In the Shadow of Lions

by Ginger Garrett

  “No, Henry!” Anne protested. “Stay but a minute more! What news? Tell me a tale and keep me company.”

  Henry looked uneasy but returned to her bedside. He did not want to upset her, this was plain enough to her, but the baby kicked so wildly in her womb, knocking about between her ribs, that Anne had no fear its life was too delicate for his amusements.

  Henry looked at his folded hands, pursing his lips.

  Anne burst out laughing. She reached over and took his hands in hers. “It’s all right, Henry, really it is. Give me news.”

  “I have done more to assure your place,” he answered.

  “Yes?”

  “Three more acts have I passed. The Act of Succession, so that the throne will pass through your son, not the girl Catherine gave me.”

  Anne was uneasy at the way he spat the word girl.

  “The Act of Supremacy,” he continued, “to be assured that I retain the power to govern in my own country, and not some puppet Pope in another realm.” He paused. “And lastly …”

  Anne squeezed his hand.

  “Lastly, the Act of Treason. To be assured of loyalties.”

  “And all have been sent out? All have been signed?” she asked.

  “All have seen the future and will follow,” Henry said. “The people, I am told, the people are relieved to be free of unjust clergy stealing bread from their mouths. They see me as their great defender.”

  “It is a title the Pope gave you.”

  Henry was the only man she had ever known who could look so utterly alone in a room crowded with people clamouring for his attention, ready to spring up and do his will. Anne saw the realm in his face—the cries for relief, the bitter scrambles for position and power, the burdens that Henry would let no one else carry. It was arrogance to her, once. She began praying under her breath, asking for wisdom for Henry, for comfort and aid. He was alone in this battle, alone on a front where the soldiers behind him could be a danger as much as the enemies in front of him. All she had ever had to offer him was herself, and now this comfort too was denied. All she could do was pray.

  He stood, knocking her bedside table. The Hutchins book hit the floor with a great whump. Henry bent to pick it up, studying it before he replaced it and left.

  The pains began as a dull ache in her midsection. She had her girls remove her bodice and skirts. Her midwife began rubbing a stinking ointment on her belly to ease the pain.

  The baby was still not delivered in twenty contractions. Midwives sent the alarm downstairs, but Anne ignored it. She would not fail in this. Yet she knew that, all below her in the palace, doors were being thrown open, cabinets propped open, every lock released, every knot pried free and loose. The palace was working desperate magic below her to assure her body would open and release the child. If she failed, next they would have soldiers from here to the Tower shooting arrows in the air.

  She pushed again, bearing down, mad with pain, not caring about crown or reputation. Nothing mattered, nothing existed, except these awful contractions and the animal urge to push.

  “I see the head!” the midwife yelled. “Push harder!”

  Anne heard the midwife christening the baby as the head emerged. It was a secret gesture between the women in this sacred chamber, so that the child would be baptized before birth. In this way, no child would be born unbaptized and risk purgatory.

  “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, I christen thee Henry, Prince of England.” The assurance was all Anne needed for strength, and she gave one last mighty push.

  The immediate crowd at her feet told her the baby was delivered. Anne screamed in relief and collapsed back into the arms of another girl. The air of the room was thick, and she thought she saw the air shimmer.

  There was much whispering, and Anne watched, dumb from exhaustion, as the midwife, cradling the heir in her arms, tied off the cord and cut it with her scissors. The babe was washed with wine, and a little salt rubbed on its tongue. Anne had heard that some midwives recommended washing the tongue in hot water, to make for smooth speech later in life, but Anne had forbidden this. It was too harsh.

  The midwives wrapped the baby snugly in strips of clean linen and carried him to Anne, nestling the tiny bundle in her arms. Anne beheld the face of her future and wept. The baby was beautiful, exceeding any miracle the church had ever proclaimed, any relic they had ever offered the people for viewing. She caught her Yeoman stealing a glance in, smiling.

  “Who will bring him to Henry?” Anne whispered, not taking her eyes from the beautiful face.

  “Anne,” her midwife began, “there is something we must tell you. We rejoice in a safe birth, we rejoice in a healthy baby.”

  “What is it?” Anne interrupted her.

  The midwife was crying.

  Anne could hear Henry’s scream, and she winced.

  When he entered the room, he was carrying the baby. His courtiers trailed closely behind him, their eyes down, but he turned, glaring at them, glaring at the women in the chamber. Everyone fled from the room, leaving him with Anne alone. He laid the baby in the cradle, tucked in the darkest corner of the chamber. He stayed in the darkness.

  “She is beautiful,” he said finally.

  “We should call her Elizabeth. It would have made your mother happy,” Anne said. She didn’t have the strength to get out of the bed and walk to him, to try to persuade him to comfort or happiness. She could only lie there, exhausted. Her best offering had been in his arms, and it was not enough. It defined her relationship to him.

  “Why, Anne?” he whispered.

  She could not answer.

  He came out of the shadows and laid his head on her empty womb. “Why? Why was it a girl?”

  He was crying. He was shaking under Anne’s hands.

