He looked stung, but the look deepened as if the venom found a quick vein. “Lord Percy does not wait for you. He married another last week, did you not hear? A woman of excellent name.”
Anne gasped, her mouth hanging foolishly. She prayed she would not cry in front of him and bit her lip.
“I have brought you to my table, Anne, and given you a brace of cards. Whether you lose or win is your decision, but you are in the game. And you will wear that,” he said, pointing to the ring.
They walked back out into the sunlight, Anne clutching him harder. Her legs were weakening, and she had no energy to support her throbbing head. The guards and courtiers all averted their eyes. Wolsey walked to them.
Henry grabbed her hand and presented it, with the fat emerald upon it.
Wolsey’s mouth puckered. “Well.”
Henry burst out laughing. “Well,” he mimicked.
“You will not be dissuaded? You know the type of woman she is. You know what she brought into your courts,” Wolsey said with a shake of his head.
Henry bowed to her, a great embarrassment in front of the malicious court, and began his walk into the palace.
Wolsey began to follow him, but Anne grabbed his hand. It was cool in comparison to her own. Wolsey’s eyes narrowed, and he shook himself free.
“Please, Cardinal,” Anne said, “this is not my work.”
“What do you want from me, Anne? You have more influence with the king than I in this matter.”
“No! You have more influence,” she replied. “And you have the Pope’s ear.”
He studied her. “I thought you did not want to be a queen.”
“I do not want to be a mistress! Only you can protect his name, and mine.”
Wolsey looked at her, his eyes watery and soft in the bright sun. He had a kind face, Anne thought, too kind for this work. This was not the age for men of compassion.
“You have shown yourself as an enemy of the realm, Anne. In time Henry will see it too. This is a prophecy as certain as anything in that black book you secreted away in your trunk.”
He took his leave of her without another word, and Anne was left alone while yet surrounded by courtiers and guards who did not speak to her as they moved past. She waited for her attendant to find her and show her which room at Greenwich was to be hers and tried to keep from crying in front of any of them. She bit down on the inside of her cheek and clenched her lips together.
The sun bore down strangely, and sweat beaded along her lip and down between her breasts. She shrugged, trying to make herself comfortable as the heat grew remorseless. A cough rattled her chest—not the deep cough of a winter cold, but a choking, bloody cough. She saw the sleeves of her dress speckle with red as she covered her mouth.
The last thing she remembered was hearing Catherine’s courtiers arriving behind Henry’s procession. Henry had brought his queen in on the progress after all. Anne fell to the ground, thinking of this doomed queen who held everyone’s heart but his. She wished to be trampled under the hooves of a fast horse so she could be absent at last from this world.
She was aware of voices, warm and whispering, all around her. She laid there, listening for the one voice she always heard in her dreams, but it was not among them. Instead, she recognized the clipped, short speech of Dr. Butts, the court physician, a man of many remedies and few words. She felt his hand on her forehead and heard him whisper.
“Graces, no!” another voice said.
Anne opened her eyes. She grabbed his hand and jerked it from her forehead and sank back, lifeless, onto the pillows. Why was she so weak?
The men stared at her dispassionately. She tried to make her gaze fierce but began to shake, as helpless before them as a bent old woman. She shook so hard the linens quaked all around her and slipped down, revealing an immodest view of her bosom. She saw she was in her linen shift and it afforded a generous view at the moment. She saw her chest was spattered with blood.
Dr. Butts began putting his bottles back into his bag and spoke to the other man, not to her. “We’ll have to inform the king of this. You know how he detests sickness, especially the sweats. The Boleyn name pollutes everyone it touches. Her attendant, Jane, has fallen too. Send Miss Boleyn away from court, back to her parents at Hever Castle. We’re done with her.”
She watched them leave, without giving her even so much as the dignity of a nod or bothering to adjust the linens so she was not exposed. She tasted something—old blood?—in her mouth. She wished for the crown, thinking how she would use it to crush this man. She had been indifferent to the promise of power until she had someone to hurt. Now she was tasting revenge.
