Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) (22 page)

T
he wedding ceremony was a quiet affair. And as Henry was
not yet legally separated from Catherine, the victory was yet a hollow one.
After the anti-climactic and disappointing event Anne set about planning her
coronation. Henry assured her she would be made Queen, and though she could tell
no one, she secretly believed it to be more important than her marriage.

"I'll need extra yards of cloth for my gowns," she
said to Nan from atop a small stool within her bedchamber. The February weather
was severely cold but while everyone around her complained of it, she felt
comfortably warm.

"I'd think ye could shroud yerself in miles of cloth
milady, and it'll not warm ye any." Nan mumbled between pins.

"I'll have to add panels to my favorite gowns, no
telling how big I'll get." Anne wanted everyone to know she carried
Henry’s child—proof that she could yet be a good Queen. But Henry wanted to
keep the secret. So she confided in only three; Nan, George, and because she
couldn’t help it, Mary.

"You'll not be needing those panels yet, Anne. You're
still as slim as the day you met the King," Mary responded from her spot
on the bed.

"I'll be needing them soon though, nearly three months
gone... it won't take long," she raised her voice, piqued that Mary should
show discretion at such an annoying time.

"As a matter of fact, I've had such hankerings, I can
barely feed them."

"Hankerings often come in the winter, when we're cooped
up so. Why, I often yearn for strawberries on these cold days." Mary
narrowed her light eyes.

The belligerence came up from nowhere—and why shouldn't the
court know she was married to Henry and carried his son? Secrecy surely
wouldn't change the fact, and the child would come in its time, leaving
everyone to wonder if it was legitimate. She pushed Nan away with a deft hand,
and hopped down from the stool. Catching sight of the door gave her a wicked
idea.

"I've a hankering for apples just now," she said,
and swept across the room into the Presence chamber where much of her personal
court milled about.

She scanned the room quickly, the russet stone, the cases
lined with books, and upon spotting the dark head of her childhood admirer,
forced her stride to a casual walk. Certain all the while, that Mary was at her
heels.

"Thomas, it’s good to see you. Are you entertaining
everyone?" All activity halted as she stood in the center of the room.
Thomas’ face brightened at sight of her. Hastily, he stood to take her hand.

"Actually, Marc was playing his lute for us, and
singing. I can't match that."

She smiled.

"Of course not, those poems of yours should really be
set to music." She glanced behind her. Mary stood at the door shaking her
head. Anne crossed the room.

"Has His Grace lent me Marc then, for the
afternoon?" She inclined her head to where the young man sat watching her.

"And why has he stopped?"

"Go on, Marc, you may play. Please don't pause on my
account, I've just come to begin my search for some fruit." And at her
request, the blonde returned to his strumming, never taking his eyes from her
face.

"Fruit? This time of year?" Thomas stood and
laughed. She had to pull her gaze from Marc’s blue stare, to face Thomas.

"I know, it’s foolish, but I've had such a furious
hankering for apples, such as I've never had in all my life." A smile
spread across her face, and she was careful not to catch Mary's gaze.

"It seized me just three days ago, and comes and goes.
Such a strong urge, too. The King says it’s a sure sign I'm breeding." She
spun to face Mary, knowing she would be standing there with her mouth open and
her rotten back teeth showing. Oh, she didn't want to miss it, and for a
surety, she was, yet the picture was even better than she could have dreamed.
Her eyes were so wide they were popping.

"But, I said it was nothing of the sort." She
strolled towards Mary who gasped for breath. The look on her face struck Anne’s
fancy so that she couldn't stop the laughter from sending sprays of spittle
everywhere in front of her. But Mary's stance told Anne the matter wasn't funny
at all. So she repaid Mary’s discretion by crossing the room to return to her
quarters.

When Anne had entered the room from her bedchamber, nearly
all activity stopped. George could have sworn his heart did also. There was
some strange glint in her black eyes, some odd secret in them. When their eyes
met and locked for a brief moment, he could see every bit of happiness he’d
ever wanted to see in her eyes. It heartened him.

It didn’t hearten Thomas or Marc, however. Especially not
when she mentioned she might be breeding. Why, Marc’s fingers froze on the lute
and Thomas’ chest gave a small spasmodic heave. She left as quickly as she
came, in a fit of laughter.

"So, I see your chances are over now, dear Tom,"
he said to the poet, who had sat rather too quickly when she left the room and
ended up on his ass before the hearth.

