When Anne had walked into his chamber, George had forced Jayne out. He didn’t want anyone to be around save Anne when he cried. In truth, he didn’t want Anne to see it, and had hid behind the curtains, pretending to look out the window. He didn’t dare tell her of his confrontation with Thomas or that their father had called her a worthless, witless wench in such a frenzy of rage that George had cowered meekly. He simply couldn’t hurt her with it. She’d say nothing, but would hold the slander close to her heart and examine it. Study might even lead Anne to doubt her value, and so he refused to tell her. Worse for him, was that he dared not defend her, for fear Thomas would completely lose his temper and degrade him as well.
George didn’t think he could stand that. And he was afraid. He had doubted for a long time in the church’s goodness, but had always believed stolidly in the grace of God. He couldn’t equate the Cardinal, and the Pope with that grace. Ever since he had been young he had heard the grumblings in the market place about the cursed wealth and pomposity of the church amid the poverty and humility of the populace. He’d wondered it, and pondered it, and discussed it with his mother. But never had he truly believed God didn’t trust or love his representatives. He always believed God would protect and harbor them ’til Judgment Day. That he hadn’t done so, made him wonder and doubt. Now he knew something was amiss. Had Anne been right all along—that God was a vengeful, and judgmental God who could never be satisfied?
Chapter 25
When Anne finally found Henry, and broached the subject, she found Henry had been working on it all afternoon. He strode back and forth in his map room, two counselors with him. Then one went to sit at the desk, quill in hand. When Henry noticed her standing uncertainly in the doorway he waved his aides to the hall.
"My head hurts from all this thinking," he said as he enfolded her in his arms. She noticed one of his eyes squinted a bit, closing just enough to lend his face a troll-like appearance. She pulled from his arms and sat tentatively in his large armchair, preparing herself for the onslaught of possibilities he'd try on her. He chewed his lip.
"Since the Pope can rule not on my great matter, everything is at a standstill."
Brilliant red brows leveled nearly horizontal over eyes that frowned as much as his mouth.
"One solution might be to have all the English Bishops condemn my marriage. With the combined accusations against it, it might work. But for that John Fisher."
She remembered the cheers from the London crowd when the Bishop regaled the King’s tract—and Henry’s smug look of pleasure as well. She sat up.
"What of Bishop Fisher? He has the respect of all London, what could he have done?"
"He stubbornly refuses to admit that my marriage is invalid. And now, Wolsey has to go to Rome to straighten things out." He paced. "I need him here."
He stressed 'here' and thumped his fat fist against the mantel.
"This whole matter has to wait. And it can't!"
"Blast!" he yelled. "Another problem."
As he paced and twirled and stomped, an idea came to her—an obstacle didn't have to mean defeat. Perhaps this hindrance could turn to a Godsend. The Pope's ruling would be useless in his present condition—he could hardly say he acted as pinnacle to the church while he sat shackled to a damp stone somewhere in a dirty dungeon. But at least the time could be used to great advantage, to manage the affair until the ruling would no longer be useless.
"Maybe you could use the time to your advantage, Rex," she suggested, anxious not to let any obstacle ruin the matter altogether.
"How so?" Blue eyes bore into black ones. It seemed he’d reprimand her for getting involved. She flinched a bit, unaccustomed to the cruelty she saw in his eyes.
"There's the matter of my sister. Your affair with her puts you in an illegal affinity with me," she started. "And Lord Percy..."
"Yes." He rubbed his chin, the bristles rustled audibly, faintly.
"Maybe I could see to that whilst Wolsey is away. Can’t have us seen as related because of Mary. It would be the exact thing I'm separating from Catherine for. And if my marriage to her is found invalid..."
"Yes," he said again, determination igniting his squinted eye with zeal, and relaxing it to its normal state. She breathed her relief, not only would he be distracted from his frustration—making him easier company—but he would be furthering the cause. Little else could be done at this point.
