Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) (28 page)

T
he traditional May Day joust of 1536 held no pleasure for
Anne. Revelry abounded everywhere, smiles graced every countenance, but her
face was still and blank, frozen in a grimace of terror. Yester eve she had
been brought word of Marc Smeaton’s arrest, the charges of which were still
being kept from the court. Strange, how the court could continue to play at
normality while the lives of its King and Queen could be in such frenzy. Odd,
how they pretended she was not in danger, or that the King sat now with a
different, graceful, yet conniving woman. Her attention was not on the jousting
below her, or the cheers of the crowd that unnerved her as they filled her
ears. Her attention was on the consequences of the lowly lutenist's arrest the
evening before. She didn't know for sure what it meant, but Marc's arrest was
certainly tied to her future somehow.

"Then shall be burnt two or three bishops and a
Queen..." The eerie ring of Marc's lilting voice crept to her mind, made
her shiver.

She thought of George's face as he told her of the arrest.
It had been drawn and afraid, a mirror, probably, of her own.

Now, as she listened to a fresh cheer, a skirmish just away
from her caught her attention. A page passed Henry a note, and she watched with
breath captured deep in her lungs while he folded it open.

In one fluid motion, Henry rose, and for a brief instant,
his eyes met Anne's. She hoped for a second that he would smile at her, or
motion for her to come near. But in the same instant, she saw the paper in his
hand, and the cruel glint burn his eye. For some odd reason, her heart stopped,
and it refused to beat again as he pulled Hal Norris from the spot next to him,
and left the gallery.

She willed that heart to begin working, but instead of a
rhythmic pulse, it began hammering until she thought she would faint. She knew
this to be connected to Marc's arrest of the evening before, but what it had to
do, she didn't dare think. The intimacy of it all was overwhelming. Marc and
Norris were part of Henry's privy chamber, and among the few courtiers who
still paid her court. Two of her favorites and two whom she patronized as part
of her duties.

Without worrying about propriety or rudeness, she bolted
from her seat, and ran as fast as she could from the field. She must find
shelter, she must find some harbor, and the only place she could think of was
in her apartments. She thought only of her old armoire from her stay in France.
Her favorite piece of furniture, the heavy, engraved, cumbersome reminder of a
past day.

So familiar, the musty smell of put away dresses, the faint
scent of satin slippers that were too worn. It seemed her one escape, the only
place she could return to, where in an instant she was taken back to her
innocence. To a time when she was just a lady-in-waiting and Henry had demanded
nothing of her, and courtiers sought another for their dreams. Crazy, it was,
to open her armoire, that one piece of furniture she hadn't replaced, and sit
on the edge of the platform, doors closed around her as far as they would. The
armoire doors only partially closed, barely hiding her as she huddled within.
Her feet stuck out, with knees beneath her chin. But it didn't matter. She was
more frightened than she had ever been. And this place, this haven, was the
only place that beckoned her.

The doors closed enough to hold the smell, and harbor her.
If anyone were to come in, oh, what a sight they'd see. The Queen, England's
Queen, half-hidden behind the reams of old gowns she had kept.

"Sweet mother of God," she said, over and over,
unable to say anything else. Her mind stuck in that one prayer, closed around
it, hugged it close. She wasn't certain why she was so afraid, only knew Marc's
arrest was tied to her future. Why else would she have been informed of it? And
why would Henry leave the joust in such a fit, especially after staring at her
with such hatred. What did Hal Norris have to do with it—Hal, as loyal to his
King as a dog to its master.

She simply didn't know, and was afraid of that ignorance.
But the one thing she did know, was that Jane sat at the heart of it. Anne,
during all this time, had failed to win him back, and all the while, as she
failed, she watched the symptoms appear one by one. Symptoms she recognized
from the other side of the fence. From Jane's viewpoint.

