The Mer- Lion (37 page)

Anne barely stifled her smile. Henry started to rise to his feet to buffet the lordling who looked far too elegant for the Englishman's taste, despite his disarray. Anne's restraining hand, not to mention a head gone slightly woozy from too much ale on an empty stomach, curbed his momentum.

"Never. Never a next time. Get him out of my sight before I have his head. Cromwell, round up the rest of the rogues. I would have them all through Traitor's Gate 'fore vespers." The captain's grip on de Wynter's arm was steely as he ushered the man out of the room. Even as she watched him go, Anne was plotting how best to get him returned to court. But first, her, own ordeal.

Long before she had felt her first flux, gossips had terrorized her with the gory particulars of losing one's hymen: the cruel impalement of her passage, the pounding, punishing pain culminating in one breathtaking stabbing spasm, the bloody flow bathing her tender tissues without relieving the aching soreness known to last for days
afterward. Such talk had proved a telling incentive for remaining virgin. And she had. Now she prayed she need not experience the loss of her hymen to prove its presence. That it was there she had no doubt
...
nor that soon the king would dangle and dance at the end of her strings.

With the royal physician came his retinue: his barber assistants, his midwives, his herbalist, even a woman-witch. After them, Anne's women of the bedchamber trooped in. Her time upon her, Anne put on brave face, blew a kiss to her king, and led the way within to the king's retiring room.

Henry, his tankard replenished, quaffed deeply and again, in forlorn hope of clearing his head. Besides, his wait might be tedious. Bored, he reached for the papers left in the green velvet box for his perusal and approval by Cromwell who, despite being newmade Master of the Jewels, spent more time as king's amanuensis. The topmost paper was a note from one of Archbishop Cromwell's cronies. Its author, Browne, according to the inked scrawl in Cromwell's hand across the top of it, aspired to appointment to the Royal College of Arms. The message itself Henry read through twice, but in his ale-groggy condition, he could not fathom the purpose of it.

We are unwilling to question the Royal Supporters of England, that is the approved descriptions of the Lion
...
Although, if in the Lion, the position of the pizel be proper, and that the natural situation, it will be hard to make out their retrocopulatipn, or their coupling and pissing according to the determination of Aristotle; all that Urine backward do copulate aversely, as Lions, Hares, Linxes.

Copulate? Retrocopulate? Who gave a damn how lions did it? Henry dropped the instantly forgotten note to the floor. What was taking the physician so long? If she were intact, one dextrous finger should determine that. God help the man if a too long fingernail should damage it; Henry had other plans for the splitting of that skin.

Idly, he reached for the next document, a letters patent creating a new peer, a Marquess of Pembroke, the date, witnesses, and recipient left blank for Henry to dictate later. Unfortunately,
the lucky recipient's name drew a blank for the king. Then Henry recalled. Cromwell's idea. To reward his advocate, the Earl of Huntington, for efforts on behalf of Henry's proposed visit next week to France, to the Second Field of Cloth of Gold. Henry shrugged. Pembroke's holdings were not munificent, they would not be missed by the royal exchequer. Besides, Huntington might well be content with title without holdings. It was a thought, a good thought.

Henry was pleased with himself as he put this aside and picked up the next. It bore the seal of the Turcopilier of the Order of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem, and its contents shattered the king's benevolent mood. Henry had little hope that Carlby was renouncing his claim. A quick skim told him he was right. The knight was adamant; he would have Hampton Court Palace or its rents immediately. Henry swore. How dare these gnats, protected by pope or position, annoy God's anointed king? De Wynter after his Boleyn, the Knight Hospitaler after his Hampton. "The devil take the two," he fumed.

Then he heard what he'd said. "That's it! Let the Hospitalers trade one for the other." With one stroke he would swat two gnats and be at peace. He pounded his tankard with glee, sloshing the ale over the sides and drenching his hand. He upped the tankard, drained it dry, and signaled for more.

