Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel)

by Atkinson, Thea

  "Tell you?" He smiled wickedly. "Tell you what?"

  "Go sit down," she ordered. This was no time for games, Henry had said he would make the nobles pay for questioning his conscience on his marriage.

  "Tell me everything." There, that should be answer enough, specific enough. George folded into a hard backed, tapestry covered chair.

  "Not before you get me something to eat. I'm starved, he kept us in there for hours, not caring it went past lunch." Before he could make himself comfortable, she prodded his shoulder and shushed him. She ordered Nan Gainesford to fetch fruit, and pulled George to his feet and into her chamber, where some privacy could be had—there were ears all over the place, including the ones she had put in Catherine's apartments. If there was juicy news in his tale, she wanted to be the only one to hear of it. Let Catherine's spies secure their own information.

  "Gad, I'm hungry," George complained for the last time Anne could bear to hear. She turned back to him as she entered the bedchamber, slapped his chest with her open palm. He ignored her temper and draped across her bed, covering the blue satin with a large pool of red tissue cloth. His brown hair looked dirty against the stark white of her pillow.

  "Stop complaining, and get to it." How terribly annoying he could be at times, playing with her and teasing her. Yet he wouldn’t be George if he didn’t. Cursed she was, with such a sibling.

  "Ah, ah." He tapped the air with his finger, sitting calmly. "Patience, my dear sister. You'll never make it with so little patience."

  She thought she would throw something at him.

  "I've spent three years cultivating this patience; I'm beginning to lose it very quickly. What with all the slurs and death threats. An angel would have lost it by now, so don't scold me, brother."

  "Oh, very well. But I'm still hungry." He accepted her order with the largest of sighs, and crossed his arms against his chest. His eyes closed while he made her wait—his own brand of protest. She was about to give in and fling a pillow at him, when a few short raps sounded at her door. She opened it for Nan who carried a large tray of fruit and wine. Nan grinned at Anne and made to throw an apple at George’s stomach. Anne shook her head and took the tray, laid it noisily on the bed table. At the sound of goblets clunking and fruit rolling against each other, he opened one eye. Anne grinned when he closed it again and made a face at her.

  "Here, there’s cheese on the tray as well. Does that meet your approval?" She perched on the bed next to him, held out a goblet of wine. She turned to make sure Nan closed the door behind her, and as she did, she felt a tender touch on her shoulder.

  "He made a few rather eloquent statements about how he loved the Queen." He Picked a berry from the tray.

  "He did, did he?" Lately she had been feeling paranoid about Catherine, and how much Henry loved her. Why, she had even found a servant bringing him one of the shirts Catherine had sewn. There had been an argument over that—and later, a passionate reconciliation.

  "Yes, after the normal business. He opened the subject of his marriage somehow—I forget how it started. But once he began speaking, the whole assembly quieted down." George jammed the strawberry into his mouth.

  "Said how he would marry Catherine again, if the marriage weren't condemned. How she is such a goodly, kind woman, fairer than any other. And how she has been an exceptional Queen and wife."

  He chewed the fruit reflectively and Anne watched his smooth cheeks billow where the berry moved. Anne snorted. How like Henry to make such a speech. Still, she had to admit, it seemed the best move to make, allowing the kingdom to think he wanted another woman for the good of the realm, not because he lusted after her.

  "Did the assembly believe him?" She asked, interested in the reaction. She stretched for a berry herself. George's light laugh intensified the color of his face.

  "Come now, Anne. They might act as if they believe him, for their own sakes. And indeed, many might have, except on the note he ended the whole affair."

  "Which was?"

  "At first, I think everything went fine. Then as Henry was about to sit, very low, in the back, I heard a snort, and a rude remark which I really shouldn't reveal."

  "Tell me," she insisted, pinching his skin.

  "It had something to do with his manhood, if I recall. Which of course, he heard. And his face got red, like it had turned into a boiled beet."

