"With this, St. Edward's crown, I do solemnly crown you… Queen of England!"
Her husband placed the golden circlet on her head. A tremor ran through her body as she felt the light weight of the crown, and she shivered inwardly. She gazed straight ahead, paying no mind to the crowd of people who had gathered here to watch her triumph. On the surface, she was calm and collected -but her soul was ablaze. A completeness and a perfection momentarily overwhelmed her, and she was consumed by a new all-embracing feeling. Golden rays of sunshine were streaming through the high windows and bathing the cathedral in an ethereal glow. There was a perfection to this moment that left her breathless, spellbound, charmed.
She was Queen of England. After all these years of struggle, God had finally granted her this great honour. She was sitting on the throne, a crowned queen, wife to Henry VIII. She inhaled deeply, and when Cranmer handed her the two sceptres of the sovereign, a smile crept to her lips. A golden future lay ahead.
"Honour and grace be to our Queen Anne. May you prosper, go forward, and may you bear a new son of the King's blood."
Anne Boleyn, innocent traitor, imprisoned in the Tower of London, smiled bitterly as she recalled her coronation almost 3 years prior. On June 1, 1533, she had been crowned Queen in a magnificent ceremony, seated in King Edward's Chair.
Looking back, she hardly understood how it could have affected her so. She still remembered the heady rush of feelings she had experienced then, but there was no connection between the hopeful woman upon the throne and the tired prisoner she was now.
For she was doomed to die. It was the 19th of May, the day of her execution, and she was no longer queen. Yesterday, Cranmer had announced to her that her marriage to the king had been declared null and void, and therefore she could no longer call herself Queen.
But she did not care.
What did it matter, now that death was at hand? She felt dull and exhausted, like a leave clinging with a last effort to a tree before the storm blows through. There was nothing left, and the only thing that mattered now was the salvation of her soul.
And yet, the thought of those happy days in 1533 still brought a rush of remorse and regret, a faint glimmer of sadness as she remembered that time - but it was now nothing more than memory. It did not lie as heavily on her heart as in the first days of her captivity. Then, she had cried bitter tears for the life she had lost, and wept for the times gone by. But, ever since her trial and condemnation, she had reconciled with her faith and closed that chapter of her life. All her tears were now spent.
Now, she could do nothing but wait. Wait for an absolution that would never come, wait for Kingston's arrival, wait for her death. She had but an hour left to live and was deep in thought. She had risen shortly after dawn, unable to sleep any longer, and spoken her prayers. She felt no need to do it again, for she had made her peace with God. She would beseech Him only one last time – upon the scaffold.
Anne sighed, taking in her surroundings. Here she had lain at her coronation, here she had rejoiced and feasted. In these lodgings she had celebrated her greatest triumph, but she was not reluctant to go. Despite the glowing fire in the hearth, there was no real warmth in this place that could comfort her. The rooms were filled with an aura of destiny. She almost craved her final walk: to leave these rooms behind and breathe one last time the fresh air of the English spring.
Out of the blue, another thought came to her, something she had been thinking about a lot before her arrest: "A Queen of England will be burned."
Merlin's prophecy would soon be fulfilled. Her death, and thus the triumph of her enemies, was at hand. And although the King in his mercy had decided that she was not to be burnt, she would nevertheless suffer death before shivered inwardly at the terrifying thought of being burnt at the stake, and she was grateful that such punishment was not hers. She wondered whether it was pity that had moved Henry to decide that she would suffer a quicker death by decapitation. Perhaps not. It was more likely that the thought of how shocked everyone would be, should he indeed burn an anointed queen at the stake, that had influenced him.
But Anne still hoped that, somehow, he had been reluctant to commit her to the flames. Was she not the woman he had loved and admired for over a decade?
In any case, no matter what had moved him to allow her to die the more honourable and painless death, she felt relief. Although she was only flesh and fear of death as much as any man, she did not fear the sword. A French executioner hardly ever failed. It would not take long. No agony, no pain. A swift death for the English queen who was French at heart.
She would die with her head held high - before it was chopped off - condemned as a traitor and adulteress before the law, but an innocent woman before God.
It was not that she was without sin. She had lived carelessly, selfishly, quick on her feet to fulfil her own desires, steadfast in her judgement of those who stood against her. Her life had been a magnificent one, full of pleasure, lewdness, splendour. Joie de vivre. Her love of life was something she had always regarded as one of her most favourable qualities. But there had been malice, too. She had defied bishops, cardinals, queens. Sure of Henry's unconditional love and her own status, she had paid no mind to their feelings, and, in her folly, she had not realized that her actions would eventually lead to her own downfall.
