Anne Boleyn, a King's Obsession

She paused, bowing her head in humility, then her voice rang out strong and true. “But God knows, and is my witness, that I have not sinned against him in any other way. Think not I say this in the hope to prolong my life, for He who saves from death has taught me how to die, and He will strengthen my faith. I know these, my last words, will avail me nothing but for the justification of my chastity and honor.” She looked directly at her father, who would not meet her eye. “As for my brother and those others who are unjustly condemned, I would willingly suffer many deaths to deliver them, but since I see it so pleases the King, I shall willingly accompany them in death, with this assurance, that I shall lead an endless life with them in peace and joy, where I will pray to God for the King and for you, my lords.”

Silence greeted her impassioned words. The peers had the grace to look chastened. She wondered if, in their hearts, they believed her guilty. It did not matter. It was Henry, clearly, who had been convinced of it, and once his will had been made plain, no one would dare contravene it. She looked at her accusers again, her gaze taking in Hales and Cromwell. “The Judge of all the world, in Whom abounds justice and truth, knows all,” she reminded them, “and through His love I beseech that He will have compassion on those who have condemned me to this death.” She paused. “I ask only for a short space of time for the unburdening of my conscience.” She could hear more than one person sobbing. Norfolk was weeping again. Even Cromwell had pity in his eyes.

The court rose. Anne curtseyed to the peers, then Kingston came forward to escort her from the hall, with Lady Kingston following. The Gentleman Jailer walked alongside, his ceremonial ax now turned toward her, to show the waiting crowd outside that she had been condemned to death.

She had been told that her brother’s trial was to follow, and was praying that she might catch a glimpse of him and even offer him some words of comfort, but there was no sign of him. As she left the hall, a buzz of conversation erupted behind her.

Back in her chamber, she was relieved to learn that only Lady Kingston, Aunt Boleyn, Mrs. Orchard, and her four maids were to attend her from now on. Lady Shelton and Mrs. Coffyn had been dismissed.

She sank down on her bed, and it was only now that she gave herself up to terror, shrinking in her mind from the heat of the flames, the scorching of her flesh, and the unimaginable agony and horror of being burned to death. She stuffed the sheet in her mouth to stop herself from screaming.



George had been condemned too—in his case to a traitor’s death.

“But because he is a nobleman, the King will almost certainly commute it to beheading,” Kingston said, his tone gentle. He had been treading warily around Anne since she had emerged, drained and fragile, from her bedchamber.

“Did he deny the charges?” She was desperate to know.

Now that judgment had been passed, the Constable seemed willing to talk.

“He did, and he answered them so prudently and wisely that it was a marvel to hear. He never confessed to anything, but made himself clear that he had never offended. Sir Thomas More himself did not reply better.”

Brave George! He had not played the craven and let her down.

“It was his wife who deposed against him in regard to the incest,” Kingston told her. Jane, that little hellcat! What a vile revenge she had wreaked for George’s base use of her, and for Fisher’s death.

“It seems that it was more out of envy and jealousy than out of love toward the King that she betrayed this accursed secret,” Kingston added.

“Why should she be jealous?” Anne cried.

“It seems she thought her husband loved you more, madam.”

“That’s what she wants the world to think. No, she is for the Lady Mary. She means to destroy me and my blood.”

“I think many agreed with your Grace,” Kingston revealed. “Some said much money would have been won, at great odds, if Lord Rochford had been acquitted.”

“How did my brother take the sentence?” she asked.

“Bravely. He observed that every man was a sinner and that all merited death. Then he said that, since he must die, he would no longer maintain his innocence, but confess that he had deserved to die.”

Anne was about to protest that George would never have incriminated them both by saying such a thing, and then it dawned on her. He had not been talking about incest, but about murder.



Mrs. Orchard, who had stayed in the hall to watch George’s trial, came to offer comfort.

“He won’t let them kill you,” she said, holding Anne to her ample bosom, just as if she were a child again. “When it comes to it, you’ll get a reprieve, you’ll see.”

“Yes,” Anne sobbed. “I pray you are right.”

“Something strange happened at your brother’s trial,” Mrs. Orchard told her.

Anne sat up. “What?”

“They accused him of putting it about that you had told Lady Rochford something secret about the King. They wouldn’t say what it was, but wrote it down and showed it to Lord Rochford, ordering him not to repeat it. But he did. He read out that you had told Lady Rochford that the King wasn’t able to copulate with a woman, for he had neither potency nor vigor.”

“I never said that!” Anne flared. “It’s not true, so why would I say it?” But she knew the answer. If Henry could not have sired her children, because of impotency, some other man must have. And there might be another, more sinister, explanation, for all the world knew that impotency was caused by witchcraft. That might explain Sir Christopher’s strange claim that harms and perils had befallen the King’s body. Were they really implying that she herself had cast an enchantment on Henry to make him incapable of siring the sons she had so desperately longed for? It defied all reason.

“That’s what your brother told them. He said, ‘I did not say it!’ He insisted he would never arouse any suspicion that might prejudice the King’s issue.” No, he would not—but others were striving their best to do just that. Anne dared not think of what the consequences would be for Elizabeth. In fact, she dared not think of Elizabeth, for that way lay madness.



On the day after the trial, Kingston informed Anne that he was going to Whitehall to see the King. A little hope sparked in her, especially when he told her that the condemned men were to die the next day, but no instructions had been sent, nor any date set, for her own execution.

“Sir William, have you been told how…how I am to die?” she faltered.

“No, madam. Today I mean to discover the King’s pleasure concerning you, in regard to your comfort and what is to be done with you.”

“I pray he will put me out of this misery. It’s not knowing what will happen that torments me the most. If I know my fate, I can prepare myself to face it.”

Kingston’s gray eyes were full of sympathy. She suspected he had grown to like her, and that he did not believe what they said of her. “I will do my best for you,” he promised.



That afternoon, Archbishop Cranmer was ushered into her presence chamber. She fell to her knees weeping when she saw him, seizing the hem of his surplice and kissing it. “Oh, my dear friend! It is such a comfort to see you.”

Cranmer knelt beside her, his heavy features contorted with emotion. “The King has appointed me your confessor,” he told her. “Oh, Anne! I am exceedingly sorry that the charges have been proved against you. I told them I could not believe it of you. I said I never had a better opinion of a woman, and that I loved you for the love you bear to God and the Gospel—but the things they told me!”

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