Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) (31 page)

T
ower Green: A hush fell over the assembly as Anne stepped
into the light. The Londoners hung at the fences, and those who had managed to
sneak through the gates, hid in bushes and behind the nobles who were allowed
to witness her execution. Her vision keened suddenly, so that a clear path led
her eyes to a quiet platform built low so that only the viewers directly in
front could see. She thought she saw her mother standing beside the platform,
black hair in a beautiful array about her shoulders, trim figure hunched
pitifully as she wept. She had lost her son already.

Anne wondered if her mother could ever be content again
knowing her husband had abandoned their children. But hers and the faces along
the perimeter of Anne’s sight blurred. She concentrated on walking straight and
holding her head high, and telling herself with determination that she would
truly live in the next moments. Resolution would be the only way she could go
with any sense of decorum or dignity. Above all else; her terror, the
unfairness of it all, Elizabeth's safety must be considered. Anne's dignity
during this, her last social event, would decide it.

Poor Elizabeth. Anne remembered how Henry had carried her on
his shoulders on the day of Catherine’s death, parading her about the court
like a proud father. Would her daughter have a safe future when the mother was
gone? Would she be told how much the mother loved her, but could not nurture
her?

Anne forced her legs to move though they trembled
maddeningly. She pasted a smile on her lips to draw eyes away from the careening
way she walked. Her head she held proudly and haughtily. The ravens had already
gathered, brazenly hanging about the block, ready to fight each other for
scavenge. The sight of them pecking at bits of trash made her stomach churn.
She had been stripped of her title as Queen, but what did it matter? Henry
wanted it all, as he always had, and who was she to hinder him. Merely a woman,
no more, no less.

The thought of it broadened her smile and strengthened her
legs.

Her pride, her only real ally, her only true friend,
returned. It would allow her its support to stand against a man. Merely a man,
despite his insistence of being God. He would be waiting somewhere, probably
with Jane, to hear news of her death, too cowardly to witness it himself. Some
God. The pride came, and so did her spirit, as well as an annoying thought, of
a warning from the bible, ‘Pride goeth before a fall.’ It was a peculiarly
perverse thought and she couldn't squelch the devilish saunter that took over
her legs. The fifty yards uphill to the platform dwindled quickly. The wrinkles
of dismay and fear left with each step. By the time she reached the swordsman,
her face felt clean and smooth; she had decided to send Henry a message,
without endangering Elizabeth.

"Masters," she said,

"I humbly submit to the law as the law hath judged
me." She recalled George's words, knew they had been similar.

"As for my offenses, I here accuse no man. God knows
them; I remit them to God, asking him to have mercy on my soul." She hoped
her meaning would get through—that she didn’t remit her offenses to God, rather
the men who falsely accused her. And if the spectators didn’t understand her
message, surely Henry would grasp it. He knew her mode of speech well enough.

"Save my sovereign and master the King; the most godly,
noble and gentle prince that is, and long may he reign over you." Take
that Henry. It was imperative that she speak well of him, for Elizabeth's sake,
but she said it with a sarcastic bite, and she smiled briefly knowing he would
hear of it. With a deep breath, and a twinge of nervousness, she knelt, and
waited for her women to remove her headdress.

"To Jesu Christ, I commend my soul," she began.
The words, merely a breath at first, gained strength as she spoke. The block
looked black and sooty, grooved on one side where she should have had to place
her neck had the instrument been the customary axe. The straw was clean and
aromatic around the base. For an instant she wanted to scream, but squelched it
with her mantra.

"To Jesu Christ, I commend my soul." She thought
of the almoner and the beautiful soul that shone through his eyes. He had given
her her first true glimpse of God. That a simple man could give up his life and
his nights for the belief that God loved, rather than meted justice, made her
realize he owned something the great Cardinals did not. In the instant she
knew. Her price had indeed been paid. A quiet peace engulfed her.

"Who has the sword?" The thick timbre of the
executioner’s heavily accented voice came to her ears. Her mind went blank.
What, he didn't have it? How cruel that they could make her wait another moment
for the peace that was her due. She turned away from the block, gave a cursory
glance around the platform. In the seconds she saw hundreds of grim faces, and
hands before open mouths, felt a sudden clenching in her chest. In the seconds
she saw her sister’s eyes suddenly grow wide and wet, her hand stuffed into her
mouth and her chest heave with a sudden spasm. In those seconds she wanted to
weep with her sister, for her brother, for her daughter. But the seconds died
as quickly as the need to cry.

