In the Shadow of Lions: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Chronicles of the Scribe #1)(30)

Anne,

The proofs of your affection are such, the fines phrases of the letters so warmly couched, that they constrain me ever truly to honour, love, and serve you, praying that you will continue in this same firm and constant purpose.

Praying also that if ever before I have in any way done you offence, that you will give me the same absolution that you ask, ensuring you that henceforth my heart shall be dedicated to you alone, greatly desirous that so my body could be as well, as God can bring to pass if it pleaseth Him, whom I entreat each day for the accomplishment thereof, trusting that at length my prayer will be heard, wishing the time brief, and thinking it but long until we shall see each other again.

Written with the hand of that secretary who in heart, body, and will is

Your loyal servant and most ensured servant,

Henry

George stood at the door, stealing scouring looks at her. “The king is sending a carriage. He is sending you back to court. You will lodge at Cardinal Wosley’s Hampton palace.”

“Send me with your blessing,” she said. “I am afraid.”

He did not reply.

“If I am close to the king, no one will question you.”

George shook his head, frowning. “We both know the law of the land. And we both know who I am.”

Anne’s heart beat faster. She did not like his secret spoken of so plainly. She did not like to see it so close to the surface of the waters; she wanted it buried and unspoken.

“Be careful how you speak, George, and do not give up on your prayers.”

She moved to the doorway and embraced him, waiting until he held her back, each clinging to their childhood for one last moment. A rider sent from the king’s court entered the home and watched their good-bye from the entryway below. Anne thought she saw a cold smirk play upon the rider’s face. It did not matter.

She was ready.





Chaper Twelve

A great carriage had entered through the main gates and was coming down the path. As it took the gentle turns, the girls could see the badge that identified it, a coat of arms with a ripe pomegranate spilt open, its seeds too many to count, set below a magnificent crown. The wood was polished and dark, and its wheels turned without noise. Rose had never seen such money in one carriage.

There were several litters behind it, smaller carriages with cloth canopies. When the queen’s carriage stopped, these stopped too. Rose laughed to see the attendants popping out like baby birds, with their high-pitched voices and bobbing heads, their straining eyes taking in Rose and the estate with wild interest.

Catherine waved them off and walked alone to the house. Sir Thomas and his attendants rushed to receive her. She looked to be a woman in a dream, ignoring their attempts to escort and support her, and simply walking into the house as if it were her own. When she was inside, the birdlike attendants began their twittering and fussing again, and Rose stole a last look at them as she followed in behind Margaret.

They found the queen in the family room, hastily swept clear from the lessons that had been in progress. Rose could hear the cook flying about in the kitchen to prepare something suitable, and the servants of the household stood about stupidly. The royal family had visited before, but always with notice, and always with enough time to remove traces of their everyday lives. To be seen like this, without preparation, was to be unmasked in an unnatural way. Rose noted that no one was comfortable, save the queen.

She looked entirely mortal, which surprised Rose, who kept searching her face and person for some hint as to who she truly was. She was a daughter of kings, which should have imbued her with great mystic quality, but Rose could not pinpoint it. It was enough, she decided, that this woman had seen what she had not and lived a life she would never know. To Rose, Catherine was a mystic—one who inhabited another place. Rose hung on every word and gesture as if it had great meaning.

The queen was not terribly big, but beneath the enormous skirts and great pointed hat with a train, she filled the family room disproportionately. Her forehead was broad and tall, with the hairline plucked for several inches so that her hat sat upon her hair but revealed none of it. She had a tiny nose, with a slight bump and upturn at the end. It must have been a darling effect as a young girl, but it was offset by a frown etched below it and deep wrinkles around the puffy eyes. She absently pulled at her eyebrows and wiped her eyes again and again. Rose realized the queen was waiting for everyone to finish staring.

Sir Thomas ushered everyone from the room, sweeping them from it like they were children. Only Margaret did he allow to stay, when she gave him a heartfelt look, and since Margaret held close to Rose’s hand, Rose did not move. All others were gently banished and Sir Thomas closed the door behind them.

“There is a man being dragged through the streets behind a horse,” the queen began, looking only at her skirt and picking at it. “He carries a faggot of wood for burning, and a placard around his neck saying he is guilty of heresy.”

Sir Thomas nodded.

The queen stared at him. “You are too merciful.”

Sir Thomas bit his lip and nodded. Rose did not think he nodded to agree, but to encourage the queen to speak more.

“Do you know the source of my troubles?” The queen stood, looking at the girls as if she had just noticed them. She spoke to them directly. “Do you know the source of my troubles?”

No one moved or spoke. Catherine continued, her voice gaining edge and pitch. “I have lost children. What woman has not?”