Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) (12 page)

She gasped. Blast if her mouth wouldn’t work right. She
couldn’t utter an intelligible word, but bolted from his lap anyway,
spluttering and spitting.

"Ack!" Was the only thing she managed to get out.
And the sound echoed against the stone wall in every gap in the tapestries that
covered it. From somewhere outside the haze of rage, she heard the hurried
scuffling of a court assembly escaping. The heavy thud of a door sounded as she
was closed off in the presence chamber with Henry. She thought she’d scream.

"Ack!" She spat again, and reached for his neck
where the soft rolls of flesh had begun to sag. She wanted to dig at those
rolls, tear them to ragged strips of bloody flesh. But in the next instant, she
heard a hollow gush of breath as he lifted her, then dropped her to the
cushions. Her lungs burned from the sudden forced exhale. They felt raw from
the expulsion. She pushed at him.

"Get off me! I can't breathe." The dust from the
cushions had gone up her nose, and now she itched to sneeze.

"Here," he said, his face descending to hers.
"Let me help you."

He obviously didn't think she should be shocked, that she
had no right to feel angry. But she twisted away. He could burn in Hell before
she let him kiss her again. At least, until he apologized. He still shared
Catherine’s bed, for appearance's sake, he said. Every Londoner believed the
King and his Queen were still trying to secure an heir, though he steadfastly
maintained to his mistress that he was not. Humph, appearances indeed, she
would be sure to put a halt to that. She turned to stare at the velvet back of
the settee.

"No," she answered, "I'd rather
smother."

He laughed at her, maddening her still, and she felt his
belly shake against hers as he did.

"If you can argue," he noted. "You can
breathe. I doubt you'll smother."

"Then I'll hold my breath." Foolish statement, she
knew, but what else could she say beneath nearly twenty stone of royal flesh.

"And I'll keep holding it, until you apologize."
He studied her.

"Then you'll be holding it for a long time." It
became clear he didn't feel a need to apologize, and that she shouldn't expect
it. Her resolve hardened.

"That'll be the only thing I hold for a long
time." She gave him equal study. Square in the majestic blue eyes, and she
refused to blink. Let him think about that for a while. It took a moment, but
the ominous warning made him relax a bit, then she felt his weight ease. His
sigh ruffled her hair. It smelled of grease and bacon.

"God’s blood, you win. I'm sorry I mentioned
Catherine." He sounded contrite, but the next moment, stubbornly defended
himself.

"But she is my wife. And I am a man—like every other. I
need solace."

Instead of offering it, as she knew the plea expected, she
replied with something better—changing the subject as adroitly as she could.

"You're wrong. Not just a man like every other. You're
the King; powerful, vibrant." She kissed him, hoping the response would be
answer enough for the moment.

She endured his inept kisses, wondered how a man so
powerful, so greedy in his tastes and wants could be so terrible at
love-making. Almost as if, secure in his position, he felt he didn't have to
possess such a skill. His tongue was short and thick, and he drooled into her
mouth, uncaring that the loud slurps sickened her. At least, he was a bit—but
not much—better with his hands.

She let him caress her, guiding his hand to her breast and
holding it there. He squeezed, and she muffled a sigh of impatience. His
caresses were always rough, never gentle. Over and over again, she tried to
show him how she wanted him to touch her—but he didn't take lessons well. So once
again, she lifted his palm, slowly, intimately, and brushed her own nipple with
his fingers. Light touch, feather strokes. She sighed again, this time with
pleasure. She let his hand travel to her thigh and up under her gown. She
yearned for the intimacy, whether it was clumsy or not. She needed to feel she
wanted him more than her own life. Instead she found herself wondering what
treasures he would bestow on her if she gave in. That in turn led her to the
realization of what he would not, if she did. Abruptly, almost viciously, he
pushed her deeper into the cushions so he stretched fully atop her. His hips
ground deep into her own, demanding submission. All the layers of clothing did
nothing to camouflage the intensity of his desire. The scores of nibbles he
trailed down her throat and to her chest grew more demanding. When he suckled
her lobe it was with a frenzied urgency that left her resenting his enforced
submission.

