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  Judge the Best

  Part Five of Above all Others

  The Lady Anne

  By G. Lawrence

  Copyright © Gemma Lawrence 2018

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this manuscript may be reproduced without Gemma Lawrence's express consent

  This book is dedicated to Anne Boleyn.

  From the ranks of nobility she rose to become a Lady, a Marquess and Queen of England. From her came arguably the greatest sovereign of England, Elizabeth I. Anne Boleyn changed the course of history, and although she paid the ultimate price, her name has never been forgotten.

  For many long years, Anne has been my obsession, my torment and my joy.

  I fell in love with her as a child, and like so many others whose lives she touched, both during her lifetime and after, I have never ceased to find her fascinating, alluring and remarkable.

  In this book, I must say goodbye to her.

  Queen Anne Boleyn said, upon the scaffold where she lost her life, that if any should interfere on her behalf, she wished them to “judge the best”.

  It is my hope that I have done this, given this extraordinary woman a voice,

  and done her the justice she was not accorded in life.

  “So freely wooed, so dearly bought,

  So soon a Queen, so soon low brought,

  Hath not been seen, could not be thought.

  O! What is Fortune?

  As slipper as ice, as fading as snow,

  Like unto dice that a man doth throw,

  Until it arises he shall not know

  What shall be his Fortune!

  They did her conduct to a Tower of stone,

  Wherein she would wail and lament her alone,

  And condemned to be, for help there was none.

  Lo! Such was her fortune.”

  Thomas Wyatt

  “Riches I hold in light esteem,

  And love I laugh to scorn

  And lust of fame was but a dream,

  Which vanished on the morn

  And if I pray, the only prayer

  That moves my lips for me

  Is leave this heart that now I bear

  And give me liberty!

  Yea as my swift days near their goal

  Tis all that I implore

  In life and death, a chainless soul

  With courage to endure.”

  Emily Bronte, The Old Stoic

  “Men are so simple and yield so readily to the desires of the moment that he who will trick will always find another who will suffer to be tricked.”

  Niccolo Machiavelli

  “If any person will meddle with my cause, I require them to judge the best.”

  Anne Boleyn

  Upon the scaffold, The Tower of London 19th May 1536

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Epilogue

  Author’s Notes

  Anne’s Innocence and Legacy

  The Aftermath

  The Wives of Henry VIII

  The Other Players in the Story

  Changes Made in the Books to Historical Fact

  Select Bibliography for the Series

  About the Author

  Thank You

  Prologue

  The Tower of London

  The Evening of the 18th of May 1536

  Twilight bathes the Tower in eerie light.

  There is a bright glow from the heavens. It radiates, a serene, twinkling blaze, illuminating the faces of those who hurry home to dwellings within the Tower walls. Doves and wood pigeons coo in the trees, and blackbirds warble, their calls sounding over the hushed, still world.

  They, like the people hastening home, know something is coming.

  The strange light washes over those people, flowing across their careworn faces and the baggage they carry over their shoulders. It lingers on piled wood held upon forked sticks, borne on the sturdy backs of men, and brushes across bundles mothers hold close to their hearts; sweet, sacred babes they whisper to, trying to calm, as they bear them to the safe warmth of their hearths.

  They will sup this night on broth and bread, huddled about their fires, telling tales of the fallen Queen who rests so near. All of London is afire with my tale; how I came to my throne, how I won and how I lost. How I fought and how I failed. How I held the King’s love for so long, and how, in the end, love came to be destroyed. Some will tell their children I was a witch who seduced Bluff Harry from the path of righteousness, and how, with my death, all will be made well. Others will say I was a force for good, remembering that I helped many in my brief time as Queen.

  But some will fall silent, for those wise, quiet souls understand something others do not… after tomorrow, more things will alter than simply the changing of queens upon England’s throne.

  This light is strange and unsettling, yet somehow it offers peace. It calls to me… a silent, yet keening voice upon the balmy breeze whispering of hope, rebirth and release. My women tell me that on the day my brother and friends died, Katherine’s tomb at Peterborough became suddenly illuminated. The candles
set about her resting place burst into glaring, unnatural radiance. That same light has travelled far… taking up the path from Katherine to me.

