captain, we will do it. It is our duty. Just lead the way”.

He did not argue and the ladies formed a little procession, the makeshift coffin carried between them, and were lead to the Tower chapel of St Peter ad Vincula, which lay just across the green.

They came to the door, two maids on either side of the chest, and walked inside. The chapel interior was cool and there were candles burning. Kingston directed the women to lay their burden down near the back of the church, which took Bridget by surprise. “Are we not going to bury the queen in the chancel, sir? Why do we place her here?”

“The queen must be stripped of her clothes and remaining jewellery before she is interred. In addition to that, someone must be found to lift the chancel stone and prepare a grave. I will go and see to that and return shortly.” Kingston departed with alacrity, obviously keen to dispense with performing this final duty for Anne as quickly as he could. The four maids were thus left alone with their mistress’s remains.

The quartet stared at each other. “They will take even her clothes?” Joanna murmured. “They will leave her with nothing?”

“Her clothes are the property of the Tower officials now and no doubt the king wants them destroyed. He will not want anyone to make a souvenir of them. As for the jewellery, he will want that back. Yes, my dear, they will leave her with nothing.” Lady Lee sounded as weary as it was possible for a person to sound.

Inwardly, Bridget cursed herself for not anticipating this final indignity. Of course, as a convicted traitor, Anne would go to her grave disrobed and disgraced. No mercy would be extended to her, even after the ghastly sentence of death had been carried out.

At this point, young Catherine Carey stepped in and hugged Bridget, whispering in her ear, “I know it is awful, but it is just one more task. We must do this.”

The kindness and the determination of the girl nearly undid Bridget. Forcing back the storm that threatened to overwhelm her, she hugged Catherine back and said, “You are right. This is our task to perform. We must do it.”

Joanna and Lady Lee, assisted by Bridget and Catherine, lifted Anne’s body from the elm chest and laid her gently on the ground. They unwound the bloody sheet and put it to one side. All four gasped in horror at the gruesome sight they had uncovered, and Bridget could feel her whole body start to quake. She pushed the sensation away and said, “Quick as we can, ladies.”

Joanna and Catherine started by removing Anne’s shoes, dainty little shoes with a pointed toe, grey to match her dress. Even they were spotted with blood. Then her silk stockings were rolled down, taken off and placed with the shoes. All four women set about stripping off the grey damask gown, stained scarlet all the way to the hem. The gown soon joined the sad, little pile and was followed by the red martyr’s kirtle, still sending its silent message. Finally, Bridget removed the few rings still on Anne’s hands, carefully sliding each one off her long fingers, the flesh still slightly warm to the touch.

Eventually the queen lay on the flagstones, only her blood-soaked shift covering her nakedness. “Should we take that off too?” Joanna asked.

“If Master Kingston wishes to send the queen to her grave completely uncovered then he may do that himself. We will not,” Bridget replied.

They rewrapped the body and placed it back in the chest and waited for the return of the constable. And waited and waited. “If he does not return soon,” observed Lady Lee, “it will be gone noon and past time for Mass.”

Sure enough, it was past noon by the time a harried Kingston returned with two men, one a petulant-looking fellow, carrying a shovel, and the other a scowling chaplain.

He glanced at the pile of clothes and jewellery and asked, “Is that all?”

Bridget, her temper rising to the surface, answered, “Yes, sir, we would not steal your perquisites from you. You are welcome to check Her Majesty’s body yourself if you do not wish to take our word.”

Kingston blanched at the prospect of that and said nothing. He directed the gravedigger towards the chancel, where he set about lifting the paving stone. He made short work of the dirt beneath and soon had fashioned a relatively deep hole for the queen to lie in. The four ladies picked up the chest and processed down the centre of the church, the chaplain walking before them. They laid the box in the grave and each took a handful of earth to sprinkle over the top. They linked their arms and prayed as one as the gravedigger took up his shovel again and the elm chest was lost to sight.

The chaplain said as brief a prayer as possible over the resting place of Queen Anne, and the small congregation bowed their heads in silence. Once he finished speaking, the chancel stone was dragged over the soft earth. It settled into place with a thud. The digger, the chaplain, and Kingston left as hurriedly as they could, the latter bidding a respectful farewell to the women before he departed. The four stood quietly, none of them quite sure what to do next. It seemed wrong to just walk away and leave Anne lying under the bare stone slab. Then Bridget remembered that she had seen a rose bush outside before they had entered the church. She rushed out the door and picked four buds as fast as she could, before anyone noticed and told her that it was against the rules of the Tower to pick the roses. At that moment, Bridget did not care about rules.

