In the Shadow of Lions (7 page)

“I’m not going to talk about that.”

“But why? You want people to know. You want them to understand what you felt, because it means so much to you. Emotion is law to this generation. I feel, therefore I act. I do not feel pain, therefore it must be okay. Tell me what you felt, Bridget. It matters so very much now, doesn’t it?”

Hearing my name startled me.

“Not at all,” I lied. “This is your story, not mine. Continue.”

Chapter Seven

“I need fresh air,” she pleaded. “This is a catacomb.”

A Yeoman shut the door behind him as he left. He had appeared when Wolsey escorted her from his office and had not left her side yet. He was a man of considerable height, with a face red from the sun and white whiskers around his chin. His hair peeked out from his hat, and she could tell it was a reddish colour, though flecked also with white. His face was familiar to her, with deep lines under his eyes and around his mouth, a face made gentle by years of harsh treatment and bitter weather. He was, she decided, a true son of England, as content to serve others as to rule them.

The apartment was gilded in every possible way: Gold bullions ran along the ceiling, woods carved with delicate patterns set off by the gild. The chairs were set off in gold, with green silk cushions and tassels. The bed was monstrous, crafted of dark wood, with starbursts carved into the top finials and lions’ feet resting on the floor at each corner. Anne pulled back the sheer curtains that ran along all four sides of the bed to peer in. Along the headboard, running along the highest beam, were the words
Dread God. Love God. Blessed be God!

There were silk tapestries hung from the walls showing the great miracles of Christ and embroidered rugs at her feet showing Hercules’ great deeds. In any direction she was wooed by the money fairly dripping from the place, and the first bloomed roses cut and displayed at her bedside and table and on perches throughout the apartment. She did not know where these had come from; someone must have ridden a distance to find a warmer garden in bloom. Anne breathed in deeply as she tried to steady her mind from this rapid turning of events.

Their fragrance was thick—and the first sweet thing she had found in England. She walked to the vase at the bedside and touched the cool petals. They were softer than any linen on her bed. Working only with mud and storms and heat, God crafted such wonder that no craftsman could duplicate, though he had all the materials in the world. Anne smiled and thought her life was misspent; she should have been a butterfly. Contented to fly for a few days, with nectar for wine and blossoms for blankets, she would not protest a short life. And she would not make so many mistakes.

“Anne,” a deep voice said.

The voice startled her and she screamed, bumping against the table she leaned on so that the roses spilled onto the floor.

Henry entered, taking slow, circling, deliberate steps, like a hunter watching a fallen deer to know how deep the arrow had gone. Anne grabbed the vase, lying on its side on the table, and hurled it at him.

He edged closer.

“Get away from me!” Anne screamed.

Other guards looked in, smiled at each other, and resumed their posts beside her Yeoman.

“I will have nothing to do with you!” she yelled.

“Sit down, Anne.” Henry stopped and motioned for her to sit. The gesture carried the command of his office. She sat on the edge of the bed and cursed the table chair for being too far away. She didn’t like even sitting on a bed in front of him. She wished there were no bed in the room at all, no suggestion of the things he must be thinking.

“What do you want from me?” he asked her.

She gasped without meaning to. “I don’t want anything from you,” she spat.

He waited. “Everyone wants something, Anne.”

Anne’s mouth twisted. “If I tell you what I want, will you let me have it?”

“Of course,” he replied.

“I want to be sent away from here. I want to marry Lord Percy. And I never want to see you again.”

“You can’t return home, Anne. There are too many rumours circulating about you.” He moved a little closer, and Anne sat up straight. “We’ll have to repair that…. You don’t love Lord Percy.” He was only a few steps from her. “I didn’t even need to meddle in that, save for canceling the marriage contract because you were too weak to do it yourself.”

“I certainly don’t love you,” she said.

He turned to walk away.

“Wait!” she called out. “You promised to give me what I asked for!”

“No, Anne.” He smiled. “I promised to give you what you want. And I will.” He walked to the door, his hand on the frame when he looked back to her. “You are a true maid?”

She scrambled to grab something else from the desk to throw at him. He ducked as he pushed the door open. Anne listened to it lock from the outside.

The afternoon faded, and an unwelcome night spread around her. It was cold, the cold of a spring not fully resolved to allow summer to enter. Spring was inconstant in England, with all the charms and frustrations of pretty girls who flirt one day and play petulant the next. Still, all loved her and greedily awaited her favour.

