In the Shadow of Lions

by Ginger Garrett

  The sun had risen about an hour before, when her cell door opened. Her maids had just finished dressing her in a black robe, with a white ermine draped across her shoulders. She stroked the soft fur, a new pelt that still had the stench of the tannery.

  Her Yeoman stood behind the constable of the Tower. She saw him as if in a dream, a beautiful dream.

  She drank in the flecked colour of the stone walls, and the morning air that has just been touched by the sun. It had been a beautiful world. She did not know what the next would be like.

  “It is ecstasy,” her Yeoman said, his face still straight ahead, holding her arm as she was led down the winding stone steps, the little crooked staircases with steps so narrow that it took great concentration to make her way down. Her billowing skirt meant she couldn’t see her feet; she was relying totally on him.

  She knew that voice.

  She stopped cold on the stairs, and he turned to her. She saw his eyes were enormous gold orbs with pinpoint black irises. He had eyes like the lion she had seen in the royal menagerie. She had stared at the beast when he was brought forth; she had been sad to see such majesty paraded for amusement and doomed to die alone, far from the plains that birthed him.

  She realized her Yeoman’s steps made no noise, though hers went clack-clack against the stones.

  “No one dies alone, Anne,” he said. “How I have loved you and walked with you through all your days.” His face shimmered, little muscles in his face rippling. She saw tears spilling out of the corners of his eyes. “Do you remember when you were born, and they were rubbing you down with wine, how your eyes met mine for the first time and you grew so still, so serious, that it made me laugh?”

  “I am sorry. I do not remember this day.”

  “These first years, they are God’s gift to us. We do not have to shadow ourselves near our children. We take such delight in those days. But you do not remember.”

  He stopped, his face composing itself into a serene expression, the tears evaporating from his cheeks. She watched him as he turned to shadow at the edges. He leaned down and kissed her on her forehead, inhaling her perfume with a heavy sigh.

  “My time of service to you has ended. One greater than I has come to walk with you.”

  They exited the stairwell into the Tower Green. The block was in sight, a platform raised by only four wide steps. That comforted her somehow; she would not be raised so high as to be an even greater spectacle. Her executioner was there—a thin, stringy man, undeniably French, with a waxen face and obvious impatience to collect his fee. He had been hired, she knew, as a sign of Henry’s gracious nature, for his aim was said to be perfect. Few of his victims had needed more than one stroke.

  “Why did George confess?” She blurted, afraid her Yeoman would leave, wanting the answer, wanting to keep him here. “I would have protected him to the end.”

  The Yeoman did not reply, and Anne was terrified of the silence.

  “I knew he desired men more than women,” she said. “But I kept this shame between us, for the sake of our name. Now we both die in dishonour.”

  “Shh. He thought it would prove your innocence. He did not see they were infected with the madness of the age. No truth could be spoken to them.”

  Anne began to cry, and he reached out and caught the tears. “This is the end of sorrow, Anne.”

  “This is not what I wanted. Known as a whore and a witch … endless amusement for idle women. I sought to serve God.”

  “You did. And your name has always been secure in His presence. He has given you a new name, sacred to Him. You are His beloved daughter.”

  “I am afraid,” she whispered.

  “When you lay your head on the block, you will feel someone lay across you, His arms over yours, His neck across your own. The blade will pass through Him first, and you will be free. Do you understand?”

  “Will I see you again?” she asked.

  “I must walk many days upon this earth before we are together again. Elizabeth will be loved. I will never leave her side.”

  He bowed as the sheriff took hold of her.

  Henry betrothed himself to Jane the next day.

  The gardens at Hampton Court, indeed, the flowers of all of England, were blooming, new life springing up, the dead blossoms trampled underfoot making the soil rich and fertile. Henry entered into this new union full of hope and eagerness. The people of the realm had no idea that he had unleashed a thousand stinging serpents among them. Suffering was his lasting heir; it claimed his crown and carried his name into all future generations.

  Thousands would die under his reign. Jane would die giving him the heir he so longed for. The child, Edward, was not long lived.

  Soon England would send her exiles to a new land called America, and King James would authorize a Bible that pleased the crown and could be presented to the people. He would borrow heavily from the Bible first translated by William Hutchins, also known as William Tyndale. It was this book, the infamous Hutchins Bible, which set all of Europe on fire.

  Elizabeth would eventually take the throne and become of the most beloved monarchs in the world.

  She was never alone.

  Chapter Thirty

  “But what about Rose?” I asked.

  The Scribe ran his hands over the words, each glowing like a red coal upon the paper. “It is too much for you,” he replied.

  “What? Tell me!”

  “And if I do, if it breaks your heart, what will you do? You’re going to die in a few minutes.”

  “Tell me.”

  He waved his hand over the words, and I saw again, but this time, there was much mist between the vision and my sight.

  “Tell me what you see,” he said.

  “I see an old woman. I think she’s blind—her eyes are milky white. She has a book, and it’s open in her lap. It’s the Hutchins book. Her fingers are running down the page, and her lips are moving, as if she was reading.”

  “You see her.”

  “There is someone else there, a younger woman. She is afraid.”

