Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) (4 page)

A
nne found the two Queens already at the tiltyard, the pale
wheat colored hair of Claude close to that of Catherine’s shining auburn. Mary
was there, gesturing for Anne to hurry to the seat she’d saved. She took it
quickly. Ah, the smells of the field. She drew a deep breath. The scents of the
various grasses and flowers mixed with the fragrances of many people. Even the
faint aroma of perspiration did nothing to dampen her spirits. How she loved the
colorful scene of crimson and greens against a backdrop of gold canvas and blue
sky. She only wished she hadn’t decided to wear velvet; it attracted the heat
as if it were a cast iron pot. Her head must have been in her pottage this
morning.

The English King had the field. Covered with armor and
screaming like the legendary banshee, he also had the crowd. They hissed his
opponent with vehement passion, and threw oranges into his path. Despite the
distractions, Henry sat his horse with skill, tilted with ease. Anne watched as
the horses rode hard toward each other, and in an instant swerved away by just
inches.
Grand Dieu
, but he was good. Anne peeked at Catherine who sat
stiffly in her seat.

"How lucky Catherine is to have such a man for husband;
kind, attractive, athletic." A large cheer went up from the crowd even as
she spoke, followed by an equally loud hiss as Henry took a heavy blow.

"Yet she seems to care not," Anne continued.

Mary, who’d been busy craning her neck toward the field,
followed her gaze.

"It’s her way. She’ll no more show an emotion on her
face than she’ll refuse to give alms. She's older than Henry, and more settled.
Besides, she has the added burden of trying to provide the country with its
heir."

"I suppose there’s truth in that; I hear she’s lost too
many babies to keep her youth. She looks positively ancient next to Queen
Claude."

Mary shrugged, obviously uninterested, then leaned in
conspiratorially. "Yes, yes. Enough about Catherine. Let’s speak of the
King."

"The King?" Anne grew suspicious. "Which
one?"

Mary pouted, her pretty, winning pout that always meant
sarcasm. "Henry, you fool. Do you think I’d choose to discuss Francois?
That beast."

Anne grinned her answer, biting her lip to keep control of
her sarcasm. She knew Mary could speak of Francois far more intimately than any
woman in England could.

"Is he not handsome?" Mary grimaced as Henry’s
opponent fell from his horse.

"I suppose." Anne agreed. "But rather like a
peacock. Why, he barely looks ruffled, even after his challenges. I can say
naught as much for the Breton." She rose when she saw the Queens step down
from their seats. Her skirt snared on a splinter of wood and she pulled at it
crossly.

"Shouldn't your concern be for our King?" Mary
arranged her skirts and stepped from the platform onto dry sun-baked dirt.

"
Pourquoi
?" Anne's eyebrows rose in
pretended bewilderment. "Yours left the field untouched."

"Because you're English, Anne. You should at least have
cheered him on." Mary held out her hand to help support Anne's descent.
The skirts really could be tricky to maneuver without getting them stained with
mud and dung.

"He didn't need it—it was obvious from the beginning
that our side needed all the sympathy."

"There you go again. 'Our side', is English, not
French."

"English, French... We're all the same in God's eyes.
But if I choose to consider myself French, I shall."

"I won't argue with you. You always get your way."

Anne, her hopes blown of a promising debate, opted for an
alternative topic.

"About Henry, Mary..."

"Oh, yes, I was about to tell you something." Mary
lowered her voice as they left the field, walking arm in arm through the
quickly dispersing crowd who seemed bent on hurrying to the wine-filled
fountains. Anne suspected it would be more of how handsome Henry was, so
allowed her attention to wander. She regretted it almost instantly when she
caught the gist of what Mary was saying.

"I beg your leave?" she asked, thinking she’d
better hear it again to be sure.

"Henry and I... we've been... well..." Mary's
voice, even lower than the whisper Anne had nearly missed, revealed nothing,
but alluded to something Mary felt no embarrassment over, and which
uncharacteristically displayed discretion by its low tones. That meant just one
thing to Anne.

"Are you saying that you are Henry’s mistress?"
She lowered her voice to a hoarse bark. The effort scratched her throat and
made her cough.

