Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) (14 page)

H
ard-won hope fled in the face of hatred when Mendoza,
Catherine's confessor, publicly reported that Anne was Henry's next choice for
queen. Anne hadn’t been prepared for the rage she faced when the country heard
that Catherine would be replaced by a commoner. And in hope's place, reared
fury and spite. She hadn't come this far to back away from a little prejudice
and envy. She refused to believe that cowardice on her part would salve the
situation. Henry meant to have her, and she him. Whispers behind upheld hands
couldn't deter her; neither could a little outright hatred. She had gained
enough support within court to enable herself a sense of safety. It didn't
matter that the support came from those who hoped to ride her skirts to power.

It only mattered that her circle of supporters did just
that—ingratiated themselves into every crevice of court. Henry had begun the
whole affair, but she meant to finish it. It had become more to her than
wanting him—it had grown to something far more base. It had transformed into a
battle of wills, and hers, ever a strong one, needed to win. It would take all
the charm and charisma she possessed. She knew it. Knew too that acquaintances
would become enemies. So the hatred would have to be ignored and the whispers
shut out. But the sense that she was now surrounded by menace, that she
couldn't ignore.

"I knew it would be tough, George," she said to
her brother, who reclined lazily on her bed, legs stretched languidly against
the blue quilt. His were long trim legs, which warmed hers as she lay beside
him.

"But never did I think I would be bothered by all this
hatred." She wanted to squirm beneath the quilts as they had as children,
feel his warmth closer against her skin, so it warmed her soul.

"Do you know what it’s like to be loved only for what
you can gain, and not for who you are?" Her lower lip trembled, and she
bit it, held it beneath her teeth. She might ignore the whispers, but she
memorized every one, hoarding them like some perverse collector, studying them
in secret.

"Nan," he hushed, using the old nickname—the one
she forbade him to use in public, the one that made her sound common. He
reached for her hand. "I love you for who you are. And the King, he loves
you."

"Some bit he loves me, running away from it all, hiding
in the country. Did he think the city would embrace a commoner in Catherine’s
place?" She thought him a coward, to leave her here to face this alone.

The bower chamber seemed empty today, as empty as Henry’s
promises. Her comrades abandoned her to the room; ignoring her attempts at
conversation, shrugging off her overtures of friendship. They sought
entertainment in Catherine’s apartments, leaving Anne to the quiet inelegance
of a chamber without heat. She silently let her eyes roam about the room, and
take in the spluttering rush lights, the hard wooden furniture. The sparseness
of the chamber reinforced her sense of loneliness.

"The women are the worst, yelling at me, and calling me
whore and paikie." She shook her head.

"I can barely stand it. Even yesterday whilst I
falconed, someone called out to me, said I should leave poor Queen Catherine
alone." She put her head on his shoulder.

"I’ve become for every woman that nameless whore who
steals husbands. No one cares that I am a person, with fondness and feelings.
I’m a black-eyed whore with a name now. I’m Nan Bullen; commoner, whore,
paikie."

"But this black-eyed whore will one day sit on the
throne of England, and she will remember every slander, every whisper."

Oh, she would be Queen—whether they liked it or not. Because
this adversity had hardened her. Henry's cowardice embittered her.

"He sent me a letter," she stated, hearing the
flatness in her voice. It lacked depth or emotion.

George hugged her close.

"He asked me to be content as his mistress," she
admitted, watching George for his reaction. But he didn't move, as she
expected.

"I wrote one, too," she said, filling the silence.
"But I’ll not wait for his response. By the time he gets it, I'll be at
Hever." She picked at her rings, arranging them absently.

"If he wants me, he can bloody well fight for me."

F
or months during 1529, Anne waited at Hever, that cold
imposing stone castle, birthplace and former prison. She waited impatiently
behind the smoke-darkened walls with ragged tapestries that protected against
the shiver of winter, for news from Henry. When it came, along with spicy
venison from a freshly downed deer, she read the letter as she rested wearily
next to the fireplace. The letter pledged his love, the venison bribed her
favor, but she would have none of it. As this imposed prison of years ago had
weathered her love for Harry, it hardened her resolve against the King. How
could Henry know the memories that resided in the green velvet drapes, the
sounds of Harry Percy’s voice that had fled her mind to the air, and then hid
within the material, and in the wood of the mantle. It was a natural feeling, a
primal urge, as wonderfully natural as the pieces which made up the room. Now
those urges, those memories were safe within this house, and they bolstered
her, saying.

"Don’t give up, dearest. For the sake of the passion we
protect, the very nature of your soul, maintain your stand." And she would
do so, until the wood of the mantle and the smoke on the stone no longer held
her essence. So, in these months she received many letters, many gifts. She
answered some of them, putting him off and promising nothing. She ignored his
heavily written and entreating signatures;

"Come back to me."

