Anne Boleyn And The Death Of The Tudors

The Tudor Curse

Cromwell

I hear a sharp, shocked intake of breath from the King's most trusted Physician, Sir William Butts, who approaches the damp chamber beside me. These cavernous, dark spaces below-ground are new and distasteful to him. I myself have spent a great deal of time in this particular area, attending to the baser aspects of the King's business.

I am glad of this diversion, waiting does not suit me, however I have had little choice and patience is not in my nature. It feels as though the whole court, nay the whole country, is suspended in time; the seconds are like hours as we wait for confirmation of the demise of the Queen and to discover the source of the discord at the Tower. No doubt this woman has vital information, why else would Bray insist that he had to speak privately and asked me to meet him in the bowels of the Palace at this pivotal time.

The court wallows and waits in luxury at Whitehall Palace, the regal home acquired by His Majesty when he corrected the treachery of Cardinal Wolsey. The disgraced Cardinal's York Place was reimagined by the King and Anne. On many a night in the early days of Anne's reign would I find them excitedly discussing and designing their new Whitehall Palace. The Queen's chamber, still under construction, speaks of Anne's taste in every wall, corner and window. I have spent quite a bit of time there in the last short while. I feel I can almost hear her voice when I lay my cheek against the stone walls.

Butts grasps my arm tightly, bringing my attention rudely to the present as we enter the dank chamber. We are met with a grim sight. The woman on the raised stone slab writhes and strains against the chains holding her down. I notice the arrow chest lies empty nearby.  "What is the meaning of this?" the Doctor blusters, the furrows on his grey brow deepening. "Why is this woman restrained?"

A man appears from the shadowy edges of the room. Even stained and torn, his dark blue coat, trimmed in red, identifies him as a Tower Warder, one of the King's Guard from the Tower of London. John Bray is one of my most trusted men, my eyes and ears in the Tower. He had been the one to send the summons, requesting that the Doctor meet us here immediately.

"Tell me, what is going on at the Tower?" I demand. "There has been no word since all the commotion, and the soldiers I sent have not yet returned!" My voice echoes around the room.

"Prithee look, Lord Cromwell, I must show you this." He gestures toward the blonde haired woman struggling against her restraints.  She is perhaps a merchant's daughter or kept mistress, based on her clean and well-seemed garb; an attractive girl.

"The only woman I wish to hear news of, Bray, is the late Marquess of Pembroke" I say through gritted teeth. I can barely disguise my frustration; I must have confirmation of her death and discover the source of the uprising before the King's bloodthirsty eyes land on me. This woman is irrelevant.

Doctor Butts leaves my side and approaches the thrashing woman with hands wide open, making soothing noises in his throat. Bray moves to stop him, pulling him away just as she lunges at Butts, baring her teeth and letting out a god-awful screech. "What have you done to her? She has lost her senses!" Doctor Butts exclaims, his voice shaking.

"Nothing! By my troth, we have done nothing. There are more like her! People that tear and slash and bite like beasts. A group of them attacked, they ran through the crowd at the tower. I barely escaped!" Bray gestures to his torn uniform, which appears as if slashed by the claws of a large animal.

I can see now that he is truly terrified.  He is tense and perspiring, his face white and his eyes wild. I have never seen him so affected, despite the horrors he has been involved in at the Tower. He tells me, wringing his hands, that the Constable of the Tower, Sir William Kingston, is dead. While I trust him, I can scarcely credit this shocking news. This does not augur well.

The Doctor examines the young woman from a safer distance and darts in to touch her shackled leg, keeping himself just out of her reach. He snatches his hand back as if scalded. "She is burning with fever, and look at her face, she is dripping with sweat! " His final word brings my attention squarely onto the girl who appears oblivious to our discussion. Any indication of the dreaded pestilence will send Henry riding hard in the opposite direction at a time when we can least afford it. He is petrified of illness, especially the one I have in mind.

The Sweat, or the 'Tudor Curse', as it is whispered among the common folk, is believed to have been brought to the English shores by the King's father, Henry XII, when he arrived on English shores with his French and Scottish mercenaries. With these men, Henry XII won the throne and a Plantagenet Princess, Elizabeth Woodville;  founding the royal Tudor family. He did not realise, however, that these wild men would also  bring with them a brutal disease that would  shadow the land and darken his reign.  Now the Tudor line itself is at risk, with no heir to carry it forward, and any threat to the this King's mortality terrifies him.

"Is it the Sweat? I thought there were signs!" Bray is panicking, trying to wipe his hands on the remnants of his uniform. I find myself backing away involuntarily from the woman on the slab. I have seen how this disease ravages the body, it still visits me in my nightmares; yet another part of a past I try to forget. My thoughts are interrupted as she screams and arches her body off the slab, pulling so hard at her leather restraints that they creak.  I notice that the skin where her wrists meet the restraints is bleeding.

The Doctor's attention sharpens and his professional persona returns. Butts replies slowly with a puzzled expression, wrinkling his large nose in thought. "That would be my usual diagnosis, yes; however for someone with the Sweating Sickness she is remarkably mobile. The delirium appears to have prompted some kind of hysteria or mania.  There were more like this you say?"

As Bray begins to speak, the woman's straining body stiffens before collapsing, finally laying still. We wait to see if she will stay down. A foul stench suddenly fills the air as her bowels evacuate; I bring my orange and clove pomander up to my nose. The Doctor inches forward to observe her more closely, seemingly unaffected by the odour. Her bloodshot eyes are open but appear sightless and glassy. I have seen death many times, I recognise it now. 

Butts turns away from her slowly. "She has succumbed to her illness, she is gone," he mutters. No one must know of this. The panic will only loosen our hold on an already tenuous situation. At least, it may be possible to slow the spread of gossip. "Dispose of the body discretely Bray." I instruct. "Doctor Butts, you must inform the King in private and prepare to leave the Palace. I need to investigate this incident at the Tower some more... Bray, can you confirm the death of Anne Boleyn?"

Bray hesitates. "No my Lord Cromwell, I saw her on the scaffold briefly before the attack. I did not witness her death."

I grimace and start out the door, with Doctor Butts in tow. "Where is Mistress Seymour?" he asks quietly. "She is safe at Chelsea." I reply sharply, gulping down the less pungent air outside the chamber.

I glance back through the doorway at the woman. A tiny movement at her side catches my eye, as if her fingers had twitched slightly. I shake my head as I mount the stairs to seek out the King. This constant strain and lack of sleep is causing me to lose my senses.