A/N: Happy December! =D I appreciate the reviews on the last chapter so much – feedback definitely spurs me onward with writing. I had about 400 words written in advance for this chapter, and sat down last night (until the wee hours of this morning, ahem!) and essentially wrote the other 8,000. It didn't wind up the way I planned, but I actually like it and hope that you all will too. Thanks again for your time in reading my story, and as always, please consider leaving a review…
LeCreationist, I did it, yes, I did! The twist of all twists. The drama will continue to mount from here so I hope you enjoy what's coming. =D
Alyson, I agree, writing with this plotline underlying the rest of the story does add a whole additional level to the tension so I am trying to weave the stories together. I agree that the show did not (arguably could not) do justice to the breadth and depth of Anne's fall, and one of my overreaching goals is to develop those stories as best I can. And, spoiler alert, we will get to see Cromwell's emotions when his own time comes. We will be back with some Lissie/Edward tension, or awkwardness if you prefer, next chapter so I'm looking forward to writing that. As for your compliments about having been writing this for so long, thank you =D The characters are almost like real people to me and I make their development a priority. =D Enjoy!
Hi Rae, have you seen the 'How am I supposed to die' Cromwell/Anne video on Youtube? It is wonderful! And someone on there commented and referenced MY story (OMG felt so famous) so I obviously nerdily commented back and no one commented back to me, so I guess I'm a goon lol. Let me know how you like the Cromwell/Anne material in this chapter, if you please! Writing Lissie/Edward is incredibly fun, and I'm exploring their relationship all the time, constantly playing out potential scenes in my head and rejecting or making note of them for later, although that goes for all my characters. The Carew angle developed completely on the fly, and I am not 100% sure where I'm going with it yet, but I am like… 99% sure =D Yes, all is well with my job. I am a corporate reinsurance analyst now, at a big firm. It's great, and academically challenging and I am learning constantly. I love it! Please don't stress about your future; trust me, everything happens for a reason. And I am in the states, in chilly, chilly New England. Happy Thanksgiving to you too! PS DID YOU GET THE TWIST?
JFang, I appreciate that you took the time to let me know you did suspect the twist as I was doubting my ability to subtly drop hints. Thank you for that! I hope you'll keep reading and see what does become of all of our characters and plotlines as we draw to a conclusion.
i.
15 May
Morning
"Popular opinion has Lord Rochford a free man," Riche shook his head, twitching the toes of his boots in the air. Cromwell tried to get past the presence of boots on his desk. The gesture said that Riche was becoming more comfortable.
"Does it?"
"Indeed." Riche thumbed through the notes that he himself had prepared for the Queen's trial. The copies had just been completed and the two men would soon journey upriver for the royal trials; the hearings for Norris, Smeaton, Weston, and Brereton should, Cromwell judged with a glance at the angle of the sun, be underway. The four men not part of the royal family would have their fates decided by a commission of Oyer and Terminer, a child of the commission that had started to investigate this whole affair over a month ago, with necessary personnel adjustments of course. Their convictions were of less importance and required far less vigilance. They would, most of them, be disposable on any regular day. Nevermind when their sacrifice was politically expedient.
It was the Queen and the Viscount who would cause the stir. Their courtroom was the King's Hall in the Tower, and in case either of the accused or any of the attendees should forget the preeminence of their sovereign over all issues touched in that room, a great platform had been erected upon which each of the incestuous siblings would take their turn standing. Likewise, their jury of peers would rise above them in spectacularly intimidating fashion: a veritable wall of scaffolding had been built elaborately against the main wall, enabling the dozens of jurors to sit in progressively elevated rows as though they were watching an entertainment, a joust. Only those who came to watch the trials, the spectators, would be close to earth. The participants in this legal transaction would appear as characters in a play. Cromwell had only realized the irony after he had ordered the building projects to begin.
He stifled a yawn. "Should we become betting men, then? Pad our coffers?"
Riche shrugged absently. His eyes were bleary and the surrounding skin gray and wrinkled. He had been drinking too much, Cromwell knew. But they'd all been indulging in illicit activities lately. He'd leave Riche be. Every man had his ways of coping.
"And the odds against the queen?" Cromwell tried when Riche didn't respond.
The Solicitor rubbed at his eyes. "No one's betting against your wrath, my lord," he murmured.
Cromwell blinked but was careful not to show Riche his reaction. Was it really so widely accepted that Anne's world was crashing around her because of his machinations? Must he cede none of the impetus, none of the origin, to the king? But that was his function. Make the transaction, receive the praise, absorb the blow. Root firmly between those who would support you and those who would ruin you. Refuse to let it affect you. Refuse.
He tried at a joke. "Perhaps we tell them to acquit her, then? Stack our wagers in her favour and rob the gamblers of London blind?"
Riche's mouth crinkled in ill-concealed disgust. His temples rippled as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. "If you wish." The deference came through clenched jaws. The secretary and the solicitor mutually avoided the other's gaze. Cromwell's tongue moved behind his pursed lips: I do wish. I do wish.
ii.
