Anne Boleyn, a King's Obsession

“None of that is true,” Anne protested. “I have brought no disgrace on our family, for I have been true to the King. Those charges are all lies. I never betrayed him or Madge with Norris. And it was Madge who offered to seduce His Grace.”

“You lie!” Lady Shelton spat. “My daughter would never do such a thing.”

“I beg to correct you, but she did. Ask her.”

“I know what her answer will be. But your wickedness did not end there, as I well know. You forced me to make the Lady Mary’s life a misery; that poor girl, that good girl, lived in fear that you would do away with her. How would you like someone to treat your daughter like that? Think on it, madam, for soon you may not be here to protect her.”

“Lady Shelton, I think you have said enough,” Lady Kingston said, as Anne sat there trembling. She might indeed be facing death, and if there was anything that should trouble her conscience, it was the vile way she had treated Mary.

Lady Kingston was looking at her with pity in her eyes. “I suggest you refrain from making wild threats,” she told Lady Shelton, “as we don’t know what is to happen to the Queen here. We await the King’s orders.”

So there was cause for hope after all. Anne did not know how much longer she could live with the uncertainty, the wild veering between optimism and despair. But she was resolved that, if Henry did spare her, she would be truly kind to Mary and make up to her for all the misery she had inflicted.

Mrs. Coffyn, who had been feeding the birds with crumbs from the breakfast table, now sat down beside Anne. “I am most sorry for your present trouble,” she said. “I cannot imagine why you are in this situation. I’m told it is because of something your chamberlain said. Why would Sir Henry Norris tell Father Skip that he would swear you were a good woman? Why should he even speak of such a matter?”

It dawned on Anne that Mrs. Coffyn, and the others, had been set to spy on her and get her to incriminate herself out of her own mouth. No doubt every word she said was being reported back to Kingston—and Henry!

“I bade him do so,” she said, deciding that telling the truth was the best course. “We had exchanged some remarks in jest, no more, that we feared had been overheard and misconstrued.” She recounted the conversation she had had with Norris.

“You should know that, even now, Sir Francis Weston is being questioned by the Privy Council about his relations with your Grace,” Mrs. Coffyn revealed, watching her closely.

Weston too! She had wondered if he was the third man. “I fear him talking more than anyone else,” she admitted. “He thinks that Norris is in love with me.” And she related her exchange with Weston about Norris being reluctant to marry Madge. “And that,” she said, glaring at Lady Shelton, “was all there was to this so-called treason.”

She turned back to Mrs. Coffyn. “I will not be convicted,” she declared. “There is no evidence they can produce against me. If they are twisting silly talk like this, they must be groping around in the dust for a means to get rid of me. But my brother will speak for me, and Norris will declare my innocence, as must Weston and Smeaton.”

“Lord Rochford has been arrested too,” Lady Kingston revealed. “He is here in the Tower.” She would not meet Anne’s horrified gaze.

George too? It did not make sense. Why should he be imprisoned on her account? God forbid, had his part in Katherine’s death been discovered? If Chapuys knew of it, Henry would need to make an example of her brother to satisfy the Emperor, whose friendship he desired. And she, Anne, for all Charles’s fair words, remained an obstacle to that. Were they also trying to make out that she and her friends had been accomplices in murder, so that the alliance could go ahead? Was this about adultery or murder?

“This is becoming farcical,” she declared. “I pray you, Lady Kingston, send for your husband so that I might speak to him.”

Sir William, duly summoned, was soon standing before her, hat in hand.

“I hear that my lord my brother is here,” she said.

“It is true,” he confirmed.

“But why?” she asked.

“You know I cannot discuss that with you.”

She sighed. “I am very glad that we are so near each other.” It struck her that, without George and Norris to speak for her, she really was utterly friendless.

Kingston cleared his throat. “Madam, I may also tell you that four other gentlemen are in the Tower on your account: Sir Francis Weston, Sir William Brereton, Sir Thomas Wyatt, and Sir Richard Page.”

That made six men beside her brother! Wyatt she could perhaps understand, for he had loved her once, but she barely knew what Page looked like. What sort of sexual predator did they suppose her to be? Or were they trying to suggest that, being so desperate to get a son, she had resorted to lover after lover in the hope of filling the royal cradle? It was ridiculous. Had they not remembered that she had had no trouble at all making sons with Henry? Or were they trying to imply that those sons—and even Elizabeth, God forfend—were not Henry’s?

Something was becoming clear. This whole stinking matter was not just Henry’s doing: it was Cromwell’s, of that she had no doubt. He had feared her enmity, and he had counterattacked. The arrest of Brereton proved it. Cromwell had a score to settle with him. The hand of Master Secretary was becoming all too evident in this business. This was not about adultery or murder!

Well, she would deal with him!

“Master Kingston, I desire you to bear a letter from me to Master Secretary,” she said.

“Madam,” he replied, “tell it me by word of mouth, and I will do it.”

“I beg you, say to him that I much marvel that the King’s Council does not come to see me. They have not questioned me at all, and yet they have arrested these seven gentlemen. I should like an opportunity to explain everything and clear my name.”

Kingston said nothing.

Anne looked up at the cloudless sky. “If good men will do nothing to remedy my situation, God will make manifest His displeasure. I’ll wager we shall have no rain till I am delivered out of the Tower.”

“Then I pray it will rain soon, because we need fair weather for the crops,” Kingston said, and left her.

When he had gone, Lady Kingston gave her a frame, some fabric, and some silks, and she tried to concentrate on embroidery. As she stitched, she warmed even more to her theory about Cromwell. None of her women had been arrested for abetting adultery, and it would have been impossible for her to have indulged in a succession of liaisons without the collusion of at least one trusted maid. In accusing her of whatever crime she was supposed to have committed, Cromwell had taken a breathtaking risk, which showed how desperate he must be.

But Cromwell was no fool—whatever proofs he had shown Henry would have had to be convincing, or the consequences for Master Secretary could be horrific.



By the following evening, Anne had grown so sick of the unwelcome vigilance and barbs of her attendant ladies that she could stay silent no longer. At dinner, when they were all present, she turned to Kingston.

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