In the Shadow of Lions: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Chronicles of the Scribe #1)(29)

She looked up, her brother watching her with an accusing stare. The nun was gone.

Anne,

I and my heart put ourselves in your hands, begging you to have them as suitors for your good favour, and that your affection for them should not grow less through absence. For it would be a great pity to increase my sorrow since absence does it sufficiently, and more than ever I could have thought possible, reminding us of a point in astronomy, which is, that the longer the days are, the farther off is the sun, and yet the more hot.

So it is with our love, for by absence we are parted, yet nevertheless it keeps its fervour, at least on my side, and I hope on yours also: assuring you that on my side the ennui of absence is already too much for me: and when I think of the increase of what I must needs suffer, it would be well nigh unbearable for me, were it not for the firm hope I have. And as I cannot be with you in person, I am sending you the nearest possible thing, namely, my picture set in a bracelet.

Wishing myself in their place when it shall please you.

This by the hand of your loyal servant and friend,

Henry

George produced a black velvet bag, which made a clinking noise as he set it in her hand. She pulled open the drawstring, pouring out a gold bracelet made of interlocking roses, Henry’s portrait set in the center, with gold filigree all around him. Anne touched it gently with her fingers, the gold making the red stains darker on her hands.

“A reply?” George asked.

“No reply,” she answered. “There is no reply.”



Two more days passed and more strength returned, pouring into her bones like sunlight flooding through an eastern window, her body warming and springing back to life. She took nothing for granted, drinking wine more slowly, letting it sit on her tongue and tasting it with relish. A cook made her the most delicious pies, brought trays to her bed, still steaming from the ovens below. She loved to cut a slit into the top crust, peeling it off to set it aside, watching the steam roil up and away, inhaling the scent of thyme and venison. Even her sweetmeats, the perfect little bubbles of berries set into silver dishes, made her groan with the pleasure of life. Anne turned her face towards the sun as it rose above her room and sighed. She would find her footing. God’s graces were so many, so rich, and so sustaining that they left no room for rotten fears.



On the third day, George entered, once more holding again a letter bearing the Great Seal.

I beseech you now with all my heart definitely to let me know your whole mind as to the love between us; for necessity compels me to plague you for a reply, having been struck by the dart of love, and being uncertain either of failure or of finding a place in your heart and affection, which point has certainly kept me for some time from naming you my mistress, since if you only love me with an ordinary love the name is not appropriate to you, seeing that it stands for an uncommon position very remote from the ordinary. But if it pleases you to do the duty of a true loyal mistress and friend, and to give yourself body and heart to me, who have been, and will be, your very loyal servant, I promise you that not only the name will be due to you, but also to take you as my sole mistress, casting off all others than yourself out of mind and affection, and to serve you only; begging you to make me a complete reply to this, my rude letter, as to how far and in what I can trust; and if it does not please you to reply in writing, to let me know of some place where I can have it by word of mouth, the which place I will seek out with all my heart. No more for fear of wearying you.

Written by the hand of him who would willingly remain yours.

Henry

What was Anne to do with this? There was no word of Catherine or her fate. There was no word from the nun.

She called for a writing desk, which was brought and laid across her lap. Carefully she peeled back the wax seal over the inkwell, took her quill, and began to write. Her graceful hand failed her today, though, and she threw several attempts at letters away.

My king:

For your letters I am grateful, though I wonder that a poor servant of the king should find such favour. I am obediently yours in all matters, but you must not ask me to do that which I cannot, for in pleasing you I may offend God, who constrains me. I must save my bed for my husband; it is his rightful gift and service from me, and you must not ask me to surrender what can only belong to him. Forgive me for when I have seemed cold, for I do not know how to secure my position in this court, being moved about, without assurance of a future, and wanting only to be a servant of both God and king.

But I honour the king with my whole heart and am ready to do his will as a loyal subject, so I find I am tossed about, like a damsel lost upon rough waters. Take this, therefore, as a token of my esteem and my pleading for your protection, for I am helpless to stand before you. Give me your full assurance of protection from the storms that surround me, the dark clouds that rise unbidden from the depths of the sea. To please you as you ask would offend God and do no good service to your kingdom, incurring His great wrath for my wickedness. I must obey your command, as your servant, and I plead with you to be a gentle monarch. I am at your mercy.

Anne wrote, the quill scratching against the paper, the feather shaking as she wrote, so that it resembled a quivering bird in her hand. In the letter she set a little charm, a wooden ship in which she had placed a loose diamond.



Henry’s reply came so fast he could not have had time to digest her letter completely. She had heard the horses burst down the last stretch of path and she ran to the window. She watched the rider, so unsteady when he dismounted that he grasped the horse’s mane for support. The great beast was going white at the mouth.