  Is it Katherine herself, come to tell me that even now, she has not left my side? I know not, yet I take comfort from the light. Its ghostly blush flows through the diamond windowpanes of my most comfortable prison, lighting on tapestry and sumptuous furnishings placed here by Henry for my coronation. The light strikes against bright blue thread and glittering gold, upon the brown throne standing in the midst of my great chamber, waiting for its Queen.

  I do not heed the chair’s silent call. The throne is mine no more.

  Memories assail me of times when I was happy and careless. If I look to the centre of my rooms, I can almost see Henry, with his hand outstretched, waiting for me to take it, so we might dance to the beating thump of our hearts and the surging rush of our souls. Once, I danced here, believing I had been granted all I would ever need. Long ago I twirled in this chamber wrapped in the arms of the man I loved, knowing all would be well.

  Now I sit at the window, watching the platform on which my life will end.

  Dust whirls upon the scaffold, caught in the breeze. It glitters like gold in the burnished lustre of Katherine’s light. Five steps lead to its platform. Five steps to take towards Death. It is a stage, born of the unearthly twilight of my life. Perhaps such a thought is fitting. I lived my life on a stage set before kings. I played many parts. I learned much… but not enough. That much is clear. Tomorrow, I walk the boards for the last time.

  But if this glow from the heavens tells me anything, it is that souls who have been stolen from life do not leave. Have I not known this for a long time? I heard the steps of the dead at my back… felt Katherine beside me. The faces of the dead stare out from behind these whitewashed walls, and ghosts wait behind the fluttering tapestry, watching me. The living and the dead cannot see each other, yet I, who rest between those two states, can.

  I am truly the only ghost here, for I am within and without each state of being. I am become dusk; that unearthly state where all becomes unclear, unformed… wavering between states of being. I am twilight. I am the wolf light.

  I feel a presence at my side. There is a brief sigh and I almost feel a hand upon my shoulder. Enemies no more, are Katherine and I. She is satisfied. Now, she comes not as a foe, not as the restless voice of my conscience, but as a friend… a companion who understands all I have endured, for she suffered the same.

  I wish I could take her hand, but I alone know she is here. I would not wish to disturb my friends into thinking I have lost the last of my wits. When first I came here, my mind collapsed. I could not understand what I had done to bring such a fate upon me. But God heard my cries. He allowed me to regain my composure, so I might face Death with courage.

  But still, Katherine lingers, and I am glad of her company. Many times when I was Queen, I stole from her example. I should have learned to emulate her better, but my character would not allow me to. Yet she is with me, her failed, flawed pupil. Katherine grants me courage.

  Soon I join you, my mind murmurs. Soon my story ends.

  Beginnings and ends… I always thought they were two separate entities; one which took a story into birth, and the other that ended it with death. Now I know better. They are not separate. They are part of the same being; a circle drawn in the sands of time by the hand of God. An ouroboros; a snake devouring its own tail… the circle made by compass grass, where a strand of life grows on brittle sand and under glaring sun, blown by the breeze to sketch a circle in the dust over and over and over…

  A perfect circle etched in sand. Round and around the fragile stem weaves and scratches, casting dust from one story into another.

  The end of one is the beginning of something new.

  Katherine’s tale was joined to mine long before I knew it. I thought Henry was the one I was bound to, but I was wrong. It was Katherine. All this time… it was she.

  For now as I stand, facing the end of my life, I know it is the beginning of something new. I am a particle of sand in the drifting, careless winds. From this circle I will roam, held fast by the hands of the wind, to take up a part in a new tale… to come to another beginning.

  I do not die tomorrow. I will linger, as Katherine does, in the minds of the people, in the halls of court, in the hearts of those who loved and hated me. Memories endure even when lies bid them to retreat. I will not be forgotten. Life will be mine no more, but existence will remain. I will be remembered.

