Anne Boleyn: A Novel (42 page)

Two of the women helped her disembark. A company of yeomen were drawn up with the Governor, waiting to close in on her. She mounted the steps up from Traitor’s Gate, stepping with care, the woman Cosyns’ hand under her elbow. And then she came face to face with Kingston.

“She is in your charge,” Norfolk said. “Keep her strictly.”

Anne stood there, aware of the women at her side and behind her, fighting a rising impulse to shriek with terror, feeling the high gray walls closing in on her and the ground moving under her feet. Then the threat of collapse receded; Kingston’s face swam into focus, bearded and sharp-eyed, pitiless as stone. Her Uncle Norfolk had re-entered the barge and was leaving her. It was impossible, she said to herself firmly, quite impossible. She had been at Greenwich Palace less than two hours before; she could not possibly be standing in the precincts of the Tower...The Tower. Smeaton was in the Tower. And Norreys.

“Come, Madame.”

She stared at the Governor, her lips quivering.

“Master Kingston, shall I go into a dungeon?”

If Henry did that to her she would go mad; she knew it. She would lose her mind if they shut her in one of those rat-infested holes, where no daylight ever penetrated...

“No, Madame, you shall go into the lodgings you lay in at your coronation.”

“It is too good for me...Jesus, have mercy on me...”

To his astonishment she burst out laughing. She stood there with her hand to her throat and shook with laughter, while the tears ran down her face. Kingston was at a loss. He looked at her aunt. Lady Boleyn, for some assistance, and that determined lady took Anne’s wrist in a firm grip, and began to lead her forward. The company of yeomen fell in on either side of her and Kingston offered her his arm, a courtesy he had not intended showing her, but the wretched woman looked as if she were about to fall. The fit of hysteria passed as they moved out toward the incline leading to the royal apartments on Tower Green.

Henry had not sent her to a dungeon. Henry had allowed her to rest in rooms she knew. Another fear returned, nagging at her.

“Have you seen my brother, Lord Rochford?”

He avoided the wide eyes, bright with terror, and said shortly: “I saw him at York Place this morning, Madame.”

He could not bring himself to tell her that her brother had entered the Tower a few hours before.

“Why don’t you admit it?” Lady Boleyn asked. “Lying won’t save you, or them. Confession might!”

“I have nothing to confess! I’m innocent!”

“Smeaton told everything,” Mrs. Cosyns reminded her. “So did that fine courtier...they’ve already given you away.”

“They lie! They lie, there’s nothing to confess against me...I’ve done nothing!”

“Weeping won’t move the jury when you come to trial,” said Lady Boleyn. “We pity you, in spite of what you’ve done. But they won’t. And the more you persist in denying, the less hope you have. Come, calm yourself and think. Smeaton and Norreys weren’t the only ones, were they? There were other men; you weren’t content with only two...who else were your lovers?”

“No one! Oh, merciful God, You know that’s true...I had no lovers...”

“But men were in love with you,” said Mrs. Cosyns. “You can’t deny that!”

“That’s not my fault...It’s not a crime...If Norreys loved me, they can’t kill him and me for that!”

“How do you know he loved you?” That was Mrs. Stonor’s gentle voice. “How can anyone believe anything you say...”

“Because I know it! I said it to him once, I said, ‘You look to have me...’“

“The Queen is becoming hysterical again,” Lady Boleyn said. “Fetch her some water. Now, Madame, drink this. And what did Norreys say?”

“He denied it...He was afraid. Everyone was afraid toward the end...Only Francis; Francis used to laugh and try to cheer me...Francis never cared for anything.”

“Which Francis was this? I’ll take the cup—which Francis?”

“Weston...Francis Weston. Why do you keep questioning me? For God’s sake have pity and leave me alone...Get out of my room and leave me alone!”

“You know that’s not allowed,” Cosyns admonished. “We have our orders, Madame, and you’re not to be left alone even for a minute. Tell us about Weston. He’s that handsome young knight who was always with you, isn’t he? Was he in love with you too?”

“I don’t know...no, I don’t think so...he was always joking...”

“Did he say he loved you as a jest? It must have been a jest, Madame; he knew you wouldn’t have him near you otherwise.”

“Of course he knew! He knew I’d never be unfaithful to the King...”

