She studied him for a moment, his slight allowing Anne the freedom of comparing him to King Francois, who may well be lecherous, but who made a woman feel exquisite. Now she noticed something she hadn't previously, a set line to his square jaw, a hunger in his eyes that had nothing to do with his desire for Mary, and a cruel crook to his full mouth.
She no longer cared that he was attractive, nor did she care to be in his company a moment longer. No wonder Queen Catherine looked so bored—her husband probably showed her as much passion as would a monk. She excused herself with less civility than normal, then set out to find George again; he’d certainly be better company than a lovesick sister would. She peered back at Mary, hating to be alone in the crowd, and saw her standing too close to Henry.
A shiver crept up her neck when she noticed that Mary's animated conversation couldn't keep his attention, but that he was already seeking out the glances of others and when he found Anne's, he locked on it. How odd that he held Anne’s eye; he had shown no interest moments ago. She found it difficult to tear her gaze away from that transfixing stare.
Chapter 8
When George found his sister hanging closely to the fountain, he hurried over. She stood glaring at some poor oaf who had apparently fallen into the basin. Red wine dripped from one arm as he pawed at Anne’s skirt with the other. His sister needed rescuing, and though it was George’s turn to joust, he waved to the scorekeeper and sprinted from the field to go to her aid.
"How well would ye like to see what I’ve hidden here beneath me cod piece?" The fellow’s speech, though slurred, was quite plain as George drew near. Oblivious to those he shoved and pushed, and deaf to their curses, George made it close enough to hear her tart reply.
"Why, sir," she answered, "I can see what is beneath; as it’s dangling quite grotesquely from the edge."
Well, and so that was that. And to think he had relinquished his turn at the games to show her some chivalry. George wanted to pat the man’s shoulder in sympathy when he saw how he slunk off. The wine-sopped shirt melted into the crowd and was gone.
"Ho, Nan!" George grinned. The terrible storm on her face mellowed.
"Ho, brother." She walked toward him, lifting her skirts as she avoided a patch of manure.
"Let’s find a place to sit far from this crowd." He guided her away from the fountains and toward the minstrel’s tent. They found a seat near the back. The lilting tone of a lute seasoned the low rumble of a happy, slightly inebriated crowd.
"Did you know I've been betrothed?" George could tell his face hung to the dirt. He'd got the news just that morning from his father, and the thought of being married made him ill.
"And who could father find would take you?"
"Pah." He spit. "Some Morley girl. Her father's a friend of ours. But I'll have none of it. I've agreed to marry her, but not ’til I'm good and ready."
He studied her face. It had been so long. Too long.
For a moment, he recalled the night before she had left for the Netherlands. Seven years past was it? He had only been a boy, barely old enough to understand that she was leaving for good. Probably never to return. They lay in bed together, the quilts curled into a small ball beneath her chin as she spoke, staring out into the early gloom of the chamber.
"I’m afraid." She looked at him for an instant, the wetness in her eyes shone in the firelight. He wanted to hold her, to shush her as his mother did so often with him. He dared not—Father had said he was growing, and such things were not for a man. Still he yearned to comfort her, and it seemed she pleaded with him for the same.
"It will be exciting in the Archduchess’ court, Nan. Think of the things you’ll see." Her voice took on a harsh whisper as well.
"That doesn’t stop the fear."
"As well it shouldn’t." He tried to comfort her. "I think we should always fear what we don’t know. It keeps us from treading where angels darest not."
"I suppose you’re right." She gave him a quick hug. "Father says with the experience I may well wait on our Queen when the time comes."
"Yes." He gave a wry smile. "And it’ll get you out from under my foot. I may well be able to make a few friends without you here to coddle me."
She slapped his shoulder and he stuck his tongue at her. The next morning, that tongue was too thick to speak. An early morning mist enveloped the pier, touched her lashes so they looked wet with tears. He could only touch her chin, stare into her eyes. Now years later, he could hardly believe she sat beside him, reveled in the feel of her hand in his.
