Philippa Gregory's Tudor Court 6-Book Boxed Set (131 page)

“You can’t see her.”

“Then we can take a chance. I can give you a drink, it’ll make her sick as a dog and the baby will come away.”

I nodded eagerly but she held up a hand. “But what if she’s mistaken? If it’s a live baby in there? Just resting awhile? Just gone quiet?”

I looked at her, quite baffled. “What then?”

“You’ve killed it,” she said simply. “And that makes you a murderer, and her, and me too. D’you have the stomach for that?”

I shook my head slowly. “My God, no,” I said, thinking of what would happen to me and mine if anyone knew that I had given the queen a potion to make her miscarry a prince.

I rose to my feet and turned away from the table to look out of the window at the cold gray river. I summoned my memory of Anne as I had seen her at the start of this pregnancy, her higher color, her swelling breasts; and as she was now, pale, drained, dry-looking.

“Give me the drink. She can be the one to choose whether to take it or no.”

The woman rose from her stool and waddled toward the back of the room. “That’ll be three shillings.”

I said nothing to the absurdly high fee but put the silver coins down on the greasy table in silence. She snatched them up with one quick movement. “It’s not this you need fear,” she said suddenly.

I was halfway to the door but I turned back. “What d’you mean?”

“It’s not the drink but the blade you should fear.”

I felt a cold shiver, as if the gray mist from the river had just crept all over the skin of my back. “What d’you mean?”

She shook her head, as if she had been asleep for a moment. “I? Nothing. If it means something to you, then take it to heart. If it means nothing, it means nothing. Let it go.”

I paused for a moment in case she would say anything more, and when she was silent I opened the door and slipped out.

♦   ♦   ♦

George was waiting, arms folded. When I came out he tucked his hand under my elbow in silence and we hurried down the slippery green steps to the gently rocking boat. In silence we made
the longer journey home, the boatman rowing against the current. When he put us off at the palace landing stage I said urgently to George, “Two things you should know: one is that if the baby is not dead then this drink will kill it, and we’ll have that on our consciences.”

“Is there any way we can tell if it’s a boy, before she drinks?”

I could have cursed him for the single track of his mind. “Nobody ever knows that.”

He nodded. “The other thing?”

“The other thing the old woman said is that we should not fear the drink but fear the blade.”

“What sort of blade?”

“She didn’t say.”

“Sword blade? Razor blade? Executioner’s ax?”

I shrugged.

“We’re Boleyns,” he said simply. “When you spend your life in the shadow of the throne you’re always afraid of blades. Let’s get through tonight. Let’s get that drink down her and see what happens.”

♦   ♦   ♦

Anne went down to dinner like a queen, pale-faced, drawn, but with her head high and a smile on her lips. She sat next to Henry, her throne only a little less grand than his, and she chattered to him, and flattered him and enchanted him as she still could do. Whenever the stream of wit paused for even a moment his eyes strayed across the room and rested on the ladies in waiting at their table, perhaps looking toward Madge Shelton, perhaps to Jane Seymour, once even a thoughtful warm smile at me. Anne affected to see nothing, she plied him with questions about his hunting, she praised his health. She picked the nicest morsels from the dishes on the high table and put them on his already loaded plate. She was very much Anne,
Anne in every turn of her head and her flickering flirtatious glance from under her eyelashes, but there was something about her determined charm that reminded me of the woman who had sat in that chair before and tried not to see that her husband’s attention was drifting elsewhere.

After dinner the king said that he would do some business, so we all knew that he would be carousing with his closest friends. “I’d better be with him,” George said. “You’ll see she takes it, and stay with her?”

“I’ll sleep in her room tonight,” I said. “The woman said that she’d be sick as a dog.”

He nodded, tightening his lips, and then he turned and went after the king.

Anne told her ladies that she had a headache and that she would sleep early. We left them in the presence chamber, sewing shirts for the poor. They were very diligent as we said good night but I knew that once the door was shut behind us there would be the usual endless stream of gossip.

Anne got into her nightdress, and handed me her lice comb. “You might as well do something useful while we’re waiting,” she said ungraciously.

I put the bottle on the table.