Mary nodded, smiling. "Yes." Her abrupt giggle
reminded Anne of a young girl. "For about a month now."

She pressed her lips close to Anne’s ear and her whisper was
so hoarse with excitement, Anne almost pulled away. "There’s a secret
passage between the temporary lodgings and the castle of Guisnes so he may take
his reprieve of the festival—and gain some privacy."

"And you... use it?"

Mary’s bawdy smack and lifted brow gave Anne her answer.
With a lick of her lip, she continued walking, pulling Anne along by the
sleeve.

Anne planted her feet in the grass.

"
Grand Dieu
! You'd think you'd have learned your
lesson by now."

"It’s naught but a little fun." Mary pouted. This
time the pout meant obstinacy.

"The same fun you were expelled from France for,"
Anne countered quickly, trying her best to keep her footing against the rush of
crowds.

Mary’s brow lifted sarcastically.

"Ah, so you’re on Marguerite’s side, are you?" She
glared towards the French princess, rolled her eyes when they glanced back in
Anne’s direction. "Ah, that high-born French pastry. Perhaps I should go
over, Anne. Tell her of a few things that excite her brother, the King."
Mary laughed suddenly, a high toned, zealous one, and Anne folded her arms
across her stomach.

"I wonder if she’d like to know how he enjoyed watching
me with his friends... or perhaps she’d try to expel him from France as
well."

"No doubt it was your persuasion that lured him into
those liaisons. After all, he is like a saint."

Mary made a face.

"Perhaps to Satan he is." She harrumphed.
"But if Marguerite chooses to believe that demon spawn is godly, then so
be it. I can barely wait to see her face on Judgment Day, when his activities
are made known to the lowest commoner. Hah! How fare you there?"

Anne shrugged her shoulders deferentially. "I received
a gown from his grace... I even wore it to the last dance." She laughed
suddenly, loudly. "When he came ’round to ask how I liked it, I told him
it made my legs itch—that the last woman he gave it to must have had lice in
her nether hair. Whew! Such a face he made."

A spray of red wine flew from Mary’s mouth, landed on the
grass. "Good Lord! He must have been clenching his thin lip with those
ratty teeth of his."

"
Mais non
, my dear Mary, not at all" Anne
teased. "Oh, his face paled to white for a moment, but when I grinned at
him, he took to laughing. You know how bawdy a sense of humor he has."

"Indeed," Mary remarked, her attention already
wavering to a conversation nearby where one of the other ladies had begun
oohing and ahhing over King Henry. She looked angry and her posture went rigid.
Anne touched her shoulder to distract her.

"And what of Catherine, have you not any pity for her
whilst you bed her husband?"

Mary shrugged. "If not me, then he’d find another. The
Queen has learned to accept it. The love he bore her once is long gone. He’s
told me so. And the strain of trying to secure the throne has dulled any
remaining affection."

"Have you ever thought that perhaps his affection is
dulled because he has a young spirited mistress to sway his conscience?"

"Truly, Anne, his affection or lack of it for Catherine
doesn't matter. I’m not a jealous lover who believes I have a right to his mind
and body. I enjoy him when he’s with me, and I know he can make me a match when
he tires of me. And maybe then Father will see I’m not a fool."

Mary turned away suddenly. "But let's forget this for
now," she said acting as though they had spoken of nothing but the
weather. "His Grace draws near."

Anne watched Henry come closer, accompanied by the packs of
gentlemen who pandered to their King. She wondered how Catherine lived with the
agony of knowing she failed her King and country, and she pitied her. As Henry
came closer still, his eyes full of hunger as he captured Mary's, the musings
seeded a thought—it was no wonder Catherine couldn't get with child, her
husband was spending his inheritance elsewhere.

"Good afternoon, my lady." Henry said when he drew
near.

His hair looked a dark red, wet as it was with sweat, and
his blue eyes were round and bright with merriment. He had discarded his armor,
in favor of a light doublet of tissue cloth. Anne hadn’t expected to be so taken
by him. He had a feminine handsomeness, true, but he carried it well. His
russet blond hair was cut into the French fashion and framed his cherub face.
His lithe frame tapered to well-muscled legs with calves larger than any man's
she’d seen.

