Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) (16 page)

A
letter from Henry awaited her at Hever, and one came
every day telling her of the events; letting her know with pledges and
promises, that Cardinal Campeggio had arrived and was working with Wolsey to
discover whether Henry's matter could be solved. Every day she waited for a
horseman to bring his letter, eagerly anticipating news from court. And when he
arrived, she would run to her room where she kept the horde of letters and read
the newest in private, amid the velvet drapes and smells of her childhood.
Every day, until she grew ill.

"Blasted heat," she muttered to her mother.

"I'm burning inside." Ah, but her head. It hurt to
move it, or to hold it still. Any sudden noise would grip it with such
agonizing pain that she couldn't even grimace. And the shivering—ooh. Every
convulsion bred another ’til her hair ached. She was sick—plain and simple. So
she napped in the afternoon while the sun was still high, hoping the headache
would go away with some rest. But when she awoke just before dusk, it was to a
mad shivering that forced her to hold herself very tight. Such a heat in the
room, too much heat for early September. The walls melted when she looked at
them, and the bare stone floor beckoned her with its starkness. She knew the
floor would be cold, and longed to touch her toe to it, but she hadn't the
strength to stretch her leg so far from the bed. She felt like a limp shadow of
a body, having neither energy nor inclination. That alone, made her afraid.
From somewhere outside her bedroom she could hear mutterings—voices that
sounded like her mother's, and George’s. She fought the fog that threatened her
consciousness.

"God’s blood! Father has it?"

Yes, surely George's voice; strong and sound.

"Yes."

She could barely make out the soft tones of her mother's
voice—it sounded strained somehow, but that could have come from her own
exhaustion.

"He brought it from London."

"Ah, dear God, then you, Mother?"

George’s voice held a plea, agonized by something Anne
didn't understand. Even through the murk, his anguish was unmistakable, but she
couldn't hear her mother respond to him. Anne imagined she nodded her head, or
shook it because there was a long silence before George's voice came again.

"And what of Anne? Is she sick?"

Quiet descended after the question, a heavy silence that
left Anne anxiously awaiting a filling. For some reason, this discussion
terrified her. Sickness from London? Father had come home a few days ago and
hadn't complained of illness. At least, not until yesterday, and then only a
headache.

"She's in bed now—feverish. You'd better leave, son. Go
home and tell no one of this. If anyone even suspects you of being ill..."

"No. I must see her." The urgency in his voice was
unmistakable, but the mumbling and sounds of footfalls faded out. Anne wanted
to sleep. Her eyes closed without her realizing it, only to open again as
George crashed through the door. From the mist of sleep-weary eyes she saw him
as he stood for a moment, looking uncertain. In the grand doorway, he was a
small figure, clad in whey blue and holding a large pottery tankard.

"I’ve brought a pottle of spiced ale, Nan."

She tried a weak smile.

"George..." Her throat felt raw; sleep must truly
want her. "How good of you to visit, all the way from London."

He brushed back the chestnut locks that fell forward. His hair
always fell into his face, he should wear it short like Father, or like Henry.

"George, I’m tired..."

"Yes, Nan. I know it." He came forward, carefully
placed the pottle on the bed stand. She felt his weight on the bed, saw from
the corner of her eye, her mother standing still in the doorway, fingers
stuffed into her mouth.

"Mother says you’ve a headache."

Anne licked her lips, touched his arm. He grasped her
fingers and touched his lip with them.

"It’s a terrible headache, for certainty, brother. It makes
me sweat."

"It’ll pass." He didn’t let go her hand, rather
held it tightly, gave it a squeeze.

"And I’ve not come from London just to visit. I’m
staying on for a few days."

She wanted to say how wonderful she thought it, that he’d be
staying. But she felt so weary, and the room truly had begun to spin.

"George, please. I’ll be out to dinner later. We can
play chess if you like, or read aloud, but now I need to rest." She pulled
her hand from his, had to tug on it to get him to release it. He smiled warmly
at her, kissed her forehead.

"Then rest, and I’ll beat you at chess later."