Would Henry be as lax with his present unwanted queen as he
was with Catherine? Not likely. He had not been kind to Catherine in the end,
and he had spent nearly twenty years with her, a meek, humble woman. What lay
in store for strong-minded, willful Anne, she dared not think.

As she sat, and lucidity returned, she realized she had
little choice. Divorcing Henry was out of the question—she felt certain he
wouldn't even offer it. He had been too happy over Catherine's death. Dread
shivered down her spine. Finally, she crawled from the closet, weak,
frightened, but sure of her fate. She collapsed on the floor next to the
armoire, and waited, wide awake ’til Henry's men came for her the next morning.

"My Lady, you must accompany us." She heard no
sympathy in the gruff voice, saw only a glint in the pale eyes. They were
wicked eyes, squinted together like a ferret's. She merely nodded, not trusting
her voice. They waited while she rose from the floor. With a leisurely hand,
she brushed the dust and rush pieces from her skirt. She took a furtive look
around the room, only to see if perhaps she could take something with which to
cling to, to anchor her to reality. They must have thought she was seeking
escape for one grasped her quickly by the shoulder.

"Come. You must answer to charges."

"Charges?" She asked sweetly. "And what am I
to be charged with?"

The three guards looked at their feet, and the leader spoke
again.

"We know not, my lady. Only that you must stand before
a tribunal."

"And may I have support there? My brother would comfort
me." She hoped Henry would be kind enough to allow George to stand next to
her, but she doubted it. Squinty eyes widened suddenly as if surprised.

"Your Father may, perhaps, but your brother
cannot." And then Anne knew. George had been arrested. Oh, dear God, he
would be implicated in her descent. And what of Elizabeth? Was she still safe
in her lodgings outside the city? When she faced her commissioners, they spared
no leisure, but spoke her charges with calm face. Her uncle Norfolk, stern face
unusually soft, presided and gave the accusations.

"You are hereby ordered to the Tower by His Great
Majesty King Henry."

"By what charge am I ordered so?"

"Charges of treason will be laid at your trial. You
have greatly offended our Sovereign. His Majesty the King has already assigned
some women to you, as well as had them pack some clothing for your stay."

Treason? Ah God. She had thought to be put away at most,
perhaps asked to join a nunnery, but this? Surely Henry meant to frighten her.
Perhaps he wanted to remind her of her station. But for all her
rationalizations, her legs took to a mad trembling.

"And may I see my brother once more? Where is he?"
She dared ask, black eyes steady on her uncle’s sweating face. He lowered his
eyes, mumbled a reply.

"No. His grace, the King, says you are to be denied a
meeting with your brother. As part of your retribution." Since she
couldn't speak, she was pulled from the room, and led callously to a waiting
barge. Ah, Henry had wasted no time, the barge supported five women and a
helmsman.

A thought occurred to her; it was a two hour journey, she
remembered it from her coronation. Surely she’d never endure it. Torturously
the hours dragged by. Even the chirping of the birds sounded solemn, and her
women refused to speak to her. The fields looked silent and barren. Now and
again purple clover peppered the green as if to relieve her or bolster her.
Clover, such sweet weeds. She thought of the taste and how she and George often
picked them and nibbled at the white flesh beneath the purple crown. Purple,
the color of royalty. Crown, the symbol of power.

"Sweet Jesu." She clenched her chest with tense
fingers. George. Brother. Nibbling at weeds or winding them into her hair. Such
odd visions for such a devastating day. Day of danger. Danger such as those
monks had faced. She recalled them and their sickly gray faces and mass of
blood spilling over ragged brown cassocks. Blood, blood. Flesh, flesh. She
rocked to and fro against the rail, imagining blood, recalling flesh. Flesh of
babies only two years in the ground.

