Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel)

by Atkinson, Thea

  "What do you mean?" He asked brusquely, pushed his plate away so that it rested further from the edge of the table, but not so that it was out of his reach. A sharp creak saturated the silence that came after his words. A flutter in her chest made her catch her breath. She found that staring at the linen-fold paneling helped her lungs work better. When she glanced back at Henry, it was to discover his eyes hadn’t left hers, that he studied her expressionlessly. The tremor returned.

  "Just that I know little of politics. But much of social gossip."

  "Have you, too, heard what Suffolk said?"

  "No." She looked at her plate with a quick jerk, the silver dish leered back at her. The King stared at her intently.

  "No. But?"

  His look grew so unnerving, so steady that suddenly she felt as if he’d read the lie in her eye. Her heart lurched, told her to retreat. She reached across the table, winced as a tiny splinter embedded in her forearm. She took his hands in hers and stroked it gently, feigning interest in other than conversation.

  "Your hands are soft. An artist's hands," she changed the subject, her stomach roiling in despair that he might follow. She turned his hand over and traced the large M on his palm.

  "Ah, Ah." He closed his fingers over hers, trapping them as he pulled her hand to his lips. She gave him a careful caught mouse smile, allowing him to kiss each finger before he spoke.

  "You're changing the subject."

  She giggled guiltily, partly from the truth of his statement and partly from fear.

  "Yes, I did, but only because such conversation frightens me."

  "But why?"

  "Because I dislike speaking badly of anyone you love." She tried to make her words sound un-incriminating knowing that at one point he had loved Catherine, and now treated her cruelly.

  "I love you," he stated. "But any crimes you know of, you must tell me."

  She took a deep breath, the aromas in the room left a sour taste in her mouth.

  "I know naught of any crime, just that I hate to hear how the people grumble over the increase in taxes, especially since it’s not your fault."

  "Ah, you speak of the loan." Henry's face turned bitter with the knowledge. He sat back in his chair, pulled her hand farther toward him as she tried to let it go. She protested, afraid suddenly that he had turned on her.

  "You know well that the loan he coerced you into getting is angering the people, and is burdening you with a debt you can barely afford. That plan of war with France cost you everything, and all for naught." She knew the matter had bothered him for some time, and that if she failed to fuel his ire with it, she may well fail altogether.

  "Sire, don't you think it a marvelous thing when you consider what debt and danger the Cardinal has put you in with your subjects?"

  "What mean you, sweetheart?"

  "Well, there isn't a man in all your realm who is worth five pounds he hasn't indebted you to." She took a bite of roll to hide the tremor in her voice.

  "Well, well, he's not to blame for that. I know that matter better than you. Or any other." The King also bit his roll, his beard trapping some marmalade. His face grew ominous but she ignored it, hurried on instead, afraid he might be softening toward Wolsey.

  "Not only that, but think of all the things he has done that has resulted in slanders of you. There isn't a nobleman in the realm that wouldn't be worthy of losing his head if he had done as much. If my lord Suffolk, my lord Norfolk, my lord father, or any other nobleperson had done even less, they would have lost their heads before this." The words sounded harsh, even to her ears, but they committed her to her course, and she was relieved they were finally said.

  "Why, then, I guess you are not the Cardinal's friend." Henry looked at her without emotion, but his eyes were wary. She took her time answering.

  "Not so. I have no more reason than any other person who loves your grace, but no longer has it—if you were to think about what he's done." She lifted her fork to stab at the bacon that sat innocently on the plate, skewering it as she felt her fate had been pierced. Only the bacon slab didn't wriggle as she felt her heart doing.

  "Yes," he agreed.

  "Many people have fallen from my grace. But of their own accord. And Wolsey may well see how I deal with traitors, if I find he is one." He pushed away from the table and took her hand.

  "But let's talk no more of it. I will see him later today, and he can explain these things to me."

  "That is an excellent idea, my lord, for I pray it’s naught but gossip. But I beg you, have him come later today. I had so wanted to ride with you." She kissed his fingers.

  "I have an excursion planned." Shrewdly, she winked.

