In the Shadow of Lions

by Ginger Garrett

  Anne ran down the hall to a window that afforded her a view of the great path leading into the estate. She saw a line of carriages and litters, with riders accompanying them bearing the flag of England and the Tudor coat of arms.

  She ran back to her room to check her mirror, licking her lips and setting a diamond pin in her hair to pull the dark curls off her shoulders. She hid the letter she had stolen from Wolsey and rushed downstairs.

  Henry was in the courtyard, towering above the servants and guards who scurried about, trying to scrape and bow and never look directly at him while they carried out their business. His red hair pierced her vision, and she looked at him for a moment as she stood in the shadows on the stairs, peering out into the courtyard. He was indeed handsome, and today he looked free and happy, like a man pleased with a change of winds.

  He was laughing at a young servant who was having trouble grabbing the reins of a temperamental black mare. She showed him her teeth every time he lunged for the reins, and the boy began to sweat profusely, understanding himself to be sudden entertainment for the king. Henry stopped laughing and turned, facing her where she was hidden. Anne swallowed nervously and touched her hair. He extended a hand in her direction, and a curious silence whipped through the men. The young boy seized the opportunity to lunge for the reins and caught them, yanking the horse hard in the direction of the stables.

  Anne stepped from shadow into light, smiling at Henry, her body softening to anticipate his embrace. Henry did not take his eyes from her but held his hand out still, and she crossed the courtyard. All the men were so startled by her sudden appearance that they scrambled to observe protocol. Anne knew that none were entirely sure what this was, as their official queen was not in residence, and Anne was known to be more than a temporary mistress. They averted their eyes and bowed their heads.

  As the wave of men submitted to the king’s wishes, Anne’s weak knees made the slick stones treacherous. She placed her hand in Henry’s.

  He pulled her in, his other hand circling around her waist. He was a full foot taller and bent to her, not for a full kiss on the mouth, but a gentle, lingering kiss on her cheek. His breath was hot on her neck, and his whiskers scraped against her face. He held her there, inhaling deeply, until she rested her head against him and exhaled.

  “When can I see you?” he whispered in her ear. His voice brought up goosebumps all over her skin. This was not the monarch who had sought her company only for his bed. That she was surprised, even a little, made her ashamed. She had much less faith than she imagined.

  “I have something I must show you,” she said.

  He bowed to her and replied, “The gardens. Tonight.”

  Anne sat on a bench, its stone still warm from the sun. But the sun was gone, and a rich black night blanketed the garden, punctuated by scattered torches at the far ends. A perfect breeze, like cool silk on her skin, brushed her face and shoulders, and Anne lifted her skirts a fraction to let it relieve her feet and calves. In July, the garden was in full bloom, even while the ladies wilted. The wisteria released a strong sweetness that the breeze carried through the garden, and Anne smiled to see a ladybug land on her skirt. She let it explore the folds of material until it decided to fly away. Ladybugs were good omens, the seven dots on their shells representing the seven sorrows and seven joys of Mary, the holy mother, and their red shells representing her red cloak.

  Anne reflected on the meaning of such blessing—of being visited by a ladybug even so late, well after ten o’clock at night. Mary had suffered much but borne the child who would save all men from their sins.

  The thought sent shivers down her arms. Perhaps there were travails ahead, or God was acknowledging the rough path she had just left, but the message was the same: God would use Anne to send peace at last to England.

  A few birds still sang, their long trills punctuated by sharp short bursts. The garden was packed with life yet still quiet. How was it the palaces were packed with quiet people, yet were so stressful? The natural world was no less crowded, and the animals had no guarantee of survival. Even one of these birds in the garden could well be eaten tonight by a snake or hawk, yet there was a tranquility here, an acceptance of order and destiny.

  Men were not content with their place in the order, Anne decided. This was why people made the palaces uninhabitable. Their discomfort, angling, grasping, and ambition ruined the place.