“Try not to mumble so, it’s difficult to hear,” said Mrs. Stonor. “Speak up, Madame. Your handkerchief’s in your sleeve...there, in the left one. What did you say to him?”

“I told him he ought to love his wife better than he did...Ah, by God, I’d learned to pity wives whose husbands looked at other women by that time! He was always hanging after Meg Shelton. I reproved him, do you hear! I told him he had no right to love anyone but his wife...”

“Let her calm down a little,” Lady Boleyn whispered quickly. “She can have all the fits of hysteria she wants when we’ve got this out of her...” She raised her voice.

“Don’t distress yourself, Madame. You did quite right to rebuke him, quite right. And what did he say to that?”

“He only laughed. He was never serious...he said he loved someone better than Meg or his wife.”

“And that was yourself, of course,” said Mrs. Stonor.

“That’s what he said. He laughed and said, ‘Yourself.’ I remember how angry I was with him...”

“Naturally,” Mrs. Stonor soothed, “naturally. It was a terrible thing to say.”

“It was a joke! Only a joke! The wretch wanted to wriggle out of what I’d said to him...he was always like that. We both laughed over it together afterward; he even promised me not to seduce Meg.”

“He was a seducer, then?” Lady Boleyn queried.

“No, no, not in that way...Francis wasn’t wicked; you know what I mean, you know what young men are with women...”

“No woman is safe from their lusts,” Mrs. Cosyns said. “We know, Madame, we know how difficult it was for you...”

“Difficult? What do you mean, difficult...I did nothing...Francis only said...oh, Mother of Jesus, what are you doing to me? What am I saying? Stop it...stop it...”

“Shut the window,” Lady Boleyn ordered quickly, “or we’ll have Kingston up here if he hears her shriek like this. We’d better leave her alone now.”

“Master Cromwell said we were to get everything out of her,” Cosyns insisted stubbornly. “Now is the best time; she’s apt to say anything. If you can’t stand the crying out, my Lady, Stonor and I can continue without you.”

“You know why this is? You know the real reason why I’m here? I lost the King’s son!”

“Don’t clutch at me like that, Madame, you’ll tear my dress,” Mrs. Stonor said. “That was the time His Grace fell at the joust, wasn’t it?”

“Norfolk did it, Norfolk, my own uncle! He said the King was dead, and I miscarried...Stonor, he frightened me till I lost the child...I tried to tell the King, I tried...”

“Of course you were frightened...thinking His Grace was dead...Sir William Brereton must have struck him very hard to give him such a fall. But he didn’t do it purposely, Madame, nobody thinks that...”

“Brereton...Brereton? Didn’t do what purposely?”

“Try to kill the King.”

“Kill the King! Oh, God above, Will wouldn’t touch a hair of anyone’s head, however much he sympathized with me! Will wasn’t like Norreys, Will was always gentle...”

“Norreys was more violent, then,” the quiet voice prodded. “If the King had died, would he have married you, do you think, Madame? Would Norreys have married you? No one could blame him for wanting the Queen for his wife...”

“How could he, Stonor? How could he think of filling dead men’s shoes? Nothing could happen to the King...Oh, how my head aches...Stonor, Stonor, when will I ever sleep again, when will I ever get some rest...Stonor! Where is my brother?”

“Lie back and calm yourself. No no, Madame, lie back! Your brother’s well enough.”

“Where is he? Why haven’t I had word from him? Don’t lie to me, for the love of God! Tell me what’s happened to him...I know something’s happened to him...”

The two women looked at each other. The senior, Mrs. Cosyns, nodded. Their work was done; there was no point in holding back the truth any longer. Her strength was at an end; when she found out, it was unlikely they’d get anything coherent from her for some time...

“Lord Rochford’s in the Tower.”

“What did you say? Stonor, what did you say?”

“He’s in the Tower, Madame. He’s been here for the last two days.”

“In the Tower? All this time? No wonder he didn’t send word...But he’s close to me. I’m glad he’s close to me.”

“Fetch Lady Boleyn, Cosyns. Tell her the Queen’s fainted!”

“I forbid you to tell me anything about her, Thomas!” Henry cut the Secretary short in the middle of a sentence. They were at York Place, standing together in the room which had been Anne’s privy chamber, the fine room facing the gardens at the back.

“I want no account of her tears or lying protests,” the King repeated. “Just report on the charges and the prisoners.”

