"Ah Anne, you're a witch." The fragrance of wood and moss swept through her senses as he caressed her. They lay slick against each other, not consummating their love, merely heightening it. As the time came for release, she moved away from him, opening her lips to his shaft, letting the head swell ’til it filled her mouth. Ah, the sense of power in hearing him moan so uncontrollably. No other force was as strong as this, to hold a King literally in the palm of her hand, and have him begging as he was now.
Chapter 31
A letter from Henry awaited her at Hever, and one came every day telling her of the events; letting her know with pledges and promises, that Cardinal Campeggio had arrived and was working with Wolsey to discover whether Henry's matter could be solved. Every day she waited for a horseman to bring his letter, eagerly anticipating news from court. And when he arrived, she would run to her room where she kept the horde of letters and read the newest in private, amid the velvet drapes and smells of her childhood. Every day, until she grew ill.
"Blasted heat," she muttered to her mother.
"I'm burning inside." Ah, but her head. It hurt to move it, or to hold it still. Any sudden noise would grip it with such agonizing pain that she couldn't even grimace. And the shivering—ooh. Every convulsion bred another ’til her hair ached. She was sick—plain and simple. So she napped in the afternoon while the sun was still high, hoping the headache would go away with some rest. But when she awoke just before dusk, it was to a mad shivering that forced her to hold herself very tight. Such a heat in the room, too much heat for early September. The walls melted when she looked at them, and the bare stone floor beckoned her with its starkness. She knew the floor would be cold, and longed to touch her toe to it, but she hadn't the strength to stretch her leg so far from the bed. She felt like a limp shadow of a body, having neither energy nor inclination. That alone, made her afraid. From somewhere outside her bedroom she could hear mutterings—voices that sounded like her mother's, and George’s. She fought the fog that threatened her consciousness.
"God’s blood! Father has it?"
Yes, surely George's voice; strong and sound.
"Yes."
She could barely make out the soft tones of her mother's voice—it sounded strained somehow, but that could have come from her own exhaustion.
"He brought it from London."
"Ah, dear God, then you, Mother?"
George’s voice held a plea, agonized by something Anne didn't understand. Even through the murk, his anguish was unmistakable, but she couldn't hear her mother respond to him. Anne imagined she nodded her head, or shook it because there was a long silence before George's voice came again.
"And what of Anne? Is she sick?"
Quiet descended after the question, a heavy silence that left Anne anxiously awaiting a filling. For some reason, this discussion terrified her. Sickness from London? Father had come home a few days ago and hadn't complained of illness. At least, not until yesterday, and then only a headache.
"She's in bed now—feverish. You'd better leave, son. Go home and tell no one of this. If anyone even suspects you of being ill..."
"No. I must see her." The urgency in his voice was unmistakable, but the mumbling and sounds of footfalls faded out. Anne wanted to sleep. Her eyes closed without her realizing it, only to open again as George crashed through the door. From the mist of sleep-weary eyes she saw him as he stood for a moment, looking uncertain. In the grand doorway, he was a small figure, clad in whey blue and holding a large pottery tankard.
"I’ve brought a pottle of spiced ale, Nan."
She tried a weak smile.
"George..." Her throat felt raw; sleep must truly want her. "How good of you to visit, all the way from London."
He brushed back the chestnut locks that fell forward. His hair always fell into his face, he should wear it short like Father, or like Henry.
"George, I’m tired..."
"Yes, Nan. I know it." He came forward, carefully placed the pottle on the bed stand. She felt his weight on the bed, saw from the corner of her eye, her mother standing still in the doorway, fingers stuffed into her mouth.
"Mother says you’ve a headache."
Anne licked her lips, touched his arm. He grasped her fingers and touched his lip with them.
"It’s a terrible headache, for certainty, brother. It makes me sweat."
"It’ll pass." He didn’t let go her hand, rather held it tightly, gave it a squeeze.
"And I’ve not come from London just to visit. I’m staying on for a few days."
