A strange elation mixed with the dread of going to England. Anne hadn’t called England home in more than seven years, but it was definitely the home of the Boleyns and with that home came George. She squirmed in her chair.
"But what else? You said Henry requests all his subjects."
"Yes," Francois’ sister lowered her gaze. "There are rumors of war."
Chapter 10
Anne returned to her homeland in early 1521, a woman grown, with appetites and needs much different from the girl who left it. Now she realized the absolute driving force of passion. The girl who had left knew nothing of conversation, or fashion, or even how to tease a courtier without infuriating him. Base things really, things she had learned abroad with archduchesses, and kings, and lowly serving gentlemen who stared at her as if she were a jewel. She learned such lessons as sharpening her wit on ladies who cared nothing of intelligent conversation and allowed barbs to strike home with little resistance.
France had given her life abundantly, it had shown her the carnal pleasures of beauty and passion. How could England compare, when the girl who left it returned wiser, more knowing, At times she thought of Marguerite, missed her hoarse voice and dry humor. But she’d plenty to keep her mind working, and the extra pleasure of seeing her brother nearly everyday helped immensely.
He’d married after the festival, and now the woman who was his wife argued that he spent too much time with his sister. Drat, but she was a chit. A girl who didn’t love her husband, but who droned on and on about how he should stay at home, watching her sew or stoke the fire.
George never once complained about her. Instead he pursed his lips together quietly, and changed the subject whenever Anne brought it up. He went home each night with a heavy step, but returned the next day with a bounce in it. Anne wasn’t sure if he was excited to get away, or if his wife indeed kept him happy when he was home. Whatever it was, she decided George would keep his counsel, and harbour his wife’s feelings, never doing anything to make the young girl unhappy.
As for her Father, he visited her every other day, his wide mouth grim and commanding. He would report the latest news of her marriage without emotion or change of expression. The young man wanted the marriage it was clear. He had seen Anne during one of her walks with the Queen, and spoke of her often to Thomas.
Her fiancé was a burly young man with spittle always shining on his bottom lip. He made her think of a dog in the summer heat, pining for water, yet enjoying the pain of the sun’s rays. She tried to imagine him touching her the way her Frenchman had, and wanted to be sick when she did. She could in no way equate the beauty of that night with the bestial man who was to be her husband. February’s court brimmed with activity. England’s war against France, allied with Spain’s Charles V, seemed imminent. Thomas Wolsey, Cardinal of the Church, planned a huge event to honor Charles' envoys to England.
Anne had been asked to participate in the masque at Cardinal Wolsey's castle, and of course, accepted, excited to do something for a change. The masque would involve eight ladies of honor held captive by eight enemies of love. She would be a captive. When March first finally dawned and stretched into evening she could barely contain her excitement.
She fidgeted restlessly with the banner that crossed her bosom. Tonight she was labeled Perseverance, and she certainly thought it fitting. Few could sustain King Francois’ attention without giving in. Her Milan-point lace gown had already begun to itch her at its edges where the lace touched her bare skin, and every time the urge to scratch nagged her, she reminded herself that the gown was underlain with white satin—soft silky satin; itch free, and smooth. It also helped to think that she looked striking in white, and that the gold bonnet she wore was jewel encrusted, which made her black hair shine like jet against the sparkle.
Oddly enough, it didn’t matter to her that the other seven ladies would be wearing similar outfits. Anne knew she looked even more striking than the King’s sister, knew that pale beauty could not outshine her tonight. But it was a shame Mary Suffolk couldn't have played one of the enemies of love—they were dressed like savages.
"Is this thing on straight?" she asked Bounty whose label for the evening matched her image perfectly. Bountiful breasts jiggled each time she fidgeted. Her flax-colored hair dipped into the well between those bosoms frequently, only to be pulled out with annoyance by the girl’s plump fingers. Her given name she told Anne, was Elizabeth Blount.
"But call me Bess." The whisper broke the silence which pervaded the area where they stood, masked from view by a large musty curtain. Anne wondered if this was the woman who had borne Henry his only living son nine years past.