Midday
The day's schedule had been difficult to assemble, as the pace of the lesser men's trials had been impossible to predict. Subsequent interviews with Norris, Smeaton, Weston, and Brereton had given little indication of whether each man had been softened enough to acquiesce and make the state's job easier, or whether he would fight for his life and his reputation. Each man had been informed, in a careful show of subtlety, that his cooperation would not be overlooked when the time came to consider those he would leave behind. Dangling the threat of financial ruin and destitution of a man's loved ones was usually effective, but again, no one could know whether Norris would dispute each charge laid against him, one by one, with the careful precision of a member of the king's Council; whether Brereton would nod patiently with hollow eyes and beg Henry's forgiveness.
Cromwell should, he mused, probably have attended their hearings. He had entrusted their safekeeping to Norfolk, Lord High Steward for this day and this day only. The duke would have an exceptionally busy day, in all sentencing half a dozen people – most of them known to him personally for some years – to their deaths. Cromwell had not laid eyes on Norfolk since their confrontation in his own office, and that was more than acceptable to him. So long as the man carried out his duties as they all must.
Word had come that they'd embarked on the final hearing for the adulterers, though irritatingly the unsigned missive failed to include much information about the morning's transactions or even the name of the accused whose case was currently being evaluated. Cromwell had arranged that the queen and her brother be prepared to arrive at their trials at any given moment after noon, and surprisingly it did appear that they would keep their schedule. He covered both eyes with his hand for a moment, alone in his bedchamber, having come to find his hat. The coolness of his palm was a shock and a salve to his warm skin. He prayed to God that a fever was not upon him. Or, that if it was a fever, it would be strong and vengeful and take him quickly. They couldn't finish this business without him. They wouldn't be able to kill her without him.
Riche stood beside him on the dock ten minutes later, holding down his cap silently just as Cromwell did. It was quite a breezy day, and sunny, and almost cheerful. It was a day for a jaunty ride and a picnic supper, not to sanction a handful of murders.
Norfolk was assembling his troops, a different and much larger group than the Oyer and Terminer that had just heard the cases of the lesser men. The crew of peers had convened in London over the past two days, some called away from summer business or legal obligations in their shires. They had descended on the town, on the court, by barge, by litter; a few, desperately riding from near the northern border, arriving in the wee hours of this very morning on trembling horses. Cromwell had checked their names off his great list, the list of men who would officially condemn Anne and George, one by one as they had arrived. Some had been away from court for a great time and were struck dumb at the recent changes in scenery.
Henry Percy, tall and thin, was the first man to catch Cromwell's attention. He stood towering over Norfolk like a nervous sapling. He spoke rapidly to the duke, one hand rolling over and over in the air as if making the same point repeatedly. Norfolk nodded along, head tilted back although he stood a solid arm's length from the Earl of Northumberland. Percy's other hand rested at an odd angle on his own midsection. Suddenly, the younger man broke off and squeezed his shoulders together, gripping that spot on his torso gingerly. He bowed his head and his eyes crinkled into oblivion. Norfolk took another step back. He shook his head, his expression one of genuine sorrow.
Riche, at his elbow, swallowed. "Not just rumours, then."
Cromwell shook his head. No. Percy was dying. He resisted his compulsion to make some dry remark that the Earl was obviously suffering a slow death, so why not charge and try him while they were in the thick of it? A quick dispatch to end his pain? Cromwell shook his head at himself this time. If only his Elizabeth could read his thoughts now. She would not welcome him back into their marriage bed if she could see what the past eight years had made of him.
After helping Percy physically into his seat, Norfolk made his way over to Cromwell, his abhorrence of the very act visible on his face. "Cromwell."
"Your Grace. How went the hearings?"
"As required. The men await the king's pleasure. None confessed. None will impugn her to save his own hide. But none spoke against the king; each begged the forgiveness of their king and their Lord and professed himself worthy of death for his many earthly sins."
Riche raised his eyebrows. "Not one man slung guilt at her?"
Norfolk's gaze, cold and sober, met Riche's carefully. Not Cromwell's. "None. Each professed her innocent. It was a beautiful thing, really. Watching them, one would think they'd sat together and planned their defenses."
"Even Smeaton?" Riche persisted. Everyone had expected that the musician would break.
"He got a haircut," Norfolk countered with a mirthless chuckle. "How he managed that I'll never know. Trimmed and polished, in a clean shirt and a black jacket like a gentleman. Even took out that damned earring he always wears. He spoke calmly, and firmly, and defended the queen against the allegations. But affirmed that he is a sinner and a base man, and…" he trailed off, staring into the distance, as if watching this new version of Smeaton the Saint. "Agreed that he does deserve death and begs for the king's forgiveness and mercy on his soul as Supreme Head of the English Church."
"God." The solicitor rounded on Cromwell. "You sure you didn't tutor him before the trial?"
Cromwell rolled his eyes. "So they're back in their rooms?"
"Yes. Half an hour since. Once the peers settle in," Norfolk indicated his jury with a sweep of one bejeweled hand, "we'll open the doors."
