Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) (3 page)

I
t wasn’t even noon, and yet Anne knew she was going to
die. She pursed her lips in annoyance. Too bad that death wouldn’t come from a
quick, painless blow. Instead she feared it would be brought on by slow
irritation. She stood in the middle of the French plain where people milled
about like ants intent on scavenging from the festival whatever they could from
wherever they could. Oh, she had been excited to attend, but after only one
day, she was already exhausted. Here, a circle of ladies dressed too heavily
sent their sweaty stench to her nose with each movement they made. There, stood
a group of men intent on finding sexual quarry, grabbing the arm of any woman
unfortunate enough to pass by. And everywhere cloth-of-gold shimmered,
reminding all who attended that the French and English kings were present
somewhere. It had everyone trampling through manure piles in a frenzy to sight
them.

A drunkard got in Anne’s way again and stomped on her foot.
She glared at him.

"I’ll thank you to keep your weight to yourself."

He gave her a leering, lopsided smile, gained his feet and
plunged awkwardly back at her. In seconds he had both grimy hands planted on
each of her breasts, his sour breath full in her face. "Awright,
mistress."

His companions guffawed and cheered him on.

She plucked at his fingers. "If I were your mistress
I’d have both your hands lopped off while you slept."

She gave him another shove and turned away with a sigh.
Always it had been this way. She drew attention whether she wanted it or not.
Her voice, which her brother told her was the low and throaty kind of tone that
he said men loved, and she'd begun to believe it in these last years. Her old
friend Thomas Wyatt told her that her black eyes flashed like mica stones, that
her elegant neck allowed her great grace in the dance. Pah, comment they would,
and admire they could, but it was her dusky complexion that had gained her the most
notoriety for all that. That horrible quality had all the ladies of court
heckling her behind her back.

On the rare occasion anyone mentioned it in her company,
Anne throttled them as fiercely as she could verbally; knowing that her ‘could’
was a good deal better than most of Francis’ soldiers. Thankfully her gift for
languages, meant that "coarse" was just another mother tongue. Anne
used it as often as any other.

She'd overheard enough lewd comments in French court. Dark
women were enchantresses, meant to pleasure and be pleasured. More often than
not, she kept busy romancing them with a sharp-edged tongue while she grappled
with their hands. It could be exhausting. It could also be exciting. But it
worsened the way she was treated by the women, and she spent nights chewing
over the problem.

The only person who truly understood her was George. That
younger brother so dear she thought of him with every passing day. He was the
other part of her, the sane, tender portion that should have tempered her
character but was born two years later. She thought of how as children they had
held hands at early morning services, whispered into each other's ear while the
priest droned on and on. She remembered how they would curl together in bed
beneath heaps of quilts to warm themselves against the cold of Hever Castle.

Anne tucked her hair behind her ear. She missed George more
than he knew. These seven years had been torturous. The channel between France
and England might as well have been an ocean. But this festival overcame that
hurdle. For thirty entire days England and France would be here on French soil
celebrating the peacekeeping mission of their kings. And Anne could be with
George. If only she could find him.

Besides the crowds, she had to contend with the hundreds of
tents that hunkered at the perimeter of the field. Many were ragged tents of
commoners. Some however, belonged to those nobles who forgot to reserve space
in their monarch’s household. No matter the rank, they blocked out most of her
view. She hurried across the field, dodging people here and there as they set
off to whatever entertainment they’d decided on. She ignored the sounds of
horse hooves as they thundered on the wind. Trumpets sounded as if the Almighty
had finally decided on his Second Coming.

Then she caught sight of him. George, unchanged since
childhood with the casual way he stood, lean arms always moving; rush-brown
hair unkempt even against attempts to tame it. George, all but hidden from view
by three sultry servant girls who huddled around him near the entrance to the
banquet tent. Their hair swept behind them like lace doilies against the
canvas. There was a richness about them, a pink quality that made them look
like delicious treats. Full, welt-red mouths kissed his cheeks and laughed
wide-open laughter. But next to him they may as well have been rag dolls.

Anne stomped over, shouldering her way through the crowds,
feeling oddly betrayed.

T
he clear sunlight warmed the air the way it can do only in
June, wrapping itself around bare, long-darkened tree limbs and tender shoots
of grass, chasing away early morning shadows. Anne’s own sun at the moment
ignored her in favor of his trio of amusements. She pulled at George’s sleeve.

"Let’s go inside."

The thin black tissue cloth refused to give in.

"Please, George, the wind. It’s blowing dust in my
eyes."

When she thought he’d refuse, his arm rested steady on her
shoulder like it did when they were kids and he wanted her to take the blame
for a broken pottle. She turned her back to the women and ignored their dry
hisses of irritation. When George reached around her to soothe their hurt
feelings, she stomped on his toe. He jumped.

"Demon."

"
Oui
, and you’d recognize the devil if you saw
him."

"Her, you mean." He grinned.

"Ah, ah, you know what they say of those who keep
company with the devil." Anne flicked the tip of his tanned nose with her
finger.

