The Last Heiress (59 page)

“But Norris and Weston have long been with the Tudor household.

Henry Norris is hardly of an age to dally, and far too much of a gentleman to do so,” Elizabeth declared.

“And he denied any misbehavior, but he was tried with Weston, Brereton, and the musician. If the queen were one for dallying—and none believed it of her, though they would say nothing aloud—

Smeaton would have been the most likely candidate for her bed. He is young and beautiful. They tortured him dreadfully, and he told them what they wanted to hear: that he had committed adultery with the queen. But all know it to be a lie. Lord Rochford was tried separately for incest with her. All were condemned.”

“Dear God!” Elizabeth’s eyes were wide with her shock. “The queen?”

“Arrested May second and taken to the Tower. She was tried on the fifteenth of the month and found guilty of infidelity and adultery. She was also charged with having plotted the king’s death by means of witchcraft, sabotage of the succession, of committing sins too vile to enumerate, of bringing dishonor on her husband, the king, and her daughter, the lady Elizabeth, not to mention the realm itself.”

“The lady Elizabeth? Not the princess Elizabeth?” Baen asked. He was both fascinated and horrified by the tale Flynn Stewart was telling. He sensed there was no happy ending to it, and his wife was going to be devastated. Reaching out, he took her hand in his.

“Nay, the lady Elizabeth,” Flynn continued. “A new Parliament was called to legislate changing the succession. Old Crum found corrupt witnesses only too willing to testify lies and supply false evidence against the queen that would support their charges. She was condemned, of course, and sentenced to die by burning or beheading, to be decided by the king.”

Elizabeth cried out as if in pain. “Dear God, could he not simply let the church dissolve his marriage, and let her go into exile in France?

Why was it necessary to condemn her to death?” She was beginning to weep. Baen’s arm went about her.

Flynn Stewart looked to Baen. The look asked if he should continue on with his terrible story. Baen nodded silently, and the Scotsman spoke again. “When Lord Rochford was tried separately, it is said his own wife testified he had told her that his sister laughed, saying that the king had bouts of impotence. She also hinted that her husband and the queen had been incestuous with each other.”

“Never!” Elizabeth burst out. “Anne loved the king, and was loyal to him.”

“On May seventeenth the five men were beheaded on Tower Green. Smeaton and Brereton were quartered afterwards. The queen was forced to observe. On the day she had been condemned, Archbishop Cranmer had pronounced the king and queen’s marriage invalid based on consanguinity because of his relationship with her sister. And the queen’s daughter was therefore declared illegitimate.”

“Would that Cranmer had been so scrupulous before he crowned Anne England’s queen,” Elizabeth said bitterly. “How will he, I wonder, answer to God for his part in this terrible travesty?” Her gaze engaged Flynn’s. “She dead, isn’t she?”

He nodded.

“Tell me!”

“When she was placed in the Tower they gave her four attendants, none friendly to her. Margaret Lee was allowed to lodge there, but forbidden from seeing the queen. I believe that the constable of the Tower, William Kingston, did let the queen and her friend have brief moments together. They say the queen was half-mad at this point.

Sometimes she made great sense, and other times she babbled. It was her fear, of course. She feared for her child, and made an apology to the lady Mary for any unhappiness she had caused her. She begged that the lady Mary watch over the lady Elizabeth. She made a final confession and took communion, declaring she was innocent of all charges. Even the priest attending her declared privately that the queen was an innocent woman.

“On the morning of the nineteenth day of May, she dressed herself in a beautiful gray brocade gown and pinned her hair beneath a black velvet cap trimmed with pearls. Sir William escorted her to the scaf-fold, where she removed her cap and then mounted the block. The courtyard was filled with spectators. They poured out of the court and down the hill and surrounded the White Tower. No foreigners were allowed, at the king’s command. The day was sunny and bright. The king would not allow her to be burned, and brought a swordsman from Calais for the execution. Kingston allowed Margaret Lee to be one of the four women escorting her. The queen gave her her book of devo-tions. They say she spoke bravely at the end. I was not there, for no foreigners were permitted. My account was given to me by one of Cromwell’s secretaries, who accompanied his master to the execution.

Norfolk was there also.”

“Aye, he would have been, wretched man!” Elizabeth said angrily.

She could not cry now. She would cry later, when she was alone.

“The king married Jane Seymour almost immediately afterwards,”

Flynn told them. “So now it is Queen Jane.”

“Was she at least buried with some honor?” Elizabeth wanted to know.

“Not really. No coffin had been prepared. Her women took her head and wrapped it in a cloth. It was placed with her body in an old arrow box that was found. She is interred in the Church of St. Peter ad Vincula in the tower. Elizabeth, I am so sorry to have been the bearer of such awful tidings, but I knew you would want to know. Not from wicked gossip, but the truth.”

