Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel)

by Atkinson, Thea

  "Just thought I’d warn you." He shifted one leg over the other and lowered his voice. "And just in time it seems."

  Anne glanced in the direction George pointed at with his toe. She caught sight of a formidable looking man with greying hair and a frown that creased his forehead.

  "Ah. Here you are." Her father’s voice was unmistakable, even after these years. He hadn’t changed his looks much, hadn’t gained any weight. The most striking difference was that his raven black hair was now more the color of a dove’s, peppered with so much white it made the black look gray. But he had kept his strong physique and his stature. He retained his intimidating posture.

  "Father," she countered, and took his hand. His palm felt dry in her damp one. How odd that she felt guilty when she had done nothing. Yet terrible pressure sat in her chest, made her track through the memories of her days to see if anything shameful was there. Usually, she only felt this way at Mass—as if her soul was stained—but then she’d forgotten how often her father seemed like the judgmental Lord to her—mercifully forgotten.

  "I have longed to see you these years. Your letters were well written."

  She tried on a smile for him. She was conscious of George who sat still, his hands in his lap. "I had thought not to see you for years yet. The festival has provided me the chance to see my two men."

  Thomas abruptly released her hand and swiped his palm on his doublet. He took a seat beside George.

  "Did you tell your sister I sought her?"

  This could mean nothing good, if Thomas was set on accusing George already.

  Anne cut in and answered for her brother. "I planned to seek you after I broke my fast, Father."

  "I’ve been trying to gain you a place in Queen Catherine’s house, as a lady-in-waiting. What say you to that?"

  She'd be home. Home, close to Mary and George.

  "I’d say it would be wonderful, Father." She dared not speak of how it both thrilled and frightened her. France had become comfortable in these years, and though she’d be near family in England she worried whether she’d do well in a foreign court. She wasn't sure how many of the ways she'd cultivated would settle well within the Tudor court. Catherine’s imperial manner daunted Anne, made her nervous. Queen Claude at least, was young and timid and willing to befriend her ladies.

  Thomas chuckled, and in all the years Anne had spent away from him, she had never thought of his laughter. It sounded good and wholesome. Strange that she hadn’t allowed it to reside in her memories of him.

  "Then I hope I can gain you a place, Nan. You seem so taken by the thought." He turned to George and his face darkened suddenly.

  "You’ll be harder to place, for you’ve no true skill." He stroked his beard thoughtfully.

  George stood to face him, his voice beseeching, almost pining and Anne felt bad for him in the moment, knowing that tone would never gain him the respect he so wanted from Thomas.

  "I’ve many talents, Father. Why, I’ve learned French as well as some Latin. Anne has written to me these years and I’ve spent hours translating. I’m quite good at it now."

  "Then perhaps I can place you with the King himself." He turned to Anne, almost as though he hadn't inflected the sentence with sarcasm and hadn't noticed George’s fallen look.

  "Now, Nan. We should see about getting you back to your lady. I hope you don't leave your duties often."

  She shook her head unable to speak. She should have known she’d not escape guiltless.

  Chapter 6

  George sat, dug his heels into the brown earth. He watched Thomas steer Anne from the tent into the bright sunshine. His sister's hair came undone at her nape from a gust of wind and when she peered back that lock of hair caught in her lashes. She looked pitiful in the instant, with the shadows playing on her face and Thomas’ hand on her arm. She looked panicked. An absent hum took over his throat, a melody Anne had contrived years and years ago. It was a fanciful tune that, if truth be known, was about their father—but Anne would never admit it. George supposed he hummed because he thought of Thomas while he sat. He thought of how his father made his chest tighten and his throat dry.

  This time had been different, though. Perhaps it was the way Thomas degraded him in front of Anne. George wasn’t sure. But the one thing he knew was that suddenly he'd stood and defended himself. So strange it was too, to be admitting that he spent days translating a single paragraph from one of her letters. He’d not wanted anyone to know it took him that long, or that he was too ignorant to read it for himself. He’d never dared ask Thomas, though he knew his father would read it aloud to him in English.

