"Ah, well, if you wait for my hand, you wait for dead man's shoes."
The men in the court joined her laughter at Francis' expense, and he blushed tellingly. Her own laughter died in her throat, my God, what had she just said? Even in the best of circumstances, spies would eat that comment for later purging.
Chapter 52
January 1536
While the months wore on, Anne’s small court grew smaller still, so that the only courtiers who came to see her were the few men and women with whom she had always spent time; Mary, George, Francis Weston and Marc. Though Marc came merely to look at her, it didn't matter. She needed the company no matter what the reason, for the court of Jane Seymour had begun to grow as Anne's dwindled. Her fear was tangible now. While before it had been a nuisance that crept up on her during her most uncertain moments, it now resided fitfully within her breast. It fluttered there most of the time now, making her moods swing so that one moment she wept and another she laughed. Yet through it all, her favorites remained firm and loyal, and truly without them Anne believed she would have lost her sanity. But today, she waited alone within her apartments. Rumor stole through the castle that Catherine's illness had taken a worse turn, and Anne's intuition told her the time was close. When the knock came she lay reading upon the plump cherry wood bed Henry had given her, beneath the satin canopy. The tapestries of the room billowed a bit as she swept to the door to admit the messenger. For some odd reason, she didn't want to know what message he was delivering, as if some part of her own life was in dread certainty as well.
"My lady." He fidgeted his cap. His bristly chin seesawed back and forth.
"I've news of the Princess Dowager's death."
She nodded quietly. What, after all, could she say to this man—could she say she was frightened of this news? Could she say a dread stillness sat in the room from it? Instead she gathered her purse, and rummaged through it noisily.
"Thank you," she said, "for your speed. God go with you."
Then she pushed him out the door in her haste to be alone. She sat limply on the bed, staring around the room listlessly until she felt a stinging in her eyes. Odd, this weeping. That Catherine's death could affect her so. As if part of an era was gone, and with the death of it, came the ending of part of her own. It was a part that involved a girl of hopes and dreams. There existed a sorrow in that, that the girl had changed upon growing so that hatred flourished as much as the body and mind. Catherine was part of the evolution—a woman the girl had respected, loved, and then grew to hate; a symbol of all she wasn't, wanted to be, and stood in her way. Poor Catherine. Odd, that she should weep, but so totally appropriate. George found her still so when he opened the door to her chamber an hour later.
"Anne, why do you cry?" The tender sounds of his voice made her heart tighten.
"Have you not heard? Catherine is dead." She expelled a great sigh. Such a foreboding rested within the currents of air, and the small draft that came through the tapestries chilled her bones.
"But why should it grieve you?" Tapered fingers touched her sleeve, and she reflected on how beautiful they were, feeling strangely forlorn. She found a desperate beauty in everything today.
"Grieves me... and frightens me. I feel so... empty." She brushed aside the stream that wet her cheek, wiped her hand on the quilt.
"And why? Surely Henry is still bound to you, her death doesn't affect that." It was obvious he didn't understand.
"I don't know. Perhaps it’s the finality of it all, that for all her good deeds and royalty and... piety, she was but human. And that I did so wrong by her, as Henry did. She lived in such loneliness, and enforced suffering. All because of me." She fell back to the bed, stared up at the crimson canopy.
"Oh George... was it all worth it, and will I keep it?"
He lay back with her, touched her hair, stroking it back from her face.
"Anne, oh Anne," He sighed, and she turned to him.
"You've such unruly passions. It’s too late now to wonder if it was wrong, or to regret it. It has been done these last ten years."
"I know. I know. But... Ah, I'm lost for explanations. But I know I'm afraid as well."
"Afraid? But why? Now nothing stands in the way of your marriage, there are no uncertain validities to contend with, no rival for your throne, no need for the country to hate you."
"Ah, but there is a rival... Jane. And though Henry will never revert to Rome, he loves her. Or loathes me. In which case, his desires will once again dictate his conscience. What frightens me, is the country sees him as free. We all know they swear to the King but maintain their hearts and souls for the Pope. The country will free him from his first marriage, but now by his own legislation he’ll be bound to me."
