The youngest children were rehearsing each day for a pageant they planned to present at the Christmas feast. Little John was playing Saint George, dressed in a light suit of armour but carrying a sword as tall as himself. When he swung it, he stumbled after its arc, making the actual slaying of a dragon a true miracle. The dragon was Cicely and Elizabeth, in a costume that both fit in but neither could control. The dragon walked as if having fits, none of its limbs in unison, his great serpent head lolling from side to side like a sleeping dog shaking a flea from its ear.
There was the matter of presents, too, which distressed Rose. The household would exchange presents on New Year’s Day, and Sir Thomas was so busy attending to the present he would send to the king that he paid little mind to the household. Rose had no money of her own to buy anything, and Sir Thomas would not allow her to town anyway. Margaret told her not to worry; her father had presents to give to everyone. There would be no need for anything else.
And so the days passed, and More was often absent, attending to matters in town. When he was at home, he stayed in his study, the door closed. Messengers came and went at odd hours, and letters bearing More’s seal went with them.
On Christmas Eve, More emerged from his study looking worn but triumphant. Rose was tempted to peer into the room, to see what unknown adversary he had defeated, but she knew it was empty. Whatever More had faced was battled and won with paper and ink, dispatched through ruddy-faced boys glad for a half-angel coin just before Christmas.
Rose set out her best dress and Margaret’s too. They had been beaten and aired out, with fresh pomanders hung round the waists. Rose inhaled lavender from More’s garden. It was too sharp and sweet to have come from anywhere else. When they emerged from their chambers, they saw the family gathered in the family room. Everyone looked cleaned and fluffed.
The family ate the first feast that night, More giving a long prayer in Latin that all understood except Rose. It was marvelous to her just to learn to read English; the language of angels was too far beyond her. The roast capons were greasy, with blackened crisp skins that snapped under her fingers when she took hold of her portion. She slit the top off her beef pie and set it aside, letting the steam roil up. Everyone was doing the same; they looked to be dining under a cloud, so great was the steam the pies gave off. The illusion disappeared, and the children giggled in awe and returned to their plates. They had sausage, mottled red and brown with a thick waxy-looking casing, but Rose did not have an appetite for this.
Sir Thomas poured everyone’s first cup of wassail. Rose held out her cup, which was a low, wide bowl with a bit of a stand beneath it, so that it held as much wassail as discreetly possible in one serving. She studied it as he continued down the table, pouring generously, receiving fresh decanters from the kitchen as needed. It was a deep nutty brown colour, and from the piercing fragrance assaulting her nostrils, the cook had used a mighty amount of ale and rum to temper the innocent apple cider. Lamb’s wool clung around the edges, the foam of the apples that were mashed for the cider. On top of this, a toasted slice of bread floated, absorbing some of the liquor, she hoped, or the children would not make it through the meal.
More returned to his seat and lifted his own cup. “I propose we toast!” he commanded, and everyone replied by lifting their cups and toasting to him.
“Mary’s travails this night were great, but by morning, she had birthed a Saviour for all nations. Let us not grow afraid when we face our own trials, for God can still work miracles out of our suffering, for the salvation of many!”
The younger children shouted in affirmation before anyone else and gulped at their drinks. Everyone else raised their cups and blessed Sir Thomas and his health before drinking.
After dinner, the children presented the pageant of Saint George killing the dragon. Saint George wielded his sword more steadily, having learned through his practices that a jab would not dislodge him from the ground like a swing. The dragon, however, having no way to see through the costume, and no means of controlling both ends in unison, ended up presenting its hindquarters to Saint George. Little John, in the confusion caused by stage fright, took his fatal stab anyway, and so the dragon was slayed by a might blow to his rear. This was met with hearty applause and calls for more wassail.
After the pageant, the family and servants went outside to stand over a roaring fire built in a clearing of the garden. Far away they could see lights in the spire windows of London churches, torches that would stay through the night as the world awaited the Saviour. The night above them was as black as an inkwell, dotted by brilliant, glimmering stars. This was how the shepherds had spent the last sad day of the age that had never known salvation, More reminded them. He kept staring at the lights of London, walking away from the fire, and Rose was afraid he would catch a chill. She took a blanket from a pile set out earlier for the evening and brought it to him. She offered it without a word, her head turned away, so that the household gossips would not be aroused.
He spoke so they would not hear. “A heretic named Barnes is burning tonight. It may be my last.” He looked with grief at the city.
Rose wondered in horror which flames lit church courtyards, and which were set around a stake.
“Jerusalem, Jerusalem,” he said, a tear staining his cheek. “My time is upon me.” He smirked and brushed past her into the house, leaving her with the dread and fear.
The wassail and the marvelously disrespectful death of the dragon still had everyone around the fire in good spirits. The children, as Rose predicted, had drunk much more than they should have of the wassail, and she excused herself to help see them off to bed. She wished she had drunk none of the wassail, for the fear of his words had no restraints, growing and leaping in her mind, creating such dread that she prayed Christmas would not come.
As she carried the sleeping Cicely, the other servants warned her not to remove their clothes or shoes, but to let them sleep on top of their beds, which Rose did, before falling asleep herself in a similar fashion. Her dreams were blessedly dark.
