Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel)

by Atkinson, Thea

  "Wealthy?" Such irony—if only her father could have foreseen the connection the two shared, perhaps she'd be promised to him now instead of the brash Irishman she’d met last month. She scanned the room, sighting him among a bevy of ladies beside the faux castle. She wanted to continue with the conversation, but Mary changed it.

  "I see the King is on his way over."

  Anne turned discreetly, and saw that indeed he was heading toward the group, flanked by a dozen courtiers and friends. The urge to bully Mary got away from her.

  "You should be ashamed. Doesn't Will care that you sport still with the King?"

  Since her return, Anne had discovered Henry had married off his mistress, but Anne wasn't sad to have missed the wedding. it was an obvious farce.

  "Will? No. Why else think you his Grace chose him to be my husband?"

  Anne clamped her lips together, doing her best to keep her thoughts to herself.

  The king clicked his heels together when he reached for Mary's hand. "Madame Carey," he said. "May I have this dance?"

  Anne mimicked his words under her breath, while managing to maintain her attention, and a look of interest as he leered at Mary. Disgusting, how he nearly ate her with his eyes. She pasted a smile on her face as Mary spoke back, her teasing tone chiding him playfully.

  "Now, Your Grace, I would be foolish to say no."

  Without bothering to take her leave, Anne turned and walked away. George would be much better company anyway, and she found him teasing a group of ladies who clung to his sleeve and giggled like children. Anne sighed; courtly flirtation didn’t have to mean mindless chatter or outright idiocy. Couldn’t they at least show some sign of intelligence and discretion? She pushed her way in.

  "George, I see you’ve lost your wife." She grasped his arm, pulling him away from the clutches of a pale blonde. He kissed the hand of the one whose clutch Anne had loosened.

  "Excuse me, ladies," he said sweetly, "I see my sister is attending to my welfare." He winked and bowed, then grinned at Anne, a dimple playing in one cheek.

  "I’ve not lost my wife, sister." He led her away to a quiet corner. "Merely escaped her for a bit."

  A lock of chestnut hair, loosed from his blue ribbon, fell into his eyes. He pushed it back.

  She tugged at his sleeve. "Then dance with me, I’m afraid my fiancé may come for me." A playful slap on his arm regained his attention when he blew a kiss to the corner of ladies.

  "I’ve nothing better to do than rescue you, Nan." He winked at her and grinned. She felt safe, the young boy had grown to a man, and his certainty made her feel secure.

  George had watched Anne with interest while he entertained the swarm of ladies who refused to leave him alone. Their chatter bored him but he pretended to listen raptly, tried to look enthralled by their stories. Occasionally, he’d muster a glance of the room. The varied textures and colors were like a hundred autumn leaves courting the wind. Once or twice he caught sight of Anne, as did most men, he noticed. George grinned as he thought of how Anne brought out passions in people, always had, whether they found her attractive or not. She had an indefinable quality that made people either hate her or love her—there was no middle point. The strange thing was that Anne was either unmindful of how the men licked their lips absently as she passed, or didn’t care. The fact that she was oblivious to it made all the difference.

  He watched, intrigued, as she danced with Henry Percy. It was obvious that the aristocrat grew ever more enchanted. His gaze never left her face, and his fingers curled about her waist a little too intimately. His entire body shouted that he wanted to bed her. George could hear the yell from way over here. It was a certainty that Anne wanted him as well, though what intrigued her, he had no idea. Harry Percy was a dandy. His rather fragile awkwardness was compensated only by his position. Men would want him, rather than women, and then only to wed their daughters. He’d have wealth on his father’s passing, and his sensitivities would make any man feel safe for their daughters. Ah well, perhaps Anne sensed this and was drawn by it.

  After Henry came Thomas. George had glimpsed him moments ago, standing by the wall, waiting for a chance to take Anne into his arms. His lust was sealed to his face like a wax imprint to paper. George had to grin. Thomas had wanted Anne since he was a child, or rather a young adult, and Anne a child. He’d even purposefully lost every game they played so he’d gain Anne’s sympathy. Crafty, Wyatt was, and intuitive too. He’d known early on that Anne was a reckoning force. Once she'd even bruised his eye because he’d dared kiss her.

