The guard knocked her off her feet and spat on her.
She looked up at the guard’s face twisted in hate. Her Yeoman cast a sidelong glance, and Anne saw no one else near them. He elbowed the guard so hard that the man went down on his knees. Turning his back so that Anne could not see his face, he faced the guard and raised his arms.
The guard screamed in terror, scrambling away on all fours. There was no time for Anne to think, for new guards ran from around the corner. They picked her up and continued her descent into hell.
The room was clean enough, and she was given servants, handpicked by Henry, but she was delirious from fear, fear that would not let her sleep or eat. Some moments she was laughing, which made the other women pale and silent. When she wept, only then did they have the nerve to come near and touch her.
“I want to see Elizabeth,” she moaned. “Please tell Henry I want to see our daughter.”
Elizabeth was brought to her, and Anne beheld her face, so perfect and plump, God’s utter grace out of her imperfect union. Anne inhaled deeply as she cradled her, drinking in the fragrance of roses and sunlight. At last the ladies scooped Elizabeth away from her, cradling her gently and promising her many treats.
Anne saw in her mind the men of the court … how she had stood before them as queen, receiving all honour, and just yesterday, stood before them accused, dripping with shame. Even her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, who had served her at her wedding feast, betrayed her. They pronounced Henry’s good pleasure that she die by beheading. Henry was not there. Jane’s father was, and Anne saw that he wore scarlet now, the colour of nobility. Jane had done well for herself.
She had begun to chuckle quietly, and the men shifted in their seats.
Henry, no doubt, was already commanding her to produce an heir. He needed an heir for more than just the kingdom; he needed an heir to be justified, to silence the blood that began to stain the ground all around him. His train was of blood, his coat of arms was of blood. Jane was in love, no doubt, and could not taste it.
“Have you a defense?”
Anne shook her head. “Henry knows I did not commit this crime. It is not in my heart. Nor is it in my brother’s. Henry knows this full well.”
She lay awake through the night, her body straining to hear if her brother screamed. He would not confess before death, she knew this. He would not tell them his secret.
But he did.
She rose at 2 a.m. to begin saying her prayers. Every time she drifted to sleep, she was awakened by her own cries. Begging God to speak. Begging for mercy in her hour of need. She checked her clock often, her little Nuremburg Egg that Henry had given her to mark the hours until they could be together again. It had been a love gift from long ago.
The night watchmen were agitated, peering in at her with deep scowls. Her maids said it was because she was a witch; they were terrified she might escape. Messages came throughout the night, causing them to become more animated. The maids heard only pieces of the conversations.
Signs and wonders were rocking the city. A nobleman of Henry’s court had awakened at midnight from a nightmare, a premonition of Anne’s death that caused him much suffering. The candles all around Catherine’s tomb, tucked quietly away at an abbey, flamed to life by themselves, and when the priest cried out, they extinguished. Henry had sent men to the tomb, fearful perhaps that Catherine might rise and decry his justice. Anne’s uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, dreamed that he would be condemned in the next life, consumed by flame and sentenced to ride for one thousand years with four headless horses. He sent word to the Tower to watch Anne, to prevent her from casting such spells with the devil.
Anne paid them no mind. What business of this was hers, how the spirits tormented those who betrayed her? Their names were safe. It was what they wanted.
The sun had risen about an hour before, when her cell door opened. Her maids had just finished dressing her in a black robe, with a white ermine draped across her shoulders. She stroked the soft fur, a new pelt that still had the stench of the tannery.
Her Yeoman stood behind the constable of the Tower. She saw him as if in a dream, a beautiful dream.
She drank in the flecked colour of the stone walls, and the morning air that has just been touched by the sun. It had been a beautiful world. She did not know what the next would be like.
“It is ecstasy,” her Yeoman said, his face still straight ahead, holding her arm as she was led down the winding stone steps, the little crooked staircases with steps so narrow that it took great concentration to make her way down. Her billowing skirt meant she couldn’t see her feet; she was relying totally on him.