  He kept each letter secret, fearing what Anne might have written, knowing Thomas would ask to read them if he knew. And when the letter would come he’d hoard it and stare at the pages, wondering what they contained. Down the stairs to the library he’d sneak, and steal one of his Father’s language books. It would rest beneath his mattress all the next day, waiting for the night when he’d open it by the light of a candle, and hunch over it at his desk well into the wee hours of the morning.

  He hadn’t wanted either of them to know these things, and so he merely mentioned that he’d worked at them, and learned skills that his father left to the slack schoolmaster.

  The guilt and shame didn’t have to interfere with his peace, he decided; rather, he'd cleanse his mind by watching the stragglers peter out, leaving only a few to sip at goblets or chew on hardened bread. Servants bustled about, clanging bells to scare dogs or swiping crumbs from the tables.

  He thought of his Anne. She was so full of energy, so eager to prove her worth. He saw how men followed her with their eyes; how women whispered as she went past. But that wasn’t all of Anne, not even a small portion. He thought briefly of how often she’d been easily moved to tears or laughter.

  While they’d been apart, he’d often remember her wide black eyes as they laughed or cried. Memories had been all he’d had of her after their separation. The actual flesh, now, brought it so clear. Knowing they’d separate at the end of thirty days and that memories would once again have to suffice, made him lonely. He shifted his feet, uncrossed them, and re-crossed them. The smell of damp earth and hay teased his senses, gave him an image of the two in early evening, enjoying one of their many childhood dusk picnics. The sounds of birds and the feel of the breeze filled the early eve.

  "Father loves you best, George." He recalled her saying. How small she looked standing beside a tree, becoming part of its shadow. He remembered rushing to her, holding her hands in his, not sure whether to deny it indignantly, or comfort the sprit that nagged her.

  "It’s not true, Nan. He loves you the more. You’ve his temper, his wit."

  She sighed, fell to the grass in a squat. "He’s proud he has a child so like him, for sure, but he wishes it were you."

  He sat with her. He could smell the strong aroma of wildflowers.

  His chest felt hollow. There was soreness in his spirit, that his father thought he showed no promise.

  He squeezed her hand. "All that Father meant was he’s disappointed in me—and proud of you. Sweet Jesu, would that it were different." He pulled her to her feet. "Now come along, we’ve time to play a game of chess before bed."

  In the dusk, he could see her smile, felt relieved.

  "Why don’t I beat you at soldiers instead?"

  He laughed. "Because you can’t. That’s a game I shall always win."

  In the banquet tent, amid the smells of grease and sounds of dogs, George grinned. It wasn't much longer after that night that she planned a coup of his bedroom, and had him yelping when she poured ice cold water onto his sleeping face. She was a tricky one, that. And she’d have taken over the house had Thomas not sent her away.

  Chapter 7

  Anne found the two Queens already at the tiltyard, the pale wheat colored hair of Claude close to that of Catherine’s shining auburn. Mary was there, gesturing for Anne to hurry to the seat she’d saved. She took it quick
ly. Ah, the smells of the field. She drew a deep breath. The scents of the various grasses and flowers mixed with the fragrances of many people. Even the faint aroma of perspiration did nothing to dampen her spirits. How she loved the colorful scene of crimson and greens against a backdrop of gold canvas and blue sky. She only wished she hadn’t decided to wear velvet; it attracted the heat as if it were a cast iron pot. Her head must have been in her pottage this morning.

  The English King had the field. Covered with armor and screaming like the legendary banshee, he also had the crowd. They hissed his opponent with vehement passion, and threw oranges into his path. Despite the distractions, Henry sat his horse with skill, tilted with ease. Anne watched as the horses rode hard toward each other, and in an instant swerved away by just inches. Grand Dieu, but he was good. Anne peeked at Catherine who sat stiffly in her seat.

  "How lucky Catherine is to have such a man for husband; kind, attractive, athletic." A large cheer went up from the crowd even as she spoke, followed by an equally loud hiss as Henry took a heavy blow.

  "Yet she seems to care not," Anne continued.

