Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) (18 page)

W
hile religious unrest squirmed in the streets of town and
bred in tiny inns, Anne began to feel her own brand of it. She debated theology
more hotly with Henry, and he, furious that she often bested him, or
embarrassed that he hadn’t thought of her slant on the verse, stormed from her
apartments muttering to himself all the while. What had driven her to question
the accepted beliefs was no more unusual than her near-death. That and the
King’s great matter. She needed to know if God was truly vengeful. Whether he
could love unconditionally. She simply didn’t know, and since he was not about
to tell her, and the clergy used him to their own ends, she took to studying
her Bible. She searched for passages that would ease her mind. But when she
did, the verse that leapt out at her more often than not, was that faith
without works was dead. She industriously set her ladies studying as well, and
forced a severe piety on her household ladies that would have made Catherine
envious.

For some reason, this unnerved her, so she gave in at times
when they groaned and begged to sew. She’d devour her new pamphlets as they
thankfully dug out the embroideries and shirts. And when they finished their
projects Anne would demand they give over some of the shirts to the poor—she
knew it made her tremendously unpopular among her women. As she had spent the
last days overseeing her younger ladies’ French lessons and planning a grand
supper, she decided to relax. She sat alone in her chambers, reading a newly published
tract, and glancing over the half dozen books that lay sprawled and open upon
the table in front of her. Her ladies had still not come back from breaking
their nightly fast, and as she had always made a habit of eating in her
bedchamber, was alone. The sun shone through the windows in hazy rays, casting
a dappled illumination on the carpet.

"What are you reading, dearest?"

She looked up from the passage to see Henry enter, flanked
by the Cardinal. Cardinal Wolsey’s deep crimson robes looked fanciful and
brilliant next to the melancholy earth tones of the King’s doublet. For a
second, it almost seemed as if the two were wearing the wrong clothes. But the
feathered cap the King held onto gave away the attire—the Cardinal would never
wear something so whimsical.

"Not another of your causes, I hope." Henry
replaced his cap. The feather trembled in the air.

Because Cardinal Wolsey was there, Anne rose and curtsied.

"Now, you can't blame me for Fish," she laughed,
and noticed the Cardinal's head snap up with the mention of Simon Fish's name.
His jowls shook a bit with the motion. She refused to be daunted by the
Cardinal’s displeasure. Even as she watched Thomas, she stroked Henry’s palm.

"It was your idea to aid him and his wife."

A small humph from the Cardinal’s direction dared her.

"Do you know of Simon Fish, My Lord Cardinal?" It
was a terrible baiting, she knew. Of course he knew of Simon Fish—his tracts
and pamphlets attacked church policies. And since she had been annoyed by
church policies regarding the divorce, she found Wolsey suitable quarry.

"I know he's a heretic and should be burnt. Just as
that Martin Luther should." Thomas' voice sounded bitter as an under-ripe
orange, but his words were hollow and they both knew it. The Cardinal was
loathe to put any man to the stake, and in fact, was often attacked by his
peers for failing to squelch the spread of Luther’s ideals.

"Burnt because he speaks truth? Why Cardinal, burning
is a terrible death even for the guilty. And if the man speaks truth, surely
you as a man of God, must support him?" It didn't matter to her, that his
face grew red. In fact, she rather liked it.

"Have you read any of the tracts? What of Mr. Luther’s
ideals... do you not think some of them reasonable?"

The Cardinal crossed the room to the window, his back haloed
by the dappled sunlight. "There's no truth to baiting the populace into
keeping their moneys from the church. God can use that coin for greater
good."

He swept back across the room. The halo remained on the
carpet beneath the window.

"Is God’s greater good so measured? Why, can not the
commoners use their own money to feed and clothe themselves rather than
impoverishing the family to save their dead from hell?"

"And who are you to question the Church?" The
Cardinal raised his hand, it seemed to strike her down, or to cross himself for
protection. The smell of him wafted from his arms to her nose, a stink of sweat
and rancidness. She grimaced. Henry cut in,

"And all of this has nothing to do with my original
question to my beloved. So stop the bickering." His fair face looked
stern, the cap in his hand being clenched tightly so the feather rumpled.

