The countdown is on, ladies and gentlemen! Nine days until the release of my debut historical fiction novel, MY LADY VIPER, the first in my Tales From the Tudor Court series!
Today, I'm offering you a sneak peek into the book!
May,
1536. The Queen is dead. Long live the Queen.
When Anne Boleyn
falls to the executioner's ax on a cold spring morning, yet another Anne vows
she will survive in the snake-pit court of Henry VIII. But at what cost?
Lady Anne Seymour
knows her family hangs by a thread. If her sister-in-law Jane Seymour cannot
give the King a son, she will be executed or set aside, and her family with
her. Anne throws herself into the deadly and intoxicating intrigue of the Tudor
court, determined at any price to see the new queen's marriage a success and
the Seymour family elevated to supreme power. But Anne's machinations will earn
her a reputation as a viper, and she must decide if her family's rise is worth
the loss of her own soul . . .
EXCERPT!
London, Court of
Henry VIII
May 19, 1536
Dead.
The
queen would soon be dead. Her head cropped short of her neck for a crowd on
Tower Green to watch.
Poor, poor Anne.
The king’s
pardon we’d heard whispers of had not yet come. But surely he must! There was
no coffin prepared. Not even a discarded box. Rumors that the king’s secretary
Cromwell had convinced King Henry VIII against a pardon ran rampant. A lack of
coffin had to be evidence that Cromwell had not succeeded.
Even
as Anne Boleyn emerged from the Tower, dressed in a gray gown, her red, quilted
petticoat showing with each step she took, the genteel fabric swishing back and
forth, I looked about frantically for the king’s man to say this was all a
show, that she would be spared. Her skin was pale, her lips red. Her black as
night eyes calmly scanned the crowd, searching for something—perhaps the king
himself. My heart went out to her. That she could put on such a façade at the
time of her execution only proved she was indeed a queen and of noble birth.
Four of her ladies-in-waiting walked with her to the four-foot-tall scaffold. She
passed out alms to the poor along the way, her movements slow and deliberate. Her
last queenly duty. A shiver stole over my body.
Those
who’d shunned her in life now greedily accepted her coin. How backward people were.
Even I felt remorse for the events that would take place. For even though not a
friend of mine, she did not deserve this.
Queen
Anne, now dubbed Lady Anne—her marriage to the king annulled just hours
ago—took the rickety steps slowly, regally, perhaps more like a queen now than
I had ever seen her before, though she still did not touch the grace of the
late Queen Katharine of Aragon—Henry VIII’s first wife—whose poise and decorum
were unmatched at court. Lady Anne’s ladies appeared sullen, but in truth, not
one shed a tear. Even my eyes stung,
but these ladies were not her friends. They were ladies Henry had supplied her
with in the Tower—women who would not sympathize with Anne.
“Good
Christian people, I am come hither to die.” Her voice rang out over the hushed
crowd. I swallowed hard, not certain that had I been in the same place I could have
summoned the strength and found my voice.
I
glanced briefly beside me at my husband, Edward. He stared intently before him
and I wondered if he was seeing right through the spectacle, or if he watched
every move, every person, as keenly as I did.
The
crowd leaned in, some with hands covering their mouths, tears in their eyes. Others
with brows furrowed, lips thinned in a grimace.
“Good
Christian people, I am come hither to die, for according to the law, for by the
law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it. I am
come hither to accuse no man, nor to speak of that whereof I am accused and
condemned to die, but I pray God save the king and send him long to reign over
you, for a gentler nor a more merciful prince was there never, and to me he was
ever a good, a gentle and sovereign lord.” She looked up toward the heavens,
her long slim fingers folded gracefully in front of her. “And if any person
will meddle of my cause, I require them to judge the best. And thus I take my
leave of the world and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for
me. Oh, Lord, have mercy on me! To God I commend my soul.”
Anne
reached up and removed her headdress, replacing it with a white cap one of her
ladies handed to her, the same one who helped to tuck in her long raven hair. She
was still beautiful, hauntingly so. The four ladies hurried to surround her,
removing her white ermine cloak, her necklace.
The
executioner stepped forward, begging her pardon for doing his duty to king and
realm. She nodded solemnly, told him she willingly gave him her pardon. Still,
her eyes searched, and I found myself searching, too. I’d had a hand in this,
but... Guilt and panic twisted my stomach. I had never wanted her to die, just
to be set aside as was good Queen Katharine. That is what everyone said would
happen. He would not truly kill Anne Boleyn. It was all to frighten her, and
the rest of us, into obedience, wasn’t it?
And
yet, no messenger with a pardon.
No
one shouting for this debacle to end. Sweat trickled down my spine and yet I
was cold all over.
The
executioner bade her to kneel and say her prayers. She knelt on wobbly knees,
her frame slender and stiff, eyes glazing over, perhaps a moment of fear when
she realized her execution was truly eminent. She righted herself, both knees
locked together upon the straw that had been laid to catch her blood when the
deathblow should be struck. I stifled the urge to run forward, to shout for
them to stop. To beg my husband to search for the messenger who was surely on
his way with the king’s pardon. Another wave of panic seized me. I took deep,
gulping breaths and tried to maintain my own noble bearing.
Anne
Boleyn straightened her skirts, smoothing them down the front and covering her
feet behind her. She turned toward her ladies, asked them to pray for her, then
faced the crowd.
“To
Jesus Christ I commend my soul. Lord Jesu, receive my soul,” she repeated over
and over, her lips moving, twitching, her fingers clasped tightly in front of
her.
A
moment of panic seemed to take control of her. She looked about herself
aimlessly, fingered her cap, muttered to the executioner that perhaps she
should take off the cap. The man tried to console her that he would strike when
she was ready. He went to put the blindfold on her, but she stayed his hand,
shaking her head.
I
failed to quell the sob that escaped my throat. I could picture myself kneeling
there. One moment full of confidence and poise, and the next my mind slipping
and utter fear taking over. Within those few seconds of her fumbling, I prayed
heartily His Majesty would come to pardon her. The executioner motioned to one
of her ladies, who gently tied a linen cloth to her eyes, her piercing gaze
having unsettled both the executioner and the crowd, myself included.
Oh, dear God! Have mercy!
With
her voice shaken but strong, Anne told the man she was ready. She began to pray
again, “My God, have pity on my soul. Into thy hands, oh Jesu, have pity on
me.”
The
executioner silently pulled a four-foot, shining, steel blade from within the
straw. He held it alight, the sun beaming off its length, drawing my eyes to
the macabre sight.
“Bring
me the sword,” he ordered loudly as he tiptoed behind her from the other
direction. The man was tricking her about where he stood!
Anne
turned her head, not aware he was no longer there. He lifted the sword high
behind her, two-fisted, his hands trembling slightly, and then swung in an
arcing motion down, severing her head from her neck in one swipe. I squeezed my
eyes shut, my hands coming to my own slender neck.
It
was done and could not be undone. This horrible deed was real. Not a dream. Not
a lesson in anything except the cruelty of this world and the men in it. The
cruelty of our king. And I wanted to
scream. I wanted to scream, but could not, for I was sister-by-marriage to the
next queen—Jane Seymour.