She wanted to say how wonderful she thought it, that he’d be staying. But she felt so weary, and the room truly had begun to spin.
"George, please. I’ll be out to dinner later. We can play chess if you like, or read aloud, but now I need to rest." She pulled her hand from his, had to tug on it to get him to release it. He smiled warmly at her, kissed her forehead.
"Then rest, and I’ll beat you at chess later."
She didn’t feel his weight leave the bed, didn’t hear him close the door. In her dreams she saw France, sat contentedly in a hidden wood glade with a man who was as kind and gentle as the breeze. She saw yellows in her dreams, and the reds of a fire. The delicious scent of roasted game crept into her nostrils, then the smell of pine and moss. Oh, happiness here, and contentment. But then the images changed and Henry stood there, against the green of the trees. What was he doing here, in the woods?
And the babe—soft and pink and plump—why did he reach for the halo around his head? But pleasing, he was, beautiful babe. Ah Henry, you should be so proud. Soon the dreams changed again. She heard voices at the bottom of her bed. Fear and terror lurked there. Was that Gabriel arguing with Satan? And why is the serpent crying, his face filled with the most hideous sorrow she had ever witnessed. Red streams of tears meandered down the crags of his face, dripping blood onto the soft coverlet. A coverlet that kept creeping down her chest ’til it was a bunch of rolls across her foot.
But no, it crept not of its own accord, but by the hand of an imp who had the plumpness of Henry’s babe and the eyes of a demon. He perched attentively at the foot of her bed, a wide grin spread across his face—pulling at the yellow coverlet so it crept off her body. It seemed he wanted to speak to her, the large wet mouth worked in a frenzy, drooling slimy spittle onto his chest. Ghastly. But then he would grow fearful and peek furtively back across his shoulder, then pick at her sheets again. Sometimes stroking the instep of her bare foot, then with a quick glance behind, would check his back again. After a time, the mutterings began again, in quiet hushed voices, and she knew the voices were from her own realm and wasn't afraid.
"We have fortified ourselves with medicines..." Strange, she thought, Henry's words, but George’s voice. Sweet it was too, so safe-sounding. Then a light stroke on her forehead—a cool hand fleet and gentle as a lamb. It felt good, that hand, when it rid her forehead of the tangled wet locks that sopped at her eyesight. She dared a glance, hoping it wasn't really the imp trying to fool her. And in the blur of light and pain she made out her mother's figure standing close.
"I have sent my doctor with potions made by my own hand..." George held a dirty parchment from which he read. A black shroud of Elizabeth’s hair spilled onto his shoulder as she leaned closer. Black as a raven’s wing, and black as Anne’s own. Though it hurt, Anne smiled, and tried to speak.
"Ha..." she wanted to ask, have you slept, mother? But her throat caught on the first word and rattled so that she had begun coughing so spasmodically that she couldn't take a breath to fuel it. Her mother touched Anne’s lips with a napkin which she threw rapidly into the fire. But not before Anne noticed the blood that stained the linen, and it was then that she thought, I'm to die; And I’ve done naught to please the almighty. She drifted away again.
Anne had stopped breathing once. Her wretched gasp of the moment before had nearly made George’s heart stop, but that was nothing. The worst came next. A heavy, suffocating silence wrapped
about his shoulders like a cloak and he knew at once why it was so quiet. He ran screaming from her chamber. Only barely saw the blur of stone and tapestries as he spun in a circle at the door. Gratefully his mother appeared before he lost his mind.
"Gone," he spluttered.
"Gone." Elizabeth sprinted to the bed in the time it took for a heart to stop beating.
"No." She lowered her ear to Anne’s chest. "No, she’s just sleeping."
George chewed his nails. "Mother. She stopped breathing."
Elizabeth shook her head.
"Listen."
He closed his eyes, concentrated on hearing every tiny sound. A wheezing, hesitant intake of breath confirmed Anne’s life. He fell to the floor. That had been only just one hour ago. Now he sat next to her on the bed. Good, sweet Lord, but she looked awful lying there. Her face only a specter of its usual life. Full lips that so often quivered when sad, now pulled downward as if a frown had overtaken her features. George fingered each of her nails as if his touch could heal her, but Anne only sighed and thrashed again, pulling away and drawing close and pulling away.