The list of her mistakes was long, she did not deny it. And she knew, or rather hoped, that if God gave her the chance to turn back time, she would do things differently.
Despite her many flaws and controversial ways, she had never lost her faith and trust in God's infinite mercy and grace. He had always been the solid rock in the storm of her life, her one comfort and refuge. She was a deeply religious woman, even those who hated her most would have to admit that. In their heart of hearts, they could not deny that she was a child of God, firm in her knowledge of the Last Judgement and eternal life.
That's why she had feared they would burn her as a witch. A leman of the devil, the whore Jezebel, a lecherous woman unworthy of the forgiveness of the Lord – that was not her. She had reconciled with her destiny, was ready to die as an incestuous adulteress and a traitor before the law, but not as a witch. She was not without fault, but she had not influenced the king or anyone else by means of witchcraft.
It was a comfort to her that soon the news of her last confession would spread all over London, and the people would know she had sworn on the damnation of her soul that she was not guilty of the charges laid against her. In a time as deeply religious as this, her words would be acknowledged as a genuine statement of her innocence, and perhaps folks would understand that she was not what everyone claimed, a whore and traitor, but a woman condemned without justice.
Anne sighed, tired of the onslaught of thoughts and feelings. A great fatigue came over her, and for the first time she truly resigned herself to the very idea of dying. What a relief it would be to leave it all behind, her crushed existence and all the people in it, the injustice of the world, and the torment of her soul. Death was the only way - there was no reason for living.
Even if at this late hour lightning stroke and blew sense into Henry's thick head, it would change nothing. Her brother was dead, her marriage destroyed, her daughter a bastard. The people of England despised her. It seemed there was no one left in the world who cared.
Even if Henry spared her life and sent her to a nunnery, she would not be able to go on as if nothing had happened. She desired nothing more than to see Elizabeth grow up, but for herself there was not much left. She would never be able to forgive Henry for what he had put her through, she would never be able to dedicate herself fully to the service of God after all that had happened to her. No, it was not to be. Better die with dignity than live in shame for the rest of one's life.
The thought of Elizabeth, on the other hand, brought tears to her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Crying would not help her now. In fact, the love she bore in her heart towards her daughter was the only thing keeping her sane in this gloomy prison. Whenever her fear and despair seemed to take over, her mind would come up with memories of all the beautiful moments she had spent with the child, as if to ease her strain and comfort her.
Sitting on her chair, starring into nothingness, Anne remembered one day Lady Bryan had brought Elizabeth to the palace. At that time, her estrangement with Henry had already begun, and worries and doubts had been plaguing her for weeks.
"Your Majesty!"
Anne, tearing her eyes away from her book of prayers, turned around to see Lady Bryan with the Princess in her arms. "Elizabeth!" she cried, a broad smile on her lips.
She took the child and kissed the reddish head, closing her eyes to enjoy the closeness of her daughter. The little girl snaked her arms around her mother's neck. "My mama," she said in her pretty voice.
"You may leave us now, Lady Bryan," Anne said with a friendly smile. She was so happy to see Elizabeth again, and she had always favoured the elder woman who was so devoted to the Princess. Lady Bryan curtsied and left with a last glance at the lovely picture of mother and daughter.
Anne did not notice, for she was focusing in the child alone. "Did you miss me?" she asked, already sure of the answer.
"Yes," Elizabeth stated, smiling with her tiny rose-bud mouth. She was an English child from head to toe, with her hair that was a mixture of red and ash blonde, the sparkling blue eyes that looked so much like Henry's, and the clear rosy complexion. A surge of love overwhelmed Anne. No matter what she had done to ensnare Henry, no matter what had happened so far, Elizabeth's existence was all worth it.
"I missed you too, my darling," she said, stroking the small head.
Carrying the child in her arms, she went over to one of the fountains. She knelt before it and held Elizabeth so that the child may peer over the rim. "Fishies", the Princess exclaimed, wriggling with excitement.
"Fishies? Were?" Anne looked in the direction pointed out by the tiny finger, and indeed saw a heap of colourful goldfishes swimming just beneath the surface of the water.
"Oh, yes," she said, and then watched as Elizabeth pointed out every single fish she saw and squirmed with delight whenever one of the small things came to the surface for a mere second.
It was such a lovely picture, the merry little girl peering down into the water. As Anne held Elizabeth around the waist, she was torn between laughing and crying out in despair.
She loved her too much. From the very first moment, she had loved Elizabeth with all her heart, although the child was not the so eagerly awaited son and heir. She had taken her into her arms, and from that day on had been nothing but proud of the girl. There was no one in the world she loved more – not even Henry. Elizabeth was the air in her lungs, the core of her very being. She could never lose her.