  Anne nodded; she had seen it many times. Henry usually had the look of an angel; smooth of face, and fair. But when he lost his temper, no semblance of that angel could be found. She could just imagine the look on his face—and the fear he must have instilled on all those in the assembly.

  "He turned right back ’round, and glared into the crowd. Oh, it made me shudder, that look. You can barely imagine how glad I was that I didn't say it. And I think the fellow who did must have shrunk into the floor. The King knew not who had made the statement, and no one was about to tell him."

  "Yes, yes?" The tension must have been unbearable.

  "He looked right into the crowd, and said, that if anyone crossed him, or dared criticize him, or his choices, there would be dire consequences."

  "Dire?"

  "Yes. He said there was no head in the kingdom so fine it wouldn’t fly." George shivered. "I tell you, my blood froze on the spot."

  Her blood froze just thinking about it, but at least he had finally been spurred to some action—though by now most of the Kingdom probably realized his delusions. Who could believe in light of the very public attention he bestowed on his mistress, that Henry still loved his wife, or was saddened that the marriage might not be legal? The thought was preposterous, and so very like Henry to attempt to make it seem otherwise.

  "And news of Campeggio? He’s been in England for nearly four months and still hadn't made judgment on Henry’s matter."

  "There was no news, save that he's working night and day, studying all aspects. He did say he hoped to have his answer soon." George finally sat up in the bed, and rose to stride to the fireplace, a bright red figure against the dreariness of stone.

  She watched as he threw another log into the fire. Flames gratefully enshrouded the wood, devouring it voraciously. The June air still required some heat, especially during early evening. She followed him and went to the hearth where she could see his face clearly.

  "I suspect that Campeggio has orders to postpone the matter." There, she had said it finally, admitted her suspicions to someone. George looked at her, digesting her words.

  "You mean, from the Pope? But why?" His left eyebrow rose a good distance from its normal spot. She strode across the room, then paced back to the fireplace, resting her hand on the poker. She decided to explain her worry, changed her mind, then decided again.

  "I think there is more at stake here than the Pope wishes to contemplate, and I doubt he wants to make a ruling on it."

  She twisted the instrument round and round, pulling a little, stabbing a little, choosing her words carefully so he would easily understand the way her mind had been traveling.

  "Oh, it’s complicated..." she huffed and George gave her a sarcastic, do you think I’m a fool, look...

  "I’m just not sure how to word it. It’s clear in my mind, but when I try to unravel it, it gets lost somehow."

  "I’ll listen, if you’d like."

  She took a deep breath. "Catherine was first married to Henry’s brother, correct?"

  George nodded.

  "That meant the Pope had to grant a dispensation so Henry could marry her."

  "Because they were related?" George answered.

  Anne nodded.

  "The dispensation was based on the non-consummation of the marriage. Do you see?" She stopped poking at the fire long enough to study his face, to see if her point was being understood.

  "Twenty years ago that paper stated that God hadn’t seen Catherine as married to Arthur. But now Henry wants to put her away based on the grounds that God is punishing him for marrying his brother’s legal wife. If Catherine
wasn’t married to Arthur twenty years ago, then how can Henry say now, that she was?"

  "So, if Campeggio agrees with Henry, he’s stating that the papacy was wrong in issuing the dispensation. That means the Pope would have gone against God’s written law in order to marry her to Henry. Not a good position for the Pope, eh?"

  "The Pope has been going against God’s law for years... he and his predecessors." She stabbed at the fire again. It disgusted her, this business.

  "Mmmm," he mumbled in agreement. "They say they’re holy men of God, but don’t follow their own preaching when it comes to finance." A wet smack accompanied his words.

  "And all those dispensations they issue. Charging to buy people from purgatory and into heaven," she scoffed.

  "You know as well as I, that God says there is only one way to heaven; through Jesus. So I imagine for the Pope to come right out and say he can’t go against the bible’s teachings would shed unwanted light on his church’s practices."

  George laughed, and she looked at him queerly.

  "What’s so funny?"

