"Sorry, say you, Mistress Boleyn?" He shifted and sat, icy blue eyes melted to sea green. "Why? Am I responsible for you losing him?"
Again, she licked her lips, a brief wetting that held her tongue still on the tip for just a second. Then she reached out to touch his wrist.
"Oui," she withdrew her hand as soon as the word left her mouth, but not before she felt the tremor in his muscle as she touched him. With a quick glance, she noticed the gooseflesh that took her finger’s place.
"My betrothed, Henry Lord Percy, made a better match—with your help, Your Majesty."
No matter how she felt Henry’s presence, she remembered yearning for her betrothed, and couldn’t forget that this man was responsible.
"Ah." She could tell by the way his face fell, and the set of his shoulders that he felt contrite. She almost felt disposed to forgive him. Almost. But for that other thing in his expression—that thing that spoke of disappointment, not of sadness for her—she would have. That, and the vague idea that she could torment him.
"Ah? For a King, I expected a more careful, more tactical comment." She stared off into the expanse of room, listened to the laughter from the dancers, their shortness of breath until she heard him clear his throat to speak.
His smile thinned his full lips into a hearty, toothy grin. The little bit of extra flesh under his chin stretched out of sight. "Speeches I can make aplenty; to sweeten your ear, if you like. But I'd hate to gloss over such an indiscretion with something so false."
She shifted in her chair, more than pleased with the response.
"I'm glad to hear it." She’d the faint notion she was being charmed. "But you have yet to apologize."
If anything, she wasn’t about to lose sight of her goal. She wanted him to know how his actions had hurt her, thought he should know what he had done to someone with his Kingly meddling. Shouldn't every ruler have a burst of reality now and then?
"Have I not?"
She knew he was flirting with her, and quite openly.
"Mais non." She flirted back.
"Then I should." His demeanor changed as he made an abrupt decision, but there seemed to be something calculated in it, as if he weren't really letting go of his sense of prerogative, but was only too anxious to humor her.
"I don't usually apologize for making a state decision—and that's what it was, you know—but I can make an exception in this case, since I've hurt you so with it." A mischievous light glinted in his eye. And at that, he stood, and bowed low to her.
"Mistress Boleyn, will you accept my humblest apologies for ruining your marriage plans?"
So regal a statement, and so utterly hilarious that a mere apology could make up for three years of isolation, of yearning. How could he believe that it could eradicate her suffering, or make up for her loss, replace a love. But she decided it time to let go. She had what she wanted—a spoken apology from the King of England—not a bad evening after all. Without hesitation, she extended her hand.
"Oui, accepted. Now you may rise," she said in her most regal voice, a tease in its undercurrents. With equal promptness, he took her hand, but instead of rising himself, he pulled her forward. There was no doubt in her mind that the tease had been noticed, but not acknowledged. Very gently he pressed her to the floor, forcing her to curtsey very low as he straightened. Without a word said, she knew what the action meant, make no mistake, I will be the one to grant such permission. And in the next brief moment, he pulled her up again to stand in front of him.
"Would you care to dance, Mistress Boleyn?"
What else could she say? His power completely captivated her.
Chapter 16
George groaned deep in his throat, though he tried to keep it from sounding aloud. His father’s voice faded little by little ’til Thomas’ fingers gripped his arm tightly.
"Are you listening?" Thomas’ black eyes blazed at him with barely suppressed fury.
"Yes, Father. You said you seek a position for me."
"Damn you." Thomas squeezed. George couldn’t help wincing.
"I told you I couldn’t get you a position, that you’ll have to find a way to be introduced to the King."
They stood near the musicians’ gallery and George had a terrible urge to scream. The trumpets blared straight into one ear and his father cursed into the other. There was altogether too much noise and he wanted to shake his head like a rabid hound. He didn’t care that he had no position in court, or that he had no title and little money.
"Father, it doesn't matter that I have no position..." Thomas cut him off crossly.