"Yes, they look like saints compared." He flung
his arm around her neck, pulled her next to him as they strolled, comrades. She
caught the strong familiar scent of lavender and brother. She wanted to pull
him away, take him somewhere they could be alone, if only for a few moments, to
recapture a sense of childhood. It had been so safe, that childhood. So happy.

"Please, let’s go inside. I can't stand the dust."

He smiled. "It should die out soon; been blowing since
early."

"I certainly hope so, it makes me think of Judgment
day—and I haven’t been to confession in a fortnight."

As her much-talked-about elegant neck was being tugged upon,
Anne couldn’t help but follow him inside. They found a seat at a table near the
middle of the tent where the howls of wind dissipated to mere puffs and the
dogs fought each other for table scraps.

He stretched a lean hand to implore a hound. Scratching
behind the dog’s ears, he watched Anne’s face intently.

"And what have you to confess?"

"Plenty. Queen Claude’s house might be pious, but
Francois does what he can to ensure her ladies are not."

She reached out so the dog could lick her fingers. Breakfast
stragglers socialized over goblets of cider. Tent edges rose here and there
like rippling waves as the wind blew and let go.

"And have you encouraged him?"

"I think not!"

George poked her arm. "You’re much too passionate in
your ‘cannot’, I think."

She harrumphed. "Now you sound like His Grace, himself.
He’s unattractive and coarse; his only charm would be his wealth and
position."

A well-arched brow rose in mockery. "Ah, and that’s not
enough then?"

She slapped his shoulder. "It must be... he has women
at his every call. At this moment he has three official mistresses, all very
tall, very large brunettes. And last night at dinner he found himself
another."

"Yes, Anne Brown, I believe. She’s very
attractive." A servant girl with large breasts plunked a pewter goblet in
front of him.

"I find it strange that you think so. Most of
Les
Anglaise
prefer blondes." Anne watched the girl inhale deeply and
smooth her skirts, then saunter away with an undulating sway.

"Blondes are too highly sought, I think. I prefer
raven-haired ladies to pallid." His eyes never left the young girl’s hips
and Anne doubted he noticed her hair color.

"Have you seen Father?" he asked.

Such a terrible intrusion, mention of Thomas was. Her
stomach churned and flopped over on itself. A servant rushed past, clanging a
bell to chase a hound from a nearby table. She shook her head, had to speak
louder to be heard over the barking.

"No. Does he seek me?"

"He has since he heard of Queen Claude’s arrival. I
thought he’d find you at the dance last eve."

"I didn't attend. Her Grace felt ill so I stayed with
her. The babe she carries makes its wishes known most heartily. What does
Father want?" Anne's hand strayed to her belly, reasoning that just
because Thomas was looking for her didn’t have to mean she was in trouble.

"Only to remind you of your duty, I suppose. He knows
you’ve been spending time with Mary."

"He still hasn’t forgiven her?" Anne could well
believe that Thomas still held a grudge against his eldest daughter.

George shook his head.

"Damn," she said. "I knew it."

A wayward toddler with ash colored hair tripped over the
prone hound. The boy fell splayed to the dirt. In an instant, George had the
boy’s tears dried and a goblet—his own goblet—of cider shoved in his grubby
hands. The child ran off, golden juice sloshing everywhere from the rim as he
went. George again turned his attention to Anne.

"Just thought I’d warn you." He shifted one leg
over the other and lowered his voice. "And just in time it seems."

Anne glanced in the direction George pointed at with his
toe. She caught sight of a formidable looking man with greying hair and a frown
that creased his forehead.

"Ah. Here you are." Her father’s voice was
unmistakable, even after these years. He hadn’t changed his looks much, hadn’t
gained any weight. The most striking difference was that his raven black hair
was now more the color of a dove’s, peppered with so much white it made the
black look gray. But he had kept his strong physique and his stature. He
retained his intimidating posture.

"Father," she countered, and took his hand. His
palm felt dry in her damp one. How odd that she felt guilty when she had done
nothing. Yet terrible pressure sat in her chest, made her track through the
memories of her days to see if anything shameful was there. Usually, she only
felt this way at Mass—as if her soul was stained—but then she’d forgotten how
often her father seemed like the judgmental Lord to her—mercifully forgotten.

"I have longed to see you these years. Your letters
were well written."

She tried on a smile for him. She was conscious of George
who sat still, his hands in his lap. "I had thought not to see you for
years yet. The festival has provided me the chance to see my two men."

Thomas abruptly released her hand and swiped his palm on his
doublet. He took a seat beside George.

"Did you tell your sister I sought her?"

This could mean nothing good, if Thomas was set on accusing
George already.

Anne cut in and answered for her brother. "I planned to
seek you after I broke my fast, Father."

"I’ve been trying to gain you a place in Queen
Catherine’s house, as a lady-in-waiting. What say you to that?"

She'd be home. Home, close to Mary and George.

"I’d say it would be wonderful, Father." She dared
not speak of how it both thrilled and frightened her. France had become
comfortable in these years, and though she’d be near family in England she
worried whether she’d do well in a foreign court. She wasn't sure how many of
the ways she'd cultivated would settle well within the Tudor court. Catherine’s
imperial manner daunted Anne, made her nervous. Queen Claude at least, was
young and timid and willing to befriend her ladies.

