thought, or word, or deed, I pray you heartily, pray them to forgive me for God’s sake. I pray you masters all, for God’s sake stick to the truth and follow it.’
The headsman approached him and bowed briefly. ‘Do you forgive me, my lord?’
Boleyn glanced at him and nodded curtly, handing him a purse. The Lieutenant stepped forward and tied a black scarf around the condemned man’s eyes then guided him towards the block. He whispered a few words to him. Boleyn responded by kneeling down and reaching for the block. As he lowered his head in preparation for eternal sleep, the crowd began to murmur expectantly. Francis felt himself jostled about as people shifted, straining for a better view.
-
Later that day, as Francis sat slumped over an empty bottle of wine at the Mitre Tavern, a series of dreadful images flashed through his mind. Sunlight glinting on the axe blade as it swung through the air. A sickening crunch. The roar of the crowd as the executioner held up a succession of severed heads. Mark had been the last to die. He had looked so afraid as he mounted the blood drenched scaffold. What had happened today was murder, pure and simple.
Francis shook his head, trying to rid himself of the memory. He knew there would be more slaughter tomorrow when his mistress Anne Boleyn mounted the scaffold to face her doom. He would be there for her, as he had been there for Mark Smeaton. When the deed was done, he would avenge them both.
In the meantime, sweet oblivion was all he desired. He raised his hand and called for more wine.
Chapter One
Six weeks earlier.
Greenwich Palace
Anne Boleyn threw her cards upon the table and crossed her arms. ‘I refuse to play with you any more, George. You cheat!’ She watched her brother give a smug grin as he began to gather up the large pile of coins which had accumulated between them. It was not as if he needed the money. His black doublet was of the finest silk, the collar and hems lined with sable fur. Short dark hair framed his handsome face setting off his lively, dancing eyes. As queen, Anne was dressed even more finely than her brother. The square neckline of her purple gown was embroidered with expensive oyster pearls, and a diamond tiara nestled within the folds of her lustrous dark hair.
‘You really are useless at cards, Anne.’ George teased. ‘I shall seek out an abler opponent next time.’
Anne threw a nut at him, aiming squarely for his forehead. It hit him in the eye.
‘Ow! You bitch.’
She laughed. ‘That’s queen bitch to you.’ Picking up her glass of wine, she sat back and surveyed the Privy Chamber. A warm fire crackled in the grate, infusing the air with the scent of warm spices. The gilded tapestries which hung from two of the walls glowed orange in the candlelight. Seated upon two cushions in the corner of the little room were Cousin Madge Shelton and George’s wife Jane. The two women sat sewing together, their heads bowed in concentration. Mark Smeaton sat by the window, playing a gentle melody upon his lute. Dark wavy hair flopped over his eyes and he tapped his foot to the gentle rhythm of the music. Anne smiled at the cosiness of it all. Long ago she had determined that the court of Boleyn would be a place of gaiety, of wit, and of learning. She may have been born of a simple Kentish knight but thanks to God’s grace she would die the wife of a king. Her heart swelled with love as she thought of her royal husband. It was true, they had argued of late, but her passion for him would endure for as long as they both lived. Despite his dalliances with other women, she knew that Henry still loved her. Had he not sworn to serve and cherish her all those years ago? Back then he had belonged to someone else. But he was Anne’s now. She would not let him go without a fight.
‘Fetch Jane Seymour for me, cousin.’ Anne called to Madge. ‘I have not seen her all day.’
‘Yes,
The headsman approached him and bowed briefly. ‘Do you forgive me, my lord?’
Boleyn glanced at him and nodded curtly, handing him a purse. The Lieutenant stepped forward and tied a black scarf around the condemned man’s eyes then guided him towards the block. He whispered a few words to him. Boleyn responded by kneeling down and reaching for the block. As he lowered his head in preparation for eternal sleep, the crowd began to murmur expectantly. Francis felt himself jostled about as people shifted, straining for a better view.
-
Later that day, as Francis sat slumped over an empty bottle of wine at the Mitre Tavern, a series of dreadful images flashed through his mind. Sunlight glinting on the axe blade as it swung through the air. A sickening crunch. The roar of the crowd as the executioner held up a succession of severed heads. Mark had been the last to die. He had looked so afraid as he mounted the blood drenched scaffold. What had happened today was murder, pure and simple.
Francis shook his head, trying to rid himself of the memory. He knew there would be more slaughter tomorrow when his mistress Anne Boleyn mounted the scaffold to face her doom. He would be there for her, as he had been there for Mark Smeaton. When the deed was done, he would avenge them both.
In the meantime, sweet oblivion was all he desired. He raised his hand and called for more wine.
Chapter One
Six weeks earlier.
Greenwich Palace
Anne Boleyn threw her cards upon the table and crossed her arms. ‘I refuse to play with you any more, George. You cheat!’ She watched her brother give a smug grin as he began to gather up the large pile of coins which had accumulated between them. It was not as if he needed the money. His black doublet was of the finest silk, the collar and hems lined with sable fur. Short dark hair framed his handsome face setting off his lively, dancing eyes. As queen, Anne was dressed even more finely than her brother. The square neckline of her purple gown was embroidered with expensive oyster pearls, and a diamond tiara nestled within the folds of her lustrous dark hair.
‘You really are useless at cards, Anne.’ George teased. ‘I shall seek out an abler opponent next time.’
Anne threw a nut at him, aiming squarely for his forehead. It hit him in the eye.
‘Ow! You bitch.’
She laughed. ‘That’s queen bitch to you.’ Picking up her glass of wine, she sat back and surveyed the Privy Chamber. A warm fire crackled in the grate, infusing the air with the scent of warm spices. The gilded tapestries which hung from two of the walls glowed orange in the candlelight. Seated upon two cushions in the corner of the little room were Cousin Madge Shelton and George’s wife Jane. The two women sat sewing together, their heads bowed in concentration. Mark Smeaton sat by the window, playing a gentle melody upon his lute. Dark wavy hair flopped over his eyes and he tapped his foot to the gentle rhythm of the music. Anne smiled at the cosiness of it all. Long ago she had determined that the court of Boleyn would be a place of gaiety, of wit, and of learning. She may have been born of a simple Kentish knight but thanks to God’s grace she would die the wife of a king. Her heart swelled with love as she thought of her royal husband. It was true, they had argued of late, but her passion for him would endure for as long as they both lived. Despite his dalliances with other women, she knew that Henry still loved her. Had he not sworn to serve and cherish her all those years ago? Back then he had belonged to someone else. But he was Anne’s now. She would not let him go without a fight.
‘Fetch Jane Seymour for me, cousin.’ Anne called to Madge. ‘I have not seen her all day.’
‘Yes,
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