Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) (9 page)

She’d wanted to dance with George. And may he rot in his
splendidly cut clothes as he danced with that chit of a girl he pined over, and
now coddled—his wife.

"Too busy," he’d said with a wink, obviously
expecting his favorite sister to understand and comply with his meaning. Well,
she didn't understand. She had barely seen him in the three years, needed to
catch up. Besides, he saw his wife every day. She sat staring up at the
musician's gallery—engrossed in her own thoughts, bad company though they were,
and jumped nearly off her perch when she heard a voice addressing her. The
voice was deep and penetrating, vibrated in her chest, and sounded much like
Percy’s but with a more commanding air.

"You look sad, Mistress Boleyn, is something bothering
you?" Henry's voice drifted to her, and she swallowed her impatience at
his question.

The answer had to be obvious even to the most ignorant
courtier.

Instead, she smiled up into deep blue eyes that were fringed
with a lace of thick lashes. Such beautiful eyes, so sensitive. She refused to
listen to the rush of her heart. She eyed him somewhat suspiciously, stubbornly
stuck in her mood as she was. What was he doing over here, away from Mary? And
as she looked into his wide eyes, blue and naive, trying to appear either
sympathetic or sensitive, she made a decision that grew from her mood. Before
she could stop herself, she blurted out an answer.

"Thinking of my lost love, I suppose." Which she
wasn't, but he had opened the gate, and she intended to go through it.

"Lost love?" His question sounded ignorant, which
she knew he wasn’t. Oh well, if he wanted to play the game...

"
Oui
. Three years gone now."

"Oh, I'm sorry. My sympathies." His round face had
taken on that blank look she recognized as accompanying a feeling of ineptness,
or a lack of empathy.

"Oh, he hasn't passed on," she stated flatly, She
discerned a sense of vindication blending with her ennui. The hundreds of
milling people became a little more interesting, the room a trifle more
lighted.

"Oh," he began, his full mouth gaping into a
matching shape. "I don't know what to say."

She swallowed the comments she wanted to make, licked her
lips, and smiled her biggest, most disarming smile.

"You can say you're sorry." She hoped the green
velvet drapes that surrounded her back would darken her eyes.

He smiled, obviously confused. She spread her arm over the
cushion of the brocaded settee, offering him the place next to her.

"Sorry, say you, Mistress Boleyn?" He shifted and
sat, icy blue eyes melted to sea green. "Why? Am I responsible for you
losing him?"

Again, she licked her lips, a brief wetting that held her
tongue still on the tip for just a second. Then she reached out to touch his
wrist.

"
Oui
," she withdrew her hand as soon as the
word left her mouth, but not before she felt the tremor in his muscle as she
touched him. With a quick glance, she noticed the gooseflesh that took her
finger’s place.

"My betrothed, Henry Lord Percy, made a better
match—with your help, Your Majesty."

No matter how she felt Henry’s presence, she remembered
yearning for her betrothed, and couldn’t forget that this man was responsible.

"Ah." She could tell by the way his face fell, and
the set of his shoulders that he felt contrite. She almost felt disposed to
forgive him. Almost. But for that other thing in his expression—that thing that
spoke of disappointment, not of sadness for her—she would have. That, and the
vague idea that she could torment him.

"Ah? For a King, I expected a more careful, more
tactical comment." She stared off into the expanse of room, listened to
the laughter from the dancers, their shortness of breath until she heard him
clear his throat to speak.

His smile thinned his full lips into a hearty, toothy grin.
The little bit of extra flesh under his chin stretched out of sight.
"Speeches I can make aplenty; to sweeten your ear, if you like. But I'd
hate to gloss over such an indiscretion with something so false."

She shifted in her chair, more than pleased with the
response.

"I'm glad to hear it." She’d the faint notion she
was being charmed. "But you have yet to apologize."

If anything, she wasn’t about to lose sight of her goal. She
wanted him to know how his actions had hurt her, thought he should know what he
had done to someone with his Kingly meddling. Shouldn't every ruler have a
burst of reality now and then?

"Have I not?"

She knew he was flirting with her, and quite openly.

"
Mais non
." She flirted back.

