Page:Cassell's Illustrated History of England vol 2.djvu/239

] about her more in the familiar manner of the maid-of-honour which she had once been. This freedom and gaiety had been caught at by the Court gossips, and now scandals wore whispered abroad, and, as soon as the way was open by the anger and fresh love-affair of the king, carried to him. Such accusations were precisely what he wanted, as a means to rid himself of her. A plot was speedily concocted, in which she was to be charged with criminal conduct towards not only three officers of the Royal household—Brereton, Weston, and Norris—but also with Mark Smeaton, the king's musician, and, still more horrible, with her own brother, the Viscouut Rochford. Thus, from a woman caressed and loaded with honours, and certainly innocent of the crimes now brought against her, Anne Boleyn was suddenly converted into a monster, to gratify the inconstant king. A court of inquiry was at once appointed, in which presided Cromwell, the Lord Chancellor, and the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, Anne's determined enemies. On the 28th of April they began with Brereton, and committed him to the Tower. On Sunday, the 31st, they examined Smeaton, and sent him also to the same prison. The following day, being the 1st of May, the Court was suspended to celebrate the gaieties usual on that day; and those were used for the purpose of obtaining a public cause of accusation against Sir Henry Norris. There was to be held a tournament at Greenwich that day, in which the Viscount Rochford was to be opposed by Norris as the principal defendant.

Thither it was concerted that Henry should go, and there he appeared in public with the queen, as if nothing were amiss betwixt them. Anne has been supposed to be unaware of the immediate storm which was brewing against her, but this is more than improbable. Isolated as she was at Greenwich from the Court, and left in melancholy desertion by the courtier tribe, she gave evidence of being sensible of the menacing crisis, by holding a long private conference with her chaplain, Matthew Parker, and giving him a solemn charge concerning her infant daughter, Elizabeth.

In the midst of the tournament, Henry, who, no doubt, was watching for some opportunity to entrap his victims, suddenly found one. The queen, leaning over the balcony, witnessing the tournament, accidentally let fall her handkerchief, which Norris took up, and, as it was said, presumptuously wiped his face with it, and then handed it to the queen on his spear. The thing is wholly improbable, the true version most likely being that the courtly Norris kissed the handkerchief on taking it up—an ordinary knightly usage—and that this was seized upon as a pretended charge against him. Henry, however, suddenly frowned, rose abruptly from his seat, and, black as a thunder-cloud, marched out of the gallery, followed by his six attendants. Every one was amazed; the queen appeared terror-stricken, and immediately retired. Norris, and not only Norris but Rochford, who had had nothing whatever to do with the handkerchief (showing, therefore, that the matter was preconcerted), was arrested, at the barriers, on a charge of high treason.

The diabolical treachery of Henry's character, and the utter insecurity in which every one about him stood, is strongly demonstrated by the fact that the whole of the six now accused of the most infamous crimes against him were his particular favourites, and so high did Norris stand, that he was the only person whom he had permitted to follow him into his bed-chamber. In a moment he was prepared to sacrifice them, just as he would sweep away so many flies, simply to accomplish a fresh act of his licentious life. On his way back to Whitehall, he took Norris apart, and earnestly entreated him to obtain his pardon by confessing his guilt. But Norris stoutly asserted his own innocence and that of the queen, and on arriving at London was committed to the Tower.

Queen Anne was struck with terror when the arrest of her brother and Norris was communicated to her, but the nature of the charge against them was yet a mystery. She sat down to dinner at the usual hour, but she was still more alarmed at perceiving a portentous silence amongst her attendants. Her ladies stood with downcast looks and tearful eyes, denoting some cause of profound grief, and her consternation was brought to a climax when, immediately on the drawing of the cloth, the Duke of Norfolk, Cromwell, the Lord Chancellor Audley, and other lords of the council, with solemn faces, and attended by Sir William Kingston, the Lieutenant of the Tower, walked in. She then started up in terror, and demanded why they came. They replied, "By command of the king, to conduct you to the Tower, there to abide during his highness's pleasure." Thereupon, she seemed to recover her composure, and replied, "If it be His Majesty's pleasure, I am ready to obey." "And so," says Heywood, "without change of habit, or anything necessary for her removal, she committed herself to them, and was conducted by them to her barge."

Scarcely were she and her attendants seated in the barge when Norfolk, who was a bigoted Catholic, and hated her for her leaning to the Reformers, with blunt rudeness, if not malice, told her that her "paramours had confessed their guilt." On this, she declared that it was impossible for any paramour of hers to have confessed any guilt with her, for she had none, but was perfectly innocent of any such offence; and passionately implored them to conduct her to the king, that she might plead her own cause to him. To all her protestations of innocence, the Duke of Norfolk replied with the most insulting expressions.

On approaching the gate of the Tower, the terror of her situation came so vividly upon her, that she fell on her knees, as she had already done in the boat, and exclaimed, "O Lord! help me, as I am guiltless of that whereof I am charged!" Then, turning to the Lieutenant of the Tower, she said, "Mr. Kingston, do I go into a dungeon?" Sir William replied, "No, madam, to your own lodging, where you lay at your coronation." On hearing this, the remembrance of that time, and the awful contrast of the present, overcame her; she burst into a passion of tears, exclaiming, "It is too good for me; Jesus have mercy on me!" When the lords had brought her to her chamber, again protesting her innocence, she said: "I entreat you to beseech the king in my behalf, that he will be a good lord unto me." The ministers then took their leave.

On being left alone with Sir William Kingston, she said, "Why am I here, Mr. Kingston? I am the king's true wedded wife—do you know why I am here?" He replied that he did not. Then she asked him when he