"What have I been working so hard for, then, if not for my children’s security?"
George crossed his arms, shuffled his feet.
"Yes, I know. I meant only that you needn’t worry. I’m a man now, twenty-two, with a wife and..."
"You’ve a wife with no ambition." Thomas’ voice grew threateningly soft suddenly and George almost cringed.
"And you’ve a man’s body with a boy’s mind."
"There is no truth in that," George dared bellow. The sound of the music faded away. He felt his left brow twitch with a feverish anger.
"Has never been true. I am a man. I’ve a man’s wants and a man’s mind. You’ve just never seen it."
He drove his finger into Thomas solid shoulder; the tip disappeared into the folds of burgundy velvet. He forgot for the moment that his father could publicly berate him for his rudeness, and would be within his rights to have a priest do so as well, here in front of the hundreds of dancers. He was so angry, suddenly, that he ignored the training that taught a child to respect his parent above all, even beyond Thomas’ scathing words. More than that, he wanted his father to hold him. He wanted just once to see the comfort of a mother in his father’s eye—the kind of comfort that told him he was loved despite his shortcomings.
His mother had always done that, and George loved Elizabeth more than any being on earth save Anne, for she told him she yearned for a man other than society bred. She yearned for a man who was gentle and quiet, who treated his women with decency and respect. George wanted to be that kind of man—the kind who had a humble courage.
But he said nothing. He stood and waited for the inevitable and rightful wrath of his father, angry at himself for that thing within that told him he had no bravery in his soul. In the awkward silence his hand dropped to his side and he stared at the floor, into the dust between the cracks of stone.
The music came back to him through the fog of his anger. Thomas’ voice caught his ear, it had gained a strangely excited tone.
"Look." He grasped George’s shoulder, pointed him to the ring of dancers.
"Look, that’s Anne—and she’s with the King." That his father hadn’t paid heed to his angry words, tore another chunk from his heart.
"We may yet gain you that introduction, son." Thomas crossed his arms, grinned broadly.
The use of ‘son’ wasn’t lost on George. Perhaps his father had heard him, after all.
Chapter 17
Summer 1526
Anne sat with Mary in the Queen’s royal garden. The summer sun shone lazily through the haze of misty morning sky. While she loved the feel of its heat against her chest, her conscience burned her insides too much for her to enjoy it.
"He's taken a fancy to another," Mary said, disclosing that her long affair with Henry had ended. Anne picked at the grass guiltily. The fragrances of the garden argued over which would be recognized first—the sweet smell of the just-planted chamomile won her heart.
"Not that I mind much," Mary continued. "I've never loved him. But I'll miss his company."
She looked to Anne who busied herself weaving three blades of grass. "He dresses in his grandest clothes, yet."
Anne felt a poke in her side, and reluctantly gave her attention.
"A sure sign that he's in love. I've seen him dressed in cloth-of-gold and silver, ornaments of gold hanging from his cloak in all manner of shapes. Teardrops, hearts, ro
ses—love knots, even."
"Oui, I know," Anne finally spoke, thinking it time she said something.
"I heard he's been taking them off and giving them away."
It wasn't unusual for the King to display such acts of chivalry, or to expect his court to do so—he had long ago set the trend for flirtation, but never had he given away precious stones from his own dress.
"And he's been complaining about some locket that our Thomas Wyatt has. A lady's locket. And Thomas has been teasing him with it." She stretched her legs along the grass, twirling the tips of her satin slippers thoughtfully.
"I know," Anne stretched backwards palms down and behind her on the grass, stared up into the clearing sky. The mists had begun to dissipate, revealing the truest blue she had seen in a long while. It made her think of honesty, and her throat constricted when she realized she would have to tell Mary her secret. It wasn’t going to be easy. She felt odd speaking of this to Mary—whether her sister loved Henry or not, she had to be feeling a little jealous.
"The locket is mine."
