Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) (17 page)

"Mother." This time a whisper. Oh, what was the
use? He’d have to bang on the floor like his father had years ago when he
wanted Elizabeth to come running and he hadn’t the bother to speak. Curses. He
moved to the edge of the bed. It took a while, but finally he managed to squirm
far enough to lean his upper body toward the floor. Good. His hand reached the
mat. Now to let it flop. Hardly a noise. Humph. He would have to try a little
harder. He lifted his butt up a little, gave a squirm, until... Well, now this
was a lovely position to be in. He had made a goodly noise, that was certain,
and yes, he could hear the rushing steps of someone coming near. Trouble
was—and it was a terrible trouble when he looked down at himself—that he lay
prone on the floor naked as the day he was born. And bother that he could
hardly reach the bed to pull a quilt onto himself.

"George?"

"Um. Don’t come in please," He heard himself say,
but he doubted Anne heard it, for his throat still hadn’t the inclination to
obey his weak mind. And yes, there she was. He made a timid attempt to cover
himself, cupped his feeble fingers around his scrotum so she’d not see. Damn
her and the hand that flew to her mouth in surprise.

"Stop laughing, Nan."

"I can't help it." Her hands went to her ribs as
she doubled over. He hoped it was relief, rather than humor that made her laugh
so hysterically and uproariously.

"Yes. Yes, you can help it. Now go fetch a servant to
help me back to bed."

She giggled more, turned her back on him. Ah, gracious
sister, for having some shame.

"Mother. Mother, George is fine. He lives!" The
sound of her shout hurt his ear, but more than that it frightened him. God’s
blood, mother would be running to the room as quick as Anne had.

"Help me." The irritating way she shook her head
made him want to strangle her. "You demon. When I’m better, I’ll thrash
you so you dare not look upon my face again."

"I dare not look at you now, brother. So get up
yourself and hide that scrawny body of yours."

He managed to pull himself to a sitting position, and in a
horrible instant stood uncertainly, thinking he would fall. And fall he did,
but thankfully onto the bed. He rummaged beneath his hide to pull up a sheet.
He just got it into place when Elizabeth came into the chamber.

"George," she said nothing more, but rushed to
him. He held her small frame against his chest.

"Mother, what news?"

She looked at him, relief plain on her face.

"Your Father lives, Anne too, as you see. But Mary’s
husband has passed."

"And Henry has called me back to London," Anne
said. A strange zeal lit her features. "But of course I’ll wait ’til
you're well enough to travel."

"Ah, so you think I’d like to travel with you, you
demon. I’d not chance it if it would save your soul." He turned to the
wall and hoped the two of them would leave him to dress. He heard Anne’s
harrumph, imagined she had her hand on her hip.

"Oh, you’ll go, all right, for your wife awaits. I’ll
not have her thinking I’ve poisoned you, or imprisoned you—which I imagine
she’ll think at any rate."

M
onths later, Anne paced eagerly in her castle apartments.
Her servants and ladies managed to get in her way with every turn and she had
terrible urges to curse at them with each round. Instead she muttered quietly
to herself. The gathering must be over by now. Why, it had been hours. Damn,
why couldn’t someone come and tell her how it went? Two, three, five, ten more
paces, and finally a knock at the door. One, two, barely three seconds and she
was there, pulling it open with a great flourish.

"George." She grabbed him by the sleeve, pulled
him into the room with no concern for politeness or propriety.

"Come, tell me." He had begun to spend even more
time in her chambers, and she relied on him to tell her every bit of court news
that dealt with her. He made a big show of pretending ignorance.

"Tell you?" He smiled wickedly. "Tell you
what?"

"Go sit down," she ordered. This was no time for
games, Henry had said he would make the nobles pay for questioning his
conscience on his marriage.

"Tell me everything." There, that should be answer
enough, specific enough. George folded into a hard backed, tapestry covered
chair.

"Not before you get me something to eat. I'm starved,
he kept us in there for hours, not caring it went past lunch." Before he
could make himself comfortable, she prodded his shoulder and shushed him. She
ordered Nan Gainesford to fetch fruit, and pulled George to his feet and into
her chamber, where some privacy could be had—there were ears all over the
place, including the ones she had put in Catherine's apartments. If there was
juicy news in his tale, she wanted to be the only one to hear of it. Let
Catherine's spies secure their own information.

"Gad, I'm hungry," George complained for the last
time Anne could bear to hear. She turned back to him as she entered the
bedchamber, slapped his chest with her open palm. He ignored her temper and
draped across her bed, covering the blue satin with a large pool of red tissue
cloth. His brown hair looked dirty against the stark white of her pillow.

"Stop complaining, and get to it." How terribly
annoying he could be at times, playing with her and teasing her. Yet he
wouldn’t be George if he didn’t. Cursed she was, with such a sibling.