"To Jesu I commend my soul..." She began to
whisper again, for those seconds told her the executioner had indeed, the
sword.

H
enry cantered to the parlor. Ah, she was still
there—unmoved, quiet as a church mouse. Her face was as genteel and untroubled
as an angel in rest. Beautiful, meek, Jane. He could hardly wait to give her
this good news.

"Dearest," he began, and he was startled to see
her jump as he said it. So special, to see her so timid, so pious that his
voice could startle her.

"I have news," he said, but he refrained from
saying more. He wanted to be next to her when he told her—close—his hand on
hers.

"Yes?" Her voice sounded nervous, expectant.
Perhaps she worried the other had been reprieved. No chance of it, she had been
found guilty, and there could be no reprieve for a guilty woman—and so the
news. Dead, dead, dead. Ha Ha!! The witch was dead. But he felt a small tug of
guilt at his conscience, squelched it impatiently. She shouldn't have tortured
him so. But then, if she hadn't, would he have noticed sweet Jane, modest Jane?
The other had granted the favor, and he had repaid it. Such torturous, long
years of being shackled. Prison of woes, that marriage, that relationship.
Nothing had ever gone right. Never a moment of peace, or of happiness. And now
it was over, thankfully, gratefully, over. And now, Jane. Oh, for the sons you
will bring, the happiness you will bear. The kind of happiness and peace I
deserve, the sons I deserve. He sat next to her. The warmth of her body
engulfed him like sweet honey. Her perfume enveloped him; sexless; guileless.
He was entranced.

"The witch has been executed," he blurted. For
shame, such a callous statement, perhaps he should have cushioned it somehow,
for sweet, tactful Jane. Her lips curled into a small 'o' and he touched them
with his finger.

"Hush. She bewitched me. She's met her fate." Then
he realized he should sound more sympathetic.

"Poor wretch," he added. Doubtless Jane felt
charity for the other.

"Now we may be wed. If you wish it." Ah, the
relief in the words. To say them finally with clear conscience. As of today, he
was truly free; no mottled, uncertain validities, no threats of excommunication,
no stubborn barriers. Catherine was gone—no hindrance there. And now the witch.
He shuddered. He didn't even want to think of it. But she had deserved every
ounce of penalty—hadn't she?

Jane looked at him, blue eyes wide, full of sweetness, light
ash hair curtaining them.

"Yes," she said,

"We shall." Her voice was soft like velvet. How
much he loved velvet, so soft and soothing.

"Tomorrow," he insisted,

"We shall be betrothed." And then reminded himself
that it should be secret. The city had unfortunately rallied around the other;
the heat of their hatred, altered. Somehow they thought justice had miscarried.
To a Londoner, no greater sin existed.

"Should it be a private ceremony?" she asked. How
wonderful, to hear such tact. His reply came automatically.

"Yes, dearest." Had she read his thoughts? Could
he be that transparent? Why, Nicholas had the same ability.

"I saw a hare earlier, running across my lawn,"
she said absently. The hare—sign of a witch. How coincidental. Perhaps he could
use it.

"A hare?" he asked, enjoying the study of her
features; so polished, so refined.

"Yes," she said and he had the odd sense that she
was reciting.

"It streaked across my lawn right about eleven."

"Why, that's the time she was executed." He
couldn’t believe his good fortune. The city would love such a tale. And
hopefully, it would quell some of their late defense of the other—if they
believed she were evil.

"Hmm." He rubbed his chin.

"Perhaps a hare will run every year at this time. She
was a witch, you know. We're better rid of her."

"Yes," Jane smiled, and he thought how it suited
her.

"Better rid." And then, strangely, she laughed,
and he, relieved that life would at last follow his direction, joined her.

-30-

As a sample, here's a taste of
Throwing
Clay Shadows

Isle of Eigg: The Croft: March 26, 1807

Something was wrong with Ma's belly. It was as big as a lump
of bread dough, puffing up over the bowl so secretly, it didn’t seem to grow at
all till she looked at it next.  Maggie hated that about bread dough, that it
grew when she wasn’t looking, and now matter how long she stared at it, trying
to figure out how it got bigger, it just wouldn’t budge till she got tired and started
playing with her favorite dollie Bessie. She’d forget all about watching the
bowl, and there would be the dough. All rounded up and stinky and wanting
fingers to poke into it. So for sure, she hated how the stuff grew. And she
hated that Ma’s belly seemed to be keeping the same kind of secret.

