The Scandal of Christendom
Book Four of Above all Others
The Lady Anne
By G. Lawrence
Copyright © Gemma Lawrence 2018
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this manuscript may be reproduced without Gemma Lawrence's express consent
This book is dedicated to my good friends, Sue Hall and Annette Holman
For your support, loyalty and friendship… given freely, and accepted with gratitude.
“History, like love, is so apt to surround her heroes with an atmosphere of imaginary brightness.”
James Fennimore Cooper
The Last of the Mohicans
Grudge on who list, this is my lot:
Nothing to want if it were not.
My years be young, even as ye see;
All things thereto doth well agree;
In faith, in face, in each degree,
Nothing to want, as seemeth me,
If it were not.
Some men doth say that friends be scarce,
But I have found, as in this case,
A friend which giveth to no man place
But makes me happiest than ever was,
If it were not.
A heart I have, besides all this,
That hath my heart, and I have his,
If he doth will, it is my bliss,
And when we meet no lack there is,
If it were not.
If he can find that can me please,
A-thinks he does his own heart’s ease,
And likewise I could well appease
The chiefest cause of his mis-ease,
If it were not.
A master eke God hath me sent,
To whom my will is wholly lent
To serve and love for that intent
That both we might be well content,
If it were not.
And here an end: it doth suffice
To speak few words among the wise;
Yet take this note before your eyes:
My mirth should double once or twice,
If it were not.
Carol, anon
Attributed to Anne Boleyn
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Epilogue
About the Author
Thank You
Prologue
The Tower of London
The Afternoon of the 18th May 1536
There are voices at the door.
I turn, thinking it is another party from Kingston, or from Cromwell; more spies sent to haunt my steps and record my words. My face settles into a hard mask. I set my shoulders back, ready to face them; ready to show their masters I fear not the devils they send to taunt me. But as the door opens, and a face comes into view, my stiff mask slips.
With a strangled cry, I drop my copy of Tyndale’s New Testament upon my stool, and run to the door. My arms outstretched, my hands shaking, I fly into the arms of the women standing there.
I am enfolded into the embrace of friends.
A twitter of words, like a disorderly refrain of birds heralding the first spring dawn, breaks out. No one is making sense. Everyone speaks at the same time. Words of reassurance, greeting, love and affection spill from lips too eager to wait their turn. My icy resolve shatters and I weep into the plush, velvet shoulder of one of these precious, beloved women. For so long have I sought to maintain this façade of the strong, brave Queen that when it breaks, I feel like a child. I do not know what I cry for; the pain in my heart, or the happiness. They have become one. Like the ancient God Janus, I am chaos and balance bound in one form.
When I look up, my eyes bright with tears, I see Cranmer standing behind them, smiling. His face is gentle… pleased to have brought me happiness in my present world of pain.
I pull back from the women; Margaret Wyatt, Margaret and Mary Shelton, and Nan Gainsford. My women. My friends. Cranmer… my good, sweet Cranmer… He has brought them to me. It is the best present ever I received in a life of opulence and glory.
“What is this?” I ask, struggling to breathe as joy hammers through my blood. “You have been allowed to visit me?”
“Not just to visit, my lady,” says Nan, her lip wobbling. “It has been agreed by the King and Cromwell. We will be with you, until the end.”
Until the end…. Until tomorrow. Tomorrow is where my story ends.
I shake off that thought. What is even the near future to me when the present moment is so glorious? What power can distant enemies hold over me when there are friends at my side? I have been surrounded by none but foes for so long. It is strange and wonderful to look into a face and see not hostility there, but compassion. For a moment I am rendered speechless. Even bitter Death cannot touch me.
Cranmer looks on, in his quiet way, as we bleat like spring lambs. Then he speaks to the women milling about the fire, telling them they are required no longer, for there are new women to serve me in my last hours. They object as he speaks quietly, and then, with a scowl in my direction, they file out of the room one by one. I listen to their st
eps recede with a merry heart. These women have made every moment of my captivity harder to bear. It only makes this moment more joyous to know they will profit no more from my agony.
I grasp Nan’s hands. “I cannot tell you what this means to me.”
