Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) (23 page)

B
y September, Anne had grown larger and more ungainly.
Henry spent less time with her. Rarely did he come to her apartments, and just
as infrequently did he sup with her as he used to. She tried to blame it on
matters of state and even on visits to his daughter, but no reasoning could
quell the feeling that she disgusted him with her large belly and mood swings.
By the time the imminent birth made it necessary for Anne to take to her quarters,
he barely spoke to her. Instead he cavorted with his court and flirted with the
ladies in Anne’s.

She had been impatiently doing her lying in for two weeks
now. Henry, past assurances and undying love for her, hardly came to see her,
or ask after her welfare. And her suspicions had taken a grievous turn. He was
sporting with one of her maids, she just knew it. George confirmed it. Seeing
him eyeing one of her prettier ladies-in-waiting, just before she retired to
the bedchamber, fueled her paranoia. He hadn't visited her in ten days. Mary
came often, and when Anne asked her of Henry, her eyes would dart guiltily
around the room. Then she would change the subject, saying it was forbidden for
men to enter a birthing chamber. Anne would simply chew her lip, and wait for
Henry to come, knowing the King to be the only man who could enter. And he did
come, on the eleventh day.

"Have you been busy with affairs, my lord King?"

He merely nodded, gave her a peck on the cheek, touched her
belly, and left with brusque orders for her women to keep her warm and
comfortable. It was maddening. But today she waited, and though she had waited
for many days the same way, she knew he would come. And this time he would stay
for longer than a quick peek. He would hear her frustration, whether he liked
it or not. She was Queen and had a right to be acknowledged.

She held tightly to her belly, and rocked and rocked next to
the fire the women had lit for her. She didn't need the heat so close, the babe
warmed her blood. Her women had insisted Henry would come today, and would want
to see her by the fire. So she sat close to it knowing the heat rosied her
cheeks, and danced cleverly in her eyes. Even heavy with pregnancy, she knew
she looked fetching, but she didn't need her looks today. Today, she needed her
tongue.

Just after dinner he came. A loud banging in the front
parlor accompanied his arrival, and a great deal of swishing activity as the
five women rushed to take his cloak, or offer him wine. She remained where she
sat, the creaking of the rocker companioning her temper. She kept it still,
though, ’til she saw his ever-enlarging frame shadow the room.

"Have you come finally, to see to your bride?"

Four months married and already she smelled another woman on
his clothes, but she waited for him to answer while she looked at the curtains,
which by custom hid the windows of a birth chamber. They looked filthy to her,
and she turned instead to the pallet bed that rested beside her own, the one
she would actually occupy for the birth.

"Yes," he responded, coming closer so that she
could see remains of his dinner tangled in his beard.

"I'm free from duties for an hour or two, and thought
I'd see how the babe fares." No mention of her, or if he missed her.

"The babe fares as the mother," she replied,
rocking faster as her temper rose.

"It’s unborn yet, my King, and can feel neither heat
nor cold. Nor can it cry with loneliness." She could tell he wasn't sure
what to reply, but that he had realized her inference. Instead of waiting for
him to develop a ruse, she attacked.

"Have you been kept by affairs, my Lord?" She
motioned away the waiting woman who held a tray of wine to him, and would have
offered it. Let him wait longer, and wring his hands instead if he needed to
hold something.

"Alas, overseeing the nursery has kept my time,"
he smiled, trying to flirt with her. "And other affairs."

"Affairs with one of my women, could it be?" She
rose from the chair, rather ungainly at first, but refused to be fettered by
her belly. "I've heard rumors, my lord King. Rumors that the groom has
been philandering, already. And in sight of the entire court, no less."

"And you find fault with the rumor?" His sweet
seraphic face grew red and bloated with annoyance. "Sweet Jesu! You nag me
as much as Catherine. Have I been cursed with another shackle?"

It was as good as a confession to Anne, and she flew at him
with fist clenched, punched him soundly in the mouth.

"You know I find fault with it! How could you dare
forsake me so soon? Your countrymen laugh at me, as I sit here heavy with your
child!" She watched his face grow as crimson as the doublet he wore, and
refused to cringe as his own fist clenched at his side.

When he spoke his voice sounded as gritty as the mortar in
the walls.

"How dare I forsake you? How dare you, criticize me.
Remember whore, I am the King. I can lower you as well as I raised you."

Her mouth worked at the slander, but before she could speak
he had hold of her shoulders. He shook her gently but tightened his grip so
that she wanted to fall to the chair in an effort to escape.

"Better than you have stood by whilst the country
forgives its King for solacing himself where he must. So you must close your
eyes and endure.

