Anne shrugged. "Fortune had naught to do with it. Henry persuaded her to recant." She grimaced and shivered involuntarily, noticing that the drapes did as well, with the cool draft of air that came through them.
"And does he and Cromwell still have the list? The one that contains the names of all who were sympathetic to the Nun?" George asked, finally sitting up on the bed and scratching at his back. He made a brief inspection beneath his doublet, came out pinching a bedbug and flicked it to the floor.
"Why of course they still have it. The list keeps everyone in line. Since Cromwell refuses to publicize the contents, the people are afraid their names might be on it—and now many are scrambling publicly from Catherine's side to mine. But the list can only maintain the peace for so long. Sooner or later, its existence will lose potency. That's why it’s still important that Catherine and Mary are removed."
She shuffled across the room in a nervous, thoughtful pacing. Smoke from the torch on the wall trailed after her wake, curling black tendrils up to the ceiling and blackening a sooty spot there.
"Perhaps when Henry goes across the channel to meet with Francois, I shall have myself appointed Regent. Then whilst he's gone, I'll murder that brat." Her mouth pursed with great thought, knowing she hadn’t the heart to do it, hoping the admission might give her the courage. It was no secret that most monarchs had found it necessary at one time or another to tactfully rid himself of rivals in such a way. Henry himself had done so once or twice.
"Oh Anne. You can't do that." George's voice sounded afraid, and it unnerved her, that he would believe her capable of it.
"And why not? I don't care if I'm flayed alive or burned after, for doing it, for it would give me great satisfaction at this point. I’ve taken her slanders for months, and have had all I can stand by now."
But for all her bravado, she knew she couldn’t stomach the thought. Better to wait and see if her spirit could be broken, and perhaps then, the country would settle.
By March, though Anne had not made any progress with Mary, she could count at least one blessing. Archbishop Cranmer finally decreed her marriage valid, and on the strength of this decree, Cromwell and Henry set in motion an act that would abolish the authority of the Pope in England and settle the succession on Anne's children. At least this could please her, for her life had taken many horrible turns since the birth of Elizabeth. Sweet Elizabeth, the one child she had borne now installed in a small homestead on the outskirts of the city until the discontent settled.
"He's trying desperately to get everyone to swear to the oath," she said of Henry to her court as they sat discussing the matter.
"Is it true he has commissioners riding abroad to administer it?" Marc Smeaton had been playing quietly on his lute, but now his high pitched feminine voice rose above the sweet sounds of strings to catch everyone's attention. Dear Marc, hopelessly in love with her. She was surprised to hear the naive musician ask such a political question, usually his conversation ran the lines of art and no more.
"Yes, he has," she responded, favoring him with an answer and he blushed. Despite her marriage to Henry, it felt good to be attractive still, even though the last miscarriage had aged her more than the stress of disappointing the King.
"Every adult in the kingdom must kiss the bible or some holy relic and swear to maintain the act," she explained, looking directly into his turquoise eyes. But while the act itself made her look secure, Henry's passion had dwindled ’til he could barely look at her. And her fits of anger and weeping confused him so that he could barely speak. She knew it, that he avoided her because he couldn't handle her, couldn't understand the sorrow of each tiny rotted corpse. All he could discern was her failure, not the agony she bore each time a babe was thrust from her body, unwanted. Her direct stare emboldened Marc, and his response tore her mind from her children.
"I also hear he plans to charge treason against any who speak against you or your children, my Queen. And well, I think him right to do so." She smiled and so did he.
"Why, it’s good to know I have such a loyal supporter."
"You have many loyal supporters, sister," George broke in, motioning for Marc to continue his playing. The sounds of the strings once again emphasized the conversation. But Marc's eyes never left her face, and she shifted uncomfortably.