They'd been fairly quiet about the trials of Rochford and the queen, but as peers of state the legal proceedings technically must be allowed open attendance, and word had inevitably seeped out that the royal trials would occur soon. For each of the past two days, as the jurors had trickled into London, a progressively greater amount of Londoners had amassed outside King's Hall to wait for the trials to begin. Today, spying Cromwell's barge and then his gold chain of office, word had spread like plague that Anne and George Boleyn would be tried before sunset. Even in the quarter hour since they'd arrived, Cromwell could detect a louder buzzing from outside the building, firmly guarded as it was by Kingston's unflinching men. Cromwell glanced through the court's doors to the great heavy doors that opened out into the external courtyard beyond, whereby Londoners would enter and exit. He could feel their buzzing in his chest.
When the jury had seated itself and every man had set his cap to rights on his head, Cromwell and Riche made their way through the scaffolding, greeting each man formally and equipping him with the necessary props for their pageant: blank parchment, a quill, an inkwell in case they needed to take notes. Copies of the full indictments had been passed out confidentially when each man had arrived in London, sometimes with astonishing speed and incomprehensible efficiency. Knights and lords had been greeted by young men in Cromwell livery, plain black doublets with a ruff at the neck, and presented with a packet containing the salacious details of their legal responsibility. They'd accepted these parcels while standing in the entryway of a London inn in the early morning, or while downing a cup of ale at a tavern just north of Greenwich, not yet having reached the palace. A few had had the indictments pressed into their hands while in the very stables of the palace, or in the courtyard, before they even reached shelter. Before they could even murmur about the deadened court or grumble about the strictness of the summons. Cromwell had found them all, one by one, most before they'd found him. He'd accosted them with these papers, with this truth that they must study and memorize and be prepared to accept. He carried copies of these documents now, in case any of the men had misplaced them. Or sold them, for copying and dissemination. He was pleased when no one asked for a new copy. Each man spread his personal set of charges on the great table before him, next to the identical inkwells and the freshly cut pens. For a moment, Cromwell smiled to himself: these peers, each of them far grander and higher than he, resembled at this moment his horde of scribes. His boys. And for today, they would fulfill many of the same functions.
"My lords," Cromwell said simply when he had finished, causing the whole of them to rotate to look at him. "His Majesty thanks you for your assistance on this most delicate matter. I thank you for your forgiveness of my urgent summons. And the law thanks you for upholding today its most valiant justice." He bowed his head, palms pressed together as if in prayer, and moved silently to the seat he had requested be built for him, off to the left of the jury like an esteemed lady to her lover. Honour and serve him they would.
iii.
The crowds hushed to a murmur as those great doors swung open again and a lone slight figure came into view, flanked by two more of the Tower guard and followed by Kingston. He had expected she would look even thinner due to anxiety, but Cromwell was surprised to see a slightly less gaunt Anne enter King's Hall. He hid a smile at the sight of her headwear: a sleek black cap, perched on her head like a flattened hood, with a long black feather that bobbed and fluttered with each movement. Anne's hair was pulled entirely off her neck and shoulders, probably coiffed into some intricate knot, and hidden beneath. Her face was clear, soft, and more relaxed than his own. He traced her features, looking for a hint of malice or challenge there, and found none; only earnestness. Her blue eyes glowed, not for him, not for anyone but herself. He readjusted in his seat, tearing his eyes from her face with effort that he hoped was not noticeable. But a glance around the Hall told him that no one was looking his way. Every pair of eyes was trained where his were.
Anne's movements were familiar, the almost oblique posture, the self-contained inclination of the chin. Her figure was drawn into a black gown – rather tightly, it appeared as she came closer – that split in the middle to reveal a gleaming red underskirt. Cromwell had to wonder whether she had taken care to pack this gown for the trial she must have known would be coming, on that day when Suffolk had had such difficulty arresting her. Whatever effect she had intended, she had succeeded. From the waist up, Anne looked every inch a paradigm of fashion; from the waist down, she was a martyr.
She had her hands clasped before her waist, which did appear, as she came closer, to be straining at the seams. Perhaps that was the style and he was unaware. Or perhaps she was so exceptionally thin that most her gowns hung off her, and this was how they were meant to fit.
From somewhere in the crowd, a strong voice echoed through the hall. "God save Your Majesty!"
Anne kept walking forward, astride with her guards, but she turned her head. The gesture was elegance personified. The luxurious feather swirled about her head. Her hands parted, and she gave a wave, at shoulder level, of acknowledgement. She nodded thanks, the corners of her mouth curving upward slightly, and turned to face her jury of peers.
Having reached the base of the platform they had erected for her, she paused. With a quick glance around and a breath slightly deeper than usual, the only action to belie any anxiety, Anne reached for her skirts.