  "The whole thing, Anne. Think of it... The Pope won’t go against God’s teachings for Henry’s want to bed another woman, yet does it himself so he can bed the populace. For a whore, you keep good company." He guffawed at that, and Anne couldn’t help but smile.

  "You’re brave to call me whore, brother." She brandished the poker. "But still, you’re right. I think the Pope is afraid to lose a lucrative business. I’ll wager he doesn’t want his followers to realize he’s but a man. And thus, his Cardinal will not make a decision on this matter—probably hoping Henry will tire of the affair and go back to Catherine."

  She twisted the poker around a burning log and sighed.

  "But what are my suspicions against the powers of the realm? The Islanders are, for the main part, ignorant of the bible, relying on priests interpretations from the Latin. At least in France were we able to read our own."

  "I’m afraid we’re powerless on that count, Anne." George went back to the tray of fruit, and picked up an orange.

  "Powerless on all counts," she mused.

  "Because Henry won't listen. He still thinks Cardinal Campeggio can intercede. Trouble is, poor wretch is in limbo the same as me. Except he loses no matter whose side wins." She flopped onto a dusty chair, watched George as he split the orange. Something was peculiar in his manner as he opened it.

  "What is it?" His face had blanched to ash.

  "Oh, nothing." He threw the orange, flesh and all into the fire, but it rolled back out, taunting them with a wide mouth-like split. She rose from her chair, swept past him.

  "Nothing?"

  She bent to retrieve the fruit. A piece of parchment lolled from the mouth like a tongue. She folded it open. As she scanned the paper, she felt appalled, then enraged. The drawing actually made her chest pull tightly as if the breath had all been sucked from it; she gasped once or twice as she studied it. In a fleeting moment, she gathered her faculties. It was but a parchment after all, and no matter how angry she was that it had been served her, she did see some humor in it. Silly commoners, did they think it would frighten her away from the throne? She laughed suddenly, as she looked at George, his face all white and afraid. He laughed when she did.

  "Nan!" She cried, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  "Nan, come here!" She carefully watched Nan’s walk as she returned to the room, took note of the look on her face.

  "Look here, Nan, it’s a book of prophecy." Anne spread the parchment onto the table, smoothed it with her deft fingers.

  "See here? This drawing is the King. Can you tell? He's labeled K." She watched her woman's face as she pointed to the next figure.

  "And this... This is Catherine, labeled C. And the final... Why, that's me. I'm the A with no head." She laughed heartily, but studied her servant’s face closely as it pinched into a disapproving sneer.

  "Ah, well," the girl began, waving the air as if to clear a stench.

  "I'd not have him if he were an emperor in that state." Sweet relief engulfed Anne. She didn’t think she could bear the thought of Nan purposely serving her the atrocity.

  "That may be so," Anne said.

  "But, so the realm can have peace by my children, I'd take him if I had to die a thousand deaths."

  Chapter 33

  While religious unrest squirmed in the streets of town and bred in tiny inns, Anne began to feel her own brand of it. She debated theology more hotly with Henry, and he, furious that she often bested him, or embarrassed that he hadn’t thought of her slant on the verse, stormed from her apartments muttering to himself all the while. What had driven her to question the accepted beliefs was no more unusual than her near-death. That and the King’s great matter. She needed to know if God was truly vengeful. Whether he could love unconditionally. She simply didn’t know, and since he was not about to tell her, and the clergy used him to their own ends, she took to studying her Bible. She searched for passages that would ease her mind. But when she did, the verse that leapt out at her more often than not, was that faith without works was dead. She industriously set her ladies studying as well, and forced a severe piety on her household ladies that would have made Catherine envious.

  For some reason, this unnerved her, so she gave in at times when they groaned and begged to sew. She’d devour her new pamphlets as they thankfully dug out the embroideries and shirts. And when they finished their projects Anne would demand they give over some of the shirts to the poor—she knew it made her tremendously unpopular among her women. As she had spent the last days overseeing her younger ladies’ French lessons and planning a grand supper, she decided to relax. She sat alone in her chambers, reading a newly published tract, and glancing over the half dozen books that lay sprawled and open upon the table in front of her. Her ladies had still not come back from breaking their nightly fast, and as she had always made a habit of eating in her bedchamber, was alone. The sun shone through the windows in hazy rays, casting a dappled illumination on the carpet.

