Anne Boleyn And The Death Of The Tudors

The Tower Door

Anne

A noise like a gun shot far off stirs me. I wake and begin to demand an explanation of what has interrupted my sleep. Then I realise, I am not in my beautiful bed, where I can look up and see our intertwined initials carved into the wood. I am not in the ornate bed commissioned by the king, hung with ruby coloured silks. I have no servants to answer to me. Yet I am not in my luxurious tower prison either. My eyes fly open. Where the hell am I?

I am in darkness and surrounded by solid shapes, rough sacks that scratch my skin. Then, like a nightmare, the memories flood back. The sword, the sigh of the crowd, then the screams and chaos, and my flight from death.

I remember that I ran off the platform and into the White Tower. Terror followed me. I desperately tried the door of each room and found only one open. The screams were closer and I could still hear the cannons announcing my death. I could not fathom why, as I was very much alive. 

I found myself in a small dim pantry. I pushed heavy sacks of grain in front of the door and sat against them, adding my weight to hold them in place. People ran by, screams and shots echoed through the halls. It continued for what seemed like hours. I must have fallen asleep from pure emotional exhaustion waiting for it to end.

Is this a nightmare and soon I will wake and find myself back in the tower awaiting the swordsman? The very itchy flea bites all over my body quickly dispel that notion. I am awake.

No light penetrates the room around the doorway, it is night then. I savour this fact for a moment. Night has always been my favourite time and I thought I had seen my last. I need to get out of here before Henry finds me. I cannot help but smile, he must be raging like a bull over this, a failure to murder his wife.

Henry... just thinking his name makes my chest ache. I picture him as I last saw him, riding away from that tournament on May Day in a cloud of dust. Larger than life and ostentatious as always, he was dressed in the finest fabrics and covered in glinting jewels. I could easily spot him. He always was a magnificent sight, but I had discovered what lay beneath the jewels, a belligerent child full of insecurity and selfishness. He lives in fear: fear of betrayal, fear of his own people, fear that someone will recognise him for what he really is, and worst of all, a fear of his own mortality.

He had been tense and drawn that day, and his eyes had squinted at everything with even more suspicion than usual. I had pretended indifference, laughing and cheering on the favourites at the tourney. No one could have guessed that every fibre of my being was attuned to Henry's every move, every glance. It was always that way, I had to be a compass with Henry the north.

Yet strangely that day, underlying his manner was an air of expectation, excitement even. This had given me hope. I tried to catch his eye, desperate for any opportunity to regain his good humour, his love. I should have known better. He knew he was going to get what he wanted, like a child with a treat. He was going to get her and dispose of me. Grotesquely, this excited him.

If only I'd realised what he was truly capable of, but at that time I still believed that some part of him cared for me. I was wrong. I should have ridden hard with my brother in the opposite direction to Henry that day and disappeared into obscurity. But even as I think this, I know that it could never have been. Henry would have tracked me to the ends of the earth. He no longer wanted me but that didn't mean he would allow anyone else to have me either. He could not bear to have me free. He will not allow me to live. I must get away from London forthwith.

I listen at the door of my safe haven, straining to hear through the thick oak. Nothing but occasional sounds from far off, someone shouting and that lone gun shot. I need to leave but where is safe for me in England? Whatever insurrection this is, was it intended to save me? I have few loyal friends but if I can make it to France, I am sure to find assistance. That must be my goal.

I manage to clear the door and crack it open, holding my breath. The hall is pitch black, nothing is moving. I slip out of the pantry and inch along the wall, bumping into unknown objects on the dirt floor. I can just make out a difference in the darkness in front of me, a slight lightening that may indicate an exit. I hasten my steps. I am almost there and I can feel a slight breeze on my face. I step on something soft and it unsteadies me.  I reach out to break my fall, steady myself then snatch my hand back in shock. In the faint light, I can make out the shape of a body, it is blocking the doorway. I kneel down and  feel around to determine if this person lives.

It is a large man, with rough stubble on his chin. I feel no breath on his lips and no rise and fall of his chest. He is dead and there is nothing I can do for him. My hands are sticky as I pull them away and I can feel myself beginning to shake. I can not give way to panic, I must get out of this godforsaken tower.

With all my strength I heave the heavy man away from the door, just enough to squeeze my slight frame through. I hear the rich fabric of my dress rip as I push out into the courtyard. I  peek out and am surprised to find it is just nearing dusk but the sky is darkened with heavy black rainclouds. I find, however,  that I can go no further. My back foot is trapped in the doorway. I strain to free it but it is being held fast. A hand has me by the ankle. The man behind the door is pulling on my foot, now I can see his arm reaching through the door. No, I swear that man was dead. I was wrong.

His grip is like an iron vice. "Let go!" I hiss and try to wrench my foot away, kicking at his hand. I lose my balance and topple over, scraping my hands and knees on the stones. I hear more movement behind the door and I panic. I kick out at the door with my other leg, jamming his arm as it tries to close. This does nothing to loosen his hold.  I use my hands to try and detach his fingers from my ankle. I can feel that he is trying to get up on the other side. His fingers slacken slightly as he rises and this is just enough for me to prise my shoe off and pull my foot away.  He still holds my empty slipper in his hand and as I watch, his fingers crush it.  I scramble to my feet as the door starts to open wider and I run out into the rain.