She was right.
At dinner every woman at the court paid great attention to Anne without speaking to her. She felt their eyes on her, and they were cold. She was not used to being so scorned. Steadying her fork as she raised it to her mouth, she swallowed only once when she raised her cup. She missed her friends at the French court, she missed her brother, she missed being liked. She had not even been allowed to see her betrothed, Lord Percy, since her return.
It was a cold rain the day she got off the ship and it rained still—at least in her soul—a sour rain that could cause nothing to grow. Perhaps soon she would be finished here, the family’s name restored, and she would sleep beside Percy every night. Her small act of rebellion, bringing a forbidden book into the country, had gone unnoticed. Indeed, some of the nobles here already had it.
The servants set before her a bowl of steaming pottage and a plate of roasted venison. She sat at an enormous table with courtiers lined up according to rank and usefulness to the crown, servants and pages darting in among the diners to deliver food and messages. The cook’s politics involved the belly only, not books, so the servers spoke freely with Anne. She silently blessed them for it.
“How do you like the venison, my lady?”
“It is wonderful,” Anne said, throwing a bone on the floor, as was the custom. “Though I feel sympathy for it, having been hunted by this court. Everyone here relishes the suffering of the weak.”
The server, a boy of about thirteen, noted the women staring at Anne. He winked at her and set a plate of fine bread on the table.
“Anyone hunting in here would need mighty sharp arrows to pierce those old hides,” he remarked, and Anne laughed out loud.
Everyone stopped.
“Anne?” Queen Catherine spoke from the head of the table. King Henry was not beside her. He had not joined her at dinner since Anne had come to court. “What remark has pleased you?”
Anne wiped her fingers on her bread and rested her hands in her lap. “I meant no disrespect. I was enjoying the dinner.”
Catherine stared at her, but Anne could not see what the queen weighed in her mind. Catherine brushed her hand across her face and returned to eating in silence, her cold face intent on Anne’s. If Queen Catherine blamed her for her sister, Anne did not know. Anne’s sister was carrying Henry’s baby, and the family’s shameful secret was everyone’s favourite course at this table. Anne had been retrieved from the French queen’s court to serve Catherine in humble apologetic submission, and her father hoped she would redeem the family’s name. Anne wanted only to marry Percy and be free of them all. This was what pleased God, the priests said: Women living in obedient service, tending hearth and children. Anne had learned in France that she could never please both a royal court and God, and she had seen too many broken lives at court to set her heart there. She would marry and be free at last to live by the church’s rules instead of men’s.
With the next round of courses, the court returned their attention to Catherine, and Anne was relieved to be ignored again.
After dinner, the noon sun was burning the last of the morning clouds away, and Anne requested permission to rest in the quiet of her bedchamber rather than accompany the women to the garden for music. It was not a thing that would be done by another lady of the court, but Catherine walked as if in a dream and gave her leave with no further thought. Catherine did not have the energy to sustain a hatred for her. Anne noticed that Dr. Butts, the court physician, hovered around Catherine, testing her brow with his wrist and urging her to sit.
Anne gave it no more consideration and fled to her chamber, the delight of having it alone making it the sweetest place on earth. Ten empty beds greeted her and the drapes were drawn against the window so that it was shadowed, the still air sweet and heavy inside the thick castle walls, making exquisite conditions for a nap. She had slept, but not truly rested, in the weeks since she had been here, always awaking to the feeling that something had been near. The book was still on the foot of the bed, and she glared at it, moving it to a night table where it would not be disturbed by a breeze.
Taking off her farthingale and laying it over the foot of the bed, she pulled back her coverlets and saw it.
A new sleeping gown, soft white linen with ribbons gathering the neck and sleeves and painstaking lavender embroidery spiraling the sleeves and down the front of the gown, with a gold weave of the great Tudor rose. It had been folded and placed under her coverlet, and a note fell away as she lifted it up for inspection.
Because you did not despise the sorrow of a broken man.
There was no signature.
There was a stirring of air around her, and Anne covered her mouth with her hands. She could not tell where the stirring came from … if something was sweeping in or departing. Either way, she sensed the breaking fissure beneath her and prayed.
“Anne, Anne.”
She opened her eyes and winced. Someone had pulled back the drapes and the sun was at its peak. It must have been nearly four in the afternoon, and the youngest of the ladies-in-waiting, a girl named Jane, was still shaking her.
“Anne, you must dress. The masquerade is starting!”
Anne sat up. She held the sleeping gown in her hands like a blanket and slid it out of view under the coverlet, frowning. Jane did not notice but grabbed Anne’s hands and helped her dress. Anne studied the girl when she could, wondering why this lady-in-waiting had warmed to her.
“They made fun of me at music today. I have no ear for singing, yet they forced me to sing alone, just to make the queen laugh.”
