He shrugged. "What have you to lose? Do you think I spend my time doing this because I enjoy the night air?"
All through the night Anne prayed with him. He hugged her close occasionally, when she took to weeping. The night passed slowly. The rise and fall of chants from outside broke her concentration now and then, so she was grateful for his company. By morning, Anne wanted only to have it all finished. She’d tired of gods and grief. She’d exhausted her will to live.
"Lady Kingston, could you summon your husband for me?" she asked.
It took only moments for the jailer to appear.
"I should like you and my ladies to witness my communion, if you would. It is important to me that someone speaks of it when I’m gone. And this kind soul you so benevolently found for me, will be hindered by his order from doing so."
Kingston nodded gravely, his eyes dark and veiled. Ignoring what she thought might be flitting through her jailer’s mind, she knelt before the red-eyed almoner who waited patiently with the items of communion. He looked tired, as tired as Anne felt, and she smiled at him before she bowed her head.
"I am innocent," she swore, before his offering could touch her tongue. "I am innocent," she swore again, after she had swallowed the bread. When she rose, she noticed Kingston’s eyes clouded like the churned sea. It warmed her heart that her communion could so strike him. She knew well he admired her bravery for this act; had counted on it. She would die, true. But he would tell all of her last hours—if a woman could swear while taking the holy body into her mouth just before her death, then innocent she had to be.
He left in a hurry.
She began to lay out her clothes with great care. Henry had sent a messenger asking if she would prefer different women to aid her. Of course she did and replied so. Her favorites: her sister, sister-in-law, and dear Nan were dispatched to her, and as Kingston let them in, he addressed her with some alacrity,
"The matter is postponed, my lady, ’til this afternoon."
She ignored George’s wife, Jayne, for a moment, glanced quickly to her sister who had been let in with her along with Nan Gainesford.
"Postponed?" Had Mary known of this? "But I had thought to die before noon... and be past my pain."
"There will be no pain, my lady. It is so subtle." His voice was quiet, and just as quietly, he closed the door.
She embraced her sister. "Mary, has Henry changed his mind?"
Mary’s amber locks shone faintly in the dull light as she moved to hug Anne. "I don't know. But if so, I only wish it had been yesterday."
Anne buried her face into the soft flesh of Mary’s neck.
Chapter 3
Nan knelt with Mary beside the bed, praying. Now and again, one would begin weeping, and the other would lay an arm across her shoulder, squeeze tightly. Anne found she couldn’t pray. Her mind was so preoccupied with thoughts that meant nothing, she couldn’t maintain a still enough mind to keep a good prayer going. Instead she had begun composing little songs in her mind, with tunes and bridges and melodies, all to ward off those little annoying thoughts that kept stealing in.
Things like: where was Henry this hour? Did he sup with Jane, laughing into her eyes with his own, as he had done a thousand times with herself? Was he at the Royal Chapel, praying for forgiveness for what he’d done? Or was he laying abed grinning from ear to ear, content that his conscience was correct and that justice was being served. She hated these thoughts and yet, in they came, creeping into her consciousness like a beetle creeping from a wall to a plate of food. Jayne, however, sat in the corner reading. She said nothing, nor did she pray. Anne pitied her more than she pitied herself, for she knew the woman was silent for the grief and guilt. She let Jayne be.
For most of the day, Anne said nothing, merely paced or stared or read. She knew her silence made her friends uneasy, and yet, she could do nothing to avert it.
"Please, Anne, say something," her sister said once, her eyes the color of cool ale.
"I’ve naught to say. I wish it were other," she answered, and Mary began to weep.
Nan came forward and enclosed Mary in her arms, something Anne hadn’t thought to do. "Come now, Mary. Anne has enough worry. Hold yerself, girl."
"I can't help it. First George, now Anne. I think I’ll never bear it." She stood stock still, stared intently into Anne’s eyes. For a moment, Anne thought she stared into those of her brother.
For the first time, Jayne made a sound, a tiny exhale of a sob that made Anne realize she was still there.
