Shriven

“Jesu have mercy upon my soul.” 

As he approached the locked door, he could hear the mumbled prayer from the other side, her voice was husky as if she’d worn it out with her incessant imploring of the Lord throughout the long night. Upon entering, William made his way through the suite to the Queen’s privy chambers with silent feet so as not to disturb her devotions. Her faithful almoner, John Skypp, Bishop of Hereford, sat beside her, his face weary and worn, but the Queen remained kneeling, her hands clasped together in fervent prayer. Her lips never ceased their repetition of the words that formed her petition, begging the Good Lord to show her weary soul clemency.

“Pray thee, how doth she fair?” William whispered, pitching his voice low, as to not interrupt the woman.

“My Lady is strong and her faith doth not waver.” The older man also spoke in hushed tones and, with a soft groan of exertion, pushed himself from his chair by the Queen’s side, padding on soft feet towards William. “How goes the petition? Doth our King relent?”

“Nay, Our Sovereign is firm of resolve and remains unmoved.”

Neither man made comment, but they shared a glance that was like to see both of them executed, should the thoughts that passed between their eyes, cross their lips.

“Her soul is shriven and ready,” the bishop said, “Will mass be celebrated?” 

“Cranmer, will arrive anon to perform the rites. Will you stay with her, Your Excellency?” William asked.

“I will,” the bishop replied most solemnly, his sad and worried eyes never leaving the woman whose hands trembled even as they were clasped before her in prayer. “Doth His Majesty still require your report of this days events?”

William inclined his head, “I am bound by His Majesty’s wishes.”

“I do not hold you to blame for that, good Sir, your honour and deference doth do you credit. I can not fault you for it.” The Queen spoke with that soft serene voice that she saved for Queenly discourse. William had been unaware that she had heard their whispered exchange, and he turned to see her dark eyes opened and fixed upon his person. Even on her knees, with her whole body bowed in supplication, she emanated such regal composure, that William was humbled to be in her presence.

“Your Highness,” William addressed her formally and gently. “His Excellency, Archbishop Cranmer, will be here anon to celebrate the Mass with you, that you may receive the Blessed Sacrament. Will you come now to the chamber your Ladies have prepared?”

“Please, good Sir, help me rise. I fear my feet have forgotten their purpose.” She reached out her hand and William, being well versed in courtly manners, assisted her to stand. She stumbled a little, but he caught her against him, steadying her gently, before setting her hand upon his arm to assist her through the chambers. They came at last to the one set aside for the celebration of the Mass.

The Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Cranmer, was before them and prepared to celebrate the rites of the church. When William made to bow and leave, the Queen stopped him.

“Good sir, will you not remain and partake of the Holy Sacrament with me today?” And with those words, he was made to take a seat. The rituals of the Mass washed over him. The words were a flow of aching balm for the soul, and he responded, knelt and prayed, sang and lamented at all the correct moments, but his attention never wavered from the bowed head of the woman seated before him. God save and preserve his soul, but she was a saint, her steadiness in the face of what was to occur today ripped open his chest and laid his heart bare at her feet.

“I do solemnly swear upon God’s Holy Word that am innocent of the charges against me,” Her soft voice rang through the chamber as she knelt before Cranmer, head tilted back to receive the sacrament. “By this Holy Sacrament I am to receive, I swear I have never offended with mine body against mine husband, the King.” 

With calm grace, she received the Blessed Sacrament upon her tongue and closed her eyes in prayerful devotion. Upon his turn, William lowered himself to his knees before the Archbishop to receive communion. He hesitated a moment before opening his mouth to partake of the sacrament, fearing for his immortal soul. Deep in his heart, he knew that one should not receive communion unless, and until, his soul was shriven, cleaned of all sin. Deep down lurked, a thought, a sinful, unclean and unworthy musing, that could see him hanged should he breathe air into it. He pushed it down further, not allowing it into the light of day, even to examine it.

When all had received the Holy Sacrament, the Queen cried out once more, “I do solemnly swear upon God’s Holy Word, that I am innocent of the charges against me, and I declare that have never offended with mine body against mine husband, the King!” Her eyes were wet with the passion of her statement and raised heavenward, as if to implore Our Lord to bear witness and hear her words. William was moved and he looked about him. No one present, not her Ladies in Waiting, not Cranmer, nor Skypp, could deny the sincerity of her statement, their faces drawn, as his own must be, in despair and horror. 

