I said to Kingston: “Is not my lord of Northumberland here?”
Kingston murmured: “He came… but was taken ill. He has been forced to retire.”
I smiled. So he could not face it. He could not stand there and condemn me. Dear Henry Percy! What did he think of me now? At least he remembered enough to refuse to sit in judgment on me.
The coolness which had descended on me—that strange aloofness— was good for me. It enabled me to answer their questions with precision and to give them the answers which they found difficult to refute. They had, no doubt, expected me to be hysterical, which would have made their task much easier, and they were discountenanced to find me there aloof, so very calm.
Had it been a fair court, they would not have condemned me, though they did not have to have a unanimous vote; all they needed was a majority. All those accused with me—save Mark—had emphatically denied the charges. Could they condemn me on the evidence of a poor, racked boy?
Norfolk and Suffolk saw that they did.
Norfolk then pronounced the sentence. I was condemned to be burned or beheaded at the King's pleasure.
The numbness remained with me.
I clasped my hands together and, raising my eyes, I said: “Oh Father, O Creator, Thou who art the way, the life and the truth knowest whether I have deserved this death.”
I faced my judges. “My lords,” I said, “I will not say that your sentence is unjust, nor presume that my reasons can prevail against your convictions. I am willing to believe that you have sufficient reasons for what you have done, but they must be other than those which have been produced in this court, for I am clear of all the offenses which you have laid at my charge…”
I could see that many of them were ashamed and that my words would not be easily forgotten by some.
I went on to say that I had never been unfaithful to the King, though I admitted that I had not always shown him the humility which, as one who has been raised so high, I owed him. I said I was not afraid to die. I had faith in God, and He would show me the way. I added that I knew these words would avail me nothing, but I spoke them for the justification of my chastity and honor.
“As for my brother and those who are unjustly condemned, I would willingly suffer many deaths to deliver them, but since I see it so pleases the King, I shall willingly accompany them in death, with this assurance, that I shall lead an endless life with them in peace.”
Having spoken I turned and left them.
Cranmer came to see me. The King had sent him to receive my confession.
I was greatly comforted by his visit.
He begged me not to despair. It might well be that the sentence of death would be lifted. He implied that I might be expected to leave the country. Perhaps I should be sent to Antwerp, where I could live out my life in peace. I had given myself up to the study of religion and I had an interest in matters of the mind: reading, music and a growing understanding of the new religion of the reformation of the Church.
I should never regret leaving the Court. The emptiness of life there was very clear to me now. I never wanted to see Henry again. But there was one of whom I thought constantly: my daughter. What would become of her now? Who would care for her? Her mother disgraced, burned or beheaded, branded a harlot. What of my little baby?
Did she know of this? She would wonder why I had not been to see her. She was bright, full of questions. I could trust Lady Bryan. She loved the child and was a good, sensible woman. Why had I thought I wanted to die, when Elizabeth was there… needing me?
If I could take my child to Antwerp with me, perhaps we could live there simply… like an ordinary mother and daughter.
I was soon to discover the meaning of this hope and why it had been put to me.
The very next day I received a summons to appear at Lambeth to answer certain questions as to the validity of my marriage with the King.
The pattern was getting more and more like Katharine's—except, of course, that, being the aunt of the Emperor, she could not be condemned to death.
In a chapel in Cranmer's house in Lambeth I was confronted by Cranmer and others and urged to admit that there had been a contract of marriage between Henry Percy and me, before I married the King.
Cranmer had hinted that, if I agreed to this, not only could I save my life and leave the country with my daughter but the lives of the gentlemen might be saved.
How could I do anything but agree? We had talked of marriage, I said. If the King had not prevented us, we should have married and none of this would have happened.
It is easy to be wise after the event. I agreed. And Cranmer pronounced the marriage between the King and myself null and void.
I felt a little better; the remoteness of reality was lifting. I could plan. If I had not been married to the King, the adultery of which I was accused could not be called treason. The men would be free. I should be free. I should still be an encumbrance but if I were out of the country I could be forgotten.
I slept a little better that night.
How could I have been so foolish? It seemed that even now I did not know my husband.
The lives of other people meant nothing to him. All those young men who had been his friends, who had joked and laughed and hawked and hunted with him, meant nothing to him, and if their death could help him to his goal, he would have no compunction in sweeping them aside.
What a terrible day that was! The most wretched of my life.
They had erected a scaffold on Tower Hill. My brother went first— my dear, sweet brother, whom I had loved so dearly, the one of all on Earth whom I trusted completely. They said he died calmly and most bravely.
Poor Francis Weston. His family was desolate. His wife and mother entreated the King to spare his life. They were rich and they offered 100,000 crowns for him. Henry rejected the offer.
And Weston, Norris and Brereton submitted their heads to the ax.
Mark Smeaton was hanged. I had hoped he would retract his admission of guilt on the scaffold.
“Has he cleared me?” I asked.
They told me he had not.
“His soul will suffer for the false witness he has borne,” I said.
Mary Wyatt laid a hand on my shoulder, and when I lifted my eyes, I saw tears on her cheeks.
“Do not weep, Mary,” I said. “My brother and the rest are now, I doubt not, before the great King, and I shall follow tomorrow.”
When death is close, one thinks back over the past, and what looms large in one's mind are the actions one regrets.
I wished that I had been a better person. I could see clearly now my folly at every turn. I am not sure whether any action of mine could have altered my fate. I was dealing with a man who was corrupted by the great power he possessed, a mean, selfish man, a monster of a man, a murderer.
I had never really wanted him. He had forced himself upon me. I had been enamored of pomp and power, I admit. I had grasped at those things in life which had seemed the greatest prizes, for I had been blinded by the glitter of all that had been laid before me. I had been tempted, as Christ was by Satan, but I had not had the good sense to turn away from temptation.
And I had done many cruel things.
I had hated Katharine. I had hated the Princess Mary. True, they had been no good friends to me. How could they be, when I was the one whom they accused of robbing them of their rights?
But I could have been kinder to Mary.
How I had disliked that girl. I had wanted to humiliate her. I wanted her out of the way because I wanted her position for my daughter.
I asked Lady Kingston to come to me.
I made her sit, which she was reluctant to do. She still regarded me as the Queen, and that was my chair in which nobody sat but myself.
I said: “My title has gone. I am condemned to death. All I wish now is to clear my conscience.”