She didn’t feel his weight leave the bed, didn’t hear him
close the door. In her dreams she saw France, sat contentedly in a hidden wood
glade with a man who was as kind and gentle as the breeze. She saw yellows in
her dreams, and the reds of a fire. The delicious scent of roasted game crept
into her nostrils, then the smell of pine and moss. Oh, happiness here, and
contentment. But then the images changed and Henry stood there, against the
green of the trees. What was he doing here, in the woods?

And the babe—soft and pink and plump—why did he reach for
the halo around his head? But pleasing, he was, beautiful babe. Ah Henry, you
should be so proud. Soon the dreams changed again. She heard voices at the
bottom of her bed. Fear and terror lurked there. Was that Gabriel arguing with
Satan? And why is the serpent crying, his face filled with the most hideous
sorrow she had ever witnessed. Red streams of tears meandered down the crags of
his face, dripping blood onto the soft coverlet. A coverlet that kept creeping
down her chest ’til it was a bunch of rolls across her foot.

But no, it crept not of its own accord, but by the hand of
an imp who had the plumpness of Henry’s babe and the eyes of a demon. He
perched attentively at the foot of her bed, a wide grin spread across his
face—pulling at the yellow coverlet so it crept off her body. It seemed he
wanted to speak to her, the large wet mouth worked in a frenzy, drooling slimy
spittle onto his chest. Ghastly. But then he would grow fearful and peek
furtively back across his shoulder, then pick at her sheets again. Sometimes
stroking the instep of her bare foot, then with a quick glance behind, would
check his back again. After a time, the mutterings began again, in quiet hushed
voices, and she knew the voices were from her own realm and wasn't afraid.

"We have fortified ourselves with medicines..."
Strange, she thought, Henry's words, but George’s voice. Sweet it was too, so
safe-sounding. Then a light stroke on her forehead—a cool hand fleet and gentle
as a lamb. It felt good, that hand, when it rid her forehead of the tangled wet
locks that sopped at her eyesight. She dared a glance, hoping it wasn't really
the imp trying to fool her. And in the blur of light and pain she made out her
mother's figure standing close.

"I have sent my doctor with potions made by my own
hand..." George held a dirty parchment from which he read. A black shroud
of Elizabeth’s hair spilled onto his shoulder as she leaned closer. Black as a
raven’s wing, and black as Anne’s own. Though it hurt, Anne smiled, and tried
to speak.

"Ha..." she wanted to ask, have you slept, mother?
But her throat caught on the first word and rattled so that she had begun
coughing so spasmodically that she couldn't take a breath to fuel it. Her
mother touched Anne’s lips with a napkin which she threw rapidly into the fire.
But not before Anne noticed the blood that stained the linen, and it was then
that she thought, I'm to die; And I’ve done naught to please the almighty. She
drifted away again.

Anne had stopped breathing once. Her wretched gasp of the
moment before had nearly made George’s heart stop, but that was nothing. The
worst came next. A heavy, suffocating silence wrapped about his shoulders like
a cloak and he knew at once why it was so quiet. He ran screaming from her
chamber. Only barely saw the blur of stone and tapestries as he spun in a
circle at the door. Gratefully his mother appeared before he lost his mind.

"Gone," he spluttered.

"Gone." Elizabeth sprinted to the bed in the time
it took for a heart to stop beating.

"No." She lowered her ear to Anne’s chest.
"No, she’s just sleeping."

George chewed his nails. "Mother. She stopped
breathing."

Elizabeth shook her head.

"Listen."

He closed his eyes, concentrated on hearing every tiny
sound. A wheezing, hesitant intake of breath confirmed Anne’s life. He fell to
the floor. That had been only just one hour ago. Now he sat next to her on the
bed. Good, sweet Lord, but she looked awful lying there. Her face only a
specter of its usual life. Full lips that so often quivered when sad, now
pulled downward as if a frown had overtaken her features. George fingered each
of her nails as if his touch could heal her, but Anne only sighed and thrashed
again, pulling away and drawing close and pulling away.

