Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) (10 page)

G
eorge didn’t feel right spying on his sisters. Why, they
didn’t even know anyone was watching, and that felt—wrong. He glanced furtively
to his side, studied the King as he hunched behind the same lilac bush. How his
sisters could miss the huge, furred, and velveted frame, George had no idea.
But they did. His chest fluttered within, waiting for them to turn and notice
the hulking figure of His Grace, tucked neatly beside the small frame of their
beloved, but devilish brother. It was nearly too much. Annoyed, he poked at a
bud that caught in his hair. He wished he could brush aside Henry as easily.

"She’s marvelous, is she not?" Henry asked, his
voice halted somewhat by excitement.

"Well, Mary has always been the more beautiful of the
two." George knew well who the King meant. About an hour earlier Henry had
demanded he be shown where Anne was hiding. The fact that the King demanded it
with such urgency, made George unable to resist the temptation to goad him. The
blue eyes held little humor.

George shrugged, disappointed.

"But Anne has always been the more exciting—or so my
fellow mates have said."

"I’ve not felt this way about a woman before. She does
more than stir my loins—she stirs my intellect. Why, we’ve both the same
passion for music. And when I look in those black eyes, I feel as if I could
hide in them. They’re like the darkness of night, and I’d be cloaked with no
need to show myself King or pauper."

"Yes, there is that magic in her eyes—for I feel the
same—but in a different way. When I’m with Anne, I can be who I am."

Henry spread the branches a little further apart, and the
smell of greenery came to George’s nose. "I need her," he said.
"I want her. More than any woman, I must possess her."

The outright pledge of lust made George uncomfortable.

"I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I’d rather not
speak of my sister in such a manner."

Henry had the decency to look chagrined.

George waved his hand. "Oh, it’s all right. I see
you’ve forgotten you sit with her brother. But may we go now?"

"Soon, dear George, soon. First I think I’ll stroll
over..."

George nearly bolted from the bushes back in the direction
of the castle. He stayed himself when he saw Henry’s wide smile.

"Tricked you, eh?"

"Yes, Your Grace. I must say, you did." George
thought the King’s usual humor was a bit perverse this afternoon.

Henry looked him over with a study that made him more
uncomfortable than he was already, what with discussing his sister and her
sexual attraction.

"I think I shall give you a place in my privy chamber.
What say you to that?"

"I’d say I deserve it not, your Grace."

Henry laughed. "No. Not yet. But you shall. I’ve
discovered the best way to wring a heart is to strike where the heart loves.
And she loves you, does she not?"

George gulped, nodded. There was an odd feel to Henry’s
words, a terrible glint in his eye. He scarce believed he saw it, but then he
peered through the boughs and saw Anne lie back on the grass and stare at the
sky. He peeked askance at Henry as he stared at the figure, mesmerized. In
those moments, George believed with all his soul, that he had seen it.

"A
re you going to the ceremony?" Anne raised her
voice so her brother could hear her from behind her dressing partition. She
waited for his answer, turned to the right where her large ornate mirror
blocked off one side of the partition like a wall. The bower chamber had only
the one screen, and she reveled in the luck that had all the other ladies in the
garden already.

"Yes. Our sister and Jayne save us a spot as we dally.
Mary insisted I see you down as she didn’t want to miss anything." George
answered. "But hurry—I feel awkward in here. There’re gowns everywhere; on
the floor, across chests... I have an awful urge to pick them up—something I
doubt your companions would like over much."

Anne ignored his rantings. Which gown should she wear?
Velvet was a bad choice. Perhaps the tissue cloth. Yes, definitely the crimson
tissue cloth—the late May heat would demand light clothing.

"It shan’t start for an hour. Why do you fuss so?"

"Fuss? No fuss."

"A hundred courtiers or more crowd the gardens and I
sit here whilst you primp. The King’s manuscript will be a bound book by the
time you finish."

Anne adjusted the skirt, stared into the mirror. Now to
pinch her cheeks and brush her hair.

"Have you read it?"

She heard George’s sniff from across the room. "Read
it? I can scarce get a copy. And after this attempt at publicity, I doubt I’ll
manage one for months."

"I can get you a copy," she said, turning this way
and that to see herself from all angles. "I may even be able to get one
with proper binding."

"I well imagine you can get a copy."

She peeked around the partition. "Is that a display of
sarcasm,
mon frere
?"

He stared at the floor with a guilty look on his face.
"Well. I do imagine you can get a copy. The King has been after you like a
hawk on a mouse."

