Page 83 of The Queen’s Witch

Only one very old man, toothlessly gumming his bread, muttered, “A whore she may be, but not stupid. Never stupid.” Abruptly, he turned to me. “What think ye, boy?”

Only then I caught the whiff of him that is not smell. He was a cunning man, as much in hiding in these dangerous times as I. I mumbled, “I know naught.”

He held my gaze a moment longer, nodded, and returned to his dinner.

On May 12, four of the accused were brought by barge to Westminster to stand trial: Norris, Weston, Brereton, and Smeaton. George Boleyn, elevated to the peerage when his father was made Earl of Wiltshire, would be tried separately. A great throng gathered outside Westminster to await public announcement of the verdict.

All four men were pronounced guilty. They were condemned to be drawn, hanged, cut down while still alive, castrated, and then hacked into quarters, the body pieces to be displayed as the king chose.

I stumbled back to my lodgings. Mark would never know the part I had played in his terrible sentence. But I knew.

I would know for the rest of my life.

Jane Seymour returned to London and lodged in Sir Francis Bryan’s house on the Strand, a mile from Whitehall. The king’s men rowed him there every evening amid music, torchlight, laughter.

On May 15, Anne and her brother were tried by a jury of their peers, all noblemen. The trial was held within the Tower. Although a few thousand people were admitted, I was turned away. I had spelled my face to that of an old woman, a spell that cost me great energy to maintain, and I had worn a well-made cloak Anne had given me. It was not enough. I was no one. Although I pushed into the Tower grounds, I was barred from the trial.

The great doors of the hall closed without any glimpse of Anne or George Boleyn. All denied entry were pushed from the Tower, and the outer gates closed.

The vast crowds surrounding the Tower settled down to wait.

Exhausted from maintaining the appearance of an old woman, I let it go, hiding my face in the hood of my cloak as I did so, and then moving away from anyone who might have noticed the crone I had just been. At the far edge of the throng, someone grabbed my arm. I jerked free and turned to face Emma Colmer.

“Elyn!” she cried. And then, in a desperate whisper, “Can you help her?”

I blinked. Emma looked terrible, with the haggard shakiness of someone who had not slept or eaten in days. Her hand again clamped on my arm. Shaky myself from the exertion of my spell, I said stupidly, “You are not with her in the Tower?”

“No! They barred me! Can you help her?”

She whispered still, but this was Emma as I had never seen her. Dour devotion had given way to panic, and I saw that she could break apart at any moment. But the meaning of her words was clear: She knew, or at least suspected, what I was. Her love for Anne had overcome her restraint, her revulsion of me, even her religion.

There was danger here for both of us.

I said, “Forgive me, I must sit. I have not been well.” I led her, easy since she still clutched my arm, to a clear space beyond the crowd and sank to the ground. She dropped beside me, wild eyes never leaving my face.

“Emma, I cannot help her, even though I am a cunning woman, as I think you already know.” I did not want Emma, or anyone else, to know that I had thrice braided. “I would help the queen if I could, but she is beyond anyone’s help save the king’s. It is possible he seeks only to terrify her into admitting their marriage unlawful, so that he may allow her to retire to a convent.”

I do not think she believed me. She knew the king too well. But hope can override knowledge, and Emma seized on this with pathetic eagerness. “Perhaps!”

“Were you not allowed into the trial?” Would she not have been called to witness?

“No. They knew . . . They guessed . . . Who knows what they think? My lord Norfolk is her own uncle and he . . . I would have said . . . I would give evidence favorable to the queen.”

Of course she would. Emma would lie for Anne—lie, cheat, imperil her own life. Whatever I could say about Emma’s treatment of me over the years, she was fiercely loyal, and her loyalty to Anne was not dependent on circumstance, no matter how dangerous.

She continued, “Did you not know that the king dissolved her household two days ago? All her servants, ladies, officials, all turned out and ordered to leave London. All save those who will speak against her.”

Emma Colmer began to cry.

I put my arm around her, and we sat on that patch of ground throughout the trial, moving only when the gathering of citizens grew large enough that we might be trampled. When, finally, the Tower doors opened, we were too far away for Emma to hear the herald’s announcement. But I had spelled my hearing, and, amid the confused tumult, was taxed with telling her what I heard.

“Both the queen and her brother are convicted on all charges and sentenced to die by burning or beheading, as the king chooses.”

I had expected a great cry from Emma. But she had spent all feeling. She rose and walked away without a word, an animal going to burrow to grieve or sicken or die. I never saw her again.

Later, as I dragged myself to my lodgings through the eddies and surges of people exercising their English right to a loud and repeated opinion, the royal barge passed by on the river. Amid music and banners, Henry was being rowed to dine with Jane Seymour.

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