Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) (11 page)

A
nne hated this dreary March day. It was wet and
bone-chilling; the worst kind of afternoon for any activity. The rain held off
so far, but the air was heavy enough to blanket any energetic spirit. She sat
near the fire in the bower chambers. Alone, she contemplated the state of
things while she listened to the wind and how it loosened a shutter so that it
barraged the window mercilessly. So much had happened that she felt as if she
had lived two lifetimes in thirteen months. Yet she still sat in limbo, rotting
like the rich man watching Lazarus. Henry's desire for war against France had
fizzled, the fire squelched by lack of funds and manpower. His only hope had
been Catherine's success at gaining Charles V's support. But her nephew had
turned her down, and she had failed.

"Cursed woman." Henry had stormed about in a fit
as he told Anne. For some reason, it galled her to hear him speak so of the
woman who had supported him the last eighteen years.

"Cursed, do you say?" She dared him. He spun to
face her, one fox fire brow raised to brush his straight bang.

"Aye, cursed. And cursed I was to marry her."

Before Anne knew it, she was poking him in the chest with
her finger.

"Maybe it’s you the one cursed, for you’ve still no son
for all your trying. No coin enough to raise your army against Francois,
despite the heavy burden of taxes on your people."

She strolled across the room as if she spoke calmly of the
weather. His warning cough of air did nothing to hurry her. Instead she tied
the shutters tighter and fingered the carved mahogany.

"Why, you can't even control the man whom you believe
to be your greatest ally."

"And what has Cardinal Wolsey to do with Catherine’s
wasted flesh?"

"Wasted flesh? Why, Sir, do you so hate her?"

He hung his head. "Waste of flesh, at this point,"
he corrected. "She was my last hope in gaining Charles’ aid. Now I shall
have to prepare a treaty with that French whelp instead of war." His eyes
dulled with petulance. "Damn her."

The sharp, flinty sound of tankard breaking to shards made
Anne jump. That she had thrown the pottery to the stone floor shocked her even
more.

"Again, you slander her. Would that you had some idea
of a woman’s value. Did she not brave your seed time after time, trying to gain
an heir for you, instead suffering as each one died? Have you no pity for the
woman who waited as prisoner under your father’s rule while you were yet
dallying with chamber maids?" Anne felt the momentum of her anger and let
it carry her.

"And what of the Scottish King? Was it not Catherine’s
ferocity that had his blood-soaked coat sent to you as a trophy while you
played at war in France?"

She could tell she had touched a nerve with that one.

"Ah, yes, your grace. I may have been but a girl, but I
remember the stories, and I harbor every one. I say it’s you who are cursed and
can not even see it."

Henry said nothing, merely gaped at her first in outrage,
then pity, and finally shame. He mustered his dignity, drained a mug of ale and
turned heel from the chamber.

She didn’t see him again for days. Yes, there had been a new
treaty. And an uneasy peace with France was forged, but there had been no
fields of cloth-of-gold, no glittering show of wealth and brotherhood. It had
been enough merely to entertain a few French envoys with jousting and feasting,
on a day much like this one. Except then, it had rained miserably. A dreary
darkness accompanied it, with pelting sheets that saturated the soul as well as
skin. The jousting had gone on, and the dusk forced them to seek shelter
finally, in a specially built banqueting house.

Yet, for all that, Anne brooded. She stared at her stocking
and wondered if rain had become her messenger, for it always accompanied
pivotal events. It had rained the day she was born, or so her mother told her.
It had driven hard against the boat that took Mary to King Louis in France—with
Anne at her elbow wondering what French Court would be like. Rain portended
change and Anne suspected change in the air. The atmosphere of the castle felt
cloistered in it, so heavy that it set her to worrying and pondering.

So she rose from her chair in front of the hearth and
wandered about the apartments, hoping the scores of ladies would remain in the
Great Hall and leave her to her solitude. The swath of purple fabric on the
north wall rippled with draft. She stared at the various fruits painted on it
in gold and yellow—how baroque they looked nestled against vivid crimson roses
and verdigris leaves. She thought how the material had served as canopy on the
day of the treaty feast, under which Catherine presided. Thoughts of that
quickly fled from the guilt that rose after it. There was no doubt that Catherine
had begun to see her as more than a passing fancy for Henry.