A violent tremor shook her, and warmth moved through her body. She thought she was dying, and it was clean and tasted sweet. She slipped away.
The room was dark when she awoke. Anne did not know how many hours, or days, had passed. Her tongue was thick and dry. Everything within her cried out for a drink. Her very bones were made of sawdust and brimstone; the fever burned through her thoroughly. She groped about in the dark, finding the table next to her bed but no bell upon it.
“Help,” she called, with no energy behind it. No one came.
“Help me!” she called again, but nothing beyond her door stirred. She sank back onto the pillows and fell back into unconsciousness.
When she awoke again, the sun was piercing the curtains, splitting the mattress she was lying upon into light and shadow. Strength was returning to her flesh, though her tongue remained swollen and cracked. It burned as she opened her mouth to call for help, but no noise came out that would bring anyone to her door. Hoisting herself into an upright position, she banged her head against the wall above her bed, wincing from the pain it caused and the halos she saw as the room doubled and spun around her.
The door swung open and her brother cried out when she saw her. “She’s alive!”
Anne sank down as George rushed to her side, touching her forehead and calling for others to come and help. Her father poked his head in the room.
“Fetch wine and some cool rags—hurry!” George commanded him.
Anne did not remember the next few days that passed, only the comforts they brought. She remembered the sweet stinging warmth of the wine flowing over her cracked mouth and tongue, filling her empty belly and making the pain in her joints and head less worrisome. She remembered soft rags dipped in cool water from great bowls of copper, brought to her bedside and laid over her forehead and face. She remembered her first appetite for food, the way the smashed berries, so early in the harvest, tasted on her tongue. She didn’t care that the juice ran down her mouth and stained her shift. All of her bedclothes would be burned anyway.
Her brother slept on the trundle that pulled free from under her bed. He did not mind that this was a duty most often left to women. He loved Anne better than himself, he told everyone, and would trust none to care for her as he would.
Her tongue was healing, but her lips broke their cracks whenever she tried to speak, bringing tears to her eyes. She had not tried to say much, only pointing to what she needed as her brother attended her every day. But there was one name she must speak, one question she had to know. She prayed it was over, and she was home to stay.
“Henry?” Anne asked, her voice like a rusted spit grinding against its stake.
George went back to wetting rags. He laid one on Anne’s head and attempted to cover her face next, but Anne shook it off.
“Henry?” she asked again. She had to know. Perchance God had delivered her while she slept.
“He fled to his estate in Essex the moment he knew you were ill. We sent word when the fever broke. You recovered against all hope, a sign of God’s favour. The king’s heart rejoices with us. They say he has burned with a desire to know of your health, to see you once more.” He sounded flat as he recounted all this, and Anne saw tears in his eyes.
“George,” she whispered. Her heart was dead at this news.
“Why, Anne? W
hy did you let yourself be pulled into this? Was it not enough that he ruined our sister? Why must he have you, too? Why did you not protect us from this disgrace?”
Anne wanted to cry, but she had no tears. Her body was so dry from the fever, so used and parched, that it took great effort to deliberately wet her tongue enough to speak. George continued, busying himself with the rags, a cold, indifferent tone in his voice.
“The queen and her daughter, Mary, left the court, following the king. They are with him right now. They were not touched by the sweating sickness.”
There was still hope. Anne took her hand, the movement exhausting her once again. She raised her chin, trying to get George to stay close so she wouldn’t have to use too much energy to talk. “There is a nun. She speaks for God. Send for her.”
“The Mad Nun?” George asked, standing back, chewing his lip.
“Go!” Anne commanded.
Chapter Eleven
The scent of earth and roots woke her, and as her eyes focused, she could see a tiny figure draped in black, hunched over a bedside table, crushing something with a mortar and pestle, quietly singing a chant. Anne had heard these chants from the monasteries and found them comforting, but this one thin voice stripped the piece of its charm. Anne was cold.