"Cursed Banner," Bounty mumbled. Her voice sounded as dust-laden as the curtain. She was pretty in a fetching way, with a full, plump face. Her barely suppressed laughter rang in Anne’s ear, so she found herself giggling in return, propriety and nervousness forgotten...
"Shh. Someone is lighting the torches," Bounty whispered, quieting her restless limbs as she struck her pose.
Anne followed suit, awaiting her rescue from the battlements. She imagined what the scene must look like to the envoys that sat in plush chairs. She’d peeked into the room an hour before while the room had been dimly lit by two torches. The faux castle where she now stood, had loomed green and shimmering at one end of the hallway like a specter shining through a mist. Upon its high battlements stood towers and walls pierced with crenellations and swathed all over with green paper and liquid verdigris. It borrowed mythical imagery, and lent a ghostly air to the room.
The three towers each flew a banner; one, a broken heart, another a lady's hand turning a man's heart, and the last a lady's hand holding a man's heart. Large waxen torches hung on every wall of the room. As they were lit she held her breath. Their glow flickered through the rents in the curtain making the room ethereal and dim. No sound came from the other side of the curtain—the envoys and courtiers must be ready. Suddenly, the curtain tumbled into a neat heap at the foot of the castle. The entire cast gasped with surprise, and the full crowd of spectators' intake of breath accompanied a startling blare of trumpets.
In rushed eight masked lords, all dressed in cloth-of-gold and cloaks of blue satin, save one—Ardent Desire. He was obviously the leader; his crimson cloak was scored by a motif of burning golden flames. Anne struck what she thought to be a fitting frightened look, widened her eyes to their maximum.
She tried her best to contain a chuckle when Bessie hissed through clenched teeth, "You look like a fish!"
From below, Ardent Desire demanded the ladies give up the castle.
"Never. We shall defend!" Both Scorn and Disdain yelled back in unison.
"Then the ladies must be won," Desire instructed his accompaniment.
"Attack!" The eight lords rushed the castle with a concentrated effort. The realism of the assault made Anne shiver, but only for a moment. Dates made flumping noises as they hit the poor ladies. Oranges sent a citrus scent to the air.
"Which is the King?" she dared ask Bess, who halted her pitiful wail long enough to nod in the direction of Ardent Desire.
Anne should have known. The combined screech of the defenders accompanied their parry of rosewater and comfits. Gunfire thundered through the room. It combined with the screeches of a frightened audience. Anne expected it, but squealed when the lady next to her did. Foolish woman, she should have known the audience would holler. The last of the defenders—Scorn and Disdain of course—scuttled to the walls, abandoning their posts and allowing the lords to claim their booty.
After the briefest of moments the musicians began to play. The dance demanded Anne be passed from her rescuer’s arms into those of another, and another. She did her best to remember her training, and captivate her partners with her eyes and her skill. The imagined sound of Madame’s voice in her mind coached her,
"It matters not that you are beautiful, it matters only that you make the gentleman believe you are beautiful. Looks fade away ’ti
l one is left with only her wits." The ring of Madame’s voice brought Anne back to her first appointment and her mistress’ love of beauty.
That belief spurred the notion that beauty could be seen in anything. Madame Margaret had trained her girls to cultivate loveliness rather than merely admire it. So Anne listened to the coaxing voice in her mind that told her to smile and laugh and dance beautifully.
She was so intent that she ignored her partners ’til a youth who was at once shy and mysterious took her hand. The smell of a French forest flooded her mind. His eyes, the gentle, entreating green of moss, captured her own. She could not pull her gaze away. She let him take her hand, loving the way it fit around hers—warm and dry, but soft as her own skin. His pale hair reminded her of the hero-King, Arthur, and his eyes drank her image. Oh, how much she wanted him in that instant, when he merely looked at her, without condescension, without affectation. Honest, and expectant.
"My lady, my captive," he said. His voice was deep, like she’d always imagined fresh baked bread would sound; warm, and airy. She wanted to hear it again.