She hurried to where he stood, the book limp in her hand
."Oh, but it does, Your Grace." She pointed to the passage she had been
reading.

"See here?" She had often urged him to read her
books on the ‘new learning’, but he always passed them off. Now was her
opportunity to get him to understand—and in eyesight of the Fat Carl. Oh, it
was too delicious. She waited for Henry to read it, aware of the Cardinal's
eyes piercing her back. She could almost feel a little sting there, just
between the blades. She got a perverse pleasure from it.

"Why... the author attacks papal authority... and in
favor of the secular ruler." Henry's voice held a distant, thoughtful
note.

"That would be me."

"That would be you," she whispered. Let the
Cardinal take that to Rome instead of peasant's money. And she turned to see
his face barely being held together by a foreboding look of anger, fists
clenched tightly to his sides.

She turned her attention to Henry. "Shall we hunt
today, or would you rather just ride?

"I’ve been feeling a bit mad, being cooped up inside
whilst we wait for the tribunal tomorrow." She fingered his doublet
gently, hardly able to keep the smugness from her tone.

"I've a mind to hunt, but I've pressing business here
to care for with our Lord Cardinal, in preparation for the morrow."

His kiss tasted of bacon, smoky and sweet.

"But there’s no reason you must stay inside. Take one
of your women, and perhaps one of my gentlemen to accompany you. How about
Francis? He's finished his duties for the day, and I'm sure his horse could use
the exercise."

She smiled.

"Francis is an excellent choice, he's a pleasant
man." She thought briefly of Francis Weston's face. He was a young man, a
few years older than herself and would indeed be a good choice. His soft manner
echoed his light heart. His would be just the kind of conversation she would
enjoy on a bright morning.

But when the day passed away, a day of hard riding and no
game, she lay abed in a foul mood. Francis had got on very well with her
lady-in-waiting, and Anne believed they would soon be betrothed and married.

Well, they would have their wedding, and probably in short
time, but hers crawled like a snail with a sore tail. She doubted the trial
would go well, how could it, when nothing else had? Her betrothal to Harry
Percy had gone awry; her unconsummated affair with the King brought nothing but
slander and threats. Would the investigation into the King’s twenty-year
marriage go smoothly? Probably not, even though Henry had been ecstatic that
the Pope had finally sent Campeggio, that Cardinal had done nothing but
postpone and fidget, complaining of gout and pain.

As Anne lay in the large down bed, enveloped in the finest
satin, covered by the heaviest blankets, she stared around the room mutely. The
satin did nothing to improve her mood, nor did the nice weight of blankets. In
the months leading up to tomorrow’s event, she had lost her temper many times
with her court. She upbraided them over the smallest things, wept frequently
when she was alone. She had even cornered Henry on a few occasions, leaving him
spluttering incoherently because of her odd moods and foul speech. She sighed audibly,
looking from the heavy tapestries that seemed like shrouds in the gloom of
night, to the fire that crackled lazily in the huge hearth. The morrow would
bring some decision, she was sure of it, but the thought of the decision made
her belly flutter like tiny fingers stroking the caverns of her bowel.

The anxiety of the outcome left her staring wide-eyed and
heavy-hearted long into the night.

W
hen daylight came Anne rushed by litter to Durham
house—George's lodgings just across the river from the priory where the
investigation was to be held. She waited ’til noon, then early afternoon, with
no outcome in sight. She couldn't sit timidly to await the news, nor could she
stand still. Instead she paced from room to tiny room, carrying her forgotten
sewing in a limp hand, occasionally pulling back the thick velvet drapes to
peek out the window. Still no movement around the building where the court was
being held—everyone must be inside. She crossed her arms, and stared about the
room in annoyance—the cheeriness of the decorations goaded her. The rich walnut
grandfather clock ticked quietly, its hands frozen in a taunting smile. The
coal in the hearth glowed with life, making no sound. When she turned to look
at George, he sat grinning at her from his spot on the burgundy settee. Cheers
from the other side of the river spurred her to action. She dove for the window
to pull aside the drapes.

"Victory over your enemies!" The shrill cry came,
and she cursed when she saw Catherine being ushered into the priory. The
blackness of that doorframe squirmed with activity as Catherine went inside;
cheers resounded throughout the air. The drapes blew dust up Anne’s nose as she
flung them back to the window. She took to pacing again.