  Henry’s hand was warm on her shoulder, but it did not startle her. Reaching up to lay her hand on his, she turned her neck to allow the breeze to reach more of her skin and did not mind that Henry watched.

  “When I thought you might die,” Henry began. He gripped her shoulder. “When I thought you might die, I was lost.”

  “God did not let me die,” she replied.

  He moved to pull her up to him but she resisted. “Henry, what do these names mean to you: Thomas Garrett, John Frith, John Clarke, Anne Askew?”

  Henry removed his hand and grunted. “Enemies. Thomas More wants to burn them. Wolsey asks for mercy. Says they may yet repent.”

  Anne felt fear. Her name was on that list. “But Henry, why would Wolsey have mercy on your enemies?”

  “He is a merciful man.”

  “He is going to be Pope, is he not? Do you trust him?”

  “Do not speak of him like this. Wolsey is not stupid, and he is not a traitor.”

  “It may not be treason. It may be faith. He has not worked with all haste to secure your annulment.”

  “This pertains to the Hutchins book, not my annulment.”

  “Hutchins pertains to you, Henry. He offers the people a new path to God, one that has not so much need for the Church. The realm will be in an uproar. Their faith will be shaken, their king will be held in disdain, and Wolsey will be Pope in another land, another land that stands ready to invade. Maybe More will burn these people; it can only work in Wolsey’s favour. He will be the kind saviour.”

  “Wolsey banned these books,” Henry corrected her, “because of a violent uprising in Germany, attacks on the princes and nobility. This man Hutchins incites fury against establishment. I will not tolerate this book in my realm, and I’ve no more patience for the matter.”

  He pulled her up and she turned into his arms.

  “The Spanish, the French, and the Pope,” he said, “all these want one thing: power. As long as I am without an heir, I am weak. Without a queen in my bed, Anne, I do not think I will have much luck producing one.”

  “I do not want to refuse you, Henry, and harp like a shrew night after night.”

  “Do not make me wait. I have no marriage in the eyes of God.”

  “Neither do I.”

  He released her and pushed her away.

  Anne reached for his arm, to put her hand upon it and so soften her words, but Henry jerked his arm away and would not look at her.

  “The law serves the king,” he retorted. “I suggest you adopt the same attitude. I will speed this matter to its conclusion, but I will not take a shrew for a wife.”

  “Henry,” Anne began.

  But Henry yelled, “Back to your chambers! You’ll wait for me in the city, where the heat and stench will remind you to cherish the respites I offer.”

  He turned his back. Anne did not know how to make a dignified exit, being swept from under his feet like a kitchen dog. She picked up her skirts and walked back to her room, her tears glistening as they fell to her bodice, a thousand tiny stars falling on this dark night.

  In her chambers, her tears still fell. She berated herself for not understanding the king better, for provoking him, though she had tried to do what was right. There was only one other woman who could offer her counsel, and this was the very woman Anne was destroying. Catherine had survived years under Henry’s thumb. Anne doubted she could survive a week without ruin.

  She yearned for his softer words and lifted the lid of her trunk to fish out his letters, kept safe at the bottom, where no one dared disturb her private treasur
es.

  They were gone. A stab of panic made her cry out, and she began removing the items one by one, setting them on the enormous bed, until the trunk was empty and there were indeed no letters.

  She had committed treason in those letters, asking for the crown when another woman, very much alive, still wore it. Anne was sweating, a cold sweat that stung her brow. She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself, pressing in hard on her roiling stomach to calm it. Those lovely white papers bared at this moment before some enemy—they were no less than her neck. Is this what Hutchins must fear? Were they all doomed by ink and presses?

  Anne shook herself awake from these terrors. She had to think. Who had access to her trunk, and who would want her in such a vulnerable state? It was either Wolsey or Henry, she decided. Henry could blackmail her to get her into his bed, and the law would still be on his side. Wolsey might not have known what he was looking for in her chambers, but if he was the thief, he had found the papers that would cause such outrage against her that Henry would have no choice but to dismiss her from court and remain with Catherine. Wolsey’s life, and his fortune, would be secure if there were no troubles with Catherine and the Pope.