"I can't wait for the day when I hold you again. When I
can lay quiet upon your breast."

It thrilled her to see the many letters with his seal and
see the writing of his own hand. Knowing he abhorred writing made her realize
how determined he had grown. He only wrote when impassioned: penning a few
books on theology and his great matter. Still, it was not enough. She read the
many pledges of love, the retractions of his hurtful question.

"Come. We will be married."

He signed Henry Rex, and she thought he might be trying to
remind her of the endearments they'd shared.

In return notes she expressed her own thoughts and
thank-yous. But she did not return, nor did she say when she would. Instead,
she hunted when she could, small game mostly; quail and pheasant, and prepared
stews and roasts for her mother. George had acquired the tracts she wanted, and
when she spent time indoors, she read them or her English translation of the
bible aloud to her mother. But in all the activity, she lost none of the
yearning for court.

Most of all, she discovered she longed for Henry, and missed
the headiness of being with him. She missed his laugh, the belly shaking, air
filling kind of laugh that set all around to smiling as well.

She yearned for the sound of his voice, the blue of his
eyes, and the way he smelled often of grease and powder. His ambergris perfume
should fill her head with thoughts of peace and happiness, of contentment and
worth. How she wanted to be back at court, to enjoy all she had won. Yet she
refused to return, simply couldn’t allow herself to become what the court
already believed her to be. Up until now, She could bear the slanders of her
name, solely because she knew before God, she remained untainted. It was the
one thing which salved her conscience and balmed her soul.

To give in to Henry meant sacrificing the one thing which
remained hers only—her essence, her spirit. Months passed before he finally got
the message that she would return only under extreme circumstances. His last
letter offered her apartments of her own; her own waiting women, her own
furniture. In short, she would no longer be under Catherine. By the time this
was offered, she was quite willing to return to London—she had long run out of
inspiration. She made the trip back to the city.

Her return to court meant seeing George again, and Mary, and
of course, Henry. Within her own regal apartments, conveniently situated next
to Henry’s, she reigned over a small assembly which grew larger each passing
day. Within this small court, she escaped the murmurings of the country, and
Catherine’s guilt-riddling stare. When Henry wished to spend time with her, he
did so. As he did today. Her own waiting women offered him wine upon his
entrance.

A lutenist, Marc Smeaton, borrowed from Henry for the day,
played quietly on his stool in the corner. Regal crimson drapes swathed the
windows and gold and green tapestries protected the walls. Everything within
the apartments; the plump tapestry covered chairs, the cherry wood mantle, the
crimson and gold settee, all of it spoke of richness and wealth. And Henry
granted her more of it with each day, inebriating her senses and bribing her
favor with the most beautiful of things. He stood at the entrance to her
apartments staring around him with wonder and delight. The goblet offered him
was held entranced in his hand. Anne lost no time speaking.

"Do you like what you see, your Grace?" Her satin
slippers whispered against the lush carpet as she went to him. She touched his
cheek, uncaring that the company might think her brazen.

"Remarkable, my dear lady. You’ve taken the gifts and
done well with them." His heavy hand rested on her hair.

She took the goblet from him. Slowly, sensually she raised
the cup to her lips. The wine tasted acrid and dry; she offered it with a
mocking smile. Blue eyes, deepest blue against his velvet doublet, stared
directly into hers as he drank. She reached up and licked his lip, probing the
corner with the tip. How wonderfully attractive he looked this afternoon. And
how irrepressibly rapturous he smelled. Sounds from the lute strings reminded
her of the company within. She turned to the group of women and courtiers who
stood transfixed to their spots by her boldness.

"It seems His Grace has seen fit to favor us
today." At first she felt awkward, then quickly decided it was none of
their business how she treated the King. What did they think—that his
attention—and their favors—could be captured by meek, dull behaviour?

"Come now, have you forgotten your manners?" With
a scold and a glare, she swept to the floor in a deep curtsey in front of the
King. There was a soft rustle of satin and velvet as her entire court followed
suit. With a soft murmur, he took her hand, and raised her. She stared deep
into his eyes as he lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed the small,
double-nailed finger.

"How I love you, my dear," he whispered, then
bellowed aloud to the court,

"The afternoon should be filled with music and dancing.
Marc, please, some joyous sounds."

With hardly a heart beat, Marc stood to his feet and began
playing wonderfully fast paced rhythms, fair hair swaying as he strummed.
George rose from his chair in the corner, grasped the coal girl about the
waist. The girl gasped, incredulous, as he whirled her about the room in
rhythmic frenzy, cavorting and stepping high to the beat. Her flattered
laughter rang true through the air as other couples paired up. It was a sight
to see, him charming the poor soot-faced girl, whose yellowed teeth flashed
white against the darkness of her face. How like George to intimate himself
with anyone he chose; the girl would probably speak of this to everyone she
knew.

