Now in the chapel where the rising sun sent rays of color through the stained glass, he wondered what she thought, and if she’d ever managed to find hope in the knowledge that God knew her heart.
Later in the day, Anne sat in the queen's presence chamber, playing melancholy music on the virginal for Catherine. Most of the girls sat about sewing or embroidering; some worked on lessons. Dull things, really, and Anne thanked the heavens her musical skill spared her from those boring tasks for the afternoon. The notes she played sounded plain to her, so that every so often she would make a mistake on the keys, simply to see if she were indeed playing. Things had lost their lustre in the days since the dance. Paintings held no beauty, food no flavor. The smoke from the torch-lights smelled sooty and black. She kept thinking about her marriage and how pleasant it would be to marry Harry Percy, instead. But she hadn’t seen him since the eve of the dance, had gone about her daily routines automatically.
As she stared into the expanse of gray stone, ignoring the many companions who chatted to Catherine, she heard a ruckus behind her. Someone had come into the room, someone different, someone unexpected. She could tell it by the rush of satin and exclamations of delight. When she turned, from curiosity, the grayness of the room lightened, the green velvet of the drapes shivered to match the quiver of her stomach. Harry stood silently in the doorframe, allowing the many women to coo about him and offer him wine. He smiled at each one indulgently and playfully. His expression reminded Anne of George. She swallowed the clump of excitement and waited for him to see her. Many of the women who had flocked to the door tugged at his coat in their haste to draw him in—trying to make him more comfortable, or more vulnerable, she wasn’t sure. She stayed where she sat.
"Keep playing, Mistress Boleyn." Catherine’s imperial tone broke the spell. "Make it something pleasant. Something happy."
Anne could have played nothing else; her heart rocked with happiness. Her chest even ached from its mad hammering. And as her fingers echoed the emotion, Harry came toward her, pulling along two waiting women. He took a moment to bow low to Catherine who waved him to stand after only a moment. His golden head bobbed indulgently next to her auburn hair as he sat next to her, making her smile with soft words and pleasantries. After a respectable amount of time had gone by, Harry left the Queen’s side. All the while, Anne waited impatiently for him to come to her, knowing he would. His touch on her shoulder felt warm and moist through the satin of her gown.
"Mistress Anne, is it? Have we not met?" She stopped playing, knowing her next move to be more important than entertaining this pride of lionesses.
"Yes. I believe so." She turned so her back faced the virginal, her eyes uplifted to his face, his mouth. "We danced at the masque."
"Ah, yes." Such a beautiful voice; sensitive, strong. But those women—they still clung to him, and one stroked his arm, trying to claim him. She motioned him to the bench next to her.
"Do you play?" That should scatter the flock.
"No, but I love to watch a skilled musician." He excused himself ever so politely from the leeches, and rested a discreet distance away from her on the bench. He smelled of rose water and it blended nicely with the rushes beneath their feet. Already the rest of them were gathering, their eyes devouring his features.
"What shall I play?"
"Something happy, as Her Majesty suggests. Like you were playing just a moment ago."
She glanced to where Catherine sat, watching them with a hint of a smile. She held a pawn in her delicate fingers, poised to rejuvenate her queen. Without a word, Anne continued, allowing his presence to saturate her feelings. Her body rocked with each note. For long moments neither spoke. The other women found different pursuits. She didn't care.
"Shall I come tomorrow?" He touched her hand, and she wanted him.
"Yes."
"Good. Then I will. Say you'll be here."
She nodded, the 'yes' stuck in her throat, captured by the lust that clung there.
Chapter 13
Days later, Anne sat alone in the bower room, having been given leave by Catherine who lay abed. The Queen’s apartments usually lent laughter and music to the gloom of the castle, but today no sounds came down the corridor or eked into the bower room. The Queen must be sleeping, probably strained with the knowledge that she had discovered again that she was not with child. Anne felt a fleeting pity, then lost it in the gratitude of being alone for an hour or two. The remains of a snack sat on the hearth in a pewter plate: Spermese cheese, some bread and a slab of poorly cooked pork. She looked at it for a moment, thinking she should eat the cheese for it would grow hard if left to the air.
