Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) (5 page)

"Y
ou're adept with your bow,
mademoiselle
."

"Am I?" Anne’s answer to Jacques was filled with
coquetry. She'd practiced her flirtations in France enough to know she had him
enthralled, but this time, she felt as taken by a man as she pretended to be.
In the weeks since the festival, she found herself attending Queen Claude as
the King made progress throughout the French countryside. The deep greens of
late summer leaves and the quiet blues of the afternoon sky helped her forget
the festival. The heady smell of the outdoors, of the woods and grass purged
her mind of George. She’d killed two geese in the afternoon and sat chewing on
the cooked breast of one beside the fire that lit the dusk in a smoky, ethereal
haze.

The fever of the kill was still on her, mastery, pride,
skill—all flooded her veins with their potion, making her drunk with them.
Jacques’ compliment only fed it. His voice sounded smoky as the fire, and
filled with heat. She measured him, her eyes glancing to his profile. How
exciting he seemed, so unlike the genteel, well-bred, but coarse men of court.
He was natural as the air. His hard-worked body lured her. His presence deliciously
indecent.

She grew as intoxicated from his gaze as from the sense of
transcendence she felt—that she should be completely out of his reach, yet
wanted him. The fire crackled nearby, sending a waft of smoke to the gentle
breeze that caressed the trees. She looked at his face and thought how
attractive it was; plain, masculine.

Small stubble crept round his chin, and in the early dusk,
it made him look mysterious. Green eyes blazed back at her, the light of the
fire reflecting and twisting the color into a cat yellow. When the breeze
brought his scent to her, and the coming night lit his jaw in the eerie,
magical way it does, she thought, I'm as old as these hills, old as the fire,
as the grass. So she kissed him. Lightly. On the cheek. She felt as if the fire
had come inside her. She could see others slipping off to tents around the
fire, or slipping into the shadows to celebrate their hunt. She wondered what
it would be like to enjoy the celebration, if she could sneak away as easily.

"Would you walk me to my tent?" she dared ask,
surprised at her own brazenness, but pleased when Jacques nodded his answer.

The way his jaw looked in the haze tightened her chest, made
her feel even more powerful, that she could have him if she wanted, and that he
was a mere commoner, more common than she. The night's moon had pulled a thin
veil of clouds to protect herself from damp, allowing only a hazy, kind of
opaque light to shine through. Only the faint rustling of leaves wafted through
the still air. And the smells, how they excited her; pine, and moss, sweet
acrid scents of nature. And mingled with them, his scent, more exciting than
all the rest. But it’d been his kiss that made her heart race faster; deep,
probing, demanding. She’d returned it with the same urgency, the same need. She
wanted to eat him, the way she would a strawberry—to savor and enjoy it. She
couldn't taste enough of his mouth, of his tongue. And in the quiet glen they’d
found, she let her hands cup his neck, pulled him closer.

Before she realized it, his hands were on her breasts, hands
that were rough and cracked. The calluses on his palms were dry, and scratched
lightly across her nipples as he caressed her. Such gentle caresses for such a
hardened man, such undeniable pleasure came with those strokes, fueling an
urgency within her that she’d never felt before. And to know that same urgency
was in him, that he wanted her as much as she did, made her stomach flutter.
Maddening, his exquisitely soft, slow caresses on flesh that screamed for pressure.
She ground against him, her hips met his with a pressure that surprised her.
His hardness intensified her desire—and told her of his. But he remained cool,
and quiet. The sound of her own moans excited her. His hands traveled from her
breast to her stomach. Her nipples were exposed; cold and hard. And then, as
his hands traveled to her hip, he pushed her away.

"What's wrong?" she asked confused, thinking that
maybe he’d changed his mind, that perhaps her lack of experience repulsed him.

"I can’t believe someone so beautiful could want me so
badly." He shrugged, looking at her lips.

She thought he must be crazy; he was as beautiful as any
court statue, was intricately carved and hardened. She knew she would never
look at another full figure carving without thinking how pale it was, without
life or suppleness.

"You're mad." He kissed her again, slow and
thorough.

"Very mad," he said into her mouth.

With a start she realized he’d slid his hand beneath her
skirts. She wanted it there she also realized, beneath her gown, close to her
hip, heating her flesh. She couldn’t understand what compelled her about him,
didn’t know if it was the moon or the wine or his breath sounding ragged and
needing. She knew she needed him. Wanted him to touch her because he shouldn’t,
that she shouldn’t allow it. She squelched the fleeting guilt that what she was
about to do was a sin. Priests and bishops knew nothing of passion—how could
they school her on it?

