In the Shadow of Lions

by Ginger Garrett

  Anne wrote, the quill scratching against the paper, the feather shaking as she wrote, so that it resembled a quivering bird in her hand. In the letter she set a little charm, a wooden ship in which she had placed a loose diamond.

  Henry’s reply came so fast he could not have had time to digest her letter completely. She had heard the horses burst down the last stretch of path and she ran to the window. She watched the rider, so unsteady when he dismounted that he grasped the horse’s mane for support. The great beast was going white at the mouth.

  Anne,

  The proofs of your affection are such, the fines phrases of the letters so warmly couched, that they constrain me ever truly to honour, love, and serve you, praying that you will continue in this same firm and constant purpose.

  Praying also that if ever before I have in any way done you offence, that you will give me the same absolution that you ask, ensuring you that henceforth my heart shall be dedicated to you alone, greatly desirous that so my body could be as well, as God can bring to pass if it pleaseth Him, whom I entreat each day for the accomplishment thereof, trusting that at length my prayer will be heard, wishing the time brief, and thinking it but long until we shall see each other again.

  Written with the hand of that secretary who in heart, body, and will is

  Your loyal servant and most ensured servant,

  Henry

  George stood at the door, stealing scouring looks at her. “The king is sending a carriage. He is sending you back to court. You will lodge at Cardinal Wosley’s Hampton palace.”

  “Send me with your blessing,” she said. “I am afraid.”

  He did not reply.

  “If I am close to the king, no one will question you.”

  George shook his head, frowning. “We both know the law of the land. And we both know who I am.”

  Anne’s heart beat faster. She did not like his secret spoken of so plainly. She did not like to see it so close to the surface of the waters; she wanted it buried and unspoken.

  “Be careful how you speak, George, and do not give up on your prayers.”

  She moved to the doorway and embraced him, waiting until he held her back, each clinging to their childhood for one last moment. A rider sent from the king’s court entered the home and watched their good-bye from the entryway below. Anne thought she saw a cold smirk play upon the rider’s face. It did not matter.

  She was ready.

  Chaper Twelve

  A great carriage had entered through the main gates and was coming down the path. As it took the gentle turns, the girls could see the badge that identified it, a coat of arms with a ripe pomegranate spilt open, its seeds too many to count, set below a magnificent crown. The wood was polished and dark, and its wheels turned without noise. Rose had never seen such money in one carriage.

  There were several litters behind it, smaller carriages with cloth canopies. When the queen’s carriage stopped, these stopped too. Rose laughed to see the attendants popping out like baby birds, with their high-pitched voices and bobbing heads, their straining eyes taking in Rose and the estate with wild interest.

  Catherine waved them off and walked alone to the house. Sir Thomas and his attendants rushed to receive her. She looked to be a woman in a dream, ignoring their attempts to escort and support her, and simply walking into the house as if it were her own. When she was inside, the birdlike attendants began their twittering and fussing again, and Rose stole a last look at them as she followed in behind Margaret.

  They found the queen in the family room, hastily swept clear from the lessons that had been in progress. Rose could hear the cook flying about in the kitchen to prepare something suitable, and the servants of the household stood about stupidly. The royal family had visited before, but always with notice, and always with enough time to remove traces of their everyday lives. To be seen like this, without preparation, was to be unmasked in an unnatural way. Rose noted that no one was comfortable, save the queen.

  She looked entirely mortal, which surprised Rose, who kept searching her face and person for some hint as to who she truly was. She was a daughter of kings, which should have imbued her with great mystic quality, but Rose could not pinpoint it. It was enough, she decided, that this woman had seen what she had not and lived a life she would never know. To Rose, Catherine was a mystic—one who inhabited another place. Rose hung on every word and gesture as if it had great meaning.

  The queen was not terribly big, but beneath the enormous skirts and great pointed hat with a train, she filled the family room disproportionately. Her forehead was broad and tall, with the hairline plucked for several inches so that her hat sat upon her hair but revealed none of it. She had a tiny nose, with a slight bump and upturn at the end. It must have been a darling effect as a young girl, but it was offset by a frown etched below it and deep wrinkles around the puffy eyes. She absently pulled at her eyebrows and wiped her eyes again and again. Rose realized the queen was waiting for everyone to finish staring.

  Sir Thomas ushered everyone from the room, sweeping them from it like they were children. Only Margaret did he allow to stay, when she gave him a heartfelt look, and since Margaret held close to Rose’s hand, Rose did not move. All others were gently banished and Sir Thomas closed the door behind them.

  “There is a man being dragged through the streets behind a horse,” the queen began, looking only at her skirt and picking at it. “He carries a faggot of wood for burning, and a placard around his neck saying he is guilty of heresy.”

  Sir Thomas nodded.

  The queen stared at him. “You are too merciful.”

  Sir Thomas bit his lip and nodded. Rose did not think he nodded to agree, but to encourage the queen to speak more.

  “Do you know the source of my troubles?” The queen stood, looking at the girls as if she had just noticed them. She spoke to them directly. “Do you know the source of my troubles?”

