"I've a hankering for apples just now," she said, and swept across the room into the Presence chamber where much of her personal court milled about.
She scanned the room quickly, the russet stone, the cases lined with books, and upon spotting the dark head of her childhood admirer, forced her stride to a casual walk. Certain all the while, that Mary was at her heels.
"Thomas, it’s good to see you. Are you entertaining everyone?" All activity halted as she stood in the center of the room. Thomas’ face brightened at sight of her. Hastily, he stood to take her hand.
"Actually, Marc was playing his lute for us, and singing. I can't match that."
She smiled.
"Of course not, those poems of yours should really be set to music." She glanced behind her. Mary stood at the door shaking her head. Anne crossed the room.
"Has His Grace lent me Marc then, for the afternoon?" She inclined her head to where the young man sat watching her.
"And why has he stopped?"
"Go on, Marc, you may play. Please don't pause on my account, I've just come to begin my search for some fruit." And at her request, the blonde returned to his strumming, never taking his eyes from her face.
"Fruit? This time of year?" Thomas stood and laughed. She had to pull her gaze from Marc’s blue stare, to face Thomas.
"I know, it’s foolish, but I've had such a furious hankering for apples, such as I've never had in all my life." A smile spread across her face, and she was careful not to catch Mary's gaze.
"It seized me just three days ago, and comes and goes. Such a strong urge, too. The King says it’s a sure sign I'm breeding." She spun to face Mary, knowing she would be standing there with her mouth open and her rotten back teeth showing. Oh, she didn't want to miss it, and for a surety, she was, yet the picture was even better than she could have dreamed. Her eyes were so wide they were popping.
"But, I said it was nothing of the sort." She strolled towards Mary who gasped for breath. The look on her face struck Anne’s fancy so that she couldn't stop the laughter from sending sprays of spittle everywhere in front of her. But Mary's stance told Anne the matter wasn't funny at all. So she repaid Mary’s discretion by crossing the room to return to her quarters.
When Anne had entered the room from her bedchamber, nearly all activity stopped. George could have sworn his heart did also. There was some strange glint in her black eyes, some odd secret in them. When their eyes met and locked for a brief moment, he could see every bit of happiness he’d ever wanted to see in her eyes. It heartened him.
It didn’t hearten Thomas or Marc, however. Especially not when she mentioned she might be breeding. Why, Marc’s fingers froze on the lute and Thomas’ chest gave a small spasmodic heave. She left as quickly as she came, in a fit of laughter.
"So, I see your chances are over now, dear Tom," he said to the poet, who had sat rather too quickly when she left the room and ended up on his ass before the hearth.
"My chances were over years ago, George," Thomas murmured. "But I’ve always held out hope."
"Hope against the very King and defender of the land?" George grinned, helped him to a stool.
"I believed our King would never give over his wife for Anne."
"So you doubted her determination," George said.
"Not at all. I doubted his ability to impassion her." They both sighed. George noted the lutenist barely picked at his strings.
Chapter 42
Four months later the news of Anne’s marriage to England's King was made public, as was her pregnancy. But Henry was astute enough to set about rumors that he had married her just upon their return from Calais—that way, though the people's sense of injustice about his first marriage demanded some sort of public honesty and that he divorce Catherine, at least the child could be seen as being conceived while the King was married to Anne, not before.
"The deputation is with Catherine right now," Henry said, his blue eyes gleaming with victory as he entered Anne’s chambers, telling her of the news she had been waiting to hear all morning.
"I doubt she'll be pleased that she's to be addressed as Princess Dowager again." He chuckled.
"She liked it little when Arthur died, and I doubt she'll like it more now, these many years after his death." He pulled Anne toward the bed by her hand.
"But she'll learn to live with it." He sighed a great sigh as he fell upon it. Nan, who had been stoking the fire for the early evening, winked quickly and left quietly. Anne smiled as the door closed. She had a feeling she knew what thoughts flitted through the woman’s mind.