  Mary, who’d been busy craning her neck toward the field, followed her gaze.

  "It’s her way. She’ll no more show an emotion on her face than she’ll refuse to give alms. She's older than Henry, and more settled. Besides, she has the added burden of trying to provide the country with its heir."

  "I suppose there’s truth in that; I hear she’s lost too many babies to keep her youth. She looks positively ancient next to Queen Claude."

  Mary shrugged, obviously uninterested, then leaned in conspiratorially. "Yes, yes. Enough about Catherine. Let’s speak of the King."

  "The King?" Anne grew suspicious. "Which one?"

  Mary pouted, her pretty, winning pout that always meant sarcasm. "Henry, you fool. Do you think I’d choose to discuss Francois? That beast."

  Anne grinned her answer, biting her lip to keep control of her sarcasm. She knew Mary could speak of Francois far more intimately than any woman in England could.

  "Is he not handsome?" Mary grimaced as Henry’s opponent fell from his horse.

  "I suppose." Anne agreed. "But rather like a peacock. Why, he barely looks ruffled, even after his challenges. I can say naught as much for the Breton." She rose when she saw the Queens step down from their seats. Her skirt snared on a splinter of wood and she pulled at it crossly.

  "Shouldn't your concern be for our King?" Mary arranged her skirts and stepped from the platform onto dry sun-baked dirt.

  "Pourquoi?" Anne's eyebrows rose in pretended bewilderment. "Yours left the field untouched."

  "Because you're English, Anne. You should at least have cheered him on." Mary held out her hand to help support Anne's descent. The skirts really could be tricky to maneuver without getting them stained with mud and dung.

  "He didn't need it—it was obvious from the beginning that our side needed all the sympathy."

  "There you go again. 'Our side', is English, not French."

  "English, French... We're all the same in God's eyes. But if I choose to consider myself French, I shall."

  "I won't argue with you. You always get your way."

  Anne, her hopes blown of a promising debate, opted for an alternative topic.

  "About Henry, Mary..."

  "Oh, yes, I was about to tell you something." Mary lowered her voice as they left the field, walking arm in arm through the quickly dispersing crowd who seemed bent on hurrying to the wine-filled fountains. Anne suspected it would be more of how handsome Henry was, so allowed her attention to wander. She regretted it almost instantly when she caught the gist of what Mary was saying.

  "I beg your leave?" she asked, thinking she’d better hear it again to be sure.

  "Henry and I... we've been... well..." Mary's voice, even lower than the whisper Anne had nearly missed, revealed nothing, but alluded to something Mary felt no embarrassment over, and which uncharacteristically displayed discretion by its low tones. That meant just one thing to Anne.

  "Are you saying that you are Henry’s mistress?" She lowered her voice to a hoarse bark. The effort scratched her throat and made her cough.

  Mary nodded, smiling. "Yes." Her abrupt giggle reminded Anne of a young girl. "For about a month now."

  She pressed her lips close to Anne’s ear and her whisper was so hoarse with excitement, Anne almost pulled away. "There’s a secret passage between the temporary lodgings and the castle of Guisnes so he may take his reprieve of the festival—and gain some privacy."

  "And you... use it?"

  Mary’s bawdy smack and lifted brow gave Anne her answer. With a lick of her lip, she continued walking, pulling Anne along by the sleeve.

  Anne planted her feet in the grass.

  "Grand Dieu! You'd think you'd have learned your lesson by now."

  "It’s naught but a little fun." Mary pouted. This time the pout meant obstinacy.

  "The same fun you were expelled from France for," Anne countered quickly, trying her best to keep her footing against the rush of crowds.

  Mary’s brow lifted sarcastically.

  "Ah, so you’re on Marguerite’s side, are you?" She glared towards the French princess, rolled her eyes when they glanced back in Anne’s direction. "Ah, that high-born French pastry. Perhaps I should go over, Anne. Tell her of a few things that excite her brother, the King." Mary laughed suddenly, a high toned, zealous one, and Anne folded her arms across her stomach.