"He died well," was all Anne could think to say to her sister-in-law.
"I didn't mean to send him to his death." Jayne responded.
Anne took her hand. "I know, and I suppose he knew it as well."
"No. I think he imagined I hated him, and wanted to do him ill."
"What makes you say such a terrible thing?"
"Because of the way he looked at me. Because of the sound of his voice when he spoke of me to the court. You weren’t there, Anne. I could tell he loathed me in that instant, and I’d do anything not to have betrayed him. But it is too late now. Way too late, and my only love is gone."
Anne grieved for her brother too painfully to think of comforting words. She only knew that George had been a kind man all his life, putting the thoughts and feelings of others before his own. She guessed he’d not have changed because his wife was afraid for her life.
"Mais non, Jayne. George may have been angry in the moment, but he could never hold hatred in his heart. He’s past pain or caring, and you must live on. Know only that your part was a small one, and forgive yourself, as God forgives you."
When her sister-in-law turned back to the window, Anne left to return to her own thoughts. She fiddled with the curtain at the window. She may have stayed there for hours, and indeed, believed time had ceased to march. It was later in the day, seemingly moments past her last conversation, that Anne heard a staccato knock.
Her chest refused to inhale. Surely, it was time. Kingston opened the door
"You shall not die before the morrow." He sighed heavily as she studied him, and she knew he sighed for her welfare. The agony of waiting was like being burned to death. She turned to her ladies who were gathered in a circle praying quietly.
"This can only mean good news." She hated hearing the hope in her voice.
Mary shook her head. "I fear not. The crowd outside is calling for justice. Cromwell and the King fear what you might say to incite their rioting. I’ve heard the delays are in hopes they will all go home."
The hope died.
Anne prayed again during the evening and all through the night. Her ladies slept off and on, but Anne knew no fatigue. Sleep would come when peace did. She used the cool night air to spur wakefulness and that waking time to pen a long letter to Elizabeth. In it she explained her paranoia, her utter terror of the last year. She named the brothers and sisters Elizabeth could never know, told of how it ate at her soul that she failed to provide them their lives.
And when she had purged her guilt, Anne ended the letter, "always know I loved you. May God keep you long enough to read these thoughts and longer." Anne signed it simply, "Anne Boleyn. Sister, Mother, Queen." Then she stuffed it in Mary’s chest of clothes with a note to keep it safe.
Just before eight in the morning, Lord Kingston came for her. "The matter will be attended to in short order," he said and waited quietly beside the door.
Anne could swear she tasted the blood from her own heart and swallowed with great difficulty. She shunned the clothes she had selected before—they were all wrong now. Mary laid out all of her favorite gowns. Tissue cloth: too light for such a sober occasion. Green velvet: too festive. Cloth-of-gold: definitely out of the question.
In the end, she chose a gray damask gown mantled by ermine. But beneath she selected a crimson kirtle—for what reason she couldn’t fathom—but it seemed right that with each step to the scaffold, a glance of red should be seen. It made her smile each time she though
t of it, and she wasn’t sure if she smiled because it was a perverse joke—the kind she always liked—or if she was indeed going mad.
She had Mary put her up hair in a light coif, held by a spidery net so her thick tresses wouldn't hinder the strike. For shoes, she chose her oldest pair of satin slippers. It wouldn't do to have her toes pinched—her legs would be trembling enough to take all of her concentration.
When the time came, she felt oddly calm. Kingston led the way. Mary held tight to her arm as she walked down the cold hallway. The other two flanked her, carrying her bible and a large heavy cloth to cover her body when it was done. But when she gained the open air, she shrugged off their holds and quickened her pace so she would be ahead of them—she wanted to go unassisted, supported only by God. The sun nearly blinded her as she stepped from the tower, and with the light came a thousand memories.