Before she could decide, a quick rap came on the door. She stood hastily, smoothed her skirts. Surely someone called her back to Catherine.
"Nan, I’ve been searching for you. The Queen said you might be in these apartments."
"My Lord Father..." She hurried to Thomas, knowing as she saw him that he came for a formal purpose. She swallowed the nervousness. He gave the room a leisurely glance that rested on the hearth and its remnants and Anne as she stood with crinkled skirts that even now she was smoothing.
"I’ve come to discuss your wedding."
"My wedding, my Lord?" Her heart lurched. During the month she’d prayed she’d not be given to the Irishman so quickly. She didn’t think she could stand it if the news was anything besides that she’d have to wait another month.
"Yes, it seems as if your fiancé has become quite enamored of you." Thomas’ tone sounded angry and she couldn't imagine what had him so upset. He must think she had bedded the young man. He strode across the room, picked at the cheese as he watched her.
"I can’t have you marry the boy. And I can’t have you making him believe he wants you." His features hardened. She stared at him for a long time, utterly confused, and watched his black eyes stare right back. They never flinched, nor watered.
For a moment she saw him as she had years ago, when he informed her of her impending work abroad. The entire memory ran past her while she studied him. The young Thomas smiled at her.
"I selected you to go, my Nan." His finger wound in her hair.
"Me, My lord Father? But why not Mary?" She couldn’t believe her good fortune. The Archduchess Marguerite—how exciting. She gazed up into his eyes. They crinkled when he was pleased, and they crinkled now. The tiny lines around the corners deepened, and her stomach fluttered to know she had pleased him. He straightened instantly, sent a furtive glance to the door that led to the parlor. Anne could hear Mary’s voice above George’s as they argued over a honey cake.
"Mary is a good girl, Nan. But she’s not as clever as you are. She has not our wit, our intellect." He looked back at her. Caught up in the compliments he paid her, she rushed to embrace him.
"Now, mind you honor the Boleyn name." His voice harshened, and she stopped just short of hugging his waist. She looked up into his face. It had changed in the instant, so that the lines around his eyes disappeared and the tight ones around his mouth returned.
"Father, I shall do my best to show the Archduchess you have chosen wisely."
She'd stood straight, wanting to brush her hair behind her ear, but dared not move.
He'd given her a dubious look before smoothing her hair and walking away. Now in the bower room nearly ten years later, she watched the same face, make the same transformation. For a second her eyes burned, and she ached to embrace him, tell him she wanted him to be proud of her. That she’d do anything to please him, to have him love her. She wanted the crinkles, which had deepened in the years to etchings, to lengthen as far as his ears in a heartfelt smile. She couldn’t stand seeing his mouth crook in that tiny, wan grin that made her want to sob.
"Please, Father, I shall do my best." Her voice sounded like the one of her teens, like an uncertain young woman and she hated hearing it. She cleared her throat, spoke again.
"I have done naught to encourage my fiancé. I have not even spoken to him."
The lines around his eyes lengthened, so much that they disappeared into his hairline, became shadows of the gray halo that had once been deep black. Anne smiled, was moved to touch his sleeve.
"Always you have been the obedient daughter, Nan." He touched her hair, smoothed the tresses down against her throat.
She closed her eyes, savored the caress.
"I don’t wish to give you up to him, yet the King is determined." He sighed, snatched his hand to his side.
"I can’t disappoint His Grace, but neither can I suffer losing my inheritance." He was talking to himself, really, but it was an insight she'd not understood before, and she wanted to hear more. So it was more the King who'd wanted this, not her father.