"Now sit," he said. "And go back to your
sewing of swaddling clothes, or whatever else you do, and speak of this no
more. I will have no one criticize my actions. Not even the whore I have set on
the throne."

"Whore?!" The second use of the word bore her
temper to raw wound, and she pushed her swollen belly at him like a weapon.

"For six years I endured your clumsy kisses, your inept
caresses, only so I could supply you with this whore-son." She pushed at
his chest so she could get past him, but he grabbed her wrist and twisted her
so that she screamed in pain. The pain didn't deter her, only enraged her more.

"Was I worth throwing away your precious reputation and
pious Queen?"

Instead of becoming physically vicious, as she knew he
wouldn't for fear of the babe, he spoke with more venom than she had ever heard
him use, and it cut to the marrow of her anger, making her fear him suddenly.

"Ah, but I haven't thrown it all away, dear lady."
The face that had grown fat over the years, contorted into a troll's face.
"Catherine still lives, and our child... she listens still to the father
she adores. And is not truly illegitimate for all your trying."

"Then to hell with Catherine, and the demon child she
has spawned. I'll be sure she swaddles my child like a servant should a true
prince. For I am her death, and she is mine."

The fever of her rage swept away any care for what she
spoke. She was too far into her anger to care that his mouth opened and closed
in workings of pure lividness. And somewhere within the hollows of her sanity,
she realized she had gone too far. But he said nothing further, simply turned
on his heel with a quick look of disgust and stormed from the room. She sat
back on the chair, exhausted and spent. Not even the pains in her stomach could
force her to make her way to the bed, she'd rather sit here and sweat with each
spasm, knowing each one was deserved.

George was reading in Henry’s antechamber, when Henry
stormed in. At sight of his master, and the obvious rage that tore at his face,
George dropped the book onto the tapestried chair. He hurried to fetch a goblet
of ale. Anne must have cornered the King about his mistress.

"Damn your sister." Henry hurled the goblet across
the room. It struck the stone wall with such force, bits of rock came away.
Servants hurried to clean it, all the while trying to look as if they were part
of the wall or floor. George said nothing.

"Damn her." Henry said again. This time he kicked
at the rushes. The sweet, musty smell of them crept up George’s nose. He knew
then, that Anne had not only cornered Henry, but had had the last say. Nothing
irked the King more, and Anne had a knack for it. In seconds Henry’s furious
stare burned straight into George’s face.

"Did you tell her of my lady?" George thought
briefly of the woman, saw in his mind, the beautiful fair hair and blue eyes,
the straight tiny nose.

"No, Sire," he lied.

"I’ve said naught. Anne is quick enough to have noticed
it for herself."

"Fortunate for you then, for I’m furious enough to
throttle that shrew you call sister. And I’d put you in her place if I had reason."

George kept his thoughts quiet, instead went to the hearth
where he poked the embers around. The opulent chamber lost its beauty. For a
moment he thought instead that he stood in a damp hovel. There was nothing like
anxiety to ground the senses.

"How dare she be jealous. Catherine expected me to
fulfill my needs elsewhere when she was with child. Even encouraged it."

"Beg your pardon, your Grace," George blurted.
"But I believe you have but the one child. Mayhap Catherine was jealous
and you knew it not. And Anne was just such a case. Look at how well the
Princess Dowager lives now."

Oh, sweet Jesu, he’d gone way too far. Henry glared at him
with such hatred he thought he’d get a good clout and a hanging in the morn.
All he could do now was try his best to cover the blunder.

"At least, I imagine that is the cause of Anne’s insane
jealousy."

"Get out," the King said. "Get out and do not
come back."

It was a blessing to be let go with his head. George hurried
from the chamber and closed the door meekly. Even from the hallway he could
hear Henry bellowing at the poor servants within.

A
n exhausted Anne lay weak and spent upon the pallet. The
blankets had long ago been taken, and after each wave of pain and sweat came
such a shivering as such she had never suffered. The women in the room
tut-tutted to her, shushing her and telling her she was doing wonderfully.
Blast, but it annoyed her. Would they never close the fetid holes that were
their mouths? She didn't care how well she was doing, she cared only that this
cursed thing be taken from her. She wanted the acute wracking of her body to
cease. So she could once again feel normal, with just the pains of her
conscience to wound her.

"Come now, my lady, I see the head. Oh, the bald little
head. He's coming, my Queen, you must push again." She grunted with the
exertion of the push, screamed when a hot searing pain nearly tore her canal
apart.

"Sweet Jesu! Could it not be a little bigger?" She
heard a giggle in the corner.