But, as she knelt there before the fountain with the child in her arms, fear clutched at her. Things were changing, she felt it with the keen Boleyn instinct she had inherited from her ambitious father. Henry was changing. He was starting to behave awkwardly around her, avoiding her presence, neglecting her, and, most recently, he would even yell at her - her, his most beloved sweetheart, the mistress of his passion.
Anne felt that what she had always feared had already begun: Henry was getting tired of her. She was well aware of the fact that he possessed absolute power, and she was afraid of what he might do. What if he discarded her? What if he banned her to a place unheard of and took the child away from her?
She tried desperately to dismiss these thoughts, but she was in too deep. Day and night she worried what she could do and how she could steady her position, and every time she came to the same conclusion. She needed a son. For her own safety and Elizabeth's, she had to produce an heir, a boy to be the living image of his father. If she had a son, it would bring about a golden world for both her and her little girl. Elizabeth would be safe forever, secure in her position as Princess, most beloved daughter of the King. If she bore a son, Henry would never doubt her or the legitimacy of Elizabeth again, and the child's security and well-being was what Anne desired most in the world.
The girl laughed suddenly, shaking her mother out of her reverie. Anne murmured tender words, pressing the child to her slightly trembling form. She prayed silently.
"O God, in your mercy, give me a son. A son to fill my empty womb."
When Elizabeth turned around suddenly, wriggling out of her mother's arms, Anne kissed her on the forehead before she watched the child run across the green of the vast gardens.
She had to give birth to a son. She had to lure Henry into her bed once more and conceive a baby. If she did not, she had nothing to guarantee Elizabeth's future safety and happiness.
The child bounced and skipped on her sturdy little legs, whirling around, her laughter echoing in Anne's head. She fought back tears, and then, looking away from Elizabeth's little dance, she gazed at the sky with a look of frantic pleading in her eyes.
"O Lord, whatever happens to me, save my daughter. I beseech thee, Jesus, bless her and keep her all the days of her life."
Anne smiled bitterly. Then, she had still hoped that everything would turn out well, that she would give Henry a son. But it had all ended in tears.
It had broken her heart to hear Cranmer say that Elizabeth was to be declared a bastard. It was her fault, she had failed. And now the child would be robbed of both mother and status.
She could only hope Cranmer would stick to his promise and keep Elizabeth in Henry's favour and good graces. She could only hope that her greatest dream would come true – that Elizabeth would one day claim the throne and rule with more foresight than her mother.
She prayed that Henry would be just and merciful to their daughter, but she doubted it.
Now that his malicious self had been unleashed, no one was save, not even those he claimed to love. He felt for Elizabeth, of that she was sure, yet he had cast her aside and declared her a bastard. He had loved her, Anne, more than anything in the world, respected and cherished her and doted to her every whim, and now he desired her death more than anything else.
The thought of him still brought a pang of sharp pain. She had always sensed that something was hidden in him, something evil waiting to be set free, but she never knew how much it would cost her. It was not that his actions surprised her. He was like a child, a furious, dangerous child. She had not given him what he wanted, and therefore she had to die.
Ever since the day of her first miscarriage, she had awaited the moment the storm would break loose, and when she had lost her second baby, she knew she was as good as doomed.
Another memory came to her: that fateful day when she had beseeched Henry for mercy, Elizabeth in her arms, her dress four inches deep in mud.
"Henry, please, for the love you bear our child, for the love of Elizabeth, have mercy!" She pleaded with him, but he would not listen to her.
"You lied to me, you've always lied to me." His face was stern.
"No!" she cried, desperate to convince him.
"You were no virgin when you married me. You are not what you seem." He said, looking at her with contempt. " Your father and your brother arranged everything."
"No! I loved you. I loved you. And I love you still." She meant what she said, and for a moment she saw something like hesitation flicker across his face. Maybe all wasn't lost.
"Please, after everything we've been to each other, after everything we were! Please. One more chance! One more."
But he only narrowed his eyes and pushed her away as he passed her.
"Henry!"
Anne panicked, shifting Elizabeth in her arms. This could not be true. She had always loved him! She was the mother of his child!
"Your Majesty!" she cried at the top of her lungs. "Your Majesty, I beseech you!"
Not much later, they had arrested her and taken her to the Tower. And here she had dwelled, the doomed queen, struggling at first against the injustice of the world, then, eventually, accepting what was inevitable.
"After all," she thought, "death is just another path… one that we all must take."
She looked up, startled by a sudden noise coming from the door. The priest had arrived and stepped into the room. "My Lady," he said, bowing to her before he opened his book of prayers, knowing that the Lady Anne would ask to hear some passages from the Gospel.
Anne greeted him and said, "Read to me from the Ecclesiastes once more, I pray you."
