"You're more exciting to me than any whore could be."
So at least there was a bright spot in his statement, no matter how insulting it sounded. He continued as if he’d said nothing offensive, "But that's not it; or not all of it. I'm drawn to you. Your laugh, your spirit. I need it. It fills me."
He looked at her, half pleading, as if unsure how she would take the words he’d spoken.
"And since your betrothal has failed..."
She wasn't offended at his words, most marriages were based on much less than desire. And she had to face it, she felt the same way about him.
"And love?"
"Love?" He shrugged with an offhand motion that surprised her.
"If love makes me wake shivering in the night with need—then I love you." His features hardened suddenly, and she thought he hated conceding the lust he felt, hated that it nagged him. "But, if love is that thing that conjures your face before my eyes even when my mind is hard at work—If it’s love that makes my heart feel empty—then love I have for you to spare."
"Do you love me?" His question clung to the air.
She smiled up into his face, taking his smooth hand in hers.
"Yes, Harry. I do."
He stood. "Then we shall be wed. And now that's over, let's celebrate."
He reached down and scooped her from the bench, lowering her with ease to the grass. The kisses that he smothered her with, the intensity with which they came, possessive, certain. In the eyes of the church and the law, the betrothal made them one. The voices inside her head quieted.
Chapter 15
Somewhere around 1525
Anne closed the regal draperies of Catherine’s closet to cut off prying eyes. She clenched the velvet with white knuckles, fought the urge to scream. How flushed Harry’s face looked. How white and foreboding.
"I begged them not to separate us." His eyes were heavy-lidded as if he hadn’t slept the night before, the blue a quiet, dull gray.
"But how can they deem our contract null? We have celebrated it, we’ve decided it." The torches that lit the small alcove spluttered, emitting trails of black smoke that petered to the same gray as Harry’s eyes.
"The Cardinal called my Father. I met with them just hours ago." He held her close, and she felt his heart hammering madly against her own.
"They think you’ve little dowry to offer me, that my lineage is meant for the betrothal of my childhood." His lips touched the top of her head; the lingering kiss made her eyes sting.
"I pleaded that we’d already been pre-contracted, that you’re of noble parentage yourself, and royal descent." He sighed heavily.
"I even stomped my foot like a child when reason would not have its way with them, said I’m a man of age and may make my decisions where I pleased."
"And...?" she asked, pulling from his embrace.
"And nothing." He moved away, sat on a hard chair beneath a beautifully oiled painting of hounds on the hunt.
"By the time the Cardinal called for a cup of wine to toast his success, I’d even told them that I had gone so far before witnesses that I could not discharge myself with good conscience."
She went to him, sat on the floor near his leg. He took her hand in his, stroked the finger with the extra nail. She felt the sting of tears.
"It’s over, my sweet Anne. I’m to be wed to my childhood betrothed. My father wishes it."
She gave a soft, sarcastic laugh, ignored his querying expression. So, the ugly head of the judgmental Lord finally reared itself, punishing her for her sins of passion and lust.
The Anne who sat in a London garden three years from that afternoon remembered the meeting, and its sorrow. How she’d wept for months in the gloom of Hever castle. The banner of a broken heart fluttered in her memory as she sat next to Mary thinking how she missed Harry, and of how he’d been banished from court to an unwanted marriage.
She sighed at having been sent away as well—home to Hever: home of the Boleyns: her birthplace and her prison. Now she’d escaped it and sat quietly on a hard chair in a garden filled with Londoners, smiling crazily because she was free. She hated the fates that could deal with her so cruelly, to find a love, a passion, only to have it swept from her.
While she endured Mary’s bored fidgeting, she lost herself in her thoughts. God may have been the one to punish her, but he used the earthly form of the King and his counselors to carry out the penance. Three long years she’d spent at Hever, isolated from court, and she’d not soon forget it. The weathering years had eroded her passion for Harry, though the fondness was still there.
