His kiss tasted of bacon, smoky and sweet.
"But there’s no reason you must stay inside. Take one of your women, and perhaps one of my gentlemen to accompany you. How about Francis? He's finished his duties for the day, and I'm sure his horse could use the exercise."
She smiled.
"Francis is an excellent choice, he's a pleasant man." She thought briefly of Francis Weston's face. He was a young man, a few years older than herself and would indeed be a good choice. His soft manner echoed his light heart. His would be just the kind of conversation she would enjoy on a bright morning.
But when the day passed away, a day of hard riding and no game, she lay abed in a foul mood. Francis had got on very well with her lady-in-waiting, and Anne believed they would soon be betrothed and married.
Well, they would have their wedding, and probably in short time, but hers crawled like a snail with a sore tail. She doubted the trial would go well, how could it, when nothing else had? Her betrothal to Harry Percy had gone awry; her unconsummated affair with the King brought nothing but slander and threats. Would the investigation into the King’s twenty-year marriage go smoothly? Probably not, even though Henry had been ecstatic that the Pope had finally sent Campeggio, that Cardinal had done nothing but postpone and fidget, complaining of gout and pain.
As Anne lay in the large down bed, enveloped in the finest satin, covered by the heaviest blankets, she stared around the room mutely. The satin did nothing to improve her mood, nor did the nice weight of blankets. In the months leading up to tomorrow’s event, she had lost her temper many times with her court. She upbraided them over the smallest things, wept frequently when she was alone. She had even cornered Henry on a few occasions, leaving him spluttering incoherently because of her odd moods and foul speech. She sighed audibly, looking from the heavy tapestries that seemed like shrouds in the gloom of night, to the fire that crackled lazily in the huge hearth. The morrow would bring some decision, she was sure of it, but the thought of the decision made her belly flutter like tiny fingers stroking the caverns of her bowel.
The anxiety of the outcome left her staring wide-eyed and heavy-hearted long into the night.
Chapter 34
When daylight came Anne rushed by litter to Durham house—George's lodgings just across the river from the priory where the investigation was to be held. She waited ’til noon, then early afternoon, with no outcome in sight. She couldn't sit timidly to await the news, nor could she stand still. Instead she paced from room to tiny room, carrying her forgotten sewing in a limp hand, occasionally pulling back the thick velvet drapes to peek out the window. Still no movement around the building where the court was being held—everyone must be inside. She crossed her arms, and stared about the room in annoyance—the cheeriness of the decorations goaded her. The rich walnut grandfather clock ticked quietly, its hands frozen in a taunting smile. The coal in the hearth glowed with life, making no sound. When she turned to look at George, he sat grinning at her from his spot on the burgundy settee. Cheers from the other side of the river spurred her to action. She dove for the window to pull aside the drapes.
"Victory over your enemies!" The shrill cry came, and she cursed when she saw Catherine being ushered into the priory. The blackness of that doorframe squirmed with activity as Catherine went inside; cheers resounded throughout the air. The drapes blew dust up Anne’s nose as she flung them back to the window. She took to pacing again.
"Damn commoners," she muttered.
"Sit still, Anne," George scolded.
"I can't. I'm hungry. Have you anything to eat in this house of yours, brother?" She turned, shook her sewing at him, the needle aimed at his chest. He didn't look scared, rather grinned, flashing white at her.
"How about some Spanish hen?"
She flung the sewing at him.
"I've had enough of Spanish everything to fill my gourd," she snorted.
"I suppose you have, then." He picked the linen from his shoulder where it had landed.
"But what good will worrying do?"
"I don't worry," she drawled. "Can you not go across and see what's happening?"
"Now, Anne, Father is there, and the King. Surely you'll know soon enough."
It was hours before she heard a loud bang from the front of the house. By that time her legs had grown weary of pacing and she sat in a chair by the window.
"Anne!" She ran to the receiving area at the sound of Henry’s voice, trying all the while to keep the nagging worry from showing on her face. She didn't like his tone—it was an odd echo of the heavy door.
"Have you news?" She was almost afraid to ask the question. But she had to, in spite of his crimson features.
"Brah!" He stormed around the room, muttering curses. Then finally stopped his pacing and looked her square in the eye.
"Campeggio won't make a decision. He's sending it to the Pope—to Rome."
Indeed, her chest did deflate. All this waiting for nothing.
"Calm, love. Tell me what happened."
He lumbered to the settee. His weight drove dust and the smell of mold to the air.
"Ach. Catherine," he spit her name in a fury. "I tried, Anne. But I couldn't lie, could I?"
As soon as he spoke it, she knew. Catherine had pressed him about her virginity in front of those hundreds of people. The age-old question: Was she indeed a virgin on her second wedding night? The entire premise of the marriage’s validity rested on the answer. Henry had never admitted whether or not she had been, which would settle the matter at once. But what Catherine could not see—failed to see, was that the fact was moot; Henry had tired of her and wanted another Queen.
"And so you refused to answer, as you always do," she guessed, thinking that if he would just say so, the matter could end. But she knew he couldn't admit the truth, for the cause would be lost.