"Damn commoners," she muttered.

"Sit still, Anne," George scolded.

"I can't. I'm hungry. Have you anything to eat in this
house of yours, brother?" She turned, shook her sewing at him, the needle
aimed at his chest. He didn't look scared, rather grinned, flashing white at
her.

"How about some Spanish hen?"

She flung the sewing at him.

"I've had enough of Spanish everything to fill my
gourd," she snorted.

"I suppose you have, then." He picked the linen
from his shoulder where it had landed.

"But what good will worrying do?"

"I don't worry," she drawled. "Can you not go
across and see what's happening?"

"Now, Anne, Father is there, and the King. Surely
you'll know soon enough."

It was hours before she heard a loud bang from the front of
the house. By that time her legs had grown weary of pacing and she sat in a
chair by the window.

"Anne!" She ran to the receiving area at the sound
of Henry’s voice, trying all the while to keep the nagging worry from showing
on her face. She didn't like his tone—it was an odd echo of the heavy door.

"Have you news?" She was almost afraid to ask the
question. But she had to, in spite of his crimson features.

"Brah!" He stormed around the room, muttering
curses. Then finally stopped his pacing and looked her square in the eye.

"Campeggio won't make a decision. He's sending it to
the Pope—to Rome."

Indeed, her chest did deflate. All this waiting for nothing.

"Calm, love. Tell me what happened."

He lumbered to the settee. His weight drove dust and the
smell of mold to the air.

"Ach. Catherine," he spit her name in a fury.
"I tried, Anne. But I couldn't lie, could I?"

As soon as he spoke it, she knew. Catherine had pressed him
about her virginity in front of those hundreds of people. The age-old question:
Was she indeed a virgin on her second wedding night? The entire premise of the
marriage’s validity rested on the answer. Henry had never admitted whether or
not she had been, which would settle the matter at once. But what Catherine
could not see—failed to see, was that the fact was moot; Henry had tired of her
and wanted another Queen.

"And so you refused to answer, as you always do,"
she guessed, thinking that if he would just say so, the matter could end. But
she knew he couldn't admit the truth, for the cause would be lost.

"It was Wolsey's doing—he failed. What good is the
Cardinal to me if he can't be counted on to help me?"

"And Fisher. Gad! That cursed Bishop had the nerve to
stand in front of the entire assembly and swear he would die a martyr’s death
to uphold Catherine's claim. He even compared himself to John the Baptist and
me to Herod!" His anger contorted his face and made her cringe. He heaved
himself from the seat, stormed around the room in a fury. The trinkets on the
shelves trembled in his wake.

"It seems the matter is decided, then." Anne fell
back into the chair. After all this time, still no progress. Catherine had won.

"No!" He yelled. "It is not decided. I will
find a way." He slammed his fist into the palm of his other hand.
"Catherine can't win."

He took to pacing again, the flush in his face made his eyes
look more piercing, the shade of red intensifying the whiteness. An enraged
boar, he seemed, his large frame lumbering about the room, making the mahogany
floor tremble as he trod, the paintings vibrate in their gilded frames.

"Wolsey is useless. And I shan't see him for a while.
Can't see him."

"But, Your Grace, he is the man who has worked the
hardest for the matter. Surely it’s only a small impasse..." She started
for him, but he held his hand up to hinder her. George came in then, slipped
into a heavily cushioned chair near the wall, and she motioned him closer.

"Tell him, George. Tell him Our Lord Cardinal is the
man who can help." She may not like Wolsey, but his diplomatic abilities
were without stain. How else would the divorce be won, if not through Thomas
Wolsey—the King certainly had no abilities in politics, and lacked the passion
to fight for himself.

"Brah!" Henry said again, before George could
protest.

"He’s no friend of yours, my sweetheart."

His calf muscles twitched as stood still, chest heaving.

"He has made his case against you. If you knew, you
would not defend him."

Her heart stopped.

"The Cardinal has tainted me to you?"

Henry laughed bitterly.

"Tainted you, indeed. He went so far as to plead with
me to have you tried for treason."