Every now and then, in the quiet of early morning she would think of his soft, glistening hair, deep resonant voice. She would remember his touch and how it thrilled her—hands soft as a dove feather, fleeting across her cheek, or bosom. His laughter ran often through her mind. But she’d learned to shut it off, closing her memories to his radiance. But the years had weathered more than her yearning for him, they’d hardened her. Gone was the romantic girl who believed love could come, and that desire could couple it. Her father had seen that she would not have love, had decided Henry’s wishes were more important than his daughter’s future. So she closed her heart to feeling, wouldn’t allow the smiling faces in the garden to beseech her.
She hadn't realized how determined her father could be. Though the marriage that would have given Henry peace in Ireland had not occurred, and though the marriage she’d hoped for had angered him, Thomas Boleyn still maintained royal favor. King Henry found other ways to appease the Irish, and now her father would be granted a title for all his endeavors.
The acquisition of the title, however, hadn't come solely from his own efforts. Anne smiled secretly in the afternoon garden. Promiscuous Mary; her relationship with Henry had gained some recognition for the Boleyns. Strangely, her father could not even bring himself to thank her for it, or acknowledge that her disobedience was responsible for it. She shifted in her chair. She swore that if the ceremonies took much longer she’d be forced to plead sickness and tramp up to her quarters. The uncommon heat of the June day would certainly give adequate excuse.
She didn’t think she could stand much longer to watch Henry Fitzroy, the King’s illegitimate son, be granted title after title ’til the final honor—Duke of Richmond be granted. Dull, really, to watch him parade back and forth, up and down the aisle, exiting with one honor, and returning, clothes changed, to be granted another. A child he was, too—though beautifully fair like his father.
It all seemed lost on him as he entered yet again, amid a fanfare of trumpets that startled him. This time, his clothes had been replaced by ducal robes of crimson and blue velvet. She could see he would be granted his final title at last. He walked somberly past the crowd, flanking a group of lords and flanked himself by a garter herald and then by more dukes. Up to the front he marched, straight before Henry who waited beneath a golden canopy, a half-hidden smile on his face.
Anne poked Mary in the ribs.
"Does anyone in court realize the importance of this?"
"I think even the more common folk do," Mary replied.
"This must be trying for Catherine."
"Her Grace says it matters not; even she knows she'll bear no more children."
"Still, it’s pitiful to see her, sitting there so stoically. It breaks my heart. How can she endure this public humiliation—of the King telling the world he has lost hope of his Queen providing an heir?"
"Pitiful, it is, I know," Mary agreed, her gaze lingering sympathetically on Catherine. "But she suffers it well. And I think England loves her all the more for it."
"I wonder if she still harbors hope for a son," Anne mumbled, thinking aloud. "I know if it were me, I'd rather die than acknowledge someone else's bastard." She lifted her chin so she could see over the gentleman’s head who sat in front of her. His hair was matted in the back, as if he’d had a fitful night.
"Perhaps Catherine fears for the succession as well, and has seen reas
on to the ceremony."
"I can't imagine why. There's still hope that his daughter will have children whilst they both live. I should think the succession could be secured that way."
From her spot, Anne could see Henry’s smug smile and Catherine’s uneasy one. A brief clash of cymbals echoed throughout the garden, and she started.
"I suppose they must not hope only in that; I've heard rumors that the marriage alliance they've arranged for young Mary bodes ill."
Anne grimaced emphatically. "Too bad. It would ease her Grace’s worries." She fanned herself with her hand, taking care to hide her baby finger beneath the ring finger. With all the spectators, she was wary of who might see it.
She had a brief memory of lonely days, and gusting drafty winter nights with no company save her mother and servants. Dreariness was all she remembered of Hever, and dust-laden, moth-eaten tapestries. She couldn’t bear to think on it anymore, or that her mother stayed there still, content to stagnate, happy her husband spent so much time in London.
"At least all this ceremony does me a good turn. Father has received agreement from the King that I may return to court. And it couldn't have come at a better time. I was rotting in that isolation."