"Anne," he mumbled. "Anne," he said
again, slipping his hand beneath her buttocks.

She struggled to sit up. This wouldn't do at all.

"No," she said.

"No?" he asked, unable to believe she would refuse
him. Perhaps he was even unwilling to think he couldn't drive her to the brink
of self control.

"Yes, no. I'm not ready, Rex."

"Not ready? I've rarely seen whores more ready."
He had to know it wasn’t true. Rather than hurt her or gain her submission, it
spurred her need to escape.

She looked at him. His face was hard, but she felt relieved
to see that was all. A hard face? Infinitely more manageable.

"Please, don’t be crude. And don't be angry." She
stroked his forearm. "God wills there should be no consummation lest we're
wed."

"But we shall be wed." He sounded like a petulant
boy about to stomp his feet. "If Catherine doesn't agree to withdraw from
the marriage, Cardinal Wolsey will call a legatine court—to conclude the
marriage is invalid. After that we can be married." He said it as if the
question was already answered and the proceedings a mere formality.

She bit her tongue at mention of the Cardinal's name. She
loathed him—There was something in his whole manner and presence of being that
seemed callous, worldly. Two terribly distressing characteristics in a man of
God. But he was Henry's man, and through him, might be the course of solution.
Henry believed Thomas Wolsey was perfect. To say otherwise would be to question
the King's judgment.

"The Cardinal? He would act so, for lowly me?"

"No. For me." He corrected her. "We were
discussing my problem, and I asked him whether he thought God was punishing me
for marrying my brother's widow."

"And did he answer?" she asked, knowing what
Wolsey would have had to say about Henry marrying Arthur's widow—if he was at
all as smart as he let on.

"He said that the Bible certainly explains the situation,
and the results. He left the rest to my conscience. I told him, after much
self-debate, I might add," he paused there, and Anne knew the kind of
debate he spoke of, which probably meant precious little.

"I told him my conscience bothers me so much I hardly
sleep. And that there must be some decision on it. He suggested I ask Catherine
to join a nunnery. If she refuses, he has the power to hold an official
examination into our marriage." Just when Anne thought he had finished
speaking, Henry said, as if he had forgotten,

"All in secret, of course."

She tried to smother the look of shock that fought for
control of her face.

"Of course," she echoed automatically, her mind
altogether in a different, more pleasant world.

A
mere week later, in a merry room filled with raucous
activity and chattering women, Anne sat alone, grumpy from bad news. From her
solitary spot she had excellent view of the room, not that she wanted it. Amid
the beautiful tapestries, and sweet smell of rushes and pine, was the annoying
sound of laughter. It was enough to drive her from the room, smiling crazily
herself in the insanity they pressed on her.

"Catherine refuses to leave gracefully," Henry had
said when she had seen him not an hour before.

"We must take other measures." His low voice
sounded angry, frustrated. And in that instant she knew he hadn't expected such
news and hated having to repeat it. She had held him tight, trying to comfort
him. But deep within anger welled. This couldn't be happening. He was the
King—surely he could force the issue. She did what she could to comfort him,
then fled to Catherine's quarters, where she now sat, thinking, and
thinking—until the revelation came. Catherine was nobility—high nobility. Born
a princess of Spain; daughter to Isabella who had commissioned a sea voyage to
the New Land, supporting a Christopher something's beliefs—a woman who had led
an army herself, against invaders during her husband's absence from the
country.

Catherine of Aragon, sister to Isabella the Mad who wouldn't
let her beloved husband be buried, instead letting him decay within her own
bedchamber. Certainly, that kind of radical blood must surge through
Catherine's body.

