Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel)

by Atkinson, Thea

  "He blames me, George," she whispered to her brother as he followed. Holding tightly to Nan’s arms, he struggled to board the barge.

  "Who? Henry?"

  Anne nodded and sat. The helmsman barely looked at her, but in the instant he did, she read the hatred.

  "As does everyone." Hiding her face beneath her hood, she allowed the tears. She should be pleased that Henry cared enough to go to such lengths to protect her station. But in truth, he did it for himself. The blackening of his soul would not stand the smallest criticism, and though he threatened the lives of his subjects, the rebellion seethed beneath the surface.

  Matters grew worse when Henry seized dissident chapels and had the friars starved and tortured when they refused to admit his supremacy. Anne knew the country squirmed beneath the tyranny and at odd times was able to successfully plead leniency for a few. But many hated her still, believing as Henry did, that hers was the ultimate blame. If not for her, the country would not be separated from Rome. She laughed at the thought she could have so much power.

  "This new tax will see Henry more hated," she sighed as she sat with her favorites, George and Francois and Marc and Hal Norris. A dozen ladies chattered to themselves, scorning her even as they pretended to pay her court. A dozen men courted them or drank their wine, watching Anne intently as she whispered hoarsely. But it was all just a grand show. Most of them were here only because they could find no way out of visiting or because they spied on her for Henry.

  "And so then, me," she continued, studying her entourage.

  "We know the truth, my lady." Came support from Marc.

  "Not all, you don't. For Henry's attitude has changed since his handsome lady." George interrupted. "And he's been favoring his elder daughter lately. That's a bad sign."

  "Yes, well, hopefully that will change if Francois will affiance his son to Elizabeth. Then Henry will have to see the power of even a daughter," she sighed, it had been some time before he had been in her bed. And no son was in sight.

  "And if not?" George asked quietly.

  "Let's think of it when we must," she answered, not wanting to imagine the consequences should the French King not support her claim to the throne.

  She had offended his envoy just last month when she laughed in front of him at supper. The King had told the envoy he would step out for a moment, and while the envoy waited patiently for him to return, Anne saw Henry standing at the door with his mistress.

  She had blurted a spluttering laugh that it would now take much longer for Henry to return because, on sight of the harlot, everything would leave his mind. The envoy didn't see the hilarity in it, and had given her a cold shoulder afterward. Now, Anne waited impatiently to see if that effrontery would settle against her through Francois, and while she waited, the atmosphere of her own court grew steadily cooler.

  Spies watched her every move, hoping to catch her in some horrible act that would harden Henry against her. She knew every countryman writhed beneath Henry's imposed Supremacy, and hoped the King would rid himself of his new Queen and return the land to sanity. But she knew he wouldn't. Henry had grown greedy, and fat, and tyrannical. He would never return his country to Rome, and was content to let the country blame her until she construed menace in every court action. She scanned an opulent chamber, took in the darkened walnut paneling, the books she had collected. No matter that she could have anything she wanted, from the gilded clock to the ivory statues, she was fast falling into a pit as black as the walnut.

  "But for now the hostilities are everywhere, save here," she whispered aloud, only becoming aware that she had captured unnecessary attention from her courtiers, losing for a moment the sanity that would have kept the admission quiet.

  "Hush, my Queen," said Francis, who had admitted to her just the day before that he worried for her safety, and conceded Henry's odd behavior. She didn't have the heart to scold him for shushing her.

  "You'll see at the dance this eve, that all is well, and not as sinister as you believe."

  "I'll not go to the dance," she broke in, not daring to say she felt the pressings of fate.

  "Instead I'll wait in the King's chambers ’til he comes with his lady." She didn’t want to admit she was afraid to face the court—and not even the lure of dancing could make her go.