"Then I should." His demeanor changed as he made
an abrupt decision, but there seemed to be something calculated in it, as if he
weren't really letting go of his sense of prerogative, but was only too anxious
to humor her.

"I don't usually apologize for making a state
decision—and that's what it was, you know—but I can make an exception in this
case, since I've hurt you so with it." A mischievous light glinted in his
eye. And at that, he stood, and bowed low to her.

"Mistress Boleyn, will you accept my humblest apologies
for ruining your marriage plans?"

So regal a statement, and so utterly hilarious that a mere
apology could make up for three years of isolation, of yearning. How could he
believe that it could eradicate her suffering, or make up for her loss, replace
a love. But she decided it time to let go. She had what she wanted—a spoken
apology from the King of England—not a bad evening after all. Without
hesitation, she extended her hand.

"
Oui
, accepted. Now you may rise," she said
in her most regal voice, a tease in its undercurrents. With equal promptness,
he took her hand, but instead of rising himself, he pulled her forward. There
was no doubt in her mind that the tease had been noticed, but not acknowledged.
Very gently he pressed her to the floor, forcing her to curtsey very low as he
straightened. Without a word said, she knew what the action meant, make no
mistake, I will be the one to grant such permission. And in the next brief
moment, he pulled her up again to stand in front of him.

"Would you care to dance, Mistress Boleyn?"

What else could she say? His power completely captivated
her.

G
eorge groaned deep in his throat, though he tried to keep
it from sounding aloud. His father’s voice faded little by little ’til Thomas’
fingers gripped his arm tightly.

"Are you listening?" Thomas’ black eyes blazed at
him with barely suppressed fury.

"Yes, Father. You said you seek a position for
me."

"Damn you." Thomas squeezed. George couldn’t help
wincing.

"I told you I couldn’t get you a position, that you’ll
have to find a way to be introduced to the King."

They stood near the musicians’ gallery and George had a
terrible urge to scream. The trumpets blared straight into one ear and his father
cursed into the other. There was altogether too much noise and he wanted to
shake his head like a rabid hound. He didn’t care that he had no position in
court, or that he had no title and little money.

"Father, it doesn't matter that I have no position..."
Thomas cut him off crossly.

"What have I been working so hard for, then, if not for
my children’s security?"

George crossed his arms, shuffled his feet.

"Yes, I know. I meant only that you needn’t worry. I’m
a man now, twenty-two, with a wife and..."

"You’ve a wife with no ambition." Thomas’ voice
grew threateningly soft suddenly and George almost cringed.

"And you’ve a man’s body with a boy’s mind."

"There is no truth in that," George dared bellow.
The sound of the music faded away. He felt his left brow twitch with a feverish
anger.

"Has never been true. I am a man. I’ve a man’s wants
and a man’s mind. You’ve just never seen it."

He drove his finger into Thomas solid shoulder; the tip
disappeared into the folds of burgundy velvet. He forgot for the moment that
his father could publicly berate him for his rudeness, and would be within his
rights to have a priest do so as well, here in front of the hundreds of
dancers. He was so angry, suddenly, that he ignored the training that taught a
child to respect his parent above all, even beyond Thomas’ scathing words. More
than that, he wanted his father to hold him. He wanted just once to see the
comfort of a mother in his father’s eye—the kind of comfort that told him he
was loved despite his shortcomings.

His mother had always done that, and George loved Elizabeth
more than any being on earth save Anne, for she told him she yearned for a man
other than society bred. She yearned for a man who was gentle and quiet, who
treated his women with decency and respect. George wanted to be that kind of
man—the kind who had a humble courage.

But he said nothing. He stood and waited for the inevitable
and rightful wrath of his father, angry at himself for that thing within that
told him he had no bravery in his soul. In the awkward silence his hand dropped
to his side and he stared at the floor, into the dust between the cracks of
stone.

The music came back to him through the fog of his anger.
Thomas’ voice caught his ear, it had gained a strangely excited tone.

"Look." He grasped George’s shoulder, pointed him
to the ring of dancers.

"Look, that’s Anne—and she’s with the King." That
his father hadn’t paid heed to his angry words, tore another chunk from his
heart.

"We may yet gain you that introduction, son."
Thomas crossed his arms, grinned broadly.

