The Other Side of Anne
Read The Other Side of Anne Online
Authors: Kelly Stuart
THE OTHER SIDE
OF ANNE
Kelly Stuart
Yellow Zebra Books
This book is a work of fiction. No part of this book may be reproduced without the permission of the author.
All rights reserved.
“The Other Side of Anne” Copyright © 2011 by Kelly Stuart
Book cover design by Melody Simmons
http://ebookindiecovers.com/
Author Note
Quentin University is a fictional school.
Kelly Stuart’s Books
Love’s Awakening
The Other Side of Anne
Email Kelly Stuart at [email protected].
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The morning of May 19, 1536
She was a queen
and determined to die with grace and dignity. Her bladder and bowels would remain intact. She lay in bed and kept her eyes shut, lest she sense the creeping fingers of the sun. Lady Boleyn, her aunt by marriage, and Lady Kingston, wife of the constable of the tower, lay near her. Maybe they pretended to sleep too. In her head, Anne recited the sentences, polishing her last words: “Good Christian people, I am come hither to die, according to the law, for by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it.”
The words were acceptab
le. Not what she wanted to say—because she was innocent. However, for the welfare of her daughter, Anne had to keep pledging her allegiance to the king and air no protestation about her sham of a trial. Elizabeth would not suffer for her mother’s so-called sins. Anne continued in her head, lacing her words with double meaning and sarcasm: “But I pray God save the king and send him long to reign over you. For a gentler nor a more merciful prince was there never, and to me he was ever a good, a gentle and sovereign lord. And if any person will meddle me of my cause I require them to judge the best. And thus I take my leave of the world and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me.”
At this time she would draw a confident breath and kneel. Eyes clear, head held high. An innocent woman. Innocent woman found guilty of incest with her brother and of other adulterous acts.
No, she would not kneel just yet. She would look into the crowd one last time, into the eyes of Englishmen and Englishwomen who brought food and their children. She would curse these people with her eyes, dare them to picnic over her spilled blood. Maybe they would behave with grace, as they had following her brother’s death two days before. The pinprick pain of George—
lovely George, dead George, innocent George—forced Anne’s eyes open.
Still dark. No sun. By nine o’ clock a.m., she would be dead. She should be dead now. The execution had been postponed twice. Yesterday, at eight in the morning, she was supposed to have been beheaded. Then again at noon yesterday, but the executioner from Calais remained delayed.
Pray deliver me to you this morn, dear Lord.
Anne pictured herself kneeling. What would her ve
ry last words be? Something ordinary? Something such as: “To Christ I commend my soul. Jesu, receive my soul...” And then the blow of the sword, would she hear its whoosh?—and her slender neck, formerly covered with love and kisses from His Majesty, would exist no more.
A whisper rose up from Lady Kingston. “The sun.”
George, dear brother…not long now.
“The sun,” Anne echoed. She felt the eyes on her, their presence stronger than ever. Not the gazes of Lady Boleyn and Lady Kingston, but the demon eyes. Anne was not sure what else to call them. She had felt them all her life. Invisible, watchful, curious, keen eyes on her. Not God’s implacable eyes, but hungry, ravenous eyes. Some people said she was a witch; she had the devil’s paw mark, the size of a strawberry, on her neck, and that twig of a sixth finger on her right hand. Maybe these people were right. Maybe she was a witch. She floated a silent prayer.
Help me, whoever thou art. Help me die. Not tomorrow, but today. This morning. I can endure no longer. Deliver me to my paradise.
Anne dressed in a crimson kirtle
first. Then a black damask gown set off by a wide white collar. She must keep calm and composed. No matter what Henry VIII declared, she was queen of England, mother of a legitimate heir. And she was innocent. God knew. Henry knew too. He had to.
To Christ I commend my soul. Jesu, receive my soul...
She turned to ask one of her ladies to bring a hood of black velvet. But the room was empty. How? Impossible. The guards had not—
“Your Majesty.”
Anne jumped at the voice, a man’s. It was deep and gravelly, and behind her. The Lord God? Anne’s neck throbbed. Not the Lord God. No. The eyes. The invisible eyes would save her.
Anne turned to meet the owner of the voice. She beheld a light, a glorious white light. A man stepped out. Anne could not perceive him well, for the light
shone in a most dazzling manner.
“Will you come, Your Majesty?” The man held out his right hand, and Anne’s neck
pulsed again. Was this occurrence the proof that she indeed was a witch and deserved to die?
“Your Majesty
, please come.” The man smiled, and his teeth—his teeth! White, straight and without gaps. A desperate giggle escaped Anne, and she clamped her mouth shut. She was a queen. She would behave with grace and dignity even if she was a witch.