"Close your foul mouth!" She hollered as another
wave hit her, and then concentrated on that pain again. As God was her witness,
even if Henry decided to forgive her, she'd never let him touch her again. A
great wetness shot from her. After, came sweet relief. From the world where she
lay exhausted she heard a sharp cry. Ah, beautiful cry, the cry of her son.

"Give him to me," she ordered, trying to sit up on
the pallet.

"Pass me my prince."

The midwife came to her, the babe still slick and bloody
from the trial, Anne could see the odd curves of his head where her body had
tortured it.

"He's beautiful," she breathed reaching her arms
up so she could take him.

"Truly a beautiful babe, my lady, but no prince."

In the instant she thought the woman mocked her, that she,
the whore, could never produce such lineage. But when the baby's slimy body lay
on her breast, naked save the juices from her body, she could see it was no
boy. And her heart pinched tight in the same moment from anguish and love, both
battling for space there.

"She's truly magnificent," the midwife said,
beaming down on mother and daughter.

Anne touched the tiny blanched cheek.

"Yes," she said, as love won the war.

George had returned to his own apartments and was eating a
savory stew near the hearth when Henry stormed him for the second time. He sent
Jayne away with an ungracious curse. The servants who had followed their King
huddled in a corner.

"Your sister has betrayed me."

George dared not argue with Henry. Instead he watched the
large frame storm throughout the room in uncontrollable fury. Once or twice
Henry grabbed at a trinket and hurled it against the stone, where it sounded
with either a great thud or a resounding crash. He wished for a moment he stood
anywhere but in the King’s presence. The red-haired man’s temper was the
foulest he’d ever seen.

"The country laughs. They laugh and laugh and laugh.
Great Harry, Defender of the Faith and King of England, slapped in the face by
God and by a woman." Henry kicked a table, sent it crashing to the floor
and George scurrying to right it. One of the young boys made ready to scoop it
up himself, but stared at George with eyes as round as plates when the duty was
done. He looked relieved to be relieved.

"She is indeed the Concubine, as the entire country
calls her. Doubtless she laughs as well—and produced this girl-child to spite
me." Henry stressed girl-child as if it was distasteful, and George felt a
sudden clenching of his stomach. He licked his lips hesitantly, afraid of
Henry’s wrath, but determined to defend Anne. Indeed, his temper had begun to
rise as well. And what the hell, he’d already incurred Henry’s fury.

"In truth, my sister is strong willed—spiteful even,
but I doubt she would have borne the girl apurpose—she loves you well and
wanted the boy as much," he said.

"Yes, well, that may have been the case before she
heard of my lady."

"Your lady, Sire? Do you think Anne would deliberately
give you reason to cling the more to another woman?" George mustered a wan
smile, one he hoped would bring Henry back to his good humor. He was rewarded
with a brief chuckle, one that almost stole the King’s wrath. But in a moment,
he returned to his sullenness.

"She’s passionately jealous," Henry muttered, and
searched George’s eye.

For a moment George remembered all the men who had gone to
the tower, and thought under the scrutiny he’d be called for an execution in
the morrow. The thought that he’d already gone too far, spurred him.

"Was it not her passion which drew you?"

A grumble came from Henry, one that sounded reluctant and
sullen. He paused before the window where he stared out into the autumn
sunshine. "That and her wit."

"Her wit, her passion, and her intelligence?"
George pressed.

"Yes. She’s a smart one, and has beaten me more times
than I want to admit at chess or debates."

He was being won, and George dared not back down.

"Would you imagine with me then, my poor sister’s
state? She discovers the man she loves before any save God is sharing his
passions with another woman..."

"But am I not a man as any other?" George hurried,

"Of course, your Grace, but Anne is a woman of deep
emotions. It’s a shame such passions must come with such jealousy, but then,
passion means heat in all emotions. But imagine further—she is forced to hide
from the world whilst she awaits the child that will prove to the country that
she is the rightful queen. She prowls about the chamber knowing most of the
court and the entire country prays she will not deliver. Her seclusion is such
that your elder child by another woman waits and prays in the same corridor for
news that she has borne a daughter." George crossed the room, dared stare
directly into Henry’s eye.

"And now Anne has borne that girl-child, and fears she
has lost your love as well. Can you not see how she believes she has failed in
everything that matters?"

He continued on when the King took to shuffling,

"But imagine more, your Grace, what hope there is in a
living daughter. Anne is young yet, and nubile. A daughter can sometimes be a
blessing to a man who has had no children in seventeen years." George
waited with his teeth clenching his bottom lip. Perhaps he had gone too far,
but then, Anne’s future was at stake. And so too, was his own. There really had
been nothing to lose. And when Henry turned on his heel, and left the chamber without
a word, George collapsed onto a plump tapestried chair,
fearing what he had done.