"My chances were over years ago, George," Thomas
murmured. "But I’ve always held out hope."

"Hope against the very King and defender of the
land?" George grinned, helped him to a stool.

"I believed our King would never give over his wife for
Anne."

"So you doubted her determination," George said.

"Not at all. I doubted his ability to impassion
her." They both sighed. George noted the lutenist barely picked at his
strings.

F
our months later the news of Anne’s marriage to England's
King was made public, as was her pregnancy. But Henry was astute enough to set
about rumors that he had married her just upon their return from Calais—that
way, though the people's sense of injustice about his first marriage demanded
some sort of public honesty and that he divorce Catherine, at least the child
could be seen as being conceived while the King was married to Anne, not
before.

"The deputation is with Catherine right now,"
Henry said, his blue eyes gleaming with victory as he entered Anne’s chambers,
telling her of the news she had been waiting to hear all morning.

"I doubt she'll be pleased that she's to be addressed
as Princess Dowager again." He chuckled.

"She liked it little when Arthur died, and I doubt
she'll like it more now, these many years after his death." He pulled Anne
toward the bed by her hand.

"But she'll learn to live with it." He sighed a
great sigh as he fell upon it. Nan, who had been stoking the fire for the early
evening, winked quickly and left quietly. Anne smiled as the door closed. She had
a feeling she knew what thoughts flitted through the woman’s mind.

"And Cranmer has been instructed to summon her to an
ecclesiastical court. I expect she'll be relieved of the validity of her
marriage there." Henry twirled a lock of black hair around one finger.

Anne sat on his lap hugged his neck.

"Poor Catherine, in a way I feel sorrow for her."
It was odd that she did, but she pushed the thought away—it might have been
easier on Catherine if she'd just given in.

"Feel no sympathy, she was never my wife. And for all
her goodness, she's crafty. For now, we must plan your coronation, so that when
the people get their divorce, we can crown you immediately as rightful queen of
England. I'll make sure you have as much say in the ceremonies as you can. Would
you like that, my love?"

Like it... she had already been planning it.

"I already have my motto... it shall be
Ainsi sera,
groigne qui groigne
."

" Ah, well done," he approved. "But I think,
‘That's how it’s going to be, however much people may grumble’ might be a
trifle too cocky for the city. And I suspect they will grumble." Henry
muttered, his lips set in a bitter line. "But not for long."

W
hen Archbishop Cranmer ruled Henry’s marriage to Catherine
invalid, Anne saw reason to celebrate. She asked all of her court to join with
her in her apartments; her ladies-in-waiting, her family, Henry and members of
his privy chamber all laughed and danced and dined with her. Though her
condition demanded little activity, she danced once with Henry and once with
George, rationalizing that she had passed her danger point by a full month. She
sat next to the window, fingering a book of songs and listening to the swell of
joyous music. Her court dressed in such a myriad of yellows it made her eyes hurt.
Henry stood in the corner speaking in quiet tones to a rather handsome blonde
who giggled behind an upraised hand and slapped him lightly on the sleeve. A
tug of jealousy made her stomach tighten, but when Henry glanced in her
direction, winked, then rolled his eyes, she smiled in return.

"That grimace of rage left quickly..." George sat
on the stool in front of her, his well-arched brows lifted questioningly.

She laughed.

"So you saw that, did you?"

"How could I not, it heated the room for a moment, then
a smile replaced it so quickly I doubted I’d seen it." He took a large
drink of his wine, spilled some down the front of his crisp white muslin shirt.
She wondered how long he had been celebrating.

"Are you celebrating my good fortune, or your wife’s
absence?" She poked him in the ribs so he almost fell from the stool. Fine
French wine spilled everywhere on the floor, creating a pattern of crimson on
the carpet.

"Ugh, look at the mess you’ve made!"

She shook her head as he jumped to sop up the puddle with
the tail of his shirt. He was a mess.

"How clumsy I am, and on such an important day. Sorry,
Nan. I didn't mean to ruin your party." His face crumpled sincerely.

"You could never ruin it. Come. Sit here with me, I’ve
news to tell you." She pulled at his sleeve, took the goblet from his hand
with her free one.

"At least here, you’ll stay out of trouble." He
gave her a lopsided grin and wiggled his brow.

"Ah, but trouble follows me everywhere, my lady."
But he sat as he was bid, with legs spread wide, heels of boots digging into
the wet spot on the carpet. Some of Anne’s ladies-in-waiting watched him
interestedly.