“The King agreed it, my lady, on the request of Archbishop Cranmer,” Margaret Wyatt says.
I look up at him, hardly able to see him through my tears. “You have done so much for me, my friend,” I whisper. “How little do I deserve such grace at your hands.”
“You deserve more than I am able to offer, Your Majesty.” Cranmer’s voice dips low as he confers my royal title upon me. Kingston, hovering in the corridor, will not hear my friend honour me by granting me the title that I no longer bear in law. “This is a poor offering, but I hope it will bring you comfort.”
“It is not a poor offering.” I take his hand. “You have offered me friendship in a time of hollow emptiness. You have brought me comfort in a time of trial and suffering. You are the best of men, Thomas… the best of friends. Only one with a heart as pure as yours would understand what I needed the most. And only one with courage as fierce as yours would risk his position by pleading with the King to bring me peace.”
He chokes. Poor man. He is brought low by my suffering. Grief makes his calm voice shake. “You are the greatest Queen that ever England had, my lady. And the greatest woman it has ever been my privilege to know.”
“There are many who would disagree with you, Eminence,” I reply, smiling, a wisp of my old humour rising in my breast.
“Just because some people hold an opinion, Majesty, that does not mean they are correct.”
“There are whispers about London, my lady,” murmurs Margaret Shelton. “Many say you were falsely accused. They say even if you were bent to take a lover, you would never have risked taking so many, and many more do not believe the allegations about your brother.”
George… Margaret sees my face fall, and reaches for my hand. “All of us who know you, madam, know you are here for reasons other than those of which you stand accused.”
I squeeze her hand, wondering, fleetingly, if it would not be better if I were a guilty woman. At least, then, I would be executed because I had betrayed the King. At least it would not be that I had fallen into that old trap, the one I threw Katherine into… The snare sent to trip a woman from Henry’s love, sending her tumbling into the abyss. Long had I seen that chasm opening on the path ahead, but what choice did I have but to go on? I could not go back. Once I was Henry’s wife, there was nothing for me to hold on to but his love. Only at the end did I discover how fragile was the thread of love I clung to.
“I am pleased some believe in my innocence,” I say to Margaret Shelton. “But, I beg you, do not speak of it, even in a whisper. Too many people have died or entered the shadow of disgrace for me. I would not want you to come to any harm.”
“They did not die for you, my lady. They died for Cromwell’s ambition.”
“They died for me,” I say stoutly. “They were part of the blood sacrifice which brought the final blessing. They died because Cromwell knew he could leave none of my supporters to speak for me. They died for me, but their deaths are not on my conscience. My brother, Norris, Brereton, Weston… those innocents lie on Cromwell’s soul. He knew that in order to convince Henry to do this, he had to throw the King into a pit of horror so deep he would never find his way from it. Cromwell did not want me in a nunnery, where I might steal back influence over time. Cromwell was Wolsey’s man once. He watched when the Cardinal fell and learned from my mistakes.”
I stop, realising I have said too much. I must not speak so wildly. No more will die to bring down Anne Boleyn.
“I must leave you, Majesty,” Cranmer says, stooping to kiss my hand. “I am needed at court, but I will return.”
“Thank you again, old friend.” I kneel and kiss the hem of his robes. “God has a special place in His heart for you.”
Cranmer turns his face away. In the sunlight streaming through the windows, I see tears in his eyes, glimmering like the strand of pearls about my throat.
Cranmer leaves and I take my friends to the fire. I do not need to sit in silent reflection about the past anymore. I will keep my voice low, but now I can speak. And perhaps this part of my tale is when I need friends the most. Not only because the end is so near, but because in the times I think of now, I did the worst of my sins.
These were not the sins I was accused of… not the false offences for which I will die. No… These were crimes against Katherine and her daughter… against More and Fisher; sins of silence, pride, fear, of callousness and revenge. I understand what I did and who I hurt. I recognise my sins. I have been granted a precious chance; to confess to friendly faces and, I hope, to find absolution in their love.
I never claimed to be an angel. Mortals are given free will, and they use it so liberally. I acted from fear, from distrust and from the panicked notion that Henry would forsake me. Those were dark days, and when a shadow falls, if it is long enough, it can cast out even the brightest light. Dark days… I became dark with them.