"And many who don't will go the way of Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More," George continued, and she could have kissed him for the way he gazed around the room daring anyone to disagree or to step forward against his sister. But of course, no one did. This court was entirely hers and she kept close to the only people she knew would uphold her claim. Francois Weston, beautiful man with a heart so solid for Henry, he would agree to a dog as Queen. Hal Norris, pale sickly looking fellow with a determination that rivaled her own, the only palace official allowed inside Henry’s bedchamber. And George. All members of Henry's privy chamber and close to his heart, and hers. Marc the lutenist, low-born commoner who excelled in court because of his superb abilities, Mary, her sister.
She knew though, that this small court was only a tiny part of the needed support. The rest of the kingdom still clung to Catherine's claim, though not publicly anymore, fearing recriminations from Henry. And this uncertainty along with the bubbling discontent in the country put her nerves on end. There had to be another way to strengthen her position. Henry's threats might force agreement, but subterfuge might overthrow even that.
"I pity Fisher," she said aloud.
"I'm certain everyone thinks imprisonment a harsh treatment for refusal to swear. And indeed, I wish it didn't have to go so far." Mumble of agreement from the court, and she continued.
"Perhaps there's yet time to salve the situation."
"I hope so," said Francois, who rubbed his hands over the brazier. The March air still needed some heat to make it comfortable.
"The King has been in an awful temper, cursing all the bother." His long fingers turned rosy with the heat. It sounded eerie to her, and echoed her worries. She caught sight of her brother's eye, and he winked at her comfortingly.
"Let's hear that horrible ballad again, Marc. I'm sure our Queen will have aught to say of it," he said. Light sounds of strings stirred on the cool air, Marc’s high voice held the room’s attention. When the tower is white and another place green Then shall be burned 2 or 3 bishops and a Queen And after all this has passed We shall have a merry world. The song was done in mimic, indicating his thoughts on the concept, and the whole assembly took to laughing, but Anne did not. Yet another mention of her death? How many had there been in the eight years?
"If it’s to be a Queen, then be sure it'll be Catherine." The bravado in her voice mollified even her, but as they began to laugh at the caustic reply, she fled from the room pleading pains in her belly. And indeed, the pains had begun to come, though she hoped from fear.
Chapter 49
The next morning, George found Anne alone in her apartments, staring mindlessly into the fire. A plate of food lay untouched on the table next to the hearth. He picked about the apple slices, foraging for the least brown, and finding one, shoved it into his mouth. It tasted musty. Surely a swig of warmed wine would wash away the taste.
"Ho, Anne," He said searching for a drink.
"Have you breakfasted yet? My wife lies abed yet and refuses to accompany me to the kitchens." She shook her head, strings of hair stuck to her cheeks where some fluid from her nose held it, wet and slimy.
"Eh?" He put down the flagon he had just raised.
"What's wrong?"
She didn’t answer.
"Come now, Anne. What could possibly have you so upset? Surely with the King's son inside your belly, you'd have plenty to set you tripping with glee." He poked at her arm.
"There will be no sons." She whirled on him. Her eyes were the same shade as the weak wine.
"The commissioners ride the breadth of England to force the Islanders to swear fealty to a son I'll never bear." She pushed the chair from her bottom and
flung herself onto the bed.
"What is it, what's wrong?" He rushed to her. Her back rippled like tiny waves beneath his hand.
"I've lost it!" She yelled, weeping harder, the bed took a series of rapid, grief-stricken blows.
"Oh, no." He stroked her back. Rolling over, she sighed.
"Oh, yes." A few more tears slid down her cheeks and pooled on her chin.
"I barely carried it for three months, and last night I knew it was dying. I felt the pains of its death even through my sleep." He held his arms out to her. Her heart hammered madly against his chest when he pulled her close.
"And all through this I must endure Henry's infidelity," she blurted bitterly into his neck.
"How will I ever woo him from his newest fancy long enough to get with child again?"
He pushed her gently away, and forced her eye to his.
"You must," he said.
"If the times are as bad as you say. Use what you have, sister. You are yet beautiful and may still engage him. You have your intelligence. Didn't you say you and he enjoyed long debates on theology? Surely you can woo him with his favorite subject?"
