In the Shadow of Lions: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Chronicles of the Scribe #1)(40)

He stroked her arm, smoothing her gown in places, watching her reactions. “It is my bedchamber,” he said.

She started to rise up, grasping at her bodice to see if it was in place, but he caught her hand and kissed it.

“I would never have you that way, Anne. You have nothing to fear from me. Please rest, and let me be your servant today. I am so sorry for the trouble I have poured out upon you.”

Anne remembered everything. “Our letters.” She groaned.

“Sshh,” he whispered. “No one can harm you.” He moved her in his arms so that his mouth could reach hers, and her body rose to melt into his kiss. It was not enough.

“I cannot have this,” Anne said, wanting to cry in frustration. She wanted to be lost forever in here, beneath his coverlet, entwined against him, sheltered. But God’s law said it must not happen until there was a marriage. Why must she be cursed with a heart for God? She groaned again to herself. She wanted nothing more right now than his flesh upon hers, his back turned against the world, spreading himself out over her, so she could see nothing but his face and taste nothing but his lips.

Henry smiled and set his finger on her lips. “I said you would be safe here, and that is even from me.” He grinned. “I will sleep elsewhere. But tell me, why were you listening as I spoke to More and Wolsey?”

“I do not know who betrayed me. I wanted to know my fate, if you were going to discard me.”

“Because of the letters?” Henry laughed softly. “Anne, my first thought was that you had sent them.”

“I would never allow myself to be exposed in this way!”

“I know. I have my spies too.”

She did not know what this meant, but his tone was still kind, and he was still touching her with affection. Anne was confused. Her body craved his touch, was warmed by it. She longed to bury her face in his chest and release all her fears, yet her mind spun, weaving little worries and fears into something bigger, something that demanded she escape. He let his finger move from her arms to her shoulders and across her neck. He bent down for a kiss and she received it, darkening her mind to anything but the pleasure of him surrounding her, his lips on hers. She was greedy for affection; this court had turned so cold. She could not help herself.

It was Henry who pushed her away. “You want me. Why won’t you have me in bed?”

Breathing hard, Anne struggled to awaken her thoughts again, to compose herself, to sit up. He helped her, lifting her off his lap and setting her back against the pillows.

“Don’t you see it, Henry? I alone submit to God. No one else in this court does. They all practice a false religion.”

“You’ve been reading the Hutchins book?” he said.

“Yes,” she lied. She was afraid of the book, of what it might say of her, of what it might say of her brother.

“I set it out that my servants may see it, and even read it, Henry.” This much was true.

“Are you so foolish, Anne? Your servants are educated and can make wise decisions. But it will encourage lawlessness among those who hear of it.”

Anne reached for him, taking his hand. Maybe he lashed out because he was wounded. Maybe she could soften him, nurse the raw edges, and he would be tender to her always.

“I know your marriage is void in the eyes of God,” Anne said, keeping her voice as soft and inviting as she knew how. “You tell me that is God’s Word, and I accept it. But if you found such truth in one small verse in Leviticus, why should you withhold this book from your people? Maybe they are in need of truth too. Something troubles me at night, Henry. I cannot describe it, but I do not think I will sleep well again until this book is free and among the people. I think it is God’s will.”

“What is the will of God?” Henry asked. His voice sounded tired and his eyes were not on her.

“Sons,” she whispered, squeezing his hand.

Henry looked up and she read his face.

She had found her way into his heart.



The Thames was moving fast, and at this early hour, the stench of the city in summer had not risen. She sat, keeping her eyes ahead, past caring that her Yeoman never spoke. He was a shadow behind and before her, always, but he said nothing. They landed on the steps to lead into the church, and he helped her out of the barge. She was careful to keep her hood low so no one could see her face as servants escorted her in secret. Blackfriars hurt her eyes; the church had endless rows of glass that caught the morning sun, bouncing back bolts of every colour. She walked past window after window until she came to the back steps, where the poor begged. Earlier servants must have kicked the drunk and infirm away, because she was unhindered as she sneaked in, easing the plain wood door open.

Everyone knew where the trial would be. The servants had spoken of it freely enough, and there was much gossip about Catherine. Anne had heard them speaking with gristly satisfaction, the way the hungry picked at discarded bones after the meal, licking them to remember the taste of the flesh. This court feasted on the misery of its women.

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness as she felt the cool, still air at the foot of the stairs. The church was heavy with incense, and it made her head hurt. These close quarters were always pungent; she had been spoiled by the trip down the Thames in the fresh morning air. Anne had not thought until then of how drenched in odour the city was—how she had to brace herself before leaving a garden to go indoors, or kneel before the cross in a chapel. Wolsey’s peculiar habit of carrying an orange before his nose as he walked through confined spaces, looking like a horse holding his own carrot, made sense. The city loomed above everyone, but the odours were the closest companions, crowding in unpleasantly and leaving one no air.