It was then that she found him, flicking her eyes directly to his. There was no searching, no wide gaze: she'd known where he would be. It was then that he saw challenge. She picked her skirts up in both hands, holding them just above her ankles so she could mount the shallow steps without tripping, and he saw why she had looked at him so. Why she had essentially smirked at him with her eyes. She wore silky stockings in a shade of deep red, to match her underskirts. The memory cracked through his mind like a whip, the night before her arrest when he had pressed her against the wall of her closet and slid his fingers up her stockings. I've been guessing what colour stockings you were wearing. Every time I've seen you, I've guessed. I've driven myself mad wondering.
He must have flinched, must have become heavy-lidded for a moment or given some indication that she had caught him thinking, for Anne looked away then. He could hear her voice, could remember her answer as though she was repeating it now, communicating her triumph silently to him: You run the kingdom, and you're undone by stocking colours?
The thousands – above two thousand, Cromwell would say, if he were to venture a guess – gathered in the Hall fell completely silent as the queen reached the top of the platform and dropped her skirts, advancing to the small podium that had been put in place so she would have a place to lean, or to lay documents if she brought any with her. Had she been appointed counsel, there would have been a need for documents. But she knew that there would be no legality, no exhibits needed, and she had dutifully brought none with her. She knew the part she had to play, Cromwell realized with a grim sinking of the heart. And she had prepared aptly for it, dressing the part, comporting herself with dignity and humility. She had starred in many an entertainment before. This was no difficult science to her.
He held her in his gaze, having failed to anticipate how difficult this moment would be. The memory of her mouth pressed against his in hushed reverie that night would not die. What drives you mad? He had asked her. Those four words echoed through the silence with such resounding volume that Cromwell's gaze darted about, terrified that he had said them out loud. As if on cue, Anne shuddered a little under his stare, although she looked at him no more.
Norfolk finally found his voice and he addressed Anne with an imperiousness that impressed Cromwell. The duke, too, knew his role.
"Your Majesty, Queen Anne of England, has been called to account for your many heinous and treasonous acts against your lawful husband and sovereign, His Majesty Henry the Eighth, King of England and France, Lord of Ireland, Defensor Fidei and Supreme Head of the Church of England. You will be tried by this jury of your peers, who have sworn an oath to uphold the law and letter of justice and to preserve the peace of the realm. Your indictment will be read as follows." Norfolk spoke blankly, blandly, as though addressing a statue. Not his niece. Not the girl whose first riding habit he had bought. Cromwell suspected that the duke had fixed his gaze somewhere over Anne's head, but he was not at the proper angle to know for sure.
Smoothing what appeared to be steady hands over the indictment, Norfolk began in the same monotone to read the charges leveled against Anne. One after the other, the luring, the procurement, the carnality which had been discussed and examined so many times that the charges were familiar to Cromwell's mind. Smeaton, Weston, Brereton, Norris, and George Boleyn. The crowd murmured a bit at each line, and at the allegation of incest an incredulous hiss rose from the people of London. Of course, now, they would cease to scorn her. Now. Not when she needed their support. Not when she was desperate for their approval. One man booed aloud at the detail of Anne's tongue in George's mouth, and Cromwell wanted to laugh at the irony of it, at the fact that the defense of the common people was beyond useless to Anne at this juncture. There was a minute crinkling at the corner of Anne's eye that told him she saw the humour too.
She did not flush or gasp at the sordid details as Norfolk recited her fictitious sins to her. She did not tremble at the implications that she had planned or prayed for her husband's death. She nodded at the appropriate moments to let Norfolk know she was listening and understood his words, her feather bobbing along behind her to let Norfolk know that it was also listening and understood, but both remained silent.
When he finished reading the general summaries of her sins and the reasons that she must be brought to account, those delightfully vague accusations that were ridiculous in the eyes of the law but would be impossible to refute, Norfolk fell silent. All this time, uncle and niece had held one another's gaze. Each was the only person in the Hall to the other. Boleyn, Howard. Like blood coursed through their veins. Like ambition had brought them to this precipice. Cromwell suspected that like regret would bind them to one another. Norfolk pressed his lips together to suppress a quivering jaw, and Cromwell knew then, knew for sure, that Norfolk would do his best to take care of Anne, to do what little he could now when he had failed her so horribly.
The queen took a deep, slow breath. There was no need to rush; they had all the time in the world to sentence her to death. Cromwell watched her collarbones rise, watched the swell of her chest above her bodice. His eyebrows twitched a little as he strained to make out the curve of her waist, of her breasts. She was luscious, for certain. Yet it was not the Anne he knew. He could swear he had never seen her body look this way.
"Your Grace, uncle; my lords," Anne curtsied her deference to the men who stared at her, all in similar black caps with feathers, and similar to hers as well. "I would protest my innocence of these charges before you, before the people of London, and in the eyes of God. With your permission, my lord Norfolk, I would lay bare my own sins and my innocence of the sins alleged of me."
Riche turned his head to look at Cromwell; what was she talking about? Without moving, Cromwell glanced at Riche. Both men looked back at the queen.
The peers behind him were likewise exchanging glances and slow shrugs. A few dutifully picked up their quills. Norfolk held his niece in a searching gaze, trying to ascertain what she was about, and finally nodded. "Granted."