  After that, he’d brooded and sulked ’til finally she’d said, "Thomas, if your lip sticks out any further, you’ll risk a raven setting on it and shitting down your shirt."

  Thomas had done a good job of holding Anne’s attention this evening. She laughed and dared him with a look or two. He’d changed in the years, and for a moment, George believed his sister was relieved for that transformation—she never once let her eyes trail away from Thomas’ face. Instead she watched him with an intensity that made Henry Percy shuffle his feet enviously. The chattering grew more insistent, and George realized he’d lost track of the conversation. One of the ladies tapped his sleeve.

  "Has your sister truly come from France?" She'd shuddered delicately, her tiny mouth forming a moue that he wanted to stick his finger into.

  "Barbarians they are, over there. Why, I hear they copulate like dogs."

  He winked at her, touched her elbow intimately though he didn’t like the way Anne had been lumped into the category. "And I hear the women yelp with pleasure," he goaded. She blushed a deep pink. He couldn’t help himself.

  "Dear lady, I believe you envision it. I hope you have me in the scene." He gave her a quick, mocking bow.

  When Anne had come for him, though, he was delighted, both because it gave him leave of the ladies, and because he wanted to discuss her successful debut. He guided her away from the dance and toward a corner of the castle.

  "You’ve captured everyone’s attention, Nan." He didn’t feel much like dancing; he’d have to pass her off, and he had too much to say to her.

  "Have I?" She laughed. "I dare say even the King’s sister pales in comparison to me this eve."

  "Your modesty overwhelms me, sister." He bent to scoop a date from atop the rushes, and though it looked a little squashed, stuffed it into his mouth. It was hard to talk around the fruit but he gave it a try. "I can’t say you outshine sweet Princess Mary, though. She’s so beautifully fair."

  He eyed Anne from face to toe. "You look like red mud has been rubbed all over your skin—why did they not make you a savage?"

  He had to duck when she tried to clout his head.

  "See? Savage." He didn’t move in time to avoid the next one. "Ouch."

  "Ouch, indeed. You’re fortunate I didn’t put my weight into it."

  "Ah, so you say, Nan. But you’ve no idea who you’re dealing with these days."

  "I know well what I’m dealing with—a coward." He chewed his lip, held her eye.

  "So you chose a coward to rescue you?" She stared back, smiled.

  "I’m sentimental."

  Chapter 11

  Later as evening wore to deep night, Anne lay atop a narrow bed, scratching at her legs. She feared the flea-ridden sheets that stretched tautly across the filthy straw mattress had never been cleaned. She tossed and turned, finally wakening her sleeping companion.

  "Here, now!" the woman mumbled crossly, her foul breath creeping into Anne's nostrils, making them flare.

  "Sorry," Anne returned, not really feeling apologetic.

  When she had arrived at Hampton Court, amazed at the grandeur of the many statues and white carved stone, she had instantly formed an opinion of Thomas Wolsey. It seemed even his castle would outdo the majority. For a man supposedly humble before God and man, he certainly thought nothing of displaying his wealth. Tiers of stone and cross stretched to the heavens, and baked to a pleasant ochre by the sun, crept upwards for
three levels. Though stark and cold seeming, it held a peculiar elegance.

  The Cardinal, who was rumored to be almost perversely preoccupied with cleanliness, was personified in his estate. But later, as she was assigned sleeping quarters, she discovered his servants were lax in cleaning any area they suspected the Cardinal would avoid. And in seeing the filth his guests were to sleep in, she couldn't help but shiver to think how his servants lived—probably squatting in their own excess and excrement, for lack of desire to clean. The rushes that were supposed to sweeten the room, and cover the damp stink of must had instead absorbed the smell of the wet stone they covered. They hadn't been swept or replaced for many days. The sleeping woman turned to the wall, jutting her backside into Anne's hip.