Anne took the man’s hand and stepped into the light.
Avery would have to kiss Diana good night. No doubt about it. Even though this was their first date, Diana had
given him certain looks, certain touches. Avery tried to focus on his dinner—steak and baked potato—but taste escaped him.
“Are you all right?” Diana asked.
Avery cut a piece of steak. “Yes.”
Insert fork, chew, pretend to taste.
“This steak gets better with each bite.”
Diana laughed
and speared a hunk of salad. She was nice with kissable lips: full and pouty. In other circumstances, kissing them would be no tragedy.
“Rabbit food,” Avery said.
“What?”
“
Salad is rabbit food. I can’t stand it.”
“
Come on! You can’t beat salad.”
“I’ll brin
g you rabbit pellets next time,” Avery said. “See how you like them.”
“
There will be a next time?”
The knot in Avery’s stomach intensified, and he forced him
self to smile. “So you started reading my book last night?”
“Mmm. Got to Chapter Five.” Diana munched on more rabbit food. “It’s tragic.
A lot went into getting Edward born, and then he dies at such a young age.”
Avery had to agree. He was a Tudor historian and had written two books on the Tudors. His more recent book was on Edward VI, the only surviving legitimate son of Henry VIII, if dying at sixteen years old could be called surviving. Avery had a soft spot for Edward, whom historians had neglected.
He became king at a mere nine years old and never quite came into his own. His uncles and other power-hungry men manipulated him and ruled in his stead. He died at an age where historians would not write much about him. Avery wanted to change that, and his biography on Edward was a good start.
“I’m thinking about taking a risk,”
he confessed to Diana.
She
raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“Maybe I’ll dip my toe into fiction. I could wr
ite an alternate-history book based on if Edward had lived. If he had become a true king and not a boy puppet.”
Diana set down her fork. “Wow. I’d read it.”
“Thanks.” Diana was just being nice, but that was okay. “I have it outlined,” Avery admitted. “Gotta force myself to sit down and type.”
“Are you having writer’s block?”
“Maybe. Fiction is...it’s similar to nonfiction in many ways. You must have flow and people to root for or identify with. But in other ways, fiction is a whole different animal.”
“I’m amazed you find the time to write.”
Avery grinned. “I have my ways.” He worked full time as a history professor at Quentin University in Washington, D.C. Being a Tudor historian was not lucrative.
Diana squeezed Avery’s hand and gave him another
look
. “I’m glad you found time for tonight. Glad for sure. Thank you.”
“
Okay.” Avery wished for another nosebleed like he’d had in the car on the way over. Mopping up gunk beat dealing with strained conversation.
Avery and Diana finished their meal without saying much more.
He paid the bill, and they strolled outside. Their cars were parked next to each other, and the night was frigid, normal for late January in Northern Virginia. Avery puffed out several breaths. He liked seeing them. They became real. Significant. They took shape. They were not formless beings.
Diana batted kiss eyes at him, and Avery swallowed. He might as well be a robot
—batteries, spark plugs, forced emotion. He had been that way since Mandy died a year and a half ago. She had been the one. The only true love of his life. She had been funny. Witty. Incredibly sexy. Smart as hell. Challenging. She understood the scholarly, sensitive, introverted Avery like no one else did, and he understood her. Then she died, shot to death while responding to a domestic disturbance call. She’d insisted that her job brought very little danger. Avery had been stupid enough to fall for the lie. Or too much in love. Heck, stupidity and love were the same.
Diana tilted her head and smiled.
Waiting for her kiss.
“You’re nice. Very nice,” Avery said. “But…
you know.” He shrugged. Why elaborate?
**
Anne would never accept that her teeth were marvelous now. In her mind, they stayed worn pebbles. Her solution when brushing them was simple: no looking in the mirror. Instead, she wandered through her apartment, taking in the library with its neatly arranged books and the many paintings she had done. Then there was the living room with the security guard, who
was
usually Nate. Afterward, Anne sank into a long and luxurious bath, complete with bubbles.
This morning was no different except that before her bath, Anne used a
Ped-Egg to touch up her heels. She completed her morning routine by seven a.m. and decided she wanted to paint today. Outside.
Anne returned to the living room. “How is the weather?” she asked Nate.
“Same as yesterday, ma’am.”
Anne nodded and informed Nate of her plans. She b
undled up in her heaviest coat but wore thin gloves. Not the best to ward off the cold from her fingers, but she would sacrifice comfort for mobility.
