The Court of Boleyn
Tudor Romance: Part One
Bella Chase
Prologue
May 17 th 1536, Tower Hill
Francis Bowman managed to push his way through the thick crowds and find a spot at the foot of the scaffold. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed people. It seemed that every Londoner who could walk or hobble had turned out to watch the execution. As far as the people were concerned, this was an unmissable event. It was not every day you could throw rotten fruit at rich courtiers and go unpunished. It was not every day you could spit in their faces and watch them die.
A warm river breeze ruffled Francis’s dark hair. He would rather not have been here. Indeed, he would have given his life to have prevented what was about to take place. God knew he had tried his best to swap places with Mark, but Thomas Cromwell had refused to listen. The least he could do now was to be here for his friend; to support him in his final moments. He noted grimly that everything was in place. The block was right at the edge of the platform – to give people a better view, Francis supposed – and the axe had been placed on top of it. Someone had scattered a bale of straw across the wooden boards.
‘God save his majesty!’ A greasy haired woman shouted in a rasping voice. ‘They’ll be coming out soon.’ She smiled at Francis showing a mouthful of what looked like chewed almonds. ‘Five men in one go. Filthy traitors.’
‘Indeed.’ Sometimes it was better not to argue. He turned to his right where the stone turrets of the Tower of London were washed in a golden sunlit haze. The royal pennants fluttered on the gentle summer breeze. Somewhere within that fortress, the men would be saying their final prayers. ‘God keep them’, Francis murmured, surreptitiously crossing himself. This was not justice. Mark Smeaton, George Boleyn, Francis Weston, William Brereton and Henry Norris were innocent men.
A slight commotion coming from the western entrance to the Tower caused the crowd to turn their heads in anticipation. Francis watched as a troop of guards in red and blue livery began to emerge. They carried halberds before them and as they marched through the crowd, a passageway formed. ‘Make way for the king’s guard!’ Francis found himself pushed forward by the surging crowd. He caught a glimpse of George Boleyn, dressed plainly in a loose white shirt, walking up the steps to the block. He held his head high, proud to the last, but his face was pale. Francis watched as he spoke a few words to the Lieutenant of the Tower before turning to address the people. He seemed to hesitate, unused to such a hostile audience. The crowd began to chant.
‘Kill him! Off with his head!’
Finally, Boleyn found his voice. ‘Christian men,’ he began. The crowd began to hush. ‘I am born under the law, and judged under the law, and die under the law, and the law hath condemned me.’ He swallowed and briefly closed his eyes.
‘Get on with it!’ The greasy haired woman yelled.
Boleyn took a deep breath and continued. ‘Masters all, I am not come hither to preach, but to die. I am a wretched sinner and I have sinned shamefully …’
As the speech continued, Francis looked around. The other prisoners were already waiting at the foot of the scaffold. There was Weston, weeping softly. Brereton and Norris were deep in prayer. Francis caught sight of his fellow court musician Mark Smeaton and raised his hand, catching his attention. They exchanged weak smiles and then Mark lowered his head and began to pray. ‘Have courage, Mark,’ Francis whispered.
He turned back to George Boleyn who was getting into his stride. ‘Beware, trust not in the vanity of the world, and especially in the flattering of the court. And I cry God mercy, and ask all the world forgiveness, and if I have offended any man that is not here now, either in
Tudor Romance: Part One
Bella Chase
Prologue
May 17 th 1536, Tower Hill
Francis Bowman managed to push his way through the thick crowds and find a spot at the foot of the scaffold. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed people. It seemed that every Londoner who could walk or hobble had turned out to watch the execution. As far as the people were concerned, this was an unmissable event. It was not every day you could throw rotten fruit at rich courtiers and go unpunished. It was not every day you could spit in their faces and watch them die.
A warm river breeze ruffled Francis’s dark hair. He would rather not have been here. Indeed, he would have given his life to have prevented what was about to take place. God knew he had tried his best to swap places with Mark, but Thomas Cromwell had refused to listen. The least he could do now was to be here for his friend; to support him in his final moments. He noted grimly that everything was in place. The block was right at the edge of the platform – to give people a better view, Francis supposed – and the axe had been placed on top of it. Someone had scattered a bale of straw across the wooden boards.
‘God save his majesty!’ A greasy haired woman shouted in a rasping voice. ‘They’ll be coming out soon.’ She smiled at Francis showing a mouthful of what looked like chewed almonds. ‘Five men in one go. Filthy traitors.’
‘Indeed.’ Sometimes it was better not to argue. He turned to his right where the stone turrets of the Tower of London were washed in a golden sunlit haze. The royal pennants fluttered on the gentle summer breeze. Somewhere within that fortress, the men would be saying their final prayers. ‘God keep them’, Francis murmured, surreptitiously crossing himself. This was not justice. Mark Smeaton, George Boleyn, Francis Weston, William Brereton and Henry Norris were innocent men.
A slight commotion coming from the western entrance to the Tower caused the crowd to turn their heads in anticipation. Francis watched as a troop of guards in red and blue livery began to emerge. They carried halberds before them and as they marched through the crowd, a passageway formed. ‘Make way for the king’s guard!’ Francis found himself pushed forward by the surging crowd. He caught a glimpse of George Boleyn, dressed plainly in a loose white shirt, walking up the steps to the block. He held his head high, proud to the last, but his face was pale. Francis watched as he spoke a few words to the Lieutenant of the Tower before turning to address the people. He seemed to hesitate, unused to such a hostile audience. The crowd began to chant.
‘Kill him! Off with his head!’
Finally, Boleyn found his voice. ‘Christian men,’ he began. The crowd began to hush. ‘I am born under the law, and judged under the law, and die under the law, and the law hath condemned me.’ He swallowed and briefly closed his eyes.
‘Get on with it!’ The greasy haired woman yelled.
Boleyn took a deep breath and continued. ‘Masters all, I am not come hither to preach, but to die. I am a wretched sinner and I have sinned shamefully …’
As the speech continued, Francis looked around. The other prisoners were already waiting at the foot of the scaffold. There was Weston, weeping softly. Brereton and Norris were deep in prayer. Francis caught sight of his fellow court musician Mark Smeaton and raised his hand, catching his attention. They exchanged weak smiles and then Mark lowered his head and began to pray. ‘Have courage, Mark,’ Francis whispered.
He turned back to George Boleyn who was getting into his stride. ‘Beware, trust not in the vanity of the world, and especially in the flattering of the court. And I cry God mercy, and ask all the world forgiveness, and if I have offended any man that is not here now, either in
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