The white-cauled, gray-faced, strung-thin midwife edged into the room bowing and scraping. Twice she hawked and hemmed before managing a tentative "If it please Your Majesty?"

"Well?" he prompted impatiently.

"The lady has not been known, she was intact."

"Was?"

His roar crumpled her like ancient parchment.
"Is!
I meant
is!"
Mistaking his yelp of joy for wrath, her nerves failed her and she fled the room, her full skirts swishing about her.

He never noticed. He would have kicked up his heels, but his gouty toe dissuaded him. Anne had been faithful. He would be first after all. How could he have doubted her? Would she forgive him? The last thought was sobering.

The letters patent! Of course. It took several tries to unwedge himself from his chair and get to his feet. Clutching the scroll in his
sweaty fist, he limped across to Cromwell's desk. Seizing the quill, he laboriously inked in his fancy's name. Besot with ale, he forgot the final
e
on her given name.

He had barely finished when she entered, her face more pale than usual. Before she could make obeisance, he was upon her, swallowing her mouth with kisses. Wet, slobbery, spongy kisses. On top of unveiling and upending her bottom to the gaze and proddings of that man with his icy-cold hands, Henry's mouthings were too much; she wanted to retch. If he uses his tongue, I will vomit, she vowed silently.

Fortunately, Henry was too eager, childlike, to display his surprise and bask in her praise. Withdrawing from her mouth, he thrust the paper beneath her eyes. Her name drew her like a magnet. She could not believe her eyes. He had misspelled it. Her anger knew no bounds; all rational thought fled her head. "You cup-shotten cullion. Six years and still you know not that it is Anne with an ‘
e’"

"You don't like it." His lower lip trembled, tears welled up in his eyes. His Anne did not like her surprise. He stood there, a massive man, like a little boy, his joy gone awry. At that moment, she hated him.

"Oh, go sit down, rest your foot."

Obediently, he turned and did what she said while she took another look at the paper she held. Its significance did not come to her immediately. When it did, she swung from jubilation for what he had done, to realization of what she had done. She darted after Henry, grabbing his clenched fist in her two hands and then covered it with grateful kisses.

"No. Go away. You did not like my surprise."

"Sire, you wrong me. I loved it." Pushing him into the chair like a protective mother, her mind raced from thought to thought. Would he rescind it? Could she make amends? All the while she chattered on, "Henry, how can I thank you? Marquess. Not Marchioness. You do me too much honor. I am not worthy of your kindness." Sinking to his feet, she cradled his sore foot in her lap, gazing up at him with adoring eyes.

He was not mollified. "You called me names," he accused her. "You deserved them," she chided him lovingly. "To tease your poor little Nan like that."

‘Tease?"

"To make me think you meant this beautiful gift for some other Anne."

"Is that what you thought?" He brightened. "Did I do that?" "Yes, you did." It was her turn to pout, all the time studying his response.

"Well, maybe so, but I didn't deserve names like those," he sulked.

He was going to be difficult. She would have to take drastic steps. But to be granted the tide male—for that she would do much. On her own she would outrank most men and take precedence over all women except the royals. But this was only the first step. Give her another year and she would even take precedence over daughter, sister, and ex-wife. For now, she knew exacdy what she must do.

"Come, sire, spread your legs. I would prove my love for you
...
the love of an insatiable succuba."

CHAPTER
16

The Captain of the Yeomen of the Guard would have his prisoners out of the palace, through the Pond Garden and into the Water Gallery, he hoped unseen. The fewer observers, the fewer questions asked, and the more fear each disappearance caused among the rest of the court. That was the king's rule, the captain's orders. But de Wynter was not one to be led off quietly like some complaisant suttee. Once he saw what was about, he determined to make his departure well known, since the more who knew, the sooner word would reach friendly ears in Scotland and France.

Spying a group of promenaders at the far end of the garden, he stopped short, creating havoc among his escort. Those beside him could not stop so soon, those behind charged into their slowing fellows, those before continued forward only to be halted by the noise behind. In the confusion, de Wynter saw his opening and sprinted back toward the gaily dressed courtiers, the captain lumbering steps behind.

