"Anne," he mumbled. "Anne," he said again, slipping his hand beneath her buttocks.
She struggled to sit up. This wouldn't do at all.
"No," she said.
"No?" he asked, unable to believe she would refuse him. Perhaps he was even unwilling to think he couldn't drive her to the brink of self control.
"Yes, no. I'm not ready, Rex."
"Not ready? I've rarely seen whores more ready." He had to know it wasn’t true. Rather than hurt her or gain her submission, it spurred her need to escape.
She looked at him. His face was hard, but she felt relieved to see that was all. A hard face? Infinitely more manageable.
"Please, don’t be crude. And don't be angry." She stroked his forearm. "God wills there should be no consummation lest we're wed."
"But we shall be wed." He sounded like a petulant boy about to stomp his feet. "If Catherine doesn't agree to withdraw from the marriage, Cardinal Wolsey will call a legatine court—to conclude the marriage is invalid. After that we can be married." He said it as if the question was already answered and the proceedings a mere formality.
She bit her tongue at mention of the Cardinal's name. She loathed him—There was something in his whole manner and presence of being that seemed callous, worldly. Two terribly distressing characteristics in a man of God. But he was Henry's man, and through him, might be the course of solution. Henry believed Thomas Wolsey was perfect. To say otherwise would be to question the King's judgment.
"The Cardinal? He would act so, for lowly me?"
"No. For me." He corrected her. "We were discussing my problem, and I asked him whether he thought God was punishing me for marrying my brother's widow."
"And did he answer?" she asked, knowing what Wolsey would have had to say about Henry marrying Arthur's widow—if he was at all as smart as he let on.
"He said that the Bible certainly explains the situation, and the results. He left the rest to my conscience. I told him, after much self-debate, I might add," he paused there, and Anne knew the kind of debate he spoke of, which probably meant precious little.
"I told him my conscience bothers me so much I hardly sleep. And that there must be some decision on it. He suggested I ask Catherine to join a nunnery. If she refuses, he has the power to hold an official examination into our marriage." Just when Anne thought he had finished speaking, Henry said, as if he had forgotten,
"All in secret, of course."
She tried to smother the look of shock that fought for control of her face.
"Of course," she echoed automatically, her mind altogether in a different, more pleasant world.
Chapter 22
A mere week later, in a merry room filled with raucous activity and chattering women, Anne sat alone, grumpy from bad news. From her solitary spot she had excellent view of the room, not that she wanted it. Amid the beautiful tapestries, and sweet smell of rushes and pine, was the annoying sound of laughter. It was enough to drive her from the room, smiling crazily herself in the insanity they pressed on her.
"Catherine refuses to leave gracefully," Henry had said when she had seen him not an hour before.
"We must take other measures." His low voice sounded angry, frustrated. And in that instant she knew he hadn't expected such news and hated having to repeat it. She had held him tight, trying to comfort him. But deep within anger welled. This couldn't be happening. He was the King—surely he could force the issue. She did what she could to comfort him, then fled to Catherine's quarters, where she now sat, thinking, and thinking—until the revelation came. Catherine was nobility—high nobility. Born a princess of Spain; daughter to Isabella who had commissioned a sea voyage to the New Land, supporting a Christopher something's beliefs—a woman who had led an army herself, against invaders during her husband's absence from the country.
Catherine of Aragon, sister to Isabella the Mad who wouldn't let her beloved husband be buried, instead letting him decay within her own bedchamber. Certainly, that kind of radical blood must surge through Catherine's body.
Good, humble, modest Queen Catherine. No one would suspect her of being such a zealot or of possessing such determination. She would not give up a throne, or a husband, without a fight. Not when the church was on her side. Not to some common usurper. And Henry desperately needed to maintain his image of a loving husband, devoted to his wife save the fact that she had legally been his sister. He had to act disconsolate over discovering he never should have married her. He would not press the issue for fear of repercussions from alliances, and public discontent. He had to resolve his great matter with great diplomacy.