"I missed you." He watched her grin, knowing she needed to hear it.
"It’s for certain you did. But in all that time, I only received four letters—less than one a year."
He shifted in his seat, tried to think of a witty remark, knew as he struggled for one, she’d better it. He’d be left sitting and trying to think of another.
"It’s only that your clumsy efforts at French made your letters hard to understand. It took me all that time to decipher what you were trying to say."
"Grand Dieu! My French is impeccable. Certainly Father would have translated had you been brave enough to ask."
"Bravery has little to do with it—I didn't dare show your ineptness to Father. But alas, I’ve lost interest in this debate. I’d rather listen to stories of your bawdy French court."
The way her jaw slackened told him he’d won. Where had that remark come from about her ineptitude? He dared not think on it—if the muses were with him today, he’d better not tempt them. She harrumphed, touched his arm in a tender way.
"Not all the stories are so intriguingly bawdy. Some are grim." She crossed her arms against her chest, it was a habit she had so that she could tuck her finger with the extra nail beneath the ring finger of the same hand. She only did that when she was uncomfortable, or self-conscious. He chewed his lip, touched her hand.
"What is it, sister?"
"A lady friend of mine died last month."
"I’m sorry to hear it." He knew she had few women friends, and to lose one would have grieved her more than most. He fingered her nails, clasped her hand tightly. She turned away, but he caught sight of the tears.
"She was with child." Anne closed her eyes, the thick curve of black lash rested on the rise of her cheek. He brushed them, released the wetness.
"Her husband cut the babe from her womb and laid it in her arms. And all because the child was not his."
George couldn’t help the gasp that broke from his throat.
"How could a man act so? Why?"
"Why? Why." She shook her head. "I don't know. I only know she told me of her fear weeks before. I remember the bruises she’d try to cover all the months I had known her. I remember her disgust as he paraded mistress after mistress. I know of her joy when she fell in love."
He swallowed a great lump that wouldn’t go down, no matter how hard he tried.
She straightened, as if she didn’t want to think on it anymore, didn’t want to share it.
"It happens much in France—a man grows tired of his wife, or finds a wealthy mistress. One man stabbed his wife to death and bragged about it in court. Francois let him go free. Strange, is it not, that the man may philander but the lady must be content to allow it."
"It won't happen to you, Nan. Certainly you’re no heiress and Father is in no hurry to marry you off."
"No. He’ll await a promising union for me, I imagine."
Her voice was hard as she went on. "And as for Sara—in the end she found happiness, mustered the courage to save her pride. She may have died for it, but I admire her."
George felt strangely forlorn. Surely Anne would find love, rather than shackles. Why even his own betrothal was not that bad when he thought on it. She was a sweet girl, naive, meek. Though his sister was neither of the two, he knew she’d enchant any man Father chose. He believed Anne would make her union pleasant. He had to believe it.
Chapter 9
France: September 1520
/> "You're adept with your bow, mademoiselle."
"Am I?" Anne’s answer to Jacques was filled with coquetry. She'd practiced her flirtations in France enough to know she had him enthralled, but this time, she felt as taken by a man as she pretended to be. In the weeks since the festival, she found herself attending Queen Claude as the King made progress throughout the French countryside. The deep greens of late summer leaves and the quiet blues of the afternoon sky helped her forget the festival. The heady smell of the outdoors, of the woods and grass purged her mind of George. She’d killed two geese in the afternoon and sat chewing on the cooked breast of one beside the fire that lit the dusk in a smoky, ethereal haze.
The fever of the kill was still on her, mastery, pride, skill—all flooded her veins with their potion, making her drunk with them. Jacques’ compliment only fed it. His voice sounded smoky as the fire, and filled with heat. She measured him, her eyes glancing to his profile. How exciting he seemed, so unlike the genteel, well-bred, but coarse men of court. He was natural as the air. His hard-worked body lured her. His presence deliciously indecent.