She had expected her sister to look shocked, or dismayed, or angry—instead Mary sighed. Anne’s throat squeezed nearly shut, and a cloud passed across the sun, made her shiver.
"I thought so. It doesn't take much wit to discern it. Thomas has been in love with you since we were children. That explains his glee in having the bauble."
Mary’s study made Anne flinch.
"And the King has been trailing you like a hound on a rabbit. You certainly have them both to heel." She shook her head, incredulous. Spare chestnut brows lifted disbelievingly.
"I think I guessed when Thomas read me his latest poem," Mary continued. "If I remember the lines, it says, ‘graven with letters plain, there is written her fair neck round about: Noli me tangere, for Caesar’s I am...’ or something of the sort."
"Ah, oui," Anne sighed. "I too have read it, though it’s not accurate. The ‘Wild to hold’, part maybe, for I’m none’s save my own. They argue over which should have me, not caring that I’ve a mind for neither and both."
Anne shrugged her shoulders helplessly, felt that surprise again as Mary patted her hand in comfort.
"I know. Put you in a room with a score of men and the charm starts. How much the men love us, eh? The dancing, the smiles, the flirtation."
"It’s too bad that charm holds no sway on women," Anne said, thinking absently that no matter how she tried, her comrades in England were no closer to her than those in France had been. In France she had been seen as English, but here in England, she was seen as French. Even she wasn’t sure which nationality to claim.
"Mmm," Mary agreed, looking away at some distant point that would never have held her attention. "I don't know why it doesn't." She shrugged as if the thought had bothered her just as often, and she had mulled it over and over. "But I do know it works on men. All too well, sometimes. And it’s not as if we're beautiful. I'm not. And forgive me, but neither are you."
For a moment, Anne wanted to poke her sister and pretend shock and outrage. Instead she sighed. How could she argue? It was true. She stared off to where the ducks waddled to the pond, thought briefly of Harry and shrugged it off as quietly as it came. That lifetime was over and done with.
"But we still always have some man pining away over us; you have Wyatt, and now the King—who knows how many more." Mary sat up straight and pointed her finger at Anne's chest.
"You're bothered that you have few women friends. And it bothered me too—until I spent a few hours thinking about it, putting it into perspective." She smiled suddenly, another thought interrupting her processes.
"I know you think I have no faculties, but I do have a mind. I just prefer keeping my thoughts to myself.
"Alas," she said, continuing with the original vein. "It has everything to do with our charisma. Our charm. And is it not funny, how the one thing which we can't use, is the reason we cannot?"
Anne studied her, dumbfounded. Philosophy? Coming from Mary? The only funny thing she saw here, was that.
"Go on," she urged, eager to see where this was going, wanting to hear more from Madame Carey, the philosopher.
"Let me start again." Mary fidgeted like a cat preparing to pounce, and Anne couldn't stifle a smile. The passion transforming Mary's face intrigued her.
"Look at me." Her sister gestured to her bosom. "I'm plain. Hardly any breasts." Mary waved her hand.
"I've a certain liveliness to my face, but I'm not beautiful. And yet, I've never lacked partners. And it’s not just my reputation—I had admirers long before that. Our whole family is the same way. We draw people. We have some indefinable quality that lures others. Father has it; and George. You and I have it. Except with the males the charm works everywhere, on everyone. We can only seem to captivate the opposite sex. Ever wonder why?"
"I thought that's what I was waiting for you to explain," Anne said dryly, and flicked at an insect that bit her arm. The one horrible thing about summer was the insects—bother that they should be able to get through the damask of her gown.
Mary shrugged. "Maybe we could charm the women, if we didn't hold so much attraction with the men. They discern a passion in us, a passion for life and love, and they want it."
Anne was beginning to see. "Men are drawn to us, they see we have wit."