She hurried to the corner table, poured him a draft of warm ale. She doubted it would soothe him—how could it, for it was urine warm. But it gave her something to do, something to make her feel useful. In a moment she had it in his hands and he was seeking a chair. She didn’t want to rush to get him one, hated feeling so obvious. Eventually she decided to plump a few pillows and arrange them on the seat next to the hearth. He took it, stared down into the goblet.
"If the gentleman seeks your audience, or asks to speak with you, find a reason to ward him off. I may be able to dissuade Henry from forcing the issue."
She could barely contain her excitement. Perhaps her father knew of Lord Percy. Perhaps even Mary had told him and he recognized the opportunity as a more lucrative union. She dared not breathe, dared not ask him. But surely this was it. He had been so set on the Butler betrothal, ’til now. She knew her father well enough that he’d not let such an opportunity by. Sweet Heaven, she began to believe she could be happy here. George, Mary, and now Harry. And to think she had been nervous to come home. He stared into the hearth.
"In truth, I never wanted the marriage, but once Henry had decided it would appease the Irish, I could find no honorable way out of it,." He had not drunk, and Anne wondered quickly if she should take the goblet from him so he’d not have to hold it. Before she could decide, he was on his feet. He passed her back the cup and strode to the door.
"I may yet find you a profitable marriage, my girl." He winked quickly and departed. Anne was left staring into the goblet, thinking her world was making the most delicious turns.
Chapter 14
Harry came again after that first day, and again after that. Each afternoon was filled with hushed speech and quick touches. Catherine’s chambers had never been so alive. Anne would steal glances at Harry as he pretended to be interested in her embroidery. Behind the hoop they’d touch each other’s hands and whisper of longing and poetry. But always there was that uncertainty, always he seemed more like her Frenchman than the aristocrat he claimed to be. And it excited her, reminded her of her need so that with each passing day she grew hungrier for him—for his presence, his voice, and someday for his touch.
At times, the lust she saw in his eyes reflected her own, and when he whispered to her that he wanted to see her alone, she thought, "Enfin. At last."
"I want you to meet me by the pond." His hair fell forward to cover one eye as he studied the chessboard. She knew he feigned interest, as did she. His King could have been matched long ago. He said it again when Anne didn’t answer, so pleasantly shocked that words failed her. There was a tremor of nervousness in the conspiratorial tone, as if he were afraid she'd turn him down. When she still didn’t speak, his face immediately lost all of its careful reserve.
With a look of utter regret, he wiped his hair back.
"I shan’t touch you."
She swore her heart stopped, disappointed. He covertly motioned toward the middle of the room, where the usual entourage of waiting women gathered, giggling and gossiping.
"I just want to be with you, away from all this chatter."
She could only nod, but the smile that broadened his face emboldened her. Whispering, her lips near his ear, she said,
"Yes."
So, on a beautiful mid-afternoon she crept from the castle and onto the young grass of the royal garden. Irises stood tall and purple against the deep greens of yews, and sent their aroma over the occasional breeze. It’d taken a good deal of effort, but she’d finished her duties in time to meet with him. He stood motionless beside the pond. His light hair pulled back so she could see the outline of his profile. It looked commanding to her, a certainty or sureness in it. He hadn't seen her yet.
"Harry?" She thought she’d better say something to warn him that she was near.
"I wasn't sure you'd come."
"I told you I would."
He didn’t speak. A twitch on his lower lip gave away his uncertainty. She went to him and took his hand. It tightened around hers, and she squeezed it back.
"I would have done a thousand things to free myself to come here. To you."
He let go of her hand, and turned to the stone bench that rested a few feet from the pond. "Come here." He stood beside the bench expectantly.
Her wanting squirmed within her.
"Would you call me as you would a dog?" She teased him with a raised brow.
"Good Lord!" His attitude changed, but when he saw her smiling he seemed to regain his confidence.
"If I wanted to do to a dog the things I need to do to you, I'd ask for my genitals to be lopped off."
