In the Shadow of Lions

by Ginger Garrett

  Anne struggled to her feet, assisted by her Yeoman, who had crossed the distance between them in less than a second, and faced Wolsey. “You stole my letters!”

  Wolsey smiled, relishing some little moment. He leaned in, stroking her cheek with a finger, his lips wet and pursed. He leaned in, closer again, until he whispered in her ear, “I did not. How many hidden enemies you must have, Anne.”

  His breath on her ear, so like a tick’s crawl, made her shudder.

  “Oh, Anne, had I known you were to be this much trouble, I would have had you dealt with. I misjudged you. I am surprised a woman as dull as you can hold his attention thus. Your sister certainly didn’t. If you had simply given Henry what he wanted, neither of us would be in this condition. It was your own stupid ideas about God that threaten us. Leave God in the church, Anne, and stick to what women know best.”

  Wolsey smirked at her Yeoman. She saw the guard’s hand reach for his dagger, and the gesture alone sent Wolsey scampering.

  Her heart began to race, and her neck felt tight, as if a string was being pulled around it, tighter and tighter, until her throat burned and she was blinking back tears. She reached out for her Yeoman as she fell into darkness.

  He cradled her in his arms, brushing the hair from her face. He was so gentle. She let her eyes focus on his red beard and remembered it on her cheek. Henry was over a foot taller than she was, and muscular, and she was like a toy held in his arms.

  She knew she should be afraid, but he felt so good surrounding her, supporting her. She had no one to rest upon, no one to carry her burdens. She decided to let him hold her, and she would pretend it was safe.

  Looking up, she saw she was in a new chamber. The bed was an enormous, perfect square, almost as big as her bedchamber at home. It was gilded and carved, and there were angels in the design: two sweet angels on the footboard holding a bowl. She guessed the design was repeated above her, on the headboard. It comforted her. The only other place she had seen angels was in the chapel Wolsey had built at Hampton Court.

  He stroked her arm, smoothing her gown in places, watching her reactions. “It is my bedchamber,” he said.

  She started to rise up, grasping at her bodice to see if it was in place, but he caught her hand and kissed it.

  “I would never have you that way, Anne. You have nothing to fear from me. Please rest, and let me be your servant today. I am so sorry for the trouble I have poured out upon you.”

  Anne remembered everything. “Our letters.” She groaned.

  “Sshh,” he whispered. “No one can harm you.” He moved her in his arms so that his mouth could reach hers, and her body rose to melt into his kiss. It was not enough.

  “I cannot have this,” Anne said, wanting to cry in frustration. She wanted to be lost forever in here, beneath his coverlet, entwined against him, sheltered. But God’s law said it must not happen until there was a marriage. Why must she be cursed with a heart for God? She groaned again to herself. She wanted nothing more right now than his flesh upon hers, his back turned against the world, spreading himself out over her, so she could see nothing but his face and taste nothing but his lips.

  Henry smiled and set his finger on her lips. “I said you would be safe here, and that is even from me.” He grinned. “I will sleep elsewhere. But tell me, why were you listening as I spoke to More and Wolsey?”

  “I do not know who betrayed me. I wanted to know my fate, if you were going to discard me.”

  “Because of the letters?” Henry laughed softly. “Anne, my first thought was that you had sent them.”

  “I would never allow myself to be exposed in this way!”

  “I know. I have my spies too.”

  She did not know what this meant, but his tone was still kind, and he was still touching her with affection. Anne was confused. Her body craved his touch, was warmed by it. She longed to bury her face in his chest and release all her fears, yet her mind spun, weaving little worries and fears into something bigger, something that demanded she escape. He let his finger move from her arms to her shoulders and across her neck. He bent down for a kiss and she received it, darkening her mind to anything but the pleasure of him surrounding her, his lips on hers. She was greedy for affection; this court had turned so cold. She could not help herself.

  It was Henry who pushed her away. “You want me. Why won’t you have me in bed?”