Once the rites were completed, the Archbishop approached the Queen and bowed before her. “Do not despair, Your Highness, do not lose faith. I may have some influence yet and I will do everything that is within my power to save you from this travesty of justice.” He grasped both of her hands in his and raised them to his lips one at a time. She sank into a low curtsy before him, a queen humbled before the last bastion of her defence. 

Without waiting for a formal dismissal, William bowed his way from the chamber. He had to deliver his observations to the King, perhaps His Majesty’s conviction of her guilt could be swayed, if William could but do justice to the heartfelt and passionate declaration he had witnessed.

***

“Nay, Sir William, His Majesty can not be seen to overthrow the expressed judgement passed by the court. What precedent would that set for the people? The King can not be above the law.” Cromwell eyed William disdainfully, as if he viewed a particularly unappealing bug or worm. 

“Her Highness spoke most eloquently-”

“She is Her Highness no longer! The Archbishop of Canterbury has, himself, this day, declared the marriage invalid.”

“Invalid? Then she is free?” The accusation of infidelity was only treason if she were Queen. If the marriage were invalid then so too must the charges be. Very clever of Cranmer to find a loophole and exploit it. William felt the tension within himself release. Her Highness would be freed, he could deliver her from her persecution this very day.

“If Mistress Boleyn accepts that the marriage was invalid,” Cromwell declared in sonorous tones, “then she may go free.”

“And the child?” 

“The bastard daughter will remain at court, just as Catherine’s daughter has. Even a bastard can be of use to the crown in some way.”

“And what if Her Highness doth not agree to the divorce?”

“Then she will be executed as a traitor to the crown. She has until tomorrow morning at 9 of the clock to decide. By then the executioner will be present to remove her head with a sword in the French way.”

“The French way?”

“Henry has sympathy for her and doth not wish for her to suffer. The French way is rumoured to be less painful… for everyone.”

***

“The French way?” The Queen stared at him as if he had misspoken. 

“It is to occur by sword tomorrow at 9 of the clock, unless you accept that your marriage is declared null and void.”

“Divorce!” William could hear the horror in her voice. “You expect me to bastardise my daughter? To leave her to the fate that Mary suffered. No, I shall not do it!” The Queen paced her chambers, her gown and veils flowing behind her in her agitation. “And why has there been such a delay? If it is to be done, there is no kindness in forcing me to wait!” 

William was horrified to see the carefully constructed composure beginning to crack. The lovely dark eyes held a glint of tears that only her strength of will seemed to keep at bay. She whirled about and upon spying her Ladies in Waiting huddled upon their seats about the room, she cried, “Get out! All of you! I have no need for you to be here.”

With a flutter of fabric, like birds disturbed by the hunter’s horn, the ladies scrambled from the room.

“You should not dismiss them so, His Majesty will hear of it,” William advised her.

“And what, pray tell, could he possibly do about it?” She glared at him as if he were the enemy, and William supposed that in some manner, he was. She knew he was bound by Henry to spy upon her, to pass every detail into his waiting ears, or at least the ears of those His Majesty appointed to hear for him, when he was busy. William did not like to think about whom Henry was busy with, most likely swiving the lovely Seymour wench.

“It is the interminable waiting, William!” she cried, and William was struck speechless, his mouth open with shock. The Queen had never once used his given name. Kingston, or Sir, she had used aplenty, but never William. “I can not bear it! Please tell them I am ready, I am shriven, I have prayed, my soul is prepared to meet the Lord!”

“I am afraid, Your Highness -”

She rounded upon him with spiteful wrath, “Do not address me so! Henry has stripped my of my name, my self and dignity, I am Anne!” Her eyes flashed and she was righteous in her fury. He could believe her to be the incarnation of one of the Greek mythical beings, her hand ready to smite those who thwarted her. “That piss-poor excuse of a whore-son rotter! By Christ Almighty’s bloody wounds he can not strip me of it all!” she cried, then gasped eyes wide as she threw her hands over her mouth in horror. “And now I have taken the Lord’s name in vain! How do I go to my death with a soul so besmirched!?”

“Your Highness-”

“I am Anne!”

“As you wish, My Lady Anne, your husband wished to show you mercy at the end. The French way is not very painful, or so I am told.”