The word 'genitals' registered in her mind, obliterating everything else. For some reason she wanted to say it aloud herself. A queer feeling, this lust. She remembered a moonlit night; the smell of pine and the sound of another voice, low tones, French, and the feeling of exquisite pleasure. She wanted to feel that joy again, that wholeness, wanted to share it with this man. The desire within also made her feel perverse, and somehow naughty. But there was no shame. She stepped closer to him. The tiny breeze bore his scent to her. She tasted soap and talcum in it.
He touched her arm.
"Anne," he murmured, pulling her closer still so that she felt encompassed by his arms. He nuzzled his face against her neck, sending explosions down her back. She closed her eyes, enjoying the closeness.
"You smell like sage." His sentence had no meaning, a senseless rambling, which filled a silence that should have been saturated with moans. He licked her neck, just behind the ear.
"You taste like it too."
"Sit with me." He was already pushing her to the bench, his knees driven between her thighs. It felt so strange to be with him like this, allowing him to touch her like this. Strange, but natural, as if she’d already done so a hundred times. She felt his breath in her ear. She twisted with it, and groaned deep in her throat.
His lips crushed hers as she turned to him, allowing his tongue to enter. It jabbed impatiently at hers. She curved her tongue around the point and sucked hard, releasing the pressure spasmodically, instinctively. The moan that filled her mouth tasted like her own. His hand rested on her thigh, the sweat of the palm soaking through the linen of her gown. Oh, how she wanted to feel it closer than that, under the material, near her skin. And she no sooner wished it than he lifted her skirt. The draft cut off quickly as he slid his hand underneath, near her hip.
"I have to touch you." His mouth left hers only where they needed to form the words.
The warmth of their breath mingled and heated her cheek. She nodded; he didn't need to explain. She wanted the touch, needed it much as he. She tried to shut out the thoughts of her father, and of the priests, warning her of eternal damnation. She took a deep breath as she felt his hand curve around her waist, smoothing the skin like material, pressing out the wrinkles. Her lips grew cold as he kissed the skin of her breast, seeking the imprisoned nipples.
"I have dreamt of this," he whispered raggedly. "And each night I wake up panting and wet."
In a perverse way she was thrilled that he would dream of her, and want her so badly that it tormented him. Surely God couldn't punish her for something this natural. He held tight to her, clasping her shoulders with such a fierce grip it was maddening. His kiss grew m
ore forceful, no longer a gentle entreaty pledging with it love and concern, but a fierce need that hurt her mouth. And all the while she returned it, not caring that it was daylight and they could be seen. She sensed him shifting nearer. He pulled her closer so their hips met. The hard flesh that stuck her seemed too big, too thick, even through the layers of clothing they wore. She reached down and into his hose, enthralled and curious.
He gasped.
"Should I not?" she asked, afraid her touch revolted him.
"Yes," he said. "I mean, no!" He pulled away and the movement froze her blood. She sat still, the feel of that oddly pliant hardness fresh on her fingers.
"Oh, Anne. I didn't mean to..." He rose abruptly, raking a trembling hand through his hair.
She watched him pace near the water, scattering the ducks with his panicked nervousness. He picked up a pebble, threw it squarely at one. Its outraged squawk pierced the air.
"I told you I’d not..." He turned to her with features lit by grief.
"Mais non, mon cher, it’s all right." She didn't know what else to say, couldn’t understand how it had been right for him to touch her, but not for her to do so to him.
"No, it’s not." He walked purposefully toward her and she pulled at her gown, shame coming as passion left.
"I asked you here to beg your hand, not seduce you as I would a common whore."
His voice sounded thick with self-revulsion. She thought of molasses for some reason—slow, thick and sickening. It was a few moments before she registered his words.
"Marry me?" Next to the sight she must look with her skirts still hiked up, the shock transforming her face must be comical indeed.
"Yes." He hurried to her and smoothed her skirt back over her ankles. I have to say, I want you; like I've never wanted anyone.”
The way he said it made her think he had wanted many women, but she pushed the thought away impatiently.
Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) Page 7