He couldn’t bring himself to release her fingers, didn’t dare leave the room for fear those elegant hands would grow cold without his touch or her lips would form his name one last time as he slept. No matter how his eyes burned, he’d not close them. Guilty that he needed to relieve his eyes of her, ashamed that he couldn’t stand to watch her pain, he scanned the room as he stroked her palm. He wondered if the golden stone and walnut hearth of the fireplace sensed death. They would allow no fire within. Each time Elizabeth tried to light it, a gust from above extinguished the flame. In retrospect, he thought perhaps Anne’s entire chamber waited to hold her soul; the shutters, closed against the weather, moved not at all and the air was cold, tightening, dense. Something in the room shivered.
"Can you rise, Anne?" Her mother asked. "You've been abed five full days."
Anne opened her eyes. She didn't think she could, but it seemed her mother didn't care. She pulled Anne gently to a sitting position, took the pillow and heaved it onto the logs. And when she had managed to get her to the wooden rocker, the bedclothes went the same fate, as well as her own nightgown. She watched with weak interest, as Elizabeth made the bed up again with a mere sheet, then dipped a corner of a napkin into a bowl of fresh water.
The sight made Anne’s dry mouth smack with yearning. How clean it looked, and cold. She opened her lips as her mother touched the wet linen to her tongue and squeezed. How grand it felt when Elizabeth began to methodically squeeze the water onto Anne's naked body, never mind the fear that she would die from chill. Chill would be wonderful now, and she would die anyway, better cool than searing hot.
When the strange bath was done, she felt her mother's hands under her arms, trying to lift her again to the bed. No matter that Anne tried to help; the weakness made her head loll to the side. She didn't care enough to right it—at least, not until she had glimpsed the crimson boils that lined her groin and riddled her chest. The grisly gurgling swell of them made her gag. She soiled the skin her mother had just lovingly cleaned. Later, she lay exhausted on the nearly empty bed, slipping in and out of sense and sleep. George had abandoned her, gone back to London she supposed to dance and dine with his wife. But her mother came everyday, to cleanse and feed her, burning the clothes and sheets that Anne lay in.
Nothing was sacred; once she even had to lay on the mattress nude, shivering and weak until Elizabeth had found something with which to cover her. And when the day came that she was able to sit alone, and eat a lumpy broth rather than a clear liquid, she was more than relieved. No more cold baths, or tormenting dreams.
"I feel able to eat a savory stew today," she declared when Elizabeth came into the room.
"And I think I may well leave this room. I’m strong enough to go out and pick you some herbs, mother. What do you say to that?"
Elizabeth wiped the back of her hand across a perspiring forehead.
"I say there’s no time to go out and about, Nan. I need help with your brother."
Elizabeth’s eyes watered and Anne thought she saw fear there. It took only seconds for her to bolt from the bed and into George’s old bedroom.
"Ah, Jesu!" The bed seemed to swallow him as he lay still and quiet upon it. The large wooden headboard taunted her with its sturdiness in light of the limp form she saw beneath it. His hair looked more the rat pelt than ever, for it was dark and filthy. She remembered his hand on her forehead and how he had kissed her when she was ill. Mea Culpa, she had repaid his comfort with illness. Had she only known, she’d not have let him in. She’d not have let him touch her. Now he fought the plague, for she knew that was what it was. She could see it in the sores about his neck and the fever that broke his face in a horrible sheen of sweat.
"He slept in the chair next to your bed ’til he grew ill." Her mother’s voice broke her thoughts.
"The only time he left the room was when I had to cleanse you." The brown eyes grew moist and flooded so that her face was filled with water.
"Oh, Anne. I can't stand to lose him." She flung her arms about Anne’s shoulder, and Anne held her as tightly as she could.