It had grown into a bulging thing that made Ma sigh a lot
and rub it a lot and, when she thought Maggie wasn't watching, talk to it a
lot. The belly shortened Ma's usual long step and made her breathe heavy as
though she was lugging a pot too large to handle. The belly pressed forward all
the time, taking all the attention in the cottage and stealing touches from Da.
But the belly couldn't trick Maggie; it hadn't  always been big. Oh no. The day
Maggie had made it to four fingers old, it had barely been there.

That was when Ma told Maggie there would be a sister, and
because Ma knew things, Maggie believed it. Once, Ma told her that Da would
hurt his thumb with his axe and sure enough, the morning came and he came
clumping in from the yard, holding onto his hand with thick, red liquid
covering the sleeve of his leine.

Later, she sat with Ma next to the fireplace where it was
good and warm and listened to all the stories Ma had of the old days and the
Highlands that she didn't visit no more. Sometimes there'd even be lessons
about how to come to know things like Ma did, all in the accent that was so
much stronger than Da's, "Close yer eyes, my own. Look a' the colors
behind. They'll turn into kin, if ye want them tae."

Maggie tried hard to let the colors behind her lids change;
she really wanted Ma to be proud of her. Sometimes she'd manage it, and she'd
see Ma or Da, and sometimes if she was lucky she got to see the young boy
wearing a strange white kilt that sometimes visited her in dreams. She wasn't
sure she liked those dreams; they always made her feel all squirmy when she
woke up. Mostly, though, all she saw when she tried to see things was just the
black that came with closed eyes.

It was much easier to spend her open-eye time watching for
the sister.

So she waited and waited
for the sister but nothing changed except the belly in its own secret way. It
kept swelling like bread in a pan till she had to bend her neck backward just
to look up and catch Ma's attention. Ma got a cough, too, that came more often
and lasted longer as the belly grew. The cough made Ma's eyes water and made Da
squinch his caterpillar brows together and grumble about the damp that came up
through the mud floor.

Then Ma stopped moving
around the cottage at all. She took to lying in bed all day. The coughs came in
between horrible moaning sounds, then yelling sounds—and then cursing sounds.
Hearing Ma curse was terrible enough but when she cursed at Da, well, that made
Maggie grab her dollie and hide under the table to get away from it all.

"I want Ma not to
cough," she told Bessie as they played beneath the table, but Bessie said
nothing back, her painted-on dollie mouth was tucked into a smile that Maggie
wanted to scratch off, just this once.

She loved Bessie. Bessie
slept with her every night and grinned at her every morning, but today she
couldn't stand the dollie's frozen smile. It was wrong to smile today. Wrong
with Ma in bed and Da touching her forehead every time she groaned.

Maggie wanted to shut
out the sounds, and every time she heard Da complain, "It isn't time. It
isn't time..." she wanted to fling Bessie across the floor and yell at him
to stop. She wanted everything to go back to the way it always was, with Ma and
a small belly, with Da looking after the sheep and with Bessie being just a
dollie with a stupid smile. Dumb dollie. Didn't she know she shouldn't smile
today. Dollies should be careful if they didn't want to get a licking.

Maybe if she scraped a
nail across the pink lips, she could scratch off the stupid smile. The pink
stayed bright. She tried again. Again the lips stayed painted. No matter how
much she scraped, Bessie still smiled and Ma still groaned and coughed.

Maybe she could work on
the lessons. Maybe today she could get the colors behind her eyes to change
into pictures. She'd pretend to be that boy with the white kilt. Sentu, his
name was, Sentu, in his land with no water. And Bessie could be his friend, the
one called Ahmen. Of course, he would get hurt—and good for him too, for
smiling on such a day.

A screech came from Ma's
bed that made Maggie feel like she did when she got caught pulling hair out of
the hound's ear. Oh oh. She was going to get a licking now and all because she
wanted Ahmen to get hurt. She shouldn't have wished it. Ma always knew when she
was being a bad girl. Maybe if she squeezed her eyes right tight no one would
see her and they'd forget she was being bad.