  She cursed herself under her breath … a stupid little fool, she said. Where had she gone wrong? She felt naked, her faults all exposed in this tiny bundled baby.

  “I have done all this for you!” he screamed at her. “I dismantled the Church! Two cardinals are dead because of you, Anne, and many men are in the Tower tonight, suffering, because you promised me an heir!”

  “No, Henry,” she tried to say. “I tried. I did everything you asked.”

  “Where is my son?” he screamed.

  “I don’t know!” she screamed back. “I obeyed God in everything! I never prompted you to do those things! I only said love God and honour His Word!”

  “But do you, Anne? Jane tells me you flirt with the Hutchins book but have never read it, not all the way through. You are not who you seem.”

  “What does Jane know?” Anne said.

  “She knows how to please a king, I tell you. Her body is ripe with heirs. I knew it every time I caressed her in my chamber, while you were in here gulping down dainties, cataloguing my treasures, instead of doing your duty as my wife!”

  Anne felt her chin trembling. She was terrified to break in front of him. She didn’t trust him now, as a husband or a king. “I alone am loyal to you. It is God who has betrayed us!”

  “You do not even know Him,” he said with disgust.

  The baby cried, breaking their locked stares.

  Henry grunted and left.

  Anne called for a nursemaid. “Nurse her, and leave her here with me to sleep. She must never be left alone. Perhaps she will not be king, but she will be loved.”

  Jane did not attend her again. She was moved to private chambers, a pleasant little apartment where she was kept under guard, with fresh flowers brought to her bedside. She could spend the time in warm, sweet walks with Henry through the sleeping winter garden. This was what Anne learned from the servants still attending her, though it took days to pry each piece from them.

  Anne devoted herself to being ready for her churching. All of Henry’s accusations would be upturned in a single day. Except perhaps for the reading of the entire book Hutchins had sent; it was a thick book with so many words. She could not simply choke through it in o
ne afternoon. She would set this task aside for another month in which she had more leisure. This was a time for alarm and strategy, she reasoned, not leisurely reading.

  A thrill shot through her limbs and heart; she had not left this chamber for a month. Today she would join the palace again and the world. She wore white, with a long white veil, so that no one would see her in her shame before the priest declared her clean. The women were reminding her of the instructions:

  “Do not look at sky or earth until the priest places the host upon your tongue.”

  “Do not lift your veil! It will protect you from all charms and spells, and from demons who wish to needle you.”

  “The king will remove it as a sign that he has accepted you back into his bed.”

  Her Yeoman opened the door, and Anne saw there were other men with him. They walked to either side of her, lifting her in the air and carrying her to the litter outside waiting to take her to the church. Her feet would not be allowed to curse the ground, unclean as she was, until she had partaken of communion again.

  The sun was strong and warm and Anne lifted her face to it, wishing she could be free of this shroud with the sun on her skin. The church was within sight. Anne’s heart was pounding. Everyone would be inside. She would only be permitted to kneel at the church’s back door, like a beggar, until the priest bade her clean to enter.

  The guards lifted her from the litter and carried her to the steps, rapping loudly upon the door.

  Anne saw shards of broken glass at the far end of the church. She had heard the gossip, rumours that those immersed in Hutchins’s book were striking out at the church, desecrating the images and relics that had coloured their lives. Anne felt a stab of sadness, seeing the bits of brilliantly coloured glass still reflecting the sun, though lying in dirt. There was so much beauty in the church. She did not want that destroyed. She had only wanted more of it, more of what made God so beautiful to her, His very words. But they could touch nothing of human hands without upending it.

  And here she was: a new mother, with a husband who may not want her back in his bed, with nothing to show for her striving in faith but a girl. Had she not prayed? Was there a Mass she had not said, if only in her heart? Why had His words done so little for her?

  The door opened, and a priest tipped his head to acknowledge her.

  Her hands were shaking as she lifted the white cloth to him. The cloth had been draped over baby Elizabeth at her baptism; giving it to the priest would protect the anointing on Elizabeth’s life.

  He stared at it, not moving to accept it, and Anne’s heart raced. Henry had passed a law that protected Anne’s offspring, but the law did not change the heart. The priest could throw her out, leaving them both to the witches and angry crowds.

  He swallowed and took it, his warm hand touching her own. It did not stop the sweat beading along her forehead and bodice.

  The priest handed the cloth to another priest behind him, and Anne saw he was attended to by two such servants, one carrying candles and one a bowl of holy water.

  He read the 121st Psalm in Latin. Anne closed her eyes in ecstasy, the words being balm to her body, wounded by birth, and her soul, wounded by things she had yet to name clearly. She felt so poor, so lost, that to lie here receiving the words of God was strengthening her very bones.

  A stirring behind her reminded Anne she was not alone. She was attended to by servants, and behind her servants were the guards, including her own Yeoman.

  She held up a hand and stopped the priest. “In English,” she commanded.

  The priest reddened and did not speak.

  “For the sake of my servants, who wish to hear the Word of God.”

  “They do.” His voice was thin and sharply edged. “They cannot understand it.”