"And why can I not use that to gain some gifts for
those I love? Why, Father will be pleased at the very least, and don’t say you
won’t be ecstatic to get a copy."

She came out from behind the partition, gave him a dread
look.

"I don’t argue I’d be happy to have it. I guess I just
meant..."

"Meant what?"

"I guess I’m nervous for you. That you should be
careful where the King is concerned. He’s married you know."

She laughed outrageously—too loudly, she noticed, once it
was out.

"Married? I had no idea." Her grin failed to goad
him. Cursed man, he was no fun this afternoon.

"You’re being foolish," she told him. "What
harm can come from allowing him to woo me? I’d say I stand to gain rather than
lose. But don't imagine I’ll turn out like Mary. I have no intentions of
becoming his mistress. I plan to flirt as much as he flirts with me, and accept
a thing or two. See? No harm. Besides, he’s very persuasive." She added
when she thought of Henry’s voice; it was teasing and commanding at the same
time.

"I suppose." He mumbled.

She had the odd feeling from his features that he knew
exactly how persuasive. With a fleet, nervous gesture he grabbed a handkerchief
from her possession box and shoved it into his codpiece. A quick adjustment,
and he had her hand, pulling her to the door.

"So, let’s get out there, shall we, and gain that
copy?" He guided her down the corridor to the wide expanse of stairs that
led from the sleeping quarters.

"They say the King is a little perturbed that he has no
title—and so the tract."

Anne chuckled.

"Oui, c’est ca
. King Francois is the ‘Most
Christian King’ and the Emperor, the ‘Most Catholic King’. I’ve heard His Grace
agreed to be called, ‘Defender of the Faith’. Rather pompous
, n’est ce pas
?"

They reached the foyer and went out into the sunshine of the
royal garden. A huge canopied stage had been erected, and it stood out against
the crowds that milled about the flowers. Golden hangings billowed in the light
breeze from their railings. The large velvet ribbons that tied them threatened
to come undone.

"I think ‘Defender of the Faith’ may well be apt, but
I’ll hold that judgment ’til I read the manuscript. Think they’ll favor us with
a short reading?" George asked.

Anne felt him tug at her arm before she could answer. Her
sister’s raised arm waving over the heads of a small crowd was evidently the
reason for the abrupt yank. They had just reached their spot, from where they
had a good view of the stage, when Bishop John Fisher took the oratory. Loud
yells came from the crowd in favor of the speaker, and Anne grinned. This would
be a lively afternoon.

The sermon lasted half an hour, and George had long tired
of standing. But the Bishop’s impassioned mention of King Henry’s book held his
attention against his longings for a shaded chair. Bishop Fisher’s face grew
red with the effort of being heard over so many cheers, grew redder still when
he had to increase his volume.

"His Great Majesty, the King, has undoubtedly written
the best defense of our faith in this century. For rarely in all the time of
our great Church has anyone come about who so vilely accuses it as has this
Martin Luther."

He held aloft a manuscript copy. While the crowd cheered he
took a moment to clear his throat and await their clemency.

"Our Majesty King Henry of England offers his tract
,
Defense of the Seven Sacraments
as his support of the most glorious church.
I read but a few words from this piece, to stir your conscience and show you
the majesty of our Sovereign.

"How articulate is our Sovereign," Anne whispered
to her brother. "But I think his opinions of the new beliefs a bit strong.
Monsieur Luther surely hasn’t called the Pope a tyrant, has he George?"

"As much as he has called the Holy City, Babylon."

"Do you think the Pope is the Anti-Christ?"

"And do you think that's funny?" George poked at
her grin with the tip of his finger.

She bit it.

"A mite so, yes. Can you not see the irony?"

George grumbled. Sometimes his sister was insufferable.
Always her sense of humor had to be warped like a dented bowl.

"Shush, Nan. The bishop is explaining the sanctity of
marriage. Maybe you should be listening."

Anne glared at him.

"Do you mean that I..."

George moaned.

"Listen. He’s reading again. Would you not like to hear
your lover’s thoughts on it?"

"He’s not my lover."

George only back-handed her lightly on the arm as he heard
Bishop Fisher shout out, "Whom God has joined together, let no man put
asunder."

The cheers grew; a few hats went airborne. George thought
the written words a trifle hypocritical for a man who had already bedded one
sister and hounded another. But like everyone else in attendance, he cheered
’til his throat was sore.