  And wait, she did. In Henry’s bedchamber, but not to combat him—she had tried that too many times to no avail. She waited naked beneath the large fur coverlet of his huge bed, and shivered at what she thought to do. She had reflected on the problem long, and while Elizabeth's future waited in limbo, she must act to save that future from disaster. In the early hours while she dozed lightly, she heard voices outside the chamber—he and his mistress as she suspected. Anne stretched and took a deep breath.

  The time had come to woo Henry. She stood brazenly, the cool air of the December evening made her aging breasts perk and the nipples tauten. She thanked heaven the gray in her hair had not reached her thighs—the hair there was still thick and raven black. When Henry opened the door and saw her standing nude next to the bed, his breath caught and the arm stretched across his lady's shoulder jerked. She didn't give him time to dismiss her.

  "My lord King, since you've decided to keep this woman rather than secure your throne, I offer you a compromise."

  "And what would that be?" Blue eyes narrowed to black slits, as he considered her still slim figure.

  "That you share your bed this night with two women. If you like." She tilted her chin defiantly, let her fingers trail seductively across her breast. She avoided the woman's eye. Instead, she watched him look to the harlot. He touched her arm before caressing her chest and pulling her gently into the room. The woman’s large cow eyes blinked furiously and Anne couldn't help but grin.

  "Are you willing, my Lord?"

  "If you are," he said, and with the answer, Anne padded forward on light feet to touch the woman's cheek. A soft brush, seductive. The woman screeched and bolted from the room like a rabbit. Anne turned her grin to him.

  "It seems we're alone, my husband."

  "It seems so, my wife." His husky voice curled around her tongue as he kissed her.

  Chapter 51

  Spring 1535

  The chamomile carpet had seemed the perfect place for Anne’s reflections, providing a soft cushion, a sweet smell. She lay prone upon it, chin in hands, elbows propped, digging slightly into the turf. She faced away from Bridewell palace and into the gloom of trees that stood sentry around the garden. She thought of the winter’s passing—a cold, anxious season that had nearly frozen her heart as well. She thought too, of the early spring dusk she was now a part of, feeling its chill breeze on her unbound hair.

  She breathed deep, filling her lungs with the slight scent of apples and the mist of dusk. So much time had crept upon her, unseen, unheeded. So many worries had come and gone—though they had left a tiny blemish on her mind. She wondered, in the eerie stealth of night, how she had managed to maneuver through the murk unscathed. Three babies dead, dead as love to her.

  She rolled onto her back and stared into the encroaching night. The moon hunkered into a slit in the sky, hiding his face and keeping secrets. It lent little light, only as much as it deigned. So much like Henry, the crescent moon was—hiding a second half within folds of its nature.

  He had come back to her, and in the months, shared her bed and smiled civilly in public. But there was no passion in the depths of his eyes, no zeal in his kiss. She thought of his coolness, tried to believe it was because of the threat of a commoner’s rebellion, or the riots that besieged the country. Henry loved her no more, and stayed away from her because he wanted to fool her into believing everything remained as normal. She cursed the intelligence that wouldn’t allow her the peace of ignorance. She had been spared the rivalry of Henry’s handsome lady however, and that relieved her. Now she simply had to carry this child to term. So during the afternoon, trying to keep her nerves still, she had sat serenely in her court sewing o
ne of Henry's shirts.

  "Anne, oh sweet Jesu, Anne. Bad news." George barged into the chamber, his riding clothes wet from the sweat of a hard ride.

  "Bad, brother? Come. Sit. What is it?" She touched her belly nervously, then remembering he had been in Calais for the past few days, realized the news must be of Elizabeth's match. She had better receive it in private—Catherine's spies were everywhere.

  "No, wait. Come into my bedchamber." She rose, discarding the shirt onto the chair.

  "All is lost," he whispered hoarsely into her ear as she shut the door behind them.

  "Henry won't agree to Francois' terms, and so Francois refused to offer his son for Elizabeth, saying your hold on the throne is weak, and that Elizabeth is a bastard."

