Anne Boleyn, a King's Obsession

There were three grave-faced men seated at the Council board: Uncle Norfolk, looking implacable; Sir William Fitzwilliam, whom she had never liked, the feeling being mutual; and Sir William Paulet, the King’s comptroller, who alone greeted her with gentle courtesy as they all rose to their feet.

Norfolk came to the point without preamble. “Madam, by the powers granted by the King’s Grace to us as royal commissioners, we are formally charging you with having committed adultery with Sir Henry Norris, Mark Smeaton, and one other.”

Anne was overcome with faintness. This was her worst nightmare coming true. How could they believe such things of her? And with Smeaton? How could they even think she would stoop so low? And Norris—they had been overheard! But she had done nothing wrong. Trembling, she opened her mouth to protest, but Norfolk raised his hand and stilled her.

“Before you say anything, you should know that Norris and Smeaton have admitted their guilt.”

“Then they are lying, since there is nothing to admit! I am the King’s true wife, and no other man has ever touched me.”

“Tut, tut, tut! We have the depositions of witnesses, madam. Are they all lying?”

“Someone is making an occasion to get rid of me!” she countered, in great fear.

“You have given them the occasion by your evil behavior,” Norfolk sneered.

“Oh, you are cruel, uncle, to believe such calumnies of an innocent woman—and your own blood at that!”

His face was like granite. “I serve the King, madam. My first loyalty is to him, and he has ordered your arrest. These crimes laid against you are grave and, if proved, will merit just punishment.”

Henry had sanctioned this travesty of justice! Did he really believe the worst of her? It terrified her that he had preferred to heed the accusations of others, rather than give her a chance to refute them. What hurt most was that an investigation must have been going on all these past days, yet he had said not a word of it. Oh, her enemies had been busy!

“What is to happen to me?” she asked. “I must see the King. He will listen to me.”

“He won’t see you,” Fitzwilliam snarled. “He is the Lord’s anointed: he won’t be tainted by associating with a traitor.”

“A traitor?” She feared her knees would buckle. “I am no traitor.”

“Compromising the royal succession is treason, madam,” he barked, as Norfolk tutted sorrowfully.

“We will escort your Grace back to your apartments,” Paulet said. “Dinner will be served to you, and you will remain there until further notice. Your chamberlain has informed your household that you have been charged with treason.”

It was a nightmare walk back from the Council chamber to her lodging, with the lords walking stone-faced either side of her and the King’s guards keeping pace in front and behind. News of her disgrace must have spread quickly beyond her household, for everywhere there were people staring at her, most of them hostile or disapproving. They were ready to believe anything of her, it seemed.

It was no great relief to get back to her chamber, for she was greeted by the ominous silence of her ladies, and servants struggling to conceal tears, which further unnerved her, as did the presence of guards outside her door, their halberds crossed to prevent any unauthorized person from entering. They raised them to allow in her servitors, who brought her the usual choice of delicious dishes, but she was so upset when the King’s waiter failed to appear with his customary greeting—a poignant reminder of the awfulness of her situation—that she could not touch the food. She could only sit there, making stilted conversation with her ladies about children and dogs and tennis. She thought of sending for Elizabeth, but feared that, seeing and holding her child, she might break down, which would distress the little one. And probably they wouldn’t let her see Elizabeth anyway; there would be more nonsense about the taint of treason.

At two o’clock, she was still at table, seated under her canopy of estate, when Norfolk returned with Cromwell, Lord Chancellor Audley, and several other Privy councillors. Norfolk had in his hand a scroll of parchment.

She rose to her feet in alarm. “Why have your lordships come?”

“This, madam”—Norfolk waved the paper—“is the warrant for your arrest. By the King’s command we are to conduct you to the Tower of London, where you will abide during His Highness’s pleasure.”

The Tower! Her flesh shrank from the prospect of being incarcerated in that grim fortress. She had only ever visited at the time of her coronation, when the Queen’s apartments had been refurbished at huge expense for her, but she knew the rest of the Tower was grim by comparison. Thomas More had been in prison there for a year. They said he had emerged an old man…And about fifty years ago, two little princes had disappeared in the Tower, done to death, it was bruited, by their wicked uncle. Would she disappear too?

She made a huge effort to muster her courage. “If it be His Majesty’s pleasure, I am ready to obey,” she said. “What may I take with me?”

“You must come as you are,” Norfolk said.

“In this?” She looked down at her gorgeous royal gown.

“There is no need to change.”

“All necessities will be provided,” Paulet told her. It sounded ominous, until she remembered hearing that prisoners in the Tower had to pay for their own keep and any comforts they wanted.

“What of my household?”

“They must remain here. New attendants await you in the Tower.”

“You will wait here until the tide changes,” Norfolk told her. “We expect to leave at half past four.”

They left her then, and she spent the afternoon trying to hold herself together, going over and over in her head what she could possibly have said or done to lead people to think she had given an ounce of encouragement to Smeaton. Norris she could understand, although they were guilty only of indiscreet banter and that brief acknowledgment that there was more between them than could ever be fully said. But Smeaton—the very thought turned her stomach! How could Henry have believed it of her? And how could he have done this to her, whom he had passionately loved, and who had borne his children?

If she had not known that Cromwell was ill at Stepney, she would have sworn that his hand was in this. His enmity had been made clear, and she had threatened him. Maybe he was not ill at all: maybe it was a front for plotting her ruin. The more she thought about this, the more she believed it. Anything was better than believing it of Henry.

Her ladies offered some words of comfort to her in her distress, but they were keeping a wary distance. That taint of treason again! Anne picked up her embroidery, but her hands were not steady enough to wield a needle and thread. She wondered if she would ever finish it.

Toward four o’clock, by which time her heart was thumping in anticipation of what lay ahead, the Countess of Worcester suddenly emitted a moan. She had had her hands on her pregnant belly for some time.

“The child does not stir,” she said, her face tragic.

“How long have you noticed this?” Anne asked, as the ladies clustered around.

“Since they came for you,” the Countess whispered. “It was the shock.”

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