At first his touch felt cold, but her flesh soon warmed his
hand. Throughout his caresses he kissed her, whispering into her mouth, "
Cherie
..."
and the words tasted sweet. The warmth of his hand and her flesh joined between
her thighs, and oh, the joy in that touch. His fingers probed. Her breathing
grew short.

"That's it,
Cherie
." She heard him say.

"Relax, enjoy." He paused long enough to guide her
fingers to his member, used his own hand show her how to touch him. A thousand
ants had invaded her stomach, scurried this way and that. Excitement choked off
her breathing. He released her hand, satisfied that she would continue. One of
his fingers flicked gently at her opening, quickening and slowing; stroking and
rubbing. Then very gently, it slid in, just a bit, and she gasped. She heard
him moan.

"Ah
Mon Dieu, ma petite
. I must be mad." He
withdrew his finger and returned it to the flesh he’d left, rubbing ’til she
ground against him in desperation, unable to remain composed. Within moments,
she felt her muscles tighten. Before long, her entire body convulsed beneath
him, and she clung to him shamefully. The most beautiful shame she’d ever felt.

"You are happy,
Cherie
?" he asked, close to
her ear. She could only nod.

"
Bien
." He embraced her.

"Now we shall perform the duty you asked of me at the
start." He lifted her from the bed of moss, swept off the stray pine
needles from her skirts and kissed her gently.

"You have made me happy as well," he said quietly,
and with great grace, walked her to her tent. But now she sat in a chair next
to a fire worlds apart from the one of that night.

She smiled contentedly, even the mere memory of it brought a
flush to her skin. She’d confessed after, doubting by the priest’s judgmental
tone that she’d been forgiven, but believed fervently that she should do so,
just in case. She had a hard time believing in God’s forgiveness when his
representative couldn’t deign to show empathy—indeed, how could he feel empathy
if he’d never experienced such joy or such temptation? Here in the bower room,
the thought of Jacques spread warmth through her body.

It left her holding her sewing, rather than working on it
as she should have been doing. The small fire within the fireplace lulled her
with its crackles and pops. A scream shattered her languid reverie, followed by
a child’s newborn cry. Ah, so Claude had finally birthed the babe and might
feel relief after so many hours. Anne pitied her—and thanked the heavens
Jacques had left her the virgin he had found her—otherwise she might soon have
cause to scream. A few hours passed as she sewed and pretended to sew, now and
then she would stare into the fire.

"The babe is a healthy boy, and more news is
afoot."

The King’s sister startled her, not bothering to knock but
scanning the room quickly. She hurried forward when she noticed Anne, all but
lost in the chair beside the fire.

"I suppose I should soon address you as
Mademoiselle
Butler?" Marguerite lost no time revealing the news, her voice a lilting
ring in Anne's ears. Her dainty hand rested lightly on a narrow hip, the long
forefinger tapping delicately against the velvet.

"And why would you suppose that?" Anne's mind
tracked through all the information it had stored during the day, sweeping
aside cobwebs of neglect, trying to find reason in her friend’s statement.

"Hmm, it seems I have some advance notice. Even before
you." Marguerite seemed magnanimously present, despite her small frame. As
always, Anne felt overcome by the amount of energy and vitality her tiny
physique could elicit. Next to Louise of Savoy, Francois' mother, Marguerite
was the most important woman in France, but her charisma came from somewhere
beyond the importance of her station.

"Stop teasing and tell me. I can see the glint in your
eye that obviously means gossip, and I take it, that gossip has to do with
me."

"You English. You're so brash." Marguerite smiled,
and took the seat next to Anne, who sniffed a bit as the dust that had settled
there wafted into the air.

"And you French—you're so very refined. Now, let's stop
the pretense that you're all above gossip." Anne shifted in the chair,
drew her legs up under her skirts to rest next to her bottom.

"Oh, you take the fun out of everything, lately."
Marguerite, never one to pout for appearance sake, said the words without a
change of facial expression.

"I've just come from my brother," she began.
"He's a little worried that the English King is asking his subjects to
return home."

Anne sat up quickly, her back rigid with concern.

"He is?"

"
Oui
. And he has received news that you're to go
as well."

Suspicion crept up Anne’s spine.