“I am sorry, Jane.”
Anne was shivering in her chemise, though the sun was warm. She could see the dust floating through the air, kicked up when Jane helped her step into her petticoat, the farthingale going over this. The corset went over her head, and Anne began to feel like herself again after her nap, the layers of clothes bolstering her to face the women. Jane fastened the bumroll and parlet on next, and whipped around to grab the kirtle that went on top of the underskirts. The gown itself was the last piece, split open down the skirt so that the kirtle could be seen.
Anne favoured a headpiece she had brought from France, but Jane had trouble securing it.
“I am sorry, Anne! I can’t set it right. Why don’t you wear one of mine?”
“No, let me show you how,” Anne offered, guiding her hand, holding the headpiece down so Jane could secure it.
“You shouldn’t wear it. The queen does not like the ways of the French court.”
“The queen will sooner send me away.” She caught Jane’s hand after the piece was secured. “I am not like my sister, Jane.”
“You shouldn’t draw attention to yourself,” Jane replied. “We are here to serve the court, not command it.”
“Let it remind them that I am different,” Anne said. “I will not make the mistakes of my sister, but neither will I atone for her. I want no part of this court.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” Jane asked.
Anne started to ask why just as a cannon went off from the palace wall. They both screamed from fright. Seeing each other’s hysterical faces, they fled, laughing, down the hall to join the others.
Inside the gilded gold of the banquet hall, a towering white wall had been set in place, with windows and doors painted on it. Ladders leaned against the wall in several places, some connected with a plank across the top to make a scaffold. Workers tested the ladders as others brought in baskets of oranges, setting them beneath the ladders. Anne and Jane joined the other ladies attending Queen Catherine. Catherine sat on a carved dark wood chair, her skirts spreading wide so no one could stand less than five feet from her. Ladies had to shout to be heard over the noise of the work. Catherine’s face was pinched and red, as if she had been weeping, and the women struggled to say merry things to her. Anne tried to smile with detached encouragement whenever Catherine’s face turned in her direction. Catherine saw her headpiece and scowled.
The workers finished their efforts and ran from the room, closing all the doors behind them.
Catherine rose and pressed her palms against her cheeks, inhaling a ragged, determined breath. “Bolt the doors!” she commanded.
Her ladies squealed and ran for the doors, bolting them by pushing a brace against the handles. Anne stood stupidly at Catherine’s side, having no idea what to do. In the time it took her to understand the queen’s command, it was already done—the ladies, laughing, had rushed about, checking the windows, and had flown back to Catherine’s side.
“They approach!” Jane cried out from her perch at a window.
Catherine stood. “When they breach the door, climb to the fortress and defend it! I will reward the maid who acts with courage—and an extra reward for the one with the best aim!”
Every woman stopped where she was and watched the doors, some women turning slow circles to see each one at either end of the room. Anne’s heart pounded. When the first door received a thunderous blow, the spell was broken. Ladies ran screaming for the fortress, grabbing as many oranges as they could stuff into their bosoms and skirts and still navigate the ladders. They began to hand oranges up to the women on the scaffolds, working with speed to empty the baskets as the doors blasted open.
Jane grabbed Anne’s hand and pulled her to the fortress as Catherine returned to sitting and watched with a vague smile. They climbed higher and higher up a ladder, struggling to balance their weight on the crude rungs, laughing when the fortress shook.
The doors slammed back with such force that the tapestries fluttered against the walls. Masked men poured into the room and ran for the fortress as the ladies pelted them with oranges, some hurling them with enough force to knock a man off his feet. Anne laughed, and no one turned to stare at her. In the chaos of flying oranges, frivolous taunts, and men smeared with pith and juice, Anne laughed as loudly as she wanted and no one scolded. She only wished she had taken more oranges.
A few of the men had maneuvered under a ladder, safely away from the stinging orange missiles, and used their swords to hack at the ladder’s joints. A pair of ladies crashed to the floor in a collapse of wood and laughter, and the men turned their attention to another ladder and another pair of armed women.
One man was dressed like all the others but stood so tall that he caught her eye. He had to be at least six foot six, a monster compared to the smaller men in court, and he was well built too. He stood still, surveying the madness and marking each woman on the fortress. Anne noticed Catherine’s sad, eager smile focused on him and his utter indifference to her. It infuriated Anne. Every court was the same: Pressed, thin lips and cold stillness polluting the room when words and action could clear the air.
Anne grabbed an orange and struck the man as hard as she could, hoping Catherine would see. It caught him on the back of the head, and he turned and smiled up at her as Catherine’s mouth dropped open. His amusement did not please Catherine, whose pinched face grew redder as she spat out a word to Dr. Butts, who was checking her brow. Court politics, Anne decided, was perhaps not her own best talent.