Thomas chuckled, and in all the years Anne had spent away
from him, she had never thought of his laughter. It sounded good and wholesome.
Strange that she hadn’t allowed it to reside in her memories of him.

"Then I hope I can gain you a place, Nan. You seem so
taken by the thought." He turned to George and his face darkened suddenly.

"You’ll be harder to place, for you’ve no true
skill." He stroked his beard thoughtfully.

George stood to face him, his voice beseeching, almost
pining and Anne felt bad for him in the moment, knowing that tone would never
gain him the respect he so wanted from Thomas.

"I’ve many talents, Father. Why, I’ve learned French as
well as some Latin. Anne has written to me these years and I’ve spent hours
translating. I’m quite good at it now."

"Then perhaps I can place you with the King
himself." He turned to Anne, almost as though he hadn't inflected the
sentence with sarcasm and hadn't noticed George’s fallen look.

"Now, Nan. We should see about getting you back to your
lady. I hope you don't leave your duties often."

She shook her head unable to speak. She should have known
she’d not escape guiltless.

G
eorge sat, dug his heels into the brown earth. He watched
Thomas steer Anne from the tent into the bright sunshine. His sister's hair
came undone at her nape from a gust of wind and when she peered back that lock
of hair caught in her lashes. She looked pitiful in the instant, with the
shadows playing on her face and Thomas’ hand on her arm. She looked panicked.
An absent hum took over his throat, a melody Anne had contrived years and years
ago. It was a fanciful tune that, if truth be known, was about their father—but
Anne would never admit it. George supposed he hummed because he thought of
Thomas while he sat. He thought of how his father made his chest tighten and
his throat dry.

This time had been different, though. Perhaps it was the way
Thomas degraded him in front of Anne. George wasn’t sure. But the one thing he
knew was that suddenly he'd stood and defended himself. So strange it was too,
to be admitting that he spent days translating a single paragraph from one of
her letters. He’d not wanted anyone to know it took him that long, or that he
was too ignorant to read it for himself. He’d never dared ask Thomas, though he
knew his father would read it aloud to him in English.

He kept each letter secret, fearing what Anne might have
written, knowing Thomas would ask to read them if he knew. And when the letter
would come he’d hoard it and stare at the pages, wondering what they contained.
Down the stairs to the library he’d sneak, and steal one of his Father’s
language books. It would rest beneath his mattress all the next day, waiting
for the night when he’d open it by the light of a candle, and hunch over it at
his desk well into the wee hours of the morning.

He hadn’t wanted either of them to know these things, and so
he merely mentioned that he’d worked at them, and learned skills that his
father left to the slack schoolmaster.

The guilt and shame didn’t have to interfere with his peace,
he decided; rather, he'd cleanse his mind by watching the stragglers peter out,
leaving only a few to sip at goblets or chew on hardened bread. Servants
bustled about, clanging bells to scare dogs or swiping crumbs from the tables.

He thought of his Anne. She was so full of energy, so eager
to prove her worth. He saw how men followed her with their eyes; how women
whispered as she went past. But that wasn’t all of Anne, not even a small
portion. He thought briefly of how often she’d been easily moved to tears or
laughter.

While they’d been apart, he’d often remember her wide black
eyes as they laughed or cried. Memories had been all he’d had of her after
their separation. The actual flesh, now, brought it so clear. Knowing they’d
separate at the end of thirty days and that memories would once again have to
suffice, made him lonely. He shifted his feet, uncrossed them, and re-crossed
them. The smell of damp earth and hay teased his senses, gave him an image of
the two in early evening, enjoying one of their many childhood dusk picnics.
The sounds of birds and the feel of the breeze filled the early eve.

"Father loves you best, George." He recalled her
saying. How small she looked standing beside a tree, becoming part of its
shadow. He remembered rushing to her, holding her hands in his, not sure
whether to deny it indignantly, or comfort the sprit that nagged her.

"It’s not true, Nan. He loves you the more. You’ve his
temper, his wit."

She sighed, fell to the grass in a squat. "He’s proud
he has a child so like him, for sure, but he wishes it were you."

He sat with her. He could smell the strong aroma of
wildflowers.

His chest felt hollow. There was soreness in his spirit,
that his father thought he showed no promise.

He squeezed her hand. "All that Father meant was he’s
disappointed in me—and proud of you. Sweet Jesu, would that it were
different." He pulled her to her feet. "Now come along, we’ve time to
play a game of chess before bed."

In the dusk, he could see her smile, felt relieved.

"Why don’t I beat you at soldiers instead?"

He laughed. "Because you can’t. That’s a game I shall
always win."

In the banquet tent, amid the smells of grease and sounds of
dogs, George grinned. It wasn't much longer after that night that she planned a
coup of his bedroom, and had him yelping when she poured ice cold water onto
his sleeping face. She was a tricky one, that. And she’d have taken over the
house had Thomas not sent her away.