Chapter 4
June, 1520: Field of Cloth-of-Gold
It wasn’t even noon, and yet Anne knew she was going to die. She pursed her lips in annoyance. Too bad that death wouldn’t come from a quick, painless blow. Instead she feared it would be brought on by slow irritation. She stood in the middle of the French plain where people milled about like ants intent on scavenging from the festival whatever they could from wherever they could. Oh, she had been excited to attend, but after only one day, she was already exhausted. Here, a circle of ladies dressed too heavily sent their sweaty stench to her nose with each movement they made. There, stood a group of men intent on finding sexual quarry, grabbing the arm of any woman unfortunate enough to pass by. And everywhere cloth-of-gold shimmered, reminding all who attended that the French and English kings were present somewhere. It had everyone trampling through manure piles in a frenzy to sight them.
A drunkard got in Anne’s way again and stomped on her foot. She glared at him.
"I’ll thank you to keep your weight to yourself."
He gave her a leering, lopsided smile, gained his feet and plunged awkwardly back at her. In seconds he had both grimy hands planted on each of her breasts, his sour breath full in her face. "Awright, mistress."
His companions guffawed and cheered him on.
She plucked at his fingers. "If I were your mistress I’d have both your hands lopped off while you slept."
She gave him another shove and turned away with a sigh. Always it had been this way. She drew attention whether she wanted it or not. Her voice, which her brother told her was the low and throaty kind of tone that he said men loved, and she'd begun to believe it in these last years. Her old friend Thomas Wyatt told her that her black eyes flashed like mica stones, that her elegant neck allowed her great grace in the dance. Pah, comment they would, and admire they could, but it was her dusky complexion that had gained her the most notoriety for all that. That horrible quality had all the ladies of court heckling her behind her back.
On the rare occasion anyone mentioned it in her company, Anne throttled them as fiercely as she could verbally; knowing that her ‘could’ was a good deal better than most of Francis’ soldiers. Thankfully her gift for languages, meant that "coarse" was just another mother tongue. Anne used it as often as any other.
She'd overheard enough lewd comments in French court. Dark women were enchantresses, meant to pleasure and be pleasured. More often than not, she kept busy romancing them with a sharp-edged tongue while she grappled with their hands. It could be exhausting. It could also be exciting. But it worsened the way she was treated by the women, and she spent nights chewing over the problem.
The only person who truly understood her was George. That younger brother so dear she thought of him with every passing day. He was the other part of her, the sane, tender portion that should have tempered her character but was born two years later. She thought of how as children they had held hands at early morning services, whispered into each other's ear while the priest droned on and on. She remembered how they would curl together in bed beneath heaps of quilts to warm themselves against the cold of Hever Castle.
Anne tucked her hair behind her ear. She missed George more than he knew. These seven years had been torturous. The channel between France and England might as well have been an ocean. But this festival overcame that hurdle. For thirty entire days England and France would be here on French soil celebrating the peacekeeping mission of their kings. And Anne could be with George. If only she could find him.
Besides the crowds, she had to contend with the hundreds of tents that hunkered at the perimeter of the field. Many were ragged tents of commoners. Some however, belonged to those nobles who forgot to reserve space in their monarch’s household. No matter the rank, they blocked out most of her view. She hurried across the field, dodging people here and there as they set off to whatever entertainment they’d decided on. She ignored the sounds of horse hooves as they thundered on the wind. Trumpets sounded as if the Almighty had finally decided on his Second Coming.
Then she caught sight of him. George, unchanged since childhood with the casual way he stood, lean arms always moving; rush-brown hair unkempt even against attempts to tame it. George, all but hidden from view by three sultry servant girls who huddled around him near the entrance to the banquet tent. Their hair swept behind them like lace doilies against the canvas. There was a richness about them, a pink quality that made them look like delicious treats. Full, welt-red mouths kissed his cheeks and laughed wide-open laughter. But next to him they may as well have been rag dolls.
Anne stomped over, shouldering her way through the crowds, feeling oddly betrayed.
Chapter 5
The clear sunlight warmed the air the way it can do only in June, wrapping itself around bare, long-darkened tree limbs and tender shoots of grass, chasing away early morning shadows. Anne’s own sun at the moment ignored her in favor of his trio of amusements. She pulled at George’s sleeve.