And so she launched into her defense, a defense that she could not have planned beforehand as she had never been availed of her own indictment, in itself a crime against legal protocol. Anne worked her way through her alleged suitors, addressing the men one at a time, explaining her relationship with each. Henry Norris was her husband's most intimate groom, and had a longstanding engagement with one of her own most intimate ladies. Over the years they had become kind acquaintances and, yes, had had friendly discussions. Was it true, Anne said firmly, that she had been informed Henry Norris spent too much time in the royal apartments? Yes, it was true. But could she bar him for no good reason? No. Refuse to let him visit his betrothed? No.
William Brereton was not so much an acquaintance as a man she had met on several occasions, and with whom she had never had conversation. As the peers must know, she pointed out, Brereton governed Wales and was at court a few times per year at best. Even during those times, he was not in close capacity with her husband the king and had no ties with anyone in her household; therefore she had only realistically been in contact with him a dozen or so times over the past years.
Likewise, Sir Francis Weston was no familiar in the royal apartments. He served her husband, yes, as a minor diplomat and had provided much loyal service to him over the past few years. Indeed, yes, she had granted Sir Francis a small sum of money as thanks for having completed a diplomatic mission that had pleased her husband in 1533. If the jury would care to look over the accounts of her household for the month of February 1534, they would find such a gift and its explanation, along with a cordial response from Sir Francis. The man did, Anne conceded, have a reputation. There was no disputing that. She meant not to testify to the goodness of all those at court, but to provide for her innocence and that of those men charged with these crimes.
Mark Smeaton, while not a gentleman at present, had not even been invited into the royal household by the dates in question. Anne outlined the dates of his advancement from memory with surprising clarity for a woman who had not had this information before her in at least two weeks, if even that. He had been a recipient of her musical patronage as well as that of her husband for years.
The queen's monologue, lengthy and complex as it was, riveted the attention of those in the Hall. The crowds behind her maintained their hush and those jurors who had perhaps considered taking notes were still. Cromwell watched as she made eye contact with each of the jurors, calm and confident in her defense against charges that had just been made plain to her. Her profile was illuminated in the afternoon sunlight that streamed through high windows. Her lips parted and pursed with each point, her head and its accompanying feather nodding and shaking in earnest. She was not acting.
Her brother, George… Anne trailed off. He was her brother. She was his sister. Yes, she loved him, and yes, he was one of her closest friends. Yes, they had spent time alone together. Much of it over the years. She paused, eyes faraway in thought. She took a long, sweeping look at the peers who faced her. She dared any one of them to declare that they had never spent time alone with their siblings.
Further, Anne stated, the dates that had been presented showed more than one error of plausibility. On this date, she had been recovering from the birth of her daughter, the king's daughter, Elizabeth. On this date, she had been confined with fever, no one but her maids in and out. On this date, and that one, and that one as well, she had been brought to bed with miscarriages, with bleeding during early pregnancy, with a dangerous stabbing feeling in her womb. Her midwives would be able, she challenged the jurors, looking her uncle in the eye, to attest to her inability to sit up, speak, or even move on many of these dates. As would any woman who had ever birthed a child, lost one, or helped deliver one. At that statement, Anne had to pause as a number of female voices in the Hall rose with cries of affirmation, supporting her, validating her. More than one of the jurors was fidgeting in his chair.
Anne maintained her focus on the men before her. She was not a perfect person. She confessed it willingly. She had not been a perfect wife. She had failed to provide her husband with a male child, to her sorrow as much as his. She had not shown him perpetual support, and had often taken it into her mind to be jealous of him and some of his pursuits. Cromwell glanced down and back up as she chose that word carefully. The entire world knew that Henry had waited for Anne for six years, only to betray her within six months of their nuptials.
She had, she admitted, coveted the materials of queenship. She loved her husband, but she had become greedy at times, forgetting her way to God. She had sometimes lacked wisdom and discretion in concealing her greed and jealousy of her husband, and for that she had already begged the forgiveness of the Almighty. She blamed no one but herself, she vowed. She held no one liable for that but herself. God, too, held her liable, and he would teach her how to absolve herself of those sins. But by Christ's sacrifice, Anne proclaimed in a ringing voice, she had not committed a single one of these crimes. She had not imagined ill toward her husband, nor ever planned or spoken of his death, nor even thought of it except when she prayed to God to preserve his life.
All this, Anne concluded with her palms pressed together before her chest, the same gesture that Cromwell had found himself enacting when he addressed the peers before her trial, all this, she left to their consciences.
Norfolk shot Cromwell a look. This had not been discussed, the secretary realized. They had not discussed the trial itself in exhaustive detail: she would enter, they would charge her, she would speak, guilty. Any recess? Discussion?
Cromwell looked out over the crowds. He looked at Anne, who remained firmly facing her uncle. He looked at the peers, their downcast expressions telling him all he needed to know: their instructions having been memorized and accepted, their resolve was nonetheless shallow. There was no time for a recess, no time for any sharing of these doubts. The Hall would overflow if word got out at how aptly the queen had defended herself. It would turn into an even greater spectacle. Save that for George Boleyn, Cromwell thought. Spare her. The other four had already been sentenced and convicted. They could afford no hesitation, no misstep now. He nodded once at Norfolk. Do it.