His hands found her in this dark ocean, pulling her back through the night until she blinked in confusion, a candle only inches from her face.
Sir Thomas was in her chamber. Margaret was not in her bed.
“She’s asleep with the others. They stayed up through the night telling ghost stories,” he said. Rose nodded, trying to sit up.
“I have an early New Year’s gift for you,” he whispered. He held out a small parcel, and by its weight, she judged it held coins.
“There is a parchment in it. Do not open it or read it until my time has come. You must give it to the sheriff. It is for my salvation. And yours.”
“What do you mean?” she began to ask, but he grasped her around her shoulders, forcing her back onto the bed, his mouth on hers, the taste of rum making his kisses sour and slick. She tried to turn her head and cry out, but his weight was too much. She tore her fingernails down his back, down the scourged field he broke open every night, and though he jerked against her hands, he pressed down on her with more force. His hand was clawing at her bodice.
His violence broke open the sour secrets of her past. Awful flashes of guilt convulsed her. This was what she was when she came here—how could she have thought she would become something new? She closed her eyes to submit, letting her body go limp.
She sensed a presence, something she remembered from a night long ago, a night of blood and tears, and opened her eyes. Standing at the foot of the bed was a monstrous thing, a man with a wild mane of gold and burning cat’s-eyes, his muscles straining as he wielded a sword over his head. She screamed as a servant rang a bell somewhere far back in the house, alerting them that the barge had arrived to carry them to church.
More scrambled from her bed, running from the room.
Chapter Twenty-three
Christmas still hung about Greenwich palace; the scent of fires burning through the night in stone hearths, pomanders of cinnamon and oranges
set about every room, roasted hen and dark baked breads, and the crisp clean winter air sweeping past outside, piercing the still chambers that had arrow-slit windows.
Anne clapped and a servant presented another gift. It was a fine gold cup, and Anne considered its weight and design before nodding her approval to the record keeper. A note of her thanks would be dispatched to the earl who had sent it.
Another servant stepped forward with a book, her name and seal etched in leather on it. Anne opened it and read the note it bore her.
To Anne Boleyn, from William Hutchins.
Presenting you with the New Book, translated from original texts, free of error.
She couldn’t resist cracking open the stiff spine; the woodcuts were new and interesting. Perhaps later, she would read. There was no reason why she should not master this book. She was safe, her future secured. Nothing from these pages could find her here. There was so much time.
She set the book aside.
It was a lovely tradition, Anne always said, this opening of presents to celebrate the New Year and the gift of another Christmas just past. Anne had never received so many gifts of such value; her chamber was a hive of activity, each servant carrying a heavy purse or parcel.
“Is Henry coming soon?” Anne asked, turning her head to the left a bit so Jane would know she was addressed.
No one answered.
Anne, with much effort because the scarlet pillows were stacked high all around her tender midsection, turned and saw Jane was not in her place.
“Where the devil is she?” Anne yelled, slapping the red coverlet.
The servants stopped, their eyes on the floor. Anne saw she would not get an answer and summoned the next girl forward with her gift.
Jane burst through the door, all apologies, bowing to her mistress. “Forgive me, my queen, I was checking the wait line outside. More presents are arriving.”
“But not Henry?” Anne snapped. “Am I to have no comfort?”
“You know he loves you,” Jane answered. “And you know why he cannot be your companion here. He says to content yourself until the blessed hour.”
Anne looked at the bed, made of dark oak, with a heavy wooden canopy and urns carved into the posts at the foot of the bed. On her worst nights, it was like a coffin. And she was having worse nights more often since she had been moved back into her own private chamber, where Henry would not visit, for fear of harming his unborn heir.
But he had ordered that all would be done to make her comfortable. There were scarlet pillows and a coverlet in scarlet with gold embroidery. There was a separate chamber pot for retching, which was kept at the side of the bed so she never had to ask for it.
Even her dress was extraordinary proof of his affections: He had fabric sent to her as a gift and crafted into a dress of such luxury that no other woman in England could claim to be adorned like her. It had a bodice of gold, with gold embroidery and a marvelous ruby brooch in the center, with a row of rubies sewn along a scarlet velvet ribbon. Her puffed sleeves had slashes at the wrists so white silk could pop through, and a long velvet braid with a swinging tassel down the center of the dress, with a dozen tiny pomanders of gold hanging down it. Her fingers were heavy with rings.
But in truth, Anne sighed to herself, the bodice caused much pain, pressing her swollen and sore breasts up tightly so that she winced whenever she turned. Her fingers were swollen, too, and the rings dug deeply in. She couldn’t bear the bodice against her stomach, and kept trying to push against it by hooking her thumbs under the seam along her ribs and pulling it out and away. Yes, she looked splendid, and it was splendid proof of his esteem, but she wanted only to be in a simple shift and sleep for days.
“I am sorry, Jane,” Anne said. “You must forgive me. I am not myself these days.”
“My mistress is tired, is she not?” Jane called for the attention of the other servants. “Our mistress needs rest! We will resume presenting gifts tomorrow.”
