In the Shadow of Lions: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Chronicles of the Scribe #1)(45)

“There are priests to teach women how to live, Margaret. Women cannot understand the whole of the gospel and render just opinions on its meaning. The Bible is law, and laws are administered by those with training. If every man tried to judge the meaning of the law for himself, would not chaos be the result?”

“But you taught us to search for truth!”

“Oh, Margaret, did I not teach you first to trust?”

Margaret wept, burying her face in her hands. Sir Thomas leaned across his seat and took her in his arms, patting her back. Rose cast her glance away, ashamed to witness this. It was her curse, wasn’t it, to condemn those people who were to her the blessings of God, even as she fumbled in service to Him? She looked away from the pair and did not look back, even when Margaret spoke.

“I am sorry I doubted you, Father. I pray that book will be destroyed, and all who read it will fall under your just and merciful hand.”





Chapter Seventeen

The first burning was in the city today; she had heard news from the servants. Closing her eyes, Anne saw the Pope’s reedy, grim fingers encircling the city, choking believers, weighing purses and loyalties. Reformers wanted nothing but God’s law taught plainly; the Church taught that this would lead only to chaos, if every man judged the law for himself.

Anne looked out over the Thames and knew she was the only woman with such a close view of this truth. She watched Henry, day by day, choosing whom to believe and when. He kept the Church close, despising its passions and coveting its power. He gave free reign to Sir Thomas to scourge and burn believers who presented inconvenient arguments of reason. More and Wolsey, who mocked grace and mercy, were destroying the city. She had heard such rumours about Sir Thomas that they set her teeth on edge. He persecuted heretics and scooped beggars and lost souls from the streets, forcing them to work in terrible conditions, living as slaves in his house. His wife had died under mysterious conditions, she had heard, no doubt driven to her death by his violent manner. Any man who was so cruel to heretics in public could only be a monster in private. Anne was sorry for his children and their certain suffering.

Henry would give him free reign to murder as it pleased the Pope, until the Pope gave him the annulment so he could marry Anne. She shuddered and was glad she had only peeked at the Hutchins book in her rooms, never submerging herself completely in the pages. She would not be drawn further in.

She inhaled and caught a whiff of fire. Probably a fire from the kitchens behind her in Greenwich Castle, but the smell of the roasting spits turned her stomach. She had business with the cook, however. She needed to speak to him.



As she walked from the kitchens, back through the portico shaped like a sun, the warm stones under her feet, she heard the hooves of horses and saw a servant running to raise the royal flag. Henry was back in residence. Anne rushed to find a place to hide. She was ashamed and betrayed, having trusted in him. She had thought he was becoming a man of comfort and righteousness. But he had spent all his good intentions in Catherine’s bed, hadn’t he? Anne looked the fool. Whether queen or concubine, forever she would be giving her heart and losing her dignity, in a dance that returned her again and again to this cowering moment. Shame burned in her stomach, branding her cheeks with red blotches. How could she have been stirred to love him? How could he have slept with Catherine if he professed to love Anne? She had not slept with Henry, but this was in obedience to God’s law. How would God let her be humiliated for it?

A whiff of the fires caught her again, turning her stomach. God was on no one’s side in this. Anne frowned.

A hand on her shoulder made her jump. Her Yeoman had found her, huddled in a dark hallway, unsure of where to run. It was a gesture that could cost him his life, but neither moved. His grip flooded her with peace. She closed her eyes, letting it wash down her body and work into every knotted muscle. She remembered being a child, when her father would cradle her or her brother would take her hand as they walked. There was still goodness in the world, she thought. There was still hope.

He dropped his hand and led her back into the portico. Henry was just entering and saw her. The Yeoman stepped into the shadows. Anne reached for him, but he was gone.

Henry took the distance between them in four strides. He towered over her, taking her hands in his own and lifting them to his lips. She was pulled into his embrace. His hands circling around her waist, she was tempted to believe she was wrong. Henry stroked the hair back from Anne’s face, tucking it behind her ear, her jeweled crescent hairpiece letting too much hair spring loose. Henry ran his fingers over her face, setting little curls back into place.

She looked at him as he loomed over her. Her doubts were too weak to stand in his presence. He bent to kiss her, but she pulled back.

“What is it, Anne? Am I not to have even this?” His voice had an edge.

“I thought you would have had your fill,” Anne replied, her heart pounding. She couldn’t believe she had the sudden strength to test him. It was strange to her that he could make her so weak and so enraged in the same breath.

“And if I had, what business is it of yours?” He could turn in the same breath too.

She saw the courtiers all frozen, some from fear at witnessing an intimate moment, others in great hunger for more detail. This would make the gossips favoured seating partners at tonight’s dinner.

“Leave off!” he shouted. Everyone fled like scurrying mice.