Good, humble, modest Queen Catherine. No one would suspect
her of being such a zealot or of possessing such determination. She would not
give up a throne, or a husband, without a fight. Not when the church was on her
side. Not to some common usurper. And Henry desperately needed to maintain his
image of a loving husband, devoted to his wife save the fact that she had
legally been his sister. He had to act disconsolate over discovering he never
should have married her. He would not press the issue for fear of repercussions
from alliances, and public discontent. He had to resolve his great matter with
great diplomacy.

Neither had counted on Anne’s determination, though—her will
to get what she wanted and needed; far more than a dreary existence. She had
decided on the throne, and meant to have it. Henry lacked the ambition to see
the matter through, hoping Catherine would act as she always had—meekly, and
obediently. Seeing that she wouldn't, left Henry frustrated. Now Anne would
have to fight for what she now considered hers, and would have to drive Henry
to get it. And when the realization came—that she wanted what he offered, would
fight to acquire it, a bit of self-loathing came too. And that was the point of
her bitterness—that she was too far gone for guilt or shame. That she would
forego her conscience, forget her scruples, her pity for Catherine. She would
take all she could get, all he would offer. For the sake of power, for riches,
for position, she would have her King. God forgive her, she had passed more
than one boundary. Pity begone. She wanted control over her own life. And she was
about to take it—if she could stomach it.

"Ah, there you are." George's voice filtered
through the murk of her frustration. She looked up to see him standing there;
tall, imposing, and sickeningly happy. How could he be so cheery on such a
dreary afternoon?

"Yes, here I am," she said flatly.

His smile hardened her resentment. The smell of his powder
annoyed her. She heard his disappointed sigh, felt the warmth of his leg next
to hers as he sat.

"Tell me," he said.

"No point. Naught can be done." She turned away
from him. Of all the people in the castle, she wanted to see him the least. She
didn't want him to see her frustration, her failure. His big sister, impotent
over her own life. He touched her arm. She felt her flesh being squeezed. A
little pain, then nothing.

"Because it will release that wild temper you have. And
then no one will have reason to fear." He smiled, teasing her a bit, but
the command still hung in the air. Bless him, for acting as her exorcist. Light
hair hung in one eye; he pushed it back casually. She indicated with her eyes
the many people who wiled away time in Catherine's chambers.

"I can't tell you here—the King's great matter,"
she whispered, knowing her voice held a shrillness that came from her mood.

"Oh," he said, and she knew by the sound of it,
the way he touched her cheek, he understood all there was. His face confirmed
it.

He stood. "Come outside with me."

With a quick movement he was on his way to the door,
obviously expecting her to follow, without waiting to see if she did. She
watched his back where the elegant clothes rippled as his shoulders swayed.

The tiny curl behind his left ear, which had twisted
uncontrollably as a child, was still there, but combed gracefully behind so
that it framed his earlobe. She wanted to touch it when she saw it had escaped
the ribbon. She wanted to let it curl around her finger and imagine that they
were still children, and that she was his idol—not this twist of fate that made
him, hers.

She could have loved him. He had such an aura about him.
Anyone could love him, worship him, and many did. But he was not conceited in
it—only arrogant in such a manner that made you think he was untouched by the
world. Unhurt by it. She envied this in him. His faith in God and goodness had
always given him a serenity she coveted. She sighed and walked behind him to a
small alcove outside Catherine's chamber, where the walls escaped trivial,
decorous trappings, and the air felt much draftier. The draft could well have
come from the ghost of her last love. It had died here, right beneath that
painting. While he stood silently, she revealed all she knew. That Henry would
actively seek divorce, and it would be less than pleasant.

"You've decided, then?" he asked, meaning he knew
as well as she, that her lack of commitment would have to be rectified. Once
Henry had begun his path in earnest, there would be no turning back.

"Too many count on me. So many gain favor if I keep
it—including me."

Simple answer, yet encompassing her every dilemma. Oh, to be
safe. In someone's arms. Without this great burden, this decision. But it
existed, and it was hers alone. She surrendered for only a moment, to the
temptation, and hugged her brother close. The one man in all this realm who
would support her, no matter what her decision. No matter what the cost.