"And Cranmer has been instructed to summon her to an ecclesiastical court. I expect she'll be relieved of the validity of her marriage there." Henry twirled a lock of black hair around one finger.
Anne sat on his lap hugged his neck.
"Poor Catherine, in a way I feel sorrow for her." It was odd that she did, but she pushed the thought away—it might have been easier on Catherine if she'd just given in.
"Feel no sympathy, she was never my wife. And for all her goodness, she's crafty. For now, we must plan your coronation, so that when the people get their divorce, we can crown you immediately as rightful queen of England. I'll make sure you have as much say in the ceremonies as you can. Would you like that, my love?"
Like it... she had already been planning it.
"I already have my motto... it shall be Ainsi sera, groigne qui groigne."
" Ah, well done," he approved. "But I think, ‘That's how it’s going to be, however much people may grumble’ might be a trifle too cocky for the city. And I suspect they will grumble." Henry muttered, his lips set in a bitter line. "But not for long."
Chapter 43
May 1533
When Archbishop Cranmer ruled Henry’s marriage to Catherine invalid, Anne saw reason to celebrate. She asked all of her court to join with her in her apartments; her ladies-in-waiting, her family, Henry and members of his privy chamber all laughed and danced and dined with her. Though her condition demanded little activity, she danced once with Henry and once with George, rationalizing that she had passed her danger point by a full month. She sat next to the window, fingering a book of songs and listening to the swell of joyous music. Her court dressed in such a myriad of yellows it made her eyes hurt. Henry stood in the corner speaking in quiet tones to a rather handsome blonde who giggled behind an upraised hand and slapped him lightly on the sleeve. A tug of jealousy made her stomach tighten, but when Henry glanced in her direction, winked, then rolled his eyes, she smiled in return.
"That grimace of rage left quickly..." George sat on the stool in front of her, his well-arched brows lifted questioningly.
She laughed.
"So you saw that, did you?"
"How could I not, it heated the room for a moment, then a smile replaced it so quickly I doubted I’d seen it." He took a large drink of his wine, spilled some down the front of his crisp white muslin shirt. She wondered how long he had been celebrating.
"Are you celebrating my good fortune, or your wife’s absence?" She poked him in the ribs so he almost fell from the stool. Fine French wine spilled everywhere on the floor, creating a pattern of crimson on the carpet.
"Ugh, look at the mess you’ve made!"
She shook her head as he jumped to sop up the puddle with the tail of his shirt. He was a mess.
"How clumsy I am, and on such an important day. Sorry, Nan. I didn't mean to ruin your party." His face crumpled sincerely.
"You could never ruin it. Come. Sit here with me, I’ve news to tell you." She pulled at his sleeve, took the goblet from his hand with her free one.
"At least here, you’ll stay out of trouble." He gave her a lopsided grin and wiggled his brow.
"Ah, but trouble follows me everywhere, my lady." But he sat as he was bid, with legs spread wide, heels of boots digging into the wet spot on the carpet. Some of Anne’s ladies-in-waiting watched him interestedly.
"What are you reading?" He asked, touching t
he book she held.
"Nothing, really. A book of songs the lutenist gave me."
"Marc? Let me see." She grinned and chuckled.
"Here, let me show you one page in particular. He wrote these himself, and look, on this one, he illustrated it."
George laughed so loud she cringed.
"Why, it’s a falcon pecking at a pomegranate."
She couldn’t help feeling smug.
"My badge against Catherine’s. Clever, is it not?" She leaned in close, whispered in his ear,
"I’ll be made Queen next week." He merely gazed back at her, bright amber eyes a little reddened, but still attentive.
"Truly?" He seemed to regain some of his faculties, and she smiled broadly, unable to do anything but indulge him.
"Truly. Did you ever doubt me, brother?"
"Doubt you, no. I knew you’d marry His Grace. Once you’ve your mind set on something, it wanders little. But I never imagined the King would make his consort Queen. Catherine was different, she was born a princess and Henry needed to strengthen his reign by crowning her. But you, you’re just Anne Boleyn. A commoner. Like me." He shrugged his shoulders in an offhand manner, took a gulp of his wine and stared at her mutely.