Neither had counted on Anne’s determination, though—her will to get what she wanted and needed; far more than a dreary existence. She had decided on the throne, and meant to have it. Henry lacked the ambition to see the matter through, hoping Catherine would act as she always had—meekly, and obediently. Seeing that she wouldn't, left Henry frustrated. Now Anne would have to fight for what she now considered hers, and would have to drive Henry to get it. And when the realization came—that she wanted what he offered, would fight to acquire it, a bit of self-loathing came too. And that was the point of her bitterness—that she was too far gone for guilt or shame. That she would forego her conscience, forget her scruples, her pity for Catherine. She would take all she could get, all he would offer. For the sake of power, for riches, for position, she would have her King. God forgive her, she had passed more than one boundary. Pity begone. She wanted control over her own life. And she was about to take it—if she could stomach it.
"Ah, there you are." George's voice filtered through the murk of her frustration. She looked up to see him standing there; tall, imposing, and sickeningly happy. How could he be so cheery on such a dreary afternoon?
"Yes, here I am," she said flatly.
His smile hardened her resentment. The smell of his powder annoyed her. She heard his disappointed sigh, felt the warmth of his leg next to hers as he sat.
"Tell me," he said.
"No point. Naught can be done." She turned away from him. Of all the people in the castle, she wanted to see him the least. She didn't want him to see her frustration, her failure. His big sister, impotent over her own life. He touched her arm. She felt her flesh being squeezed. A little pain, then nothing.
"Because it will release that wild temper you have. And then no one will have reason to fear." He smiled, teasing her a bit, but the command still hung in the air. Bless him, for acting as her exorcist. Light hair hung in one eye; he pushed it back casually. She indicated with her eyes the many people who wiled away time in Catherine's chambers.
"I can't tell you here—the King's great matter," she whispered, knowing her voice held a shrillness that came from her mood.
"Oh," he said, and she knew by the sound of it, the way he touched her cheek, he understood all there was. His face confirmed it.
He stood. "Come outside with me."
With a quick movement he was on his way to the door, obviously expecting her to follow, without waiting to see if she did. She watched his back where the elegant clothes rippled as his shoulders swayed.
The tiny curl behind his left ear, which had twisted uncontrollably as a child, was still there, but combed gracefully behind so that it framed his earlobe. She wanted to touch it when she saw it had escaped the ribbon. She wanted to let it curl around her finger and imagine that they were still children, and that she was his idol—not this twist of fate that made him, hers.
She could have loved him. He had such an aura about him. Anyone could love him, worship him, and many did. But he was not conceited in it—only arrogant in such a manner that made you think he was untouched by the world. Unhurt by it. She envied this in him. His faith in God and goodness had always given him a serenity she coveted. She sighed and walked behind him to a small alcove outside Catherine's chamber, where the walls escaped trivial, decorous trappings, and the air felt much draftier. The draft could well have come from the ghost of her la
st love. It had died here, right beneath that painting. While he stood silently, she revealed all she knew. That Henry would actively seek divorce, and it would be less than pleasant.
"You've decided, then?" he asked, meaning he knew as well as she, that her lack of commitment would have to be rectified. Once Henry had begun his path in earnest, there would be no turning back.
"Too many count on me. So many gain favor if I keep it—including me."
Simple answer, yet encompassing her every dilemma. Oh, to be safe. In someone's arms. Without this great burden, this decision. But it existed, and it was hers alone. She surrendered for only a moment, to the temptation, and hugged her brother close. The one man in all this realm who would support her, no matter what her decision. No matter what the cost.
Chapter 23
How frightened George had grown for Anne. As he held her, he fought tears. He felt suddenly as if something irrevocable had taken hold of her and changed her. He sensed that a great chunk had come away and that she mourned its loss. But he knew too, that greater than the grief was her fear that he’d recognize her transformation and would abhor it. She tensed in his arms and he tightened his grip, pressed her face into his neck. How could he tell her the change was the more reason for him to love her—because she needed it, because she so yearned to be accepted even the way she was and feared becoming.
