The Pieces In-Between: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Prologue)
Anne clasped the tiny silver cross tightly in her hand. She could feel the soft silver drinking in the heat of her sweating palm. She felt as if she was burning up from the inside out, though the morning was still cool and brisk in the shadow of the Tower Yard. She looked out at the sea of faces that stared back at her. For some reason, she could not seem to make out any of the features of the men and women whose affixed on her now.
For half a heartbeat, she thought she saw the smiling face of George looking back at her from one of the back rows, but it was just another blank face that she could not name.
Her heart caught in her throat.
“Good Christian people,” Anne began, her voice wavering faintly, “I am come hither to die, according to law, for by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it.” The lump in her throat thickened. Her head began to spin. Anne felt the bile rise up within her.
“I come here only to die, and thus yield myself humbly to the will of the King, my lord.” Henry's face swam in her mind's eye.
Anne imagined the look on his face when he had held princess Elizabeth for the first time, and the time, after the first miscarriage, when he had held her in his arms. Anne saw them, young and hopeful and happy, walking along the Thames and she pictured them in all the little secret places only they had known. Anne’s knees began to shake, but she managed to hold herself upright. They would get the benefit of her death today, but they would not have her dignity from her.
In the crowd, she spotted the grizzled face of her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk. Today, he wore a mask of seeming indifference. The face of his wife beside him was a mirror of his. Standing next to one another, wrapped in their furs and velvets, they looked like a pair of beautifully draped gargoyles, frozen in stone and unhappiness. Anne broke her search and looked up to the crenelated tops of the tower. A small yellow bird lit suddenly from the top of the western wall and flew into the clouded blue sky. Anne took a deep breath.
“I pray and beseech you all, good friends, to pray for the life of the King, my sovereign lord and yours, who is one of the best princes on the face of this earth…”
It took every ounce of Anne’s strength not to retch over the words. If only they knew the true depth of Henry’s shallow, craven truth. She suspected many of them did know, and even now would not face it. Or worse yet, they were happily complacent in it. It was easier to stand quietly out of the way when the shadow of the axe was upon your enemy.
Anne searched the sky for the little yellow bird.
“If in my life I did ever offend the King’s Grace, surely with my death I do now atone for the same.” She looked out into the audience and locked eyes with the Duke of Suffolk. Why had she never seen that darkness before? It was there, she saw plainly now. Dancing, just beneath the surface.
“I blame not my judges, nor any other manner of person, nor anything save the cruel law of this land by which I die…” she was coming to end of the speech, she knew, but her heart gave a flutter, and she suddenly realised she was not ready to die. Anne was not ready to give up her soul into the keeping of the silence. She wavered, and for a moment, it seemed that she would faint. She heard the intake of breath behind her, as her ladies stepped forward anxiously wary that she should fall.
Suddenly, Anne saw the rose garden before her in her mind, and she could see him there, standing in the warm, golden light of the sun. Her fear evaporated from her. The fire roared in her belly, that great monster unfurling itself one last time in a show of the injustice that broke over her.
“And so I submit to death with good will,” she said loudly, defiantly, “humbly asking pardon of all the world.” This would be her last stand, the last thing people would say of her. As soon as the deed was finished and her blood was sprayed warm across the dusty scaffold, one of theses great lords, perhaps her uncle, would run to Henry and tell him all — down to the last gory detail.
Anne knew that, even now, Henry was off hunting in the field with Mistress Seymour and her brothers. One of the women here in the Tower with her had told her that Jane had already picked out her wedding dress. She had taken everything from Anne, and Henry along with her. They had taken her family, her power, her love. They had taken what little happiness she had. Anne would not let them have this final victory. Drawing herself up tall, her chin raised to the lords of the crowd, she finished her speech.
“If any person will meddle with my cause, I require them to judge the best. Thus I take my leave of the world, and of you, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me. Oh Lord, have mercy on me. To God I commend my soul.”
The little crucifix seemed to throb in her hand as she stepped back from the edge of the scaffold and positioned herself in the center, amid the fresh pile of sawdust. She knelt slowly, moving as if her entire body were no more than one ornate piece of porcelain. Lady Kingston stepped forward with her other ladies and, slowly, they removed Anne’s fine hood and her jewelry. For just a moment, Anne’s proud main of thick black hair cascaded down her back, and she heard an audible sigh escape the audience at the sight of it. Her ladies worked quickly to fit her head with the plain white linen cap, hastily stuffing the thick waves of her hair beneath it. Anne would have no glory in these final moments. That would be Henry's greatest wish.
Their work done, they stepped back from Anne, and resumed their places behind the stout clergyman who was attending her death. A creak from behind startled her, and Anne turned her head suddenly around, expecting to see the flash of the sword upon her. It was just the headsman, who was walking forward to kneel beside her.
“Do you forgive me?” he whispered to her, the English words rolling awkwardly off his ungainly French tongue. Anne was relieved to detect no hint of drink on his breath. Perhaps this would be painless.
“There is nothing to forgive,” Anne stated back grandly. She quickly handed him the little purse her ladies had put into her hand after removing her fine fur half-cloak. She saw no sword in his hand, as he nodded to her resolutely and slowly rose.
Anne clasped her hands in front of her chest, the tiny silver crucifix concealed inside. She closed her eyes and lowered her face. Please God, have mercy on my soul. Sweet Jesus, please have mercy on my soul. Her lips moved along with the silent mutterings of her hasty prayer. The words of the priest rolled on behind her, her brain straining and tripping suddenly over the familiar latin. Through the fog that filled her brain, she strained for the swish of the sword.
The Tower yard was quiet save for the flapping of the royal standards that flew proudly from the battlements above. Please Christ, have mercy on my soul. Anne could feel the whitening of her knuckles as the blood flowed away from her slender fingers in the desperation of their clasp. Something was wrong, it was taking too long. She opened her eyes, and looked back at the swordsman.
“I told them to keep her facing forward,” she heard the swordsman mutter to himself in French. There was still no sword in his hand. Behind her, one of her ladies started crying.
It is a little late now for sentiment, she thought wildly.
Anne snapped her head forward, her eyes scanning the crowd once again. Somewhere, deep inside her, a hopeless, romantic fool was looking for the face of the King in the Crowd. Even now, when she sat knelt in position for her death, she expected Henry to burst forward and rescue her. As he always had.
There was a creak behind her as the swordsman took a step forward, and Anne’s head turned to face him again. Run, another voice said suddenly inside her head. Stand up and run. What if you can make it? What if you can fight them and fly free?
Suddenly, just beyond the audience, a glint of yellow caught her eye.
There, on the top of the imposing White Tower, perched the tiny yellow bird. He was only a small yellow dash against the bright blue of the sky now. His glinting golden shape sat frozen, as if he too were watching, in horror, the unprecedented scene that unfolded within the walls of the Tower. The little bird sat still, like a spark of light in the midst of a nightmare. Anne watched him from atop her scaffold, sitting almost tranquilly along the crenellations. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
Dear Lord, please have mercy on my soul, her lips moved silently. A sense of calm washed over her...