Chapter Thirteen

She could hear church bells ringing as she studied the Exodus scene of the tapestry. Somewhere in the distance at noon Mass, a church was elevating the bread, and Christ was again present among them. She bowed her head and blessed His name, asking favour for this mission. She looked at Miriam and the dancing, free women one last time and moved up the stairs.

Hampton Court was so different from the other residences she had been in. In Greenwich, the staircases were narrow and canted at an angle, making you dizzy before you reached your room. Here, the stairs were straight, with every step wide and low, perfect for women in such skirts as hers. But of course, Anne thought, Wolsey wore great robes of office. He must have designed these stairs to suit himself, not others. Only Henry liked short robes, having broken with the tradition of long robes for monarchs, because no monarch had ever had legs as powerful and shapely as his own.

If Wolsey had given such attention to the stairs, he had spent so much longer overseeing the rooms themselves. The doorway to her room was nearly twice her height, and her Yeoman had to give a great heave to open it. The room was dazzling, no doubt meant to woo a woman.

“Oh!” Anne gasped, unable to pair words to the vision. The bed rose above her at the end of the room, a great red giant, as tall as three men standing on each other’s shoulders, with cascades of shimmering silks floating down to surround the sleeper. The walls were a dark wood, polished and glistening, and as Anne looked up to the ceiling, she saw a fresco of sweet cherubs, its soft blues and whites reminding her of the sky in spring, when the clouds have just begun to turn from grey to white, and the sun has found its strength once more.

Anne hugged her arms to herself, unable to step into the room. A perfume still lingered, of deep spicy scents, so unlike her own rosewater. Servants clambering down the hall behind her were carrying her goods, and she stepped aside to let them enter. They and her bags disappeared into the room.

Wolsey appeared behind her, his robes masking his footsteps. Anne saw her Yeoman’s jaw set in disdain. He did not speak, she thought, but his thoughts were made plain enough.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Wolsey began. “I was preparing for Henry’s arrival.”

“He will be here?” she asked.

“Yes, and since the sweating sickness has passed, more courtiers will be returning. After this I expect him to move on to another residence.”

“It is good of you to receive me,” Anne said.

Wolsey’s eyes went cold. “It has displaced no one to have you.”

Anne bowed her head to end the conversation, embarrassed to have drawn Wolsey out on this point.

“Please explore the gardens as you like, and you may enjoy whatever charms you. Only do not enter my personal rooms, Anne, and do not disturb me after supper.”

“But you know my secrets, Wolsey. Why should I not know yours?”

She touched her neck, fingering her necklace, making sure the fat green emerald ring sat accusingly on her hand before him.

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The estate was so quiet while it awaited the court. Anne hadn’t realized how such a crowd of people, with their pecking and preening, their dignities and spites, kept her on edge and rolled into a tight, brittle woman. In the quiet her heart unfolded, her breaths grew deeper and slower, and her courage was a little quicker to rise to the top.

Why was she here? God had allowed all this to happen to her, had He not? So what did He want her to do? Anne tried to reason well. She was being elevated; Catherine was being cast out. Henry insisted the marriage was void, a disgrace to God, which only annulment, a clean washing away, would remedy. Henry’s only interests, Anne saw, were his conscience before God and heirs for the realm. Heirs God would only grant in a lawful, honourable marriage.

Wandering outside her room, she gave a little dismissive nod to her Yeoman guard, who allowed her to pass. She lingered at the image of Miriam again, her thoughts lost and loose, weaving between the delicate stitches before her, moving in and out of little threaded bits and pieces, shadows of thought. She had obeyed God in everything, committing to the seven virtues, shunning the seven sins. She had guided Henry’s early passion for her into something more noble and God had honoured her obedience, setting before her the throne and its powers.

A distant song caught her attention. It was voices singing but one word, over and over. Anne could not understand it but sensed the drumbeat, low and steady, in her bones. Then something pushed against her, setting her off balance. All at once unsteady, she braced the wall beside the tapestry for support, as if the ground beneath her was shifting. A thought came to her and lodged in her mind like an errant bow striking a green young tree and sending little shivers down its trunk. She shook herself and walked on, suddenly compelled to commit a tiny treason.

Anne held her breath, but the halls were quiet. Her Yeoman had not followed her, but she caught his scent, lye soap and rosemary, near her anyway. It comforted her for what she was about to do.

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The doors were not locked, but no light was set in the room. It smelled of leather and linen, of candles that had burned throughout the night, and of wax seals poured onto dry parchments. Her stomach lurched and tingled as the voices grew louder in her ears. It was here. She knew it. But looking around the room in the dim light from the hallway, she could see only bales of wool, marked at the ports as they came in. Why Wolsey would be impounding these imports was not a mystery in itself; these could infringe on the English trade. But this was not a matter for priests and cardinals.