Elizabeth stood up and looked at him. “Thank you,” she said quietly, and then she left the hall. But still the tears would not come.

Anne Boleyn, that ambitious and frightened young woman, was dead.

Anne, her friend. Her heart felt like a stone in her chest. She would never go south of Carlisle again.

The following morning she bade Flynn Stewart farewell, and wished him good fortune in his marriage. Then she sent a messenger to Otterly begging her uncle to come at once.

Thomas Bolton did not dally. There had been rumors, of course, just reaching the remote manors of the north. Elizabeth’s message had mentioned a visitor from court. He and Will cantered across the hills to Friarsgate to learn what had transpired. When his niece had concluded her tale, Lord Cambridge shook his head wearily. “I have grown too old,” he said, “to comprehend the ways of the mighty. God rest Queen Anne, dear girl. As your Scots friend has said, many believed her innocent, and I do too. The king’s behavior was vengeful and cruel, but then the best influence upon Henry Tudor was the princess of Aragon. Have you cried yet? You must weep your heart out, my angel, or you will get sick, I fear.”

“I cannot cry, Uncle. I am yet numb,” Elizabeth told him.

Lord Cambridge lingered at Friarsgate for several days, and on the morning he was to return to Otterly a messenger arrived from the Countess of Witton with a letter for Elizabeth. Opening it, she read it, and suddenly Elizabeth began to weep. She shook with the great tearing sobs that came forth from her heart and soul. Astounded, Baen, Lord Cambridge, and Will could but wait until she had ceased her sorrow.

Finally Thomas Bolton ventured, “Dearest girl, what has your sister written that had sent you into such great grief?”

Elizabeth looked up from the parchment and said, “She left Hughie her lute, Uncle.”

And Lord Cambridge nodded. “Let none speak evil of this unfortunate queen to any in this family,” he said quietly. “For all the ill spoken of her, she was a good woman.” He enfolded Elizabeth within his embrace. “Now, dear girl, you have wept for your friend, and must move on again with your life. Let me see you smile, my darling Elizabeth. It is what she would want. Anne Boleyn never lived her life in halfhearted fashion. She lived it with gusto, with style, with elegance, and you must follow her example. Well, perhaps not entirely, dear girl.” And he kissed her on the forehead.

Elizabeth began to laugh as suddenly as she had wept. “Oh, Uncle,” she said. “There is no one in the world who can put life in perspective quite as well as you can. Do not ever change.” And she kissed him back on his ruddy cheek.

“Dear girl, at my age change becomes quite difficult, but one should always be ready to change. It is what makes life worth living. I never look behind me, Elizabeth, because I always want to know what is around the next corner. Of course, I have gotten into some difficulties over that trait of mine in years past, have I not, dear Will?”

“Indeed, my lord, you have,” William Smythe agreed dryly, but he was grinning as he said it.

“Well, my angel,” Thomas Bolton said, “it is time for us to begin that tedious journey back to Otterly. I shall come again, for, despite my horror of rustic living, I do absolutely adore Friarsgate. For some reason I always have.” He kissed her once again. “Good-bye, good-bye, my darling girl. Keep well, and keep that Scotsman of yours happy, but I can see how he adores you totally, delicious fellow that he is.”

Elizabeth and Baen moved outside to see Lord Cambridge and his Will off. They stood watching as the two men trotted off down the road on their comfortable matching bay geldings.

“He’s right, you know,” Baen said quietly. “We must move forward with our life. You were never comfortable with the court, Elizabeth.”

“Nay, I wasn’t,” she agreed. Then she said, “It’s almost Midsummer, husband. Do you remember that first Midsummer we spent together?”

“Aye,” he said slowly, “I do. Do you wish to revisit that summer, Bessie?” he asked her, a slow smile creasing his face.

“Nay, I wish to move forward and make new Midsummer memories, Baen MacColl.” And, picking up her blue skirts, Elizabeth began to run towards the lake meadow, stopping but briefly to turn and shout at the man following after her, “And do not call me Bessie!”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bertrice Small
is a
New York Times
bestselling author and the recipi-ent of numerous writing awards. In keeping with her profession, she lives in the oldest English-speaking town in the state of New York, founded in 1640, and works in a light-filled studio surrounded by the paintings of her favorite cover artist, Elaine Duillo. Because she believes in happy endings, Bertrice Small has been married to the same man, her hero, George, for forty-two years. They have a son, a daughter-in-law, and three adorable grandchildren. Longtime readers will be happy to know that Nicki the Cockatiel flourishes along with his fellow housemates, Pookie, the long-haired greige and white feline, Honeybun, the petite orange lady cat with the cream-colored paws, and Finnegan, the naughty black kitty.