Betrayal (20 page)

The old gypsy woman stood over the pale figure lying on a straw pallet beneath an open window.

“Anya,” Elisabeth said as she moved to the old woman’s side, “Last night you told me much of what you have seen for me. Tell me please, what do you see for her?”

“Semmi,” then in English she said, “nothing.”  “Sotet-h’a’`al, only darkness,” she said sadly.

“Is there nothing we can do?  She is a favorite of my lady, who grieves so at the loss of a friend and faithful servant. Surely, there is a spell that can restore her health.”

“From many diseases do my spells release people, yet for the sweating sickness I have found prayer works best.” Lowering her head the old woman mumbled foreign words whose cadence reminded Elisabeth of the singsong chants of the monks at St. Michael’s in Cornwall. Elisabeth inclined her head promising the Holy Spirit a novena for Marie-Louise’s recovery. At prayers end Elisabeth slipped to her knees before the waxen girl’s sweat-soaked pallet, deftly pulling the worn quilt up below Marie-Louise’s quivering chin. Shaking as waves of chills and sweat flushed her body, the French girl mumbled deliriously in her mother tongue. Elisabeth dipped a rag in the cool water of the bucket nearby and raised it to the dying girl’s chapped lips, silently urging her to drink in the water’s coolness. Elisabeth grabbed back the cloth as Marie-Louise shuddered under a new wave of shivering. Elisabeth felt the Anya’s hand on her shoulder. The old woman nodded toward the door, horror struck Elisabeth as the Lady Anne Boleyn entered the room. Rising quickly to her feet Elisabeth rushed to her lady.

             
“No, my lady! You should not be here,” Elisabeth pleaded, but her Mistress would not be denied. Elisabeth desperately tried to block her lady’s access to the sick room, with no success. She stared in dread as Anne knelt down beside the pallet, leaned forward, and kissed Marie-Louise’s sweat-drenched brow.  “Please, my lady,” Elisabeth pleaded, “this is no place for you.”

             
But Anne would not be moved. She waved Elisabeth away with a sharp twist of her hand. Reaching into the moss-covered bucket without care for her long-sleeved gown, the lady found the water-soaked rag.  Squeezing out the excess water, she raised the rag tenderly to her friend’s dry lips.

             
As if revived by the water’s coolness Marie-Louise opened her eyes. She looked vacantly at her Mistress; then in a brief moment of recognition she smiled weakly.

             
Taking heart from this brief rally Anne raised a cup to the girl’s lips. Marie-Louise sputtered and choked as she attempted to swallow, but could not.

             
“Please, my lady, you must not be here,” Elisabeth begged.

             
“Sister! What foolishness is this?” snarled the Lady Rochford. “Come to your senses, girl. Leave this room at once. Are you crazed to lower yourself so? Come, we must be gone from this place.”

             
Elisabeth looked helplessly at her young mistress. The pain of the forthcoming separation from her friend was written hard on Anne’s soft face. The lady’s alabaster skin paled as her dark eyes filled with tears. The Lady Anne rose to her feet. She stopped before the old gypsy woman. “Mother, I beg you care for my friend. See she does not suffer for want of anything; she is more than a servant to me.” Anne slipped a bag of angels into the old woman’s hand, then turning to Lady Elinor who had followed Jane into the room, she continued, “Your kindness and hospitality will long be remembered.” Her words trailed to a whisper as she turned once more to gaze upon her dying friend. “Please call a priest, my lady.”

             
“I have already sent to Sutton Place for one. He waits outside.” With that said, an elderly priest pushed his way into the small, crowded room.

             
“Fear not, my lady, she will not meet her Maker with sins unshriven.  Now pardon, ladies, while I see to God’s work.” The priest struggled to bend his arthritic knees, lowering himself to kneel beside the straw pallet, his old bones creaking as he forced himself to his knees. Kissing his stole, he began to pray beside the whimpering girl.

Silently, the women filed out of the room, the old gypsy woman leading the way.

She mumbled something, but Elisabeth couldn’t make out what the old woman had said.             

