In the Shadow of Lions: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Chronicles of the Scribe #1)(39)

Anne missed some of what was said; with so many people in the room, the men’s voices were muffled by the simplest movements or deep breaths of others. Anne held her breath more tightly and leaned in, pressing her whole side against the wall, straining her neck to get her ear as close to the door’s opening as she could without being detected.

More spoke first. “I cannot reply to this.”

Henry was not pleased with the answer. His hushed tone carried barbs.

More’s tone did not change. “I do not know how he came into possession of the letters. The Pope is scattering them abroad, though, and by now every foreign power has read them. This is why they came to my attention first, from the diplomatic channels I maintain.”

Henry screamed at him, and Anne heard a violent smashing, probably the chair meeting its unhappy fate. She jumped but did not cry out.

“Who is responsible for this?”

“Good king, this is why I have brought the matter to your attention. The people are angry with Mistress Boleyn. Everyone in the realm knows she desires the crown, though you are still married. They know she has brought the Hutchins book into the court, a court that will not let the public read it. The unrest grows by the hour. Corn prices have not resolved, and families are going hungry. August promises more of the drought’s vengeance. And their fury is not directed at you alone. Wolsey is a target as well. No one in your house is safe from accusation. I am simply advising you how best to correct the course.”

“Burning? It hasn’t been done in a hundred years or more.”

“It must be done. There is a plot stirring that will provoke the king’s good patience with these people and this book.”

“What of me?” Anne heard Wolsey’s thin voice. It was a mistake to ask in front of Henry—even Anne recognized this. Sweat had broken out upon her upper lip from the mention of her name in there.

“The people are angry at paying the high taxes to the Church, Wolsey. They blame you for their poor state, for everything that they cannot trace back to the king, even the new bouts of sweating sickness plaguing the country. I have this week arrested a group of men in Rochester who were plotting your death.”

“They were going to kill me?” His voice was not steady.

“No, this would be a great crime, which even they knew,” More continued. “Your office is held in esteem although they are angry with the man. They were determined not to lay a hand on you, but they were going to drill holes in the bottom of a boat, and set you in it, far out at sea. They would leave it to God’s good pleasure to determine what to do with you.”

Anne could hear Henry’s laughter. No one else joined in.

Wolsey spoke next, but his voice was better. Anne imagined him taking a deep breath as he looked round the room, sizing up how best to extinguish the threat. These men were but errant children to him, and he was going to roundly scold them back into place.

Henry spoke. “It is an English marriage, so it will be decided in an English court. We will convene at Blackfriars’ Church and be done with this. Sir Thomas, see to it that Catherine knows nothing in advance of this, though make sure she is appointed proctors to speak for her. And prevent any of her letters from leaving England. I do not want her playing to the Pope’s sympathies, especially since the Pope is at the mercy of her nephew, King Charles. Can you keep my secrets?”

“Yes, your majesty,” she heard More reply.

Anne was knocked off balance by the door slamming back. Wolsey, his billowing red robes riding unevenly across his bulging stomach, stood over her.

Anne struggled to her feet, assisted by her Yeoman, who had crossed the distance between them in less than a second, and faced Wolsey. “You stole my letters!”

Wolsey smiled, relishing some little moment. He leaned in, stroking her cheek with a finger, his lips wet and pursed. He leaned in, closer again, until he whispered in her ear, “I did not. How many hidden enemies you must have, Anne.”

His breath on her ear, so like a tick’s crawl, made her shudder.

“Oh, Anne, had I known you were to be this much trouble, I would have had you dealt with. I misjudged you. I am surprised a woman as dull as you can hold his attention thus. Your sister certainly didn’t. If you had simply given Henry what he wanted, neither of us would be in this condition. It was your own stupid ideas about God that threaten us. Leave God in the church, Anne, and stick to what women know best.”

Wolsey smirked at her Yeoman. She saw the guard’s hand reach for his dagger, and the gesture alone sent Wolsey scampering.

Her heart began to race, and her neck felt tight, as if a string was being pulled around it, tighter and tighter, until her throat burned and she was blinking back tears. She reached out for her Yeoman as she fell into darkness.



He cradled her in his arms, brushing the hair from her face. He was so gentle. She let her eyes focus on his red beard and remembered it on her cheek. Henry was over a foot taller than she was, and muscular, and she was like a toy held in his arms.

She knew she should be afraid, but he felt so good surrounding her, supporting her. She had no one to rest upon, no one to carry her burdens. She decided to let him hold her, and she would pretend it was safe.

Looking up, she saw she was in a new chamber. The bed was an enormous, perfect square, almost as big as her bedchamber at home. It was gilded and carved, and there were angels in the design: two sweet angels on the footboard holding a bowl. She guessed the design was repeated above her, on the headboard. It comforted her. The only other place she had seen angels was in the chapel Wolsey had built at Hampton Court.