“Pour it for me.”

There was something about the dark glass with the glass stopper that repelled me. “No. This has to be your doing, and your doing alone.”

She shrugged like a gambler raising stakes with empty pockets, and poured the drink into a golden cup. She raised it to me as a mock-toast, and threw her head back and drank it. I saw her neck convulse as she forced the three gulps of it down. Then she slammed down the cup and smiled at me, a savage defiant smile. “Done,” she said. “Pray God it works easily.”

We waited, I combed her hair, and then a little later she said: “We might as well go to sleep. Nothing’s happening.” And we curled up in bed, as we had slept together in the old days, and we woke just after dawn and she had no pain.

“It hasn’t worked,” she said.

I had a small foolish hope that the baby had clung on, that it was a living baby, perhaps a little one, perhaps frail, but clinging on and staying alive, despite the poison.

“I’ll go to my bed if you don’t want me,” I said.

“Aye,” she said. “Run off to Sir Nobody and have a sweaty little thump, why don’t you?”

I did not reply at once. I knew the tone of envy in my sister’s voice and it was the sweetest sound in the world to me. “But you are queen.”

“Yes. And you are Lady Nobody.”

I smiled. “That was my choice,” I said, and slipped through the door before she could get the last word.

♦   ♦   ♦

All day nothing happened. George and I watched Anne as if she were our own child, but although she was pale and complained of the heat of the bright June sun, nothing happened. The king spent the morning at business, seeing petitioners who were in a hurry to catch him, before the court was traveling.

“Anything?” I asked Anne as I watched her dress before dinner.

“No,” she said. “You’ll have to go back to her tomorrow.”

At about midnight, I saw Anne into bed and then went to my own rooms. William was dozing when I got in, but when he saw me he slipped out of bed and untied my laces, as tender and as helpful as a good maid. I laughed at his intent face as he unlaced the waist of my skirt, and then held the skirt wide for me to step
out, and then I sighed with pleasure as he rubbed the ridges on my skin where the ribs of the bodice had cut into me.

“Better?” he asked.

“It’s always better when I am with you,” I said simply.

He took my hand and led me into bed. I stripped off my petticoat and slid into the warm sheets. At once his warm dry familiar body engulfed me, enveloped me, the scent of him dazzled me, the touch of his naked leg between my thighs aroused me, his warm chest on my arched breasts made me smile with pleasure, and his kisses opened my lips.

We were awakened at two in the morning, while it was still dark, by the quietest of scratches on the door. William was up and out of bed at once, his dagger in one hand. “Who’s there?”

“George. I need Mary.”

William swore softly, threw a cloak around himself, tossed my shift to me and opened the door. “Is it the queen?”

George shook his head. He could not bear to tell another man our family secrets. He looked past William to me. “Come, Mary.”

William stepped back from the door, curbing his resentment that my brother should command me out of my own marriage bed. I pulled the shift down over my head and jumped out of bed. I reached for my stomacher and my skirt. “There’s no time,” George said angrily. “Come now.”

“She’ll not leave this room half-naked,” William said flatly.

For a moment George paused to take in William’s truculent expression. Then he smiled his charming Boleyn smile. “She has to go to work,” he said gently. “This is the family business. Let her go, William. I’ll see she comes to no harm. But she has to come now.”

William swung his cloak from his naked shoulders and draped it around me and swiftly kissed me on the forehead as I
hurried past. George grabbed my hand and pulled me after him, at the run, to Anne’s bedchamber.

She was on the floor before the fire, her arms wrapped around her as if she was hugging herself. On the floor beside her was a bloodstained bundle of cloth. When we opened the door she looked up at us through the trailing locks of her dark hair, and then looked away again, as if she had nothing to say.

“Anne?” I whispered.

I went across the room and sat on the floor beside her. Tentatively I put my arm around her stiff shoulders. She neither leaned back for comfort nor shrugged me off. She was as inflexible as a block of wood. I looked down at the tragic little parcel.

“Was that your baby?”

“Almost without any pain,” she said through her teeth. “And so fast that it was all done in a moment. I felt my belly turn over as if I wanted to void myself and I got out of bed for the pot and then it was all finished. It was dead. There was hardly any blood. I think it has been dead for months. It has all been a waste of time. All of it. A waste of time.”