"It was Wolsey's doing—he failed. What good is the Cardinal to me if he can't be counted on to help me?"
"And Fisher. Gad! That cursed Bishop had the nerve to stand in front of the entire assembly and swear he would die a martyr’s death to uphold Catherine's claim. He even compared himself to John the Baptist and me to Herod!" His anger contorted his face and made her cringe. He heaved himself from the seat, stormed around the room in a fury. The trinkets on the shelves trembled in his wake.
"It seems the matter is decided, then." Anne fell back into the chair. After all this time, still no progress. Catherine had won.
"No!" He yelled. "It is not decided. I will find a way." He slammed his fist into the palm of his other hand. "Catherine can't win."
He took to pacing again, the flush in his face made his eyes look more piercing, the shade of red intensifying the whiteness. An enraged boar, he seemed, his large frame lumbering about the room, making the mahogany floor tremble as he trod, the paintings vibrate in their gilded frames.
"Wolsey is useless. And I shan't see him for a while. Can't see him."
"But, Your Grace, he is the man who has worked the hardest for the matter. Surely it’s only a small impasse..." She started for him, but he held his hand up to hinder her. George came in then, slipped into a heavily cushioned chair near the wall, and she motioned him closer.
"Tell him, George. Tell him Our Lord Cardinal is the man who can help." She may not like Wolsey, but his diplomatic abilities were without stain. How else would the divorce be won, if not through Thomas Wolsey—the King certainly had no abilities in politics, and lacked the passion to fight for himself.
"Brah!" Henry said again, before George could protest.
"He’s no friend of yours, my sweetheart."
His calf muscles twitched as stood still, chest heaving.
"He has made his case against you. If you knew, you would not defend him."
Her heart stopped.
"The Cardinal has tainted me to you?"
Henry laughed bitterly.
"Tainted you, indeed. He went so far as to plead with me to have you tried for treason."
Anne stared mutely at the King. Her heart had begun a mad pounding. She thought it would break free of her chest. With great difficulty she choked down her own spit. George lurched from his chair to stand next to her. She felt his hand in hers, gripped it tightly.
"Treason?"
"Yes, yes." He waved his hand as if her shock were inconsequential.
"He believes your zeal for the Luther’s ideals and Fish’s tracts are endangering the church," he harrumphed. "As if you have the power to coerce the populace into hating him. They hate him already. And you more."
He paced again, not caring that her heart had not only stopped, but done flip flops. From the sound of it, he didn’t even care that the country hated her. She tried to bite the sides of her mouth to keep from yelling at him. The pain only worsened her temper.
"And you let him taint me to you?" She shrugged off George’s grasp when he would catch her from storming the King. She beat Henry’s chest.
"You let him question your beloved’s faith?"
Henry gripped her wrists away with one hand.
"I let him have his say," he spluttered. "But you must admit, your ideals are less than discreet. Why, you roam about with those heretical tracts, passing them off to any who will read them. You ply me to release the church’s enemies, pleading that they are poor men who want only to do God’s will. And you must admit... your position as my mistress does little to strengthen your perception as a religious woman."
She kicked at his shin.
"You cur!" She hollered. "You ungracious bastard! Mon Dieu, would to God I had never laid eyes on you."
When George grasped her by the shoulder she struggled and kicked and yelled ’til Henry backed away and George pulled her to the settee.
"Leave me!" She turned away when the King pleaded with his eyes for forgiveness.
She stared at the wall ’til he left the room. For a long time, she sat staring at the rich tapestries and oiled paintings, never truly seeing anything. Dinner came and went without word from George to come to the dining room. After a time, she saw him peek in, but she refused to acknowledge him. Later in the evening, when she thought she could face her court, she left by coach to return to the castle.
For long hours George thought over the discussion he had witnessed between his sister and the King. He had to squelch his desire to scold Henry for not defending Anne. It irritated him, no, it goaded him that the highest man in the land could not defend her to the Cardinal. And it proved to George, just how powerful Thomas Wolsey had grown in his office. Never before had he so hated the clergy. Damn the man, that he wielded so much power, so much wealth. He thought of how the Cardinal rode often on a mule, symbolizing his humility.
He envisioned the beast as he had seen it a dozen times, decked out in the finest crimson and gold trappings, proceeded by two huge crosses of silver and two silver pillars. How terribly humble. He thought of how impossible it was to be granted audience with the Cardinal, having to pass through at least four attempts before having the request granted. He recalled his father saying that the King was more accessible than his Cardinal, and that the leavings for the beggars from the Cardinal’s supper table made the King’s look frugal in comparison. More than that, he remembered that the Cardinal was served first at all banquets, even before the King. As he lounged on his bed, in the gloom of his chamber, he thought this over, and grew angrier at the Cardinal, and madder still at Henry. That Anne should be slandered, and allowed to be slandered, galled him so he didn’t even hear his wife come into the room. Her voice startled him from his thoughts.
"Your sister has left." She sat next to him on the bed, fingered his hair so she pushed it back from his face. He grunted, too absorbed in his anger to answer.
"She said no good-byes. Just left."
He stared at her.
"She’s been wronged."
"And how so?" The concern on her face endeared her to him. He touched her cheek.