Already a rumor had swept court of Catherine’s
knowledge—that during one of their daily chess games, she had said to Anne,
"So I see mistress Boleyn, you shall not stop ’til you have your King."

It hadn’t happened, Catherine was still as civil and
detached regarding Anne as she had always been, treating her like the
lady-in-waiting she was, with no reference to her being Henry’s mistress. But
she did begin to demand Anne spend more time with her, asking that she serve
her more frequently and attend every mass with her. Oh, how Anne hated the
early morning masses, and Catherine made her go to each one, kneeling for long
hours before the pew and praying unceasingly. Anne had no doubt it was meant to
stir her conscience. Instead she’d stare stubbornly at the gilded candelabras,
watch tendrils of smoke whorl to the intricate murals on the ceiling.

She’d breathe the incense so deeply she tasted it, and the
smoky stink of it. The panes of glass gave intimate study through the hazy
moonlight that shone through. She’d study anything but her heart, anything but
her conscience. She’d not let prayers wend their way into her soul, for with
their admittance came the squirming. Rumors circulated the court maddeningly,
gaining strength with each day. No one had yet begun to suspect the truth,
however—that Henry aspired to a commoner, not some French princess as his new
Queen. Henry's denial infected Anne—for the good of realm, wouldn't a solid and
nubile queen be prudent? How could she stand herself otherwise? And with her
father to press her, and Henry, giving in became easier, less stressing.

"You do naught wrong, Anne. Catherine can't provide for
the succession." Her father kept insisting.

"The King will find someone to bear him the heir. If
not you, then someone else. Better our family, than that other."

Anne could only lower her eyes before his bold face and
penetrating black stare.

"Yes, yes, but is it right, Father? To press him
so?"

Thomas' features had hardened then, making her uneasy.

"Do what you must. What you need to." He walked to
her as if he would touch her, but as always the hand that would comfort,
accused instead.

"England needs an heir. I'll do the rest. The Boleyns
will be a power to reckon with yet."

She felt as if she hadn't done enough, hadn't succeeded.

With the passing of the months he did what he could, and
soon a whole circle of support had engulfed her, and the power she gained ate
away a few more scruples. Her conscience bore the meal uneasily, her moods
changing erratically with its nagging. What nagged her most was that Henry
didn’t stir the same passions in her as Harry had, didn’t sway her to think of
him often, or desire his presence.

Henry was a man who was athletic, powerful, and seemingly
omnipresent. He could be sensitive even, when the mood caught him, and
passionate. But none of this stirred her soul, and she didn’t know why. She
wanted him, she enjoyed him, but she didn’t love him. Damnation was surely
inevitable. Court slander and hatred were her earthly penance. So, she sat
staring into the hearth, speculating and thinking, knowing that she had gained
much for some members of the court, and that no one appreciated it.

George whistled a tune as he dismounted. His horse huffed
as if he didn’t much care for the sound.

"Aye, Montague." He thrummed his fingers against
the wet neck.

"I need more practice, eh?" The morning mist had
yet to draw away from the cobblestones, and George found the atmosphere oddly
cleansing. His hair, which he brushed aside automatically, bled water into his
eyes. Such a fine day this would be. Jayne at home; Anne waiting; a grand,
though admittedly damp, ride through the streets; hearing the comforting
clip-clop of his horse’s feet striking cobble—he may as well have been on his
way to heaven. With hands on hips he surveyed the stable as it sat nestled in
the shadow of the castle. Only six a.m., but the King’s grooms scurried about
readying the horses for the day. It took a few minutes before he was noticed.

"Lord Rochford..." a boy of about eleven bowed
hurriedly.

"May I take yer horse, sir?"

George grinned. "Ye may, boy. Have ye had yer
breakfast, then?"

The boy’s eyes lit as if he had been offered half a crown.

"No, sir. Dare I ask ye’ll be getting me some mutton
and ale?"

