“Oh, Mary, I have sinned!” she cried in a voice of anguish; “oh, my God! is my punishment to be administered in like measure with my sin?”
CHAPTER XIX
THE JOUSTS AT GREENWICH
It was the first of May; the trees in Greenwich Park were budding with the tender tints of spring, and the short turf was studded with the little daisies, pink and white, and the hawthorns were in bloom, while from the hedgerows came the music of the birds. In the lists at Greenwich the silver trumpets blew. The heralds proclaimed the names of the challengers and challenged in the tournament. The royal gallery was hung with cloth of gold, and the king and queen sat there together, in apparent concord; yet there were dark whispers in the palace, there had been a secret session of the privy council at Whitehall a few days before, and a gentleman of the king’s household had been committed to the Tower. But outwardly all was gay for the great festival of May Day. Banners floated over the lists, pennants of dyes as varied as the rainbow, while from the galleries hung rich tapestries and wreaths of flowers. Garlands decorated the canopy above the head of Anne Boleyn, garlands lay on the gallery balustrade before her, and she was robed in all the splendor of a queen. Her surcoat was of scarlet and gold brocade, and her mantle of cloth of gold was lined with ermine, while on her coif was a circlet of rubies, the same which she had worn on that Whitsunday when she received the crown. Unusually pale, but beautiful, the queen leaned forward in her chair to watch the tilting, while beside her sat the king, seeming to share her interest in the games. He also was arrayed in a regal fashion, his dress of purple velvet slashed with white satin and his breast covered with jewels, which sparkled also in his low-crowned velvet hat, in which were set white ostrich plumes. The strong face of the king was slightly clouded, though he smiled, and his tawny eyes flashed with the fiery spirit of his race. About the queen stood her maids of honor, Mistress Wyatt, Mistress Gaynsford, Betty Carew, and many more; and in the rear was the tall, square-shouldered Lady Crabtree, who had that day asked Anne’s leave to take Betty away to Wildrick, pleading some excuse in response to the queen’s inquiries. Permission had been given, and when the festivities were ended, Mistress Carew would depart for a while from court.
With the braying of trumpets and the sound of music, challenger and challenged rode into the lists,—the queen’s brother, Lord Rochford, and Sir Henry Norris, who had been one of the witnesses of Henry’s secret marriage with the Marchioness of Pembroke in the attic turret of Whitehall. Both the contestants were fine riders, and expert with sword and lance; the first encounter called forth a burst of applause. Men shouted, women waved their handkerchiefs, and the queen let hers fall from her hand into the lists. Before the eager host of sycophants could reach it, Norris had it, and pressing it to his face, presented it on the point of his lance to Anne. There was a moment of silence; the king rose with a dark frown and, followed by a few of his confidential attendants, left the gallery without a word or a glance at his consort. At the barrier of the lists, the royal officers arrested Lord Rochford and Sir Henry Norris upon the charge of high treason. In an instant the bright scene was changed; the trumpets ceased to sound, men flocked together, speaking low, the jousts were stayed, the women stared affrighted at the queen.
“The king! the king!” was whispered; “what doth ail the king? Something has happened, some mischief is ripe! The Northern Counties must have risen! My lord privy seal is murdered! These gentlemen have poisoned the Princess Elizabeth!”
Almost a panic reigned below, while in the gallery the queen rose with a white face and withdrew, followed by her women. In half an hour the lists were vacant, the garlands hung wilting in the sunshine, the idle crowd trailing off full cry after some new scandal. The news had spread that the king was gone to Whitehall and with him the prisoner Norris. Tales that had been whispered began now to be told aloud; fingers were pointed at the windows of the queen’s rooms; idle gossips watched upon the water-stairs for possible arrivals from London, and the superstitious remembered signs and sounds. A step had been heard upon the palace stair at midnight, yet no one ascended, though the heavy tread came through the gallery before the door of Anne Boleyn; it had so walked at that of Catherine, and at the threshold of the hapless Anne of Warwick, queen of Richard III. One old wife had seen Death riding on a tall white horse through the park in the full light of noonday. Another, who had heard the Bishop of Worcester’s great sermon at Paul’s Cross, had been in terror ever since, lest England should fall away to the Bishop of Rome, so valiantly had his lordship preached against friars and abbots, and the like.
Meanwhile the queen was in her own apartments. Although deeply disturbed by the king’s anger and abrupt departure, she bore herself with composure, talking quietly with her women, speaking not at all of the arrest of her brother. Her maids flocked about her startled, dismayed, and each suspicious of the other’s fidelity, except the few who were close to the person of the queen. Never was a May Day so full of trouble since the Ill May Day when the poor apprentices of London rose in Queen Catherine’s time to be butchered by the Duke of Norfolk.
Night came at last, but sleep visited but few in the palace, and the morning found many haggard faces about the queen. Yet the suspense continued; the daily life at Greenwich moved on as usual, men and women tried to smile and made ghastly jests. The king came not again, and noonday brought no tidings. Dinner was spread in the royal apartments, and Anne sat down, attended by her maids of honor and the servants of her own household. The customary greeting from the king, “Much good may it do you,” came not, and the queen’s face paled as she glanced at the sorrowful women about her. More than one had tearful eyes, and all failed to respond to her attempted pleasantry.
“Mary,” she said, turning to Mistress Wyatt, “what ails thee? One would think that a death’s head grinned upon the board. ’Tis a dull hour and my maids are red-eyed; truly, it seems that they might make some jest to entertain the queen.”
“Oh, madam!” exclaimed Mary Wyatt, bursting into tears, “I cannot—I am ill.”