"What are you reading?" He asked, touching the
book she held.

"Nothing, really. A book of songs the lutenist gave
me."

"Marc? Let me see." She grinned and chuckled.

"Here, let me show you one page in particular. He wrote
these himself, and look, on this one, he illustrated it."

George laughed so loud she cringed.

"Why, it’s a falcon pecking at a pomegranate."

She couldn’t help feeling smug.

"My badge against Catherine’s. Clever, is it not?"
She leaned in close, whispered in his ear,

"I’ll be made Queen next week." He merely gazed
back at her, bright amber eyes a little reddened, but still attentive.

"Truly?" He seemed to regain some of his faculties,
and she smiled broadly, unable to do anything but indulge him.

"Truly. Did you ever doubt me, brother?"

"Doubt you, no. I knew you’d marry His Grace. Once
you’ve your mind set on something, it wanders little. But I never imagined the
King would make his consort Queen. Catherine was different, she was born a
princess and Henry needed to strengthen his reign by crowning her. But you,
you’re just Anne Boleyn. A commoner. Like me." He shrugged his shoulders
in an offhand manner, took a gulp of his wine and stared at her mutely.

"Yes, well, common as I might be, I’m to be
crowned," she said blandly, the joy deflated a little. He grinned at her
then, in the manner of drunks when they’re ignorant of the impact of their
words, and took her hand.

"You’ve the fire of hell in your veins, Anne Boleyn, I
can see that, but don’t expect me to call you, Your Grace. To me you’re just
Nan." He pulled her from her chair and wrapped his lean arm about her
ripening waist.

"You may not dance, but we can still eat. That table is
beckoning me." He led her to the banquet table she’d had prepared for the
party, covered with the lightest of lace clothes, and spread with dates and
oranges and cheese wheels. A large carafe of French wine stood at the center,
contents sloshing against the sides almost in time with the dancers’ steps. She
had requested a loaf of bread to be baked in the French fashion, and it lay
upon the table next to the carafe, split open and oiled with fine herbed
grease. She had to admit, the smells beckoned her as well. The child within her
craved lampreys, fried and spiced and greasy.

As she pulled at the edge of the bread, she glanced back at
Henry. He still coddled that blonde waif and for a moment she forgot the
lampreys. The taste of bread in her mouth grew dry and stale.

"George, see if you can wrest that girl from my
husband."

He stopped munching on the chunk of cheese and wiped his
hands on his hose. She had her doubts as to whether he could do it in his
state, but she pushed him forward anyway.

"You’ve no need to push, Anne. I was going." She
watched as he bowed before Henry, very low. She held her breath when he
teetered a bit, but released it when she saw a wide playful grin on his face as
Henry raised him, took his hand in shake and patted his back heartily. George’s
charm could dupe Satan in any condition, but charismatic as he could be, she
was totally dumbfounded when George turned to the lady, shirt stained with
wine, yellow doublet askew, and she gave him her hand, smiled broadly when he
spoke. Either the lady wanted away from Henry, or George was more appealing
than she thought. Henry left the others and came toward her.

"My love," he said when he reached the table,
broke off a hunk of bread. "How fares the child?" He chewed noisily.

With a quick glance to George, she said. "Fine, your
grace. Perfect, in fact."

"Ah, it pleases me that you find it so."

Anne touched her stomach briefly. How odd to think of an
unborn child as if it had thoughts or feelings, but then, mayhap it did. She
rather liked the idea, and stroke her belly absently, wondering if it could
hear sounds of joy or feel her anxieties. She found herself hoping joy could
reach him, but prayed he knew nothing of her feelings. They so often teetered
lately, as if on the edge of a precipice. She reached for a glass and filled it
with Alsace wine.

"What of the coronation, Rex?"

He smacked and questioned her with his eyes.

"What shall I use for the river journey?"

He shrugged and took her glass. In one gulp the wine was
gone.

"A barge, I should suppose."

She thought for a second.

"Might I use Catherine’s?"

He shook his head.

"But why ever not? It’s perfect. And I should enjoy
riding the same as did Catherine when she was crowned."

"No." He stole a glance at the waif who as yet was
helping George dance without falling.

Anne’s temper crept to her throat.

"I want it."

His eyes went cold.

"No."

"I need it. What other shall I find?"

He threw the glass to the floor.