Liber scriptus proferetur,
In quo totum continetur,
Unde mundus judicetur.
Recordare, Jesu pie,
Quod sum causa tuae viae:
Ne me perdas illa die.
The nun turned. The black wimple draped over her head, the black sleeves that spread as she raised her arms in greeting, unnerved Anne. She saw something in her mind—a black bird in a place of desolation—and shifted in fear, attempting to dislodge the vision.
The nun smiled. “’Tis the skullcap. I have already spread it around thy bed.”
Anne looked and saw that the floor was strewn with green leaves and purple buds, plus something else with a strong odour of old meat.
“It reeks,” Anne said.
“Not many survive the sweats,” the nun said as she worked. “Why did God spare ye?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why did God inflict it upon ye?”
“I don’t know.”
“’Tis why ye called me.”
She went back to grinding at her mortar, turning a bit to keep an eye on Anne as she worked. Removing a black bottle from her robe, she poured a green oil into the crushed powder and began to stir. She dipped a finger in it and tasted it, nodding in approval.
“Here,” she said to Anne, thrusting out the pestle covered in thick green sludge.
“What is it?” Anne asked.
“Eat it. For strength.”
Anne tasted it. The taste was of lettuce and onions. The nun went to work setting onions in the foot of her bed, placing them deep within her sheets. Anne knew they would balance her humours and return her energy. She handed her back the pestle, and the nun scooped more of the green paste onto it and gave it to Anne.
“Why do they call you the Mad Nun?” Anne asked her, in between little tastings.
The woman held up a finger for silence and went to check the door. Finding George just beyond it, she clucked at him and shut the door firmly. She moved back to Anne’s bedside and lay on the floor. Anne sat up in bed to watch.
The nun was a puddle of black, arms extended at her sides and feet on top of each other. She shut her eyes, murmuring under her breath. “What is it you want to know, mistress? My mind is a whirl of confusion and voices today. If we want a clear sign, we must ask a clear question.”
The nun lay lifeless on the floor, waiting for her. Anne had never asked such questions before. All matters of faith were contained in her prayer books and Masses. People were born and they died and God gave them sun and wine to soothe the journey of days between each. But how to tell devil from angel? She could sense the importance of her decisions at every turn, but no one told her how to discern the right path.
“Have I angered God, or am I used by Him for good? Whose word do I trust?”
The nun opened her eyes and stared at her, making Anne cold and frightened. Standing, the nun placed her hands over her heart, tears falling down her cheeks. “There is great darkness around you, mistress. I have no light from God on this.”
“You told me to ask a question!” Anne protested.
The nun moved to her, her feet shuffling softly across the floor, her voice dropping to a low whisper. “Merlin spoke of these days.”
“Merlin was a madman!” Anne said.
“Aye, madness is of God. Merlin prophesied of a mouldwarp, a ruler who would lead England to a bitter break, rending the kingdom, tearing mother from child.” She grabbed Anne’s hands and pressed them to her beating heart, pounding wildly. Anne recoiled, but the nun held firm.
“You speak of Henry?” Anne asked.
“No. May the angels guard your path, my daughter.”
“But you speak for God! Tell me what I am to do!”
A knock on the door startled them and the nun dropped her hands. Her brother entered, pulling a face at the nun. He presented Anne with a great parchment, sealed in red with a fat waxy center, the impression of Henry’s Great Seal of State upon it. Her fingers were stained red as she rubbed it in wonder.
She looked up, her brother watching her with an accusing stare. The nun was gone.
Anne,
I and my heart put ourselves in your hands, begging you to have them as suitors for your good favour, and that your affection for them should not grow less through absence. For it would be a great pity to increase my sorrow since absence does it sufficiently, and more than ever I could have thought possible, reminding us of a point in astronomy, which is, that the longer the days are, the farther off is the sun, and yet the more hot.