  "Ah." His red brows rose in delight.

  "Then return to your quarters, my lady, and get yourself ready. Shall we go alone?" The direct question hid an inference.

  "As alone as we may; an excursion is all the better for the less travelers." And may well keep him from coming home in time to meet with Wolsey, she added silently.

  Chapter 37

  Her plan succeeded. By the time she allowed Henry to return to the castle, it was already dusk—and Wolsey had left. Days went by without personal contact between the King and his Cardinal, and without the guilt of Thomas’ voice and face Henry found it easier to blame him. Anne found it easier to stoke the fire. Henry soon had his Cardinal arrested and Anne—by order of her father—celebrated. As her court milled about in various shades of yellow, the color of celebration, Anne sat close to George near the window. She could feel a small draft and it kept her inching closer and closer to him ’til Mary came over to reproach them.

  "Careful, Anne. You look like lovers over here," she laughed, shook her chestnut locks so they settled around her bare shoulders and the purple velvet of her gown. Anne gave her a dry look.

  "Lovers, indeed. I hear from his wife, she keeps him fairly happy." She nudged her brother playfully. He had the good grace to blush.

  "I’ve scarce been happier," he said, looking across the room to where his wife danced with the King.

  "I had my doubts in the beginning. But we’ve mended our differences. I think our age came between us at first."

  "I think it more your flirtations, came between you brother," Anne laughed. She watched Nan Gainesford pull Henry from Jayne.

  He smiled.

  "I’ve a lot to thank you for Anne. Jayne is delighted to be waiting on you. And since you’ve given us the Queen’s old apartments, we’ve been blessed with prosperity."

  Anne could only grin, satisfied she could please him.

  "Well, once Henry had confiscated the Cardinal’s properties, suddenly there was a place to put Catherine. I could think of no better place for you than here with me."

  "Yes, so Anne is the savior of us all," said Mary dryly. "Now, where is that entertainment, Father promised?"

  "The entertainment is meant to please only him, Mary, for it’s to be a play... showing the Cardinal dying and descending to hell." Anne shuddered. "I can't watch it, for it makes my soul shiver."

  "As I’m sure many will shiver." Mary fanned her cleavage, and nodded to George. "But I shan’t miss it. I’ve a mind to see how well it’s done."

  "Who has replaced him, Anne?" George asked.

  "Wolsey? Thomas More will take the seal of Lord Chancellor, though he protested vigorously. He said he couldn’t support Henry’s decision to part with Catherine. But Henry knows he’s an honest man, and begged him to reconsider."

  "As for the rest, I heard Henry mention Thomas Cromwell. He worked under Wolsey for many years. He’s an older gentleman like Wolsey, but much fatter."

  "I heard Cardinal Wolsey only admitted his guilt so Henry would spare his life," Mary whispered.

  "True," said Anne. "But Henry has imprisoned him anyway. He has decided the man is guilty of working with another faction against him, and naught will sway his conscience on it." She lowered her eyes, afraid they would see her guilt for her part in his downfall. A large wrinkle
in the moss colored damask of her gown grinned at her. She brushed it out, hurried on,

  "Meanwhile, Henry has decided to use the religious unrest to transform from Guardian of the Church to the country’s savior from it. He’s putting together an order, from what I understand—one which will require the clergy to seek permission from the King before they begin any new legislation."

  George glanced furtively around the room, and Anne touched his arm.

  "It’s fine, brother. No one can hear." He sighed audibly and she continued, "But they want naught to do with it, those clergy men. They have already balked at the suggestion. Henry told me the Pope wants me banned from court—that I’m a bad influence on him. He thinks if Henry were to give me up, he’d go back to Catherine and the church policies."

  She shrugged.

  "But that isn’t so. I believe Henry is set on his course now, and sees further power in his grasp. He’ll not give his country back to Rome even if he does go back to Catherine."

  "And what of Warham? Has anyone taken his place as Archbishop?" George asked, motioning to a servant girl for wine. She curtsied low before filling his goblet, letting the swell of her bosom fall nearly from her gown. George ignored it. Anne grinned.