"Nan, look at yourself," was all he could say and he bit hard on his lip when she sobbed into his neck.
"I’d rather not," came the muffled reply.
He held her a moment longer, to allow her to collect her composure, then pushed her gently away. A quick glance around the stark antechamber showed him a chair beneath a large portrait of Catherine.
"Sit," he said. She ran the back of her hand across her tear-streaked face and the movement relieved his pent up tension. Damned anxiety; he began to laugh. Rather than sit meekly as she was bid, she looked defiant.
"What makes you laugh so?" Her reddened eyes widened with sudden anger. The sickness of fear in his stomach had stopped its hurting and had begun to feel plain strange. He took one more look at her puffy red face and devil-be-damned posture and thought his stomach would explode. The chuckles changed to outright laughter.
"George." He could hardly see her now, through the blur of water in his eyes, but he could see she was not amused. Hell, he wasn’t really amused either, but couldn’t help himself. Her hands were clenched tightly to her sides.
"You..." he tried to explain what had so got hold of him, but caught up on a bit of spittle that ran back down his throat. He took to coughing along with the outrageous and helpless laughter.
"Sorry," he managed.
"Your face... is... full... of snot!" There, by God, he had said it, and her look of embarrassed shock made him double straight over. But the laughter didn’t last long, mercifully or no. No sooner had he bent forward, when he was struck by a force beneath his jaw that sent him sprawling backward. He landed quite humiliatingly on his ass. A sweet, salty fluid came up from beneath his tongue. He looked up, knowing what had happened, feeling terribly sorry for his outburst. Through the haze of unshed tears and stars he could see her. Both hands were on her slim hips, but her face had switched from anger to concern.
"And yours is full of blood," she said, and reached out to help him up.
Chapter 24
Weeks later, Wolsey's examination into Henry's marriage was scheduled to begin. Court had become stressful and menacing rather than entertaining. A sweet, solid paranoia grabbed hold of Anne and each time someone giggled she fought off the urge to upbraid them. Even the somberness of the Queen’s masses failed to lend relief. There were no giggles at mass, or stares, but guilt whispered to her with every glance from the priest. So off to Hever she went, to stay with her mother and a handful of servants. She hunted and hawked, sang and composed ’til she thought her soul was cleansed. Henry wrote her often, giving her news of court, and of the proceedings—all in French of course, with pledges of love, and desire. But one letter came which distressed her, one which wasn’t from the King.
"Dreary summer, Anne. Common people starving because of the poor harvest last fall. Many are crushed by the weight of other starving people as they surround the relief carts." The sorrow in George's words haunted her heart. But the worst statements were at the bottom of the letter, as if everything before it had been a builder, to prepare her—scribbled at the bottom in a sense of urgency. When she read the warning in them, the foreboding, she knew she couldn't stay away from court a moment longer.
"The holy city has been sacked. The Pope taken prisoner. Court is buzzing with the scandal, and Henry is furious at the potential meaning it may have for the examination."
George wouldn't exaggerate; he wouldn't sign his letter, "Hurry back," unless the matter was urgent. She wasted no time in returning. Within days she was back at court, searching the corridors of Windsor castle. She found him in the temporary lodgings the King provided to his privy chamber, standing at the window. His back was silhouetted by the dark shade of curtain which hung limply to the side. The shadows at his back nearly engulfed him. She took a step forward, swallowed, and spoke.
"George?" The tremor in her voice surprised her.
"God’s blood, Anne. Thank heaven," he said. For a moment she felt the heroine again.
"Father has been rampaging like a bear. Saying you should be here, you should let no opportunities by."
"Yes, I can well imagine. He sees power and rank in his grasp. He’ll never let go," she remarked dryly.