So it is with our love, for by absence we are parted, yet nevertheless it keeps its fervour, at least on my side, and I hope on yours also: assuring you that on my side the ennui of absence is already too much for me: and when I think of the increase of what I must needs suffer, it would be well nigh unbearable for me, were it not for the firm hope I have. And as I cannot be with you in person, I am sending you the nearest possible thing, namely, my picture set in a bracelet.
Wishing myself in their place when it shall please you.
This by the hand of your loyal servant and friend,
Henry
George produced a black velvet bag, which made a clinking noise as he set it in her hand. She pulled open the drawstring, pouring out a gold bracelet made of interlocking roses, Henry’s portrait set in the center, with gold filigree all around him. Anne touched it gently with her fingers, the gold making the red stains darker on her hands.
“A reply?” George asked.
“No reply,” she answered. “There is no reply.”
Two more days passed and more strength returned, pouring into her bones like sunlight flooding through an eastern window, her body warming and springing back to life. She took nothing for granted, drinking wine more slowly, letting it sit on her tongue and tasting it with relish. A cook made her the most delicious pies, brought trays to her bed, still steaming from the ovens below. She loved to cut a slit into the top crust, peeling it off to set it aside, watching the steam roil up and away, inhaling the scent of thyme and venison. Even her sweetmeats, the perfect little bubbles of berries set into silver dishes, made her groan with the pleasure of life. Anne turned her face towards the sun as it rose above her room and sighed. She would find her footing. God’s graces were so many, so rich, and so sustaining that they left no room for rotten fears.
On the third day, George entered, once more holding again a letter bearing the Great Seal.
I beseech you now with all my heart definitely to let me know your whole mind as to the love between us; for necessity compels me to plague you for a reply, having been struck by the dart of love, and being uncertain either of failure or of finding a place in your heart and affection, which
point has certainly kept me for some time from naming you my mistress, since if you only love me with an ordinary love the name is not appropriate to you, seeing that it stands for an uncommon position very remote from the ordinary. But if it pleases you to do the duty of a true loyal mistress and friend, and to give yourself body and heart to me, who have been, and will be, your very loyal servant, I promise you that not only the name will be due to you, but also to take you as my sole mistress, casting off all others than yourself out of mind and affection, and to serve you only; begging you to make me a complete reply to this, my rude letter, as to how far and in what I can trust; and if it does not please you to reply in writing, to let me know of some place where I can have it by word of mouth, the which place I will seek out with all my heart. No more for fear of wearying you.
Written by the hand of him who would willingly remain yours.
Henry
What was Anne to do with this? There was no word of Catherine or her fate. There was no word from the nun.
She called for a writing desk, which was brought and laid across her lap. Carefully she peeled back the wax seal over the inkwell, took her quill, and began to write. Her graceful hand failed her today, though, and she threw several attempts at letters away.
My king:
For your letters I am grateful, though I wonder that a poor servant of the king should find such favour. I am obediently yours in all matters, but you must not ask me to do that which I cannot, for in pleasing you I may offend God, who constrains me. I must save my bed for my husband; it is his rightful gift and service from me, and you must not ask me to surrender what can only belong to him. Forgive me for when I have seemed cold, for I do not know how to secure my position in this court, being moved about, without assurance of a future, and wanting only to be a servant of both God and king.
But I honour the king with my whole heart and am ready to do his will as a loyal subject, so I find I am tossed about, like a damsel lost upon rough waters. Take this, therefore, as a token of my esteem and my pleading for your protection, for I am helpless to stand before you. Give me your full assurance of protection from the storms that surround me, the dark clouds that rise unbidden from the depths of the sea. To please you as you ask would offend God and do no good service to your kingdom, incurring His great wrath for my wickedness. I must obey your command, as your servant, and I plead with you to be a gentle monarch. I am at your mercy.
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