  That was enough. Anne got up and tramped crossly through the common room to the door. The hallway was cool, even for March. The tapestries waltzed shyly with the drafts that embraced them. Instead of rushes, the soiled and bespattered floor was covered with an intricately woven, yet filthy carpet. And while the sleeping quarters were mercifully devoid of illumination, here the walls supported a few torches. Tendrils of black smoke meandered their way from tip to ceiling. Anne couldn’t help noticing how sooty were the stones of the wall as she found her way down the hallway.

  She wondered for a brief moment whether it would be prudent to wander through someone else's home. But her better judgment lost to her need to escape from the cloistering atmosphere of the area where she was supposed to sleep. As she wandered through the halls of the Cardinal's small castle, she thought of his apprentice—Lord Percy, was it—and how she had immediately taken to him.

  "Ach, stop it, Anne. No sense pining for a man you can never have," she whispered aloud, hoping the sound of the words would give her the conviction to forget Harry Percy.

  "Eh?" The masculine expletive sounded quite unpleasantly surprised. Squinting, she tried to peer down the dark hallway. She’d already turned a number of corners and, absorbed in her thoughts, hadn't realized she was in a completely different area of the castle. This hallway was still fairly well lit, but the elegant tapestries here seemed to absorb all the light, leaving the air slightly less illuminated than the other hallways. This passage looked richer, more elegant, more occupied. She saw that she’d trapped someone.

  Or rather, someone felt trapped. He stood frozen to his spot, hair mussed and on end. A most undesirable state in which to be seen for sure. She should turn around and give him the dignity of retreating to his bedchamber. But then, wouldn’t it be grand to see a nobleman flee hastily to his refuge, nightshirt flying and white legs capering spindly to his haven.

  "Good evening," she began, taking a tentative step. She stopped abruptly when he backed away for every inch she advanced.

  "I hadn't thought anyone would be about." It seemed as good an excuse for roving as she could think of—and an even better one for holding him there, like a rabbit in a snare.

  "Er... Good evening," he returned.

  She realized, not too pleasantly, that she was in just as embarrassing a state of undress as he. She shrank inside her flimsy cloak and shift. It seemed that as he saw her lose confidence, he advanced a bit, tentatively at first, then with growing curiosity. What was she doing here anyway, in the better quarters?

  "I—" she began, suddenly at a loss for anything to say, "couldn't sleep." Well, it was true, was it not? So what if she shouldn't really be roaming. As he drew closer, Anne could detect the faint aroma of ambergris and musk.

  "Nor I." The tones of a vaguely familiar voice filled the darkness.

  The room lost its chill with the admission. There’d been something more in the statement, hadn't there? Not just a confession of restlessness, but also an admission. Like he’d been caught playing with a toy that didn't belong to him.

  She studied him closer. Then she realized who stood before her—and the realization mortified her. Oh, no, not the King. Please, sweet Jesu, let it be someone other than the King. What was he doing here anyway, roaming about this late at night? But the silent question led her to a conclusion. He probably wasn't out for a leisurely stroll. She decided to act as if she hadn't recognized him.

  "I think I might return to my quarters, perhaps sleep will come now after my stroll."

  "Yes," he answered, a faint note of command in his voice.

  "Perhaps I'll see you in the morning—when we can be properly introduced." She didn't need an introduction. In fact, she had already been introduced the summer before. But he would never remember that. And she certainly didn't feel it prudent to remind him. She turned away.

  "Good night," she whispered and after a few seconds, couldn't help but say, "Your majesty."

  She suppressed a smile. Terrible, she thought, to have such a distorted sense of humor.

  Then came an answer, rough and intimate, and equally perverse, "Good night, Mistress Boleyn."

  Chapter 12

  For days after the masque Anne tended to her duties with little interest. Her mind was too preoccupied to concentrate on her sewing. And in truth, sewing was one of her most hated tasks—except for going to mass, which Catherine did three times a day—or so it seemed. The early morning masses were the worst. Anne would moan and grumble when it came time to be out of bed and dressing. This morning she chose a somber gown of damask for the small tribulation—to match her mood. The cool air of the room forced her to hurry. Tapestries and wall hangings did little to keep the room warm when the fire had been forgotten. Anne took one look at the black hearth and shivered.

