“And what of me, Henry, what of me? What of my dignity? Am I nothing but the king’s whore?”
He slapped her. Anne placed her hand over her stinging cheek, turning to run from him. He caught her, pulling her in tightly. “Anne, Anne …”
She shoved back from him, fighting against his tightening grasp, jerking her arms, trying to stab him with her elbows.
He gave her a little freedom, releasing her only enough that she could look at him, keeping her arms pinned against her body.
“You have ruined me!” she cried. “If you let me go, what good would I be? My sister only received an offer of marriage after you ordered it. Who would dare love me?”
“You think I am going to discard you?” he asked.
Anne stumbled for a second over his sudden shift in humour. She took a deep breath, exhaling before she met his gaze.
“I am trapped,” she said, his grip on her arms remaining firm. She laughed once, the irony lost on him. “You will not let me leave your court. Outside, my name is dragged through the streets. Inside I am betrayed by courtiers who hope to steal a little nibble of my soul, a moment of my distress, to make good conversation at their tables. This is a court of madness.”
Henry stepped back from her, shaking his head. He turned to walk back into the light of the portico.
She sank down on the steps, her legs feeling like they were made of water.
“God help me,” she whispered.
If Henry was violent in professing love for her, she did not know how he would behave when he was angry with her tonight.
Jane put her knee on Anne’s back, leaning back and tightening the laces on her bodice until Anne cried out. Another girl was below her, fluffing out her skirts and strapping pattens to her shoes. Anne couldn’t see her.
Jane came round and attended to Anne’s hair, combing it carefully, making little ringlets set off from her face. She set the hairpiece on next and draped the veil across Anne’s shoulders. Next came the cosmetics, a little powder with rouge for her cheeks and lips. Jane always was a little overzealous in applying powder to Anne’s darker skin, and Anne reached out to steady her hand.
Tucking a pomander of perfume—her favourite, roses—into her bosom, Anne followed Jane to the dining hall. Anne forced herself to breathe in little measured doses.
Henry and Wolsey were already there. Anne took her place next to Henry, and her servants moved to another table, stealing glances back. It was a small dinner tonight, with only ten or so tables, mainly for all the body servants and a few special courtiers, the men who never did much beyond gossip and spy. But, Anne thought, Henry was a king who didn’t mind intimacy with an enemy.
When the servers pushed open the wooden doors, Anne knew what was cooking in the kitchens. Henry and Wolsey must have caught the aroma, too, for they glanced at the servers with questioning looks. Henry conferred quietly with Wolsey, who nodded. Anne’s heart began beating faster, and she fiddled with a piece of bread she had no interest in eating.
The aroma was overpowering. The servers were running up and down the halls, staging their trays in a little room just outside the doors. Every time the doors opened, a stronger whiff of the meal came in with them. Everyone began to murmur. Some tried to eat the bread, keeping their eyes on a tapestry across the room or making meaningless chatter with their neighbour. But the scent grew, the warm summer air making it unbearably delicious.
Finally, they came in with it: great heaping platters of sausages, sizzling and steaming.
Henry jerked to his feet. “What is the meaning of this?” he screamed.
The youngest of the servers dropped his platter in fright.
Wolsey stood, outrage on his face. “Do you not know what day it is?”
Anne rose next. Jaws were flopping open all across the room.
“My king, do not be angry,” Anne said. “Perhaps this is a most fortunate mistake.”
Henry turned to her, his eyes blazing. The servant boy stooped, trying not to draw attention as he scooped the sausages back on his platter.
Anne turned to Wolsey. “My friend, we have a custom of not eating meat on Friday, and this is from the Church. Could you please remind us of the passage from Scripture that commands this practice? We would all be edified to know it, and the cooks will not make this same mistake again.”
