In the Shadow of Lions (22 page)

“The cook wants you to approve the menu for Christmas. There are two parties before the day, besides. He’s getting impatient with your delays. Says there won’t be any good meats to choose from.”

Anne groaned. “I can’t.”

She retched over the side of the bed. Jane caught her, patting her back, whispering to another servant. “Bring me some lemons for Anne.”

Anne sat back up, tears in her eyes. “I can’t do this.”

“Shh, shh. Of course ye can. You’ve already made two months. Not much longer till you’re past it. With your permission, I’ll look over the cook’s menu and make recommendations, in your name, of course.”

Anne nodded.

“And we should get ye dressed, for Henry is awake and about, asking for you. You must tell him.”

Anne stood, grasping the table to help steady herself as she rose from the bed. She tried not to breathe as Jane lifted her shift and lowered in its place a new shift, and on top of this, a dress. Every night, the dress she wore would be aired out, and in the morning, it would be perfumed to mask any odours that remained. The result was a dress with thick, violent layers of perfume. Anne had never noticed it before, but it made her stomach churn.

Jane, seeing her gasping like a fish, trying to breathe in fresh air, fetched a new pomander and ran it around her waist. It was a silver ball that snapped open in the center and could be filled with dry herbs and perfumed linens. Anne’s usual infusion of roses did not set well with her lately, so Jane had poured in cloves and orange peels. It was a moderate success, Anne thought. It did nothing for her sickness, but it did not provoke it either.

Dressed, with a bite of bread to coat her stomach and a bite of a lemon to keep it down, Anne was led down the hall towards the garden nearest the Thames. She prayed the cold currents would have swept all the trash well away overnight, and the air would be clean.

Henry was sitting on a swing that hung down from a heavy beech tree. He had a blanket with him, which he spread around her shoulders as she lowered herself to his side. The swing’s motion upset her stomach and she asked him to stop it. He did, before wrapping his arms around her and holding her. He did not speak, and she used the time to beg her stomach to keep its peace too.

Greenwich had always been his favourite residence, and his preferred home for Christmas. She did today too. The Thames, a most perfect courtier, swept all the rubbish away. She listened for the birds; a few still sang in the trees above them, especially the song thrushes. They were small and timid but sang louder than any bird she had ever heard, their song never the same, always changing through seasons and moods. A few were singing this morning, and Anne knew they would sing loudest tonight, just before darkness was complete and they fled to a deep, hidden life within the trees. The blackbirds were out this morning too, those rude, oafish creatures, pecking at the ground, searching for any crumbs from the court kitchens.

Henry waved them away with a wave and a hiss, and Anne was glad.

He bent his face down, nuzzling her neck, kissing it once. “I missed you last night.”

“I fell asleep quite early. Jane did not want to wake me. She said you returned from hunting late.”

Henry sat up and cleared his throat. “Yes.”

Anne placed her hand on his thigh, and he turned to her, relaxing.

“I’m with child.”

He was still, the muscles in his face losing their taut play, his expression going soft and loose. Stunned, he couldn’t coordinate a smile, let alone a verbal reply. He burst from the swing, lifting her off it with him in one motion, holding her too roughly so that she was gasping for breath, crushed between his robes and her stiff bodice. Her skirt billowed out so far he had to hold her all the more tightly to crush it flat.

Laughing, he was kissing her over and over on the mouth, and she had to push against him with all her strength to get a breath. He tilted his head back and shouted, pointing at the sky.

He looked like a maniac when he turned to her, his finger still shaking at the clouds above. “I am vindicated! A son will be born to me. My dynasty will be greater than any king England has ever known. All generations will know my name.”

He was doing a little dance, which Anne could scarcely believe. Knowing he was to be a father had turned him into a child.

“Henry, do you love me?”

He stepped to her and bowed. “There was never a queen loved like you. How may I prove it to you? Haven’t I already broken the Church, rearranged the governing of England, and generally set the world’s course around pleasing you?” He was grinning. “What more should be done, my good queen? Speak it and it will be done!”

“Call off Sir Thomas. Do not let him persecute those who want to read the Scriptures, for these people, in their way, are only trying to get closer to the God who blesses you. They should not die for this crime. And bring Hutchins back to England safely. Do not provoke this war of words.”

Anne remembered the words of her brother:
“Only two people dare speak for God: the optimist and the fool.”
Anne looked at Henry’s joy, his face radiant as he extended his hand and took hers, gentle as a lamb, leading her back into the palace. Servants and courtiers alike parted without speaking, staring at the king who was still grinning wildly. He led Anne to his chamber, where he spent the day stroking her hair and turning her smallest whispered request into a loud barked command. Anne was every inch the queen. Marriage was a formality they could attend to later, Henry said. After all, God’s will had been done, evident in her womb.

The force of life in this man was so great, his own will roaring above the others around him, that Anne had no more troubling humours. Henry was her strong tower, and she turned to him in the quiet of the chamber, thankful at last to be forever free of the storm. Christmas was fast approaching.

Chapter Twenty-two

“I would like time to read this well, my friends. It is a large document, as you have said yourselves. The best minds in England have produced it; how could I, then, understand it in one brief glance?”