  I watch the guards as they patrol. The gates have been locked. All strangers have been removed. I cannot get out. Even at the close, my enemies fear I will find some means of escape, or manage to reach the King.

  They fear without reason. Henry will have me dead.

  But he does not understand what I now know.

  That this is not the end.

  Chapter One

  Greenwich Palace

  July 1534

  A ghost watches me.

  A figure, fallen from the last rays of sunlight streaking through the palace windows, stands in the shadows. Her face seems familiar, yet I do not know who she is, or how she came to be here. And yet still she stands. Still she watches. The gloom conceals her face. The sunlight from the window blinds me. She is a creature of shadow. Who is this woman who dares to come before me, unbidden and unwelcome?

  “Who are you?” I demand. My voice rings in the empty room… a shrill noise, interrupting the still, muffled calm.

  She smiles gently, yet I fear her smile. It is too calm, too collected. She is confident, assured… everything I pretend to be, yet am not.

  “I am you,” she says, “the same soul, the same fate… twisted, bent and broken into another form.”

  “I shall call the guards.”

  My threat has no impact. She laughs; a low chuckle which sends a shiver down my spine. “Call all you want,” she says. “Here, there is no one to hear you, but me.”

  “What do you want?”

  “To see you.” She steps forward. I think sunlight will reveal her, but it does not. Somehow, she remains hidden. Her gown flutters in a draught. Silk whispering in the darkness. The same sound comes from the tapestry, rich with golden thread, depicting images of Solomon and Sheba. It moves as though there are people waiting behind it.

  “Then you have seen me,” I say. “And now you can go.”

  “I can go nowhere without you.” She steps forward another pace. “You and I… we are bound together, do you not see that? Do you still not understand?”

  “I do not know who you are,” I reply. “And you are nothing to me.”

  “Perhaps,” she says. “Perhaps I am everything.”

  “You speak in riddles.” I make for the door, my heart hammering in my breast. “I will call the King’s guards, and you will be thrown in jail.”

  “You seek to remove or silence all who would speak against you,” she says. “But it will not make you safe. I am the only one who can protect you.”

  “The King, my husband, will protect me.”

  “The King, our husband, will not.”

  My lip curls. “Katherine,” I breathe. “How did you escape your swamp? When the King hears you are here…”

  “I am not here. Neither are you.” She pauses to glance about the chamber, her eyes lighting on furniture and ornaments that once were hers. “You think this is real? It is not. There is a fabrication built around you, Anne Boleyn, so thick, so deep, so compelling that you cannot see it. A world has been made, brought into life by your wishes. But fantasy is fading. The old world grows strong again.” She stares into my eyes. “Time is running out.”

  I have to swallow in order to speak. “What do you want?”

  “To give you a message.”

  “Speak, then, and have done with this!” Angry heat rises in my gullet, rich and burning, warming my chilled blood.

  “She is my death, and I am hers,” quotes Katherine, her deep blue eyes resting on
me as words I spoke once to my brother trip from her lips.

  “You want me to be kind to your daughter?” I ask. If Katherine knows I said this about Mary, this must be why she is here.

  She shakes her head. “That is not my message.”

  “Then what is?”

  She smiles again, and her old, tired face shines with beauty. It has not abandoned her. Even in trials of sorrow and separation, Katherine has not diminished. The fire of her soul is bright. It burns in the faded light.

  “You are my death,” she says. “And I am yours.”

  I frown at the shade. “I was not speaking of you when I said that.”

  “I know…” She smoothes her dark dress, never breaking contact with my eyes. “Not for the first time, Madame de Pembroke, you had a good notion but allowed it to lead you to the wrong path.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are my death,” she says. “As I am yours.”

  *

  I sat up in bed, startled. My eyes flashed about the chamber. Mary Howard was beside me, fast asleep, with Margaret Wyatt and Bess Holland wrapped deep in soft slumber on pallet beds upon the floor. My eyes darted about, searching for the mystifying ghost of a still-living woman who had come to haunt my dreams.