"I can imagine. I’m pleased to be out of Father's clutches. Will is a far kinder man." Mary sighed heavily and Anne thought of Will, puppy of a man, who dared not even speak back to his wife.
"Kind enough to ignore your relationship with the King?" it was out before Anne could stop it.
Mary gave her a grimace, meaning that it was none of Anne's business. Anne grimaced back. She’d never let Mary forget that she didn't agree with what she was doing, but Mary had her own mind, and since Anne couldn't change it, she contented herself with annoying her sister.
"Sorry. I know we called a truce. It just came out."
"Umm. By habit, I suppose."
"I suppose honesty forces me to say I understand your attraction to him, he's very handsome." Anne threw the sentence out like an apology, but meant it. Henry hadn't lost any of his looks in the three years since she’d seen him last. He still retained his lithe, athletic physique, though she could see he’d found a few pounds.
"Yes." Mary's answer seemed preoccupied, then came the change of subject, characteristic of her when troubled.
"Our George is here, you know."
"George? Why have I not seen him?"
Anne quickly scanned the crowd, eagerly trying to pick out her brother’s particular shade of sandy hair from the throngs of sandy-haired attendants. Why did most Londoners have to have that annoyingly mousy colored hair; no sparkle, no sheen. Just rat pelts, neither blonde nor brown nor black. It made for frustrating scans of a crowd.
"Oh, c’est impossible." She hated giving up. "I shan’t ever find him among all these people." She turned instead to Mary. "Will he be at the dance later?"
Mary's eyebrow rose and her head tilted a little forwards—a sure signal of her rare displays of sarcasm.
"Do you really need me to answer that question?"
Anne grinned. Those rare displays always made her smile. It was so out of character for Mary, and yet so natural on her features.
"Ah, non. I suppose not."
"Oh." Mary's hushed cry interrupted any further comment. "Look, it’s father's turn."
Anne turned her attention to the front where Thomas Boleyn stood expectant, and a bit arrogantly, to accept his new title. His greying hair was cut French fashion, just above his broad back.
She could make out the thickness of his neck even at this distance. As Thomas bowed to receive his honor, Anne thought of how long he’d worked in the court, sometimes as liaison, sometimes as diplomat. He was an intelligent man, with a gift for speaking and linguistics, which made him valuable as many English could barely read and write, let alone speak a second language.
He’d been in court service since he acted as Squire to the body of Henry’s father, had been knighted and aided in planning the Field of Cloth-of-Gold. Not long ago, he’d participated in the jousts to honor Henry's first legitimate son, and had mourned when the son passed away, a babe of seven weeks. He finally received acknowledgement now, and was granted the long-coveted title of Lord Rochford. But the ceremony was quick and short-lived with hardly any pomp or circumstance.
Anne couldn't say she regretted the end. She couldn't wait to get out of the garden, away from the heat. Her attention centered on the dance that was to follow. She imagined the cool room filled with hundreds of well-dressed courtiers. Ah, it’d been so long.
"Do you think she came?"
George looked at his wife for a moment, watched the sky-blue eyes cloud with anxiety that Anne might be present somewhere in the garden. The tender flesh around them crinkled with doubt. She obviously regretted her outburst last eve, and might even have been afraid he’d not forgive her.
"Yes, love." He grasped her fingers reassuringly. "I know it as surely as I know we sit here." He turned his attention again to the front where his father stood before Henry beaming and silently gloating. Her voice came again. This time it sounded more certain and he thought the endearment had been a good response.
"I offer my greatest apologies for last eve, husband."
He sighed, wondered for a moment how he’d handle the discussion, gave up in favor of speaking his mind.
"You have to forget this jealousy of Anne. It surely makes our union worse." He tried to soften his words with a caress, but a startling blare of trumpets made her jump.
"The only way for us to have a peaceable marriage is for you to accept that Anne will always be a large part of my life. Sweet Jesu, if you could only support that, perhaps you would grow to overshadow it."