"All and all, I can pretend not, I've not lost the babe. He'll be able to tell. Is it not heavy in my eyes, for it grieves me so on the heels of the last. My nerves are frayed with it." She shivered, and he hugged her quickly.
"Perhaps he'll put it to motherly jitters and naught else. Does anyone know of it?"
She shook her head. The fire popped lazily, and George knew the sound would echo in his mind later as he tried to sleep.
"When I woke from the pains, I hid." She looked at him then with a note of urgency.
"But it can't work, he'll never come to my bed whilst he suspects I'm with child." He shrugged.
"Then you must tell him."
She harrumphed and wiped her eyes.
"Tell him the break with Rome and the near rebellion, his unpopularity, has all been for nothing? He'll hate me and cleave to his new love with fresh ardor."
"Mayhap I'll just postpone the confession, in the hope I can get with child. But first I must put her away." She stood and marched off to find Henry, leaving George to wait for her return.
Henry was in company of a court waiting eagerly for their breakfast. He sat against a smoke-laden wall, his rotund face lit and shadowed intermittently by the light of a torch just beside him. Tapestries provided backdrop for his now heavy frame, while he provided backdrop for the very handsome lady who sat on his lap. She looked rather familiar, and as Anne drew closer, she recognized her as the one he had earlier sported with. She stormed the remaining distance across the room, having to weave past the three or four dogs who ran its' breadth. One, she kicked viciously as it snared her foot. It yelped while she spanned the room in less time than it took for the surprise to spread across Henry's face. She swiped a goblet from a nearby table, hurled it at him, and struck the harlot instead. She grinned evilly as the handsome lady leapt from his lap with the grace of a woodcock.
"Do I mean so little to you that you would shame me before the entire court, my lord?" She didn't wait for Henry’s blood red face to grow redder or blanch to white instead, but ranted on.
"You've been toying with me. Masquerading as a concerned father whilst you love another woman save your wife. And I've allowed it for fear the potency of my jealousy would endanger the babe. But this..." She pointed a finger at the girl whose large eyes now grew round like an owl's.
"This is past forbearance." Her face felt wet and she touched the accusing finger to her cheek in wonder.
"Why look." She showed him what she had captured.
"You've broken my heart again, and whilst your son still rests in my belly." Ah the lie came easily, she wiped her hand on the empty stomach, held it there fleetingly as she thought of the mass of red and flesh she had purged just hours before. A fresh wave of grief took hold of her, and she wept before the entire assembly, furious that she should be degraded so, and so utterly grief-stricken that she couldn't stop. And then through the blur of rage and frustration, she felt the old brevity come and with it a passion she hadn't known for weeks. With a quick spin she confronted her rival and the blazing she felt in her eyes made the paikie cringe, holding her hand to her throat in fear.
"Get out of my court, and back to whatever hovel you came from. I have no need here of young harlots."
She began to advance on the girl with nails poised for her face, but the corner of her eye caught Henry's quick movement. His hand descended on her shoulder.
"She'll not leave, for she has committed no crime." Plump hands tightened and squeezed. "Now to your quarters, my good lady, for I should like to talk with you."
The indignity of having her orders countermanded gripped Anne’s ire so that it wouldn't give in.
"As I should like to talk to you, my husband." Anne spun on her heel to flee to her bedchamber. As she gained the hallway, and the dampness surrounded her, she noticed a swarthy gentleman making his way toward the banquet hall.
"My Lady," he said, sounding as if a laugh hid just beneath the words. She held back a sob, nodded to him rather than speak.
"Have you naught to say, your Grace?" Thomas Cromwell asked, a barely concealed sneer on his lip.
"Naught that would please you," she returned, staring directly into his crafty eyes.
He held her gaze.
"Is that not always the case, my Queen? You’ve been quite a demon as of late."
For a moment, she couldn’t believe he’d dare speak so to her, but realized he did so because Henry allowed such slanders. Indeed Henry had taken to taunting her before the entire court. The smugness in Cromwell’s eye enraged her, replaced the anxiety. She glared at him for a full moment, trying to force him to retreat before she did.