"My Lord," she returned. She dared him with her eyes to speak again. He said nothing. The silence made her grind her teeth. It would be up to her to keep the conversation going, and damn her willful tongue—it had frozen to her palate. So much for dazzling him with her court dialogue.
Before she could pry her tongue loose she was passed into the arms of another. She forgot her training and followed the gentleman with her eyes.
"Brunet?"
"As I live," she said, pleased and surprised. "It's Thomas Wyatt."
She hadn't seen him since they were children, playing at grown up as if they never would. His face was still beautifully angelic, as if an angel had kissed him, yet haloed with the darkness of Satan's cloak. And his lanky body had finally grown into the tree trunk he’d always said it would. But where was that old clinginess? That sharp, whining need to attach himself to someone? The way he stood straight and proud, a rustic timber against the whimsical background of lace and tissue-cloth that were the gowns and draperies, made Anne’s heart lurch.
She got a quick memory of him as a child, playing soldiers with George. He always lost, not really caring for such barbaric games, and her brother never teased him about it. Now, in the torch-lit room amid the smell of smoke and powder, he smiled tentatively, his generous mouth a bruise against the sheen of very white teeth. How inviting he looked. The brushed velvet of his doublet crept back off his shoulders in a rakish way, as if he’d pulled it on in haste and hadn’t had time to check if it was on right. It made him feel familiar. She felt at ease.
"I have been waiting for your hand in the dance." He stared straight into her eyes.
He’d wooed her in their childhood days, like a boy normally woos a girl, with swift jabs in the arm and tauntings about the darkness of her hair, and she knew he would remember that crush, and feel it still tightening his heart. Knowing it made her smile madly, with a sense of headiness. The captive had captured her own.
"I heard you’d come home, Anne."
"I'm to marry."
"Yes, I know. But it’s no secret your Father is not set on it."
Swirls of colors and textures blended together as they danced. Gray imposing stone inadequately covered by lush tapestries, waited sedately behind the movements of deep black and crimson velvets. The dove white satin of many gowns a creamy, beckoning blur. Anne’s gown whispered against another’s; made a short, raspy melody.
"And what of your marriage?" she asked after a moment, too caught up in the textures that surrounded her to care that he was deliberately twirling her too fast. She wished she hadn’t taken so long to goad him; now he would think he was getting the better of her. She stepped up her pace. He best not think he could better her.
He laughed, and she felt his chest shake with it. "You know how to find the soft spots." He spun her madly around another couple. "Madame Wyatt is, shall we say, estranged from me and our marriage."
She only had the chance to say, "Oh." before another courtier took his place. In a few moments she took her gentleman’s hand again, he of the forest eyes and demure stance.
"You dance well, mistress..."
"Boleyn," she returned immediately, pleased he’d complimented her. But it wasn’t enough. She had only moments before she’d be in the arms of another and didn’t want to miss her opportunity. She couldn’t let him lapse into silence.
"Thomas Boleyn is my father. Perhaps you know of him? He serves the King." She dared swivel her hips, wanted him to feel them sway. The music’s frenzied tempo matched time with her heart.
"Of course. My master speaks highly of him." His face looked strange, as if he’d practiced these words, yet hated himself for giving an expected answer. It intrigued her.
"And who is your master, my lord...?"
Another couple swept up to them, she could see the swirl of a crimson skirt. Surely she’d have time to hear his answer. He smiled brightly, sensual lips showing even teeth.
"My apologies, I’m Harry Percy. I apprentice in politics with the Cardinal."
"Oh."
So there was a flaw—and quite a glaring one. She tried not to sound rude, but couldn't help herself. To apprentice with Wolsey, well, he must be anything but desirable—probably as lecherous. She found it nearly impossible to keep any of those feelings out of her voice, knew that with just that one syllable, she’d spoken volumes. Too bad for her, he'd probably drop her off at the nearest group of women, eager to be finished with her.