  Either man could be the thief. Both could be her adversary.

  She paced in little turns, trying to find a spot that would stop her stomach from flipping and twisting. She accidentally knocked the book to the floor, and as she bent to retrieve it, her eyes fell upon the same words. But this time, the words were balm, and she pressed the book against her stomach, cradling it, murmuring the words again to herself. The words, spoken into thin air, did not disappear but lingered, settling in around her chamber, steadying her nerves as a friend might who sits with you on a night of fevers and dreams.

  “I am surrounded by invisible witnesses,” Anne murmured.

  A tapestry against the wall fluttered.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The crowds made progress through London tedious. The shop on Honey Lane was not so far that Rose and Margaret were compelled to travel by barge but had instead taken the litter drawn by two great mares. The horses, in their snorting, belligerent impatience, strained to make quick work of the journey, but the slow-footed, dim-witted commoners impeded them at every turn. That is how they looked to Rose, at least—throngs of oily stained people who lacked the wits to let the quick-moving nobility pass. Once Rose had resented these litters darting through London’s streets, making hazards for children and the infirm. But it was clear that bearing down on the people produced no ill effect, nor did it encourage them to move. Rose and Margaret were stuck, forced to submit at points to the indifferent will of the people.

  As they took the turn at Honey Lane, they were again stopped by a gaggle of commoners. The horses pawed the ground, but no one in the crowd paid them mind. Rose lifted the curtain drawn round the litter ever so slightly, fighting back the duststorm that rose to meet her. The stink was overpowering with no curtain to filter it. The city streets stank of beer and urine and of unwashed bodies sweating in the August heat. The usual heat in August was not bad, but the drought that had cursed them took with it all the comforts of summer. There was no relief, not from the poor and their odours, nor for the farmers and their crops. Stalls should have lined this street with vendors selling the early harvest, blackberries being here by now, cheeses and herbs. Nothing lined the street today except these dread people and some amusement parading before them that had stopped them all dead in the street.

  Rose leaned out of the litter, lifting herself a bit to see what amused them, and how long this delay would last. Margaret peered out the other side.

  “Margaret! Stay inside!” Rose called to her.

  Both women strained for a good view above the crowd. A group of men and women were being led down the street, their hands tied behind them, each with a bundle of wood tucked into their grasp. Their faces were red and pocked, ravaged by disease once and ravaged again by something new, some unknown shame. After them came several men on horseback, but it took Rose a moment to comprehend this sight, for the men rode backwards, and on their backs was painted a placard describing their crime. Rose tried to work the letters, but it was hard to read with the signs being jostled and the letters written in a loose hand.

  She stopped and ducked back into the litter, grabbing Margaret and pulling her in.

  Margaret did not look well. Perhaps the stench and heat were too much for her. She looked for a cotton veil Margaret could wear, one with tiny holes cut for the eyes. It would give her another layer of protection.

  But Margaret did not want to wear it. She told Rose to stop. “Rose, why don’t we shop for our fabric on another day? The heat is too much for me.”

  Rose would have consented, but she saw that Margaret was not sweating much. Her face was not flushed with red, but was instead pale and distant, as if the oppression came from within. Rose began to be nervous, her stomach pierced through by darts of panic.

  “Who were those people, Margaret? You could read the signs; I could not.”

  Margaret cut her cold stare from the flapping curtain back to Rose.

  “They were heretics, Rose, guilty of owning one of the books Father has banned. The wood they carry is the wood that will be used to light the fires at Smithfield, the fire that will burn them to death if they commit the same offense again.”

  “But they did not read it? They are condemned for owning it?” Rose wondered that those men and women she saw could read; not many could, even among the nobility and clergy.

  “Owning it is the same as reading it, Rose. Father and Wolsey, they say a book can infect a house with a thousand devils even if the words are not loosed.”