"Careful dear Thomas, for I’ve the power yet to relieve you of that swollen head."
He gave her a tiny dry smile, and turned to enter the hall. Anne let go the breath she had been holding. She barely gained her chambers when Henry stormed in. She hurried George to hide, afraid suddenly that his presence would infuriate Henry even more. And it was enough already that her throat felt so tight she could barely breathe.
"Once again wife, you have shamed me before my own court." Henry pointed a fleshy finger at her face. Hot streams of tears smeared her cheeks as she swiped at them.
"That's a lie, for it’s you who have shamed me. Parading your harlot to the court without respect for my condition, or my feelings." She caught a glimpse of George behind a tapestry, eyes narrowed in rage, fists clenched tightly to his sides. She warned him with her eyes. "You know how jealous I am."
"Yes." Henry stroked his beard.
"I know of it, but I am a man as any other, and cannot take my solace with you. I must sport elsewhere, for fear our babe will be lost. Can you not see?"
"I see only that long ago, you would have had me during your marriage to Catherine, and I fear you would throw me away as well, for the love of another." The flutterings of her stomach made her want to vomit.
"Anne, that will never happen. For the babe that grows in you will quiet this discontent. You'll see, the country will love our prince."
She nodded shamefully, aware that she couldn't now tell him the child no longer existed, and vowed to rid the court of the woman who held prisoner any chances she had of conceiving again.
Chapter 50
Winter: 1534
In the center of a whole outdoor assembly, upon the snow-dusted lawn of Tower Green, waited a hastily built gallows. The cool breeze of winter made the empty ropes flail madly at the air. Anne felt forlorn in the presence of such an ominously cold structure. She watched quietly as three monks who had just been led through the city streets on hurdles were led to the platform that had been made ready. She cringed and cried aloud when their legs flailed as madly at the air as the previously empty loops. But they weren’t allowed their deaths, were cut down while barely conscious, tongues hanging out like swollen blue slugs.
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br /> "Ghastly," George said, and Anne clung to him the more. All around she heard mumblings and groanings. Someone near her vomited as the monks were laid prostrate upon the ground and gutted like swine. Their blood ran out and over their robes.
"Death to the whore, as well!" A woman’s voice cut through the complaints clear as the tolling of a mass bell. Anne trembled where she stood; angry at the outburst, but too afraid of the mob’s outrage to defend herself.
"Sweet Jesu, why must they suffer so?" She ignored the slurs and hollers, hugged her chest with her cold arms. Her fur-lined cloak did little to warm her spirit. She thought she would lose her stomach from knowing the pain they must yet be feeling—it was a specialty of the executioner that he know the exact moment to let them die.
She couldn’t tell, but she knew they lived still, in silent agony, waiting for the executioner to heave his ax towards their limbs. Only after each limb was hacked from their bodies, would the axe man deign to sever their heads.
And worse still, was that the executioner stooped to gouge the entrails and hearts from each cavity, and throw them into an open fire. The smell of burning, cooking organs rose high on the breeze. Nan Gainesford fainted; George moaned aloud but bent to catch her. Anne closed her eyes tight and walked away.
She couldn’t stand to face a moment more. She made her way to her barge, hoping no one would notice her picking the way to escape. She couldn’t bear to be swarmed upon and yelled at, not while those poor souls were separated from their bodies. Would God catch them as they ascended? Or had God forsaken them in favor of Henry’s new religion?
Such a lumpy broth, this religious transformation. Henry was God now, at least on this earth and though he and Cromwell had passed the act that made mere words against the crown high treason, the god had no way yet to secure his heaven. It hadn't taken long for Henry to realize she had no issue within, that the son he had hoped for had died early in Spring, and now he would have nothing to do with her. Instead he chose to spend time with the lady, and bed her rather than secure his throne by his wife. And there lay the irony. He had decreed that hanging and disembowelment would be penalty for anyone refusing to agree with his conscience—and though he loved Anne no more, she was responsible for that conscience’s transformation—quartering and skewering to a gatepost awaited those who ridiculed it.
Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) Page 23