  Breathing hard, Anne struggled to awaken her thoughts again, to compose herself, to sit up. He helped her, lifting her off his lap and setting her back against the pillows.

  “Don’t you see it, Henry? I alone submit to God. No one else in this court does. They all practice a false religion.”

  “You’ve been reading the Hutchins book?” he said.

  “Yes,” she lied. She was afraid of the book, of what it might say of her, of what it might say of her brother.

  “I set it out that my servants may see it, and even read it, Henry.” This much was true.

  “Are you so foolish, Anne? Your servants are educated and can make wise decisions. But it will encourage lawlessness among those who hear of it.”

  Anne reached for him, taking his hand. Maybe he lashed out because he was wounded. Maybe she could soften him, nurse the raw edges, and he would be tender to her always.

  “I know your marriage is void in the eyes of God,” Anne said, keeping her voice as soft and inviting as she knew how. “You tell me that is God’s Word, and I accept it. But if you found such truth in one small verse in Leviticus, why should you withhold this book from your people? Maybe they are in need of truth too. Something troubles me at night, Henry. I cannot describe it, but I do not think I will sleep well again until this book is free and among the people. I think it is God’s will.”

  “What is the will of God?” Henry asked. His voice sounded tired and his eyes were not on her.

  “Sons,” she whispered, squeezing his hand.

  Henry looked up and she read his face.

  She had found her way into his heart.

  The Thames was moving fast, and at this early hour, the stench of the city in summer had not risen. She sat, keeping her eyes ahead, past caring that her Yeoman never spoke. He was a shadow behind and before her, always, but he said nothing. They landed on the steps to lead into the church, and he helped her out of the barge. She was careful to keep her hood low so no one could see her face as servants escorted her in secret. Blackfriars hurt her eyes; the church had endless rows of glass that caught the morning sun, bouncing back bolts of every colour. She walked past window after window until she came to the back steps, where the poor begged. Earlier servants must have kicked the drunk and infirm away, because she was unhindered as she sneaked in, easing the plain wood door open.

  Everyone knew where the trial would be. The servants had spoken of it freely enough, and there was much gossip about Catherine. Anne had heard them speaking with gristly satisfaction, the way the hungry picked at discarded bones after the meal, licking them to remember the taste of the flesh. This court feasted on the misery of its women.

  Her eyes adjusted to the darkness as she felt the cool, still air at the foot of the stairs. The church was heavy with incense, and it made her head hurt. These close quarters were always pungent; she had been spoiled by the trip down the Thames in the fresh morning air. Anne had not thought until then of how drenched in odour the city was—how she had to brace herself before leaving a garden to go indoors, or kneel before the cross in a chapel. Wolsey’s peculiar habit of carrying an orange before his nose as he walked through confined spaces, looking like a horse holding his own carrot, made sense. The city loomed above everyone, but the odours were the closest companions, crowding in unpleasantly and leaving one no air.

  She began the ascent up the stairs, the air growing thicker and warmer. Her Yeoman had motioned for her to step aside and let him lead her, but she had declined. He followed as she sneaked into a private box. She kept her back to the wall so no one would see her, but it afforded h
er a good view. There was a semicircle of chairs at the end of the church, and all pews had been moved along the sides to provide seating for the court members. Henry’s great throne sat at the top of the arch in the semicircle. It was the sun that all else radiated from, nestled just below the crucifix.

  Anne saw that the court members were jostling for seats and there was much hushed conversation as the judges took their seats around Henry’s throne. Campeggio, the cardinal Rome had sent, looked uneasy. Wolsey was there, his red cardinal’s robes capped with fur, his face already red from the morning sun that found its way in through the stained glass. He would sweat himself to death by the end of the morning. She felt hot just looking at him and decided to remove her robe with the hood. No one would see her up here. The summer sun, the full court, and the lack of air promised to make this a difficult morning.

  There was a stillness that began to grow as everyone waited for the king to appear. Anne studied the Christ resting over them all. His face looked so peaceful, and this gave Anne encouragement. Everything here was under His arms.

