For the Love of Anne Page 14

  Anne wondered why this was happening, wondered what she had done that someone would tell such lies about her. She did not believe Mark had invented these tales; he was not bright enough. They must have hurt him, must have tortured him, promised him his freedom if he complied.

  It was Cromwell, it had to be. But their argument about the funds from the monasteries was hardly enough to make him want to destroy her so utterly. It had to be the King, but did Henry really believe these terrible tales? Could he? Nothing happened without the King’s orders and consent, so he must do, he must believe these lies.

  She had to see him; she had to convince him of her innocence. If he believed she had betrayed him with so many, even with her own brother, he must have been devastated. He needed her, needed her solace and her assurance.

  “I want to see the King,” she said through an ache in her throat. “I want to see my husband.”

  “The King will not see you,” said the Duke. “These are his orders.”

  Of course he would not see her. Did he see Katherine once he had dismissed her from his sight, despite her pleas for an audience? Did he see Sir Thomas More once he had condemned him?

  She knew Henry, knew him well, and she knew that if he really believed the things they were saying, he would hide himself away, bury his shame beneath his bedcovers and stay there. But he had gone out, she saw him go that very morning. So no, he did not believe these ludicrous tales; they were merely convenient.

  She always suspected he would get rid of her one day; she never thought he would use such a craven method.

  He would not see Anne, and that fact told her that her end was in sight. She had always known that, like all bullies, the King was an emotional coward. Oh, he was brave enough on the battlefield; that was expected of him, but when it came to dealing with the pain he might have caused, he would give his orders then leave the dirty business of carrying them out to others, while he forgot those he had condemned. He was likely out hunting, or visiting with the Seymour trollop, while his wife, the woman to whom he had promised eternal devotion, the woman for whom he had torn the nation apart, was given no opportunity to even plead her case before him.

  She was silent in the barge as it made its way from Greenwich to the Tower, her mind busy with ways she could persuade the King that he still loved her. And she was afraid that they would take her through that gate below St Thomas’ Tower, the one that people were calling ‘Traitors’ Gate’. But she was still a Queen and when they arrived, she took the hand of Sir William Kingston, the constable of the Tower, to help her onto dry land.

  She wanted to ask him if she was going to a prison cell, but she was afraid of what he would say. She had her answer when they led her through to the private entrance and the royal apartments, the same apartments where she had been housed whilst awaiting her coronation, less than three years ago.

  It was such a brief time. Anne had returned from France, fallen in love with Harry Percy, had her heart broken by powerful men, been pursued by the King of England and crowned Queen, all in the space of some eight years.

  She recalled her first glimpse of Katherine, how she had pitied her, how it had occurred to her that she would never want to be in her place. Yet here she was, in that very place, but in more danger than Katherine could ever have been.

  There were only three years since her marriage to Henry, since he had married her in secret because he could wait no longer, married her whilst still legally wed to Katherine. She wondered then if he would use it to break his vow when it suited him, had even challenged him with it.

  Never, was what he had told her. Never would he betray her. He would love her forever, she had his word, he swore to it. She could remind him of that, if she were ever allowed to see him, to speak to him. But that was likely why that would not be allowed, because Henry did not like to be challenged, did not like to be reminded of his past promises. He would doubtless find some excuse to forsake those promises and he would be sure it was God’s will.

  As the small party entered the royal apartments, several unfamiliar ladies curtsied. She knew none of them, none save one, her aunt, Lady Boleyn, another relative who despised her.

  She spun around, glared at the Duke.

  “Where are my ladies?” she demanded.

  “Your household has been broken up,” he replied. “These are the attendants the King has approved.”

  She turned away, sank down into a window seat and tried to concentrate on the view outside the window. Henry had chosen these women, or Cromwell had, to report back to him everything she did or said. There was no other explanation for him giving to attend her not only strangers, save an aunt who was almost as much of an enemy as the Duke himself.

  Her household had been disassembled and that could only mean one thing; she had already been found guilty.

  She would not look up until she heard the two men leave.

  HARRY PERCY HEARD THE news from his servants; the Queen had been arrested for high treason. The details of the charges included adultery and incest, as well as plotting the death of the King.

  Harry’s lip began to tremble as he dismissed his servant and turned away. His heart almost stopped, not only because of the ludicrous nature of the charges, but because he knew that, as the Earl of Northumberland, he would be called upon to sit on the jury that would condemn her. And condemn her they must, because that was what the King wanted and they all knew well what happened to people who defied the King.

  Harry’s health had worsened greatly this past year and he could only hope to be too ill to have anything to do with the proceedings.

  He lay down on his bed, stared up at the heavily embroidered canopy above his bed, and felt the tears gathering about his ears and soaking his hair at the nape. He could not help it; the idea of his beautiful Anne, locked up in the Tower, unfairly judged by a panel of her enemies, was just too much.

  If only they had been left alone to marry, to build a household and a family, as they wanted, she would be safe now. If only that overweight, over-decorated, lecherous King, with more power than any one man should be allowed, had not taken a fancy to her, they could have led a happy life together, far from London and the interference of ambitious men.