"We shan’t lose him, Mother. You didn't lose me."
When George awoke, he felt as if he’d slept the sleep of Christ, or rather, he felt as Christ would have felt when he found himself back in his body after the third day. His mouth felt dry and furry—his tongue lay between his teeth like a rat asleep, and when he moved it, the underneath ached so he let it be. His body ached too, on the undersides where the muscles beneath the muscles had forgotten they had life. But the biggest complaint his body made was that it was hungry—ravenously hungry.
"Mother..."The sound came out as a croak, rather than the shout he wanted. He tried again.
"Mother." This time a whisper. Oh, what was the use? He’d have to bang on the floor like his father had years ago when he wanted Elizabeth to come running and he hadn’t the bother to speak. Curses. He moved to the edge of the bed. It took a while, but finally he managed to squirm far enough to lean his upper body toward the floor. Good. His hand reached the mat. Now to let it flop. Hardly a noise. Humph. He would have to try a little harder. He lifted his butt up a little, gave a squirm, until... Well, now this was a lovely position to be in. He had made a goodly noise, that was certain, and yes, he could hear the rushing steps of someone coming near. Trouble was—and it was a terrible trouble when he looked down at himself—that he lay prone on the floor naked as the day he was born. And bother that he could hardly reach the bed to pull a quilt onto himself.
"George?"
"Um. Don’t come in please," He heard himself say, but he doubted Anne heard it, for his throat still hadn’t the inclination to obey his weak mind. And yes, there she was. He made a timid attempt to cover himself, cupped his feeble fingers around his scrotum so she’d not see. Damn her and the hand that flew to her mouth in surprise.
"Stop laughing, Nan."
"I can't help it." Her hands went to her ribs as she doubled over. He hoped it was relief, rather than humor that made her laugh so hysterically and uproariously.
"Yes. Yes, you can help it. Now go fetch a servant to help me back to bed."
She giggled more, turned her back on him. Ah, gracious sister, for having some shame.
"Mother. Mother, George is fine. He lives!" The sound of her shout hurt his ear, but more than that it frightened him. God’s blood, mother would be running to the room as quick as Anne had.
"Help me." The irritating way she shook her head made him want to strangle her. "You demon. When I’m better, I’ll thrash you so you dare not look upon my face again."
"I dare not look at you now, brother. So get up yourself and hide that scrawny body of yours."
He managed to pull himself to a sitting position, and in a horrible instant stood uncertainly, thinking he would fall. And fall he did, but thankfully onto the bed. He rummaged beneath his hide to pull up a sheet. H
e just got it into place when Elizabeth came into the chamber.
"George," she said nothing more, but rushed to him. He held her small frame against his chest.
"Mother, what news?"
She looked at him, relief plain on her face.
"Your Father lives, Anne too, as you see. But Mary’s husband has passed."
"And Henry has called me back to London," Anne said. A strange zeal lit her features. "But of course I’ll wait ’til you're well enough to travel."
"Ah, so you think I’d like to travel with you, you demon. I’d not chance it if it would save your soul." He turned to the wall and hoped the two of them would leave him to dress. He heard Anne’s harrumph, imagined she had her hand on her hip.
"Oh, you’ll go, all right, for your wife awaits. I’ll not have her thinking I’ve poisoned you, or imprisoned you—which I imagine she’ll think at any rate."
Chapter 32
Months later, Anne paced eagerly in her castle apartments. Her servants and ladies managed to get in her way with every turn and she had terrible urges to curse at them with each round. Instead she muttered quietly to herself. The gathering must be over by now. Why, it had been hours. Damn, why couldn’t someone come and tell her how it went? Two, three, five, ten more paces, and finally a knock at the door. One, two, barely three seconds and she was there, pulling it open with a great flourish.
"George." She grabbed him by the sleeve, pulled him into the room with no concern for politeness or propriety.
"Come, tell me." He had begun to spend even more time in her chambers, and she relied on him to tell her every bit of court news that dealt with her. He made a big show of pretending ignorance.
Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) Page 15