The use of ‘son’ wasn’t lost on George. Perhaps his father
had heard him, after all.

A
nne sat with Mary in the Queen’s royal garden. The summer
sun shone lazily through the haze of misty morning sky. While she loved the
feel of its heat against her chest, her conscience burned her insides too much
for her to enjoy it.

"He's taken a fancy to another," Mary said,
disclosing that her long affair with Henry had ended. Anne picked at the grass
guiltily. The fragrances of the garden argued over which would be recognized
first—the sweet smell of the just-planted chamomile won her heart.

"Not that I mind much," Mary continued. "I've
never loved him. But I'll miss his company."

She looked to Anne who busied herself weaving three blades
of grass. "He dresses in his grandest clothes, yet."

Anne felt a poke in her side, and reluctantly gave her
attention.

"A sure sign that he's in love. I've seen him dressed
in cloth-of-gold and silver, ornaments of gold hanging from his cloak in all
manner of shapes. Teardrops, hearts, roses—love knots, even."

"
Oui
, I know," Anne finally spoke, thinking
it time she said something.

"I heard he's been taking them off and giving them
away."

It wasn't unusual for the King to display such acts of
chivalry, or to expect his court to do so—he had long ago set the trend for
flirtation, but never had he given away precious stones from his own dress.

"And he's been complaining about some locket that our
Thomas Wyatt has. A lady's locket. And Thomas has been teasing him with
it." She stretched her legs along the grass, twirling the tips of her
satin slippers thoughtfully.

"I know," Anne stretched backwards palms down and
behind her on the grass, stared up into the clearing sky. The mists had begun
to dissipate, revealing the truest blue she had seen in a long while. It made
her think of honesty, and her throat constricted when she realized she would
have to tell Mary her secret. It wasn’t going to be easy. She felt odd speaking
of this to Mary—whether her sister loved Henry or not, she had to be feeling a
little jealous.

"The locket is mine."

She had expected her sister to look shocked, or dismayed, or
angry—instead Mary sighed. Anne’s throat squeezed nearly shut, and a cloud
passed across the sun, made her shiver.

"I thought so. It doesn't take much wit to discern it.
Thomas has been in love with you since we were children. That explains his glee
in having the bauble."

Mary’s study made Anne flinch.

"And the King has been trailing you like a hound on a
rabbit. You certainly have them both to heel." She shook her head,
incredulous. Spare chestnut brows lifted disbelievingly.

"I think I guessed when Thomas read me his latest
poem," Mary continued. "If I remember the lines, it says, ‘graven
with letters plain, there is written her fair neck round about
: Noli me
tangere
, for Caesar’s I am...’ or something of the sort."

"Ah,
oui
," Anne sighed. "I too have
read it, though it’s not accurate. The ‘Wild to hold’, part maybe, for I’m
none’s save my own. They argue over which should have me, not caring that I’ve
a mind for neither and both."

Anne shrugged her shoulders helplessly, felt that surprise
again as Mary patted her hand in comfort.

"I know. Put you in a room with a score of men and the
charm starts. How much the men love us, eh? The dancing, the smiles, the
flirtation."

"It’s too bad that charm holds no sway on women,"
Anne said, thinking absently that no matter how she tried, her comrades in
England were no closer to her than those in France had been. In France she had
been seen as English, but here in England, she was seen as French. Even she
wasn’t sure which nationality to claim.

"Mmm," Mary agreed, looking away at some distant
point that would never have held her attention. "I don't know why it
doesn't." She shrugged as if the thought had bothered her just as often,
and she had mulled it over and over. "But I do know it works on men. All
too well, sometimes. And it’s not as if we're beautiful. I'm not. And forgive
me, but neither are you."

For a moment, Anne wanted to poke her sister and pretend
shock and outrage. Instead she sighed. How could she argue? It was true. She
stared off to where the ducks waddled to the pond, thought briefly of Harry and
shrugged it off as quietly as it came. That lifetime was over and done with.

"But we still always have some man pining away over us;
you have Wyatt, and now the King—who knows how many more." Mary sat up
straight and pointed her finger at Anne's chest.