  "I wonder if she’d like to know how he enjoyed watching me with his friends... or perhaps she’d try to expel him from France as well."

  "No doubt it was your persuasion that lured him into those liaisons. After all, he is like a saint."

  Mary made a face.

  "Perhaps to Satan he is." She harrumphed. "But if Marguerite chooses to believe that demon spawn is godly, then so be it. I can barely wait to see her face on Judgment Day, when his activities are made known to the lowest commoner. Hah! How fare you there?"

  Anne shrugged her shoulders deferentially. "I received a gown from his grace... I even wore it to the last dance." She laughed suddenly, loudly. "When he came ’round to ask how I liked it, I told him it made my legs itch—that the last woman he gave it to must have had lice in her nether hair. Whew! Such a face he made."

  A spray of red wine flew from Mary’s mouth, landed on the grass. "Good Lord! He must have been clenching his thin lip with those ratty teeth of his."

  "Mais non, my dear Mary, not at all" Anne teased. "Oh, his face paled to white for a moment, but when I grinned at him, he took to laughing. You know how bawdy a sense of humor he has."

  "Indeed," Mary remarked, her attention already wavering to a conversation nearby where one of the other ladies had begun oohing and ahhing over King Henry. She looked angry and her posture went rigid. Anne touched her shoulder to distract her.

  "And what of Catherine, have you not any pity for her whilst you bed her husband?"

  Mary shrugged. "If not me, then he’d find another. The Queen has learned to accept it. The love he bore her once is long gone. He’s told me so. And the strain of trying to secure the throne has dulled any remaining affection."

  "Have you ever thought that perhaps his affection is dulled because he has a young spirited mistress to sway his conscience?"

  "Truly, Anne, his affection or lack of it for Catherine doesn't matter. I’m not a jealous lover who believes I have a right to his mind and body. I enjoy him when he’s with me, and I know he can make me a match when he tires of me. And maybe then Father will see I’m not a fool."

  Mary turned away suddenly. "But let's forget this for now," she said acting as though they had spoken of nothing but the weather. "His Grace draws near."

  Anne watched Henry come closer, accompanied by the packs of gentlemen who pandered to their King. She wondered how Catherine lived with the agony of knowing she failed her King and country, and she pitied her. As Henry came closer still, his eyes full of hunger as he capture
d Mary's, the musings seeded a thought—it was no wonder Catherine couldn't get with child, her husband was spending his inheritance elsewhere.

  "Good afternoon, my lady." Henry said when he drew near.

  His hair looked a dark red, wet as it was with sweat, and his blue eyes were round and bright with merriment. He had discarded his armor, in favor of a light doublet of tissue cloth. Anne hadn’t expected to be so taken by him. He had a feminine handsomeness, true, but he carried it well. His russet blond hair was cut into the French fashion and framed his cherub face. His lithe frame tapered to well-muscled legs with calves larger than any man's she’d seen.

  At once, she resented Mary's paleness, and her own darkness. Suddenly her sister, giddy, discretionless Mary, became the most beautiful woman on the field. Henry stared at her face as if it would be the last and only face he’d ever see. His body screamed that it wanted to touch her. Such a pleasure must come from that look; such a longing must accompany it. They both curtsied low, and as Henry raised them, Anne tried desperately to keep a crazy smile from her face. Images of this fair, solid man with her tiny sister kept creeping to her mind and for some odd reason, the thought of it thrilled her. She envisioned him with face flushed, whispering of things she’d yet to experience.

  "Your Grace." Mary smiled prettily. "Have you met my younger sister, Anne?"

  Thankfully, Anne had reason to curtsey again, and lower her face to hide the smile. As the King took her hand, she squelched the grin, concentrating on beguiling him as she would any courtier.

  "My lady," he said blandly, then turned his gaze back to Mary.

  He may well be the English King, but that couldn’t excuse his rudeness. In French court, a lady’s advances were met with equal fervor, not this cool detachment. Anne expected a polite acknowledgment at the very least. Instead of walking away, which she wanted to do, she returned an equally cool, "Your Grace."