She carried the little red flowers inside and gave one each to Joanna, Catherine, and Lady Lee. Weeping openly, each lady placed the rose on top of the slab, their falling tears forming little dewdrops on the petals. Bridget was the last to place her flower. She stepped forward, performed a deep curtsey, and laid the rose delicately upon the grey stone.

“Goodbye, Your Majesty,” she said. “We will always remember you”. Joanna helped her to her feet, and together the foursome walked out of the dark chapel and into the daylight.

The women were escorted back to the queen’s apartments by the faithful Captain Gwynn in order to collect the remainder of their possessions. Lady Kingston was already present when they arrived, presumably to make sure they took nothing that was not theirs.

The rooms emitted a peculiar, empty atmosphere and Bridget did not want to spend a minute longer in them than she had to. She hurriedly packed her few dresses and undergarments and helped Joanna pack hers. Lady Kingston was regarding her strangely and kept asking if she would like some help or perhaps a cup of wine. Nonplussed by the questions, Bridget declined the offers and then she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Anne’s mirror.

A different girl looked back at her from the burnished steel. Her dark eyes were wild, red-rimmed, and haunted. Lines that had never been there before had formed around her mouth and across her brow. Her blonde hair had half unpinned itself and lay disarranged around her shoulders. But it was not these things that had caused Lady Kingston’s reaction. It was the blood.

There were smears of it across her cheek, her chin, the bridge of her nose, and her hairline. With mounting dread, she looked down at herself and noticed, for the first time, that her hands were stained red, as was her dark blue dress. She lifted her hem and saw that her shoes were soaked with gore, especially the soles. She was drenched, from top to toe, in Anne’s blood.

Bridget went hot, then cold, and she could feel her heart galloping in her chest. The chamber seemed to be receding from view and she could not hold a thought in her head. From far away she could hear Joanna call her name and she feebly tried to reach out to her. Then there was only darkness.

She opened her eyes what felt like hours later to find herself lying on the floor, three concerned faces looking down at her. There was a loud buzzing noise in her ears, as if a swarm of bees had invaded her brain. For a second, she could not remember who or where she was. Then she put her red hand to her forehead and it all came rushing back. The rough-hewn scaffold. The sword flashing down. The queen’s body slumped in her own blood. Anne’s head in the straw and then lying in her own hands. Her body under the slab. It had all happened just a few short hours ago and now, because of all that horror, she had ended up lying on the floor with people staring down at her.

“What happened to me?” Bridget said, struggling to her feet, but Lady Lee insisted she stay where she was.

“You fainted, Mistress Manning. It’s best that you do not move for a little while. I have sent Joanna to fetch some wine. Look, here she is with it.”

Bridget accepted the cup and took a deep mouthful from it. She did not realise how thirsty she was, nor how hungry, not surprising considering she had eaten nothing since last night. She was offered some bread and she chewed it eagerly, and soon the restorative effect of the wine began to take hold. Her heart was no longer hammering and the sound of the bees in her brain were fading away. Embarrassment at her predicament now set in.

“I am so sorry,” Bridget said, swallowing the last of the bread and rising to her feet. “I do not know what came over me.”

Lady Kingston gave her a look of unexpected sympathy. “You have had a very . . . difficult day, my dear. There is no need to apologise. Now, if you are feeling up to it, it is imperative that you all take your leave, else you will miss the tide.”

“Yes, you are right, Lady Kingston, we can leave now, and we must not miss the tide. I am perfectly well. Everything is packed, is it not?” Joanna and Catherine nodded in unison “Then let us go.” Now that she had her wits about her again, Bridget was anxious to get out of this awful place.

“Do you have a boat organised?” Lady Lee asked. “Because if not you are most welcome to come with me.”

Bridget smiled for the first time in what felt like an age and thanked Lady Lee for her kindness. The quartet took their leave of Lady Kingston, picked up their bags, and left the royal apartments for good. Bridget sighed in relief as the door closed behind them.

At the bottom of the stairs, leading to the courtyard, stood Will Redcliff. He was leaning against a wall, his brown cap in his hand. He looked up when he saw Bridget descending the steps and an uncertain smile, half hope, half dread, broke out across his features. “Bridget! I have been waiting here so long that I thought you must have already left. My master’s boat leaves for Greenwich soon. There is a place for you on it, if you would like that.”