Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) (20 page)

H
er plan succeeded. By the time she allowed Henry to return
to the castle, it was already dusk—and Wolsey had left. Days went by without
personal contact between the King and his Cardinal, and without the guilt of
Thomas’ voice and face Henry found it easier to blame him. Anne found it easier
to stoke the fire. Henry soon had his Cardinal arrested and Anne—by order of
her father—celebrated. As her court milled about in various shades of yellow,
the color of celebration, Anne sat close to George near the window. She could
feel a small draft and it kept her inching closer and closer to him ’til Mary
came over to reproach them.

"Careful, Anne. You look like lovers over here,"
she laughed, shook her chestnut locks so they settled around her bare shoulders
and the purple velvet of her gown. Anne gave her a dry look.

"Lovers, indeed. I hear from his wife, she keeps him
fairly happy." She nudged her brother playfully. He had the good grace to
blush.

"I’ve scarce been happier," he said, looking
across the room to where his wife danced with the King.

"I had my doubts in the beginning. But we’ve mended our
differences. I think our age came between us at first."

"I think it more your flirtations, came between you brother,"
Anne laughed. She watched Nan Gainesford pull Henry from Jayne.

He smiled.

"I’ve a lot to thank you for Anne. Jayne is delighted
to be waiting on you. And since you’ve given us the Queen’s old apartments,
we’ve been blessed with prosperity."

Anne could only grin, satisfied she could please him.

"Well, once Henry had confiscated the Cardinal’s
properties, suddenly there was a place to put Catherine. I could think of no
better place for you than here with me."

"Yes, so Anne is the savior of us all," said Mary
dryly. "Now, where is that entertainment, Father promised?"

"The entertainment is meant to please only him, Mary,
for it’s to be a play... showing the Cardinal dying and descending to
hell." Anne shuddered. "I can't watch it, for it makes my soul
shiver."

"As I’m sure many will shiver." Mary fanned her
cleavage, and nodded to George. "But I shan’t miss it. I’ve a mind to see
how well it’s done."

"Who has replaced him, Anne?" George asked.

"Wolsey? Thomas More will take the seal of Lord
Chancellor, though he protested vigorously. He said he couldn’t support Henry’s
decision to part with Catherine. But Henry knows he’s an honest man, and begged
him to reconsider."

"As for the rest, I heard Henry mention Thomas
Cromwell. He worked under Wolsey for many years. He’s an older gentleman like
Wolsey, but much fatter."

"I heard Cardinal Wolsey only admitted his guilt so
Henry would spare his life," Mary whispered.

"True," said Anne. "But Henry has imprisoned
him anyway. He has decided the man is guilty of working with another faction
against him, and naught will sway his conscience on it." She lowered her
eyes, afraid they would see her guilt for her part in his downfall. A large
wrinkle in the moss colored damask of her gown grinned at her. She brushed it out,
hurried on,

"Meanwhile, Henry has decided to use the religious
unrest to transform from Guardian of the Church to the country’s savior from
it. He’s putting together an order, from what I understand—one which will
require the clergy to seek permission from the King before they begin any new
legislation."

George glanced furtively around the room, and Anne touched
his arm.

"It’s fine, brother. No one can hear." He sighed
audibly and she continued, "But they want naught to do with it, those
clergy men. They have already balked at the suggestion. Henry told me the Pope
wants me banned from court—that I’m a bad influence on him. He thinks if Henry
were to give me up, he’d go back to Catherine and the church policies."

She shrugged.

"But that isn’t so. I believe Henry is set on his
course now, and sees further power in his grasp. He’ll not give his country
back to Rome even if he does go back to Catherine."

"And what of Warham? Has anyone taken his place as
Archbishop?" George asked, motioning to a servant girl for wine. She
curtsied low before filling his goblet, letting the swell of her bosom fall
nearly from her gown. George ignored it. Anne grinned.

"Why, Thomas Cranmer is to fill that post. Imagine. Our
own chaplain. Heavens it’s been so long since I’ve seen him. I think Father
suggested him, because he spent so long living with us." She remembered a
dark, brooding man with a quiet manner and kind face.