Riche stiffened beside Cromwell as Norfolk called the jurors to verdict. The few who hated Anne enough to override all else were called upon first. Cromwell had seated them thus on purpose. But even those voices lacked passion.
"Guilty."
"Guilty."
"Guilty."
Anne never flinched.
Norfolk did.
Cromwell did.
Northumberland was the first to quaver. He gasped, clutching his side again, eyes wide in his thinning face, staring at Anne. Perhaps he was seeing what could have been. If so, Cromwell thought he should buy the man some ale and strike up a friendship. Common ground had never been so perfectly defined.
"Guilt… guilty." Percy finally managed to get the word out. Eyes flying to Anne, he saw that she gave a slight nod to his answer. Acknowledgement. He had loved her once, and she him.
The two thousand common bodies in the Hall breathed as one, stunned silent by this failure of justice. Had they really thought she would be acquitted? Cromwell wondered. He really should have laid some wagers. None of these Londoners uttered a sound as each repetition of guilty reached their ears. The word became a drumbeat, the rhythm to a song. Slow and steady. Any hesitation jarred, and there were many hesitations. But each man knew what he must do. And finally it was Norfolk's turn.
Cromwell straightened in alarm when he saw that the duke was crying. "Christ," the secretary muttered. Norfolk was right. Cromwell should not have made him do this.
"Guilty." Norfolk concurred at last, tears raining from his wet beard and pooling on the indictment, smearing the ink, washing away the words of her crimes. They were hers now, unanimously. She was guilty of all charges because this jury had said so.
Every eye in the Hall fell to Anne. She cleared her throat with a slight dip of her head, as though the physical force was necessary to dislodge whatever crowded her airway. The little sound, the little "ahem" was so feminine and light. So carefree. No tears sprang to her eyes to match the image of her uncle the duke. She faced him again slowly. "I defer to the preeminence of your judgment, my lord," she said calmly.
"You are – you are forthwith," Norfolk blinked rapidly, refusing to wipe away his tears in defiance. Cromwell could see that Norfolk thought himself defiant. "Queen Anne. You are forthwith stripped of your noble title, your lands, your income, and your personal estate. You are stripped of all titles but that of Queen, as befits the wife of a reigning monarch."
Which every soul in the room knew would be taken from her soon enough.
"Since you have so grievously offended said King, Henry the Eighth of England, our most esteemed lord, by committing your acts of treason and adultery against him and against this realm, having been here attainted of the same, you are subject to punishment under the law. You have warranted death, which will be achieved promptly here within the Tower of London, by being burned alive until dead –" Norfolk disintegrated into sobs then, and finally wiped his eyes and nose with one velvet sleeve. He propped one elbow on the table for support and leant heavily into it. "Burned alive until dead, or else have your head cut off, according to the king's decision."
Anne held his gaze, just a small wrinkle of fear between her eyebrows, as if bracing her face for a slap. She watched him quietly, as if to say, is there anything else?
Norfolk grimaced. "May God have mercy on your soul."
Again, Cromwell waited for the crowd to erupt into noise – cheers, shouts, anything. But there was silence. Anne's part was not over.
She stepped back from the podium and folded her hands together again. "My uncle, my lords, I will not say that this sentence is unjust, nor will I allege that my explanations and refutations may have prevailed against these charges. I did not presume to change your minds or opinions of me. I believe that each of you has sufficient reasons for your verdicts given here today, but also believe that they must be different than what was read aloud in court, for I can vow that I have cleared myself fully of those offenses which have been presented to me." The gracious words of blunted boldness flowed from her tongue with a lilt, sounding more like poetry than defiance. "I would pray for the King's forgiveness for having fallen short of his expectations as a wife, and for your forgiveness, my lords, and for that of God and his son Jesus Christ. The latter will teach me how to die, and will strengthen me against my fate, having walked beside me and held my hand throughout my life and never having abandoned me. Through my counsel with Him I will be bolstered against spiritual failures and will be absolved of my own human weakness. I will prepare myself for death, since I see that is what pleases the king, and will speak nothing against it. As for the men accused and convicted alongside me, I regret deeply that they will die on my account. I would beg that I could suffer death enough to deliver them. Yet again, we are all happy to abide by His Majesty's wishes, knowing that our souls will be transported afterward to paradise. I will find peace in my sentence, and will go willingly to Christ whose judgment alone will determine my fate. I would pray that the Lord's mercy find all of you, and I will continue to pray for your health and salvation, my lords, as well as that of my husband. When the time comes for each of you, I pray that God shows you how to die as He has shown me."
Anne bent at the knee as she had when she'd greeted her peers, hands still clasped, and turned around without having been granted leave. Norfolk opened his mouth as if to call her back but closed it again. Anne started down the stairs from the platform.