"What harm is that? Does that not strengthen your station?"
"On the surface, yes. But what would stop Henry from leaving this marriage?" She asked, motioning to her stomach to indicate the growing belly.
"The babe. And without the babe he would surely have me put away."
"But he shan't. You'll bear the child, surely. You’re in your seventh month. Far past your miscarriages. You fret over much." How dear he looked in his comfort, how naive.
"Mmm," she murmured.
"But for the babe, I'd be waste. And if I'm waste, how will he discard a truly legal wife—for in the eyes of the law he's created, how can I be otherwise? I fret for good reason, brother. The only way to freedom from true god-blessed union is death. And I be not ill."
Chapter 53
Late January 1536
The pains came late in the day, racking her body in such sweats and agony Anne wondered if she would live through it. It came unexpectedly, an early birth, and she had not had time to prepare for her lying in. There were no shrouds over the windows, no grim pallet on the floor beside the bed. Instead her ladies called quickly for the groom to usher in some straw, and they covered the aromatic heap with a swath of cloth to make it more comfortable. But still, with each contraction a handful of the grass stuck through and poked her hatefully in the back, or neck, or shoulders; whichever squirmed the deepest into it.
"Is it time?" She panted, it had been hours now, surely the child must be coming.
"No, my lady." The midwife chewed her lip as she fingers poked around Anne's tender region.
"The path is open, but I see no head." Anne said nothing, merely lay exhausted waiting for the next wave. When it came she couldn't keep the cry from escaping. Her hands clutched at the hay and pulled a handful to her face. She spat at it.
"Get me a decent pallet," she hollered at the poky looking maid in the corner.
"I doubt a new bed will make the birth easier." The midwife smiled at her, but the pains wouldn't allow Anne to smile back.
"In any case we called for it long ago. It waits outside."
"Then why am I not squirming about on it?"
"You took to the straw so soon, we darest not move you." The old woman grinned a surprisingly toothful grin. For an instant, Anne could see the humor, she had been cursing for hours now.
"Bring it in, then." Anne grunted as a huge cramp swept down her belly to her toes. She closed her eyes and wished for her death.
"Good, my Queen. Push a little... I think I see the crown." Damn if she would push a little, Anne pushed hard. She didn't care if the child tore her apart; it had to leave her body.
"Good, good... now relax. Ah, there. Nice width, you should feel another urge. Ah, you do. Push, push."
The pain worsened with this push. Added to the crescendo of having her muscles twisted and churned, was the horrible burning pain of her flesh being torn. She grit her teeth and kept pushing, trying not to hold her breath as it made the bearing a little easier. Not much, but a little.
"Oooo, lady. The head is nearly out, harder, harder. Sweet God he's out. Oh beauty, it’s a boy." The relief Anne heard would surely echo throughout the kingdom. A boy. Sweet Jesu, her soul was safe. She looked to the midwife who held her boy in c
allused hands. A peculiar stillness sat on her face as she studied it, and Anne suspected the worst.
"What is it, is it not a boy?"
"Yes, it is." Large gulp, Anne watched the small lump rise and fall in the weathered throat.
"Then what?" Tears stung her eyes, foreboding creeping into her empty belly. "What's wrong? Pass me my son."
The midwife held the child up, and Anne could see through the chasm of her bloody legs, a tiny blue body shining through the red of travail. A black shock of hair topped his little head, tiny arms dangled away from a slick torso. No movement, no cry came from the infant. Instead, her own wail echoed throughout the room, returning to her ears to companion the weeping that lashed its heels. Her boy was stillborn.
George avoided Henry when he heard news of the babe’s death. Rumor stole about the castle that it had been deformed, and he no more wanted to meet the King’s eye than he wanted to court the devil. He wanted to see Anne, but cowardice kept him from doing so. She’d be weeping, distraught, probably panicked and terrified. There was no way he could endure it, and as he galloped off on his steed, he hated himself for running.