  The litter broke free and the women lurched forward, startled by the sudden return to the journey. Rose lost the question that was next on her tongue, and Margaret said nothing else. She still did not look well. They arrived in short order at Goodwife Grisham’s fabric shop. The store was hard to find, tucked between the rows of shops on Honey Lane, but once inside, Rose was glad to be free of the streets and crowds. The air in here was better, from dyes made of flowers, clean cottons, linens, and rich damasks. There were fabrics hanging along the walls to display their patterns, great bolts of fabric stacked on tables and against benches, and fabrics lining the stairs that led to what Rose supposed was the workroom. Tailors bustled up and down the stairs, checking the books that were opened to numbers and names, often grabbing fabric when they went back upstairs.

  A fabric caught her eye, a deep navy with swirls of gold and a leaping unicorn flying through the inky folds. A woman, sweating heavily and taking generous slurps from a pot of beer, bustled towards them.

  “Mistress Margaret! Child, dear one, lovey, come in, come in! What ye be needing today, hmm? What ye be needing, love?”

  Rose wondered if the woman always repeated herself or if the beer and the heat were poor bedfellows.

  “Goodwife Grisham! ’Tis so good to see you again,” Margaret said, pecking her on her cheek. “This is my maidservant, Rose.”

  Goodwife Grisham squealed and took Rose’s hand, dragging her closer to look at her face. “Such pretty eyes! Very pretty! You’re a marvelous girl!”

  Rose tried to smile but was afraid to part her lips even a bit for fear of inhaling near the woman. The beer smelled as sour as her bosom in this heat.

  “Goodie, we’re attending a revelry at His Majesty’s request, in honour of my father accepting the title of Chancellor.”

  “Yes, yes, he’s moving up, isn’t he? Won’t this be marvelous? The king’s inner circle. What nobleman won’t be fighting for your hand? What man won’t fight for you?” Goodie Grisham’s voice kept rising higher, like an expired ash that floats up and away from the fire.

  Margaret began to say something, but Goodie’s face changed into a menacing dark pageant, twitching and glowering. Rose was convinced that the woman was mad, until Margaret pulled on her hand and pointed to the door. A royal guard, a tall redheaded man in a Ye
oman’s brace, stood at attention. Behind him was a carriage with a coat of arms Margaret must have recognized from the rose.

  “It’s her,” Margaret whispered. “Anne Boleyn.”

  Goodie Grisham bustled her way to the guard. “I’m not open for business, you may tell your mistress. Not open.”

  The guard looked at Goodie Grisham with calm acceptance of the insult. Every shop on Honey Lane was open, and Goodie had customers standing right there, no less. He looked at Margaret and Rose, and his gaze made Rose’s throat catch, as if there was something she should say but could not. She felt guilty for saying nothing. Something about the moment, the man, required a better response.

  He bowed and exited, and Goodie Grisham grabbed the door to keep it open. The three women crowded into the frame to stare at the carriage before it started away. The curtains parted only a shy distance, so that the occupant could see the shop but not be seen.

  Margaret spat on the ground and turned her back. Goodie pulled the pair back into the shop as she shut the door, her face cold and resolute. Henry had had his women, rumors said, but this one was a bold card, playing for the crown when the suffering queen was still wearing it.

  “No righteous woman will stand this insult to our sex,” Goodie Grisham said. “Old wives are still good wives. Anne thinks she can steal the crown just because she’s young. She’s young. Oh, but she’ll get hers in the end. She’ll be old like me, and let’s see how she holds onto her man. Oh, yes, she’ll get hers.”

  Margaret was nodding and smiling, and Rose smiled back to agree. She tried not to reflect on what she knew was true: That all over the city husbands with money looked for young girls in need, girls who walked the streets hoping to sell the only thing they owned. Whether the wives at home were good had nothing to do with it. Plagues, droughts, and unending death made the gentleness of youth a precious commodity, and the men paid well. Youth was a seasonal item, like a ripe fruit, that must be sold and for the highest dollar, before the cold winter of age.