"May I have this dance, Your Grace?" Anne smiled
intimately up into Henry’s eyes, savored the sight of his lips as they
descended to her brow.

"You may, of course, Mistress Rochford." He seized
her and pulled her into the circle of three or four couples. He danced madly
with her as if he didn’t worry about lack of breath or energy, almost as if he
thought the entire idea of breath came from within himself.

"It’s time to change, Sire," she gasped,
breathless, but unwilling to admit it.

"Ah, but I am the King, and if I choose not to switch,
then I shan’t." His fair face flushed pink, wide throat worked
effortlessly.

"Then I count myself fortunate to dance with royalty
for so long," she laughed, pinched his buttock teasingly. The sight of
chairs and greens and fire from the fireplace whirled around her vision as he
answered.

"You’ll be dancing for a longer time than you foresee,
my Anne, and with passionate frenzy if our dreams are to be fulfilled."

She grinned and nodded, too winded to speak.

"My lord," the girl’s voice was breathless in
George’s ear, and the joy that shone on her face made him grin broadly.

"My lord?" he mocked her in a way that made sure
she’d not think it malicious.

"I’m no one’s lord, my lady. Just a man who enjoys his
fun."

"And I be no lady." She laughed, tried to pull her
sooty fingers from his grasp. He stopped, held tighter to her fingers.

"Being a lady has naught to do with wealth, and much to
do with gentleness." He pulled her to the table where every means of
delicacy waited to be taken.

"Think ye? Do ye also believe the likes of me could be
a Queen?" She stared at him with large green eyes. The flagrant insult to
Anne seemed to hover in the air before his nose, waiting for vindication. For a
moment, he felt uncomfortable, but rather than answer to the sarcastic bite in
her tone, decided on another tack.

"If my sister could be as one, I’m certain any girl of
your wit could."

She grinned, stole a look at Anne. With that one look,
George knew he had gained a much needed ally. He grabbed a crusty roll and a
chunk of cheese from the table. There was more than enough food, and she seemed
so frail. She wiped her hand across her grungy apron and took it from him
slowly, as if he’d grab it away.

"Thank ye."

"Think naught of it, my dear. Now come. Let me
introduce you to your new mistress."

The next morning, Henry came to Anne’s chambers like a
whirlwind ready to blow through the castle.

"Have you readied to go hawking?"

Anne came out from behind her dressing screen to see him
seated in his favorite chair. The deep greens of the velvet made his hair look
redder and she thought of a fox in his den—how earthy Rex looked today, how
primitive.

"I believe so, but alas, my dear Nan primps me
still." She brushed away Nan Gainesford’s fingers as they smoothed the
velvet skirt. The girl was a new addition, as recent as this morning. George
had introduced her the eve before, and Anne had taken a liking to her bluntness
right away.

Nan pursed her thin lips.

"Ye’ve a grand notion for style, my lady, but I dare
say wrinkles have no place."

Anne laughed loud enough to startle Henry from his stare.

"I doubt style will agree with my mode of dress this
day." She pulled the heavy gown up to her knees, laughed harder as she saw
the pair’s eyes widen.

"How like you my choice of gowns this day, Rex?"

He gulped.

"I dare say my hose looks far more fetching on your
legs than does mine."

She pulled the dress higher.

"And?"

"And the codpiece as well."

"Ah, but I’m disappointed in how I fill it out."
She pulled the skirt off, spun in a circle so Henry could see her better.

He harrumphed. "I’m not. You fill it as you
should." He reached out to touch her thigh, and she jerked away with a
smile.

"But why do you wear it?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I thought it would make for easier
riding."

"Yes, well, see you don’t wear that to the gaming
tables this eve; I’d not want my privy council to think I entertain aught than
a woman."

"I beg pardon, yer Grace." Nan interrupted, and
Anne realized she hadn’t left. She stood near the door which she was yet
pulling closed, her green eyes avoiding Anne’s and settling on Henry’s.

"There’s a messenger at the door, says as the Cardinal
has come and seeks yer counsel." The fun had ended. And all for the call
of Cardinal Wolsey. Henry sighed, stood and made his way to the door. The sight
of it galled Anne.

"And so where else would the Cardinal seek His
Grace?" she said a little too loud, but it stopped Henry’s progress and
that’s what she intended.

"Tell him he may come here, where the King is."

Henry looked back at her, as if surprised.

"Wouldn’t that be just as easy, My Lord?"

Nan glanced back quickly at Henry who nodded his head in
agreement. That assent made Anne feel powerful. She had just done something not
even the King of the realm had dared do—order the great Carl.