  But blood ran hot here, a marked contrast to the men she had known in France. Every young man in England stood ready to defend the realm and destroy her enemies, grinding them into a fine dust that history herself would disdain and sweep away. The only enemy the English couldn’t conquer was death. Christ, save us, she prayed. Save us from ourselves.

  A trumpet startled her, making her heart leap as Henry entered the church in golden robes, layered over with a chain of stones as big as her fist set in thick claws of gold. The morning light came in from behind him, and he indeed looked like the sun. All bowed in reverence as he walked past to take his seat. As he did, he commanded them to rise and allow the proceedings to begin.

  The queen entered, looking unwell, as if the weight of her robes was too much for her emaciated frame. She approached Henry’s throne with small, weak steps, finally throwing herself down before him, her arms outstretched as if he would catch her. He didn’t. Anne saw her back rise and fall, as if she was weeping, but no noise carried.

  At last Catherine stood, and Anne saw no one bow. Catherine must have realized it, too, for she smiled sadly at the men circled around her. “You have no authority to read that book and make judgment on me. Death be on Hutchins’ home! As for you, husband, I was a true maid. The marriage is lawful under God’s eyes and the Pope’s.”

  Henry called a witness.

  “Aye, my king, on your brother Arthur’s wedding night, when he had taken this Spanish princess as his bride, I was his attendant. Arthur emerged from his chamber in the early morning hours looking pale and tired. He said he had been traveling in Spain and it was hot work.”

  The court erupted into laughter, which most men corrected into fits of coughing.

  Catherine glared at the witness. “This is not true! My marriage to Arthur was never consummated, as God is my witness. I put this to your conscience, Henry. The law of Leviticus does not apply to my marriage.”

  “If I have no authority to read and make judgment by it, how can you?” he replied.

  Something about his gaze troubled Anne … the absence of emotion, though his wife of twenty years fought for her life before him.

  Catherine pulled herself up to stand board straight and looked around the court. “I do not recognize your right to try me. As Queen, I am subject only to the Pope’s laws, not yours. I have sent word to the Pope that he must try this case and render a just verdict. It is in his hands, God be praised.”

  As she turned to leave, Anne saw Henry grip Wolsey with an intensity as if to break his arm. Wolsey was trying to wrench free, keeping his back to the court so no one would see his dishonour. He whispered something to the king, and Henry smiled and released him, looking at the doors Catherine had just exited, followed by Wolsey. It took several minutes of deep, shuddering breaths before Henry was able to sit and formally adjourn the court. Anne fled down the back steps, her Yeoman once again behind her, unable to protect her should she meet an enemy suddenly. Anne’s mind was racing—the Pope was no friend to Henry. The Pope catered to the Spanish for his own good reasons, to protect his own realm, and Catherine was unyieldingly Spanish. That she forced Henry to confront the Pope on this issue was a sign that she put more faith in Spanish power than in English law. Unless, of course, Catherine really believed the marriage was lawful in God’s eyes and was fighting for faith, which Anne doubted. Anne had heard too many rumours about Catherine to think anything good of her.

  Lost in her swirling thoughts, Anne took no caution as she fled and ran full into Wolsey just as her Yeoman’s hand reached out and caught her. It was too late. Wolsey spun around, the cold smile of surprise on his face telling Anne that he had some reason to be glad she was here. It could not be a good one.

  “Anne,” he said.

  She did not like her name on his lips.

  “What’s this I hear about you setting out a Hutchins book in your chambers for all to see? And you’ve been riddling Henry’s mind about it, tempting him to create these grievous errors? Did the French send us a devil to cause mischief in the English court?”

  The humiliation made her face red, though she already had a blush from the heat.

  “When you stole into my library I knew why you were pursuing the king and seducing him at every turn. At least, this is what I tell the cardinals in Rome and those loyal to the church. You are either a treacherous reformer or a seducing witch, but your punishment will come regardless, and swiftly.”