But this was my battle, and in war people do things of which they never thought themselves capable. I do not try to excuse myself, try to slip from the yoke of blame. That is Henry’s way. There is always someone else responsible for his evil. Henry hides in fiction.
Nan stirs the fire, causing bright embers to burst from the hearth, and fly upwards. The golden lights remind me of the bonfires that burned on the night of my coronation, and of another night, when I stood at a window, thinking of the future and the past, my hand resting on the soft bump of a child in my belly. Then, I thought the world would have to change for me, for my family.
I did not know I was a ball of wool, ready to be plucked apart, unravelled on the floor, by the claws of court.
The happy embers float up the chimney, knowing when they reach the skies, they will be free. They will float over London, torn apart by the fresh, crisp wind, and they will touch the heavens. Even though they will burn no more with golden, amber flame, they will be free. Their ghosts will ride the wind. Perhaps their ashes will steal across silvered seas and coast on the breeze to France, or to Mechelen, taking the same journey my life has followed. Soon, my spirit will do the same. I will make my soul light by telling my tale. God will hear me. I hope He has enough generosity in His immortal heart to forgive one who is sorry for all the ill she worked.
The ills I worked… they are many. Katherine once called me the Scandal of Christendom. At the time, I laughed at her scorn, but now I have cause to believe that wise woman had a point. Choices… We all make them for good or for ill. If I had done otherwise, would my fate have been altered? I know not… Destiny has an eerie talent for taking us to the place we were always supposed to be, even if we try to avoid it.
Death wears a cloak, yet He is the master of clarity. Somehow, gazing into that dark cowl reveals more about us than about its master. Staring into that darkness makes everything so clear. With Death so close, much is revealed. Much I must put right before I take the last steps of my journey.
The embers dance. Their ghosts break free of this prison. Over England they will fly this day, settling on the shoulders of people going about their business. As they brush them from their clothing, they will not know whence they came. As they watch them prance over their heads like snowflakes, they will not understand how I envy their freedom.
Dance away on the wings of the wind, little embers. Take the path I once trod. Settle upon forest floors and the walls of great palaces. Float over the heads of the free and the happy. Soon my soul will join you in the skies.
Ghosts… We think they are born of the dead, but it is not always so. Memories linger and people hidden from view come to haunt us. There are many phantoms here; people of the past, lingering thoughts of those yet living. Have I become a ghost already? Perhaps… in the minds of some. Soon I will join the ranks of wraiths hidden here, those ghosts
of the living and the dead who haunted my steps at court.
Yet the light of my life burns still.
For I am ember, not ash.
Chapter One
York Place
Autumn 1530
The great hall glowed bright with brilliant, burning red. Torches and candles illuminated even the darkest shadows. Scarlet velvet and silk were hung from all the walls and handsome fires blazed, casting out the chill, damp air from the autumn night outside. Everything was red… the walls, the fires, the flushed faces of the gloating, laughing courtiers. Red reflected across skin and silk, flickering over whitewashed wall and bright tapestry.
I glanced at Henry. His face was dappled with crimson fire. The centre of court had become a heart in truth; a beating, thumping chamber of blood and flame.
From the dais, Henry and I watched the entertainment my father had arranged: The Spectacle of Calling the Cardinal to Hell. Not the most subtle of pageants, I grant you, but there were many who had cause to think on the demise of Wolsey with glee. Few mourned the Cardinal, and if they did, they did not show it, for honouring the Cardinal was not what this night was about. This was about spite and victory. This was not the calm triumph of a faction who had always known they would succeed, but the celebration of people relieved to have prevailed.
The hall was packed with laughing courtiers. In the crimson hue, their faces were those of devils. The air was impregnated with the scent of spice and sweat. In the centre of the stage was a hugely fat man garbed in red robes. A ridiculously small cardinal’s hat topped his bulbous head, and as he puffed, racing about, men dressed as demons pursued him, poking his generous, wobbling rear with pitchforks. I watched Henry, trying to gauge what he thought of this public desecration of his friend’s memory. His face was impassive.