“No. Henry requests your assent. Today.”

Sir Thomas sighed and stood. Rose and Margaret were watching from the hallway, peering into the family room where several officials from court were circling around Sir Thomas, including a man they had only just seen, Cranmer. Oh, but he was a sour-looking man, the line of his mouth always drawing down, the heavy flesh above his eyes hooding them so that he looked to be always squinting. He had a tremendous shadow along his jowls and above his lips, where coarse hairs defied the morning’s razor and sprang up. Sir Thomas had often spoken of him with disdain. He was the worst sort of cleric, More said: an ordained priest who was secretly married and carried his wife about in a trunk so they would not be discovered. They compared the disdain More had for him with the very man himself standing before them and judged More to be right.

“He’s a greasy weasel,” Margaret whispered.

“A pock-faced bit of trash,” Rose replied. They tried not to giggle. Margaret held her hand, and Rose patted it, grateful for the assurance. Sir Thomas had disagreed with men before, even men of the court. He would shake these men off.

Cranmer folded his hands across his ample stomach. He wore a billowing white shift, with black robes over it, and a long black sash around his neck. The effect was that he looked like a great white sausage bursting out from its narrow black casings.

“Sir Thomas,” he said, “it is my belief that the marriage between Henry and Catherine was unlawful, by God’s law and the laws of this land. Will you join me in correcting this grievance?”

More smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Tell me what you know of God’s laws, my friend. Do kings dispense with barren wives and clerics marry big-breasted girls who come to confession?”

Cranmer lunged at More, but a low table blocked his way, which he did not see because of his stomach and the robes. He stumbled and caught himself, smoothing down his black vestments, clearing his throat. “I will make my report to the king.”

“You say that as if it were a threat,” More replied. “All I have done is request time to read the document.”

“Time is not on your side, More,” Cranmer replied. “And neither is Henry. You haven’t been at court since the sweats broke out, but Henry has been busy.” Cranmer started laughing. “Oh, he’s been busy! What news!”

More stared at him, not asking for details. This sent Cranmer into more rage, and he ground his teeth as he exited, pushing past Margaret and Rose roughly, the other men following behind him without a word.

Sir Thomas saw the girls when the doors swung open. He sighed and sat on the couch.

“How much of that did you hear?” he asked.

Margaret rushed to sit with him, and Rose stood.

“Are you going to sign it, Father?” Margaret asked.

Sir Thomas picked up the stack of papers left by Cranmer, the letter requiring his signature laying on top. He walked to the fireplace and threw them in. The flames fed upon the papers with lust, snapping and growling. Rose saw the ashes collecting. A few flew up the chimney. It was strange to her mind that some would do that. All she understood was that none of them could be pieced together again.

“But what was he saying about news from court?” Margaret asked. “If the sickness has passed, let me go to the Christmas revelry there. I can find out what is going on.”

“I’ll not have you involved!” More shouted at her. “You have done too much already!”

Margaret looked at Rose and back at her father, her eyes wide in alarm. Rose saw her biting her lip to keep composure. Tears were pooling in her eyes, but she spoke sternly to her father.

“You are not safe. Cranmer said that himself,” she said.

Sir Thomas smiled, a serene look washing over his countenance. “I am not safe. Perhaps. But you, my daughter, you are safe. I am willing to sacrifice everything so that you may live.”

He was looking at Margaret as he spoke, and Rose wondered why there was mixed in his expression such tenderness, with such cold recognition of something ahead she could not see.

The household came alive with activities; the darkening afternoons and stinging winds told Rose that Christmas was almost upon them, and Dame Alice would return with packages and complaints. The rushes on the floors were freshened, and the kitchen was a combustion of servants stirring, basting, and kneading. Freshly dressed birds hung from the rafters, a continual fire burned for the preparation of different savouries and breads, and Rose heard much familiar foul language as the servants prepared to celebrate the birth of their Saviour. Sir Thomas pushed everyone to matins each week, but he had yet to tame their tongues, especially when they knew he was absent.

The youngest children were rehearsing each day for a pageant they planned to present at the Christmas feast. Little John was playing Saint George, dressed in a light suit of armour but carrying a sword as tall as himself. When he swung it, he stumbled after its arc, making the actual slaying of a dragon a true miracle. The dragon was Cicely and Elizabeth, in a costume that both fit in but neither could control. The dragon walked as if having fits, none of its limbs in unison, his great serpent head lolling from side to side like a sleeping dog shaking a flea from its ear.

There was the matter of presents, too, which distressed Rose. The household would exchange presents on New Year’s Day, and Sir Thomas was so busy attending to the present he would send to the king that he paid little mind to the household. Rose had no money of her own to buy anything, and Sir Thomas would not allow her to town anyway. Margaret told her not to worry; her father had presents to give to everyone. There would be no need for anything else.

And so the days passed, and More was often absent, attending to matters in town. When he was at home, he stayed in his study, the door closed. Messengers came and went at odd hours, and letters bearing More’s seal went with them.

