The Tudor Wife. Emily Purdy

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       POSTSCRIPT February 13, 1542

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       PROLOGUE The Madwoman in the Tower, 1542

      Overhead the sleek black ravens circle and caw, while below my window the workmen chat merrily, their voices hale and hearty as they call to one another above the din of hammer and saw. They brush the sawdust from their leather jerkins and woolen hose and go blithely about the business of building the scaffold upon which I shall soon die. It does not matter whether I look down or up; the sight that meets my eyes is equally grim—carrion birds or the planks that shall soon be stained with my life’s blood.

      They are very bold, these birds. When the workmen pause for their noonday repast, they swoop down and perch upon the burgeoning scaffold, snatching greedily at the morsels of meat and bread and tidbits of yellow cheese proffered by the calloused hands. How many deaths have these birds witnessed? I do not know the span of life that is allotted to a raven, but surely it is possible that some of them were here seven years ago when Anne bared her slender, swanlike neck to the French executioner’s sword. And two days before that swift slash of silver ended her life, George, her brother, my husband, laid his foolish and proud head upon the block and died for her as did four other equally foolish men. It was my evidence that helped speed them to their deaths. I told the truth, and for it I have been punished ever since.

      Did these very ravens perch upon the Tower walls to watch, eager as the human spectators, and did they in their bird’s language debate who met death with the bravest face? What will they make of me and poor, wanton little Kat, Henry’s fifth queen, when it is our turn?

      Neither of us deserves this fate, to have our lives snuffed out like candles upon the cavalier whim of an old man’s wounded pride. But Henry Tudor is King, and as Kat’s motto, the one she chose when she became queen, so rightfully proclaims, we have ‘no other will but his.’ Our lives and deaths are in his hands.

      Here in the Tower my head aches always. Countless times I press my hands against my taut, deep-furrowed brow and try to will the pain away, but it will not depart. And I have long since plucked the pins from my hair and shaken it out so that it streams down my back like a wild, white-streaked waterfall, but still the pain does not ease. Had I still a care for vanity, I think I would weep. I am but a year past forty and already my hair is more white than brown; imprisonment has streaked it with silver and snow.

      Jealousy and Hate, Justice and Divine Retribution, some say, have brought me to this place. ‘He who sows the whirlwind must expect to reap the storm,’ the walls whisper all around me, incessantly, in voices I know all too well. George, Anne, Weston, Brereton, and Norris—they will not let me forget that I once thought Vengeance was my sword to wield.

      And wield it I did.

      Though I despise the din that torments my ears by day, I am glad of the sawing and pounding, the bluff banter of working men, and even the ravens’ cackling and screeching, for when these sounds cease and night falls, that is when the ghosts come out to torment me.

      He stands there now in the shadows beyond the torches’ reach, a grim, unwavering silhouette. And though I cannot see them, I feel his eyes mocking me, laughing at me. Sometimes she is there with him. The rustle of velvet skirts and a heady whiff of rose perfume herald her arrival, and my hatred surges so strong that to knock me off my feet it threatens. Then, in a movement fluid with grace, he lifts off his head, tucks it beneath his arm, and bows to me, just like a gentleman at court doffing his fine feathered hat to a lady.

      ‘Well, well, Jane…’

      He speaks my name and my heart soars. He is smiling at me—it matters not that it is mockingly—he is smiling at me, he is speaking to me, and his words are meant for me alone.

      ‘…you would see justice done, and soon the headsman shall give you a personal demonstration!’

      ‘I am sorry, George!’ I extend my arms entreatingly. ‘Truly, I did not mean for you to die! I love you!’

      ‘Forsooth, Madame, you have a strange way of showing it! You accused me of incest and sent me to the block! If that is how you treat those you love, I shudder to think what mischief you would work against an enemy!’

      The flame of hate that has burned so long inside me flares high.

      ‘You chose the block! You chose to die with her rather than live with me! You were guilty! Perhaps you did not sin in the flesh, but you were guilty to the bottom of your soul! You loved her more than any! Yes, I helped send her to her death, and I am glad of it! Glad!’ I hold my head up high, stamp my feet, and clench my hands into tight, trembling fists and feel my nails bite into my palms until they leave bloody little crescents behind. ‘And regret it I will never! Neither God in Heaven nor the Devil in Hell can make me!’

      ‘There is still murder in your heart, Jane,’ his voice dolefully reproves me.

      And then he is gone, and I am alone again, for now. But I dare not sleep, for when I sleep I am granted a foretaste of Hell. That is when the flames come and the stink of sulfur chokes and burns my lungs. I start awake and leap to my feet, screaming, slapping at the flames as they engulf my skirts. I circle wildly, beating at them, burning my hands, and then my over-sleeves catch fire. My Boleyn sleeves—her sleeves—the sleeves she made famous. Anne Boleyn! Even in my wardrobe I cannot escape her! I fall sobbing to the floor, scorched and smarting, and it is then that through a shimmer of smoke I see him. But no, it is not George; it is only Master Kingston, my jailer, with his wife, come to dose me with a bitter draft to bring me quiet rest.

      But George is here. I know he is! I sense his presence still, smirking in the shadows.

      Oh, George, why could you not have loved me just a little? Why could you not, just once, have looked at me the way you looked at her—at Anne? Why could I, your wife, not come before your sister?

      But tonight I shall not sleep. Tonight there will be no fire and brimstone chased away with a bitter decoction of poppies. No, tonight I shall tell how I came to be ‘The Madwoman in the Tower,’ and why, as much as he loved her, I hated her more…

Part One ANNE 1522-1536

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      Anne Boleyn was not beautiful, but, while women were quick to take gleeful note of this, men seldom noticed; the Spanish Ambassador who dubbed her ‘The Goggle-Eyed Whore’ being a notable exception. Yet she cast a spell like no other, this raven-haired enchantress, who caused men to fall at her feet, sing her praises, and worship her; some even gave their lives for her.

      Her bearing was innately regal, as if Mother Nature had intended all along that she should be a queen. Each gesture, each turn of her head and hands, each step, was as graceful and gliding as a dance. Her