To Catch A King

Chapter 31: The Tower

Chapter Thirty-One - The Tower

Syon Abbey
10 February 1542

I awake early as the sun is only just beginning to rise, having had little sleep the night before. There is an eerie sense of calm over me, as if my heart has accepted its fate and no longer requires fear. And yet, my mind will not rest, and it is fully aware that today may be my last day of freedom - or what freedom I have left. It is strange how idyllic this cold Abbey seems now, compared to the inevitability that I will soon be in the Tower.

Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk and childhood friend of the King has come to take me to London. I dress myself in a deep red dress with gold furnishings, although I am disgraced I can at least make myself look strong. I take one last look in the mirror before I have to go. Where is the youthful, strong woman that married Henry VIII? I may have caught the King, but I certainly have not kept him.

The Duke escorts me out of the Abbey as soon as I am ready; nobody bids me farewell or good luck.
"I assume that we are going to the Tower?" I ask, my voice light and airy.
"Yes, Madame." Charles replies in a dull and monosyllabic tone, but still with that slightly warm charm and politeness that has earned him so much in his life. His icy blue eyes are lifeless now though, as he, like the King, embraces age.

It begins to rain as the carriage draws away from Syon Abbey. There are no curtains to protect me from the weather, unlike with the royal carriages, and so the cold rain spits on my face as if mocking me. The Duke sits in silence: he hardly seems bothered by the cold, but, then again, I think he has lost all emotion.

Our journey begins in the rural countryside surrounding the Abbey, the roads muddy and unstable, the ride bumpy.
"The King and I once came on a royal progress around these parts." I say to Charles. "But I remember it being sunny and green, not at all like this...everything is so...dull."
"It is true, it changes with the seasons."
"What a shame." I reply. I want to push him to talk more so that I do not feel so lonely, but I can tell he would rather sit in silence.

We continue our journey for what seems like hours, but cannot have been. The silence is too unbearable.
"What will my room be like...in the Tower I mean..." I ask.
The Duke sighs slowly, as if it pains him to speak of such matters. "It will be very different to your old chambers."
"Will it be cold? And damp?"
"Possibly, I am not sure."
"Will there be rats?" I lean forward in anxiety.
"There may be, but I do think there will be any in your room."
"And will there be a window?"
"Most likely."
"There has to be a window. I have to be able to look out."
Charles remains silent.
"How...how long will I be...staying there?" I ask the dreaded question.
"That I really cannot say."
"I am going to be killed, aren't I? Nobody has said it outright, to my face, but it will happen...?"
"There is only one punishment for treason, I'm afraid."

Fearful, I decide that silence really is the best thing.

***

The Tower of London
10 February 1542

The Tower is everything that I had dreaded. Even looking at it from the outside, I can already tell that it will be cold, damp and completely unfit for a woman who was, until very recently, the official Queen of England.

There is a sharp wind, if I were superstitious I would say it is a witch's wind, summoning the ghosts of all those who have passed through these gates before me and never returned. In some ways, though, the bitter weather allows me to maintain my dignity: my shivers of fear can be disguised.

I am led up an uneven spiral staircase, the stone beneath me is wet and I slip several times. I have to strain my eyes in order to see properly, it is so dark in here and the candles provide only a little light. It is suffocating.

I follow along a passageway lined with cells, the most disgusting stench seeping through the walls. Blood...sweat...other unpleasant odours...I dread to think where it is all coming from. From some distant room somehow connected by this warren of passageways, I can hear screaming. A blood-curdling, heart-wrenching screaming, heard only when someone is on the edge of confession. A lump forms in my throat at the sound, but I try to stay emotionless.

As we ascend up another flight of stairs, the air becomes humid, almost unbearable. My eyes are wide open in anticipation, noticing every detail of this awful place.

All of a sudden the stench becomes even stronger; I look down and see dark crimson blood spilling out from under a door. Slowly trickling across the floor in front of me. My stomach flips and I turn to vomit, but some how not to. Holding my hand over my nose and mouth, I look straight ahead of me, vowing never to turn to my side again.

Finally we reach my room, if I can call it that. Fortunately the smell has mainly disappeared, but the air is still heavy. My cell is more spacious than I thought, and light covers a section of the ground from a small window. The rest of the room is dark, but it is only damp in the corners. It will serve, if only for a little while. Once left alone I go straight to the window. I cannot see much except for some trees and sky, but this is enough for me to focus on. Nature calms me.

I think back to my very first night at court, where I also sat and watched the night sky. How so far away that seems now. In fact, I can barely remember the young, excited girl that I was when I arrived, she has changed so much. I recall with ease, though, how I wasn't in my room long before I met Anne of Cleves. How kind and warm she was, and to think, she would have been a better queen than me.

I had everything.

Now I have nothing.

I am living on borrowed time.