Chapter 26
Hard-won hope fled in the face of hatred when Mendoza, Catherine's confessor, publicly reported that Anne was Henry's next choice for queen. Anne hadn’t been prepared for the rage she faced when the country heard that Catherine would be replaced by a commoner. And in hope's place, reared fury and spite. She hadn't come this far to back away from a little prejudice and envy. She refused to believe that cowardice on her part would salve the situation. Henry meant to have her, and she him. Whispers behind upheld hands couldn't deter her; neither could a little outright hatred. She had gained enough support within court to enable herself a sense of safety. It didn't matter that the support came from those who hoped to ride her skirts to power.
It only mattered that her circle of supporters did just that—ingratiated themselves into every crevice of court. Henry had begun the whole affair, but she meant to finish it. It had become more to her than wanting him—it had grown to something far more base. It had transformed into a battle of wills, and hers, ever a strong one, needed to win. It would take all the charm and charisma she possessed. She knew it. Knew too that acquaintances would become enemies. So the hatred would have to be ignored and the whispers shut out. But the sense that she was now surrounded by menace, that she couldn't ignore.
"I knew it would be tough, George," she said to her brother, who reclined lazily on her bed, legs stretched languidly against the blue quilt. His were long trim legs, which warmed hers as she lay beside him.
"But never did I think I would be bothered by all this hatred." She wanted to squirm beneath the quilts as they had as children, feel his warmth closer against her skin, so it warmed her soul.
"Do you know what it’s like to be loved only for what you can gain, and not for who you are?" Her lower lip trembled, and she bit it, held it beneath her teeth. She might ignore the whispers, but she memorized every one, hoarding them like some perverse collector, studying them in secret.
"Nan," he hushed, using the old nickname—the one she forbade him to use in public, the one that made her sound common. He reached for her hand. "I love you for who you are. And the King, he loves you."
"Some bit he loves me, running away from it all, hiding in the country. Did he think the city would embrace a commoner in Catherine’s place?" She thought him a coward, to leave her here to face this alone.
The bower chamber seemed empty today, as empty as Henry’s promises. Her comrades abandoned her to the room; ignoring her attempts at conversation, shrugging off her overtures of friendship. They sought entertainment in Catherine’s apartments, leaving Anne to the quiet inelegance of a chamber without heat. She silently let her eyes roam about the room, and take in the spluttering rush lights, the hard wooden furniture. The sparseness of the chamber reinforced her sense of loneliness.
"The women are the worst, yelling at me, and calling me whore and paikie." She shook her head.
"I can barely stand it. Even yesterday whilst I falconed, someone called out to me, said I should leave poor Queen Catherine alone." She put her head on his shoulder.
"I’ve become for every woman that nameless whore who steals husbands. No one cares that I am a person, with fondness and feelings. I’m a black-eyed whore with a name now. I’m Nan Bullen; commoner, whore, paikie."
"But this black-eyed whore will one day sit on the throne of England, and she will remember every slander, every whisper."
Oh, she would be Queen—whether they liked it or not. Because this adversity had hardened her. Henry's cowardice embittered her.
"He sent me a letter," she stated, hearing
the flatness in her voice. It lacked depth or emotion.
George hugged her close.
"He asked me to be content as his mistress," she admitted, watching George for his reaction. But he didn't move, as she expected.
"I wrote one, too," she said, filling the silence. "But I’ll not wait for his response. By the time he gets it, I'll be at Hever." She picked at her rings, arranging them absently.
"If he wants me, he can bloody well fight for me."
Chapter 27
For months during 1529, Anne waited at Hever, that cold imposing stone castle, birthplace and former prison. She waited impatiently behind the smoke-darkened walls with ragged tapestries that protected against the shiver of winter, for news from Henry. When it came, along with spicy venison from a freshly downed deer, she read the letter as she rested wearily next to the fireplace. The letter pledged his love, the venison bribed her favor, but she would have none of it. As this imposed prison of years ago had weathered her love for Harry, it hardened her resolve against the King. How could Henry know the memories that resided in the green velvet drapes, the sounds of Harry Percy’s voice that had fled her mind to the air, and then hid within the material, and in the wood of the mantle. It was a natural feeling, a primal urge, as wonderfully natural as the pieces which made up the room. Now those urges, those memories were safe within this house, and they bolstered her, saying.