Leaning lazily against the door jam, George studied his
nails as if they held the secrets of the Holy Grail. "Well, and then I
might. You know the game, Tom."

"Aye, I do." Tom grinned. In a flash the boy ran
to dig a worn wooden tablet from beneath a hay bale. Pasted onto the wood was a
printed sheet. George raised his brow expectantly.

"Our... father... who... art... a... heathen..."
Tom’s halting voice struggled over the words.

"In heaven." George chortled. "In heaven,
Tom. Think ye God a heathen?" He tousled the boy’s blond hair.

A look of panic overtook Tom’s eager face. George shrugged.
"It’s naught, Tom. You grow better each time I see you. I’ll see Anne
sends you down a bite." He looked up to where the castle sat so dominantly
against nature.

"But I’d best be getting on, lest she strike me before
I dare ask."

He placed a quick, fond pat on Montague’s rump and set out
to find Anne. Maybe they could breakfast together.

"I’m plied for favors even as I’m hated," Anne
said to George as they sat together on a plush settee. Earlier they had
finished a meal of mutton and ale—George having taken enough for two—and with
her brother for company, she was able to persuade Catherine to allow her to
shop in the markets for lace. Instead, Anne followed George to Henry’s
apartments where they waited for the King’s return. The assembly of pages and
courtiers made it difficult to speak privately, but he whispered close to her
ear.

"You must expect it." George stretched his boots
to the fire; his clean-shaven profile lit by the flickering light of the torch.
She smiled and touched his hand. Sighing, she said,

"I expect to ask His Grace’s favor, but not to be
loathed by the very people who ask for them."

"And who loathes you, Nan? Surely not Henry, certainly
not I. You’re loathed by those who envy you, no one more."

"I’m loathed because Catherine is loved," she
crossed her arms. His face fell flat, considering.

"If you loved His Grace, I’d stand with you against the
Queen, against the country, against God. But if you found in His Grace only a
means to prove your worth to this life, I’d stand with you against Satan
himself."

She sighed.

"I wanted only a better station, was content to marry
Harry. Now I’m far onto a path I had no intention of walking, and I feel lonely
and hated."

Before George could shrug, a muffled voice sounded outside
the door. She sat up straight, quickly pasting a look of eagerness on her face
to replace the ones of doubt. He rose to his feet, gave her a quick kiss on the
cheek. In no time he had filled a goblet with red wine and passed it to her.

"Remember, Nan, there is naught in life worth having
that comes not at some price. You must decide whether the cost is just."
He smiled and made to join the rest of the attendants. She nodded, knowing he
was right, and that the biggest price of having Henry would be being forsaken
by God. She doubted whether she still had the currency to pay.

"What kept you?" She held the glass out for Henry,
then pulled it back quickly to take a drink from it. She saw the thirst in his
eye as he watched her.

"Matters of State," he mumbled. The shuffling of
his feet as he came to her made her think he was weary, and she pressed the
goblet into his hand. He took a languid drink, studying her face all the while.
She felt her face flush.

"It’s always matters of state, Rex. I'm beginning to
believe you make it all up, just to stay away from me." She pouted,
thinking as she did, that Marguerite would disapprove. But then, Marguerite’s
station was secure. She need pout for no one.

He put down the wine, onto the smooth cherrywood table, and
took her hand. She could smell soap from his shaving—the stray cheek hairs, she
supposed. There was also the musty smell of clothes, and grease on his skin.
She supposed he had made a recent trip to the kitchens.

"You're quite right." His dimple showed as he
grasped her fingers and led her to the settee in the corner.

"I want to be as far away from you as I can possibly
get." And in a low voice he said, "Because you tease me over
much."

She grinned, catching the innuendo.

"You don't like?"

"I'd like it better if there was some relief from
it." He pulled her to his lap as he sat.

"Ah," she said, raising one brow in apparent
understanding.

"So, you need relief, do you?" With a fluid
motion, she stroked his sleek cheek, and scratched beneath his beard.

"No," he sighed, his chest heaving with what she
thought was indifference. "I get that from my wife."