"In the worst way—by not being respected by the man who loves her." For the first time he saw Jayne as she truly was, a child who tried desperately to please her husband. Her blue eyes grew round.
"Indeed, that is the worst way."
Chapter 36
On a chilly September morning, as Anne instructed her women in verses, her father asked for private audience. She led him into her bedchamber, shushed out the maid who was just then pulling the coverlet up over the pillow, and bade him sit in a chair near the fire. He shook his head, choosing instead to stand near the window. His wide-set eyes scanned the room suspiciously. That search unnerved her, yet she resolved not to show it. She tried to imagine what he feared in the opulent chamber—could there be menace beneath the heavily stitched quilts, spies behind the maple dressing screen?
"It’s a prime time, Anne." He crossed the room, fingering the tapestry as he left his spot by the wall. It flapped back against the stones with a heavy flop, sending dust into the air. She watched the particles dance in the sun's rays near the window with some speculation.
"Prime for what, my lord father?" She chose to use the formal term, knowing he had come for a formal purpose.
"Prime to secure the Cardinal’s discredit. It’s no secret the country tires of him. Or that Henry covets his riches. I think since this last failure, the King may well be pushed to disfavor him, and I believe your influence may seal his fate."
"My influence? You would use me to secure the fall of a man you loathe?"
"A man we both loathe," he corrected.
"Fortunate then, that the King and I have patched our disagreement." She couldn’t help being sarcastic. She had spent the better part of a week advocating for priests who had been imprisoned because they upheld Martin Luther’s convictions; knowing as she did that Wolsey plotted and planned her banishment from court because of it. His eyes looked so cold she dared not breathe.
"Do you think this power comes without aid?" He asked.
She shook her head.
"It’s time now to use it for one of your most influential supporters." The casual stroke of hand on beard signaled his concentration—a sign he did his best to control his temper. She was afraid not to answer, knowing he expected one.
She studied his face with interest, a face so like her own, black eyes, thick lips, well-shaped brows. And as she studied it, she thought of how alike they were in character, passionate in beliefs, manipulative. And even though he frightened her a little, she knew this man was her mold, and at times her love for him outweighed that fright. She hated herself for her reply even as she considered it.
"I'll do it. Just tell me what needs to be done." She crossed the room, leaving her chair to cool without her presence. Taking his hand in hers, she smiled ineffectively. His hand felt dry from the coming Autumn. She stroked it reassuringly, needing the reassurance herself as she gave it to him and hoping to moisten it with her own which was perspiring madly.
"God help me, I hate him for trying to discredit me with Henry. Complaining about my religious ideas. I hate him, and I'll do it."
Thomas snatched his hand back.
"You're not doing it because of your personal feelings, Anne. You're doing it to secure your position. Our position. The King's position. For the good of the realm, it has to be done."
She sighed, tired of the habitual corrections.
"Then I'll dine with the King when he arrives in the morning. I may be able to further persuade him." The bitterness in her own voice astounded her.
"And if I can't, I'll remind his grace that because of Wolsey, most of England is slandering him. Henry will never tolerate that." She returned to her chair and flicked a lint ball from the arm.
"No," Thomas agreed.
"He'd never tolerate slander of his royal person." Something in his statement made her look at him. She could discern the bitterness that even now gripped him.
"Not as he tolerated Wolsey's slander of you, Father?" She guessed. Instead of answering, he made ready to l
eave. When she expected no reply, he muttered a response, so low as to be barely audible. But she heard it, a growl that came from his soul.
"If it hadn't been for Wolsey, I'd be in my office these ten years now, maybe even higher."
The door closed quietly behind him, leaving her to her tortured thoughts. She knew to discredit the Cardinal with the King, was to condemn the man of God. She tried to believe her hatred had naught to do with it, tried to believe she was defending her name and that of her family. But in all, she knew she was playing with a man’s future, and possibly his life. The next morning she left her conscience on that very chair. Foundered with determination, and sitting across from the King, at an elaborately decorated breakfast table, she made her move. She gazed wide-eyed into the King's, sipped delicately at her cup.
"Did you sleep well?" She suspected he hadn't; his eyes looked bleary still and puffy. Although he was an early riser—usually between five and six—he never quite woke up ’til after breakfast.
"No."
She lifted a freshly baked roll to her nose, breathed in its warm fragrance, and split it callously with her fingers. She spread marmalade on the soft cushion of bread and licked a finger when some of the wayward preserve found its way there. She glanced at him from beneath lowered lashes.
"Because of this affair with Wolsey?"
Henry's eyes crystallized into hard chunks of blue ice.
"Wolsey. Suffolk says that the French King knows of a tie he has with the Pope."
"A tie? Suffolk is your best friend, how would he know what you know not?" Her heart quickened.
"Suffolk spoke to the French King when he was here, and Francois thinks our Cardinal is in bed with Rome. That together with Campeggio, they're trying to slow the divorce, not speed it."
She could have told the King this very thing months ago, but something warned her not to admit the fact. Instead, she prodded him.
"Do you think the Cardinal hopes for higher office from Rome through this cooperation?"
Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) Page 17