She grew as intoxicated from his gaze as from the sense of transcendence she felt—that she should be completely out of his reach, yet wanted him. The fire crackled nearby, sending a waft of smoke to the gentle breeze that caressed the trees. She looked at his face and thought how attractive it was; plain, masculine.
Small stubble crept round his chin, and in the early dusk, it made him look mysterious. Green eyes blazed back at her, the light of the fire reflecting and twisting the color into a cat yellow. When the breeze brought his scent to her, and the coming night lit his jaw in the eerie, magical way it does, she thought, I'm as old as these hills, old as the fire, as the grass. So she kissed him. Lightly. On the cheek. She felt as if the fire had come inside her. She could see others slipping off to tents around the fire, or slipping into the shadows to celebrate their hunt. She wondered what it would be like to enjoy the celebration, if she could sneak away as easily.
"Would you walk me to my tent?" she dared ask, surprised at her own brazenness, but pleased when Jacques nodded his answer.
The way his jaw looked in the haze tightened her chest, made her feel even more powerful, that she could have him if she wanted, and that he was a mere commoner, more common than she. The night's moon had pulled a thin veil of clouds to protect herself from damp, allowing only a hazy, kind of opaque light to shine through. Only the faint rustling of leaves wafted through the still air. And the smells, how they excited her; pine, and moss, sweet acrid scents of nature. And mingled with them, his scent, more exciting than all the rest. But it’d been his kiss that made her heart race faster; deep, probing, demanding. She’d returned it with the same urgency, the same need. She wanted to eat him, the way she would a strawberry—to savor and enjoy it. She couldn't taste enough of his mouth, of his tongue. And in the quiet glen they’d found, she let her hands cup his neck, pulled him closer.
Before she realized it, his hands were on her breasts, hands that were rough and cracked. The calluses on his palms were dry, and scratched lightly across her nipples as he caressed her. Such gentle caresses for such a hardened man, such undeniable pleasure came with those strokes, fueling an urgency within her that she’d never felt before. And to know that same urgency was in him, that he wanted her as much as she did, made her stomach flutter. Maddening, his exquisitely soft, slow caresses on flesh that screamed for pressure. She ground against him, her hips met his with a pressure that surprised her. His hardness intensified her desire—and told her of his. But he remained cool, and quiet. The sound of her own moans excited her. His hands traveled from her breast to her stomach. Her nipples were exposed; cold and hard. And then, as his hands traveled to her hip, he pushed her away.
"What's wrong?" she asked confused, thinking that maybe he’d changed his mind, that perhaps her lack of experience repulsed him.
"I can’t believe someone so beautiful could want me so badly." He shrugged, looking at her lips.
She thought he must be crazy; he was as beautiful as any court statue, was intricately carved and hardened. She knew she would never look at another full figure carving without thinking how pale it was, without life or suppleness.
"You're mad." He kissed her again, slow and thorough.
"Very mad," he said into her mouth.
With a start she realized he’d slid his hand beneath her skirts. She wanted it there she also realized, beneath her gown, close to her hip, heating her flesh. She couldn’t understand what compelled her about him, didn’t know if it was the moon or the wine or his breath sounding ragged and needing. She knew she needed him. Wanted him to touch her because he shouldn’t, that she shouldn’t allow it. She squelched the fleeting guilt that what she was about to do was a sin. Priests and bishops knew nothing of passion—how could they school her on it?
At first his touch felt cold, but her flesh soon warmed his hand. Throughout his caresses he kissed her, whispering into her mouth, "Cherie..." and the words tasted sweet. The warmth of his hand and her flesh joined between her thighs, and oh, the joy in that touch. His fingers probed. Her breathing grew short.
"That's it, Cherie." She heard him say.
"Relax, enjoy." He paused long enough to guide her fingers to his member, used his own hand show her how to touch him. A thousand ants had invaded her stomach, scurried this way and that. Excitement choked off her breathing. He released her hand, satisfied that she would continue. One of his fingers flicked gently at her opening, quickening and slowing; stroking and rubbing. Then very gently, it slid in, just a bit, and she gasped. She heard him moan.
