The realization that she was in the same plight as she had intended for Wolsey stung. “Then I am brought to fight without a weapon,” she whispered.
Kingston hastened away, saying there was much to be done, leaving her to her frustration and her fears. She spent much of the rest of that day, and all day Sunday, watching from her window as the courtyard of the inmost ward below became the scene of frantic activity, with workmen carrying wood and scaffolding poles into the adjacent King’s Hall, a flustered Kingston directing them, and Tower officials running back and forth to do his bidding. Looking at the rich furnishings being borne in—a great gilded board bearing the arms of England, tables, Turkey rugs, upholstered chairs, and a chest of silver goblets—she realized that she was to be tried with an appropriate degree of state and ceremonial. She was, after all, the Queen of England.
1536
She waited in the porch with Kingston, Sir Edmund Walsingham, her four female warders, and—a welcome surprise—four of her former maids of honor: Nan Saville, Margery Horsman, Mary Zouche, and Norris’s sister, another Mary, all of whom it was a comfort to see. She was near tears as she embraced them, although the evident distress in their faces alarmed her. They would have heard the gossip at court. Did they know something she did not?
At least, as queen, she would be properly attended, but this was no court ceremonial. The Gentleman Jailer of the Tower waited with her, and there were guards before and behind her.
From inside the hall she could hear a great hubbub of conversation. The place must be packed. She had seen the common folk queuing from before dawn to get in. At least she was to be tried in the sight of the people.
She heard a voice crying for silence, then the gruff tones of Uncle Norfolk, who—Kingston had told her—was acting as Lord High Steward on this occasion, calling, “Gentleman Jailer of the Tower, bring in your prisoner.”
An usher appeared at the door, and at his nod, Anne held her head high, as became a queen, and followed him into the vast aisled hall, aware of a thousand eyes upon her. The benches and the stands that lined the length of the walls were packed with spectators. She knew she cut a regal figure in her gown of black velvet, worn over a kirtle of scarlet damask, and a small bonnet sporting a black-and-white feather. They had been among the items of apparel that had been bundled into a chest and delivered to the Tower shortly after she arrived.
She was heartily thankful that the uncontrollable hysteria of her first week in captivity had abated, leaving her calm, dignified, and ready to face whatever Fate—or Henry—had in store for her. God, she felt, walked by her side, and from Him she would gain her strength.
She tried not to look at the Gentleman Jailer of the Tower, who walked beside her carrying his ceremonial ax, its blade turned away from her to signify that she was as yet uncondemned. Ahead of her was Uncle Norfolk, enthroned under a cloth of estate bearing the royal arms, for he represented the King. He leaned on the long white staff of his office, and on a chair at his feet sat his son, her cousin Surrey, grasping the golden staff that Norfolk wielded as Earl Marshal of England. At the Duke’s right hand sat Lord Chancellor Audley, and at his left the Duke of Suffolk, who could both be trusted to do the King’s bidding.
On either side stood the peers who had come to try her—two dozen and more of them, all familiar faces, many belonging to men she had once called her friends. Some were staunch partisans of the Lady Mary, others relations or favorites of the King. She could not look for much help there. She noticed Harry Percy, looking drawn and ill. And, God save her, Father was there too, red-faced and not meeting her eye. At the sight of him she faltered for a moment. What kind of monster would command a father to judge his own children? Had Henry sunk so low? Or did she have Cromwell to thank for this?
He was there, Master Secretary, looking important and smug. His eyes bore down on her in triumph. He had won, he was telling her. He had nothing more to fear from her. She resolved to expose him for the villain he was.
Her gaze took in the Lord Mayor of London with his aldermen, sheriffs, and guildsmen. There was the French ambassador and other foreign diplomats; but Chapuys—whose derision she had dreaded—was nowhere to be seen.
A great platform had been raised in the center of the hall. She stepped up to it, walked to the bar, and curtseyed to her judges, her eyes raking them all. She would not show them any sign of fear. To a man, they bowed, and Norfolk invited her to be seated on the fine chair that stood on the platform. She sat down, arranging her skirts elegantly about her. Next to the chair was a small table on which had been placed her crown, as if to remind those watching of her exalted rank. They would have brought it over from the Jewel House next door.
With much flourishing of papers and clearing of his throat, Sir Christopher Hales, the Attorney General, rose to read the indictment. His voice rang out. “Whereas Queen Anne has been the wife of King Henry VIII for three years and more, she, despising the solemn, most excellent and noble marriage between our lord the King and her, and having in her heart malice against our lord the King, and being seduced by evil and not having God before her eyes, and following daily her frail and carnal appetites, did falsely and traitorously procure, by base conversations and kisses, touches, gifts, and other infamous inducements, many of the King’s close servants to be her adulterers.”
Anne put up her hand. “Not guilty,” she said firmly. “This is all lies.”
Sir Christopher glared at her. “Madam, you shall have your say. Pray allow me to finish. Ahem. Several of the King’s servants yielded to her vile provocations.” He named Norris, Weston, Brereton, and Smeaton, then read out a long list of the dates on which adultery was supposed to have taken place. She listened in growing amazement that whoever had compiled it could have been so careless.
It was shameful having to listen to descriptions of herself enticing, by sweet words, kisses, caresses, and worse, her co-accused to violate her, and having illicit intercourse. But it was the dates that, above all else, drew her attention. They were many of them impossible, because either she or the gentleman in question had not been in that place at that time, or not together. And yet it had been made impossible for her fully to refute the charges because of the frequent assertion in the indictment that adultery had been committed on many occasions before and after the date listed. This, as she had feared, was a travesty of justice.
“Not guilty,” she said again.