The crowd finally exploded with fury, shuffled shouting and expletives so loud and sudden that several of the peers jumped. Norfolk sat motionless.
Riche nudged him, dazedly. "George is immediately next?"
Cromwell nodded. Perhaps that had not been the best decision – this crowd was clearly in favour of the queen, and would likely rise in support of her brother as well – but there was no time to change it now. The peers could not be allowed time to think, to talk. They had to move forward. "They should've gone to get him at verdict. He's probably waiting."
Anne reached the floor of the Hall as the mingled cries of the thousands of witnesses began to meld together: "God save the queen."
Kingston appeared as if from nowhere – Cromwell guessed the gaoler had been standing against the wall near Cromwell's own elevated seat – and moved forward to escort Anne up the aisle. Her guards, Kingston's guards, waited for them at the doors at the back of the court, which led to the outer Hall and eventually outside. Tower guards made a perimeter around the area where the common people stood, forming a clear path for Anne and Kingston as the Londoners' chanting picked up in fury: "God save the queen! God save the queen!"
Accepting Kingston's arm and leaning on it a little, Anne turned her head and murmured something to the gaoler. Kingston drew back, surprised, and shook his head. Anne dipped her head and spoke again, nodding in earnestness. Cromwell could almost make out Kingston's words: Madam…
"God save the queen! God save the queen!"
Riche swallowed. "Where is he?"
"I don't…" Cromwell looked over his shoulder to find the deathly stare of Thomas Howard. His eyes were red and watery from watching his niece go. She had already forgotten him, it seemed, but he could not forget her.
"Sir…" Riche tugged him back around. "Master Kingston seems to need you."
Cromwell's heart was pounding, pounding along to that beat: "God save the queen." He looked around in a frenzy, suddenly afraid he had missed his last glimpse of Anne; but no, her feather was still in the Hall. She was halfway up the aisle with Kingston, who was indeed looking over his shoulder, seeking Cromwell.
"Stay here," Cromwell muttered. "Keep things in rights." He bolted from his chair and steeled himself against the real fear of walking between two seas of a thousand people each, every one of them possessing the full knowledge that he was the architect behind this whole pageant. Kingston's guards were a wall, yes; but all it would take was a quick arm with an exposed blade.
Kingston let Anne walk ahead with her guards when they reached the end of the court. With magnificent timing, the outer doors opened and in came George Boleyn, flanked similarly by Tower guards. He, too, was impeccably dressed. His eyes lit up at the sight of his sister, and Cromwell's heart ached. Though the people inside the Hall could not possibly see this scene, their shouting echoed in this big empty space: "God save the Queen!"
"She'll need an escort back," Kingston explained over the din when Cromwell neared. "But I was told to..." he looked toward George, who was approaching, although there was a sizable space between his path and Anne's. "To chaperone each at trial."
"Yes," Cromwell agreed, his mind clicking through ideas the way he had thumbed through the indictments two days before, counting them. Why had he not thought of this detail? He was growing dull, he chided himself. Dull and distracted.
"She's – the Queen has begged to be allowed to see her brother's trial. I told her it was out of the question, but she requested it as a dying woman and I was telling her –"
George's mouth formed Anne's name, silently. He gave her a sad, hopeful smile. She raised one palm as if to wave hello.
"Sir?" Kingston prodded as the siblings passed, each looking over one shoulder for a last face-to-face goodbye.
"Take the Viscount in," Cromwell heard himself saying just before George came into earshot. His blood pounded ever harder in his ears as his gaze slid over Kingston's serious expression, to George's narrowed eyes, to Anne's retreating figure. "There's no time to lose."
With that he was off, leaving behind the shouts of the people of London who burst into cheering when George Boleyn entered with Kingston a moment later. Cromwell turned around to see if he could glimpse Norfolk, alarmed at his own lack of organization, just as two Tower guards slammed the doors to the court resolutely shut.
Cromwell reached the guards that followed Anne and they parted for him. He reached out, not knowing what he was doing, and grasped her elbow. Anne started and whirled around; her feather floated in front of her face, and when it drifted away, there she was. She was real to him again, real in a way that she had not been at the podium, real in a way that she never was in his thoughts and fantasies. She was real. She was Anne.
"Come," he said simply, already hauling her behind him. "Wait here," he threw over his shoulder at the guards, who nodded and dispersed. Anne hurried along behind him, but there was a hesitance in every step and she tried to withdraw her elbow from his grasp. He gripped her tighter through her black sleeves. She said nothing.
They crashed through a door off to one side of the Hall, which had probably not been opened in years. They were ascending a small stone staircase, Anne struggling to keep up, one arm in his grasp, the other clutching her skirts so she wouldn't trip on them. He pulled her quickly behind him, hating himself for his weakness in wanting to show some kindness to her. As if he could earn her forgiveness for what he was doing to her.