"Have you any reason why?" She tried to make her
voice sound unaffected, but the grip her teeth had on her lower lip gave it a
tremor she hated hearing.

Marguerite picked at the velvet on her gown, and brushed it
brusquely before she answered—lending additional suspicion to Anne's thoughts.

"You're to be wed." Then she looked Anne squarely
in the eye, her lips curving in a smile. "Exciting,
non
? To an
Irishman no less. Now that will spread like fire around the court. Our prim
Mademoiselle Boleyn. French by heart, English by birth, and Irish by
marriage."

A strange elation mixed with the dread of going to England.
Anne hadn’t called England home in more than seven years, but it was definitely
the home of the Boleyns and with that home came George. She squirmed in her chair.

"But what else? You said Henry requests all his
subjects."

"Yes," Francois’ sister lowered her gaze.
"There are rumors of war."

A
nne returned to her homeland in early 1521, a woman grown,
with appetites and needs much different from the girl who left it. Now she
realized the absolute driving force of passion. The girl who had left knew
nothing of conversation, or fashion, or even how to tease a courtier without
infuriating him. Base things really, things she had learned abroad with archduchesses,
and kings, and lowly serving gentlemen who stared at her as if she were a
jewel. She learned such lessons as sharpening her wit on ladies who cared
nothing of intelligent conversation and allowed barbs to strike home with
little resistance.

France had given her life abundantly, it had shown her the
carnal pleasures of beauty and passion. How could England compare, when the
girl who left it returned wiser, more knowing, At times she thought of
Marguerite, missed her hoarse voice and dry humor. But she’d plenty to keep her
mind working, and the extra pleasure of seeing her brother nearly everyday
helped immensely.

He’d married after the festival, and now the woman who was
his wife argued that he spent too much time with his sister. Drat, but she was a
chit. A girl who didn’t love her husband, but who droned on and on about how he
should stay at home, watching her sew or stoke the fire.

George never once complained about her. Instead he pursed
his lips together quietly, and changed the subject whenever Anne brought it up.
He went home each night with a heavy step, but returned the next day with a
bounce in it. Anne wasn’t sure if he was excited to get away, or if his wife
indeed kept him happy when he was home. Whatever it was, she
decided George would keep his counsel, and harbour his wife’s feelings, never
doing anything to make the young girl unhappy.

As for her Father, he visited her every other day, his wide
mouth grim and commanding. He would report the latest news of her marriage
without emotion or change of expression. The young man wanted the marriage it
was clear. He had seen Anne during one of her walks with the Queen, and spoke
of her often to Thomas.

Her fiancé was a burly young man with spittle always shining
on his bottom lip. He made her think of a dog in the summer heat, pining for
water, yet enjoying the pain of the sun’s rays. She tried to imagine him
touching her the way her Frenchman had, and wanted to be sick when she did. She
could in no way equate the beauty of that night with the bestial man who was to
be her husband. February’s court brimmed with activity. England’s war against
France, allied with Spain’s Charles V, seemed imminent. Thomas Wolsey, Cardinal
of the Church, planned a huge event to honor Charles' envoys to England.

Anne had been asked to participate in the masque at Cardinal
Wolsey's castle, and of course, accepted, excited to do something for a change.
The masque would involve eight ladies of honor held captive by eight enemies of
love. She would be a captive. When March first finally dawned and stretched
into evening she could barely contain her excitement.

She fidgeted restlessly with the banner that crossed her
bosom. Tonight she was labeled Perseverance, and she certainly thought it
fitting. Few could sustain King Francois’ attention without giving in. Her
Milan-point lace gown had already begun to itch her at its edges where the lace
touched her bare skin, and every time the urge to scratch nagged her, she
reminded herself that the gown was underlain with white satin—soft silky satin;
itch free, and smooth. It also helped to think that she looked striking in
white, and that the gold bonnet she wore was jewel encrusted, which made her
black hair shine like jet against the sparkle.

Oddly enough, it didn’t matter to her that the other seven
ladies would be wearing similar outfits. Anne knew she looked even more
striking than the King’s sister, knew that pale beauty could not outshine her
tonight. But it was a shame Mary Suffolk couldn't have played one of the enemies
of love—they were dressed like savages.

"Is this thing on straight?" she asked Bounty
whose label for the evening matched her image perfectly. Bountiful breasts
jiggled each time she fidgeted. Her flax-colored hair dipped into the well
between those bosoms frequently, only to be pulled out with annoyance by the
girl’s plump fingers. Her given name she told Anne, was Elizabeth Blount.

