In the Shadow of Lions: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Chronicles of the Scribe #1)(28)
“George,” she whispered. Her heart was dead at this news.
“Why, Anne? Why did you let yourself be pulled into this? Was it not enough that he ruined our sister? Why must he have you, too? Why did you not protect us from this disgrace?”
Anne wanted to cry, but she had no tears. Her body was so dry from the fever, so used and parched, that it took great effort to deliberately wet her tongue enough to speak. George continued, busying himself with the rags, a cold, indifferent tone in his voice.
“The queen and her daughter, Mary, left the court, following the king. They are with him right now. They were not touched by the sweating sickness.”
There was still hope. Anne took her hand, the movement exhausting her once again. She raised her chin, trying to get George to stay close so she wouldn’t have to use too much energy to talk. “There is a nun. She speaks for God. Send for her.”
“The Mad Nun?” George asked, standing back, chewing his lip.
“Go!” Anne commanded.
Chapter Eleven
The scent of earth and roots woke her, and as her eyes focused, she could see a tiny figure draped in black, hunched over a bedside table, crushing something with a mortar and pestle, quietly singing a chant. Anne had heard these chants from the monasteries and found them comforting, but this one thin voice stripped the piece of its charm. Anne was cold.
Liber scriptus proferetur,
In quo totum continetur,
Unde mundus judicetur.
Recordare, Jesu pie,
Quod sum causa tuae viae:
Ne me perdas illa die.
The nun turned. The black wimple draped over her head, the black sleeves that spread as she raised her arms in greeting, unnerved Anne. She saw something in her mind—a black bird in a place of desolation—and shifted in fear, attempting to dislodge the vision.
The nun smiled. “’Tis the skullcap. I have already spread it around thy bed.”
Anne looked and saw that the floor was strewn with green leaves and purple buds, plus something else with a strong odour of old meat.
“It reeks,” Anne said.
“Not many survive the sweats,” the nun said as she worked. “Why did God spare ye?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why did God inflict it upon ye?”
“I don’t know.”
“’Tis why ye called me.”
She went back to grinding at her mortar, turning a bit to keep an eye on Anne as she worked. Removing a black bottle from her robe, she poured a green oil into the crushed powder and began to stir. She dipped a finger in it and tasted it, nodding in approval.
“Here,” she said to Anne, thrusting out the pestle covered in thick green sludge.
“What is it?” Anne asked.
“Eat it. For strength.”
Anne tasted it. The taste was of lettuce and onions. The nun went to work setting onions in the foot of her bed, placing them deep within her sheets. Anne knew they would balance her humours and return her energy. She handed her back the pestle, and the nun scooped more of the green paste onto it and gave it to Anne.
“Why do they call you the Mad Nun?” Anne asked her, in between little tastings.
The woman held up a finger for silence and went to check the door. Finding George just beyond it, she clucked at him and shut the door firmly. She moved back to Anne’s bedside and lay on the floor. Anne sat up in bed to watch.
The nun was a puddle of black, arms extended at her sides and feet on top of each other. She shut her eyes, murmuring under her breath. “What is it you want to know, mistress? My mind is a whirl of confusion and voices today. If we want a clear sign, we must ask a clear question.”
The nun lay lifeless on the floor, waiting for her. Anne had never asked such questions before. All matters of faith were contained in her prayer books and Masses. People were born and they died and God gave them sun and wine to soothe the journey of days between each. But how to tell devil from angel? She could sense the importance of her decisions at every turn, but no one told her how to discern the right path.
“Have I angered God, or am I used by Him for good? Whose word do I trust?”
The nun opened her eyes and stared at her, making Anne cold and frightened. Standing, the nun placed her hands over her heart, tears falling down her cheeks. “There is great darkness around you, mistress. I have no light from God on this.”
“You told me to ask a question!” Anne protested.
The nun moved to her, her feet shuffling softly across the floor, her voice dropping to a low whisper. “Merlin spoke of these days.”
“Merlin was a madman!” Anne said.
“Aye, madness is of God. Merlin prophesied of a mouldwarp, a ruler who would lead England to a bitter break, rending the kingdom, tearing mother from child.” She grabbed Anne’s hands and pressed them to her beating heart, pounding wildly. Anne recoiled, but the nun held firm.
“You speak of Henry?” Anne asked.
“No. May the angels guard your path, my daughter.”
“But you speak for God! Tell me what I am to do!”
A knock on the door startled them and the nun dropped her hands. Her brother entered, pulling a face at the nun. He presented Anne with a great parchment, sealed in red with a fat waxy center, the impression of Henry’s Great Seal of State upon it. Her fingers were stained red as she rubbed it in wonder.