She must have known where they were going: a small room, screened tightly, through which one could observe what happened in the court of King's Hall below. The room had been there for centuries; Henry had used it only a few times. This must have been what she had been asking Kingston for, without having said it in as many words. He opened the door at the top of the stairs, which led to a short corridor that twisted around a single corner and ended in the observing room itself. A few chairs huddled around the screen as though someone else had just been watching, but they hadn't. There was one way into this room, high above the court as though it had been built like a mezzanine, and one way out. If she wanted to watch George's trial, if it would give her some solace, some comfort to watch him go through what she'd just endured, he would give it to her. His heart threatened to leap from his throat when they stopped a short distance behind the chairs and he released her arm; he had not thought through the part about being alone with her, not even for a moment.
The arm that had been in his grasp was cradled by the other, crossed over her abdomen. She stood still next to him. Neither of them looked at one another. The cheering of the crowd for George Boleyn was still deafening. One would wonder if he was performing acrobatics to elicit such sustained roaring.
Anne cleared her throat again, making that same noise that said how much effort was required to find her voice. She bowed her head, closed her eyes. He turned toward her. A few tears spilled down her cheeks, even as hearty whistles bounced through the court below, the sound of London cheering for her brother.
"This was what you wanted?" he tried.
She sniffled, pressed a flat palm to her cheek, covering her face from forehead to chin. She wiped away her tears and stood up straighter. It was a gesture that he recognized frighteningly well. No time for pain now, it said. Cry later. Mourn later. Sacrifice nothing. She glanced at him, nodding. "Thank you," she mouthed, and started forward.
Anne chose the middle chair and drew it close to the screen, pressing her face nearly against the tight lattice that would conceal her from view. She leant forward in her chair and he saw that she trembled all over. He would probably be trembling, too. Even her feather seemed defeated, the arc looking more listless now, reaching down toward her back.
Finally the crowds had died down, and the proceedings were about to start. Cromwell had to get back to the court. He would leave the guards outside the door downstairs, and send Kingston after Anne when the verdicts came in. She would know the sentence. She didn't need to stay for that.
In spite of himself, Cromwell took a few silent steps forward and reached out his hand, hovering above Anne's shoulder. He placed his palm against her, hoping he wouldn't startle her, but it felt to him like she was sinking into his touch. Probably a trick of his imagination.
He had thought to never be alone with her again, to never see her near again. Certainly never to touch her again. There was no carnality in his mind at any point in bringing her here, but part of him wanted to somehow atone for their lovemaking, to ask her for absolution for their sin together, as he could certainly not offer that to her. The other part wanted to turn her head and kiss her, just once, selfishly, to kiss her goodbye. He prayed to God to save him from himself, from his increasing helplessness. He didn't want any of this any longer.
Anne must have been able to read his mind. "No," she murmured. Her shaking had stilled.
Cromwell glanced heavenward. Had God willed her to say that? To stay his hand? His lips?
He slid his hand from her shoulder and stepped back, hesitating for a moment before turning and leaving her alone. Rounding the corner, he felt for the dagger under his coat and squeezed its leather pouch, remembering the dream with the serpent, remembering the day in the garden where she had thought he would stab her. He could have killed her just now. He drifted to a stop and ripped the pouch from his belt, opening it and brandishing the knife with feverish movements. His heart was still pounding, faster than ever, the heart of a crazy man. His fingers shook with the blade. He looked back toward the alcove, at the corner that separated them. He held the blade against his own heart. He leant against the wall, breathing deeply, tears running down his face as they had run down Norfolk's face, down Anne's face. He might yet die before she did.
Eventually, Cromwell managed to get the dagger back into its pouch, pouch back onto his belt, this time worse than any of the others. He shook his head with a grim chuckle. He was supposed to manage the kingdom, but he could not even manage himself.
Cromwell tipped his head against the wall and laughed. He wiped his cheeks clean and laughed into the air, into the darkness, this corridor thankfully shielded from the sun. In the dark, he could pretend that this had never happened. And he would.
"Ah," Cromwell shook his head at himself, the exhaustion of being himself threatening to get the better of him. Just a few days more of this, he promised himself as he descended the stairwell, heavy-footed. The guards took up post at the wooden door downstairs and Cromwell joined Kingston at the rear corner of the court, not wanting to interrupt George's trial by resuming his previous seat.
"She's…?" Kingston stared straight ahead.
"Upstairs in the observation room. Fetch her when Norfolk calls for the verdicts."
The gaoler nodded. "A benevolent gesture, sir."
Cromwell shivered, but passed it off as a shrug.
Upstairs, Anne watched her brother listen to the same sorts of ridiculous charges that had just been laid against her. Silent tears slid down her cheeks, despite her promises to herself to remain strong. Her back ached from standing and straining forward in her seat. She wished she could crawl into bed and never get up.
Her hands rested on her lower belly, not rounded but not as flat as usual, tucked snugly into her stomacher. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine the last few minutes differently: she, sitting down, cradling her abdomen; Cromwell standing behind her, one hand resting gently on her shoulder. In another world, in another lifetime, it would have been a scene fit for Holbein.
A/N: Just for the record, since several readers have asked about Cromwell/Anne scenes, yes, I did promise one more "significant" Cromwell/Anne interaction. No, this was not it. Don't forget to review!