"Yes, well, common as I might be, I’m to be crowned," she said blandly, the joy deflated a little. He grinned at her then, in the manner of drunks when they’re ignorant of the impact of their words, and took her hand.
"You’ve the fire of hell in your veins, Anne Boleyn, I can see that, but don’t expect me to call you, Your Grace. To me you’re just Nan." He pulled her from her chair and wrapped his lean arm about her ripening waist.
"You may not dance, but we can still eat. That table is beckoning me." He led her to the banquet table she’d had prepared for the party, covered with the lightest of lace clothes, and spread with dates and oranges and cheese wheels. A large carafe of French wine stood at the center, contents sloshing against the sides almost in time with the dancers’ steps. She had requested a loaf of bread to be baked in the French fashion, and it lay upon the table next to the carafe, split open and oiled with fine herbed grease. She had to admit, the smells beckoned her as well. The child within her craved lampreys, fried and spiced and greasy.
As she pulled at the edge of the bread, she glanced back at Henry. He still coddled that blonde waif and for a moment she forgot the lampreys. The taste of bread in her mouth grew dry and stale.
"George, see if you can wrest that girl from my husband."
He stopped munching on the chunk of cheese and wiped his hands on his hose. She had her doubts as to whether he could do it in his state, but she pushed him forward anyway.
"You’ve no need to push, Anne. I was going." She watched as he bowed before Henry, very low. She held her breath when he teetered a bit, but released it when she saw a wide playful grin on his face as Henry raised him, took his hand in shake and patted his back heartily. George’s charm could dupe Satan in any condition, but charismatic as he could be, she was totally dumbfounded when George turned to the lady, shirt stained with wine, yellow doublet askew, and she gave him her hand, smiled broadly when he spoke. Either the lady wanted away from Henry, or George was more appealing than she thought. Henry left the others and came toward her.
"My love," he said when he reached the table, broke off a hunk of bread. "How fares the child?" He chewed noisily.
With a quick glance to George, she said. "Fine, your grace. Perfect, in fact."
"Ah, it pleases me that you find it so."
Anne touched her stomach briefly. How odd to think of an unborn child as if it had thoughts or feelings, but then, mayhap it did. She rather liked the idea, and stroke her belly absently, wondering if it could hear sounds of joy or feel her anxieties. She found herself hoping joy could reach him, but prayed he knew nothing of her feelings. They so often teetered lately, as if on the edge of a precipice. She reached for a glass and filled it with Alsace wine.
"What of the coronation, Rex?"
He smacked and questioned her with his eyes.
"What shall I use for the river journey?"
He shrugged and took her glass. In one gulp the wine was gone.
"A barge, I should suppose."
She thought for a second.
"Might I use Catherine’s?"
He shook his head.
"But why ever not? It’s perfect. And I should enjoy riding the same as did Catherine when she was crowned."
"No." He stole a glance at the waif who as yet was helping George dance without falling.
Anne’s temper crept to her throat.
"I want it."
His eyes went cold.
"No."
"I need it. What other shall I find?"
He threw the glass to the floor.
"A barge is a barge. It matters not which you use."
She straightened her back, aware that her courtiers had begun to stare. They clustered about in small groups whispering and avoiding her eye.
"Then it shouldn’t matter if I use it." Anne didn’t know why his refusal should bother her so. Mayhap it seemed too much as if he protected Catherine.
She decided to demand the barge anyway. But a week later, the demand fell on deaf ears and Anne found herself stepping from a tiny wharf at Greenwich castle onto the new barge that would begin her procession to Queenship. Catherine wouldn’t give hers up. Her tentative step grew more confident as she planted both feet on the deck—she hated traveling anywhere by water, but fortified herself for the inevitable trip. One that would take her six miles down river to the tower of London, where she would wait with Henry for two days. Then the true ceremony would begin, and she would become England’s royally anointed Queen through all manner of festivities.