"A barge is a barge. It matters not which you
use."

She straightened her back, aware that her courtiers had
begun to stare. They clustered about in small groups whispering and avoiding
her eye.

"Then it shouldn’t matter if I use it." Anne
didn’t know why his refusal should bother her so. Mayhap it seemed too much as
if he protected Catherine.

She decided to demand the barge anyway. But a week later,
the demand fell on deaf ears and Anne found herself stepping from a tiny wharf
at Greenwich castle onto the new barge that would begin her procession to
Queenship. Catherine wouldn’t give hers up. Her tentative step grew more
confident as she planted both feet on the deck—she hated traveling anywhere by
water, but fortified herself for the inevitable trip. One that would take her
six miles down river to the tower of London, where she would wait with Henry
for two days. Then the true ceremony would begin, and she would become
England’s royally anointed Queen through all manner of festivities.

She could hardly wait to see them all in action. On paper
the festivities and planned symbolisms had sounded impressive enough, but
reality would surely heighten the effect. And when she began her parade
throughout the streets of London, crashes and booms of artillery disrupted the
peace at regular intervals, drowning out the sweet sounds of minstrels. It all
took her breath away. Hundreds of people stood on the shores to watch the new
Queen presumptive make the traditional homage to the tower. Two days later she
entered the series of pageants that became part of her coronation.

She refused to have her hair put up, let the country see how
different this new Queen would be to the old. When Catherine had been crowned,
the city had seen fair hair—black would usher in the new realm, and she wanted
the city to see every strand of it. The dress seemed a bit heavy for a June
ceremony, but the crimson brocade put royalty in the people's minds, and so she
wore it. It was encrusted all over with precious stones to complement the
string of pearls that stretched round her neck. For the occasion, she had hired
a jeweler to attach Francois' diamond to the string. Henry had given her a
purple velvet robe to wear with the ensemble, and she had her own seamstress
make up dresses similar for her women, all mantled with ermines, of course.

She sat in her litter with a canopy overhead held by Barons
and waited eagerly for the first occasion of the pageant to begin. When she
arrived at Gracechurch Street, her litter was surrounded by the Nine Muses of
Greek myth and before the large pageant of the Progeny of St. Anne. As she sat,
reclining against the gold cushion of the chaise, the light May breeze lifted
her hair away from her neck, and it felt cool to have it so. She watched,
unable to stop the broad smile that spanned her face as the folk of London hung
about the streets and stood at their windows.

This was her day, the day she’d waited and dreamt of.
Nothing could taint the beauty of it, not the women as they pointed, not the
men who studied her voraciously—no doubt wondering what she had that made Henry
risk everything to marry her—not even the lack of blessings could ruin the day.
She decided not to watch the people’s faces, for she’d soon sour. Instead she
reveled in the tapestries that covered the shops and the silken linens that had
been hung for the ceremony.

The streets looked grand, and all for her. She managed her
way through pageants filled with Grecian mythology and Christian imagery. She
smiled and accepted 1,000 marks in gold coin, listened to what seemed like
hundreds of poems narrated by children. When she stuffed the bag of coin
between her cushions, she remembered she was supposed to give it up for
charity, as was the common tradition. It was too late, however, for to dig it
back out would prove she had forgotten. Better to leave it where it was, and
offer it to a chapel later on.

She had just decided to give it to her own parish, when a
group of grungy children began pointing at her litter. They stifled a laugh and
poked at their companions, so that soon it seemed the entire street stifled
laughter behind upheld hands. For a moment she forgot her training and lost the
smile that had by now been frozen to her face. She wanted to crane her neck to
see what was so humorous about her litter. Had something fallen off? Did her
falcon badge teeter off the tip? What?

It wasn't until she stepped from the litter onto the steps
of Westminster that she looked back and saw what the commoners had been
laughing at. Of course, she should have seen it before. It was traditional for
the King and Queen’s initials to be entwined together, symbolizing their love
and mutual support. The sight of the Londoners’ pleasure, for once, pleased her
as well. Indeed, much had pleased her on her procession through the dirty
London streets, though cries of "God save you!" were few. But this sight
made her smile, for she saw, quite blatantly, the H and A of the initials
forming a most heartfelt laugh. What the bedraggled Londoners saw as a satiric
comment on her marriage, she saw as her own sarcastic response.

"HA!" She snorted at the crowd, and sauntered
proudly up the steps to receive her crown.