The man walked straight towards Anne, evidently not minding where oranges flew or paying any attention to the cries of the captive maids who called down increasingly ridiculous insults on the victors.
Her knees jellied, and she held tight to the ladder as he climbed it.
He stood beneath her. She noted his sword and the men gathered at his feet, their women surrendered. She was the last woman on her ladder.
“How will you go?” he asked.
He took another step up and extended his arm. Beneath him were more men, their swords ready to bring down the ladder if she refused him. Everyone was silent, watching. Anne could feel their eyes on her, like the heat from a close fire that drew the blood to her cheeks. How did she always manage to shame herself? She bit her cheek to keep a tear from spilling out and lowered herself into his arms.
Her face was inches from his, his red whiskers scratching her cheek as she bumped against him. He smelled of smoky embers and honey, the yeast of English ale and salt of the sea. He was a foreign taste to her French palate of perfumes and gardens, and his mystery made her breath deeply, learning the scent of a man.
He pressed her into his muscular body to lower her down, and his warmth was a childish comfort to her. The confusions in her spirit calmed for a fleeting second.
His hands dug under her ribs as he lowered her, and she tried to readjust her weight. He winced as her legs brushed his.
“Mind the knees,” he whispered.
In the deepest hours of night, when everyone else staggered to their beds for sleep, the women returned from Catherine’s chambers bursting with activity. Anne did not know why they refused sleep before the moon disappeared and breakfast was served. Now their faces appeared grim and determined as they forced their way out of the tight, boned bodices that had been known to crack ribs, and above yards and yards of fabric that announced station and wealth. Everyone was changing into simpler gowns, whispering little instructions to each other.
Jane spoke softly to her as Anne expelled a hard breath and pushed herself out of the bodice. “We must go into the countryside tonight, before the sun rises on the May Day festivities. We go to collect branches of mountain ash.”
“Why?” Anne whispered back.
“A witch has been discovered in the castle. The branches will protect the queen.”
“What evidence of a witch?” Anne asked, straining to turn and see Jane’s face. Jane pressed her face nearer as she did up the laces of the new skirt and bodice. Her voice dropped lower again.
“Catherine miscarried a boy two nights ago, another boy. She always conceives but miscarries, except for Princess Mary. Henry has turned cold towards her and offers her no comfort. Catherine knows he has been seduced again. Tomorrow at dawn is the only moment of the year we may cast a witch out.”
In silence they walked down to the garden and waited for the carriages to be brought round. Anne wondered if they would wait for an hour or more still. Catherine was old, Anne knew, at least forty, and always sleepy after banquets.
But not today. Catherine came to the garden straightaway and was first in a carriage. Anne strained to see if she was frightened, but her closest ladies-in-waiting kept her shrouded from view.
The horses took off with a great lurch and the ladies ran to clamber into their own carriages and follow. They went a short distance, about five or six miles, until the road became clogged with wet leaves and the trees were thick all around.
Catherine alighted first and urged the women to work. The branches had to be gathered while still wet with dew, or they would not work. Anne had no idea what she was to look for and tried to watch the other girls as they worked, but each girl would spy a small tree and remove the choice branches, tucking them into her skirts and dashing to deliver them to Catherine. The creeping fog made it all worse, and the servants held the torches too far away to help Anne see clearly. She arrived at each tree late and gathered nothing. She began to panic, her inexperience marking her out again for ridicule. She wanted to be sent away with honour, Catherine spying some greater piety in her that her sister did not possess. She had never been thought of as the fool, and she panicked to see her plan sliding into some unforeseen pit.
“Anne, quit thinking of yourself and help us!” one scolded her. “We won’t do your work for you!”
But the only flowers she knew by sight here were the hawthorn, and they were not yet in bloom. Even then, she had brought nothing to offer the fairies, so it would not be wise to clip one.
The sun was rising. Catherine called the women back to their carriages, fleeing back to the castle with the witch’s bane as the sun rose. The horses ran with great strength, but the roads were wet and rough, and Anne clung to the side of the carriage. She did not speak. All the words she could say were pooling in her eyes. It did not take the girls long to check and see that Anne had gathered nothing. She tried not to notice their stinging glee.
God, she prayed silently, I thought I could serve You here, but I was wrong. I dishonour us both. Send me away!
The horses were covered in sweat when they arrived, their earnest run under the drivers’ whips having exhausted them. The ladies stepped out of their carriages and ran to attend to Catherine as she stepped down. Every girl except Anne carried her branches like a baby in her arms. Witches frightened them as much as the plague; both could steal in, unseen. Witches could make a man fantasize about another woman until he was driven mad with desire and forced to break the bonds of matrimony. Witches lured women to commit foul acts of desire, which led to the birth of misshapen babies and barren wombs. A single witch could undo the work of a hundred saints. Witches were birthed in hell, and every good Christian prayed to send them back there as well.