"Sweet God." She swallowed and swallowed the spit
that would not go down the tight cavern of her throat ’til, like a specter
through mist, the tower loomed into view. Her throat began to tighten. Her
breath grew short, and shorter still ’til she had to gasp at the spring air
with great effort. It felt cold and chill within her bosom, and it burned her
lungs from the crispness. She held tightly to the rail, feeling all the while
her legs tremble and her body sway. Sway and sway and rock always in time to
her ragged breaths, always creating an odd melody that should be accented by
some song. But when she opened her mouth to accompany the tune, she could only
scream. And her legs collapsed when she realized she had done so.

"I was received with greater ceremony the last time I
was here," she sobbed aloud to the clouds and sat there on the damp barge
floor, ’til she felt the bump of it touching the wharf. The jailer lifted her,
a little tenderly, a little hesitantly. Lord Kingston who had ushered her into
the tower three years before to wait upon her crowning. Now he came to usher
her to her death.

"Come now, my Queen, you will not be housed in the
dungeons, but in the same lodgings as you had before." He touched her arm,
and she recoiled from it. His voice may sound comforting, but his eyes held a
different emotion, a callousness that belied his soft words. And when he would
try to lift her, she clung to his leg instead. No, she couldn't go. Simply
couldn't.

"It’s too good for me," she wailed.

She managed to make it through the court gates, but at the
clanging of the metal as they closed behind her, she fell once more to the
ground.

"Please, please, sweet Jesu, I am not guilty. I am not
guilty." She rocked back and forth on the ground, unable to keep still.
How could she possibly escape? How could this be happening—she was innocent.

"I beg you." She grasped the leg of Kingston as he
knelt to help her to her feet. She gazed at the faces of the men who stood
around, sober faces. Judgmental faces.

"Please. Ask the King to be good unto me. I beg
you." Her face felt wet.

"I am innocent of these charges." She peered up to
the heavens, hoping, praying God would be there, showing himself to her,
rescuing her.

G
eorge sat alone in the gloom. A rat made a small chirping
sound like a bird and he cursed at it, but the rodent kept its own counsel on
the expletive, scurried across the cell to the door. He could see the
disgusting vermin in the hazy light of the hall’s torch that shone through the
one small window in the heavy wood. It sat in the stained wooden plate that
held the remnants of his supper last eve. As if mesmerized, he watched the rat
chew on a piece of spoiled meat, cursed that the jailer hadn’t brought him anything
fresh. So much pity was shown to the Whore’s brother, he found himself laughing
aloud.

"So, my vermin, you dare eat such atrocity? Careful
it’s not poisoned." With the statement, he wondered (not for the first
time) why he was here. He hadn’t been told of his crime or when he’d be tried.
He could only guess that it had to do with Marc’s arrest—but the only
connection he had to Marc was Anne. In the urine stench of the dungeon, George
shivered.

Anne lay dumbstruck and numb on her bed. The quilts felt
heavy, like a blanket of earth. She kicked at them, stared up into the heavy
canopy. The crimson velvet reminded her of blood. Her women hadn’t awakened
yet; she could still hear the snores of one, but Anne hadn’t slept all night.
She had watched the blackness transform to gloom and now in the early dawn,
grey. She could hear the chirping of the birds as they began their morning
forage. Otherwise the air was still. She sighed, rolled over. The blankets
tangled in her legs, annoying her. But then, what did it matter. She ignored
the way they pinioned her limbs to the mattress, just hadn’t the energy to
unravel the covers and free herself. It would be for nothing anyway; she
planned on laying her forever. Or at least, as long as forever would be for
her. For a terrible moment in the gloom of her chamber, she imagined the
Barbican gate as she had seen it the day before. It opened wide, to swallow
her.

She shivered. She felt so alone, isolated. The sounds of her
women did nothing to assuage it. Throughout the night she had tried her best to
pretend she slept in her own chamber, and the snoring came from Nan Gainesford,
or some other lady-in-waiting. She failed. Nothing worked. She remembered
Elizabeth on a visit to the castle just last month. Sweet babe, russet curls
tousled all over her head, blue eyes blazing with a toddler’s passion. Beth had
cried when Anne took her from the nurse, held her hands out to the woman who
had nurtured her, and away from the one who had borne her.