"Ah, ah." He tapped the air with his finger,
sitting calmly. "Patience, my dear sister. You'll never make it with so
little patience."

She thought she would throw something at him.

"I've spent three years cultivating this patience; I'm
beginning to lose it very quickly. What with all the slurs and death threats.
An angel would have lost it by now, so don't scold me, brother."

"Oh, very well. But I'm still hungry." He accepted
her order with the largest of sighs, and crossed his arms against his chest.
His eyes closed while he made her wait—his own brand of protest. She was about
to give in and fling a pillow at him, when a few short raps sounded at her
door. She opened it for Nan who carried a large tray of fruit and wine. Nan
grinned at Anne and made to throw an apple at George’s stomach. Anne shook her
head and took the tray, laid it noisily on the bed table. At the sound of
goblets clunking and fruit rolling against each other, he opened one eye. Anne
grinned when he closed it again and made a face at her.

"Here, there’s cheese on the tray as well. Does that
meet your approval?" She perched on the bed next to him, held out a goblet
of wine. She turned to make sure Nan closed the door behind her, and as she
did, she felt a tender touch on her shoulder.

"He made a few rather eloquent statements about how he
loved the Queen." He Picked a berry from the tray.

"He did, did he?" Lately she had been feeling
paranoid about Catherine, and how much Henry loved her. Why, she had even found
a servant bringing him one of the shirts Catherine had sewn. There had been an
argument over that—and later, a passionate reconciliation.

"Yes, after the normal business. He opened the subject
of his marriage somehow—I forget how it started. But once he began speaking,
the whole assembly quieted down." George jammed the strawberry into his
mouth.

"Said how he would marry Catherine again, if the
marriage weren't condemned. How she is such a goodly, kind woman, fairer than
any other. And how she has been an exceptional Queen and wife."

He chewed the fruit reflectively and Anne watched his smooth
cheeks billow where the berry moved. Anne snorted. How like Henry to make such
a speech. Still, she had to admit, it seemed the best move to make, allowing
the kingdom to think he wanted another woman for the good of the realm, not
because he lusted after her.

"Did the assembly believe him?" She asked,
interested in the reaction. She stretched for a berry herself. George's light
laugh intensified the color of his face.

"Come now, Anne. They might act as if they believe him,
for their own sakes. And indeed, many might have, except on the note he ended
the whole affair."

"Which was?"

"At first, I think everything went fine. Then as Henry
was about to sit, very low, in the back, I heard a snort, and a rude remark
which I really shouldn't reveal."

"Tell me," she insisted, pinching his skin.

"It had something to do with his manhood, if I recall.
Which of course, he heard. And his face got red, like it had turned into a
boiled beet."

Anne nodded; she had seen it many times. Henry usually had
the look of an angel; smooth of face, and fair. But when he lost his temper, no
semblance of that angel could be found. She could just imagine the look on his
face—and the fear he must have instilled on all those in the assembly.

"He turned right back ’round, and glared into the
crowd. Oh, it made me shudder, that look. You can barely imagine how glad I was
that I didn't say it. And I think the fellow who did must have shrunk into the
floor. The King knew not who had made the statement, and no one was about to
tell him."

"Yes, yes?" The tension must have been unbearable.

"He looked right into the crowd, and said, that if
anyone crossed him, or dared criticize him, or his choices, there would be dire
consequences."

"Dire?"

"Yes. He said there was no head in the kingdom so fine
it wouldn’t fly." George shivered. "I tell you, my blood froze on the
spot."

Her blood froze just thinking about it, but at least he had
finally been spurred to some action—though by now most of the Kingdom probably
realized his delusions. Who could believe in light of the very public attention
he bestowed on his mistress, that Henry still loved his wife, or was saddened
that the marriage might not be legal? The thought was preposterous, and so very
like Henry to attempt to make it seem otherwise.

"And news of Campeggio? He’s been in England for nearly
four months and still hadn't made judgment on Henry’s matter."

"There was no news, save that he's working night and
day, studying all aspects. He did say he hoped to have his answer soon."
George finally sat up in the bed, and rose to stride to the fireplace, a bright
red figure against the dreariness of stone.

She watched as he threw another log into the fire. Flames
gratefully enshrouded the wood, devouring it voraciously. The June air still
required some heat, especially during early evening. She followed him and went
to the hearth where she could see his face clearly.

"I suspect that Campeggio has orders to postpone the
matter." There, she had said it finally, admitted her suspicions to
someone. George looked at her, digesting her words.

"You mean, from the Pope? But why?" His left
eyebrow rose a good distance from its normal spot. She strode across the room,
then paced back to the fireplace, resting her hand on the poker. She decided to
explain her worry, changed her mind, then decided again.

"I think there is more at stake here than the Pope
wishes to contemplate, and I doubt he wants to make a ruling on it."

