Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel)

by Atkinson, Thea

  Pray for reign

  by Thea Atkinson

  Published by Thea Atkinson, 2010.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  PRAY FOR REIGN

  First edition. September 12, 2010.

  Copyright © 2010 Thea Atkinson.

  Written by Thea Atkinson.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Epilogue: RABBIT

  Chapter 1

  May 1536: Tower of London

  What could a person do while she waited for her death? Play chess, sing a tune, cry? Anne didn’t know, so over the days she’d been imprisoned she did them all. In a matter of moments she went from laughing, to singing, to crying bitter tears. After that, she played a game of chess—acting as both competitors, so it didn’t matter who won. She just needed to keep her mind occupied.

  At the moment, however, she felt grand. The luxurious gilded candlesticks that lighted the darkest of nights in the White Tower now caught the bit of sunlight that managed its way through the heavy drapes to grin against the floor. The tapestries on their pointing stands rippled with the occasional draft. Every now and then, wonderful smells of burning fields eked through the curtains and drove away the smell of damp stone. Burning had always reminded her of spring planting, and spring meant growth and renewal. Her hope soared.

  From her spot on the bed she addressed the four women who acted as both servants and spies to her in this place—women she had come to revile in the last days.

  "I’ll not be executed," she told them. "I'll be saved. Our Grace, the King, will simply offer me placement in a nunnery."

  It could happen; after all, he had offered the same to Catherine all those years ago, surely he'd do the same now. Should it matter that Catherine had refused?

  Anne combed and combed her hair as she considered it, and finding a snarl, felt the burn of tears.

  Her wardresses froze in their activities, two of them pulling needles through fine work, the other two playing a game of chess, all four turned to her with queer expressions.

  "Think you, so?" asked Lady Kingston, a sneer on her lip, her voice cold with hatred. She'd never liked Anne, not that it bothered her one bit at the moment. It was the scent of smoke and charred grass that made Anne feel faint, not the cold hatred in the jailer's wife's voice.

  "It matters not," she answered. Suddenly she didn’t want these ladies to believe she was a coward. "If I’m to die, then die I shall. I’m ready for it."

  They mumbled among themselves then, moving from their spots and gathering around the corner, pretending they didn’t wait on a doomed woman, talking about bits from the outside. They spoke softly, but still, Anne could hear them. Hear them and hate them for the things they said.

  "She’s mad," she heard Mistress Coffyn say.

  Anne didn’t care that they thought it so.

  "I hear the King believes she's a witch," said Kingston’s wife. "He told it to a groom who told it to my husband."

  Anne bit down on her tongue. So Henry was adding fuel to the rumors already. She wasn’t surprised. His conscience could never take the truth. But for now the women stared at her, then grinned evilly when they caught her eye. Sometimes they scurried out of her way when she came near, and at others they’d block her stride. Damned women. Bloody fools. Didn’t they know she was more in tune with her mind than ever before?

  Never mind that they whispered about her, or memorized her words. It didn’t matter that they reported them to Cromwell. She simply couldn’t go on with life knowing she'd caused George’s death. She couldn’t live without love or support.

  Now, with the knowledge that these women were wary of her—perhaps afraid—her hopes rose. How heartening it was to know they feared the omen of waiting on a condemned woman. She wanted to rush them with poised nails and scream, "Boo!"

  "Get me my dinner," she ordered when lord Kingston showed his face through the window of the door. "I'm hungry as an out-sported hound.

  But when the grand dinner came, she had no appetite. Her stomach reminded her of the nausea she'd felt at seeing her brother’s limp body, his last supper left undigested.

  "Have you heard news of my death?" she asked Kingston. Only eight hours had gone by since she'd been sentenced; it seemed like twenty.

  "No." He turned away, embarrassed it seemed. Strange that a man so used to death could be shy of it now.

  "Oh, don't be so gloomy, my Lord Kingston. I will be freed. God will withhold the rain ’til I’m released—as a sign of my innocence. Surely our King knows the crops need nourishment." She smiled crazily at him, hoping perversely that her seeming madness would strike terror in his heart.

  She wanted them all to be afraid.

  "Then pray for the rain, my lady, and you may live to see the harvest," he mumbled, then walked away and out the door, touching his wife on the sleeve as he went by.

  The pockets of sanity gave way to wastelands of terror. She couldn’t understand why the Archbishop was being denied her. She roamed about the luxurious prison, touching the damask drapes, staring out the gilded windows, mumbling his name, weeping when she heard her voice speak it.

  Cranmer, once her savior—the man who had finally won the divorce so long ago—he would be the man to relieve her of her confessions so she could die in peace—if only Henry would send him to her. Deep inside, she knew she couldn't maintain a semblance of sanity. And so she refused to try. Let sense come to her when it would, theatrics were past their use now. And if sense eluded her, then so be it. Let insanity have its day; it certainly ruled everywhere else.