  "What are you reading, dearest?"

  She looked up from the passage to see Henry enter, flanked by the Cardinal. Cardinal Wolsey’s deep crimson robes looked fanciful and brilliant next to the melancholy earth tones of the King’s doublet. For a second, it almost seemed as if the two were wearing the wrong clothes. But the feathered cap the King held onto gave away the attire—the Cardinal would never wear something so whimsical.

  "Not another of your causes, I hope." Henry replaced his cap. The feather trembled in the air.

  Because Cardinal Wolsey was there, Anne rose and curtsied.

  "Now, you can't blame me for Fish," she laughed, and noticed the Cardinal's head snap up with the mention of Simon Fish's name. His jowls shook a bit with the motion. She refused to be daunted by the Cardinal’s displeasure. Even as she watched Thomas, she stroked Henry’s palm.

  "It was your idea to aid him and his wife."

  A small humph from the Cardinal’s direction dared her.

  "Do you know of Simon Fish, My Lord Cardinal?" It was a terrible baiting, she knew. Of course he knew of Simon Fish—his tracts and pamphlets attacked church policies. And since she had been annoyed by church policies regarding the divorce, she found Wolsey suitable quarry.

  "I know he's a heretic and should be burnt. Just as that Martin Luther should." Thomas' voice sounded bitter as an under-ripe orange, but his words were hollow and they both knew it. The Cardinal was loathe to put any man to the stake, and in fact, was often attacked by his peers for failing to squelch the spread of Luther’s ideals.

  "Burnt because he speaks truth? Why Cardinal, burning is a terrible death even for the guilty. And if the man speaks truth, surely you as a man of God, must support him?" It didn't matter to her, that his face grew red. In fact, she rather liked it.

  "Have you read any of the tracts? What of Mr. Luther’s ideals... do you not think some of them reasonable?"

  The Cardinal crossed the room to the window, his b
ack haloed by the dappled sunlight. "There's no truth to baiting the populace into keeping their moneys from the church. God can use that coin for greater good."

  He swept back across the room. The halo remained on the carpet beneath the window.

  "Is God’s greater good so measured? Why, can not the commoners use their own money to feed and clothe themselves rather than impoverishing the family to save their dead from hell?"

  "And who are you to question the Church?" The Cardinal raised his hand, it seemed to strike her down, or to cross himself for protection. The smell of him wafted from his arms to her nose, a stink of sweat and rancidness. She grimaced. Henry cut in,

  "And all of this has nothing to do with my original question to my beloved. So stop the bickering." His fair face looked stern, the cap in his hand being clenched tightly so the feather rumpled.

  She hurried to where he stood, the book limp in her hand ."Oh, but it does, Your Grace." She pointed to the passage she had been reading.

  "See here?" She had often urged him to read her books on the ‘new learning’, but he always passed them off. Now was her opportunity to get him to understand—and in eyesight of the Fat Carl. Oh, it was too delicious. She waited for Henry to read it, aware of the Cardinal's eyes piercing her back. She could almost feel a little sting there, just between the blades. She got a perverse pleasure from it.

  "Why... the author attacks papal authority... and in favor of the secular ruler." Henry's voice held a distant, thoughtful note.

  "That would be me."

  "That would be you," she whispered. Let the Cardinal take that to Rome instead of peasant's money. And she turned to see his face barely being held together by a foreboding look of anger, fists clenched tightly to his sides.

  She turned her attention to Henry. "Shall we hunt today, or would you rather just ride?

  "I’ve been feeling a bit mad, being cooped up inside whilst we wait for the tribunal tomorrow." She fingered his doublet gently, hardly able to keep the smugness from her tone.

  "I've a mind to hunt, but I've pressing business here to care for with our Lord Cardinal, in preparation for the morrow."