She could hardly wait to see them all in action. On paper the festivities and planned symbolisms had sounded impressive enough, but reality would surely heighten the effect. And when she began her parade throughout the streets of London, crashes and booms of artillery disrupted the peace at regular intervals, drowning out the sweet sounds of minstrels. It all took her breath away. Hundreds of people stood on the shores to watch the new Queen presumptive make the traditional homage to the tower. Two days later she entered the series of pageants that became part of her coronation.
She refused to have her hair put up, let the country see how different this new Queen would be to the old. When Catherine had been crowned, the city had seen fair hair—black would usher in the new realm, and she wanted the city to see every strand of it. The dress seemed a bit heavy for a June ceremony, but the crimson brocade put royalty in the people's minds, and so she wore it. It was encrusted all over with precious stones to complement the string of pearls that stretched round her neck. For the occasion, she had hired a jeweler to attach Francois' diamond to the string. Henry had given her a purple velvet robe to wear with the ensemble, and she had her own seamstress make up dresses similar for her women, all mantled with ermines, of course.
She sat in her litter with a canopy overhead held by Barons and waited eagerly for the first occasion of the pageant to begin. When she arrived at Gracechurch Street, her litter was surrounded by the Nine Muses of Greek myth and before the large pageant of the Progeny of St. Anne. As she sat, reclining against the gold cushion of the chaise, the light May breeze lifted her hair away from her neck, and it felt cool to have it so. She watched, unable to stop the broad smile that spanned her face as the folk of London hung about the streets and stood at their windows.
This was her day, the day she’d waited and dreamt of. Nothing could taint the beauty of it, not the women as they pointed, not the men who studied her voraciously—no doubt wondering what she had that made Henry risk everything to marry her—not even the lack of blessings could ruin the day. She decided not to watch the people’s faces, for she’d soon sour. Instead she reveled in the tapestries that covered the shops and the silken linens that had been hung for the ceremony.
The streets looked grand, and all for
her. She managed her way through pageants filled with Grecian mythology and Christian imagery. She smiled and accepted 1,000 marks in gold coin, listened to what seemed like hundreds of poems narrated by children. When she stuffed the bag of coin between her cushions, she remembered she was supposed to give it up for charity, as was the common tradition. It was too late, however, for to dig it back out would prove she had forgotten. Better to leave it where it was, and offer it to a chapel later on.
She had just decided to give it to her own parish, when a group of grungy children began pointing at her litter. They stifled a laugh and poked at their companions, so that soon it seemed the entire street stifled laughter behind upheld hands. For a moment she forgot her training and lost the smile that had by now been frozen to her face. She wanted to crane her neck to see what was so humorous about her litter. Had something fallen off? Did her falcon badge teeter off the tip? What?
It wasn't until she stepped from the litter onto the steps of Westminster that she looked back and saw what the commoners had been laughing at. Of course, she should have seen it before. It was traditional for the King and Queen’s initials to be entwined together, symbolizing their love and mutual support. The sight of the Londoners’ pleasure, for once, pleased her as well. Indeed, much had pleased her on her procession through the dirty London streets, though cries of "God save you!" were few. But this sight made her smile, for she saw, quite blatantly, the H and A of the initials forming a most heartfelt laugh. What the bedraggled Londoners saw as a satiric comment on her marriage, she saw as her own sarcastic response.
"HA!" She snorted at the crowd, and sauntered proudly up the steps to receive her crown.
Chapter 44
By September, Anne had grown larger and more ungainly. Henry spent less time with her. Rarely did he come to her apartments, and just as infrequently did he sup with her as he used to. She tried to blame it on matters of state and even on visits to his daughter, but no reasoning could quell the feeling that she disgusted him with her large belly and mood swings. By the time the imminent birth made it necessary for Anne to take to her quarters, he barely spoke to her. Instead he cavorted with his court and flirted with the ladies in Anne’s.
Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) Page 20