On Christmas Eve, More emerged from his study looking worn but triumphant. Rose was tempted to peer into the room, to see what unknown adversary he had defeated, but she knew it was empty. Whatever More had faced was battled and won with paper and ink, dispatched through ruddy-faced boys glad for a half-angel coin just before Christmas.

Rose set out her best dress and Margaret’s too. They had been beaten and aired out, with fresh pomanders hung round the waists. Rose inhaled lavender from More’s garden. It was too sharp and sweet to have come from anywhere else. When they emerged from their chambers, they saw the family gathered in the family room. Everyone looked cleaned and fluffed.

The family ate the first feast that night, More giving a long prayer in Latin that all understood except Rose. It was marvelous to her just to learn to read English; the language of angels was too far beyond her. The roast capons were greasy, with blackened crisp skins that snapped under her fingers when she took hold of her portion. She slit the top off her beef pie and set it aside, letting the steam roil up. Everyone was doing the same; they looked to be dining under a cloud, so great was the steam the pies gave off. The illusion disappeared, and the children giggled in awe and returned to their plates. They had sausage, mottled red and brown with a thick waxy-looking casing, but Rose did not have an appetite for this.

Sir Thomas poured everyone’s first cup of wassail. Rose held out her cup, which was a low, wide bowl with a bit of a stand beneath it, so that it held as much wassail as discreetly possible in one serving. She studied it as he continued down the table, pouring generously, receiving fresh decanters from the kitchen as needed. It was a deep nutty brown colour, and from the piercing fragrance assaulting her nostrils, the cook had used a mighty amount of ale and rum to temper the innocent apple cider. Lamb’s wool clung around the edges, the foam of the apples that were mashed for the cider. On top of this, a toasted slice of bread floated, absorbing some of the liquor, she hoped, or the children would not make it through the meal.

More returned to his seat and lifted his own cup. “I propose we toast!” he commanded, and everyone replied by lifting their cups and toasting to him.

“Mary’s travails this night were great, but by morning, she had birthed a Saviour for all nations. Let us not grow afraid when we face our own trials, for God can still work miracles out of our suffering, for the salvation of many!”

The younger children shouted in affirmation before anyone else and gulped at their drinks. Everyone else raised their cups and blessed Sir Thomas and his health before drinking.

After dinner, the children presented the pageant of Saint George killing the dragon. Saint George wielded his sword more steadily, having learned through his practices that a jab would not dislodge him from the ground like a swing. The dragon, however, having no way to see through the costume, and no means of controlling both ends in unison, ended up presenting its hindquarters to Saint George. Little John, in the confusion caused by stage fright, took his fatal stab anyway, and so the dragon was slayed by a might blow to his rear. This was met with hearty applause and calls for more wassail.

After the pageant, the family and servants went outside to stand over a roaring fire built in a clearing of the garden. Far away they could see lights in the spire windows of London churches, torches that would stay through the night as the world awaited the Saviour. The night above them was as black as an inkwell, dotted by brilliant, glimmering stars. This was how the shepherds had spent the last sad day of the age that had never known salvation, More reminded them. He kept staring at the lights of London, walking away from the fire, and Rose was afraid he would catch a chill. She took a blanket from a pile set out earlier for the evening and brought it to him. She offered it without a word, her head turned away, so that the household gossips would not be aroused.

He spoke so they would not hear. “A heretic named Barnes is burning tonight. It may be my last.” He looked with grief at the city.

Rose wondered in horror which flames lit church courtyards, and which were set around a stake.

“Jerusalem, Jerusalem,” he said, a tear staining his cheek. “My time is upon me.” He smirked and brushed past her into the house, leaving her with the dread and fear.

The wassail and the marvelously disrespectful death of the dragon still had everyone around the fire in good spirits. The children, as Rose predicted, had drunk much more than they should have of the wassail, and she excused herself to help see them off to bed. She wished she had drunk none of the wassail, for the fear of his words had no restraints, growing and leaping in her mind, creating such dread that she prayed Christmas would not come.

As she carried the sleeping Cicely, the other servants warned her not to remove their clothes or shoes, but to let them sleep on top of their beds, which Rose did, before falling asleep herself in a similar fashion. Her dreams were blessedly dark.

His hands found her in this dark ocean, pulling her back through the night until she blinked in confusion, a candle only inches from her face.

Sir Thomas was in her chamber. Margaret was not in her bed.

“She’s asleep with the others. They stayed up through the night telling ghost stories,” he said. Rose nodded, trying to sit up.

“I have an early New Year’s gift for you,” he whispered. He held out a small parcel, and by its weight, she judged it held coins.

“There is a parchment in it. Do not open it or read it until my time has come. You must give it to the sheriff. It is for my salvation. And yours.”

“What do you mean?” she began to ask, but he grasped her around her shoulders, forcing her back onto the bed, his mouth on hers, the taste of rum making his kisses sour and slick. She tried to turn her head and cry out, but his weight was too much. She tore her fingernails down his back, down the scourged field he broke open every night, and though he jerked against her hands, he pressed down on her with more force. His hand was clawing at her bodice.