"But call me Bess." The whisper broke the silence
which pervaded the area where they stood, masked from view by a large musty
curtain. Anne wondered if this was the woman who had borne Henry his only
living son nine years past.

"Cursed Banner," Bounty mumbled. Her voice sounded
as dust-laden as the curtain. She was pretty in a fetching way, with a full,
plump face. Her barely suppressed laughter rang in Anne’s ear, so she found
herself giggling in return, propriety and nervousness forgotten...

"Shh. Someone is lighting the torches," Bounty
whispered, quieting her restless limbs as she struck her pose.

Anne followed suit, awaiting her rescue from the
battlements. She imagined what the scene must look like to the envoys that sat
in plush chairs. She’d peeked into the room an hour before while the room had
been dimly lit by two torches. The faux castle where she now stood, had loomed
green and shimmering at one end of the hallway like a specter shining through a
mist. Upon its high battlements stood towers and walls pierced with
crenellations and swathed all over with green paper and liquid verdigris. It
borrowed mythical imagery, and lent a ghostly air to the room.

The three towers each flew a banner; one, a broken heart,
another a lady's hand turning a man's heart, and the last a lady's hand holding
a man's heart. Large waxen torches hung on every wall of the room. As they were
lit she held her breath. Their glow flickered through the rents in the curtain
making the room ethereal and dim. No sound came from the other side of the
curtain—the envoys and courtiers must be ready. Suddenly, the curtain tumbled
into a neat heap at the foot of the castle. The entire cast gasped with
surprise, and the full crowd of spectators' intake of breath accompanied a
startling blare of trumpets.

In rushed eight masked lords, all dressed in cloth-of-gold
and cloaks of blue satin, save one—Ardent Desire. He was obviously the leader;
his crimson cloak was scored by a motif of burning golden flames. Anne struck
what she thought to be a fitting frightened look, widened her eyes to their
maximum.

She tried her best to contain a chuckle when Bessie hissed through
clenched teeth, "You look like a fish!"

From below, Ardent Desire demanded the ladies give up the
castle.

"Never. We shall defend!" Both Scorn and Disdain
yelled back in unison.

"Then the ladies must be won," Desire instructed
his accompaniment.

"Attack!" The eight lords rushed the castle with a
concentrated effort. The realism of the assault made Anne shiver, but only for
a moment. Dates made flumping noises as they hit the poor ladies. Oranges sent
a citrus scent to the air.

"Which is the King?" she dared ask Bess, who
halted her pitiful wail long enough to nod in the direction of Ardent Desire.

Anne should have known. The combined screech of the
defenders accompanied their parry of rosewater and comfits. Gunfire thundered
through the room. It combined with the screeches of a frightened audience. Anne
expected it, but squealed when the lady next to her did. Foolish woman, she
should have known the audience would holler. The last of the defenders—Scorn
and Disdain of course—scuttled to the walls, abandoning their posts and
allowing the lords to claim their booty.

After the briefest of moments the musicians began to play.
The dance demanded Anne be passed from her rescuer’s arms into those of
another, and another. She did her best to remember her training, and captivate
her partners with her eyes and her skill. The imagined sound of Madame’s voice
in her mind coached her,

"It matters not that you are beautiful, it matters only
that you make the gentleman believe you are beautiful. Looks fade away ’til one
is left with only her wits." The ring of Madame’s voice brought Anne back
to her first appointment and her mistress’ love of beauty.

That belief spurred the notion that beauty could be seen in
anything. Madame Margaret had trained her girls to cultivate loveliness rather
than merely admire it. So Anne listened to the coaxing voice in her mind that
told her to smile and laugh and dance beautifully.

She was so intent that she ignored her partners ’til a youth
who was at once shy and mysterious took her hand. The smell of a French forest
flooded her mind. His eyes, the gentle, entreating green of moss, captured her
own. She could not pull her gaze away. She let him take her hand, loving the
way it fit around hers—warm and dry, but soft as her own skin. His pale hair
reminded her of the hero-King, Arthur, and his eyes drank her image. Oh, how
much she wanted him in that instant, when he merely looked at her, without
condescension, without affectation. Honest, and expectant.

"My lady, my captive," he said. His voice was
deep, like she’d always imagined fresh baked bread would sound; warm, and airy.
She wanted to hear it again.