  Ah, sweet Jesu, indeed. At last the news had come, and the country that had nurtured her finally purged her as she had her babies. It hurt her to the core, to think her country by choice, whose language she had made her own, and whose fashions she wore had betrayed her.

  "Who will help me now?" She murmured. Francois' support would have sustained her claim, given her an ally. Now there were no countries who would ally with England, and she had to prove the throne was secure. She prayed a fast and fleeting prayer.

  "And all of this on the heels of those executions. Damn." She stomped her foot.

  George inclined his head, brown locks fell loose in his eyes.

  "The city is in an uproar over them, I agree." He shuddered. "The heads still stare from the city gateposts."

  "Perhaps the city wouldn't be so outraged if they had been stripped of their orders first. Damn Henry's pride. He's costing his own popularity, and dragging me down with him. Bad enough the country hates me, now he's given them more reason." She paced back and forth from bed to fireplace, fireplace to bed, and finally plopped down on it. She sighed heavily, helplessly.

  "Leave me George, I need to be alone." She turned away and listened to his steps retreat to the door. The mumble of voices from her court rose, then fell as he did so. Moments later she donned a cloak and rushed to the garden. Her uneasy sense of safety had disappeared; she should never have believed in it anyway. Lying on the damp earth, she smoothed her stomach, which hadn't yet begun to show.

  "Don't worry my prince, my heart is set on you." Tiny flutter within, probably gas, but she didn't want to believe that was all it was. She’d rather it was a sign of life, of safety, and as that life spurred in her over the month, it kept her believing in her success. For success was now measured, not in gaining the throne as it used to be, but in maintaining it. She got up and wandered back to her apartments, thinking on her troubles.

  Menace abounded everywhere, hostility in every crevice. She suspected her uncle Norfolk of trying to ally one of his sons to Henry's elder daughter Mary, and she had publicly berated him like a dog. He in turn had slung insults back, but she had won the fight, if only for a time. She simply couldn't have the uneasy court believe she had lost potency, or that her family had begun to desert her.

  The only supporters left in her circle whom she could trust, were her father—who now loathed her, and George—who championed her because he loved her. But while her father was a statesman, George was merely a courtier. She didn't see how the three of them could hold the faction together without Henry. So the next morning, she decided to take her meal with Henry, using her pregnancy as an excuse for him to see her. He smiled when she came, helped her to her seat, flirted a little. It eased her mind to see him so indulgent; she had begun to worry about him sporting with one of her ladies, a quiet, soft-spoken, but crafty Seymour girl. The only curse of her pregnancies was his sporting with other women, and she hated it, worried over it.

  "Marmalade for that toast, my husband?" she asked as sweetly as she could, trying her best not to grow irritated at the way he gluttonously crammed his breakfast into his fat cheeks.

  "Thank you, no," he considered her still trim figure suspiciously.

  "Does the babe grow?" She dared him, though her mind worded the accusation a bit differently.

  "Yes, my love, I think it is. Might we finally get that son we crave?"

  She wasn't fooled. His manner might be light, but his eyes told her he felt no passion for her, and probably hoped the son wouldn't survive, for then would be his reason to cleave to his mistress.

  "I believe so. I feel its movements even now. He will be hearty, like his King." She scooped the marmalade onto her bread, thick and orange with small swirls to it. She had just taken a bite when Francis Weston entered the room.

  "Pardon, my graces, but I've a note for the King." He bowed quickly, and hurried to Henry, tucked a note in the swollen palm and left. Henry scanned it quickly. Anne watched his face turn furious.

  "Brah!" The bellow echoed throughout the room.

  "A cardinal! That resolute old bastard. The Pope wants to make Fisher a Cardinal." He scrunched the tiny parchment into a small ball and threw it across the room. Anne watched it slowly expand.

  "Curses on that Clement! Who does he think he's toying with?" Jowls trembled with rage.

  "I'll have Fisher's head sent to Rome for that hat. Hah!" The shock of Henry's outburst swept aside her discretion.