A
nne found she couldn’t help encouraging Thomas Wyatt—his
sweet words made her heart ache. She had always loved poetry and music and when
he read his poems she heard the melody of the words in her mind. Sometimes she
hummed in time with his oratory—though he’d scuttle his brows into a downward
arch that made her chuckle. Nor could she help herself when Henry wooed
her—Wyatt was sweet, made her think of peace and happiness—but Henry was
exciting because he was powerful. Everyone ran to do his bidding, everyone
trembled at his roaring bellows. Ladies swooned from his sultry whispers, and
his friends felt as magnanimous in Henry’s presence as a King. The power
incarnate would merrily sit in a chamber and every courtier would feel the
presence. To have that power beg and beseech her company made Anne feel
singularly glorious. To shun it made her feel omnipotent.

When Ardent Desire grew ever more ardent, it made her
uncomfortable. She had been playing the game to satisfy her need to be wanted,
to smother the remnants of loneliness that came from her years of isolation.
Now that Henry pursued her with fervency, she began to wonder how easy it would
be to dissuade the Kingly interest without hurting the family. For every step
back, he advanced, much like the eve of so long ago at Wolsey’s castle, when
she had happened upon him in the dark. She found herself giving in, thinking
like Mary, she could gain some reward. She ended up staying awake at night
trying to banish the rats of thoughts that chewed at her conscience.

"Our Anne," he would say, gripping her hand
tightly when he passed her at the dinner table, whispering it into her ear as
he bent low to scoop a roll from in front of her. She would glance nervously at
the Queen, who stared away as if there were nothing to see.

"Come hunting with us," he would implore as they
danced in the evening, ignoring the millings of the court, and she ever too
conscious of their eyes. Catherine busied herself ensuring the musicians played
fast paced music.

"Ignore the poet, he can only give you sweet
words." He would stare straight into her eyes. The power that came from
the look intoxicated her. But as he grew more persistent, so the court began to
believe she was already his mistress. Soon she was asked to entreat Henry for
favors, giving her more liberties with him and the court. It became a heady
drug to her, granting favors on behalf of the King, and being asked for more.
She began to reciprocate. And now, months after the brilliant oratory of Bishop
Fisher, she sat placidly sewing on a piece of tapestry while the rest of
Catherine’s women discussed the King's apparent disgust with his marriage.

"I hear a French princess is to be next." One of
the ugly girls in the corner chewed off a piece of thread from her spool.

"He's tired of the Queen. Wants a son," the girl
said, slurping loudly. Anne looked up from her project. She knew Henry wanted a
son, the whole country knew how he desired it. But the rest—that Henry was sick
ad nauseum of Catherine—that was gossip she wanted to hear.

One of the elder ladies shushed the women as they gasped,
shocked that Catherine could grow on anyone's nerves.

"Poor wretch," she said, indicating where her
sympathies lie.

"I've heard the King thinks God is punishing him for
marrying his brother's wife. No children, you see." she clucked a bit, her
toothless mouth making a smacking sound instead.

"No children?" Anne dared ask. "But what of
his daughter, Mary?"

The old maid shrugged. "The good book has been
improperly translated by the clerics, children should read as sons. Says as any
man takes his brother's wife, uncovers his nakedness, and they shall be
childless." the matron said, obviously quoting—the words had the eerie
ring of memorization.

Anne knew from their passionate discussions that Henry was
aware of another verse in the bible which stated that a man should take his
brother's wife if he dies without children. Apparently he chose to ignore it,
pretending ignorance.

"Poor Queen Catherine can bear naught," the old
matron said. "He's going to put her away. Into a nunnery, I hear."
she clucked, and the rest of the entourage with her.

"Imagine, good Queen Catherine, put away."

"What do you think, Nan?" The same asked, the tiny
dig evident in her voice. Apparently, they thought she would have to fight for
Henry’s affections once a young princess came to court as his wife. It might
well be that any power she had gained would be lost.

"I think you worry over much about things which should
worry only the noble folk. His grace will do as he pleases, as he always does.
And the Queen, as usual, will try to please him."

Anne stood and placed her sewing delicately on her empty
chair. Damned gossip mongers, she hadn’t heard this much gossiping when Mary
had Henry’s attention. Then again, perhaps she just hadn’t paid as much
attention. Just the same, she turned her back on the ungracious idiots and left
the room, trying to look as if she wasn't worried. But could it happen? Could
she lose the powers that until now had only been combined with rank? What if
Henry did decide to marry a French princess, would he lose interest? And how
would her father react to such news—he was, after all, beginning to enjoy some
power himself as a result of Anne’s position.