She
carried her paints and chair while Nate transported the easel and a blank canvas. He set up camp a respectable distance from her, and Anne mulled her options as to what she could paint. Her models were few; the courtyard’s sole ornamentation was a skeletal tree. Moreover, high, foreboding walls sprouted from the ground to suffocate her. Then Anne had an idea.
“Nate, may I paint on the walls?”
Nate frowned. He frowned at most everything Anne said. “The walls?”
“I can get much more on them than on the canvas. Also, this space needs brightening.”
Nate barked in his walkie-talkie. A few minutes later, he said: “Yes, ma’am. Go ahead, but use only one section of wall for now.”
“Thank you.”
Anne chose her section, the farthest from the Pegasus building that was her prison. For once, the skeletal tree had inspired her. She dipped her brush into brown paint but changed her mind. She painted a fat, solid purple trunk. The foundation had to be sizable, given the craziness of the family tree. Anne painted branch spaces for her mother and father, got more purple, and painted spaces for her brother and sister, and then for her husband, his parents and his siblings.
She painted the branch for her child.
She added two branches for her child’s half-siblings by Catherine and Jane. After a moment’s thought, she inserted branches for Catherine and Jane themselves, and for her husband’s other wives.
Ah. Wait.
Her husband had recognized one illegitimate son, so he and his mother ought to be part of the family tree too.
Anne s
tepped backward and then backward some more. No room for more branches, although the tree was tremendous. Excellent spacing, despite her on-the-spur additions. Not perfect, but she could sketch a rough draft later today and paint over the tree tomorrow.
The branch spaces curled downward like claws, like her husband’s abusive power. The tree looked naked, though. Maybe Anne would add
leaves with little Elizabeth’s branch.
“Ma’am.” Nate again. “Dr. Franklin is coming down for a chat.”
Anne’s chest tightened. “Very well.” She disliked Charles Franklin, especially now that he was dying. Death meant Charles dropped by daily, sometimes more than once a day
Anne dipped a new brush into pink paint and
created pink grass—why the heck not? She would go psychedelic. Anne loved that word.
Psychedelic, psychedelic.
Her life was psychedelic, indeed.
“Dr. Franklin, ma’am.”
Anne continued painting psychedelic pink grass. Let Charles Franklin come to her. His motorized wheelchair was smooth, but not smooth enough to be entirely silent on the brown, dead grass.
“Anne,” Charles Franklin said.
Anne stopped painting. “What?” She would
make no move of subservience. She must assert what little power she had over the man—this gaunt creature who held her life in his hands. Pathetic.
“What are you painting?”
“My family tree. Or, rather, Elizabeth’s family tree.”
“Ah.”
Anne pointed out the branch where she would put Elizabeth’s name. “She goes here.”
Charles eyed Anne’s brush. “May I?”
“No.”
Charles clasped his hands in his lap, and a small smile touched his lips. “Do you remember your first painting lesson with
Bella?”
“Why are you here?”
Anne snapped.
He sighed.
“I’ve made arrangements.
Will
make arrangements.”
“Arrangements?”
Charles’s gaze roamed the family tree and settled at the top. “You realize I have a month left. At most.”
“Yes.”
“I will tell my son about you. He’ll take care of you. He’ll do better than Bella and I did.”
Anne blinked. “Your son? Avery?”
A half-grin from Charles. “Naturally. He is my only child.”
The
remark made Anne feel stupid. “You are dismissed,” she said stiffly. “I must resume my painting.”
“You have talent,” Charles said. “You truly do.”
Anne selected black paint and pressed her brush against the wall to make a field of black poppies among the pink grass. A few moments later, she heard Charles’s wheelchair retreat.
Avery Franklin.
No. Please.
Starting over with another person was not appealing.
At least Anne knew where she stood with Charles. What would Avery Franklin do with her? Would he see Anne as a plaything too?
Bella, Avery’s mother, had shown Anne several pictures of her son. He had tousled blond hair and light eyes, the kind that were green some days and blue other days. Avery’s nose was slightly crooked, maybe from an errant fist or a misthrown ball. Perhaps it was genetics.
Avery
’s wife, Mandy, had died about six months before Bella. Mandy’s death crushed Avery, Bella said. Her son had really loved his wife. Anne found the sentiment laughable. She knew men. They moved on quickly from losses. At any rate, her father and husband had.
Anne finished the poppy field and wished that Cha
rles was not dying. She did not need further upheavals in her life.
“Ma’am,” Nate said. “Dr. Franklin
has just informed me that he has contacted his son. Be prepared to meet Avery tomorrow about two o’clock.”
Tomorrow. Tomorrow. So quick.
“Tomorrow is his birthday,” Nate went on. “Forty years old.”
“How nice,” Anne murmured.
In other words, I am nothing but a present. A toy.