“And whom, pray tell, has told you this? Have they had their heads cleaved from their shoulders?” Despite the fire in her eyes, the anger and the hurt, her bottom lip began to quake and tremble. William watched in horror as she bit that gentle pillow of flesh so hard, as to almost puncture the skin. She began to gasp, soft stammers of air, and her eyes, which were ever moist, overfilled with salty tears that spilled from their banks. Her hands fluttered like a trapped song bird, unable to find rest or ease, until they landed upon his doublet, whence they scrunched the fabric in a silent grasp of terror.

William had no notion of how he came to be standing before her, only that her pain called to him and he gathered her quaking body to his chest.

“My Lady, hush. Your soul will be shriven once more, I myself will see that Cranmer or Skypp return on the morrow in good time to hear your confession. Until then be free to curse and cry and blaspheme all you need!”

“Oh, William, I am afraid, and the terror sits in my soul, deep and low!” she whispered as she wept against his chest. “At least I only have a little neck, ‘twill be over quickly!” With gentle hands, William removed the frame of her headdress, there was no need for it today, no one was to see her, and freed from its confines, she pressed her face to his chest in an agony of uncontrollable weeping.

William cradled her body in his arms as she wept, a storm of tears that seemed to never end. Her body trembled and wilted in his embrace and he found himself curled upon the seat with her enfolded in his arms as the hours passed. He knew that if they were discovered thus, he would join her in her fate, his head decorating the tower walls. But despite the danger, he could not pry his arms from about her person, and as she fell into exhausted slumber, he refused to move her.

“Do not tell them I wept,” her voice was soft, the whispered words caressed his beard some time before Vespers. He had not realised that she had awoken, and although his arms had grown numb to the point of pain, he refused to move. Gently he eased her away to peer into her face, her eyes, now dry, were more luminous than the stars as they pierced the encroaching night sky. 

“I will tell them you laughed!”

“You would tell them I was unafraid? You would lie for me?”

“For you, Your Highness-”

She stilled his words with a finger pressed upon his lips and whispered, “Anne.”

“For you, Anne, I would perjure my immortal soul.” Her eyes widened, lashes spiky with the traces of her tears, mouth agape. Her hand trailed from his lips, to his hair, and slowly, cautiously, ever so carefully, she drew his head towards hers. Their lips met, a soft pressing of flesh upon flesh, and as Vespers gave way to Matins, and Matins eased into Lauds, Anne did not pray. She did, however, call upon the Lord with gasped breaths and heaving sighs, as for one night, she revelled in the pleasures denied her.

As the morning bird trilled it’s ode to the dawn, William trailed his fingers down the face that had always been so dear to him, one he had never aspired to do more than gaze upon with distant ardour and devotion. 

“Today, I will follow you into eternity,” he promised.

Anne struggled to an upright position, clasping the bed linen to her bosom. “Nay, do not follow me, dear William. I can not have your death upon my soul!”

“I have known you, therefore I must share your punishment. Your sins are not your own, forsooth they are now mine to bear,” he swore to her.

“Do not speak of it!” she cried and stumbled from the bed as she gathered her clothing. “You shall not go to your death because of me! I implore you, nay, I demand it of you, that you remain here and care for my child, my sweet Elizabeth. She will need a champion amongst the knaves and vipers of court. Say you please, if you have care for me at all, that you will not allow harm to befall her!”

“I…” he hesitated, his heart a heavy stone of duty and honour within his chest.

“Swear it!” Her eyes were ablaze with frantic light.

William was crushed by the weight of her demand, and he whispered “I swear it. By God’s own wounds I swear to you, I will keep her safe.”

Just after Lauds, William brought His Excellency, John Skypp to hear her confession and shrive her soul once more, and upon the appointed hour, Anne dressed with such care. Her dark gown and red petticoat were chosen especially for the occasion, as they would not show the blood.

She held her head high.

“It is a beautiful day, my Queen,” William said as he held his arm out for her to take, his eyes awash with misery, the suffering only apparent to one other in the room. “It is time. Let us go for a walk.”

***Please note, this is a piece of historical fiction. I have taken extreme liberty with characters, relationships, chronological events and language in order to create a purely fictional story that readers today may relate to. In no way do I claim this to be historically accurate.***