At once, she resented Mary's paleness, and her own darkness.
Suddenly her sister, giddy, discretionless Mary, became the most beautiful
woman on the field. Henry stared at her face as if it would be the last and
only face he’d ever see. His body screamed that it wanted to touch her. Such a
pleasure must come from that look; such a longing must accompany it. They both
curtsied low, and as Henry raised them, Anne tried desperately to keep a crazy
smile from her face. Images of this fair, solid man with her tiny sister kept
creeping to her mind and for some odd reason, the thought of it thrilled her.
She envisioned him with face flushed, whispering of things she’d yet to
experience.

"Your Grace." Mary smiled prettily. "Have you
met my younger sister, Anne?"

Thankfully, Anne had reason to curtsey again, and lower her
face to hide the smile. As the King took her hand, she squelched the grin,
concentrating on beguiling him as she would any courtier.

"My lady," he said blandly, then turned his gaze
back to Mary.

He may well be the English King, but that couldn’t excuse
his rudeness. In French court, a lady’s advances were met with equal fervor,
not this cool detachment. Anne expected a polite acknowledgment at the very
least. Instead of walking away, which she wanted to do, she returned an equally
cool, "Your Grace."

She studied him for a moment, his slight allowing Anne the
freedom of comparing him to King Francois, who may well be lecherous, but who
made a woman feel exquisite. Now she noticed something she hadn't previously, a
set line to his square jaw, a hunger in his eyes that had nothing to do with
his desire for Mary, and a cruel crook to his full mouth.

She no longer cared that he was attractive, nor did she care
to be in his company a moment longer. No wonder Queen Catherine looked so
bored—her husband probably showed her as much passion as would a monk. She
excused herself with less civility than normal, then set out to find George
again; he’d certainly be better company than a lovesick sister would. She peered
back at Mary, hating to be alone in the crowd, and saw her standing too close
to Henry.

A shiver crept up her neck when she noticed that Mary's
animated conversation couldn't keep his attention, but that he was already
seeking out the glances of others and when he found Anne's, he locked on it.
How odd that he held Anne’s eye; he had shown no interest moments ago. She
found it difficult to tear her gaze away from that transfixing stare.

W
hen George found his sister hanging closely to the fountain,
he hurried over. She stood glaring at some poor oaf who had apparently fallen
into the basin. Red wine dripped from one arm as he pawed at Anne’s skirt with
the other. His sister needed rescuing, and though it was George’s turn to
joust, he waved to the scorekeeper and sprinted from the field to go to her
aid.

"How well would ye like to see what I’ve hidden here
beneath me cod piece?" The fellow’s speech, though slurred, was quite
plain as George drew near. Oblivious to those he shoved and pushed, and deaf to
their curses, George made it close enough to hear her tart reply.

"Why, sir," she answered, "I can see what is
beneath; as it’s dangling quite grotesquely from the edge."

Well, and so that was that. And to think he had relinquished
his turn at the games to show her some chivalry. George wanted to pat the man’s
shoulder in sympathy when he saw how he slunk off. The wine-sopped shirt melted
into the crowd and was gone.

"Ho, Nan!" George grinned. The terrible storm on
her face mellowed.

"Ho, brother." She walked toward him, lifting her
skirts as she avoided a patch of manure.

"Let’s find a place to sit far from this crowd."
He guided her away from the fountains and toward the minstrel’s tent. They
found a seat near the back. The lilting tone of a lute seasoned the low rumble
of a happy, slightly inebriated crowd.

"Did you know I've been betrothed?" George could
tell his face hung to the dirt. He'd got the news just that morning from his
father, and the thought of being married made him ill.

"And who could father find would take you?"

"Pah." He spit. "Some Morley girl. Her
father's a friend of ours. But I'll have none of it. I've agreed to marry her,
but not ’til I'm good and ready."

He studied her face. It had been so long. Too long.

For a moment, he recalled the night before she had left for
the Netherlands. Seven years past was it? He had only been a boy, barely old
enough to understand that she was leaving for good. Probably never to return.
They lay in bed together, the quilts curled into a small ball beneath her chin
as she spoke, staring out into the early gloom of the chamber.