"Let’s go inside."
The thin black tissue cloth refused to give in.
"Please, George, the wind. It’s blowing dust in my eyes."
When she thought he’d refuse, his arm rested steady on her shoulder like it did when they were kids and he wanted her to take the blame for a broken pottle. She turned her back to the women and ignored their dry hisses of irritation. When George reached around her to soothe their hurt feelings, she stomped on his toe. He jumped.
"Demon."
"Oui, and you’d recognize the devil if you saw him."
"Her, you mean." He grinned.
"Ah, ah, you know what they say of those who keep company with the devil." Anne flicked the tip of his tanned nose with her finger.
"Yes, they look like saints compared." He flung his arm around her neck, pulled her next to him as they strolled, comrades. She caught the strong familiar scent of lavender and brother. She wanted to pull him away, take him somewhere they could be alone, if only for a few moments, to recapture a sense of childhood. It had been so safe, that childhood. So happy.
"Please, let’s go inside. I can't stand the dust."
He smiled. "It should die out soon; been blowing since early."
"I certainly hope so, it makes me think of Judgment day—and I haven’t been to confession in a fortnight."
As her much-talked-about elegant neck was being tugged upon, Anne couldn’t help but follow him inside. They found a seat at a table near the middle of the tent where the howls of wind dissipated to mere puffs and the dogs fought each other for table scraps.
He stretched a lean hand to implore a hound. Scratching behind the dog’s ears, he watched Anne’s face intently.
"And what have you to confess?"
"Plenty. Queen Claude’s house might be pious, but Francois does what he can to ensure her ladies are not."
She reached out so the dog could lick her fingers. Breakfast stragglers socialized over goblets of cider. Tent edges rose here and there like rippling waves as the wind blew and let go.
"And have you encouraged him?"
"I think not!"
George po
ked her arm. "You’re much too passionate in your ‘cannot’, I think."
She harrumphed. "Now you sound like His Grace, himself. He’s unattractive and coarse; his only charm would be his wealth and position."
A well-arched brow rose in mockery. "Ah, and that’s not enough then?"
She slapped his shoulder. "It must be... he has women at his every call. At this moment he has three official mistresses, all very tall, very large brunettes. And last night at dinner he found himself another."
"Yes, Anne Brown, I believe. She’s very attractive." A servant girl with large breasts plunked a pewter goblet in front of him.
"I find it strange that you think so. Most of Les Anglaise prefer blondes." Anne watched the girl inhale deeply and smooth her skirts, then saunter away with an undulating sway.
"Blondes are too highly sought, I think. I prefer raven-haired ladies to pallid." His eyes never left the young girl’s hips and Anne doubted he noticed her hair color.
"Have you seen Father?" he asked.
Such a terrible intrusion, mention of Thomas was. Her stomach churned and flopped over on itself. A servant rushed past, clanging a bell to chase a hound from a nearby table. She shook her head, had to speak louder to be heard over the barking.
"No. Does he seek me?"
"He has since he heard of Queen Claude’s arrival. I thought he’d find you at the dance last eve."
"I didn't attend. Her Grace felt ill so I stayed with her. The babe she carries makes its wishes known most heartily. What does Father want?" Anne's hand strayed to her belly, reasoning that just because Thomas was looking for her didn’t have to mean she was in trouble.
"Only to remind you of your duty, I suppose. He knows you’ve been spending time with Mary."
"He still hasn’t forgiven her?" Anne could well believe that Thomas still held a grudge against his eldest daughter.
George shook his head.
"Damn," she said. "I knew it."
A wayward toddler with ash colored hair tripped over the prone hound. The boy fell splayed to the dirt. In an instant, George had the boy’s tears dried and a goblet—his own goblet—of cider shoved in his grubby hands. The child ran off, golden juice sloshing everywhere from the rim as he went. George again turned his attention to Anne.
Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) Page 2
