In the Shadow of Lions: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Chronicles of the Scribe #1)(33)

Checking to be sure no one approached, she picked up a letter. It had only names—a long list of men and women. Her name was on it, hastily scribbled along the bottom.

“He approaches!” a guard called below.

A loud burst of activity made Anne jump. She grabbed the letter—and on impulse took one of the books too—determined to silence it. She ran out of the room and saw servants springing out from all directions, rushing to be in place and presented well as he arrived. Only her Yeoman was unruffled by the king’s arrival.

Anne ran down the hall to a window that afforded her a view of the great path leading into the estate. She saw a line of carriages and litters, with riders accompanying them bearing the flag of England and the Tudor coat of arms.

She ran back to her room to check her mirror, licking her lips and setting a diamond pin in her hair to pull the dark curls off her shoulders. She hid the letter she had stolen from Wolsey and rushed downstairs.

Henry was in the courtyard, towering above the servants and guards who scurried about, trying to scrape and bow and never look directly at him while they carried out their business. His red hair pierced her vision, and she looked at him for a moment as she stood in the shadows on the stairs, peering out into the courtyard. He was indeed handsome, and today he looked free and happy, like a man pleased with a change of winds.

He was laughing at a young servant who was having trouble grabbing the reins of a temperamental black mare. She showed him her teeth every time he lunged for the reins, and the boy began to sweat profusely, understanding himself to be sudden entertainment for the king. Henry stopped laughing and turned, facing her where she was hidden. Anne swallowed nervously and touched her hair. He extended a hand in her direction, and a curious silence whipped through the men. The young boy seized the opportunity to lunge for the reins and caught them, yanking the horse hard in the direction of the stables.

Anne stepped from shadow into light, smiling at Henry, her body softening to anticipate his embrace. Henry did not take his eyes from her but held his hand out still, and she crossed the courtyard. All the men were so startled by her sudden appearance that they scrambled to observe protocol. Anne knew that none were entirely sure what this was, as their official queen was not in residence, and Anne was known to be more than a temporary mistress. They averted their eyes and bowed their heads.

As the wave of men submitted to the king’s wishes, Anne’s weak knees made the slick stones treacherous. She placed her hand in Henry’s.

He pulled her in, his other hand circling around her waist. He was a full foot taller and bent to her, not for a full kiss on the mouth, but a gentle, lingering kiss on her cheek. His breath was hot on her neck, and his whiskers scraped against her face. He held her there, inhaling deeply, until she rested her head against him and exhaled.

“When can I see you?” he whispered in her ear. His voice brought up goosebumps all over her skin. This was not the monarch who had sought her company only for his bed. That she was surprised, even a little, made her ashamed. She had much less faith than she imagined.

“I have something I must show you,” she said.

He bowed to her and replied, “The gardens. Tonight.”



Anne sat on a bench, its stone still warm from the sun. But the sun was gone, and a rich black night blanketed the garden, punctuated by scattered torches at the far ends. A perfect breeze, like cool silk on her skin, brushed her face and shoulders, and Anne lifted her skirts a fraction to let it relieve her feet and calves. In July, the garden was in full bloom, even while the ladies wilted. The wisteria released a strong sweetness that the breeze carried through the garden, and Anne smiled to see a ladybug land on her skirt. She let it explore the folds of material until it decided to fly away. Ladybugs were good omens, the seven dots on their shells representing the seven sorrows and seven joys of Mary, the holy mother, and their red shells representing her red cloak.

Anne reflected on the meaning of such blessing—of being visited by a ladybug even so late, well after ten o’clock at night. Mary had suffered much but borne the child who would save all men from their sins.

The thought sent shivers down her arms. Perhaps there were travails ahead, or God was acknowledging the rough path she had just left, but the message was the same: God would use Anne to send peace at last to England.

A few birds still sang, their long trills punctuated by sharp short bursts. The garden was packed with life yet still quiet. How was it the palaces were packed with quiet people, yet were so stressful? The natural world was no less crowded, and the animals had no guarantee of survival. Even one of these birds in the garden could well be eaten tonight by a snake or hawk, yet there was a tranquility here, an acceptance of order and destiny.

Men were not content with their place in the order, Anne decided. This was why people made the palaces uninhabitable. Their discomfort, angling, grasping, and ambition ruined the place.

Henry’s hand was warm on her shoulder, but it did not startle her. Reaching up to lay her hand on his, she turned her neck to allow the breeze to reach more of her skin and did not mind that Henry watched.

“When I thought you might die,” Henry began. He gripped her shoulder. “When I thought you might die, I was lost.”

“God did not let me die,” she replied.

He moved to pull her up to him but she resisted. “Henry, what do these names mean to you: Thomas Garrett, John Frith, John Clarke, Anne Askew?”