Wolsey’s eyes narrowed. She would not be safe again around him. He smiled and addressed the room. “I see you have persisted in reading Hutchins. The Church teaches—”
“Forgive me, Cardinal Wolsey! I did not ask what the church teaches, for we all know that quite well. I am but a woman, and the Church will not allow me to read the Scriptures. So you must tell us where in the Bible it says we are not to eat meat on Fridays.”
Wolsey took a sip of his wine, looking at Henry and the hungry courtiers, clearing his throat before speaking. “We honour …,” he began.
This time Henry cut him off. “The passage?”
“I will retire to my room and find it, my king.” Wolsey excused himself from Henry with a bow, not looking at Anne again, and left.
Anne whispered to Henry, “He will not be back. The passage does not exist. It is one more way the Church has controlled your life, your realm.”
She smiled innocently at everyone in the room. “I have heard a delightful story today! Shall I tell it?”
Henry was still looking at the doors where Wolsey had departed. He muttered his “yes” to Anne and sat.
Anne spoke to him but with enough volume that others could hear. “A priest was wandering among the poor, selling indulgences. Salvation was to be purchased for a silver groat, and release from purgatory for the dead cost a half-angel. Forgiveness of all sins was included when you purchased salvation. One rough-looking boy approached the priest and asked, ‘Sir, does forgiveness of sins cover only my past, or will I be forgiven for those acts I have yet to commit?’ The priest was delighted to save such a rough-looking fellow, and he replied, ‘Aye, purchase salvation and all sins are forgiven, even those sins not yet committed. God is wondrous to forgive us all our debts!’
“So the rough-looking chap paid a silver groat and listened as it fell into a purse weighted down with coins. The villagers all came round, marveling that the boy had been saved. The poor gave the priest their money, securing eternal rest for their dead and salvation from their sins. It was a happy day in the village, and as the sun went down, many people feasted and drank what little they had left, while the priest went on his way. But he had not gone two miles out of town when the boy leapt from behind a boulder, beating the priest mercilessly and stealing his coin purse. He ran all the way back to town, giving everyone back double and triple what they had given the priest, because the boy had paid in advance for this great sin, and it was no sin at all.”
With that, Anne speared a great sausage and commenced eating. If there were whispers of protest, she didn’t hear them, for her heart was beating too loudly.
Chapter Eighteen
“Destroy it!”
Margaret stood above her, with a finger jabbed in her face. Rose closed the book and stood, clutching it to her chest, shaking her head. They were in Margaret’s bedroom. No one else was near; all the others were taking their exercise. Rose had begged off, saying her head hurt, but Margaret knew why she sought time alone.
“Listen to what I read today, Margaret:
“And behold, a woman in that city, which was a sinner, as soon as she knew that Jesus sat at meat in the Pharisee’s house, she brought an alabaster box of ointment, and she stood at his feet behind him weeping, and began to wash his feet with tears, and did wipe them with the hairs of her head, and kissed his feet, and anointed them with ointment.
“When the Pharisee which bade him, saw that, he spake within himself, saying: If this man were a prophet, he would surely have known who and what manner woman this is which toucheth him, for she is a sinner. And Jesus answered … There was a certain lender which had two debtors, the one oug
ht five hundred pence, and the other fifty. When they had nothing to pay, he forgave them both. Which of them tell me, will love him most?... I entered into thy house, and thou gavest me no water to my feet: but she hath washed my feet with tears, and wiped them with the hairs of her head. Thou gavest me no kiss: but she, since the time I came in, hath not ceased to kiss my feet. Mine head with oil thou didst not anoint: but she hath anointed my feet with ointment. Wherefore I say unto thee: many sins are forgiven her, for she loved much.…
“And he said unto her, thy sins are forgiven thee.… Thy faith hath saved thee, Go in peace.”
“Shut the book.” Margaret’s voice was cold. Nothing had reached her.
“Margaret, the priests are wrong! They are teaching error! You must trust me: This is life or death to the simple! You did not know me before I came here. I trusted the priests and it wrought death! Here is the truth! Please, Margaret, open your eyes. It is the Church that must be destroyed!”