             
Anne snapped an angry look at her sister-in-law before proceeding down the narrow staircase to her chamber. Elisabeth followed quickly behind, shutting the heavy door before Lady Rochford could enter. Her loud knocking went unanswered as the Lady Anne stared sightlessly out the window and Elisabeth hurried to fill the last of the packing boxes. At last Elisabeth heard Lady Elinor lead Jane away down the stairs. Breathing a heavy sigh of relief Elisabeth, checked the chamber thoroughly, making sure she had missed nothing.  The Lady Anne stood ramrod-straight at the oriel window, silent and withdrawn. She had not spoken since they had entered the chamber and seemed to be unaware of Elisabeth’s presence. Elisabeth was hesitant to disturb her mistress, yet the hour grew late and Elisabeth knew they must take their leave of this house and its occupants.

             
“Pardon, my lady, but the grooms wait outside to collect the boxes. Shall I bid them enter?”

             
The Lady Anne Boleyn sighed heavily. “As you wish,” she said, yet she moved not from her place by the window.

             
Elisabeth crossed to the door, swinging it open, and motioned for the grooms to come in.  The men did so quietly and without ceremony, quickly removing the cases and carrying them down stairs and out to the waiting wagons.

             
Anne moved across the chamber as if in a dream, one from which she was unable to wake. Elisabeth curtsied as her mistress passed into the hallway. With a brief glance behind, Elisabeth followed Anne down the manor’s grand staircase. Lady Rochford awaited them at the foot of the stairs, chastened and meek.

             
Anne stopped before her hostess and bid her thanks for her hospitality.  Lady Elinor curtsied, saying on arising, “Fear not, my lady, thy friend will rest peaceful and well in our care. Safe journey, God bless and keep you all your days.”  The old woman curtsied once more, this time holding it until her guests departed.

             
Reluctantly Anne climbed into the carriage to sit beside Jane; both remained silent as the carriage drove off.

             
Maude raced to Elisabeth’s side as she prepared to climb into an open wagon. “The lil’un be safe in London. I thought you should know.  Mack,” she said, pointing to a young man dressed in a forest green jerkin, “says she’s a good lil’un and she be with her Dad now.”

             
“Settle in, Elisabeth,” Ferris called as Elisabeth grabbed for Maude’s out-stretched hand.  The wagon jerked causing Elisabeth to fall roughly into her seat. Waving her thanks to Maude, Elisabeth wiped a tear of sorrow from her eye with the corner of her apron, certain she would never see Sarah again.

             
At Hever, Elisabeth was not needed to attend her Mistress; this task now fell by custom to Sadie who was Anne’s servant in her youth.  Elisabeth was put to work in the kitchen for the motto of Thomas Boleyn’s house might well have been, ‘idle hands make for the devil’s workshop’.  Elisabeth saw little of the Lady Anne until one day when she was hastily summoned to her lady’s bedchamber.  There she found Anne prostrate and wrapped in sweat soaked cloths. Elisabeth gasped with the realization that the dreaded fever had claimed her lady. She hurried to the high bedstead, pulling the heavy crimson bed curtains closed behind her. Tenderly, she wiped sweat-drenched tendrils of dark hair from the Lady Anne’s pale face. Anxiously she recalled the vacant stare of Marie-Louise. Now fear mingled with anxiety as Elisabeth studied her Mistress.  She prayed constantly, every prayer she could remember, and she left the chamber only when ordered to do so by Lady Rochford.

             
Reluctantly Elisabeth hastened to the small chapel where she joined others of the household in a prayer vigil. All night she remained on her knees before the altar in prayer. With the dawn came the news that the fever had fled and Mistress Anne was resting comfortably. With a song of thanksgiving on her lips, Elisabeth danced from the darkened chapel into the morning sunlight. In her haste to see her mistress, Elisabeth ran headlong into George Boleyn.