The colors behind her
eyelids exploded into tiny bits. They had never done that before. And when the
colors disappeared, she saw a new person in her mind: a young lass with skin
the color of walnut bark. She had on an
airisaidh
of feathers instead of the usual plaid, this
lass. How grand it would be to wear wings like that and not have to wear the
stinky wool plaid that scratched her shoulders when it got wet. Those feathers
looked soft on the lass; she looked content to wear such finery.

The lass beckoned to her
with a long finger and Maggie caught a look at her eyes; they were different
colors: one brown, one green. She wasn't sure she liked the way those eyes
looked at her—looked through her and made her feel as though the bad things
she'd been doing were even worse now the young lass knew about them. Oh, how
she wished she'd not wanted to hurt Ahmen.

Then she was gone, and
Maggie felt like her head was spinning in circles and Da was saying, "Come
to, lassie, come to."

She peeped open one eye
to see him crouched down next to her, swiping a tear from his stubbly cheek.
She thought of the sheep and their babies and how he always crooned to them
when they first were born and wrapped the lambs into his
leine
for a
moment because he liked the newness of them. Now, a woolen lump got pressed
close to Maggie's nose as she crouched beneath the table, but it didn't smell
like a lamb. It had the same salty smell, but it didn't smell like barn and
manure the way the sheep smelled either.

"It's a sister for
ye, lass," he told her, squinching his brows even lower. He wiggled his
ears, and she couldn't help smiling. Da's ears were so big they could make a
hound bitch mistake him for her pup or so Ma always said.

Maybe it wouldn't be so
bad to crawl out enough to peek at the lump.

It was a strange thing,
the sister, not at all what she'd thought it would look like; she had thought
it would look like the lass she'd seen behind her eyelids, but this wee thing
wasn't even the same color. Maggie could almost see through its eyelids. It had
no hair; its wrinkled mouth worked into a cry she could hardly hear. It was
really a very ugly thing.

Da rose then, and made
his way over to the bed where he slipped the lump of wool between the covers
next to Ma.

Maggie wanted to see
more of the lump. She scrambled over to the bed, not able to stop looking at it:
the pink skin; the faerie fingers. There was something about this...thing, this
small person that was the sister that made a squirming started up in her
belly just like when she had those dreams about Sentu and Ahmen. Her belly
twisted around in there, crept up her chest and sat on her tongue. Something
was there. Some word. Some name. And every time she looked at the wee sister,
that word-name wanted to be spoken. Though she couldn't move her tongue into
whatever form the word wanted to take, she thought right away of the lass with
walnut-bark skin.

Hugging Bessie close,
she climbed onto the bed from the bottom where Ma's deer-long legs were covered
with her favorite plaid.

"Come tae me,
Maggie lass," Ma whispered. "Have a wee peek at yer sister."
Then she started coughing again.

Da's hands were on
Maggie's belly as he tried to pull her away.

"Leave her, Ang. It
willna be long." Ma told him, reaching out a free hand.

Maggie made for it,
worming her way to the top of the bed.

"She
shouldn't..." Da started to say, but Ma shushed him the way she did when
Maggie tried the no word on her.

And then Ma was pulling
her close enough that the sister's screwed-shut eyes could be poked.

"Aye, she's real,
lass," she said.

"She gots no
hair," Maggie complained. Everything had hair, even the lambs when they
were born.

Maggie felt a kiss land
on her head as Ma chuckled. "Aye, but it's nae trouble," she said.

"I have hair,"
Maggie said proudly. Yes, she had hair and this new sister had none. She felt
strangely happy about that for she knew Ma liked to touch it; she always
crooned over the mane she called 'silkie skin but for the rat's nest,' and now
she said the words she always did when Maggie tried to twist away from the
inevitable brushing.

"Ye've hair like my
Ma's, "Ma said, sighing. "Shame for it tae take a thousand strokes
tae straighten the mess."

This time Ma didn't try
to smooth it down and Maggie cuddled in close. It was warm there with Ma and
with the sister. So warm.

She woke in her own
bed, scratching her leg where a bedbug had been busy. Any sounds that had come
from Ma's bed had stopped. Da stood in the middle of the cottage, holding onto
a sister-sized bundle of wool that he placed on the floor next to the hearth.
He barely moved for a moment, eyes that could be counted on to wink at her
didn't even slip over her body; instead they were open as wide as those of an
about-to-be-supper lamb.