  "Would that we had a small piece of Hell this morning," she said. "Perhaps I could take it with me to service. Jesu knows there won’t be any heat."

  "Why do you so hate going to mass?" Mary helped Anne with the clasp of a locket.

  "I don't hate mass, I hate the feelings it gives me." Anne replied, linking a pomander to her girdle. "Truth be known, I believe in God with all my soul—too much."

  "Then why the forlorn look each time we're called to chapel?" Her sister’s tiny arched brows made two neat triangles.

  Anne chuckled, trying to cover the mental squirming. "Because the chaplain is so sure we’re to be called to judgment, not mass. He never speaks of joy nor goodness. Always it is damnation and repentance, dispensations and tithes."

  She couldn’t explain just what troubled her. She was certain the Almighty could find no good in lowly Anne Boleyn—what was there to love? And what if the priests were wrong about God? She could imagine spending her life as a prudent woman of beliefs—helping the poor, praying unceasingly, only to discover on judgment day that there was no judgment—that indeed, there was nothingness. Or worse yet, that God sat before her laughing mightily and saying, "Oh, Anne. What made you think good works would get you in?"

  The imagined derisive laughter echoed in her mind as she walked the gloomy hall to the courtyard. It stayed there as she crossed the starlit cobblestones to the chapel. Oh, the feelings mass brought her—she hated it. The air was biting and frost glistened on the stones and statues. She was relieved to gain the chapel door. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the new light and she stood like a statue ’til Mary prodded her.

  "The holy water."

  Anne fought off a nervous laugh and dipped her fingers into the fount. Sweet Jesu, it felt like ice. She no more wanted to touch it to her breast than she wanted to spit in it. But then, if it had been warm on such a crisp day, she’d doubt its holiness. She found her pew a few rows behind Catherine, knelt quickly. A furtive prayer later and she sat. The priest droned on and on. Catherine sat rigidly in her pew with an odd look on her face as she stared into the priest’s eyes—as if she were looking straight at God and couldn’t believe the beauty of the sight. Anne wished she felt so inspired, but couldn’t let go those nagging doubts that clung to her mind. She wished fervently that God could so move her, but all she felt was guilt and shame.

  She watched the priest’s lips move, tried not to hear his words on judgment and sin. She stare
d instead at the candles and the incense, often having to be prodded when she didn’t notice the priest order them to kneel. During her musings, she wondered if the sun had finally crept from its bed. At one point, she had such a terrible urge to see if the stained glass portrait of Jesus’ first position of the cross had taken the light of life, that she turned straight around in her seat. She met George’s eye and locked on it.

  In the still gloom of the chapel, the heavy wooden door opened briefly to admit a latecomer. Beautiful orange light shone in and ensconced her brother’s trim figure. His chestnut hair seemed haloed with the light of the rising sun. The sight tightened her chest. Truly, God had visited her. Just this once, perhaps she’d listen avidly to the priest, but when she turned back, he stood surrounded by the smoke of incense and the grayness of the early morn. How different was this vision. She found her mind trailing away.

  As George met Anne’s eyes and held them, he knew instinctively what ran through her mind. Mass made her panic—always had. He tried his best to speak with his gaze and tell her to allow the wonder of God to meet her, but always she could only see the fear. When she’d turned back to face front he couldn’t lose the image of her black eyes, round with something he’d not seen in them before. He lost track of what the priest was saying. For the rest of the mass, he kept remembering times from childhood when theology ran rampant in their quiet bedchamber.

  "Do you think that God exists?" he’d asked her once. The evening was cool but the roar of the fire heated their hearts. He looked eagerly at his big sister for the sage wisdom of an eleven-year-old.

  "Surely he does, George. Don’t be silly."

  "Do you think he knows our hearts, as chaplain Cranmer says?"

  He watched her shift upon the bed so that her eyes alighted on the large crucifix that hung over the headboard. Something in her manner suggested he’d said something that unnerved her, and he waited anxiously for her response.

  "I pray he knows not all our thoughts, for my mind is the one thing I cherish privacy in. It would be horrible to think I may not even think a thing without reprimand."