He couldn’t bring himself to release her fingers, didn’t
dare leave the room for fear those elegant hands would grow cold without his
touch or her lips would form his name one last time as he slept. No matter how
his eyes burned, he’d not close them. Guilty that he needed to relieve his eyes
of her, ashamed that he couldn’t stand to watch her pain, he scanned the room
as he stroked her palm. He wondered if the golden stone and walnut hearth of
the fireplace sensed death. They would allow no fire within. Each time
Elizabeth tried to light it, a gust from above extinguished the flame. In
retrospect, he thought perhaps Anne’s entire chamber waited to hold her soul;
the shutters, closed against the weather, moved not at all and the air was
cold, tightening, dense. Something in the room shivered.

"Can you rise, Anne?" Her mother asked.
"You've been abed five full days."

Anne opened her eyes. She didn't think she could, but it
seemed her mother didn't care. She pulled Anne gently to a sitting position,
took the pillow and heaved it onto the logs. And when she had managed to get
her to the wooden rocker, the bedclothes went the same fate, as well as her own
nightgown. She watched with weak interest, as Elizabeth made the bed up again
with a mere sheet, then dipped a corner of a napkin into a bowl of fresh water.

The sight made Anne’s dry mouth smack with yearning. How
clean it looked, and cold. She opened her lips as her mother touched the wet
linen to her tongue and squeezed. How grand it felt when Elizabeth began to
methodically squeeze the water onto Anne's naked body, never mind the fear that
she would die from chill. Chill would be wonderful now, and she would die
anyway, better cool than searing hot.

When the strange bath was done, she felt her mother's hands
under her arms, trying to lift her again to the bed. No matter that Anne tried
to help; the weakness made her head loll to the side. She didn't care enough to
right it—at least, not until she had glimpsed the crimson boils that lined her
groin and riddled her chest. The grisly gurgling swell of them made her gag.
She soiled the skin her mother had just lovingly cleaned. Later, she lay
exhausted on the nearly empty bed, slipping in and out of sense and sleep.
George had abandoned her, gone back to London she supposed to dance and dine
with his wife. But her mother came everyday, to cleanse and feed her, burning
the clothes and sheets that Anne lay in.

Nothing was sacred; once she even had to lay on the
mattress nude, shivering and weak until Elizabeth had found something with
which to cover her. And when the day came that she was able to sit alone, and
eat a lumpy broth rather than a clear liquid, she was more than relieved. No more
cold baths, or tormenting dreams.

"I feel able to eat a savory stew today," she
declared when Elizabeth came into the room.

"And I think I may well leave this room. I’m strong
enough to go out and pick you some herbs, mother. What do you say to
that?"

Elizabeth wiped the back of her hand across a perspiring
forehead.

"I say there’s no time to go out and about, Nan. I need
help with your brother."

Elizabeth’s eyes watered and Anne thought she saw fear
there. It took only seconds for her to bolt from the bed and into George’s old
bedroom.

"Ah, Jesu!" The bed seemed to swallow him as he
lay still and quiet upon it. The large wooden headboard taunted her with its
sturdiness in light of the limp form she saw beneath it. His hair looked more
the rat pelt than ever, for it was dark and filthy. She remembered his hand on
her forehead and how he had kissed her when she was ill. Mea Culpa, she had
repaid his comfort with illness. Had she only known, she’d not have let him in.
She’d not have let him touch her. Now he fought the plague, for she knew that
was what it was. She could see it in the sores about his neck and the fever
that broke his face in a horrible sheen of sweat.

"He slept in the chair next to your bed ’til he grew
ill." Her mother’s voice broke her thoughts.

"The only time he left the room was when I had to
cleanse you." The brown eyes grew moist and flooded so that her face was
filled with water.

"Oh, Anne. I can't stand to lose him." She flung
her arms about Anne’s shoulder, and Anne held her as tightly as she could.

"We shan’t lose him, Mother. You didn't lose me."

When George awoke, he felt as if he’d slept the sleep of
Christ, or rather, he felt as Christ would have felt when he found himself back
in his body after the third day. His mouth felt dry and furry—his tongue lay
between his teeth like a rat asleep, and when he moved it, the underneath ached
so he let it be. His body ached too, on the undersides where the muscles
beneath the muscles had forgotten they had life. But the biggest complaint his
body made was that it was hungry—ravenously hungry.

"Mother..."The sound came out as a croak, rather
than the shout he wanted. He tried again.