“Weston and Brereton are in the Tower, Your Grace,” Cromwell explained. “Sent there by her confessions to the ladies guarding her. So are two more: her cousin, Thomas Wyatt, and Sir Richard Page, another gentleman of your chamber.”

“Why those two?” Henry asked, frowning. He was fond of Page; Page had been friendly enough with her in the old days, but the friendship had cooled when Henry’s favor was withdrawn. Page was innocent. He did not want anything to happen to Page. He would have Page released anyway.

“What is the charge against Wyatt?”

“Infidelity with the Queen before marriage, Sire. It was common gossip through the court for years.”

“So common that even I heard it,” Henry retorted sharply. “Is there evidence against him since?”

“Why, no,” Cromwell shook his head, “but surely the fact that before she was Queen he had...”

“If we were to behead every man who knew her before I did, there’d be no heads left in England! Don’t let your zeal carry you away, friend. Wyatt was my rival in the past; he had as much right to her then as I had, may God forgive us both. Would you have me pointed out as taking revenge for that old rivalry, now, after all these years? Be careful, Thomas, lest you hurt my dignity!”

Cromwell managed a nervous smile. He had begun to sweat as Henry talked. It was becoming more difficult to fathom the workings of that mind, and more dangerous to make even small mistakes. He had thought Henry would be gratified to hear of Anne’s disintegration in the Tower, to know that whatever his private grudge against her was, it was being amply satisfied. Kingston wrote, faithfully reporting everything she said and did, and that guard of watchful harridans had twisted her inside out with their trap questions and their mental torturing. Far more effective than the rack; she’d appear at her trial without a bruise on her body, convicted out of her own mouth...He had been taken by surprise when the King stopped his recital of her raving and distress and heaved an inward sigh. The mood had changed. The mood of frantic spite was masked under an air of false impartiality; even of pained disgust. To Cromwell, of all men, he was insisting that he believed the charges.

Now he objected to two of the victims, two legitimate victims, in the Secretary’s opinion. Both Protestants, both friends of Anne, one indeed her cousin and former lover...

“Have Page and Wyatt released,” the King ordered. “No man shall point at my justice. Only the guilty are to suffer, Thomas. I say these two are innocent.”

“As you command, Sire.”

“When will the trials begin?”

“The four commoners stand trial at Westminster on the twelfth. The Queen and her brother will come before their judges at the Tower on the fifteenth. My Lord Norfolk will preside over a panel of twenty-six peers. It was thought expedient to exempt her father from this duty...if Your Grace agrees.”

“No man shall point me out for cruelty, either,” Henry answered. “Wiltshire is excused. Anything else? No further evidence or suspects?”

“None, Sire.”

“Excellent, Thomas. You may go now.”

When Cromwell left him, Henry went to the window and stood looking out over the formal gardens; they were green and colorful in the May sunshine and a small fountain in the paved court in the center scattered water like a shower of diamonds. Wolsey had taken pride in those gardens, long before the King had enlarged and improved them, as he did with Hampton when he took it from his Minister. Wolsey had loved gardens, as he loved architecture. Henry used to see him poring over the builder’s plans, making suggestions, and going out to supervise the gardeners’ work.

Wolsey, he had been fond of Wolsey once. He could remember their long talks together, the jokes they shared, the enthusiasms, the plans to advance England at the expense of France...Wolsey had always distrusted the French, and he was right. They had abandoned their alliance...

He could remember the wars, when the priest plotted and directed the campaigns with the skill of any general in the field.

He could remember many things, standing in the house which had once been Wolsey’s, in the room where she had sat by the fireplace, forcing an account of the Cardinal’s death out of Northumberland and Kingston.

It was fitting that Kingston should be her jailer and ironic too, like some punishment devised by the ancient gods. It proved yet again that she was responsible for the harsh end of his old friend and faithful servant. Wolsey had not betrayed his interests; he had only fought hers, seeing, most likely, what Henry himself saw-now. That she was evil and unworthy...that the union would never be blessed by God.

His fists clenched slowly; he stared out over the pleasant vista from the window and saw nothing but her face, gazing up at him from the pillow, with the disappointment lurking in her eyes...her face set in anger, in pleading, in pain...Her face, covered by a false mask of desire with her anxiety showing through it, the face he had thought the most beautiful in the world, and come to hate until he longed to disfigure it with blows...