The morning sun was appearing over the white palace walls.
“Ladies!” the queen shouted. “Cast them across every threshold, secure them above the doorposts! And pray the Lord to cast the witch out!”
A page ran into the courtyard. “Anne Boleyn?” he called.
Everyone froze, looking at her, their mouths upturned with a hunger for more gossip.
The page followed their gaze and spoke to her directly. “Do not return to your quarters. You are commanded to submit yourself to Cardinal Wolsey. Forgive me, my queen, but she will not return.”
“That’s why she didn’t collect any mountain ash,” a girl told another as Anne walked past. “She’s the witch.”
“I belong to God!” Anne cried. With this, she touched the cross at her neck, still buried in the peeping layers of her bodice.
Catherine walked to her, an eyebrow raised, and jerked the necklace off Anne’s neck. She lifted it so all the girls could see. “It is Henry’s!” she cried out, and the girls screamed.
Cardinal Wolsey’s study was a sunlit room on a floor above the women’s quarters. Spread with braided rushes, the floor was littered over again with herbs, including fat fresh buds of cloves that crushed under her footfall, spreading a warm fragrance around her as she entered. The room smelled like a French perfumery and was decorated with so much gold and paint that it would rival any French woman. It comforted Anne to be in a room so familiar, even if she knew the man only by reputation.
Everyone in the French court knew of Cardinal Wolsey, who was the scorn of Martin Luther and the salvation of Henry’s reign. Wolsey taught Henry to rule England and restrained Henry’s appetites but then stamped Henry’s thick wax seal on his own secret pleasures. Wolsey was one step away from becoming the Pope. Anne wondered what he would do with his mistresses and children when the appointment was announced. Men could forgive other men so easily. She sighed. Power was its own righteousness.
Cardinal Wolsey was working on his papers as she entered and did not look up until she stood before him. He rose and she knelt, biting her lip and pressing her eyes closed for one last prayer for mercy. Had he found the forbidden Hutchins book? It was outlawed here, but surely these laws did not apply to the court. She had not meant to offend these men. She had hoped she would be the friend whose company was sought after midnight, when girls with candles told stories and read aloud from books kept under mattresses. She had not known what powers it had, so she was afraid to throw it away, lest it mark her for vengeance and return. Her brother, George, was afraid of it. She should have listened.
“Anne Boleyn.” He spoke it plainly, without question or accusation.
She felt it safe to reply and agree to it. “Yes.”
“You have been in our court only a few weeks, returned from several years at court in France, is it?”
Anne nodded. So far there was no hint of her fate.
“Yet you have made a distinct impression on everyone you have met.” His words were sour.
Anne could not help it. She tried to keep her face down so he would not see her cry, but her shoulders were shaking.
His heavy hand rested on her shoulder. He was a portly man, with jowls that began back behind his ears and fulminated in a point just under his chin that wobbled as he gestured. She looked up into his eyes, deeply etched with wrinkles and sagging skin, and saw they had a luminous, sweet quality she did not expect.
“My child.” He patted her. “There is still time to repent.” He gestured to a chair. “Sit down.”
She sat in the chair pushed closest to his desk, and he paced as he continued. How could she repent? Anne thought to herself. Even her innocence must stink to God for Him to continually punish her for it. She wanted to unburden everything to the cardinal, to take confession and know forgiveness. She trusted his kind face. He was a man who could make anything right.
“I know your father. He has supported the church in every hour of need and has suffered under the indifferent treatment of this king.”
Anne understood him to mean her sister, unworthy of a good match and financially dependent on a king who had grown completely tired of her after the first few nights.
“Anne, use your wits. Your family will be ruined by this.” His voice was tender.
She started to declare a vow of repentance, but a page entered.
Wolsey rested his face in his hands before he spoke, rubbing his eyes before assuming a cold demeanor. “You are to inform Lord Percy that his betrothal to Anne Boleyn will not be recognized by King Henry. Percy must return the dowry. Next time, he should consult his monarch before making a match that would affect the alliances of the nobles.”
The page nodded and scampered to his errand.
Before Anne could utter more than a strangled protest, Wolsey continued, to her, “You will no longer be housed with Catherine’s ladies. You can thank me for this, for though Henry desires you, he does not consider how you must live. I have arranged private apartments on these grounds where you will be comfortable. Henry will allow you no visitors. Still, this is better than what the women will do to you when they find out.”
“Find out what?” Anne asked.
“That you’re Henry’s mistress.”
I ground my teeth in frustration. Two-thousand dollars for retainers and hypnosis treatments had not cured me of that. “What an arrogant man! Claiming her like that and ruining her reputation. I’m glad I didn’t live back then.”
“It’s much better to live today, to be the one who steals and ruins?” the Scribe asked. “You have done so well with your liberty.”
“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.”