  "Why, Thomas Cranmer is to fill that post. Imagine. Our own chaplain. Heavens it’s been so long since I’ve seen him. I think Father suggested him, because he spent so long living with us." She remembered a dark, brooding man with a quiet manner and kind face.

  "I must ask Henry about him tomorrow... be certain he has a proper estate."

  George couldn’t quite understand just why his father hired the actors, but the play was engaging, if not vividly realistic. Anne’s presence chamber for the evening had been transformed into a hellish purgatory where the scent of sulfur rose in dizzying wafts from a bedpan beneath the table. It stung his nose, the stench, and crept upon him before he knew it. Heavy and sudden, the smell made him hold his nose and gag. The rush lights burned in their stands like bright unquenchable flames, five times the normal amount. Stretching across the stone walls, and lending a cavernous appeal to the chamber, was the addition of hastily painted canvasses. Whoever had painted them certainly had a vivid image of Hell; blood dripped from slick, bleak stalagmites and imps writhed on boulders as they prodded limbs that stuck out of blazing ponds. Peppered across the canvas at irregular intervals were rats and stretching tables. Often the tables were beds for souls who screamed in silent agony. The empty ones more frightening because they awaited use, grinned with their white iron chains and manacle eyes.

  "Whew, Nan," he whispered to the serving woman.

  "I see a bed awaits you."

  "Aye." She grinned.

  "I know which is mine, for it’s nestled next to yer’s."

  "Has Anne left, then?" She nodded.

  "Pleaded illness and escaped to her bed. I saw to her just minutes ago."

  "Think it’s toothache?" Nan shook her head and looked queer.

  "It’s naught of the body. Somethin’s been ailing her. One minute she’s laughin’ with glee, the next screamin’ to make me ears sore."

  George gulped. He’d seen Anne the last few days cry as often as she breathed. He’d put it up to the moon.

  "Could it be..."

  "Don't say her cycles. Why is it always the moon with you men? I tell you it’s somethin’ eatin’ at her. I dare not ask, but since the Cardinal was arrested she’s become more and more a witch."

  George turned to watch the actors. One of them, dressed in brilliant crimson descended beaten wooden stairs into a fiery pit. All around imps moaned and shrieked. The noise was enough to drive a simple man insane.

  "How do you like the play?" Thomas Boleyn stood in front of George suddenly. Dressed in primrose, he looked naive and harmless.

  "I dare say, it’s realistic." George noted, grateful that the scenery was blocked, albeit by his father.

  "Where is your sister?" George shifted in his chair.

  "Abed." His father’s thick brow raised a good deal from its place.

  "Abed?"

  "Yes," was all George dared say. A rush light spluttered and went out.

  "I should see to her." Thomas looked stormy and George took to shuffling his feet. Before he could speak, Nan stood.

  "My lord, I pray ye do not, for she is dread ill."

  Thomas glowered at the woman with an intensity that should have quieted an army. Nan, George could see, missed the sentiment. He chewed his lip and searched the crowded room for a place to rest his eye.

  "I dare say your play has worsened it." She continued.

  "The play?" Thomas’ voice, a hoarse, low bark, held a tone George feared.

  "Aye." Nan glared back.

  "My good lady, have you no sense of decorum? You speak to your mistress’s father."

  The warning was obvious. George pulled at her skirt.

  She yanked the hem from George’s fingers, ignoring his recapture of the material. Then she laughed. "Ye arrange a play such as this and ask after my manners? Oh, it’s hearty."

  Thomas turned heel, tired it seemed, of sparring with a serving woman. But before walking away said, "George, you will have this woman relieved of service."

  He headed toward the bedchamber.

  "Nan," George began.

  "Nan, naught." She growled. "He’ll not disturb her." She stormed after Thomas, and because George still held her skirt, he ran after her.

  "Ye’ll not enter." She dared Thomas when he touched the latch. And though she trembled ever so slightly, her shoulders shaking beneath her gown, she stood tall. Something in her manner told George she wouldn’t give in. His father’s face shifted expressions as if a tornado flew across it. With lips tight and barely moving, Thomas said,

  "You’ve no power over me, wench."