They held her attention, and her heart beat faster. Without knowing why, she took a knife from Wolsey’s desk, meant to split seals, and loosened the tie holding one bundle together.

A dozen of the forbidden book spilled out across her feet in the darkness. She cried out from the touch of cold leather against her skin. Every one of these bundles contained them, no doubt—hundreds in this little room alone. Each book was like an accusation, a reminder that she had failed to read it, failed to trust it. She picked one up, reading the marks on the inside page. It was indeed from William Hutchins. She flipped through the pages, eyeing the new woodcuts Hutchins was using. One line caught her eye. It said she was surrounded by invisible witnesses.

The room was still, but not empty. Trembling, she dropped the book, spying on Wolsey’s desk shipping papers and documents that had broken seals.

Checking to be sure no one approached, she picked up a letter. It had only names—a long list of men and women. Her name was on it, hastily scribbled along the bottom.

“He approaches!” a guard called below.

A loud burst of activity made Anne jump. She grabbed the letter—and on impulse took one of the books too—determined to silence it. She ran out of the room and saw servants springing out from all directions, rushing to be in place and presented well as he arrived. Only her Yeoman was unruffled by the king’s arrival.

Anne ran down the hall to a window that afforded her a view of the great path leading into the estate. She saw a line of carriages and litters, with riders accompanying them bearing the flag of England and the Tudor coat of arms.

She ran back to her room to check her mirror, licking her lips and setting a diamond pin in her hair to pull the dark curls off her shoulders. She hid the letter she had stolen from Wolsey and rushed downstairs.

Henry was in the courtyard, towering above the servants and guards who scurried about, trying to scrape and bow and never look directly at him while they carried out their business. His red hair pierced her vision, and she looked at him for a moment as she stood in the shadows on the stairs, peering out into the courtyard. He was indeed handsome, and today he looked free and happy, like a man pleased with a change of winds.

He was laughing at a young servant who was having trouble grabbing the reins of a temperamental black mare. She showed him her teeth every time he lunged for the reins, and the boy began to sweat profusely, understanding himself to be sudden entertainment for the king. Henry stopped laughing and turned, facing her where she was hidden. Anne swallowed nervously and touched her hair. He extended a hand in her direction, and a curious silence whipped through the men. The young boy seized the opportunity to lunge for the reins and caught them, yanking the horse hard in the direction of the stables.

Anne stepped from shadow into light, smiling at Henry, her body softening to anticipate his embrace. Henry did not take his eyes from her but held his hand out still, and she crossed the courtyard. All the men were so startled by her sudden appearance that they scrambled to observe protocol. Anne knew that none were entirely sure what this was, as their official queen was not in residence, and Anne was known to be more than a temporary mistress. They averted their eyes and bowed their heads.

As the wave of men submitted to the king’s wishes, Anne’s weak knees made the slick stones treacherous. She placed her hand in Henry’s.

He pulled her in, his other hand circling around her waist. He was a full foot taller and bent to her, not for a full kiss on the mouth, but a gentle, lingering kiss on her cheek. His breath was hot on her neck, and his whiskers scraped against her face. He held her there, inhaling deeply, until she rested her head against him and exhaled.

“When can I see you?” he whispered in her ear. His voice brought up goosebumps all over her skin. This was not the monarch who had sought her company only for his bed. That she was surprised, even a little, made her ashamed. She had much less faith than she imagined.

“I have something I must show you,” she said.

He bowed to her and replied, “The gardens. Tonight.”

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Anne sat on a bench, its stone still warm from the sun. But the sun was gone, and a rich black night blanketed the garden, punctuated by scattered torches at the far ends. A perfect breeze, like cool silk on her skin, brushed her face and shoulders, and Anne lifted her skirts a fraction to let it relieve her feet and calves. In July, the garden was in full bloom, even while the ladies wilted. The wisteria released a strong sweetness that the breeze carried through the garden, and Anne smiled to see a ladybug land on her skirt. She let it explore the folds of material until it decided to fly away. Ladybugs were good omens, the seven dots on their shells representing the seven sorrows and seven joys of Mary, the holy mother, and their red shells representing her red cloak.

Anne reflected on the meaning of such blessing—of being visited by a ladybug even so late, well after ten o’clock at night. Mary had suffered much but borne the child who would save all men from their sins.

The thought sent shivers down her arms. Perhaps there were travails ahead, or God was acknowledging the rough path she had just left, but the message was the same: God would use Anne to send peace at last to England.

A few birds still sang, their long trills punctuated by sharp short bursts. The garden was packed with life yet still quiet. How was it the palaces were packed with quiet people, yet were so stressful? The natural world was no less crowded, and the animals had no guarantee of survival. Even one of these birds in the garden could well be eaten tonight by a snake or hawk, yet there was a tranquility here, an acceptance of order and destiny.

