Every year on a night in May, the centuries-old tale goes, the spectre of Anne Boleyn rided up to Blickling Hall in a coach driven by a headless horseman, dressed in pure white, drenched in blood from her decapitated head in her lap.
Every year on a night in May, the centuries-old tale goes, the spectre of Anne Boleyn rided up to Blickling Hall in a coach driven by a headless horseman, dressed in pure white, drenched in blood from her decapitated head in her lap.