He began to read the words out loud, and she felt strangely comforted.
"To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven…"
Her ladies in waiting approached her with a sad look in their eyes. The eldest stepped forward and held out a small wooden box that contained Anne's jewellery.
"A time to be born and a time to die…"
The youngest woman handed Anne the pearl earrings, and the other held out a mirror for her. The eldest combed Anne's hair and arranged it in a simple updo, so unlike the extravagant hairstyles the Lady usually preferred to wear, but beautiful in its simple appeal. At last, she fastened about the slender neck a pearl collar with a single pendant made of silver.
"A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted…"
Anne looked at herself in the mirror. She was beautiful.
"A time to weep and a time to laugh. A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together. A time to mourn and a time to dance…"
And so the priest's genuine voice filled the lodgings of the Queen with a sweet melancholy, and, at last, as the ladies were putting around Anne's shoulders the furred mantle, he finished his read.
The door creaked in its hinges. The ladies curtsied. Anne breathed deeply, for she knew Kingston had arrived at last. "Madam," he said, "the hour approaches… you must make ready."
It was time. She closed her eyes tightly for a moment and then turned around to face the Constable. She looked at him, her gaze confident.
"Acquit yourself of your charge, for I've been long prepared."
His face revealed nothing, but she thought that, for a brief moment, she saw a flicker in his expressionless eyes as if he, too, felt compassion for her, pity, respect.
"The king asks that you take this purse," Kingston said, holding out a small pouch to her, "to pay the headsman for his services and to distribute alms to the poor."
Anne approached him, a sardonic smile on her lips. How generous of the King.
"Thank you," she said, taking the purse.
Kingston bowed. "Will you and your ladies follow me?"
Anne nodded, then turned around and inclined her head to the priest, who obliged with a respectful nod. One of the ladies handed Anne her book of prayers.
She looked after Kingston and his guards. So this was it. Her final walk.
She took a step forward, hesitantly at first, but then, stepping out of the room and into the long dark corridor, she began to walk with as much dignity as ever.
No fear.
They proceeded to lead her through the illuminated corridors of the Tower. Anne thought of her life and how she had come to this, and the memory was bittersweet, like so many things in her life.
The years rolled back.
She almost smiled as she remembered. She was in no place to complain. God had preserved her and protected her all the days of her existence. She had lived a happy woman, rich, pampered, cherished. The daughter of a courtier, she had risen to the throne of England, and she did not regret it. There was no other way for a woman like her but to try and challenge fortune. Only in the end the tides had turned, and she deeply regretted the way things had ended.
"That which has been is now, and that which is to be has already been."
Yes she had been happy. It had not all been in vain.
"A time to get and a time to lose. A time to keep and a time cast away. A time to rend and a time to sow. A time to keep silence and a time to speak."
Finally, as they were nearing the place of execution, the excited voices of the mob came to her ears.
She braced herself, lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders as she walked around the last corner to face the people. Her life was over, but she would end it with grace.
They would not conquer her. They were not going to see an adulteress defeated, a quivering prisoner unable to die with dignity. She was Anne Boleyn. She was the passion of the King, the mother of a Princess. Queen of England. And although that title was no longer hers, although her life was destroyed, she would die according to her status - every inch a queen.
When she caught her first sight of the scaffold, Anne did not falter.
She held her head high, and her steps were confident now, as if she, in all her glory, were still walking the corridors of Whitehall Palace. She paid no mind to the filthy hands that touched her, the stern faces judging her, the hateful words thrown at her. She did not even pay attention to those who spoke reassuringly and blessed her.
"I said in my heart: God shall judge the righteous and the wicked…"
On the wings of youth and ambition she had conquered the world and become England's Queen, she had lived a life of extravagance and splendour, and, in the end, lost it all.
She approached the steps to the scaffold and briefly hesitated. A few last steps, and her life would end. A life that had been magnificent and tragic. For a mere moment, the tragedy of her downfall threatened to overwhelm her, but then, as if God in His mercy was trying to calm her, a wave of courage rushed through her. She was ready.
She had risen and fallen, and, now that her time had come, she had reconciled with her fate. Nothing was forever.
And thus she gathered her skirts and walked up the steps, confident in her stride. The sky above her was blue, the air was clear, and she thought of her life no more.
In that moment, as she stepped onto the wooden platform, she was free. Free of the chains of the world, free of sin, free of doubt.
"O God," she thought, "deliver me from my sins. Jesus receive my soul, o Lord God have pity on my soul. To thee I command my soul."
God had taught her how to die, and He would strengthen her faith. He was calling her to Him, and He was right to do so…
For there is a time for every purpose under the sun.