I turned to George. “You have to get rid of that.”

He looked appalled. “How?”

“Bury it,” I said. “Get rid of it somehow. This cannot have happened. This whole thing must not have happened.”

Anne slid her white ringed fingers through her hair and pulled. “Yes,” she said tonelessly. “It never happened. Like the last time. Like the next time. Nothing ever happens.”

George went to pick the thing up and then checked. He could not bear to touch it. “I’ll get a cape.”

I nodded toward one of the clothes chests that lined the walls. He opened it. A sweet smell of lavender and wormwood filled the room. He pulled out a dark cape. “Not that one,” Anne said sharply. “It’s trimmed with real ermine.”

He checked at the absurdity of this, but pulled out another, and threw it over the little shape on the floor. It was so tiny that there was nothing of it, even when he wrapped it in the cape and tucked it under his arm.

“I don’t know where to dig,” he said quietly to me, keeping a watchful eye on Anne. She was still pulling at her hair as if she wanted pain.

“Go and ask William,” I said, thanking God for my man who would manage this horror for us all. “He’ll help.”

Anne gave a little moan of pain. “No one is to know!”

I nodded to George. “Go!”

He went from the room. The little thing under his arm was so small that it could have been a book wrapped in a cape to keep it dry.

As soon as the door was shut I turned to Anne. Her bed linen was stained and I stripped it off and took her nightgown off her as well. I tore it up and started to burn it on the fire. I pulled a fresh night shift over her head and encouraged her to go back into her bed, to creep under the blankets. She was white as death and her teeth chattered as she lay shrunken, tiny under the thick covers, swamped by the richly embroidered tester and curtains of the great four-posted bed.

“I’ll get you some mulled wine.”

There was a jug of wine in the presence chamber and I took it into her room and thrust the hot poker into it. I mixed a little brandy in it as well for good measure and poured it all into her golden cup. I held her shoulders and helped her to drink it. She stopped shivering but she stayed deathly pale.

“Sleep,” I said. “I’ll stay with you, tonight.”

I lifted the covers and crept in beside her. I wrapped her in my arms for the warmth. Her light body with the newly flat belly was as small as a child’s. I felt the linen of my night shift grow wet at
my shoulder and realized that she was silently weeping, tears pouring out from under her closed eyelids.

“Sleep,” I said again, helplessly. “We can’t do anything more tonight. Sleep, Anne.”

She did not open her eyes. “I shall sleep,” she whispered. “And I wish to God that I could never wake up.”

♦   ♦   ♦

Of course she woke in the morning. She woke and she called for her bath and she made them fill it with unbearably hot water, as if she wanted to boil the pain out of her mind and out of her body. She stood in it and scrubbed herself all over and then she subsided into the suds and called for the maids to bring in another ewer of hot water, and another. The king sent word that he was going to matins and Anne replied that she would see him when he broke his fast; she was taking Mass in her bedchamber. She asked me to fetch the soap and a hard square of linen and scrub her back till it was red. She washed her hair and pinned it on top of her head as she soaked in the boiling water. Her skin flushed crab red as she had them add another ewer of hot water, and then bring her warmed linen sheets to wrap up in.

Anne sat before the fire to dry herself and had them lay out all her finest gowns for her to choose what to wear today and what to take with her when the court set out on its summer progress. I stayed at the back of the room watching her, wondering what this fierce baptism in boiling water meant, what this parade of her wealth told her. They dressed her and she laced tightly so that her breasts were pressed into two tantalizing curves of creamy flesh at the neck of her gown. Her glossy black hair was exposed by her pushed-back hood, her long fingers were loaded with rings, she wore her favorite pearl choker with the “B” for Boleyn at her throat, and she paused before she left
the room to look at herself in the mirror, and shot her reflection that knowing, seductive little half-smile.

“Are you feeling all right now?” I asked, coming forward at last.

Her swirling turn made the rich silk of her gown fly outward and the encrusted diamonds sparkled in the bright light. “
Bien sur!
Why ever not?” she asked. “Why ever not?”