Chapter 54
Later, Anne lay exhausted on her own bed, comfort and warmth lay with her, but so did despair, and it heightened when Henry stormed in.
"The midwife tells me the heir did not survive." His face was blank, as devoid of emotion as Anne's heart. She could only nod.
"I can see God does not see fit to give me sons. At least not by you." He added cruelly, then with a great sense of magnitude turned heel to leave the chamber.
"It’s only because of your accident yester eve, I was afraid for your life when you fell from your horse, the shock was so great..." Anne tried to explain, hoping the grasp would also catch him, or his sentiment.
But it didn't, he merely harrumphed and continued out the door, without turning back. Anne watched him leave, and the room seemed emptier still than before he'd come into it. She finally turned her gaze away from the door to stare blankly at the wall, nothing there interested her. Nor did anything in her soul. It was weeks before she was able to reason with more adequacy.
She realized that no matter what happened to her, she still had a living child to protect. And the only protection could come through holding steady in a court of fear. She had to make amends with Henry's elder daughter, Mary. It was difficult for her to smother her pride long enough to begin the retraction of the years of cruelty and hatred, and she tried everything she could. Yet it soon became apparent that Mary would have none of it. And now she paced feverishly throughout the room, the latest reply from Mary clenched in her hand.
She walked smartly across the room and threw the obscenity in the fire, watched it smolder for a moment before it caught ablaze. An irrepressible urge to scream hovered at her throat, and as she watched the paper burn, it came out, with so much energy her hands flew to the air. At that moment, when her hands tore at her hair, and her ears hurt from her own screaming, she noticed George standing still and shocked in the door way. She let go her hair, guilty and ashamed, and smoothed the errant strands back. She faced him interestedly, feigning normality.
"I don't know what to do, George, I'm at the end of my patience."
"I well see that, Anne. You've been crankier these past few weeks than I've ever seen you. Or care to again," he added dryly, shaking his head.
"I've sent note after note after note; begging, pleading, even bribing. And she sends replies; rude, stubborn ones. Refusals, all."
"To Mary," he guessed, and Anne nodded.
"But why are you begging forgiveness? Especially now. Why not just leave her be? I agree, you don't have to slander her as you've been doing, but what is the sense now of trying to endear yourself to her?"
"Oh, George," she groaned, flopped down to her bed. "You can never understand. It’s all going sour."
"What do I not understand? I've been party to this for ten years now; what I understand is that you've done all in your power to make that girl hate you... ah ah! Don't bother to open your mouth, I want to finish... Sweet Jesu knows you've taken everything from that girl; her identity, her father, her comfort." He paced through the room.
"You deserve her hatred."
Anne felt her heart fall to a great clump in her stomach.
"Are you admonishing me, brother? Are you, after all this time, deserting me as well?"
He halted his whirling pace, rushed to the bed.
"Sweet heaven, Anne. I'll never desert you." He hugged her close, and the stinging in her eyes fell to his shoulder.
"But you have made mistakes, you've let that passion of yours rule you too often. And now that you've pushed Mary away, you want to pull her close? Why?"
"For simple reasons, George. I've lost Henry, surely you know it... the rest of court does. And for now, my last hope was to keep the country from rallying around his daughter for revolution. If I could get her to acknowledge me..."
"You'd be more secure... Henry might not be so angry?"
"More than that. If she would forgive me and acknowledge me Queen, the country would be content. Henry would never disturb their peace to satisfy himself with another woman. Not again."
"You mean Jane?"
"Yes, Jane. I can't compete with her, though I've tried. Henry is enamored," she sighed. "Much as he was with me. And he's set on her. I feel so helpless." She stared at the stone of the wall ’til it blurred.
"But you've won him back before?" George looked at her, confusion plain on his features.
"But this time is different, do you not see? Nicholas has been given the position that was to be yours. Should have been yours."
"I don't mind..." he said as she rose from the bed and crossed the room.
