Anne Boleyn And The Death Of The Tudors

Bells

Cromwell

I train my eyes back onto the dull parchment in front of me. I do not dare look up until we hear proof that it is done.  In my peripheral vision, the usually vibrant colours of the tapestries are muted and seem to be dancing with shadows cast by the fire.  My ears are attuned to every sound.  There is the occasional crack and hiss of the fireplace.  It burns too hot, rivulets of sweat run down my back. I hear His Majesty angrily pacing across his bedchamber, his steps heavy and uneven; the injury he sustained falling from his horse in the joust months ago still plagues him.  

An occasional sigh escapes the King; he is impatient for the waiting to end. Neither of us mention her. He will not hear her name. 

We both know that Anne's life is ending as we sit here warm and safe, but this will not be voiced. This morning we have spoken only of menial tasks and everyday occurrences, as if the world is not changing. 

The King will never take responsibility for the events of this day, May 19th, 1536. He has tried to persuade himself that she deserves this and he has no choice, that he is the betrayed innocent party. I truly believe that he has almost succeeded in convincing himself, he plays the cuckhold so well. His tears and rage have been relentless, a beautifully acted fiction.  

I have not tried to correct him, in fact I have encouraged his self-delusions. She must die. She stood in the way of God's work, my work. The corruption and debauchery of the Catholic Church must be stopped at all costs. I must maintain my influence over the King to ensure the completion of my Godly mission.

We worked on this campaign together in the beginning, Anne and I, her sleek dark head close to mine as we planned our reformation. She and I were alike, ruthless and determined to end the control of the Papacy.  The passing of the  Supremecy Act was our finest hour, the King declared himself the Supreme Leader of the English Church, allowing him to secure his divorce and marry Anne.  Words we whispered in his ear over time, planting the seeds for the King to grow into a mighty sword to smite the enemies of the Church and lead the country into the light.

We talked late into the night, sharing a wine glass as we toasted our successes. Her eyes like black onyx, shining with the knowledge that ours was a divine path.  We would spread the word of God together and bring down Catholicism in England. I can almost taste the wine now, remembering how I placed my lips on the delicate Venetian glass so carefully, where hers had been a second before.  I can feel my face flush and I nip my lip sharply to dispel these unhelpful thoughts.

It all changed. Anne became pregnant and her focus shifted. The succession became her primary concern, the protection of her daughter Elizabeth and the longed-for future heir she believed she would provide for her husband.  The Succession to the Crown Act of 1533 provided her with some reassurance, ensuring Elizabeth's rights by naming Mary as a bastard.  She developed reservations however when we moved onto the disassembly of the the smaller Monasteries and Nunneries. She resented the King's greed for the treasures that lay within those so-called holy houses. She blamed me for supporting the King's affairs, although she of all people should have known I had no choice. She blocked me out. She discarded me. Then she lost the love of the King and there was nothing I could do. She despised me and worked to bring me down. I could not have that. I sighed, when would this shameful business be over. I know on some level that in the King's heart he knows, as do I. This is murder.

The cannons at the Tower boom and we both jump, startled from our own thoughts. Henry looks to me in panic and I see a momentary flash of guilt in his small blue eyes. As quickly as I think this, his expression becomes one of relief and he turns away. Perhaps I imagined it. The cannon fire confirms her execution, she is gone.  From the side, I see Henry's pouting little mouth curve into a smile. Anne is dead. It's finished and we have won.

The cannons continue to sound, communicating to all that the Queen is dead.  Then a new noise begins, bells begin to toll from the direction of the Tower. I frown and the King swings around to face me again.  This is not right, that is not the way I planned it. What rebellion is this? The bells confuse the message of the cannons, this is not the way an announcement of death is carried out. Henry glares at me as if I am the cause of this noise and roars like the beast he is. "Thomas, what does this mean? What is this noise? Is she dead?" I jump up to reassure him. "Yes, I have no doubt, your Majesty. Let me investigate." Henry throws his goblet of wine at the wall, grunts and moves to his cushioned seat near the fireplace, dismissing me.

As I leave, the King calls after me, "Hurry! I wish to be out on the water to see Jane forthwith." He wishes to see Jane without Anne's living presence and his own guilt hanging over him. I think the spectre of Anne in death may be even more pronounced.  I do not envy dull little Jane, but she must play her part. She is malleable and weak, eager to please. This acquiescence soothes him after Anne's fiery temperament. She will do nicely, she is no threat.

I bow out of the room, a thunderous look on my face. Perhaps she had more support than I thought and this is designed to mock us and shame the King. The caucophony of noise seems to be escalating. I will get to the bottom of this and heads will roll for this foolishness. I correct myself out loud, "More heads will roll this day." I laugh nervously. A guard looks at me askance, hoping I am not addressing him.

I bump into the Marquess of Exeter, Henry Courtenay, in the King's sumptuous presence chamber as he stalks towards the King's bedroom. "What the hell is going on Exeter?" I demand. He glares at me. There is no love between us, the King's cousin and I. "I know not, Lord Cromwell." He emphasises the word 'Lord' contemptuously. I clench my fists and fight to keep my anger in check. I ignore him and his jealousy. He is on his way to see the King and no doubt try to influence him away from me while the King is vulnerable. I really must do something about him. Resuming my focus, I walk quickly in the direction of the Thames.

Down by the river, there is a barge approaching from the direction of the Tower and a small crowd is on the shore, curiously awaiting its arrival and more importantly, its news. I spot one of my men in the thick of the crowd and call to him. He hurries over to me and says breathlessly, "Something's happened, Lord Cromwell. Something's happened at the Tower." "I know that you fool! The witch is dead!" I yell, raining spittle on his face in my frustration. He bows his head and takes a breath, speaking more clearly. "The people on the water are saying there has been some kind of attack, my Lord."

I pause and look to the Tower. I can see and hear nothing else from this vantage point. Perhaps the bells and cannon were some kind of warning, but a warning of what? This is unexpected.

The barge arrives and I can see that there is only three people aboard: the bargeman, John Bray and a soldier. I start to walk towards the shore and the crowd peels back on each side at my approach. Their deference pleases me, they understand my power now. The passengers disembark as I approach for their report.  Up close I can see that the men's clothes are in disarray and their eyes are as panicked animals. The bargeman and the soldier struggle to drag a heavy chest off the barge.