  “Yes.”

  “There is water near them—I hear it. And I taste salt … it’s the ocean. It’s all around them. I think they’re on a boat. There’s a storm. The younger woman is crying. She is afraid of this journey.”

  He smiled at me; I could feel it.

  “Look closer,” he commanded.

  I closed my eyes and strained to see. Suddenly I saw the women again, but they were surrounded by lights. My vision carried me above them, above the ship, breaking through the whipping winds and lightning, seeing lights all around it, lights leading in a straight path across the ocean. I saw arms outstretched each to the other, the current turning and obeying their path.

  I began to cry, which surprised me.

  “They’re angels,” I whispered. “They’re guiding the ship. To America. They want to get the Hutchins book there. It wants to go. It’s alive.”

  I sat back, sensing the book breathing, looking at me.

  The vision ended.

  I sat, letting the tears cool on my cheek. The only noise in the room was from my breath, but it became small shallow gasps, each breath a jerk in my chest, each breath less than before.

  A noise was at the door, like a thousand claws drumming on a table.

  He rose and held out his hand for the computer. “It is time. They’re waiting.”

  “Oh, please, God.” I fought for a breath and the words to pray. “I don’t want to die! I shouldn’t die—I had another chance!”

  “But your work is finished. You are not mine,” the Scribe answered.

  “Rose, she had a daughter, didn’t she? And that daughter was in my line—that’s why you showed me the vision. That’s why you chose me. But I don’t know what you wanted from me. There was more than just the story, wasn’t there? I sat through all these pages, but there is something more, isn’t there?”

  I flopped back against the pillow, choking from the exertion, struggling
to pull a free breath in.

  He said nothing, but his arm moved to take the computer from me.

  I shook my head, closing the laptop and hugging it to myself. “Let me at least get this to someone.”

  He shook his head. “She’ll find it.”

  I knew who he meant: Mariskka.

  “This is my story!” I said. “She won’t know what to do with it. She doesn’t deserve it.”

  That made him smile. “Oh, but she does. She deserves it more than anyone.”

  He put his glasses back on and turned to his open book lying on the table next to him. He reached to shut it, and the words grew faint, my life slipping away with them. The words swirled, like a whirlpool, growing dim as they were pulled back into the book. My spirit was leaving with them. The claws grew louder. I could hear wet smacking.

  A sword rammed from the air, pinning the pages open. The Scribe jumped back, scowling, as another thing became visible to me. It was unlike anything I had seen, perhaps something I remembered from a childhood tale, when I was not afraid to believe. He was formed in the image of a man, but much larger, with wild yellow hair that parted around the wings of an eagle, muscles pumping and twitching in them, making him shimmer so brightly that I winced. The fluorescent bulbs overhead burst with a pop, flakes of milky glass showering us all as the Scribe and the being stared at each other without blinking.

  “You will not shut the book,” the gold-haired man said. His had the same gold eyes, with tiny black irises, and when his mouth moved, I could see canine teeth, huge incisors the size of my thumb.

  “Aryeh,” I whispered.

  “It is her time,” the Scribe said.

  Aryeh held the sword on the book, and the words swarmed all around it like ants. He flexed his arm and drove it in deeper.

  “One question and then she dies,” Aryeh said.

  The Scribe nodded an agreement.

  “What is the truth?” Aryeh asked me.

  The visions poured out from the book, from all around the sword, the voices and cries and stories. Some were weeping, and some were singing, but all repeated only one Name, as if it was the only language of this next world. My flesh recoiled. I did not want this; I did not want to be one of the voices singing. I had never wanted to be one of them.

  I heard the nails again, and something wet dripped on my shoulder. Only these things did not chant the Name.

  I drew my last breath, heard it wheezing into my tattered lungs, and with these last words, my spirit pushing its way out with them. “Those words are the truth. Hutchins was trying to save us all. I have betrayed my mothers. Oh, Jesus, forgive me!”

  Aryeh lifted his sword as he swung a hand to me, screaming, “Take my hand!”

  It is hard to describe what happened next, as time both stopped forever—and began again for me.

  The door burst open, and I heard the nails moving across the floor, devouring whatever was left in my body, screaming in fury that the spirit-marrow was stolen from them. They could still taste it. I pressed my face into Aryeh’s chest, breathing in the warm fragrance of peace.

  I saw the book close.

  My story was ended.

  Scion Publishing

  New York, New York

  “Amazing, really.”

  He poured a brandy from a crystal decanter. Mariskka loved that; she had only seen it in the movies. He was a classy man, she could tell.

  The woman at his right nodded vigorously. She did that a lot.

  “My imagination could run away with me on those night shifts.” Mariskka giggled.

  “We’ve already had one preempt for the movie rights. This is going to do very well,” the woman said.

  “Yes, Mariskka,” he said, cradling the glass as he walked it to her. He handed it to her and she took a little sip, careful not to breathe in the fumes. She usually drank beer.

  “I’ve never met a first-time novelist who created such a rich, fascinating story. You’re going to be very famous, and very rich. How does that feel?”

