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“I do not think that any gentleman of the court owes more to the King than I do, and has been more ungrateful and regardless of it than I have. I pray God to have mercy on my soul.” Then he cooperatively laid his head on the block. The headsman struck, and it was over in the time it takes to draw a good breath.

Sir Francis Weston, that pretty boy whose wife and mother had offered a ransom of one hundred thousand crowns to redeem his life, stood fresh-faced on the scaffold, the blue May skies no clearer than his eyes.

“I had thought to have lived in abomination these twenty or thirty years, and then to have made amends. I thought little it had come to this,” he said, seeking to be clever and fashionably lighthearted right up to the end. When the headsman held up his severed head, though, the eyes were no longer a sweet blue but glazed-over grey.

Overhead, black shapes were gathering. The buzzards had scented blood and seen moving creatures suddenly cease to move.

Mark Smeaton stood proudly on the scaffold. “Masters, I pray you all pray for me—for I have deserved the death.” The lovelorn lute-player fell eagerly upon the block, as if afraid he might be contradicted or denied his death.

Last was Lord Rochford, George Boleyn. He could not help but see the stacked coffins to his right, and the shadows of the buzzards circling overhead, making spots on the scaffold. He looked out at the crowd, then over across the moat to his sister’s apartments.

Everyone was silent, awaiting his speech. But, strangely, he began speaking of Lutheranism (he had long been suspected of leaning toward heresy). “I desire you that no man will be discouraged from the Gospel at my fall. For if I had lived according to the Gospel—as I loved it and spake of it—I had never come to this.” He wentroudly "3">The hearers were not interested in a sermon, which they could hear from any friar or court preacher. It was not religion that they wanted, but blood and sins.

“I never offended the King,” he suddenly said, defiantly. “There is no occasion for me to repeat the cause for which I am condemned. You would have little pleasure in hearing me tell it,” he said petulantly, cheating them of their fun. “I forgive you all. And God save the King.” He might as well have stuck out his tongue. The nasty salute was his farewell to the world. The axe struck, and his head was disconnected.

The five coffins were borne away in the warm May sunshine, and the disgruntled buzzards flapped away.

Anne was to die the next day. But Henry’s “surprise,” the French swordsman, had not yet arrived, so the execution was postponed. The original day proved to be windy, and full of thunderstorms, so it was just as well.

Anne was to be executed within the precincts of the Tower, on the little green outside the Queen’s lodgings. No more than thirty people were allowed to witness it, and the legs of the scaffold were lowered so that no one standing beyond the Tower walls could glimpse the proceedings inside. Invitations to the event were eagerly coveted. The Chancellor, the three Dukes (Norfolk, Suffolk, and Richmond), Cromwell, and the Privy Councillors were called upon to be witnesses, as well as the Lord Mayor of London, with the sheriffs and aldermen. A cannoneer would be stationed on the battlements, to fire the cannon the instant the Queen was dead.

The King would not attend. Nor would Cranmer. Nor any of the Seymours.

All the night before, Anne kept awake, praying and singing. She composed a long dirge-ballad for her lute, as if in defiance of the fact that her brother could no longer do it. She was determined to be celebrated; and distractedly, on her last night on earth, she wrote these verses, and set them to music:

Oh death, rock me asleep

Bring on my quiet rest

Let pass my very guiltless ghost

Out of my careful breast.

Ring out the doleful knell,

Let its sound my death tell;

For I must die,

There is no remedy,

For now I die!

My pains who can express

Alas! they are so strong!

My dolour will not suffer strength