  Harry felt that if anyone would like to murder the King, it was him. Between the King and Wolsey, his life had been ruined and now he found that Anne’s, too, was left in tatters. He had drawn solace, all these years, from assuring himself that at least she was happy, even if he was not. Now even that small comfort was to be ripped away from him.

  He did not expect to live for much longer; he was in so much pain most of the time, life was hardly worth living and he knew of one person who would celebrate on his death, his wife, Mary.

  They had not met in years, but she was still his countess and would still have inherited a fortune on his death, which was one reason he had tied up his estate so that it all went to the King. There were other reasons, mainly his brothers. He wanted neither one of them to have the title and estate; he disliked them both but their adherence to the Pope and the old religion was enough to make him cut them out of his life.

  He wanted to help Anne, but there was nothing he could do. He knew she was innocent; he had no evidence for that, none whatever, but he felt it. The crimes for which she would stand trial for her life were crimes which she could never have committed.

  Harry was still grieving the injustice when he received a visit from a close and long standing acquaintance from the north of England, Sir Reynold Carnaby. Harry was surprised when his servant announced Sir Reynold; thinking quickly, he could find no reason for such a visit, unless the man was in London for some business of his own and thought to pay his respects.

  He was soon to learn that he was not to be spared involvement in the King’s latest schemes.

  The two men shook hands, wine was offered and they sat. All the time Sir Reynold showed hesitation in his expression and body language, but Harry was in no mood to placate him, to help him. If
he had something specific to say, he needed to say it and be gone.

  “I have come,” said Sir Reynold, “on the orders of Secretary Cromwell.”

  “Ah,” said Harry. “And just what does Master Secretary want with me?”

  “You have heard, of course, that Queen Anne has been arrested, that she resides in the Tower awaiting trial on charges of treason.”

  “I would have to be deaf and blind not to have heard,” snapped Harry.

  He was still churning inside about Anne’s present predicament and did not feel like discussing the subject with anyone, certainly not a man who came to him on orders from the King’s little puppy dog. If he broke down before this man, the whole of the court would know about by sunset and Harry would find himself charged with sympathising or some such rubbish. He might even join the other unfortunate and innocent men accused with Anne.

  “The King wants his marriage to the Lady Anne annulled,” said Sir Reynold.

  “Does he? Tis bewildering how marriages seem to be easily erased when they no longer suit.”

  Sir Reynold must have sensed some deep feeling in Harry, for his tone lowered to one of empathy and he reached out a hand to cover that of his host. Harry made no move to withdraw, merely let his eyes settle on the hand that held his.

  “If it can be proved that the marriage was never lawful, was no marriage, it could save the lady’s life.”

  Harry stared at him in disbelief. He had always had a talent for sensing when someone was lying and that talent came to his aid now. He was being lied to and he knew it.

  “Sir Reynold,” he said, “the Queen is under arrest for high treason; her so-called accomplices are under arrest with her. The King would look very silly now if he were to release her and declare he was never married to her. Just what do you want of me, Sir?”

  “Secretary Cromwell thinks of the pre-contract you had with the Queen before she married King Henry. He needs your evidence to prove it.”

  Harry rarely flew into a rage; such a thing used up too much energy. But now he slammed his goblet onto the side table, splashing red wine into the air and over his guest. He jumped to his feet, his cheeks growing a deep red with the fury which overcame him.

  “Four years ago, my wife started a petition on the same grounds. There was an enquiry then, an enquiry ordered by the King himself, and I responded to that petition, before the Archbishops York and Canterbury, as well as the Duke of Norfolk. I swore on oath and took the sacrament to show that there was no such contract.” He paused to take a deep breath, to try to calm his temper. “It suited the King then to believe me. I cannot be held accountable if the same does not suit him now.”

  He went to the door and called his servant.

  “Please show Sir Reynold out,” he ordered. “And do not disturb me again.”

  When his visitor had left, he sat at his desk with quill and ink and repeated his statement in a letter to Secretary Cromwell. He considered it prudent, however, to omit any reference to the King.

  ANNE SAID LITTLE FOR the first day. Her mind was too busy for speech, too crowded with thoughts of how she came to be here and when she looked about the apartments, she remembered being here before, awaiting her coronation.

  That was less than three years ago, when the King had loved her, or said he did. She was expecting their first child and he was ecstatic, so sure it would a son. But it was not a son, it was Elizabeth.

  Anne’s heart skipped a beat as the image of that little girl crept into her mind, replacing all others. She was so pretty, so dear, the most important person in Anne’s life and she longed to hold her in her arms, to kiss her sweet cheeks, to hold her close. But she would never be allowed to do that again, and what would become of Elizabeth when her mother was no more? The memory of what happened to the Princess Mary, Henry’s elder daughter, was vivid. He had stripped her of her status, of her titles, disassembled her household and put her in Elizabeth’s, made her little more than a servant to her younger half sister. He had declared her to be illegitimate, having made much of her all her life. Anne could expect no better treatment for Elizabeth.