             
He gathered her into his arms, smiling down into her shocked, up-turned face he said, “Now, here is a pretty bird.  It seems the country suits you, fair Elisabeth. Your cheeks hold the blush of the most delicate rose in my father’s garden; your eyes are deep blue puddles of desire and your lips, oh your lips, are begging to be kissed. Shall I kiss you, sweet Elisabeth?  Does your heart pound, as mine does now? Do you feel yourself grow weak in my embrace?” he said, nuzzling his soft, bearded face into her neck. His lips teased her neck as he whispered, “I desire you now, above all else.” His hand sought her breast, tracing delicate circles over her hardened nipple with his forefinger.

             Elisabeth knew she should resist. She would surely burn in Hell for this, yet his hot breath against her skin, the heat of his touch, drove her onward. Elisabeth quivered with anticipation as she leaned into his hand.

              “Yes, my sweet. You want it as much as I do, but this is neither the time nor the place to unleash our desire.” He squeezed her nipple hard causing her to cry out.

             
Elisabeth marveled that even the pain was pleasurable. He blew her a kiss as he released her and was gone. Elisabeth stood a moment longer, heat pulsating through her, unlike any feeling she had ever known. Flushed with excitement she climbed the grand staircase to her lady’s bedchamber.

             
“Why so flushed, Elisabeth?” Jane Rochford asked as Elisabeth hurried into the room.

             
“Pleasure, my lady, pure pleasure, that m’lady Anne has recovered. How may I be of assistance?” Elisabeth replied, hiding her face from the inquisitive Lady Rochford.

***

             
Several days later a messenger arrived from London bidding the Lady Anne and her family to make preparation for the King’s imminent arrival. A clear, cool, crisp day saw Henry’s triumphant entrance. In the days of late October rumors had raced on the wings of the wind that Cardinal Wolsey had fallen from the King’s grace.  Proof of this was soon known at Hever.

             
“How does my lady?” The King asked of her brother George, Lord Rochford. The king’s horse pranced nervously as Henry looked anxiously about him.  “The fever is gone,” he inquired, “none about, no sick servants or the like? My heart burns at being withheld from your sweet sister; yet I will not, cannot permit myself to be endangered.”

Henry twisted uncomfortably in his saddle.  He was morbidly afraid of illness while he remained without an heir.  “If only I had a son,” he cursed as he struggled to free his feet from the saddle’s heavy stirrups. “But as needs must, if you say the fever is gone then I must my lady love see,” he continued, as he pulled his ample frame down from his horse.

              Elisabeth dressed her lady’s hair in the style of the French Court, smiling as her nimble fingers pulled wisps of fine ebony hair into long tendrils of curls to frame Anne’s face.

             
“Hurry, Elisabeth, do hurry, for the King is waiting,” Lady Rochford whined.  “There, there you’ve missed a strand. Do you see it? Yes, that one. Pinch your cheeks, Anne, your face is still too pale.  No, no, not the red; the forest green is more flattering.”

“Hurry girl, His Grace is waiting and poor George will be beside himself wondering how to entertain him. Yes, the French hood,” Rochford fussed, as she raced around the chamber, clucking like a harried hen.

“There, Jane, how do I look?” Lady Anne preened, as she swept her skirts in a tight circle.

Lady Rochford nodded her approval, ushering Anne down the stairs. Watching her sister-in-law, Jane hung back and whispered to Elisabeth, “Marie-Louise is dead. Do
not tell your Mistress. I shall do that in my own good time. Do you hear me, Elisabeth, in my own good time?”

Elisabeth curtsied. “Yes Madam, in your own good time.”

“Return to your quarters, you will not be needed again this evening. I myself shall see to my sister’s needs. Good night, Elisabeth.”

“Good night, Madam,” Elisabeth said to Rochford’s retreating back. She thought to call after the lady about setting out her Mistress’ nightclothes; then choosing instead to go ahead and lay them out anyway, Elisabeth moved back down the dark hallway. A voice from the shadows stopped her dead in her tracks.

“Sweet Elisabeth, I bid you meet me in the inner courtyard tonight after all have gone to bed.”

Heat streaked across her cheeks, staining her face red. Her ears strained for any other sound.  No-one was near.

“Say nothing sweet one. A nod of your head is all I need,” George Boleyn said; his voice hoarse with lust.

Heat coursed through her, setting her body aflame with desire. Numbly, she nodded her head and he was gone.