"I must ask Henry about him tomorrow... be certain he
has a proper estate."

George couldn’t quite understand just why his father hired
the actors, but the play was engaging, if not vividly realistic. Anne’s
presence chamber for the evening had been transformed into a hellish purgatory
where the scent of sulfur rose in dizzying wafts from a bedpan beneath the
table. It stung his nose, the stench, and crept upon him before he knew it.
Heavy and sudden, the smell made him hold his nose and gag. The rush lights
burned in their stands like bright unquenchable flames, five times the normal
amount. Stretching across the stone walls, and lending a cavernous appeal to
the chamber, was the addition of hastily painted canvasses. Whoever had painted
them certainly had a vivid image of Hell; blood dripped from slick, bleak
stalagmites and imps writhed on boulders as they prodded limbs that stuck out
of blazing ponds. Peppered across the canvas at irregular intervals were rats
and stretching tables. Often the tables were beds for souls who screamed in
silent agony. The empty ones more frightening because they awaited use, grinned
with their white iron chains and manacle eyes.

"Whew, Nan," he whispered to the serving woman.

"I see a bed awaits you."

"Aye." She grinned.

"I know which is mine, for it’s nestled next to
yer’s."

"Has Anne left, then?" She nodded.

"Pleaded illness and escaped to her bed. I saw to her
just minutes ago."

"Think it’s toothache?" Nan shook her head and
looked queer.

"It’s naught of the body. Somethin’s been ailing her.
One minute she’s laughin’ with glee, the next screamin’ to make me ears
sore."

George gulped. He’d seen Anne the last few days cry as often
as she breathed. He’d put it up to the moon.

"Could it be..."

"Don't say her cycles. Why is it always the moon with
you men? I tell you it’s somethin’ eatin’ at her. I dare not ask, but since the
Cardinal was arrested she’s become more and more a witch."

George turned to watch the actors. One of them, dressed in
brilliant crimson descended beaten wooden stairs into a fiery pit. All around
imps moaned and shrieked. The noise was enough to drive a simple man insane.

"How do you like the play?" Thomas Boleyn stood in
front of George suddenly. Dressed in primrose, he looked naive and harmless.

"I dare say, it’s realistic." George noted,
grateful that the scenery was blocked, albeit by his father.

"Where is your sister?" George shifted in his
chair.

"Abed." His father’s thick brow raised a good deal
from its place.

"Abed?"

"Yes," was all George dared say. A rush light
spluttered and went out.

"I should see to her." Thomas looked stormy and
George took to shuffling his feet. Before he could speak, Nan stood.

"My lord, I pray ye do not, for she is dread ill."

Thomas glowered at the woman with an intensity that should
have quieted an army. Nan, George could see, missed the sentiment. He chewed
his lip and searched the crowded room for a place to rest his eye.

"I dare say your play has worsened it." She
continued.

"The play?" Thomas’ voice, a hoarse, low bark,
held a tone George feared.

"Aye." Nan glared back.

"My good lady, have you no sense of decorum? You speak
to your mistress’s father."

The warning was obvious. George pulled at her skirt.

She yanked the hem from George’s fingers, ignoring his
recapture of the material. Then she laughed. "Ye arrange a play such as
this and ask after my manners? Oh, it’s hearty."

Thomas turned heel, tired it seemed, of sparring with a
serving woman. But before walking away said, "George, you will have this
woman relieved of service."

He headed toward the bedchamber.

"Nan," George began.

"Nan, naught." She growled. "He’ll not
disturb her." She stormed after Thomas, and because George still held her
skirt, he ran after her.

"Ye’ll not enter." She dared Thomas when he
touched the latch. And though she trembled ever so slightly, her shoulders
shaking beneath her gown, she stood tall. Something in her manner told George
she wouldn’t give in. His father’s face shifted expressions as if a tornado
flew across it. With lips tight and barely moving, Thomas said,

"You’ve no power over me, wench."

"I’ve the ear of the King’s love, and thus his ear, my
lord. Ye need not think I fear ye, though yer children do." She held his
steely gaze. George thought for a second she did fear him, that she’d buckle
under her own weight and fall to the floor. But the moment was fleeting, she
visibly stiffened her spine.