  And finally, he did come.

  "My Lady," he began, folding his hands beneath his cloak. "I’ve news from the King."

  She dared not breathe. Would Henry release her?

  "He asks that you provide evidence that Elizabeth is illegitimate."

  She gaped at him. She hadn’t considered this possibility; that Henry could want to bastardize the daughter he worked so hard to legitimize. She refused to look at Thomas, knew his black eyes were watering with sh
ame.

  "No. Oh, no." Was that her voice booming throughout the room? Surely not. She gathered her wits and braced her spine.

  "He can’t. I won’t." Despite her efforts to maintain her dignity, she began to prowl the room, glaring at her wardresses and forcing them from the room in a flurry. Lady Kingston glared back before she scuttled into the adjoining chamber.

  "It is so like him to want it all. If Elizabeth is a bastard then we were never wed..."

  Thomas gave her a knowing look.

  She crossed her arms. "So... that’s what he wants. But if we were never married then how could I have committed treason by adultery?" She waited for the answer, knowing none would come. The point was moot, and she knew it.

  "He would do all this for the love of one woman," she said aloud, avoiding the thought that he had done much worse for her love. This time, however, it was to be good humble, modest Jane. Oh, don't fool yourself, Henry. She was sly—and knew well how to play the game. So, you've tired of strong-willed, sassy, Anne, have you? Well, I'll just be meek, and mild tempered. I'll intensify the differences between us, make you believe you've been bewitched and that God wants you to come back to him. Rubbish! Revolting, putrid, nauseating rubbish.

  Anne thought of how her own differences to Catherine had won Henry, and how those differences were now reviled. She wished suddenly that she had been kinder to Catherine and her daughter, for now she could burn for her hatred, not just the once, but eternally. She shivered.

  "Father, think you God can forgive me my sins... all of them?" she asked quietly. "How I wish I could change my days, those that I treated unkindly... but I was so stricken with panic and frustration... Surely, God can forgive me?"

  She stared into the Cardinal’s eye, watched him nod quietly. Still the fear would not settle. Instead, it made her laugh nervously when she'd been sure she'd meant to cry. Forgiveness? What had she done to earn it?

  His expression didn’t change as he watched her laugh then weep. She had heard through the snippets of her ladies’ conversation, that Cranmer may well have been ensnared too. Like Wyatt. Like George. Like a dozen others. All because he had petitioned Henry for her, but in his own way he managed to defend her without crossing that infamously intangible line of Henry's. And he had kept his life in spite of it, and because of it.

  "Lord Percy and I were lovers, tell him," she told him, knowing the proof would probably endanger her first love now, but realizing Elizabeth's welfare as the more important. "And Mary. Don't forget to mention Henry's own affair with Mary. He had an affair with her before we were married. Both relationships would put us in an illegal affinity for marriage, and either will do for His Grace’s proof."

  She hugged her belly. It ached so, from all the worry. "That should be enough for him. And hopefully for me."

  It should, but there was no guarantee. She hoped the evidence she gave would give Henry reason to be kind to her in the end. She tried to imagine how she would endure the fire at her skin.

  “It will be, my Lady," Thomas said quietly. So much about him was quiet, for as long as she had known him. Kind voice, as kind to ears as satin to touch. Even his hands were smooth and quiet, not loud hands, as Anne's own were. They never flailed at the air when he spoke, just lay still in his lap, only occasionally leaving to make a light sweeping motion through the air when he felt impassioned. His entire body was quiet. The thought of never seeing this man again, nor anyone again—was too much.

  "Jane is a kind woman," he said. "She'll make sure Henry is kind to Elizabeth."

  Anne noticed kindness to herself had been carefully omitted. Kind, was Cranmer. And careful. In his careful way, he left.

  It wasn't ’til later in the day that Kingston came to her with news of her death, the results of her meeting with the Archbishop.

  "The swordsman of Calais has been sent for," he said simply, his pockmarked face blank. "I'm not sure if he has already arrived or not."

  Though his words were said without emotion, Anne found hope in them—at least she would be decapitated and not burned. It was small solace, but it was still solace.

  "He's the best there is with a sword," she said. "Yes. With a sword the affair will be swift."

  Kingston’s face looked pinched.

  "I hear he's very good," she said, circling her neck with her hands. "Which is perfect, since my neck is so tiny." She had wanted to ease the tension, to make a joke, but instead of laughing, the jailer chewed on his lip and fled from the room.

  Anne grinned; she couldn’t help herself. It was such a relief to think she could go quickly; no fire, no horrible hacking like had been done to an old woman just months before. None other had been granted the sword. Not ever. It was a good sign, indeed.