  No one moved or spoke. Catherine continued, her voice gaining edge and pitch. “I have lost children. What woman has not?”

  Rose’s joints went cold, fearing the queen’s gaze would linger on her.

  “I have borne the king many children and God’s mercy has been to receive them. Am I to blame for God’s will? Do I stand in His place? No. I stand in my place, beside Henry, doing Henry’s will. I am a good wife and a good queen. Am I not a good queen?”

  “Your Majesty,” Sir Thomas began, but she cut him off. Rose wondered how Sir Thomas thought that was a real question. For a man of learning, he was woefully ignorant in this subject.

  “Henry was content to obey God and honour me as queen until he found this verse, this one verse, in Leviticus, and claims the marriage has been inalterably voided by God’s Word. The Pope himself validated our marriage, and Henry thinks to upturn it because of one sentence! He is a learned man, but he read without instruction and will not take counsel from the church on its meaning. He is like a crazed dog with a bone. No one can reach him on this.”

  She was wandering about the room, looking at their lessons thrown into haphazard piles, turning vases and adjusting the decorations. She was setting the room in order with a vengeance.

  “You were too gentle with that heretic. I want them burned alive with all their books. Find them and destroy them, every last one.”

  “My queen!” Sir Thomas said.

  She burst into tears and sat. “I am the daughter of Isabella, no less. I know what things must happen to preserve an empire. These books, most especially this book by Hutchins, do you not see? What has happened to my home will happen in every home, until the realm is destroyed from within! We are in such danger!” She cried for a few moments.

  No one knew what protocol would allow to comfort her, so they all watched her cry but did not move.

  “I have lost him. He has decided to send me away to a nunnery, to pretend he never loved me, to pretend we have not spent a thousand nights and more together. He wants a new wife, a wife young and able to give him sons.
I am finished bearing children—this is what Dr. Butts has confirmed. I cannot compete with a young girl like that Boleyn witch.”

  Sir Thomas waited a long moment before speaking. Rose thought it demonstrated wisdom.

  “My queen,” he began, “you are a gentle and good monarch, well loved by the people. They have wept with you as you buried your sons and would never consent to be ruled by another woman in your place if they knew how cruelly you were handled. I cannot judge between you and our king in matters of marriage; it is not my place. But I can speak of this Boleyn girl and the mischief she is causing. My counsel to you is to find evidence that she is meddling in the royal marriage, evidence that her intention is to steal Henry from you and you from the people. Bring this to me. With the Pope’s decree that the marriage is lawful and the people’s outrage at Anne Boleyn, will you not be secured?”

  Rose knew the servants would be straining outside to hear every word. His voice was so low they would hear none of it.

  “And the heretics?” the queen whispered back. “This man … Hutchins?”

  Sir Thomas began to speak, but she cut him off.

  “Do not be weak. This is the work of an empire. You will burn them all and their poisonous books. I will leave you with a sum—” and here she removed a sack of coins from her skirts—“to begin. Pay anyone who can help us. I do not care if my money lines the pocket of a filthy tramp in Southwark if it buys me a heretic. I have set aside another sum of cash for you, which will be delivered by messenger every fortnight, until the country is cleansed. And for Hutchins, for his arrest and a very public death, I have set aside a sum that will stagger you.”

  She whispered it to him and his eyes grew wide.

  “Keep what you do not use,” she said, “and may it bless your family.”

  “Am I Catherine’s heir?” I asked the Scribe. “Is that why you’re giving me this story? Because of what I did?”

  “Let’s write your story together. David brought you his best work—”

  “It wasn’t good enough. Not for David. He was brilliant. I loved him too much to let him settle.”

  “So?”

  “So I stole the galleys and sold them to a tabloid. They ran them, watered down, stripped clean, in monthly installments under someone else’s name. I thought if he saw his work watered down, stripped to the bone, he’d see its flaws. He’d write again—bigger, bolder. We’d both make a killing.”

  “Oh, you did.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  “What has happened to David?” I cried out.

  But the story burst into play again, and my scream was lost.

  Chapter Thirteen

  She could hear church bells ringing as she studied the Exodus scene of the tapestry. Somewhere in the distance at noon Mass, a church was elevating the bread, and Christ was again present among them. She bowed her head and blessed His name, asking favour for this mission. She looked at Miriam and the dancing, free women one last time and moved up the stairs.

  Hampton Court was so different from the other residences she had been in. In Greenwich, the staircases were narrow and canted at an angle, making you dizzy before you reached your room. Here, the stairs were straight, with every step wide and low, perfect for women in such skirts as hers. But of course, Anne thought, Wolsey wore great robes of office. He must have designed these stairs to suit himself, not others. Only Henry liked short robes, having broken with the tradition of long robes for monarchs, because no monarch had ever had legs as powerful and shapely as his own.

  If Wolsey had given such attention to the stairs, he had spent so much longer overseeing the rooms themselves. The doorway to her room was nearly twice her height, and her Yeoman had to give a great heave to open it. The room was dazzling, no doubt meant to woo a woman.