"Don’t give up, dearest. For the sake of the passion we protect, the very nature of your soul, maintain your stand." And she would do so, until the wood of the mantle and the smoke on the stone no longer held her essence. So, in these months she received many letters, many gifts. She answered some of them, putting him off and promising nothing. She ignored his heavily written and entreating signatures;
"Come back to me."
"I can't wait for the day when I hold you again. When I can lay quiet upon your breast."
It thrilled her to see the many letters with his seal and see the writing of his own hand. Knowing he abhorred writing made her realize how determined he had grown. He only wrote when impassioned: penning a few books on theology and his great matter. Still, it was not enough. She read the many pledges of love, the retractions of his hurtful question.
"Come. We will be married."
He signed Henry Rex, and she thought he might be trying to remind her of the endearments they'd shared.
In return notes she expressed her own thoughts and thank-yous. But she did not return, nor did she say when she would. Instead, she hunted when she could, small game mostly; quail and pheasant, and prepared stews and roasts for her mother. George had acquired the tracts she wanted, and when she spent time indoors, she read them or her English translation of the bible aloud to her mother. But in all the activity, she lost none of the yearning for court.
Most of all, she discovered she longed for Henry, and missed the headiness of being with him. She missed his laugh, the belly shaking, air filling kind of laugh that set all around to smiling as well.
She yearned for the sound of his voice, the blue of his eyes, and the way he smelled often of grease and powder. His ambergris perfume should fill her head with thoughts of peace and happiness, of contentment and worth. How she wanted to be back at court, to enjoy all she had won. Yet she refused to return, simply couldn’t allow herself to become what the court already believed her to be. Up until now, She could bear the slanders of her name, solely because she knew before God, she remained untainted. It was the one thing which salved her conscience and balmed her soul.
To give in to Henry meant sacrificing the one thing which remained hers only—her essence, her spirit. Months passed before he finally got the message that she would return only under extreme circumstances. His last letter offered her apartments of her own; her own waiting women, her own furniture. In short, she would no longer be under Catherine. By the time this was offered, she was quite willing to return to London—she had long run out of inspiration. She made the trip back to the city.
Her return to court meant seeing George again, and Mary, and of course, Henry. Within her own regal apartments, conveniently situated next to Henry’s, she reigned over a small assembly which grew larger each passing day. Within this small court, she escaped the murmurings of the country, and Catherine’s guilt-riddling stare. When Henry wished to spend time with her, he did so. As he did today. Her own waiting women offered him wine upon his entrance.
A lutenist, Marc Smeaton, borrowed from Henry for the day, played quietly on his stool in the corner. Regal crimson drapes swathed the windows and gold and green tapestries protected the walls. Everything within the apartments; the plump tapestry covered chairs, the cherry wood mantle, the crimson and gold settee, all of it spoke of richness and wealth. And Henry granted her more of it with each day, inebriating her senses and bribing her favor with the most beautiful of things. He stood at the entrance to her apartments staring around him with wonder and delight. The goblet offered him was held entranced in his hand. Anne lost no time speaking.
"Do you like what you see, your Grace?" Her satin slippers whispered against the lush carpet as she went to him. She touched his cheek, uncaring that the company might think her brazen.
"Remarkable, my dear lady. You’ve taken the gifts and done well with them." His heavy hand rested on her hair.