"Ho there, Vaux," de Wynter ordered in a voice that would brook no disobedience. Without thinking, the earl so named stopped and looked back, his companions instinctively doing the same.

The captain cursed under his breath, the damage was done; the news of de Wynter's arrest was out in the open. "I will be right back," de Wynter said to the captain. "But first, my farewells to my fellows." The captain had no choice but let the Scots lord say his good-byes to the English ones, lingering perhaps a trifle longer than
need be over the hands of the ladies as he took their leave in the French manner. Many a female English heart beat a little faster at the sight of that hoar-frosted head bent low and at the touch of warm, skilled lips upon the backs of their hands.

Addressing the group as a whole, he gave a deep and sweeping bow. "Fare you well, I'm off to be Tudor's guest and taste England's hospitality in the Tower, tell Mistress Anne Boleyn I forgive her, and take care lest you join me there." With all those ears listening, he could only pray that one heard him rightiy and would convey his words exactly to whom they were addressed.

From over his shoulder came the gruff, not unsympathetic voice of the middle-aged Captain of the Guard. De Wynter's message had not been lost on him, although it had been misinterpreted as de Wynter was sure it would be for most people. The captain, like most of England's middle and lower classes, was Catherine's man, considering her the rightful queen till death did her and the king part. If Mistress Boleyn, whom he privately considered the king's whore, had a hand in this arrest, then, so far as the captain was concerned, the young Scotsman could not be all bad. "Are you done, milord?"

"Quite. Lead the way,
man capitaine,
I follow on your heels."

"Alongside would be better, if it please your lordship."

"If it pleases you, it pleases me. Forward we go, side by side." Tucking his arm within the captain's, the two inarched off, very unnrilitarily yet democratically, and the captain was secretly flattered. Many a prisoner had he escorted this route, and none had favored his guard with more than snarls or burning stares or icy disdain. To be treated with such camaraderie by a great lord was beyond his imaginings. Thus, once he'd seen his prisoner seated in the prow with Fionn secured aft and the barge underway, he hastened forward. Taking a place on the well-worn velvet-covered bench seat near de Wynter, he prepared to enjoy the twenty-one-mile trip down the Thames to the Tower. De Wynter resigned himself to enduring the man's conversation and hopefully turning it and the captain's attitude to his advantage. But he was to be sorely tested, for a subject of fancied mutual dislike sprung readily to the captain's tongue. "The Nan, she did you in, eh?" Misinterpreting de Wynter's silence as assent, he spat over the side and continued, "Forgive me spitting, but that woman's name leaves a foul taste on the tongue. You know, they say
she's tried many times to poison the good Queen Catherine, but each time, and sometimes just in the nick of, the poison's been found out The whore's from Lambeth, you know—a well-known haunt of prisoners. We'll pass it by later and I'll point it out. Anyway, one day, mark my words, that witch-woman—they say she 'as the witch's mark plain as day on one hand—I predict, she'll get what she wants, take it from me, Thomas Notte. By the by, 'ow did she get you in this way? You make advances to 'er and she complain to the king?"

De Wynter seethed inside. To pull the man's foul-speaking tongue from his mouth would soothe the psyche but not lead to escape. Not trusting himself to speak, he schooled his expression and made mute denial, hoping his silence would discourage the man. It didn't. "You mean she did the advancing?" Notte whistled admiringly under his breath; it reinforced his faith in the immorality of the woman. "Well, 'tween you and me, I wouldn't have said 'er no. She must be a saucy tumble to keep the king sniffing at 'er skirts for all these years. Besides, taking up lodgings in the Tower is a mighty high price to pay for not lifting a wench's petticoats. Of course, better the Tower than your head."

De Wynter's self-control Was about to give way. Somehow, someway, the man's backstairs chatter must be stilled. What was needed was a distraction. Not having one to hand, he invented one out of the work of the wind on the larches lining the far shore. "Look! There!"