Margaret slapped her with such force that Rose fell back against the bed.
“The Church is my father!” she shouted at Rose. “The Church is law and orderly lives, and these things my father has given his life to. I will not see it undone by a servant.” She spit that last word out of her mouth as if it were sour to her.
A great shouting out in the hall startled them both. The boys were whooping and running about, and Margaret went to the door to peer out. She turned back to Rose, her face still hard.
“Wipe the tears from your face, Rose. The king’s messenger is here.”
Margaret swept from the room. Rose started to replace the book under her mattress, but she knew Margaret would look for it there. There were not many other hiding places in the room. There was a washstand and little desk, plus Margaret’s bed. Rose slipped the book under Margaret’s mattress and wiped her palms across her face to clear it before she ran out.
“What is the meaning of this?” Sir Thomas looked horrified to be holding a red velvet pouch.
“Cardinal Wolsey has been fired. He surrenders the Great Seal and the king ordered it delivered to you. You are to replace him.”
“On what grounds was Wolsey fired? What has happened?” More asked. He still held the pouch out and away from his body.
“His many failures are known to the king, chief among them his failure to obtain the annulment from his master the Pope. The Bible says one cannot serve two masters, so Henry has freed him from his burden.”
Sir Thomas opened the bag, as if he was uncertain whether the messenger spoke true. He emptied it into his palm, and Rose saw a wide silver medallion, catching the light enough to make the figure of a king on horseback visible even from her distance.
Sir Thomas, looking pale, sat on a couch. “Is it my job, that I secure the king’s annulment? So he may marry the Boleyn girl?”
“Aye, sir, the king holds great respect for the universities of England, of which you are a brilliant example. He is satisfied you will bring speedy justice to the matter.”
A household servant walked, unawares, into the room. He looked frightened to see all gathered around More, who did not look well. He studied the livery the messenger wore and fell to his knees. “Long live the king!” he cried out.
More looked up, the spell broken. He laughed, a small, unmerry snort. “There is no reason to fear. What do you need?”
The boy focused his glazed stare on Sir Thomas. “Bainham, sir. He will not abjure.”
Sir Thomas sighed. Rose thought he looked heavier around the face and midsection. Perhaps it was just the angle he sat at. She wondered if the burnings and persecutions worked upon his appetite, making him ever more hungry. Could he feast on the deaths? She wondered how a kind face could hide such secrets.
He caught her staring at him and she blushed, her stomach tightening with nervous pinches.
Sir Thomas addressed the messenger. “A heretic,” he explained. “I had him whipped at my Tree of Truth, but to no avail. This madness runs deep. I cannot dig the whip in far enough to scourge it out.” He turned to the servant. “Have him sent to the Tower for racking.”
The servant bowed and left.
More turned to the king’s messenger.
“I will accept this charge, with my most humble obedience to the king. God preserve Henry and England!”
The messenger left, and Sir Thomas put his head in his hands. “I have heard such rumours, always rumours, trailing the king like body servants. There was a rumour that Anne served sausage on a Friday just to taunt the faithful. All these whispers, but the truth is as black as the stain of rumour. She is a witch, despising the things of God, consorting with the devil to cause England to fall.”
He rose and walked round the room, biting his lips in thought. “Witches can be saved only through burning, but I cannot get to her.” More didn’t speak this to anyone but the air.
“I cannot understand Henry’s mind in dispensing with Wolsey, save that she has cursed him,” he said. “Wolsey was his link to the Church. How can Henry take the law into his own hands and dispense with the Church?”
He was becoming agitated, speaking. “I heard Anne gave him a copy of the Hutchins book. Filth! I have sent my own treatise on the subject to the king but received no word back. Perhaps the Boleyn witch got to it before he did and destroyed it. Dear God, save me! This evil woman may desire my death! I will fall under her curse unless You save me, unless I work against her. As long as she is near him, he cannot be made to see truth, for he is bewitched. She has to burn, or he will not be released.”