Mary aimed her finger at Anne’s face. "Though mine isn't double-edged like yours," she reproved. "They see spirit, and they see fun. And they like it. I'm fun to be around, and that's why they like me. But you. You have the extra zest. Dark, brooding looks; strange, intoxicating. Combine it all, and men can't get enough. But women? Alas, you know women: suspicious, envious. I might have a few lady friends. But you'll have naught."
Terribly foreboding thought, and the way Mary said it; so certain, so sure, Anne believed every word. She stared off to the green horizon, sighed.
"Alas, I’ve not acted any different than court expects. And shall continue to do so. it’s the King who set the rules and I shall abide them—though he may not enjoy discovering he’s not exempt."
Mary gave a mumble of agreement.
"There was a time I’d have been content to live a simple life. But no more—that was stolen from me. And should Wyatt and His Grace wish to pander to me, then so be it. I shall at least gain pleasure from being wanted." She watched as Mary curled her legs up under her to stand.
Her sister's face gained a wary look.
"Yes, well, I’m certain you’ll play your games, but forge ahead with care. It’s obvious to me the King has his eye on you as his next mistress. I've heard a tale that he plans to name a ship after you."
Anne stood as well, realizing Mary was becoming uncomfortable with the discussion.
"And the ship that bears the name Mary Boleyn?" she asked.
" It will remain in service, but shan’t dock in his harbor again."
"And so out you go, without emotion or pain?"
"Oh, there’s pain, dear Anne. Has always been. A person such as I does not refuse a King, for there’s family to think of—though they don’t always recognize a sacrifice—there are things to acquire. But always the pain festers beneath the surface. And yet how much has the King spared me? Father rises, you have court position, I have a good marriage. Little that has worth comes without pain."
"Would you have refused him, Mary, if he offered you naught?" Anne wanted terribly to hear the answer. Mary’s face grew deadly serious. Her eyes deepened to a cinnamon brown.
"Is there truly such a thing as refusing a King? I don't know. I know only that our good monarch has never been refused. And I hadn’t the courage to be the first." Mary shrugged her shoulders helplessly.
She gave Anne a quick hug before leaving the garden.
As she watched her sister walk back to the castle, Anne thought about her situation. She hadn’t spoken of the rumors that hounded her—that she was bothered by them. In her need to be outwardly belligerent, she refused to admit that her peers had begun to shun h
er, that they spoke of her when they thought she was out of hearing. With each passing day, she told herself it didn’t matter.
Chapter 18
George didn’t feel right spying on his sisters. Why, they didn’t even know anyone was watching, and that felt—wrong. He glanced furtively to his side, studied the King as he hunched behind the same lilac bush. How his sisters could miss the huge, furred, and velveted frame, George had no idea. But they did. His chest fluttered within, waiting for them to turn and notice the hulking figure of His Grace, tucked neatly beside the small frame of their beloved, but devilish brother. It was nearly too much. Annoyed, he poked at a bud that caught in his hair. He wished he could brush aside Henry as easily.
"She’s marvelous, is she not?" Henry asked, his voice halted somewhat by excitement.
"Well, Mary has always been the more beautiful of the two." George knew well who the King meant. About an hour earlier Henry had demanded he be shown where Anne was hiding. The fact that the King demanded it with such urgency, made George unable to resist the temptation to goad him. The blue eyes held little humor.
George shrugged, disappointed.
"But Anne has always been the more exciting—or so my fellow mates have said."
"I’ve not felt this way about a woman before. She does more than stir my loins—she stirs my intellect. Why, we’ve both the same passion for music. And when I look in those black eyes, I feel as if I could hide in them. They’re like the darkness of night, and I’d be cloaked with no need to show myself King or pauper."
"Yes, there is that magic in her eyes—for I feel the same—but in a different way. When I’m with Anne, I can be who I am."
Henry spread the branches a little further apart, and the smell of greenery came to George’s nose. "I need her," he said. "I want her. More than any woman, I must possess her."
The outright pledge of lust made George uncomfortable.
"I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I’d rather not speak of my sister in such a manner."
Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) Page 9