  She smiled and shrugged, remembering how she used to charm her teachers in school, remembering how none of them ever caught on. “I can’t take credit for the book. It’s a gift from God.”

  She set the glass down on the table between them, the table littered with papers she had signed. The early reviews of the book had been raving and plentiful. Marisska saw how the Rolex sparkled on her tanned wrist.

  When the woman stared at it, Mariskka realized she was lusting for it. She had never caused envy before. It felt wonderful.

  “A little something to celebrate your first book?” the woman asked.

  “Oh.” Mariskka smiled. “Let’s just say … I couldn’t resist.”

  Epilogue

  William Hutchins was a pseudonym used by William Tyndale, the man who translated the New Testament for the first time into English from the original texts. He used the name William Hutchins to prevent authorities from tracing the book back to him and his printer.

  The furor this book caused, the outrage over giving sacred Scriptures to common men and women, launched the Reformation and birthed modern women’s literacy. For his work, William Tyndale was strangled and then burned at the stake.

  Today the average American family owns four Bibles and has read none of them.

  … a little more …

  When a delightful concert comes to an end,

  the orchestra might offer an encore.

  When a fine meal comes to an end,

  it’s always nice to savor a bit of dessert.

  When a great story comes to an end,

  we think you may want to linger.

  And so, we offer ...

  AfterWords—just a little something more after you

  have finished a David C Cook novel.

  We invite you to stay awhile in the story.

  Thanks for reading!

  Turn the page for ...

  • Author’s Notes on the Story

  • Personal Note to Readers

  • Notes

  • Bibliography

  • Discussion Questions

  Author’s Notes on the Story

  The main events in this novel took place in and around London in the years 1526 to 1536. Wherever possible, I have kept original names and dialogue, and the sequence of events. However, for my own purposes, I have condensed these events down to the space of one year, so that all our energies may move to the heart of this story.

  Some exact dates from the story are unknown. These include the date Henry met Anne, the indulgence sold in advance for the beating the priest would receive later, and Henry’s “pilgrimage” to the church on his knees. Who stole Henry’s love letters to Anne is not known; but they were indeed stolen and today are kept at the Vatican as the property of the Catholic Church.

  By the time our story opens, Luther had nailed his 95 Theses to the church door and begun the Reformation in Germany. Hutchins had already dedicated himself to translating the Bible into English, although it set him against monarchs, emperors, popes, and nobles. He lived and died an outcast.

  I worried the least about keeping an accurate timeline for Hutchins—because there isn’t one. A hunted man who never allowed his portrait to be made for fear it would be used by heretic-hunters to identify him, no one knows how Hutchins lived. We know only how he died. His movements across Europe, while both Church and State were seeding the land with spies to catch him, remain a mystery to scholars. Through records, we see only brief glimpses of him at work.

  One worry that did stay with me during the writing of the novel was that Anne Boleyn’s story has become so familiar to so many readers. What encouraged me to push through, however, was all the research that told me the other versions had her quite wrong. They paint her as a scheming seductress, a master manipulator. She was an enemy of the religious establishment, remember, and her enemies had every reason to ruin her reputation. Today, we still teach history by casting her as a villain. But her crime, as they put it, was �
��manipulating” Henry by refusing to sleep with him until she was his wife. This proved, they say, that she was scheming for the crown. I say it doesn’t. I say it just might prove she took her Christianity more seriously than anyone else in that age. If you know the least bit about Christianity, you know that chastity before marriage is an obligation to God.

  When a young, alluring woman steals the king’s heart, remains pure, and encourages common people to read the Bible, it was a threat to the established powers. Anne Boleyn challenged authority morally, politically, and spiritually.

  What if modern historians and storytellers have accepted the lies her enemies circulated about her? What if Anne Boleyn is actually one of the greatest Christian martyrs ever to have lived? Tyndale certainly thought she was a friend of Christ. I hope we never cast dirt on her name again, and always remember it was her life and death that brought us closer to the right to own a Bible.

  Finally, one secret to writing historical fiction is to choose your sources wisely—and judge all else by them. Doing research on the Internet is an unsteady business. Not everyone online is required to fact-check or cross-reference anything they write, and I’ve read accounts of Anne, Henry, and More that were wrong. I decided to use as my primary sources the books listed in my Bibliography. Of course, there were many others that I consulted, but these few provided the most solid research.

  I checked everything against these scholars’ opinions. It doesn’t mean I agree with them, or accept their conclusions, including their dating of events. In fact, to read this selection of books is to get wildly different judgments of each person. But each of these books was invaluable to me.

  Another resource was the writing of each character. Sir Thomas More left an extensive collection of work for us, some of which is deeply troubling, and some of which reminds us he was a nobleman in certain respects. I admire More, yet also remain aghast at his frightening hatred of the movement that came to be called the Reformation. I created him, in part, by incorporating some of the troubling thoughts his works raised to me. The assertion that he was responsible for Tyndale’s death is not a new one. In fact, it was put forth brilliantly in the book God’s Bestseller by Brian Moynahan. Finally, Henry’s letters to Anne are authentic, edited in the book a bit for clarity. Anne’s letter in reply to Henry is a work of fiction.