She took the goblet from him. Slowly, sensually she raised the cup to her lips. The wine tasted acrid and dry; she offered it with a mocking smile. Blue eyes, deepest blue against his velvet doublet, stared directly into hers as he drank. She reached up and licked his lip, probing the corner with the tip. How wonderfully attractive he looked this afternoon. And how irrepressibly rapturous he smelled. Sounds from the lute strings reminded her of the company within. She turned to the group of women and courtiers who stood transfixed to their spots by her boldness.
"It seems His Grace has seen fit to favor us today." At first she felt awkward, then quickly decided it was none of their business how she treated the King. What did they think—that his attention—and their favors—could be captured by meek, dull behaviour?
"Come now, have you forgotten your manners?" With a scold and a glare, she swept to the floor in a deep curtsey in front of the King. There was a soft rustle of satin and velvet as her entire court followed suit. With a soft murmur, he took her hand, and raised her. She stared deep into his eyes as he lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed the small, double-nailed finger.
"How I love you, my dear," he whispered, then bellowed aloud to the court,
"The afternoon should be filled with music and dancing. Marc, please, some joyous sounds."
With hardly a heart beat, Marc stood to his feet and began playing wonderfully fast paced rhythms, fair hair swaying as he strummed. George rose from his chair in the corner, grasped the coal girl about the waist. The girl gasped, incredulous, as he whirled her about the room in rhythmic frenzy, cavorting and stepping high to the beat. Her flattered laughter rang true through the air as other couples paired up. It was a sight to see, him charming the poor soot-faced girl, whose yellowed teeth flashed white against the darkness of her face. How like George to intimate himself with anyone he chose; the girl would probably speak of this to everyone she knew.
"May I have this dance, Your Grace?" Anne smiled intimately up into Henry’s eyes, savored the sight of his lips as they descended to her brow.
"You may, of course, Mistress Rochford." He seized her and pulled her into the circle of three or four couples. He danced madly with her as if he didn’t worry about lack of breath or energy, almost as if he thought the entire idea of breath came from within himself.
"It’s time to change, Sire," she gasped, breathless, but unwilling to admit it.
"Ah, but I am the King, and if I choose not to switch, then I shan’t." His fair face flushed pink, wide throat worked effortlessly.
"Then I count myself fortunate to dance with royalty for so long," she laughed, pinched his buttock teasingly. The sight of chairs and greens and f
ire from the fireplace whirled around her vision as he answered.
"You’ll be dancing for a longer time than you foresee, my Anne, and with passionate frenzy if our dreams are to be fulfilled."
She grinned and nodded, too winded to speak.
"My lord," the girl’s voice was breathless in George’s ear, and the joy that shone on her face made him grin broadly.
"My lord?" he mocked her in a way that made sure she’d not think it malicious.
"I’m no one’s lord, my lady. Just a man who enjoys his fun."
"And I be no lady." She laughed, tried to pull her sooty fingers from his grasp. He stopped, held tighter to her fingers.
"Being a lady has naught to do with wealth, and much to do with gentleness." He pulled her to the table where every means of delicacy waited to be taken.
"Think ye? Do ye also believe the likes of me could be a Queen?" She stared at him with large green eyes. The flagrant insult to Anne seemed to hover in the air before his nose, waiting for vindication. For a moment, he felt uncomfortable, but rather than answer to the sarcastic bite in her tone, decided on another tack.
"If my sister could be as one, I’m certain any girl of your wit could."
She grinned, stole a look at Anne. With that one look, George knew he had gained a much needed ally. He grabbed a crusty roll and a chunk of cheese from the table. There was more than enough food, and she seemed so frail. She wiped her hand across her grungy apron and took it from him slowly, as if he’d grab it away.
"Thank ye."
"Think naught of it, my dear. Now come. Let me introduce you to your new mistress."
The next morning, Henry came to Anne’s chambers like a whirlwind ready to blow through the castle.
"Have you readied to go hawking?"
Anne came out from behind her dressing screen to see him seated in his favorite chair. The deep greens of the velvet made his hair look redder and she thought of a fox in his den—how earthy Rex looked today, how primitive.
Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) Page 13
