In the Shadow of Lions: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Chronicles of the Scribe #1)(24)

“How will it come into the country?” Sir Thomas asked.

“Aye, the usual way. New book, same tricks. They’ll smuggle it in at the ports, each bundle marked with a blue cloth tied around it. Thomas … we can bring him in before the damage is done.”

“All right. Give the order to raid the printer’s shop. Confiscate everything. I doubt your men can read, so I don’t want them choosing what it is that I want. Confiscate the presses, the dyes, the letters, the papers, and above all else, get me Hutchins.”

“Alive?”

There was a silence, and the hairs on Rose’s neck began to rise.

“Aye, alive. He should die in full view of the English people. A fire consuming the flesh is a mercy to these types, purging them of their sin before they meet the Almighty, who will show them so much less grace. And perchance his miserable screaming death will save a good citizen from ruin. The commonwealth does not know the pestilence this man brings. It will be my honour to save them from it.”

A hand on Rose’s arm made her jump, but another shot out and clasped itself on her mouth. Rose spun and saw Margaret. Margaret released her, motioning for silence, and fled to the garden.



“What is it they said?” Margaret demanded.

“What were you doing in the hall?” Rose asked.

“Oh, pox! What is it they said?”

The air was chilly, a late-morning rain still playing on the extravagantly green leaves, and Rose frowned. The wind blew raindrops into her face.

“If I tell you, can we go inside?” Rose replied.

Margaret nodded and leaned in. Seeing her father exit the house with a man dressed in the red livery of a law clerk, she wrapped her arm through Rose’s and pretended to stroll about. Neither man paid them notice though the rain grew heavier.

“There is to be a raid on a printer’s press, and Hutchins is going to be captured alive, to be brought here for burning.”

Margaret chewed her lips. “All right” was all she said as she released Rose’s arm and turned to run back to the house.

Rose caught her. “What’s going on?”

“Go back to your quarters, Rose. This does not concern you. It is simply his work, and you should see to yours.”

Rose pressed in close to her, looking down with a stern grimace. “You are my work. Something is going on which I suspect your father would be displeased by. You’re young and stupid. There is nothing beyond those walls that you want, Margaret.”

Margaret looked pale. “Whatever you think you know, Rose, keep it to yourself, I beg you. My father could be ruined.”

“What on earth are you up to that could ruin him?”

Margaret wouldn’t answer. She turned her attention to her shoes, wiggling her toes and watching them in earnest.

“All right,” Rose finished. “I’ll not say a word on one condition.”

Margaret looked at her.

“Move me to your bedroom. I’ll sleep on the trundle.”

Margaret started to protest, but Rose waved her off. “Servants know how to give orders too. I am decided in this. You need to be watched. And Margaret, I have mastered my letters. I want to read everything you touch: every book, every letter.”

Margaret went limp, her mouth opening as she pointed beyond Rose. “It’s the queen!”



I shook my hands out. “I agreed to take down one story, not two. What are you trying to do, kill me?”

“There is only one story,” he said.

The joke was lost on him.

“Why Anne Boleyn?” I asked. “Everyone and their brother has written an Anne Boleyn story. You might be a great angel, but you’d starve as a writer.”

He paid no mind. “There are angels in England. The air in London is thick with them in this age. It is they who move the women into place, who move about positioning the players so that His will may be done.”

I frowned. “Thank you for giving me my computer back.”

“Yours?” he asked.

I blushed.

“I forgot how easily you forget what is stolen.”

My face went pale; the fear and dread made my head swim. I didn’t want to live to see tomorrow.

“You are afraid?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Do not be afraid for the women in our stories, though the pageantry is about to turn bloody and wild. Angels with drawn swords will shepherd them across this stage.”

I had no idea what he meant. But I knew he couldn’t read my mind, which surprised me. I called him fat in my head.

“Who was William Hutchins?” he asked me, in a tone that said he did not expect an answer. “What is the rock they break themselves upon?”

I shook my head.





Chapter Ten

May had by now faded and was being daily persuaded to give way to summer. The sun stretched its rays further and stronger, like a thousand lances determined to strike a strong blow and leave a red mark. The sun was the only challenge to his glory that Henry could not conquer, Anne thought with a wry smile.

He caught her smile and laughed. “How do I amuse you, mistress?”

“I am not your mistress! Nor your wife!” Anne yelled, being careful to keep the reins in hand. This horse was much different than the courser she had in France. She did not care for his churlish temper.