  "I’ve the ear of the King’s love, and thus his ear, my lord. Ye need not think I fear ye, though yer children do." She held his steely gaze. George thought for a second she did fear him, that she’d buckle under her own weight and fall to the floor. But the moment was fleeting, she visibly stiffened her spine.

  "I believe ye think she dishonors ye by pleading ill, but sure as I stand here, yer kin wouldn’t dare. Leave her be, for ye’ve naught to say that can heal her."

  Never before had any woman dared his father, let alone won. At least, not that George ever knew. But when Thomas caught his breath and glared at Nan, George knew his father could lose. Nan stepped three notches up in George’s estimation, and he believed with every ounce of weight in his body, that Anne could now count two loyal friends. And loyalty was a rare commodity in court. Thomas stood frighteningly still for a long time, then let go the latch.

  Within moments he left as quickly as he appeared. George looked at Nan who trembled as if she’d glimpsed her death. He pulled her to the withdrawing room, where a virginal sat silently beneath a single torch, and the rushes smelled innocent and clean. In the quiet, dimly lit chamber, he hugged her. And wasn’t surprised to feel her warm tears spill down his neck.

  The next morning, Henry came for Anne to go hunting, slipped into her quarters just after breakfast. Anne took the opportunity to complement him on his choice of Archbishop. He inflated his broad chest proudly.

  "I thought you’d be pleased," he said.

  "Your father suggested him, and he’s been a fine chaplain in my service. I think he’ll perform well." He grasped her about her waist and kissed her forehead.

  "As do I," she said, fetching her falconing gloves from a nearby table.

  "Now, shall we hunt?"

  Henry accepted the conversational shift with ease, moved slightly away to peer out the window.

  "How about the North woods?"

  She frowned.

  "No, there are too many people about there."

  "They'll not dare criticize their King!" His face got that dark fearsome look she hated as he guessed at her concern. He brushed at the blue velvet of his doublet, as if brushing off a concern that annoyed him
.

  "Perhaps you, they'll not. But they hiss at me. And I grow tired of it," she said and went to him. With a swift motion, she yanked the curtains closed. All of this trouble seemed only to be mounting. She swiped at her hair and wished she were somewhere else.

  "Then we'll stay close to the palace."

  "Grand," she answered, motioning for Nan who had come in with a pottle of ale, to set the tankard on the table. Bless the girl, she anticipated every desire.

  "Nan, stay and share a drink with us."

  "Aye, mistress. But haven’t ye a horse readied for ye?"

  Anne fluttered her fingers absently.

  "We’ve time for a mug. Especially as you’ve been gracious enough to serve it." Nan’s four front teeth showed plain as she grinned.

  "I’ve shirts to sew." Her raised brow was a mocking reminder.

  "Ach. Since I force you to work on them, I can pull you away for a spell. Would you come with us on our ride?"

  Nan’s grin spread to a smile.

  "Answer enough, then," said Anne. "Never mind the ale, go ready yourself."

  "I've something else to ask you..." Henry touched her arm when Nan left. "Francois and I must meet again as you know. Would you like to accompany me to Calais. It will be the best opportunity to have you seen as my intended Queen."

  She fell speeches. Finally a bright spot. She should wish more often.

  "I've already sent someone to suggest to Francois that he ask for you. And when we go, you shall be presented with all the honor due my wife. I've already asked Catherine for the royal jewels."

  "Did she agree?" Even though she suspected the answer, her humor wouldn't allow the question to settle. A tiny dig of conscience made her feel cruel. Had she no shame nor pity? But it felt wonderfully satisfying to have someone else suffer for a change—even if only a little. She had been up all night listening to the party outside her chamber, the moans of the ‘Cardinal’ as he languished in Hell’s clutches. Then in the twilight, silence crushed her ’til she wished the party still went on.

  "Ha! She refused of course, saying if I send an order, only then will she comply with such a wish. Then she added how I was degrading the realm by hanging about with you. She'll be even less happy when she gets my response.