  “Why do you poison my name?” Anne asked. “Nothing you say is true!”

  “Ah, but this is: I have prepared a bedchamber at an estate where Catherine has been sent to recover from her exertion in court today. I have instructed her maids to care for her most gently and lavish all care on her that she may be pleasing to a man in every way. Henry should be arriving there. I have arranged for them to dine in her bedchamber, and Henry will make every effort to calm her outrage. Perhaps we need not involve the Pope in the king’s great matter. Henry knows how to persuade a woman, does he not?”

  Anne’s stomach went sour, her throat closing around tears. “Henry will have the annulment because it is the law of God,” she said, trying to speak without letting a tear escape. “As cardinal, this is your concern, yes? The law of God?”

  “My concern as Chancellor of the Realm is Henry, and Henry needs an heir.” Wolsey leaned in closer. There was rank decay on his breath as he whispered his next words. “I know you will not sleep with him, Anne, because you are not yet his wife. As long as Catherine still wears the title, why not give her one more chance to provide what you will not?”

  I saw David bent over his work. There was a glass of whiskey on the table: I could smell it, the musky sweetness of grain and the sting of alcohol. I found I could move in this vision, as if I were in the room too. The Scribe stood behind me, his back to the door, so that it would not open. I didn’t know if he was holding me in or something else out.

  I craned over David’s shoulders to see the papers scattered all over his desk. They were letters. I craned my neck to read one. They were all addressed to me.

  Dear Bridget,

  All I ever wanted was to make you smile. I failed you, and when you were diagnosed, I tried to save you. I bribed every doctor I ever met at your cocktail parties until one of them came through. I got you into the best research study going for ovarian cancer. But it fell through because you can’t stop making enemies of everyone you meet.

  But I never stopped loving you.

  And if there’s an afterlife, I never will.

  Yours, David

  I gasped and David sat up, flicking something off his shoulders. Frowning, he looked around the room, looking through me. He must have felt my breath over his shoulder.

  He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a gun.

  “Stop him!” I screamed to the Scribe.

  “No,” he replied.

  I saw it, the most unlikely of books in the
most unlikely of places. It was the Hutchins book and I knew it at once. It sat on his desk, a great thick black leather edition. He must have grabbed it for solace when he prepared for this moment. I shoved against it with all my might, trying to push it into his lap, startle him, stop him, but I couldn’t move it.

  “Please!” I begged the Scribe.

  David was checking the chamber one last time, snapping it back into place as he released the safety.

  The Scribe nodded, and the book scooted to the edge of the desk. It tumbled to the floor with a resounding thud. The noise frightened David, who screamed just as he pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rose stared at the coat of arms, rising red above her, the great lion and the unicorn frozen forever in flight around a Tudor rose. There were dragons on the fence posts, and inside farther down the lane she could see busts of famous healers from centuries past. This, at least, was whom she assumed the lifeless cold heads to be. She had only heard praise of them from the other desperate women who had brought their dying here. All of them fled before morning, so the boys would be presumed abandoned to the king’s mercy.

  Rose strained her head to see inside one of the windows, which were all firmly shut to prevent foul humours from the street to enter the hospital. The patients inside were sick enough without the dread diseases of her world being carried in on some chance breeze.

  When she wondered which room her brothers had died in, drops on her eyelashes escaped down her cheeks. But they were disguised by the morning rain and Margaret’s grabbing of her hand in fear. Rose’s secret was kept another day.

  Wolsey stood on the platform set in the field before St. Bartholomew’s. A crowd pressed in on them from all sides. The vulgar cheers and jostling made the morning unpleasant. But Rose knew the late August sun would reveal itself soon enough from behind the clouds and they would all suffer. The mood would turn. She hoped the prisoners died before that happened. Margaret was trembling like one about to die herself, and Rose lifted her own clammy hand to place it over Margaret’s. She held Margaret’s jerking hand sandwiched between both of hers and took a deep breath.