  The priest fumbled with his robe, tucking his lips into his teeth. He turned to the two priests behind him, who were careful not to look him in the eye.

  He cleared his throat and began.

  “Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His goodness to give you safe deliverance, and hath preserved you in the great danger of childbirth; you shall therefore give hearty thanks unto God, and say,

  “I am well pleased: that the Lord hath heard the voice of my prayer; that He hath inclined His ear unto me: therefore will I call upon Him as long as I live. The snares of death compassed me round about: and the pains of hell gat hold upon me. I found trouble and heaviness, and I called upon the Name of the Lord: O Lord, I beseech Thee, deliver my soul.”

  Anne repeated his words.

  “Let us pray,” he said. “Christ, have mercy upon us.”

  Anne, and her servants, repeated his words.

  “O Lord, save this woman Thy servant,” he said, “who putteth her trust in Thee.”

  They all replied. “Christ, have mercy upon us.”

  “Be Thou to her a strong tower,” he said, not sprinkling her with holy water, “from the face of her enemy.”

  They all replied. “Christ, have mercy upon us.”

  He finished without passion:

  “O Almighty God, we give Thee humble thanks for that Thou hast vouchsafed to deliver this woman Thy servant from the great pain and peril of childbirth; grant, we beseech thee, that she may faithfully live, in this life present, and also may be partaker of everlasting glory in the life to come: through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  Anne rose to enter the church, but he did not move aside. Hate filled his face, something evil swimming just below the surface of his features. Anne heard metal scrape against metal, and his eyes darted past her, behind her in the crowd. Anne closed her eyes in relief. Her Yeoman must have stepped forward. It was enough to frighten the priest into remembering his place.

  He stepped aside.

  Anne entered the church and inhaled sharply. She had not seen this many people for weeks. They all stared without blush or modesty, eager to see if her figure had been retained and her countenance proud. She had had a girl, after all.

  Henry was kneeling at the altar, ready for Mass. Anne walked and knelt at his side. She was grateful to be forbidden to speak here, for she doubted she could say anything at all.

  He looked just as she had kept him in her heart: regal, with ermine and scarlet and chains of gold hanging from his wide shoulders.

  There was a commotion off to the side, the priests consulting one another. Anne knew the source of the disturbance. The priest conducting the service kept glancing from Anne to Henry to the room crowded with nobles and courtiers.

  He approached Henry and whispered to him.

  “You ask permission to conduct the service in Latin?” Henry asked. “Why?”

  The priest waved his hands in an empty explanation. “I do not know it in English.”

  Henry’s brow furrowed. Anne saw his appetite for mystery was awake.

  “Do you not know what it means?” Henry asked.

  “It is the tongue of angels, my king. It is sufficient that He alone understands.”

  “It is sufficient for whom?” Henry asked.

  “The words themselves have such meaning, such great power, that merely to hear them will produce the desired effect.”

  “My words accomplish much the same effect,” Henry said. “Merely to hear them sets the world in motion around me. And I have a word for you, my priest.”

  Henry waved his finger and the priest bent to hear the quiet command. “When you speak to me, you will speak in English, for this is the language of the realm. Latin is the tongue of the Pope and he speaks for Spain and France, not God.”

  The priest stood and cleared his throat, again. He would be hoarse by nightfall, Anne thought. He faltered for words, and the hour-long Mass was reduced to a few simple prayers.

  “Christ’s body!” he declared, lifting the veil to place the host on Anne’s tongue, as the church bells tolled. He placed the host on Henry’s tongue and gave them the wine to drink.

  “Christ’s blood!”

  They drank, a
nd Henry leaned toward Anne, lifting the veil away from her face, kissing her on the mouth. Anne caressed his cheek before he pulled away.

  Later that night, back in his bed, their bed, Henry loved her with the tenderness of a new husband.

  Tucked into the shelter of his frame, rejoicing at his solid arms supporting her, he pulled her closer in.

  “The next will be a boy,” she promised.

  She shifted her neck to press more of his rough face against her skin, but he propped himself up.

  “Anne, I asked you a question!”

  “Yes! Yes!” Anne replied, disoriented, trying to pull herself back awake and focus on his form in the dark chamber. She reached out and stroked his hair.

  “I asked if you were faithful in prayer,” he repeated.

  “I pray, morning and night, that God would grant us a son.”

  Henry lowered himself back down, saying nothing. Anne draped herself across him, and waited until at last his arm lifted and went round her again. As she listened to his heart, she remembered that she had left the Hutchins book in her lying-in chamber. She would get rid of it tomorrow; it had caused nothing but turmoil for her. She was ready for peace, and blessings, and sons. Sir Thomas was under arrest, proof that God was working on her behalf. She did not need this book any longer to assure her of His will.

  “It can offer me no more than this.” She smiled to herself, feeling Henry’s gentle breaths, and drifted to sleep. A wind kicked up in the gardens below, and she heard animals scampering back into their dens before the storm.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Margaret was vomiting, her head hanging over a brown hedge at the edge of the steps. The tutor, Candice, claimed to be suffering from vapors and fled inside, leaving Rose alone and trembling.