How horrible it had felt, to have her own child cry from
being held. Anne had tried to comfort her, kissed her small white cheek, and
tried to shush her with a mother’s cooing. Even worse was that Anne needed her
and felt sick at having to use her. She had brought Beth to see her father, who
stood in one of the corridors of the castle, staring out into the courtyard.

"Rex," she’d said in a whisper that was both
hoarse and sultry.

"Look how our daughter has grown." He’d spared her
a glance, the first one in weeks.

"Yes." His voice sounded dull.

"She has indeed." Her chest tightened then, while
Beth squirmed and strained to be loosed.

"Would you like to hold her, My Lord? See how she
strains to be taken?" She swallowed the desolate thought that the babe
strained only to leave her mother’s arms. He turned away.

"No." The sickness threatened to come up, and in
desperation Anne held her daughter out to him.

"Please, Rex. We made this child in love. Can you not
remember it? Can you not take the babe and feel again the joy we shared in
her?"

"There is no joy in remembering."

Anne moaned in her bed, remembering the answer. She hugged
her belly tight as she recalled the look on his face as he said it. She had run
from him with Elizabeth bouncing as she fled. The child had laughed, enjoying
the game of being jostled. It sounded to Anne like mockery.

Now she wondered if Elizabeth was safe, if Henry would harm
her. He doted on his children only when all was well with his world, or when it
was in his best interest to do so. Now Beth's greatest safety lie in Anne's
worry for her. The child's worth that Henry could torture the mother with
concern.

No, Beth would be safe for the time—but what of later? Would
Henry dare lose an heir, even a daughter? She sighed again, rose from the bed.
Sleep hadn’t come all night—it certainly wouldn’t come now.

She wandered through the chamber, fingered a tapestry. The
dank stagnant smell of the moat crept up her nostrils. It’d smell foul by
afternoon. She had to escape, had to find a way out. Elizabeth must have
someone to uphold her right to love and security. And what of George and father
and Mary and Nan? What of Marc and Francis and William? Were they imprisoned in
the Bloody Tower, with rats for company and darkness for a blanket? Did they
think of her, worry, as she did?

Her throat constricted so she had a horrible time
swallowing, and the small birds in her chest fluttered their wings, made her
want to vomit. Instead she cursed in a hoarse whisper, moaned. She made her
round of the room, touching objects, staring, thinking. She peered out the
window, watched the early morning mist gather around the stones and settle on
the cobble. Gray on gray, gloom on gloom.

Across the way she could see a tiny light through the window
of the chapel. She wondered if she’d have a candle lit by someone who loved
her. If anyone who loved her would survive to do it? But no. This wasn’t
happening. Simply wasn’t. The gloomy thoughts were only that—thoughts from a
mind panicked and frightened. There was really no need to believe the worst yet.

Henry had loved her once—may still love her. He just wanted
to scold her for meddling in his affairs and nagging him over his new mistress.
But what should she have done? He knew her well enough to know she’d not stand
by while another woman took him. She’d seen it with Catherine. Had watched
Catherine sit idly by ’til it was too late—and then had nagged him incessantly
’til he was no longer even kind to her, let alone inclined to return to her.

Oh, sweet Jesu, no. She’d done exactly that—had nagged and
badgered him, reminding him of Catherine and how he spent years in limbo
because she wouldn’t let go. Now Anne knew her only hope wasn’t that Henry
still loved her, but that he didn’t want to wed Jane Seymour. If he did, then
Anne was truly lost. He’d never suffer the same limbo again. She suddenly had
the sick feeling she was rolling down a steep incline, and the only thing she
could do was scream as she went. He’d have no idea she had been doing just
that—screaming at her helplessness and terrified descent. Now she could do
nothing but watch the eerie mists ensconce the outer walls and stifle the urge
to scream.