"I also imagine the news is worse than you wrote." The tapestries trembled with his sigh and he came away from the window, seeming to drift out of the blackness of their shadow.
"It is," he said simply.
"You look aged, brother. Has father bled the life from you?"
He didn’t answer, merely took her hand, led her to a chair.
"Spain’s Imperial army overran the Papal city. They thought mayhap the wealth of Christendom might be stored there." He surprised her with a laugh, then she realized it was evidence of his tension.
"It was not," was all he said.
"So, with the Pope's imprisonment, his Cardinal's decision on the divorce is useless," she guessed, wishing for once, she lacked any sense of intuition.
"Correct." His manner was queer when he looked at her.
"What else?"
"Court rumor says the abbots and cardinals were humiliated and tortured. The invaders smashed the holy relics and despoiled the altars."
She watched his face, and the emotions flit across it one by one; anger, disbelief, sorrow.
"And..." she said, thinking still more boiled beneath all this.
"Priests murdered. Monks beheaded," he said, as if the sentences were really inconsequential. She knew better.
"More?" she asked.
He nodded.
"The nuns, young or old, were raped and beaten. The bodies are littering the streets still. Mangled, headless corpses with severed limbs. No one dares touch them. Fear of God, or the invaders, who knows. They say the damned brutes kept screaming, 'Blood, blood! Flesh, flesh!'"
The eerie echo filled the room, and Anne believed he imagined the scene. She saw it with him, imagined the bloodlust high in the frenzied attacker's eyes. Faces full of death and insanity. She shivered, as George did. The emptiness after his words, as eerie as the shrieks of a moment before, echoed flatly against the stone walls.
"Oh, Sweet Jesu." She heard herself say. She felt his touch through the thick velvet of her gown, heavy and hot on her shoulder. She was in his arms before she knew it. The warm scent of his skin felt oddly comforting.
"I had thought the discontent only boiled in our own land. That the people might be tiring of the church’s debauchery elsewhere had occurred not to me."
He kissed the top of her head, mumbled his agreement.
"There’s rumor that the Cardinal had a hand in it, that he bribed the Emperor to overpower the papacy—he�
�s had his heart set on becoming Pope for years, as far as Father says. And if Father is right, then Henry would stand to profit as well."
"Yes," she agreed, "an Englishman has sat not in the papacy for three hundred years or more."
"Still," he said, "it’s difficult, trying to believe in God, when he can allow all this to happen. It makes me wonder if perhaps God is punishing the Pope."
Anne couldn’t see his face, but his voice sounded raw, like an open wound. She withdrew from his arms, crossed her own, and sat on the hard tapestry-covered stool in the corner.
"I wonder, too. They profess celibacy when hordes of nuns dispose of unwanted children. They preach poverty whilst the church basks in wealth. And all the currency it earns for those dispensations—impoverishing already wretched people.
"How can the Pope sell God’s laws the way he does? The Church preaches one thing in the masses, and allows its own head to bend the laws for a farthing. I expect that is the real reason for the riots."
She shivered in the stillness of the room.
"But it doesn’t make it easier to imagine."
The fireplace roared its agreement.
"Nor does it make the result easier to bear."
George sighed with her, hugged his chest. He looked frail in the instant, his features sorrowful and worried.
"Has father pressed you?" she dared ask again, afraid to allow him his silence. When he didn’t answer, she rose from the chair, knowing he’d confide when he was ready. Meantime, she had other affairs to set to rights.
"I suppose I should visit his Grace the King. I imagine the dispensation will be useless coming from an imprisoned Pope. Henry must be wild with the news. Meanwhile, see if you can obtain some reading for me on the subject... I’ve heard of a tract by Simon Fish, called A Supplication of Beggars... I should like to read it. And George... I’m tired of going to mass and hearing these wretched priests proclaim their version of God’s law... see if you can find me a translation of the bible... either English or French will do. You’ll need to be discreet."
Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) Page 12