  “Oh!” Anne gasped, unable to pair words to the vision. The bed rose above her at the end of the room, a great red giant, as tall as three men standing on each other’s shoulders, with cascades of shimmering silks floating down to surround the sleeper. The walls were a dark wood, polished and glistening, and as Anne looked up to the ceiling, she saw a fresco of sweet cherubs, its soft blues and whites reminding her of the sky in spring, when the clouds have just begun to turn from grey to white, and the sun has found its strength once more.

  Anne hugged her arms to herself, unable to step into the room. A perfume still lingered, of deep spicy scents, so unlike her own rosewater. Servants clambering down the hall behind her were carrying her goods, and she stepped aside to let them enter. They and her bags disappeared into the room.

  Wolsey appeared behind her, his robes masking his footsteps. Anne saw her Yeoman’s jaw set in disdain. He did not speak, she thought, but his thoughts were made plain enough.

  “Forgive me, my lady,” Wolsey began. “I was preparing for Henry’s arrival.”

  “He will be here?” she asked.

  “Yes, and since the sweating sickness has passed, more courtiers will be returning. After this I expect him to move on to another residence.”

  “It is good of you to receive me,” Anne said.

  Wolsey’s eyes went cold. “It has displaced no one to have you.”

  Anne bowed her head to end the conversation, embarrassed to have drawn Wolsey out on this point.

  “Please explore the gardens as you like, and you may enjoy whatever charms you. Only do not enter my personal rooms, Anne, and do not disturb me after supper.”

  “But you know my secrets, Wolsey. Why should I not know yours?”

  She touched her neck, fingering her necklace, making sure the fat green emerald ring sat accusingly on her hand before him.

  The estate was so quiet while it awaited the court. Anne hadn’t realized how such a crowd of people, with their pecking and preening, their dignities and spites, kept her on edge and rolled into a tight, brittle woman. In the quiet her heart unfolded, her breaths grew deeper and slower, and her courage was a little quicker to rise to the top.

  Why was she here? God had allowed all this to happen to her, had He not? So what did He want her to do? Anne tried to reason well. She was being elevated; Catherine was being cast out. Henry insisted the marriage was void, a disgrace to God, which only annulment, a clean washing away, would remedy. Henry’s only interests, Anne saw, were his conscience before God and heirs for the realm. Heirs God would only grant in a lawful, honourable marriage.

  Wandering outside her room, she gave a little dismissive nod to her Yeoman guard, who allowed her to pass. She lingered at the image of Miriam again, her thoughts lost and loose, weaving between the delicate stitches before her, moving in and out of little threaded bits and pieces, shadows of thought. She had obeyed God in everything, committing to the seven virtues, shunning the seven sins. She had guided Henry’s early passion for her into something more noble and God had honoured her obedience, setting before her the throne and its powers.

  A distant song caught her attention. It was voices singing but one word, over and over. Anne could not understand it but sensed the drumbeat, low and steady, in her bones. Then something pushed against her, setting her off balance. All at once unsteady, she braced the wall beside the tapestry for support, as if the ground beneath her was shifting. A thought came to her and lodged in her mind like an errant bow striking a green young tree and sending little shivers down its trunk. She shook herself and walked on, suddenly compelled to commit a tiny treason.

  Anne held her breath, but the halls were quiet. Her Yeoman had not followed her, but she caught his scent, lye soap and rosemary, near her anyway. It comforted her for what she was about to do.

  The doors were not locked, but no light was set in the room. It smelled of leather and linen, of candles that had burned throughout the night, and of wax seals poured onto dry parchments. Her stomach lurched and tingled as the voices grew louder in her ears. It was here. She knew it. But looking around the room in the dim light from the hallway, she could see only bales of
wool, marked at the ports as they came in. Why Wolsey would be impounding these imports was not a mystery in itself; these could infringe on the English trade. But this was not a matter for priests and cardinals.

  They held her attention, and her heart beat faster. Without knowing why, she took a knife from Wolsey’s desk, meant to split seals, and loosened the tie holding one bundle together.

  A dozen of the forbidden book spilled out across her feet in the darkness. She cried out from the touch of cold leather against her skin. Every one of these bundles contained them, no doubt—hundreds in this little room alone. Each book was like an accusation, a reminder that she had failed to read it, failed to trust it. She picked one up, reading the marks on the inside page. It was indeed from William Hutchins. She flipped through the pages, eyeing the new woodcuts Hutchins was using. One line caught her eye. It said she was surrounded by invisible witnesses.

  The room was still, but not empty. Trembling, she dropped the book, spying on Wolsey’s desk shipping papers and documents that had broken seals.

  Checking to be sure no one approached, she picked up a letter. It had only names—a long list of men and women. Her name was on it, hastily scribbled along the bottom.

  “He approaches!” a guard called below.

  A loud burst of activity made Anne jump. She grabbed the letter—and on impulse took one of the books too—determined to silence it. She ran out of the room and saw servants springing out from all directions, rushing to be in place and presented well as he arrived. Only her Yeoman was unruffled by the king’s arrival.