"You're bothered that you have few women friends. And
it bothered me too—until I spent a few hours thinking about it, putting it into
perspective." She smiled suddenly, another thought interrupting her
processes.

"I know you think I have no faculties, but I do have a
mind. I just prefer keeping my thoughts to myself.

"Alas," she said, continuing with the original
vein. "It has everything to do with our charisma. Our charm. And is it not
funny, how the one thing which we can't use, is the reason we cannot?"

Anne studied her, dumbfounded. Philosophy? Coming from Mary?
The only funny thing she saw here, was that.

"Go on," she urged, eager to see where this was
going, wanting to hear more from Madame Carey, the philosopher.

"Let me start again." Mary fidgeted like a cat
preparing to pounce, and Anne couldn't stifle a smile. The passion transforming
Mary's face intrigued her.

"Look at me." Her sister gestured to her bosom.
"I'm plain. Hardly any breasts." Mary waved her hand.

"I've a certain liveliness to my face, but I'm not
beautiful. And yet, I've never lacked partners. And it’s not just my
reputation—I had admirers long before that. Our whole family is the same way.
We draw people. We have some indefinable quality that lures others. Father has
it; and George. You and I have it. Except with the males the charm works
everywhere, on everyone. We can only seem to captivate the opposite sex. Ever
wonder why?"

"I thought that's what I was waiting for you to
explain," Anne said dryly, and flicked at an insect that bit her arm. The
one horrible thing about summer was the insects—bother that they should be able
to get through the damask of her gown.

Mary shrugged. "Maybe we could charm the women, if we
didn't hold so much attraction with the men. They discern a passion in us, a
passion for life and love, and they want it."

Anne was beginning to see. "Men are drawn to us, they
see we have wit."

Mary aimed her finger at Anne’s face. "Though mine
isn't double-edged like yours," she reproved. "They see spirit, and
they see fun. And they like it. I'm fun to be around, and that's why they like
me. But you. You have the extra zest. Dark, brooding looks; strange,
intoxicating. Combine it all, and men can't get enough. But women? Alas, you
know women: suspicious, envious. I might have a few lady friends. But you'll
have naught."

Terribly foreboding thought, and the way Mary said it; so
certain, so sure, Anne believed every word. She stared off to the green
horizon, sighed.

"Alas, I’ve not acted any different than court expects.
And shall continue to do so. it’s the King who set the rules and I shall abide
them—though he may not enjoy discovering he’s not exempt."

Mary gave a mumble of agreement.

"There was a time I’d have been content to live a
simple life. But no more—that was stolen from me. And should Wyatt and His
Grace wish to pander to me, then so be it. I shall at least gain pleasure from
being wanted." She watched as Mary curled her legs up under her to stand.

Her sister's face gained a wary look.

"Yes, well, I’m certain you’ll play your games, but
forge ahead with care. It’s obvious to me the King has his eye on you as his
next mistress. I've heard a tale that he plans to name a ship after you."

Anne stood as well, realizing Mary was becoming
uncomfortable with the discussion.

"And the ship that bears the name Mary Boleyn?" she
asked.

" It will remain in service, but shan’t dock in his
harbor again."

"And so out you go, without emotion or pain?"

"Oh, there’s pain, dear Anne. Has always been. A person
such as I does not refuse a King, for there’s family to think of—though they don’t
always recognize a sacrifice—there are things to acquire. But always the pain
festers beneath the surface. And yet how much has the King spared me? Father
rises, you have court position, I have a good marriage. Little that has worth
comes without pain."

"Would you have refused him, Mary, if he offered you
naught?" Anne wanted terribly to hear the answer. Mary’s face grew deadly
serious. Her eyes deepened to a cinnamon brown.

"Is there truly such a thing as refusing a King? I
don't know. I know only that our good monarch has never been refused. And I
hadn’t the courage to be the first." Mary shrugged her shoulders
helplessly.

She gave Anne a quick hug before leaving the garden.

As she watched her sister walk back to the castle, Anne
thought about her situation. She hadn’t spoken of the rumors that hounded
her—that she was bothered by them. In her need to be outwardly belligerent, she
refused to admit that her peers had begun to shun her, that they spoke of her
when they thought she was out of hearing. With each passing day, she told
herself it didn’t matter.