"My Lord," she returned. She dared him with her
eyes to speak again. He said nothing. The silence made her grind her teeth. It
would be up to her to keep the conversation going, and damn her willful
tongue—it had frozen to her palate. So much for dazzling him with her court
dialogue.

Before she could pry her tongue loose she was passed into
the arms of another. She forgot her training and followed the gentleman with
her eyes.

"Brunet?"

"As I live," she said, pleased and surprised.
"It's Thomas Wyatt."

She hadn't seen him since they were children, playing at
grown up as if they never would. His face was still beautifully angelic, as if
an angel had kissed him, yet haloed with the darkness of Satan's cloak. And his
lanky body had finally grown into the tree trunk he’d always said it would. But
where was that old clinginess? That sharp, whining need to attach himself to
someone? The way he stood straight and proud, a rustic timber against the
whimsical background of lace and tissue-cloth that were the gowns and
draperies, made Anne’s heart lurch.

She got a quick memory of him as a child, playing soldiers
with George. He always lost, not really caring for such barbaric games, and her
brother never teased him about it. Now, in the torch-lit room amid the smell of
smoke and powder, he smiled tentatively, his generous mouth a bruise against
the sheen of very white teeth. How inviting he looked. The brushed velvet of
his doublet crept back off his shoulders in a rakish way, as if he’d pulled it
on in haste and hadn’t had time to check if it was on right. It made him feel
familiar. She felt at ease.

"I have been waiting for your hand in the dance."
He stared straight into her eyes.

He’d wooed her in their childhood days, like a boy normally
woos a girl, with swift jabs in the arm and tauntings about the darkness of her
hair, and she knew he would remember that crush, and feel it still tightening his
heart. Knowing it made her smile madly, with a sense of headiness. The captive
had captured her own.

"I heard you’d come home, Anne."

"I'm to marry."

"Yes, I know. But it’s no secret your Father is not set
on it."

Swirls of colors and textures blended together as they
danced. Gray imposing stone inadequately covered by lush tapestries, waited
sedately behind the movements of deep black and crimson velvets. The dove white
satin of many gowns a creamy, beckoning blur. Anne’s gown whispered against
another’s; made a short, raspy melody.

"And what of your marriage?" she asked after a
moment, too caught up in the textures that surrounded her to care that he was
deliberately twirling her too fast. She wished she hadn’t taken so long to goad
him; now he would think he was getting the better of her. She stepped up her
pace. He best not think he could better her.

He laughed, and she felt his chest shake with it. "You
know how to find the soft spots." He spun her madly around another couple.
"Madame Wyatt is, shall we say, estranged from me and our marriage."

She only had the chance to say, "Oh." before
another courtier took his place. In a few moments she took her gentleman’s hand
again, he of the forest eyes and demure stance.

"You dance well, mistress..."

"Boleyn," she returned immediately, pleased he’d
complimented her. But it wasn’t enough. She had only moments before she’d be in
the arms of another and didn’t want to miss her opportunity. She couldn’t let
him lapse into silence.

"Thomas Boleyn is my father. Perhaps you know of him?
He serves the King." She dared swivel her hips, wanted him to feel them
sway. The music’s frenzied tempo matched time with her heart.

"Of course. My master speaks highly of him." His
face looked strange, as if he’d practiced these words, yet hated himself for
giving an expected answer. It intrigued her.

"And who is your master, my lord...?"

Another couple swept up to them, she could see the swirl of
a crimson skirt. Surely she’d have time to hear his answer. He smiled brightly,
sensual lips showing even teeth.

"My apologies, I’m Harry Percy. I apprentice in
politics with the Cardinal."

"Oh."

So there was a flaw—and quite a glaring one. She tried not
to sound rude, but couldn't help herself. To apprentice with Wolsey, well, he
must be anything but desirable—probably as lecherous. She found it nearly
impossible to keep any of those feelings out of her voice, knew that with just
that one syllable, she’d spoken volumes. Too bad for her, he'd probably drop
her off at the nearest group of women, eager to be finished with her.

To her surprise, he laughed. And she looked up at him,
thinking it peculiar that he should. If anything, he should have felt slighted,
not humored. She could see all of his teeth as he threw his head back,
thoroughly enjoying himself, and not caring that couples were staring. She saw
another facet of him, one that further intrigued her. So much, that she decided
to forget that he worked for a man her father loathed. She decided to forget
she was promised to another man, who probably stood silent in a corner,
watching her. Nothing else mattered except to enjoy this dance, and to make him
enjoy it more.