"I believe ye think she dishonors ye by pleading ill,
but sure as I stand here, yer kin wouldn’t dare. Leave her be, for ye’ve naught
to say that can heal her."

Never before had any woman dared his father, let alone won.
At least, not that George ever knew. But when Thomas caught his breath and
glared at Nan, George knew his father could lose. Nan stepped three notches up
in George’s estimation, and he believed with every ounce of weight in his body,
that Anne could now count two loyal friends. And loyalty was a rare commodity
in court. Thomas stood frighteningly still for a long time, then let go the
latch.

Within moments he left as quickly as he appeared. George
looked at Nan who trembled as if she’d glimpsed her death. He pulled her to the
withdrawing room, where a virginal sat silently beneath a single torch, and the
rushes smelled innocent and clean. In the quiet, dimly lit chamber, he hugged
her. And wasn’t surprised to feel her warm tears spill down his neck.

The next morning, Henry came for Anne to go hunting,
slipped into her quarters just after breakfast. Anne took the opportunity to
complement him on his choice of Archbishop. He inflated his broad chest
proudly.

"I thought you’d be pleased," he said.

"Your father suggested him, and he’s been a fine
chaplain in my service. I think he’ll perform well." He grasped her about
her waist and kissed her forehead.

"As do I," she said, fetching her falconing gloves
from a nearby table.

"Now, shall we hunt?"

Henry accepted the conversational shift with ease, moved
slightly away to peer out the window.

"How about the North woods?"

She frowned.

"No, there are too many people about there."

"They'll not dare criticize their King!" His face
got that dark fearsome look she hated as he guessed at her concern. He brushed
at the blue velvet of his doublet, as if brushing off a concern that annoyed
him.

"Perhaps you, they'll not. But they hiss at me. And I
grow tired of it," she said and went to him. With a swift motion, she
yanked the curtains closed. All of this trouble seemed only to be mounting. She
swiped at her hair and wished she were somewhere else.

"Then we'll stay close to the palace."

"Grand," she answered, motioning for Nan who had
come in with a pottle of ale, to set the tankard on the table. Bless the girl,
she anticipated every desire.

"Nan, stay and share a drink with us."

"Aye, mistress. But haven’t ye a horse readied for
ye?"

Anne fluttered her fingers absently.

"We’ve time for a mug. Especially as you’ve been
gracious enough to serve it." Nan’s four front teeth showed plain as she
grinned.

"I’ve shirts to sew." Her raised brow was a
mocking reminder.

"Ach. Since I force you to work on them, I can pull you
away for a spell. Would you come with us on our ride?"

Nan’s grin spread to a smile.

"Answer enough, then," said Anne. "Never mind
the ale, go ready yourself."

"I've something else to ask you..." Henry touched
her arm when Nan left. "Francois and I must meet again as you know. Would
you like to accompany me to Calais. It will be the best opportunity to have you
seen as my intended Queen."

She fell speeches. Finally a bright spot. She should wish
more often.

"I've already sent someone to suggest to Francois that
he ask for you. And when we go, you shall be presented with all the honor due
my wife. I've already asked Catherine for the royal jewels."

"Did she agree?" Even though she suspected the
answer, her humor wouldn't allow the question to settle. A tiny dig of
conscience made her feel cruel. Had she no shame nor pity? But it felt wonderfully
satisfying to have someone else suffer for a change—even if only a little. She
had been up all night listening to the party outside her chamber, the moans of
the ‘Cardinal’ as he languished in Hell’s clutches. Then in the twilight,
silence crushed her ’til she wished the party still went on.

"Ha! She refused of course, saying if I send an order,
only then will she comply with such a wish. Then she added how I was degrading
the realm by hanging about with you. She'll be even less happy when she gets my
response.

"I've asked Francois' entire family—and that includes
Marguerite."

"Marguerite! Oh, it’s been so long. Do you think she'll
accept?" Anne rushed him and breathed in his hearty smell of musk and
ambergris. Marguerite could help her forget. Could make her believe she had
friends still.

"Of course she will. She's your long time friend,
n'est-ce
pas
?