He stopped and looked up, past the girls, not seeing them, his eyes wild before they closed in prayer. “Oh, God, may this cup pass from me!”
Margaret heaved Rose’s mattress up on one side, peering beneath. Scowling, Margaret dropped the mattress back to the floor and walked to the door as Rose watched.
“Do not leave this room tonight. I will attend my father and return later.”
Rose sat on her mattress when Margaret was gone, not sure what to do, not even sure what to think. Sir Thomas said Anne had served sausage on Friday. Was Anne truly a reformer, or was she just provoking the faithful? Who could be trusted? A king with two women or a chancellor with two lives? Sir Thomas had as many secrets as any man she had met, yet he had a veneer of honour. Yes, he was honourable, was deeply good, and this is what comforted him as he did the bloody work. He was willing to educate girls but burned those who read the wrong book. He loved his queen, Catherine, and served the king who betrayed her. And the last secret, Rose knew, was what he kept in his heart for her—the thing that pushed him to punish himself each night with a whip and scourge.
The birds were loud tonight in the garden. One called above the others, a single voice piercing through the twitterings and wisps of songs. She listened to him, waiting for each new call, wondering what made him sing. A cool breeze caught her from the window and refreshed her. She had not realized how tired she was, how flushed and sweaty. She had needed this air.
Her gown was too hot and she couldn’t bear it touching her skin. The linen shift beneath it was damp and sticky, the bodice too tight for a good deep breath. Rose got up and fled the closed hot room. She would find comfort tonight in the garden, the buds and blooms that stayed constant whether storm or sun.
It was a child’s rain, soft and toying, tapping gently, unseen on her shoulders and the top of her head. Only a spider’s web caught the shimmering, winking little droplets, pinning them against the deep green leaves. The birds sang, but she couldn’t see them nestled in the trees and among the roses. There were no other noises, save for her footsteps as she moved between forgetful blossoms that gave no care to the wind’s sharp reminders. She stopped and sat on a bench, pinching and picking off the green lichen that grew and reminded her faintly of turnips.
She stayed until her damp shift was cold and a chill crept into her bones. The summer was almost past. Though flowers remained, and jasmine surrounded her as it crept over the walls, she knew the win
ter was creeping nearer. She didn’t want it to come. She didn’t trust it.
No lights were flickering in the windows above her. The children and servants must be in bed, she realized with a start. She had stayed too long. Margaret would be furious. Margaret was ready to throw her from the house, Rose knew, except that Rose could spill her secrets and bring shame to the family. Margaret wanted to keep a tight leash on her.
She crept past the torch at the garden gate and to the torch dancing in the breeze near the house door. She slipped off her pattens from her shoes so she would make no noise as she crept to her room. She entered the silent home and kept a hand along one wall as she moved, not waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Voices caught her attention and she slowed.
It was Sir Thomas; she could tell by his inflection and the deep bass of his voice. The servants had all been so nervous due to the whippings of prisoners at the gatehouse that their voices had grown higher lately. The other voice was softer, a woman’s voice.
Rose crept down the hall to his study and listened. Yes, it was Sir Thomas, and she thought the second voice was Margaret’s. To be sure, she crept closer and peered in through the door left cracked open for a breeze from the garden gate.
Margaret was lifting off a hair shirt from her father—a bristled, thick garment. Rose saw that Sir Thomas’s broad back was red with scratches and wounds. Margaret dabbed on an ointment from an amber-coloured glass jar. Sir Thomas groaned under his breath. The medicine smelled like lavender to Rose; its sharp scent flowed out to find her.
“Let me take this away,” Margaret said softly.
Sir Thomas shook his head.
“It has done its work,” she protested.
Sir Thomas shook his head.
Margaret picked up the shirt, lowering it over Sir Thomas’s head as he moved to put his arms through it. Rose could hear him suck wind through clenched teeth as it touched his skin. Next, Margaret lowered a linen shirt over his head and helped him into this.
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