Her usually meek voice turned harsh and she avoided his eye. Her stare turned towards the front. "I know the only way for us to have peace is for her to stay away from you. Why, you went to Hever more often the last three years than you came to bed with me."
For a moment, George felt a heavy guilt. Truth, she spoke, but he dared not tell her that he went to Hever not only to see Anne, but also to escape his marriage. How could he admit that it took great strengths for him to smile at her, and speak sweetly, and remain polite. it was like living a court dance, with never the leave to be yourself. With Anne he didn’t have to pretend—she knew all there was about him, and he need not fear her condescension. Instead he touched Jayne’s arm and pulled her chin to face him. He didn’t care that the couple behind had taken to whispering about their quarrel—his wife’s heart needed balming and if anything, she deserved that.
"Jayne, it’s not as bad as you fear. We’ve only spent a short time together, surely we’ll grow used to each other’s ways in time. And for now, if you like, I shall endeavor to make you the center of my world." She turned away. He wasn’t sure it was enough.
"I should like to hold you to that this eve."
The dance was in full swing. Anne watched bitterly as the dancers twirled around the floor of the enormous room, chatting to one another, laughing, flirting. Her old chum, Thomas Wyatt, was at this moment dancing with a plain, under-dressed woman whose buck-toothed smile could be seen even at this distance. And from here, Anne could see that Wyatt was ignoring it, treating that homely girl with as much courtesy or attention he would pay to any female. Anne sat sulking in a far corner—which was how she had such a good view. It didn't lend too much detail, but she could see the entire room. An enviable position for any people-watcher, but a bad spot for picking up partners. Not that it bothered her, she sulked because she felt like it. She decided to fully bask in the pleasure of her own company, and to purgatory with anyone who didn't want it.
She’d wanted to dance with George. And may he rot in his splendidly cut clothes as he danced with that chit of a girl he pined over, and now coddled—his wife.
"Too busy," he’d said with a wink, obviously expecting his favorite sister to understand and comply with his meaning. Well, she didn't understand. She had barely seen him in the t
hree years, needed to catch up. Besides, he saw his wife every day. She sat staring up at the musician's gallery—engrossed in her own thoughts, bad company though they were, and jumped nearly off her perch when she heard a voice addressing her. The voice was deep and penetrating, vibrated in her chest, and sounded much like Percy’s but with a more commanding air.
"You look sad, Mistress Boleyn, is something bothering you?" Henry's voice drifted to her, and she swallowed her impatience at his question.
The answer had to be obvious even to the most ignorant courtier.
Instead, she smiled up into deep blue eyes that were fringed with a lace of thick lashes. Such beautiful eyes, so sensitive. She refused to listen to the rush of her heart. She eyed him somewhat suspiciously, stubbornly stuck in her mood as she was. What was he doing over here, away from Mary? And as she looked into his wide eyes, blue and naive, trying to appear either sympathetic or sensitive, she made a decision that grew from her mood. Before she could stop herself, she blurted out an answer.
"Thinking of my lost love, I suppose." Which she wasn't, but he had opened the gate, and she intended to go through it.
"Lost love?" His question sounded ignorant, which she knew he wasn’t. Oh well, if he wanted to play the game...
"Oui. Three years gone now."
"Oh, I'm sorry. My sympathies." His round face had taken on that blank look she recognized as accompanying a feeling of ineptness, or a lack of empathy.
"Oh, he hasn't passed on," she stated flatly, She discerned a sense of vindication blending with her ennui. The hundreds of milling people became a little more interesting, the room a trifle more lighted.
"Oh," he began, his full mouth gaping into a matching shape. "I don't know what to say."
She swallowed the comments she wanted to make, licked her lips, and smiled her biggest, most disarming smile.
"You can say you're sorry." She hoped the green velvet drapes that surrounded her back would darken her eyes.
He smiled, obviously confused. She spread her arm over the cushion of the brocaded settee, offering him the place next to her.
Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) Page 8