  "Is it truly so bad?" She didn't want to see this happen; the country would go mad over such an event. Fisher had long been revered in the country, and his imprisonment had only hardened the populace’s reverence. They saw him as a man noble enough to face prison for his beliefs. If Henry had him murdered, they would consider him a martyr—much harder to deal with. The question only goaded Henry more.

  "That bad?" He roared again.

  "Of course it’s that bad; and all for you. Brah! Would that you had never bewitched me."

  The bitterness welled inside her, he knew well the country hated her even as he sought her. This was his fault, not hers. Didn't he think if she could use sorcery, she would have done so on the populace, or even Catherine to ease the way? Finally the public displays of hatred he had been showering her with, coercing the court to ridicule her, broke the tether of restraint. She kept her voice cool and level.

  "You should be thanking me, rather than cursing me, my King. And be more bound to me than any other man to a woman."

  "Have I not rescued you from a state of sin?" She asked sarcastically, reminding him of his original argument, that his first marriage was null.

  "Have I not made you the richest prince ever in England? I'm the cause of your supremacy, of your great profit, and that of your people." She rose from her chair and threw her napkin at him. She was tired of this Queenship anyway, it had held nothing but bitterness and loneliness for her.

  His mouth worked in a wet impotency to retaliate, and she grinned a perverse grin, decided to sting him even more before she left.

  "Ah, I see your lips are as powerless as your manhood." She threw the chair to the floor as she swept from the table and out the room.

  A mere week later, Bishop/Cardinal Fisher was tortured and beheaded, though Henry didn't send his head to Rome. Instead he stuck it on the city gates where it blackened in the sun like the others. And when, a month later, Sir Thomas More followed suit, Anne's shaky hold on the throne and her sanity began to rock.

  "This is your doing!" Henry yelled at her when news of More's death came to him while the court gambled at tables. He threw the dice across the floor and accused her before the court, while she stood defiantly at her spot.

  "Even the most honest man in my Kingdom has fallen to your sorcery."

  She refused to answer. The first words he had spoken to her in a month certainly asked for no conversation. Instead she turned regally away and continued her gambling, while he stormed from the gaming room in a fit of rage. Thankfully, the babe still lived within her, and grew so that the three months spanned to six. Henry had long neglected her, and flirted openly with Jane Seymour. Though Anne's jealousy rankled, she contented herself that the child would soon be born and she would again gain control.

  "She misses no op
portunity to beguile Henry," Anne said of Jane to her small court. "And he dances with her often."

  She had taken to staying in her apartments as frequently as she could, so she didn't have to see the two of them together, or listen to the ridicule behind faces hidden by hands.

  "That scene you caused with her yesterday certainly didn't help much," George scolded her, but laughed after rather than accuse.

  "She deserved it, trying to make the court think she's a naive innocent when she sits boldly on a married man's lap. And Nicholas Carew makes matters worse, twisting his way into Henry's heart and advancing her cause."

  "But the rest of you, I thank God for you every day, for you visit me when the rest of court pays tribute to his mistress. Francis, what do you here, rather than spend time with your fiancée?" She flirted. It did her heart good to know he was here, and the rest of them. She could only imagine what the rest of the court was doing, probably singing and dancing in Jane's new apartments. Curse Henry for putting her up in such estate.

  "I come to see you, your Grace, for I love you well." Black eyes pretended surprise, and it heartened her. So nice that the banalities of court flirtations hadn't changed for the ruler's choices. It gave her a measure of normality, of safety.

  "So well that you postpone your marriage?" She asked, suddenly in need of more than the comfort of his presence. She needed him to say he wanted to be here. She needed him to say it didn't matter that she was hated and ridiculed, that he would come to her despite the ridicule he might receive. The intensity of her paranoia, and loneliness made her reach out for any favorable comment, and when she realized what she had asked of him, she laughed heartily, giving him reason to ignore her remark, for not to do so, would be rude.