The queer feeling she felt in her chest wouldn't allow her
to rest. She had to find Henry. In these twelve months he had pledged his love
time after time, though she merely accepted them without pledging in return.
But now she grew worried. She wouldn't believe she had lost him already. She made
a few turns, quickly scanning his usual rooms and found him nearly effortlessly
after only a few moments. He sat in his presence chamber, listening to his
lutenist’s music, offering suggestions on how to change a particular piece. The
rich atmosphere of the room only taunted her, the cherry wood mantle above the
fireplace looked like a huge grin, and the open mouth of its hearth gaped at
her hatefully.

"Ah, my darling," Henry’s eyes were smoky with
pleasure, his voice intimately low. Without hesitation she went to him, took
his hand in her own; it felt warm and dry. So far she had used his interest to
gain power and position. It had been a fine line to tread, and an awkward stick
to balance. The thought of losing everything hard won made her stomach clench.
The last goblet of wine she’d drunk gurgled up to her chest and tasted sour.

"Your Grace," she said, indicating Marc’s
presence. He waved magnanimously at his lutenist.

"Come again later, Marc, I should like you to try out
my latest piece. But for now, my sweetheart is here, and I should like to be
alone. You may wait just outside." He watched the pale young man rise from
his stool and hurry to the door.

Anne wasted no time. As soon as the door closed she turned
back to the King, her eyes beseeching his.

"Tell me
ce n’est pas vrais
."

"What, sweetheart?"

"That you're to marry again."

"Would it bother you, my love, so much?" His
features looked concerned, his lips soft.

"You know it would, my heart." She thought
immediately of the fleeting kisses he had stolen in dark corridors, the
intimate discussions shared beneath lilac trees. She stared into his eyes and
saw there all the fulfillment of her yearnings. She recognized power, she saw
position. Most of all she saw worth, that she was worthy of a King’s affection.
In the instant she wondered just how worthy.

"It would bother you, to marry me?" he asked,
making the question sound as everyday as how's the pottage. She stared into his
eyes and scanned them intently. Mischief she saw there within their depths, love
too, and passion. But she saw no truth, no promise.

"You lie to me!" she spat. An uncontrollable fury
took her. She forgot she stood before the King. The bloody cur toyed with her.
She may well only be a common lady-in-waiting without wealth or rank, but come
down to all that, she had feelings. She had pride.

"You would play with my feelings? You would torture me
so?"

She pushed away from him. Jealousy lodged in her belly for
the nameless woman who would be his next queen. He grappled to take her hand,
catching it and losing it before she swiped at his arm.

"Anne, Anne." He hurried, trying to calm her.

"It was no joke. I don't jest."

"You do!" She made a quick, furtive movement with
her foot, and felt the hard jolt of bone as she kicked him squarely in the
shin. He gasped. She swallowed hard, wiggling the injured toe frantically to
relieve the rays of pain. Under no circumstances would she let him know she had
hurt herself. Let him think she was made of stone.

"Ouch," he groaned.

Such an unceremonious thing for a King to say. The look of
utter disbelief on his face as he stretched forward to hold onto his shin
almost made her laugh. Almost. She grunted with satisfaction.

"You Kings and your politics. Be damned with anyone's
emotions, to Hell with anybody's feelings!" He looked so funny, all bent
over; hunched and grimacing, so... un-king-like. He deserved it.

"No, no. it’s not like that," he managed to get
out between clenched teeth, and then said as if in after thought.

"My God, if I thought you'd react so with the promise
of Queenship, I'd have offered it to another."

She stopped her ranting, exhausted anyway, and eyed him.
Truth? Sincerity? She couldn't tell.

"You mean it? You wish to marry other than the French
Princess?"

"French Princess?" His confusion was clear.
"There is no French Princess. But what did you think, the country would
believe I'd marry a commoner like you?"

She glowered at him and raised her foot.

"Take care," he warned. "I'll have you locked
in the tower if you try that again."

"I'm no commoner." She squared her shoulders
defensively, already deflating her rage. "I've the blood of Edward the
first in my veins."

"Yes, yes," he interrupted. "So you've told
the court a hundred times. I know you're not common. Now come here." His
voice had changed. The command within it was tempered with passion and she went
forward, enfolded herself in his arms.

"Only someone as outstanding as you could have caught
my eye. Only your distinctive character could make me forego my marriage. So
you see, my dear Anne, you're not common at all. You're a woman above all
women. And you'll be the mother of very uncommon children."