“Anne, what time?” I grip her shoulders and give her a good shake.
She casts a glance toward the windows of the Eastward-facing window seat. There’s a red-orange glow shimmering through the lead-paned glass and the room is growing brighter.
Anne swallows hard and, unable to keep the levy from rupturing, lets the tears fall again as she chokes out a single word: “Sunrise.”
Chapter 23
A hangman’s noose sways in a slow arc, nudged by a winter wind carrying the scent of wood smoke and horse dung. In front of the noose, a wooden plank balances across two trestles. Several yards to the right of the scaffold, a bonfire burns. I don’t feel the fire. I don’t feel the cold.
The sensation welling up inside me is the turbulence of too many emotions to compress into one neat little word, but “terror” comes the closest.
Lying on the makeshift table are several gruesome-looking knives; the first rays of today’s sun gleam across the surface of the curved blades making them look even more ominous.
A carnival-like atmosphere grows as the village awakes and word of the impending executions spreads like the spark of a gunpowder trail. Clusters of people, mostly courtiers buzzing with curiosity turned excitement, swarm Tower Hill. From the snippets of conversation, I overhear, as I push my through the crowd, the identity of the condemned, and the specific charges against them, are mostly lost on the crowd-at-large.
All they know is: There’s going to be a show and they want a good view.
Toward the front of the pack, Charles Brandon stands beside the king’s chief minister, Thomas Cromwell. Their expressions are grim. Weary. They look like they’ve haven’t slept at all.
I pull the hood of my cloak up over my head and move to stand behind them. They speak in hushed tones.
“By Saint George, I knew it would come to this, yet I didn’t think it would happen so soon,” Brandon says. He sounds confused, but not shocked. There was no love lost between him and Anne, and he wasn’t cozy with Sir Thomas, either. “The king knew of my suspicions regarding his lady and the poet. I would have given anything to spare him this pain.”
“The king knows his own desires. Once something is put into his mind, it’s difficult to sway him from his course,” Cromwell says. He pauses a moment. “Do you think he will bring Queen Katherine back to court?”
“The king is incensed, his spirit crushed. I don’t know what he will do next.”
Cromwell asks, “Do you believe she is with child and that Wyatt is the father?”
What? She’s not supposed to be pregnant until January.
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. After the trial last night, the only thing that matters is that the king believes it. Lady Anne wouldn’t soon be a head shorter if he thought the child she says she carries is his.”
Moving to the edge of the crowd, I hail Fagin. “Got eyes on Trevor yet?”
“Negative,” she replies. “Nico, any movement on the Benefactor ship?”
“Not yet,” he says. “I’ll let you know when there’s something to know.”
“Nico,” I say, my mouth feeling dry and thick, as though my body has forgotten how to make saliva. “When does Anne Boleyn know she’s pregnant?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“Just look it up,” my reply is as anxious as his guarded answer. “Could she be pregnant now?”
There’s a pause. “Elizabeth is born on the seventh of September. It’s possible Lady Anne is already pregnant.”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
The Constable of the Tower appears, leading the processional of the condemned as they approach the scaffold. Cheers erupt from the burgeoning crowd as a chestnut-colored horse trots through the gap between the front line of spectators and the execution platform dragging a muddy and blood-spattered Sir Thomas Wyatt behind it.
Gasps and murmurs ripple through the crowd as the assembled spectators recognize him. Some in the crowd jeer him and others genuflect and offer vocal prayers for a swift and painless death.
From the looks of things, the answer to their prayers will be: No.
Lady Anne follows, dressed in a simple black gown, her hair covered with a linen cap. Her face is ashen and her chest heaves in short, fast bursts as she walks. She passes within a few feet of me. She stops, glances back over her shoulder. When her gaze fixes on me, it is so piteous, a wave of regret washes over me like a bucket of ice water.
“I’m sorry.” The apology is out before I even know I’m talking.
Missions usually feel like a game; a larcenous romp at breakneck speeds that end with a priceless treasure in my pocket and another nudge toward freedom. This is anything but a romp. This is a nightmare.
Anne tilts her head, puzzled. “Pray for my soul, mademoiselle. I am innocent.”
I open my mouth to speak again, but nothing comes out.
Holy Jesus, what have I done?
There are shouts when the crowd recognizes Anne. Some are cries of shock and horror; others are jubilant cheers. Her personal chaplain embraces her with a steadying arm around her shoulder. Anne covers his large hand with her small one and nods. After a few deep breaths, she casts her eyes to the heavens.
Rotted vegetables and fruit litter the steps around the execution platform. Only the priest on the scaffold stops the gathered assembly from launching more consumable missiles at the condemned man as he mounts the platform.
The executioner, a black leather mask concealing his identity, binds Wyatt’s hands behind him and places the rope around his neck before placing him on a small stool. A quick beheading is reserved for those of noble birth and is a manner of death considered too good for commoners. Having endured being drawn by the horse, Sir Thomas is about to be hanged and quartered, then beheaded.
Brandon said the king was incensed by the turn of events he never expected.