She twisted the instrument round and round, pulling a
little, stabbing a little, choosing her words carefully so he would easily
understand the way her mind had been traveling.

"Oh, it’s complicated..." she huffed and George
gave her a sarcastic, do you think I’m a fool, look...

"I’m just not sure how to word it. It’s clear in my
mind, but when I try to unravel it, it gets lost somehow."

"I’ll listen, if you’d like."

She took a deep breath. "Catherine was first married to
Henry’s brother, correct?"

George nodded.

"That meant the Pope had to grant a dispensation so
Henry could marry her."

"Because they were related?" George answered.

Anne nodded.

"The dispensation was based on the non-consummation of
the marriage. Do you see?" She stopped poking at the fire long enough to
study his face, to see if her point was being understood.

"Twenty years ago that paper stated that God hadn’t
seen Catherine as married to Arthur. But now Henry wants to put her away based on
the grounds that God is punishing him for marrying his brother’s legal wife. If
Catherine wasn’t married to Arthur twenty years ago, then how can Henry say
now, that she was?"

"So, if Campeggio agrees with Henry, he’s stating that
the papacy was wrong in issuing the dispensation. That means the Pope would
have gone against God’s written law in order to marry her to Henry. Not a good
position for the Pope, eh?"

"The Pope has been going against God’s law for years...
he and his predecessors." She stabbed at the fire again. It disgusted her,
this business.

"Mmmm," he mumbled in agreement. "They say
they’re holy men of God, but don’t follow their own preaching when it comes to
finance." A wet smack accompanied his words.

"And all those dispensations they issue. Charging to
buy people from purgatory and into heaven," she scoffed.

"You know as well as I, that God says there is only one
way to heaven; through Jesus. So I imagine for the Pope to come right out and
say he can’t go against the bible’s teachings would shed unwanted light on his
church’s practices."

George laughed, and she looked at him queerly.

"What’s so funny?"

"The whole thing, Anne. Think of it... The Pope won’t
go against God’s teachings for Henry’s want to bed another woman, yet does it
himself so he can bed the populace. For a whore, you keep good company."
He guffawed at that, and Anne couldn’t help but smile.

"You’re brave to call me whore, brother." She
brandished the poker. "But still, you’re right. I think the Pope is afraid
to lose a lucrative business. I’ll wager he doesn’t want his followers to
realize he’s but a man. And thus, his Cardinal will not make a decision on this
matter—probably hoping Henry will tire of the affair and go back to
Catherine."

She twisted the poker around a burning log and sighed.

"But what are my suspicions against the powers of the
realm? The Islanders are, for the main part, ignorant of the bible, relying on
priests interpretations from the Latin. At least in France were we able to read
our own."

"I’m afraid we’re powerless on that count, Anne."
George went back to the tray of fruit, and picked up an orange.

"Powerless on all counts," she mused.

"Because Henry won't listen. He still thinks Cardinal
Campeggio can intercede. Trouble is, poor wretch is in limbo the same as me.
Except he loses no matter whose side wins." She flopped onto a dusty
chair, watched George as he split the orange. Something was peculiar in his
manner as he opened it.

"What is it?" His face had blanched to ash.

"Oh, nothing." He threw the orange, flesh and all
into the fire, but it rolled back out, taunting them with a wide mouth-like
split. She rose from her chair, swept past him.

"Nothing?"

She bent to retrieve the fruit. A piece of parchment lolled
from the mouth like a tongue. She folded it open. As she scanned the paper, she
felt appalled, then enraged. The drawing actually made her chest pull tightly
as if the breath had all been sucked from it; she gasped once or twice as she
studied it. In a fleeting moment, she gathered her faculties. It was but a
parchment after all, and no matter how angry she was that it had been served
her, she did see some humor in it. Silly commoners, did they think it would
frighten her away from the throne? She laughed suddenly, as she looked at
George, his face all white and afraid. He laughed when she did.

"Nan!" She cried, tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Nan, come here!" She carefully watched Nan’s walk
as she returned to the room, took note of the look on her face.

"Look here, Nan, it’s a book of prophecy." Anne
spread the parchment onto the table, smoothed it with her deft fingers.

"See here? This drawing is the King. Can you tell? He's
labeled K." She watched her woman's face as she pointed to the next
figure.

"And this... This is Catherine, labeled C. And the
final... Why, that's me. I'm the A with no head." She laughed heartily,
but studied her servant’s face closely as it pinched into a disapproving sneer.

"Ah, well," the girl began, waving the air as if
to clear a stench.

"I'd not have him if he were an emperor in that
state." Sweet relief engulfed Anne. She didn’t think she could bear the
thought of Nan purposely serving her the atrocity.

"That may be so," Anne said.

"But, so the realm can have peace by my children, I'd
take him if I had to die a thousand deaths."