Everyone filed out, and Jane moved to leave, but Anne caught her hand.
“Please, Jane, help me take this dress off.” Her voice was thin and pitiful, she knew, but she wanted only to be free of this weight and sleep deeply again.
The room was cool and she slept on top of the ruby coverlet, but still her neck was damp and she pulled her hair away from it. Rolling to her other side, facing the door, Anne tried again to find a moment’s relief from this sweaty nausea of pregnancy, and sleep. The shadows grew darker in the room; it must be getting close to late afternoon, Anne realized.
“Why can’t I sleep?” she moaned. Never had she been so tired, and never had sleep proved to be so fickle.
One shadow at the door shifted, and Anne saw it was the shadow of her Yeoman on duty outside. He was the only man in England never to sleep, she thought. He was always there.
“Dear God, please just let me sleep!” she whimpered. She must be going crazy with this nausea—that was not a prayer she had ever learned at matins. Her eyelids grew heavy, and she hoped this was it. But still a hand seemed to hold her back as she stood at the edge of a deep cold river, one she desperately wanted to be lost in.
A wild thought came. She had only to cry out and the Yeoman would save her. He could steal her away and she could sleep in her own bed, in her father’s house, where the rooms were quiet and her mother made ginger tea to cure a roiling stomach. George would be there too. He would stay at her bedside, telling outrageous lies to amuse her, until she slept at last.
Anne looked about the room. There was much gold. And in her womb, an heir.
She did not cry out. She turned over, once again, resolute, and cursed the sleepless minutes that passed.
“My lady, wake up!” Jane was at her side, shaking her gently. Anne groaned and tried to slap at the hands pressing on her. It had been a full month since the presenting of gifts, and sleep still came late in the night, and morning still brought this sickness.
Her stomach pushed up into her throat, and Anne reached for the chamber pot, retching violently. Jane held her hair out of the way. Anne collapsed back onto the pillows, and Jane handed her a leather cup with some warm liquid in it.
“From Dr. Butts. A tincture for your stomach. Today should not be ruint, he says.”
Anne swallowed a bit of the tincture. It had a sour taste to it, like grapes before their season. She could take in only a little, but Jane pressed it to her lips again.
“Look, Anne!” Jane wanted her to see something, and Anne blinked heavily, watching a chorus of girls enter the room bearing a large box. It resembled a coffin, and Anne’s hands trembled, spilling the tincture so that Jane grabbed it away from her.
The girls opened the box, lifting out the contents for display.
It was her wedding dress.
After a gentle washing, and rinsing her mouth well with mint, the women set to work dressing Anne. She stood shivering in her undergarments while the women steadied her and helped her step into a petticoat. A corset was next, and Anne winced as they tightened it, though Jane scolded them to use a light hand. A farthingale made her silhouette complete, and the sweeping skirt came next, with a forepart panel of gold and layers of white silk. A velvet bodice with sweeping strands of pearls, pearl buttons, and sleeves ending with lace cuffs—all were finished with fine silk thread. Anne held out her arms to inspect the sleeves, which blossomed beautifully and had buttons made of diamonds at the cuff. Over these was draped a white fur.
While the girls busied themselves with the final touches—her headpiece, jewelry, braiding and setting her hair—Anne smiled, despite the dress and despite the nausea. She would see Henry today. It would all be finished: her work to establish a good name for herself and her family. Her brother’s station in life would be secure; her parents would be provided for by the crown. God had been so good to her, blessing her with an heir, paving the way for this marriage, disposing of the false queen.
She was led, in secret, through the castle and to a barge that took her to
York Place. A few on the shore saw her and stopped, but the cold winds and grey skies demanded their attention elsewhere. She met Henry in a turret on the west side, which afforded them a view of London, from Charing Cross to Westminster. Anne stood, sick and weighted, under the shadow of the Tower rising above them as the marriage was conducted. Her family was not there. This was to have been a day for music and dancing, but instead she heard the iron heart beating closer, and she held to Henry for her life.
Three days later, the world wore silver and scarlet and every beggar and thief lined the streets to steal a glimpse of her glory. Warships in the river made her bones as cold and loose as the water. Guns firing from their sides and the Tower made beads of sweat pop out with every explosion.
All monks of St. Peter’s Abbey greeted her wearing their golden robes, with the Duke of Suffolk carrying the queen’s crown in front of her. Two earls carried her two sceptres as she was carried under a canopy of gold, wearing a kirtle of red velvet, an ermine sleeve capelet, a robe of purple velvet with ermine trimming, and a headpiece of pearls and rubies. An older woman, the Duchess of Norfolk, carried her train.
Jane followed in a scarlet robe trimmed with white fur.
She was brought to St. Peter’s at Westminster, set in a high platform before the altar, anointed and crowned Queen of England by the Archbishop of Canterbury.
She did not breathe until the Mass was done and the feast laid out in the hall.
Her brother and father fell at her feet as she entered. She had not foreseen that her father and brother would bow to her; she had only coveted the crown for what it might lay at their feet. She was alarmed to see them fall and motioned for them to rise.
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