To her surprise, he laughed. And she looked up at him, thinking it peculiar that he should. If anything, he should have felt slighted, not humored. She could see all of his teeth as he threw his head back, thoroughly enjoying himself, and not caring that couples were staring. She saw another facet of him, one that further intrigued her. So much, that she decided to forget that he worked for a man her father loathed. She decided to forget she was promised to another man, who probably stood silent in a corner, watching her. Nothing else mattered except to enjoy this dance, and to make him enjoy it more.
Too soon he curved his hand about another woman’s waist and was lost in the tide of gowns.
"I’m sorry about your wife," she said when Thomas held her again.
"Ach." He waved his hand. "It’s of no consequence. She's happy doing what she wants with whom she wants, well away from me. And I'm equally happy."
"Oh, et q’est que tu fait? Tell me not, you still write those hideous stories?"
Laughing faces she saw at the perimeter, women nibbling at chunks of cheese and sipping delicately at their glasses. They reminded her of mice and tiny birds. Not at all a glamorous image when both animals suffered fleas and lice. Then again, perhaps most of the ladies did as well. As the music ended, he led her to the wall, near a pack of Catherine's ladies.
"Oh, no. I gave up stories long ago," he said.
"It’s a relief to hear."
"Now, I write poetry." He grinned in a way that made her heart stop, then left her gaping open-mouthed next to Mary.
She watched him walk away, a haughtiness lightening his steps. How mature he’d grown, how genteel, and she smiled contentedly, more than satisfied with her effect. The evening was proving quite intriguing. Her sister's teasing shove nearly put her off balance.
"I see Thomas found you."
"Umm," she mumbled, bored already by the thought of standing there, gossiping idly about nothing. She scanned the room hoping to spot Lord Percy. She wanted to be rescued again.
Mary fanned her bare cleavage dramatically. The greater part of her full bosom strained against the bit of creamy lace meant to disguise the pink of her nipple. The gown was French fashion, and in Anne’s opinion, wasted on Mary who never needed fashion as an excuse to reveal her body. Given enough time, the entire city of London would see it, and in the meantime, anyone with brass enough to ask, would be granted the sight of a bosom.
For a fleeting moment, Anne wished she wa
sn’t wearing the costume. Though it was beautiful, the deep black of Mary’s would suit her much better.
"He still has a crush on you."
"Thomas?" Anne fluttered her fingers. "Oh, yes. I supposed I have grown more desirable over the years." She grinned, unable to keep the delicious sarcasm to herself. "But then, perhaps our Thomas is merely starved for a woman of virtue."
"Meaning there are naught here about?" Mary threw her hips to one side and dared Anne with a leveled brow.
"Not nearly naught, but few." Anne slapped her sister’s arm playfully.
She studied the room. Such oddities could be seen by paying close attention. Why, just over there, she watched as Cardinal Wolsey, fat jowls shaking from animated conversation, stood in the middle of a circle of Spanish envoys. Perhaps no one else noticed, but the Cardinal had grown very flushed. His usual blanched face had been fed many glasses of wine and budded like a grape trembling to be picked. He would feel slightly ill in the morning.
Beyond the Cardinal sat Mary Suffolk, Henry’s sister. Dressed as she was in pearl colored satin, she looked beautifully white, like an angel. The gold overlay brightened her eyes as they scanned the crowds for her husband, the Duke. It was obvious she tried her best to look interested in the conversation of her comrades, but the constant scans of the room gave her away. She looked fragile and helpless against the broad span of tapestry that softened the wall.
Anne felt a sudden urge to speak to her, just to hear the lilting voice that enraptured everyone who listened. But then a crowd of dancers obscured her view, and she began to search for Lord Percy. She spied him on the dance floor, the fragile shell of his aristocratic air seemed to be cracking with the effort of tiresome court pleasantries. She nudged Mary.
"What do you know of that gentleman?" A burly, dark-haired courtier brushed against her, too close to be accidental. She gave him a wink.
"Only that he's the most eligible man at court. Wealthy. Handsome."
Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) Page 5