Men were not content with their place in the order, Anne decided. This was why people made the palaces uninhabitable. Their discomfort, angling, grasping, and ambition ruined the place.

Henry’s hand was warm on her shoulder, but it did not startle her. Reaching up to lay her hand on his, she turned her neck to allow the breeze to reach more of her skin and did not mind that Henry watched.

“When I thought you might die,” Henry began. He gripped her shoulder. “When I thought you might die, I was lost.”

“God did not let me die,” she replied.

He moved to pull her up to him but she resisted. “Henry, what do these names mean to you: Thomas Garrett, John Frith, John Clarke, Anne Askew?”

Henry removed his hand and grunted. “Enemies. Thomas More wants to burn them. Wolsey asks for mercy. Says they may yet repent.”

Anne felt fear. Her name was on that list. “But Henry, why would Wolsey have mercy on your enemies?”

“He is a merciful man.”

“He is going to be Pope, is he not? Do you trust him?”

“Do not speak of him like this. Wolsey is not stupid, and he is not a traitor.”

“It may not be treason. It may be faith. He has not worked with all haste to secure your annulment.”

“This pertains to the Hutchins book, not my annulment.”

“Hutchins pertains to you, Henry. He offers the people a new path to God, one that has not so much need for the Church. The realm will be in an uproar. Their faith will be shaken, their king will be held in disdain, and Wolsey will be Pope in another land, another land that stands ready to invade. Maybe More will burn these people; it can only work in Wolsey’s favour. He will be the kind saviour.”

“Wolsey banned these books,” Henry corrected her, “because of a violent uprising in Germany, attacks on the princes and nobility. This man Hutchins incites fury against establishment. I will not tolerate this book in my realm, and I’ve no more patience for the matter.”

He pulled her up and she turned into his arms.

“The Spanish, the French, and the Pope,” he said, “all these want one thing: power. As long as I am without an heir, I am weak. Without a queen in my bed, Anne, I do not think I will have much luck producing one.”

“I do not want to refuse you, Henry, and harp like a shrew night after night.”

“Do not make me wait. I have no marriage in the eyes of God.”

“Neither do I.”

He released her and pushed her away.

Anne reached for his arm, to put her hand upon it and so soften her words, but Henry jerked his arm away and would not look at her.

“The law serves the king,” he retorted. “I suggest you adopt the same attitude. I will speed this matter to its conclusion, but I will not take a shrew for a wife.”

“Henry,” Anne began.

But Henry yelled, “Back to your chambers! You’ll wait for me in the city, where the heat and stench will remind you to cherish the respites I offer.”

He turned his back. Anne did not know how to make a dignified exit, being swept from under his feet like a kitchen dog. She picked up her skirts and walked back to her room, her tears glistening as they fell to her bodice, a thousand tiny stars falling on this dark night.

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In her chambers, her tears still fell. She berated herself for not understanding the king better, for provoking him, though she had tried to do what was right. There was only one other woman who could offer her counsel, and this was the very woman Anne was destroying. Catherine had survived years under Henry’s thumb. Anne doubted she could survive a week without ruin.

She yearned for his softer words and lifted the lid of her trunk to fish out his letters, kept safe at the bottom, where no one dared disturb her private treasures.

They were gone. A stab of panic made her cry out, and she began removing the items one by one, setting them on the enormous bed, until the trunk was empty and there were indeed no letters.

She had committed treason in those letters, asking for the crown when another woman, very much alive, still wore it. Anne was sweating, a cold sweat that stung her brow. She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself, pressing in hard on her roiling stomach to calm it. Those lovely white papers bared at this moment before some enemy—they were no less than her neck. Is this what Hutchins must fear? Were they all doomed by ink and presses?

Anne shook herself awake from these terrors. She had to think. Who had access to her trunk, and who would want her in such a vulnerable state? It was either Wolsey or Henry, she decided. Henry could blackmail her to get her into his bed, and the law would still be on his side. Wolsey might not have known what he was looking for in her chambers, but if he was the thief, he had found the papers that would cause such outrage against her that Henry would have no choice but to dismiss her from court and remain with Catherine. Wolsey’s life, and his fortune, would be secure if there were no troubles with Catherine and the Pope.

Either man could be the thief. Both could be her adversary.

She paced in little turns, trying to find a spot that would stop her stomach from flipping and twisting. She accidentally knocked the book to the floor, and as she bent to retrieve it, her eyes fell upon the same words. But this time, the words were balm, and she pressed the book against her stomach, cradling it, murmuring the words again to herself. The words, spoken into thin air, did not disappear but lingered, settling in around her chamber, steadying her nerves as a friend might who sits with you on a night of fevers and dreams.

“I am surrounded by invisible witnesses,” Anne murmured.

A tapestry against the wall fluttered.