"I’m afraid." She looked at him for an instant,
the wetness in her eyes shone in the firelight. He wanted to hold her, to shush
her as his mother did so often with him. He dared not—Father had said he was
growing, and such things were not for a man. Still he yearned to comfort her,
and it seemed she pleaded with him for the same.

"It will be exciting in the Archduchess’ court, Nan.
Think of the things you’ll see." Her voice took on a harsh whisper as
well.

"That doesn’t stop the fear."

"As well it shouldn’t." He tried to comfort her.
"I think we should always fear what we don’t know. It keeps us from
treading where angels darest not."

"I suppose you’re right." She gave him a quick
hug. "Father says with the experience I may well wait on our Queen when
the time comes."

"Yes." He gave a wry smile. "And it’ll get
you out from under my foot. I may well be able to make a few friends without
you here to coddle me."

She slapped his shoulder and he stuck his tongue at her. The
next morning, that tongue was too thick to speak. An early morning mist
enveloped the pier, touched her lashes so they looked wet with tears. He could
only touch her chin, stare into her eyes. Now years later, he could hardly
believe she sat beside him, reveled in the feel of her hand in his.

"I missed you." He watched her grin, knowing she
needed to hear it.

"It’s for certain you did. But in all that time, I only
received four letters—less than one a year."

He shifted in his seat, tried to think of a witty remark,
knew as he struggled for one, she’d better it. He’d be left sitting and trying
to think of another.

"It’s only that your clumsy efforts at French made your
letters hard to understand. It took me all that time to decipher what you were
trying to say."

"
Grand Dieu
! My French is impeccable. Certainly
Father would have translated had you been brave enough to ask."

"Bravery has little to do with it—I didn't dare show
your ineptness to Father. But alas, I’ve lost interest in this debate. I’d
rather listen to stories of your bawdy French court."

The way her jaw slackened told him he’d won. Where had that
remark come from about her ineptitude? He dared not think on it—if the muses
were with him today, he’d better not tempt them. She harrumphed, touched his
arm in a tender way.

"Not all the stories are so intriguingly bawdy. Some
are grim." She crossed her arms against her chest, it was a habit she had
so that she could tuck her finger with the extra nail beneath the ring finger
of the same hand. She only did that when she was uncomfortable, or
self-conscious. He chewed his lip, touched her hand.

"What is it, sister?"

"A lady friend of mine died last month."

"I’m sorry to hear it." He knew she had few women
friends, and to lose one would have grieved her more than most. He fingered her
nails, clasped her hand tightly. She turned away, but he caught sight of the
tears.

"She was with child." Anne closed her eyes, the
thick curve of black lash rested on the rise of her cheek. He brushed them,
released the wetness.

"Her husband cut the babe from her womb and laid it in
her arms. And all because the child was not his."

George couldn’t help the gasp that broke from his throat.

"How could a man act so? Why?"

"Why? Why." She shook her head. "I don't
know. I only know she told me of her fear weeks before. I remember the bruises
she’d try to cover all the months I had known her. I remember her disgust as he
paraded mistress after mistress. I know of her joy when she fell in love."

He swallowed a great lump that wouldn’t go down, no matter
how hard he tried.

She straightened, as if she didn’t want to think on it
anymore, didn’t want to share it.

"It happens much in France—a man grows tired of his
wife, or finds a wealthy mistress. One man stabbed his wife to death and
bragged about it in court. Francois let him go free. Strange, is it not, that
the man may philander but the lady must be content to allow it."

"It won't happen to you, Nan. Certainly you’re no
heiress and Father is in no hurry to marry you off."

"No. He’ll await a promising union for me, I
imagine."

Her voice was hard as she went on. "And as for Sara—in
the end she found happiness, mustered the courage to save her pride. She may
have died for it, but I admire her."

George felt strangely forlorn. Surely Anne would find love,
rather than shackles. Why even his own betrothal was not that bad when he
thought on it. She was a sweet girl, naive, meek. Though his sister was neither
of the two, he knew she’d enchant any man Father chose. He believed Anne would
make her union pleasant. He had to believe it.