  Henry might send his wife to a nunnery, but that would bring her no closer to her little daughter.

  She caught back a sob. No, Henry would not want to do that. He would want to erase her altogether, pretend she never existed. That way he could salve his almighty conscience, would never have to think about his interference in her life, how he had pursued her, married her, torn her away from the man she really loved, just to satisfy his lust.

  She had to see him! That was the only way out of this. He had done all those things for her, he must have loved her. It was not merely lust, not just a petulant child wanting his own way at all costs, surely not.

  If she could see him, talk to him, tell him she loved him, his ego would not be able to resist. She had never told him she loved him, never once, not even in the throes of the passion that he was able to ignite on rare occasions. She never told him because it was not true; she had no love for him, but there was no need for him to know that.

  She sent for Master Kingston.

  “I wish to see the King, my husband,” she said. “Will you send a message for me?”

  He made no reply for a few seconds, then he gave her a quick bow.

  “I will do my best, Your Grace,” he said quietly.

  That did not sound very encouraging, Anne thought. But perhaps he had no authority and had to go through other channels, Cromwell probably. Was her future now in the hands of a man who was once her friend? Or a man who was once her lover?

  She turned back to glance around the chamber at the ladies who sat at their embroidery, all except one. Lady Boleyn, her hated aunt, who sat with a prayer book, muttering beneath her breath, as though her display of piety might make Anne believe she was here to comfort her.

  Images filled Anne’s mind, images of the last three years and how she had been the centre of court life, how she had flirted with every man, as was her way. It was a trait Henry had loved about her once, a trait that had attracted him. But what he loved in a mistress, he disliked in a wife.

  It was with the King’s approval that she had given money to his courtiers, and now he would use that generosity against her, he would say she must be intimate with men to give them money. He knew that was a lie, he just knew it.

  “You know what I told Sir Francis Weston,” she said suddenly. “I told him he was spending more time with my cousin, with Madge, that he was with his wife. And do you know what he said?” Her voice had risen hysterically, but no one tried to stop her. Of course not; they were here to report her words to Cromwell. “He said there was one whom he cared for more than either of those ladies, and that was me!” She laughed wildly. “Can you imagine that? They all loved me, you know, every single one of them. They were all madly in love with me, including the King.” She turned to stare at the grey towers outside the window. “I shall soon be released. What can happen to someone who is so well loved?”

  hat very day, Sir Francis Weston was arrested.

  SIR WILLIAM KINGSTON wore an embarrassed expression when he arrived in the royal apartments that morning, a look that told Anne he would rather not be the one to convey this message.

  “I am sorry, Your Majesty,” he said. “His Grace refuses to see you.”

  “His Grace, the King?” she snapped. “Or His Grace, Thomas Cromwell?”

  Kingston flushed, reached out a hand to her, but stopped before he made contact. He wanted to stop her tongue, before she said too much, but he had no right to touch her, no right at all. She was still the Queen, though not for long. Her words were treason and they would soon be relayed to Master Cromwell.

  “Your Majesty, please, be careful,” he said quietly, too quietly for her ladies to hear.

  “I knew it,” said Anne. “He does this; have you noticed? Once he has decided he is right, he has finished with someone, he will never give them the opportunity to change his mind.”

  She
turned to the narrow window, stared out once more at those grey and dismal towers, and she wondered why she was here, wondered what she had done to deserve this. Nothing, that was what, and the charges against her, against her friends were ludicrous. She knew it and the King knew it and likely more importantly, Cromwell knew it. She fervently prayed that one day, that scheming upstart would feel the axe upon his own neck.

  But he dared do nothing without the King’s consent, so Henry must be behind this offence to justice. It was only last year that he had sobbed in her arms when his sister, Mary, had died. He turned to Anne then for comfort, but there was no comfort for her now, no one who might be on her side.

  The truth of it occurred to her then and she wondered why it had taken so long to do so. She spun around, her eyes wide as they met those of Master Kingston who stood in the same place.

  “I know what he is doing!” she declared. “This is because we fought, because I yelled at him in front of his trollop, Seymour. He is doing this to teach me a lesson, that is all. He is doing all this just to frighten me into behaving like a meek simpleton.”

  She sighed deeply, a little smile crept over her mouth and she nodded as she sank down into the window seat.

  “I can play his game,” she said. “I’ll write to him, that’s what I’ll do. Bring me a quill and some paper.”

  Anne sat at the little desk in the corner of her chamber, straightened the paper and took up the quill, dipped it in the ink, then she realised that the eyes of everyone here were on her, boring into her like demons wanting a part of her soul.

  She trusted none of them; they were not her friends, not her ladies, and this letter was private, between a husband and wife. But would an ordinary wife be writing to her husband to beg for her life? She would not.

  Had she married Harry Percy, she would not now be trying to justify crimes that had never been committed. No, she would be that ordinary wife, a wife who was well loved and happy, prepared to grow old with a man she adored.