"Only a fool would fail to recognize the significance of this." She prowled through the room, stopping every now and then to tap her toe nervously on the stone floor. Then tried again to explain why she felt so urgent, so certain.
"With Henry passing you over in favor of Nicholas for candidate of the Order of the Guard, he's confirming his intentions. He's telling the entire court that the Boleyns are no longer in favor." She began a feverish pacing again.
"Ah, George, I've nowhere left to turn. Henry spends more and more time with that sip, Jane. And when I do manage to wrest him away, it’s a waste of time."
She flung herself onto the bed in frustration, picked at the pillows. George too, crossed the room and followed her example, lending some heat to her chilled body.
"You mean he won't bother with you?"
"Bother with me?" She laughed heartily, sarcastically. "I can't even get him interested. I take great pains to lure him to bed, but when we get there he is unable. I've tried everything I know, but the Royal Army refuses to rise," she snorted bitterly. "And of course, he blames me and curses me. I'll never get with child again at this rate... and now, it’s my only salvation. The only thing that can stave off this descent."
"But it may not be a descent, Anne. Perhaps you're reading these things all wrong..." He couldn't finish, she interrupted him.
"All wrong?" She snuffed again, rising enough to glare directly down into his eye.
"My husband woos another woman, then chooses her counselor, rather than my own brother. Everyone within this court knows Nicholas is aiding Jane in gaining Henry from me. Am I a fool to ignore the significance of you being left out? No. I know only too well the court dances, and this dance has become dangerous, brother."
She lay back on the bed, her head aching from the tension, and sighed.
"If only he had lived. He had been the hope of the realm. My hope. Poor babe, so tiny. Did you know he was fully formed?" She turned her head to him, allowing a fleeting image of the infant to steal into her mind.
George shook his head, obviously uncertain of speech.
"He was. He had hands and toes." She sniffled, choked back the tears.
"And his head was so round and small. Sweet Jesu, he was even covered with the
fuzziest black hair. My babe." She began to cry.
"This alone is the worst, George. This loss. Not only have I a large void in my soul, but with his death, comes mine. I feel it. And I'm powerless to stop it. So let it come." She sobbed.
"Let it come..."
Chapter 55
The traditional May Day joust of 1536 held no pleasure for Anne. Revelry abounded everywhere, smiles graced every countenance, but her face was still and blank, frozen in a grimace of terror. Yester eve she had been brought word of Marc Smeaton’s arrest, the charges of which were still being kept from the court. Strange, how the court could continue to play at normality while the lives of its King and Queen could be in such frenzy. Odd, how they pretended she was not in danger, or that the King sat now with a different, graceful, yet conniving woman. Her attention was not on the jousting below her, or the cheers of the crowd that unnerved her as they filled her ears. Her attention was on the consequences of the lowly lutenist's arrest the evening before. She didn't know for sure what it meant, but Marc's arrest was certainly tied to her future somehow.
"Then shall be burnt two or three bishops and a Queen..." The eerie ring of Marc's lilting voice crept to her mind, made her shiver.
She thought of George's face as he told her of the arrest. It had been drawn and afraid, a mirror, probably, of her own.
Now, as she listened to a fresh cheer, a skirmish just away from her caught her attention. A page passed Henry a note, and she watched with breath captured deep in her lungs while he folded it open.
In one fluid motion, Henry rose, and for a brief instant, his eyes met Anne's. She hoped for a second that he would smile at her, or motion for her to come near. But in the same instant, she saw the paper in his hand, and the cruel glint burn his eye. For some odd reason, her heart stopped, and it refused to beat again as he pulled Hal Norris from the spot next to him, and left the gallery.
She willed that heart to begin working, but instead of a rhythmic pulse, it began hammering until she thought she would faint. She knew this to be connected to Marc's arrest of the evening before, but what it had to do, she didn't dare think. The intimacy of it all was overwhelming. Marc and Norris were part of Henry's privy chamber, and among the few courtiers who still paid her court. Two of her favorites and two whom she patronized as part of her duties.
Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) Page 25