"Ah Mon Dieu, ma petite. I must be mad." He withdrew his finger and returned it to the flesh he’d left, rubbing ’til she ground against him in desperation, unable to remain composed. Within moments, she felt her muscles tighten. Before long, her entire body convulsed beneath him, and she clung to him shamefully. The most beautiful shame she’d ever felt.
"You are happy, Cherie?" he asked, close to her ear. She could only nod.
"Bien." He embraced her.
"Now we shall perform the duty you asked of me at the start." He lifted her from the bed of moss, swept off the stray pine needles from her skirts and kissed her gently.
"You have made me happy as well," he said quietly, and with great grace, walked her to her tent. But now she sat in a chair next to a fire worlds apart from the one of that night.
She smiled contentedly, even the mere memory of it brought a flush to her skin. She’d confessed after, doubting by the priest’s judgmental tone that she’d been forgiven, but believed fervently that she should do so, just in case. She had a hard time believing in God’s forgiveness when his representative couldn’t deign to show empathy—indeed, how could he feel empathy if he’d never experienced such joy or such temptation? Here in the bower room, the thought of Jacques spread warmth through her body.
It left her holding her sewing, rather than working on it as she should have been doing. The small fire within the fireplace lulled her with its crackles and pops. A scream shattered her languid reverie, followed by a child’s newborn cry. Ah, so Claude had finally birthed the babe and might feel relief after so many hours. Anne pitied her—and thanked the heavens Jacques had left her the virgin he had found her—otherwise she might soon have cause to scream. A few hours passed as she sewed and pretended to sew, now and then she would stare into the fire.
"The babe is a healthy boy, and more news is afoot."
The King’s sister startled her, not bothering to knock but scanning the room quickly. She hurried forward when she noticed Anne, all but lost in the chair beside the fire.
"I suppose I should soon address you as Mademoiselle Butler?" Marguerite lost no time revealing the news, her voice a lilting ring in Anne's ears. Her dainty hand rested lightly on a narrow hip, the long forefinger tapping delicately against the velvet.
"And why would you suppose that?" Anne's mind tracked through all the infor
mation it had stored during the day, sweeping aside cobwebs of neglect, trying to find reason in her friend’s statement.
"Hmm, it seems I have some advance notice. Even before you." Marguerite seemed magnanimously present, despite her small frame. As always, Anne felt overcome by the amount of energy and vitality her tiny physique could elicit. Next to Louise of Savoy, Francois' mother, Marguerite was the most important woman in France, but her charisma came from somewhere beyond the importance of her station.
"Stop teasing and tell me. I can see the glint in your eye that obviously means gossip, and I take it, that gossip has to do with me."
"You English. You're so brash." Marguerite smiled, and took the seat next to Anne, who sniffed a bit as the dust that had settled there wafted into the air.
"And you French—you're so very refined. Now, let's stop the pretense that you're all above gossip." Anne shifted in the chair, drew her legs up under her skirts to rest next to her bottom.
"Oh, you take the fun out of everything, lately." Marguerite, never one to pout for appearance sake, said the words without a change of facial expression.
"I've just come from my brother," she began. "He's a little worried that the English King is asking his subjects to return home."
Anne sat up quickly, her back rigid with concern.
"He is?"
"Oui. And he has received news that you're to go as well."
Suspicion crept up Anne’s spine.
"Have you any reason why?" She tried to make her voice sound unaffected, but the grip her teeth had on her lower lip gave it a tremor she hated hearing.
Marguerite picked at the velvet on her gown, and brushed it brusquely before she answered—lending additional suspicion to Anne's thoughts.
"You're to be wed." Then she looked Anne squarely in the eye, her lips curving in a smile. "Exciting, non? To an Irishman no less. Now that will spread like fire around the court. Our prim Mademoiselle Boleyn. French by heart, English by birth, and Irish by marriage."
Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) Page 4