Wolsey had sent her a few books, knowing that her years in France had given her a man’s education, just one of the little scandals the French were known to cause. There was a book in the satchel from Sir Thomas More called
Utopia
. Anne found it a strange turn from a man well known for torturing men in his gatehouse when their ideologies conflicted with his own. One man had died before More could torture him properly, so More had dug him up and burned him, dead—yet still he publicly promoted his idea of a peaceable utopia.

There was a tract, in Latin, on repentance and the miracles Christ performed when saints turned back to Him with their whole hearts. Anne wished the author had considered that sometimes Christ didn’t want the saint back. This, at least, was what she felt.

Her own book, the forbidden Hutchins book, was not in her things. Someone had it. Someone knew her secret. The book would not forget her; she had a shadowy feeling the book was not done with her. She would see it again.

She sighed; none of these dead books inspired tonight. She tried to sleep but could not get warm. She blew out the candle and listened, shivering in her bed, tears evaporating on her cheeks, leaving her cold and miserable. There was an owl nearby who hooted to her and the insects keening together. No human voice could be heard, and Anne was glad. She fell asleep, still shivering, murmuring the prayers she had been taught in France.

Only once did she wake, when she had grown too warm under her blankets. In the darkness she heard the redwings singing as they flew away, the last of them leaving now that the weather was turning warmer. “See! See! See it!” they called, their tiny voices singing as they flew on.

Anne reached down to pull a blanket off, wondering dully how she had come to be under such a blanket, when there had been nothing but a silk coverlet she remembered seeing on the bed. But her mind was occupied with matters greater than blankets, and she returned to these thoughts in her sleep.

Three more days and nights passed. Every morning about five, when the sun was beginning to light the clouds that rested on the far horizon, Anne heard the horses and the men, saddling for a day of hunting. Henry was always among them. She could tell when he walked among them: their voices became soft, even as he thundered about. Every evening, near six, when the sun had made a start on its setting, she heard them return, the horses exhausted and breathing hard, Henry bellowing about what he shot or missed. He was escorted into the castle and all was quiet again. These glances through the glass windows with iron scrolls protecting her were her only glimpses of the world.

The eighth morning she sat at the table, brushing her black hair out, studying her face in the mirror. She didn’t care much for the proportions or effect. The ladies of fashion had pale, powdered skin and fair hair, just as Queen Catherine had. Anne could not undo everything God had set in her, so she regarded herself with only fleeting care. She found greater pleasure in reading and sports, and neither activity required her to be beautiful.

She was still in her thin shift and had no time to cover herself when the door opened. He stood there.

“Anne.”

She glared at him, once, before the view behind him drew her eye. She saw the sun was not yet too high, and the roses were all in bloom. The breeze entered, dancing past him and parading around her chamber.

“Come with me on a walk,” he said.

She stood, shoving the chair back in her hurry.

He held up a hand. “You really should dress.”

She ground her teeth in humiliation, keeping her eyes away from his. In court, no one was ever to look a king in the eyes, but Henry was known for his bald staring. He kept control this way, the servants said, for he watched every courtier to know their mind even before they spoke.

“Turn around,” she said, meeting his eyes as she delivered the command.

He turned.

Anne slipped a petticoat on, crushing it between her knees so she could pull up the farthingale next. She yanked her bodice down after that, and noticed it was not as tight as last week. Days of anxiety in this prison had left her weak and thin. But she could walk. She would not have to talk, or listen, but she could walk in the open air. She was not altogether dressed, but there was no need to present her best self.

Within minutes, Anne was outside for the first time in eight days. She touched every new green leaf, ran her hands over every plant and along the rivers of bark running up and down the yew trees.

Henry watched her but said nothing, keeping a few paces away as she wandered through the garden, testing and inhaling the fragrances and turning her face up to the sun.

Bees swarmed the tall purple blossoms that edged the beds, and Anne could almost taste the honey that would be on the table in a few weeks. This was a spring thrown out into the world with abandon, every plant and creature catching its fever.

“Catherine’s ladies say you are a witch,” Henry said.

“They’re fools and liars. No good Christian should listen to them,” Anne retorted.

“You’re a good Christian?” Henry asked.

“Yes.”

“Yet you’ve listened to fools and liars about me, haven’t you?”

“I’ve only listened to my sister. How do you classify her?”

Henry stopped to smell a bloom just beginning to split the green seams of its bud. He didn’t answer.

“You’ve already taken what you wanted from my family,” Anne finished. “Why must you ruin me, too? You should keep your word and send me away. Today.”