Chapter Twenty-Six A Great Grief #2
She supposed Cromwell would be at Whitehall.
She supposed he was orchestrating Henry’s wedding to Jane, just as he’d orchestrated Anne’s execution, and her coronation before that.
Just as he’d orchestrated Henry’s annulment from Katherine, in the independent English church that Anne and Cromwell, then allies, had pushed Henry to take charge of.
Cromwell, plain Cromwell, with his broad, lumpy face and his pretender’s black velvet clothes, was a man who could get things done.
He was stalwart, steady, a workhorse. He had hands like a laborer, and the build of one too, but he was calculating.
He could wait for what he wanted. He could work and wait.
Anne wondered if she ought to kill him too, or if it would be wiser to let him live.
He was a man who would cling to and work for whoever had power.
In the absence of Henry’s power, once Anne killed him, wouldn’t Cromwell cling to and work for Elizabeth, the rightful heir?
Wouldn’t he make sure she learned her letters and her Latin, that she had a reformer’s religious upbringing?
Wouldn’t he teach her to eschew beauty and courtship in favor of power and respect?
Wouldn’t he teach her to be ruthless? If Elizabeth was to be a child queen, she would need a Cromwell at her side; someone who would never eclipse her but would work himself to the bone to ensure her success, someone who would come to late-night meetings with her despite his own unsettled grief, someone who would set himself aside for her.
—
The light bothered Anne, though she had her hood over her face.
She had hoped to fall back to sleep but could tell she wouldn’t.
She crept out of the ditch and onto the deserted road.
Before her, she could see the northern wall of London, and one of its gates.
She couldn’t be too far from the Tower, she thought, but Whitehall was a few miles farther to the west, past the walled portions of the city, in Westminster.
In the ditch, Zeus stirred and rose to his feet.
Anne could ride him through the farmland and small villages north of London to the western edge of the city, past the walls, and come into town on foot on the Strand, walking up to Whitehall, and then, she wasn’t sure—sneaking in, she guessed.
But she would be conspicuous. A woman bearing an uncanny resemblance to the dead queen, about whom there were ghost stories circulating, riding a large white bull around the outskirts of London.
How long would it be before a superstitious villager or farmer chased her down and dragged her off the beast’s back, strung her up from a tree, or had her jailed as a witch?
How long until Henry, or, more likely, dutiful Cromwell, appeared to investigate whether she was actually Anne Boleyn?
How long until she was burned at the stake, Henry still living, Elizabeth in even greater jeopardy now that her mother was discovered an undead woman?
No, Anne thought, although it would be faster to ride around London, it would be too risky.
Her best bet would be to leave Zeus here and make the long walk to Whitehall.
She could retrace the path of her coronation, down Cheapside, to the Strand, and then on to Westminster.
She could hide her face in her cloak, keep her head down, eyes down.
She was dressed as a middling woman already. Nobody would look closely at her.
There was the question, then, of what she’d do with her sword.
She couldn’t wander through London with a giant sword protruding from the back of her dress.
She could, though, tie the sword to her waist, under her gown.
She ripped a long piece of fabric from the hem of her smock, to fashion a makeshift belt, raised the skirts of her gown and kirtle, and tied the belt first around the sword’s hilt, then over her smock, around her waist. That way, the sharp blade would brush only the linen fabric of her undergarment, not her flesh.
She wished she had a scabbard, but this would have to do.
The sword was stiff, clunky, and heavy, but beneath the voluminous skirt of her gown, it was hidden.
Anne took a few steps. The sword swished beside her right leg, but did not bang against it, and was not visible beneath the gown’s hem.
Zeus grunted behind her. What would she do with the bull?
She supposed she had no responsibility to him.
He’d appeared as out of nowhere, eager to serve her, and now his service had come to an end, but even so she was sad to say goodbye to the creature, who had showed her such care.
She put her hand on the beast’s face and whispered, “Goodbye, Zeus.” The bull looked at her and nodded, as though he understood.
He turned and walked back down the road, away from London.
Anne stood watching him until he crested a hill and vanished, out of sight.