  With the grin came an urge to laugh, though she couldn’t understand it. Such sweet laughter it was, too. Innocent sounding, light like a child’s. Oh, how beautiful it sounded. She wanted to hear more of it, and she suddenly couldn’t stop to save her soul.

  Chapter 2

  That night, her palms began sweating, and her breathing grew annoyingly short. She couldn’t bear to think, so she called to her women—hateful women though they were—and asked for their company.

  It sounded as though the Tower had been surrounded; shouts and screams filled the air. She couldn’t make out any one single sentence, but it reminded her of the riots of years before when the city discovered she would be Queen. Terror fluttered in her chest like a swarm of bees pummeling her from the inside. She tried to smile at Coffyn as the woman chewed her filthy fingernail. The woman’s crimson velvet gown looked like a blotch of blood against the earth brown tapestry on the wall. For a moment Anne’s gaze remained transfixed by the collage, but when Coffyn spit out a piece of nail to the floor, Anne’s attention mercifully let go.

  "At least the people will have no difficulty finding a nickname for me." She laughed gaily to fool the terror that squeezed her throat nearly shut. "I shall be Queen Anne LackHead."

  Her women shuffled their feet, ashamed or nervous or uncertain, Anne didn’t know. She did know that it bothered her—she had hoped they’d at least companion her through this night. When she saw they had no interest, she sighed heavily. Could they not at least spare her that mercy?

  "Get me an almoner. I wish to pray," she told the jailer’s wife, tired of making all the efforts. She didn’t really want to have her last hours spent with these wardresses anyway.

  He came just before two a.m. Lady Kingston ushered him in, a tiny squeaky kind of man, found, no doubt, on the edges of the city and pulled from his bed without sympathy. His cassock smelled of must.

  "What may I give you in return for this service—early as it is?" Anne asked him.

  "Give me?" He looked confused. "Why, you’ve already given me opportunity to serve my God, my dear. I require naught else."

  Such a kind man, he seemed. Yet Anne knew there had to be reason for him coming so early in the morning. Perhaps he came so he could tell all he knew that he spent the night with England’s condemned Queen. The thought made her voice sour when she spoke. Though she knew it, she couldn’t help the edge she heard.

  "Everything comes at a cost, Father. Especially those things of God. Surely your parish could use..."

  She wanted to offer gowns for him to sell, or plate from her dinner, but he interrupted her.

  "My parish could use more people who work for God unselfishly," he said, and sat on her bed. For a second he looked surprised at its comfort, but soon turned his eyes to hers. His stare was penetrating. "Know you not the difference between earthly treasures and spiritual, child?"

  It was such a direct question, and one that took her so off her guard, that she answered without thinking, or without carefully wording her answer. "I have done what I’ve been taught, what I thought was expected."

  "And in so doing, have lost your faith." He took her hand and tugged her to the bed where he passed her his cross. The ornate carvings on the pewter pendant made it even heavier
than it should have been.

  "Look at it, girl. Meditate on it." He pressed it deeper into her palm, stared into her eyes until she had to lower them to her hands. Her fingers trembled as she held the cross, and she thought the imprint would stay on her skin when he took it away, so tightly did he squeeze.

  "Think again how you believe everything comes at a price, and know that this is the most important gift ever given."

  He rose painfully from the bed, knelt on the bare floor. When he bowed his head, she felt shame that this simple priest who had nothing but his faith had come to her, and required that she give nothing but an open mind to his beliefs. She thought of George and his faith. She thought of God and his judgment.

  "But my brother... My friends?"

  He looked up at her. She saw a glimpse of compassion in his blue eyes, a specter of comfort.

  "Those things have been done, child. They are not a cost of your salvation, nor are they a punishment—they came from your own decisions, not from God, or his perverse sense of humor or justice. He may know all, but he created us with a free heart and mind. We make our mistakes, and he forgives them. Sometimes he even uses those mistakes to teach us."

  She looked away at the linen paneling, but his voice came to her nonetheless.

  "You want to believe God has taken your brother in return for your deeds, that he is punishing you. You may even believe God will allow your salvation at the cost of your brother’s life, but I tell you the treasures of heaven are free and without stain. You have done your deeds on your own, and the King has done his. The price you think you must pay has already been rendered."

  "Already rendered?" He had her attention at that, and she knelt with him on the floor. She wanted to believe him, wanted so to know God was a god of love, not judgment. What did this poor man know that the great Cardinals did not, or did not tell?

  He nodded. "Rendered by the son, child. Paid by Jesus."

  She felt a tear trickle down her face, and he wiped it with the sleeve of his cassock. "Paid, my dear. You have only to believe it."

  "I do, Father. I do so want to believe it."