In the Shadow of Lions (17 page)

“There are priests to teach women how to live, Margaret. Women cannot understand the whole of the gospel and render just opinions on its meaning. The Bible is law, and laws are administered by those with training. If every man tried to judge the meaning of the law for himself, would not chaos be the result?”

“But you taught us to search for truth!”

“Oh, Margaret, did I not teach you first to trust?”

Margaret wept, burying her face in her hands. Sir Thomas leaned across his seat and took her in his arms, patting her back. Rose cast her glance away, ashamed to witness this. It was her curse, wasn’t it, to condemn those people who were to her the blessings of God, even as she fumbled in service to Him? She looked away from the pair and did not look back, even when Margaret spoke.

“I am sorry I doubted you, Father. I pray that book will be destroyed, and all who read it will fall under your just and merciful hand.”

Chapter Seventeen

The first burning was in the city today; she had heard news from the servants. Closing her eyes, Anne saw the Pope’s reedy, grim fingers encircling the city, choking believers, weighing purses and loyalties. Reformers wanted nothing but God’s law taught plainly; the Church taught that this would lead only to chaos, if every man judged the law for himself.

Anne looked out over the Thames and knew she was the only woman with such a close view of this truth. She watched Henry, day by day, choosing whom to believe and when. He kept the Church close, despising its passions and coveting its power. He gave free reign to Sir Thomas to scourge and burn believers who presented inconvenient arguments of reason. More and Wolsey, who mocked grace and mercy, were destroying the city. She had heard such rumours about Sir Thomas that they set her teeth on edge. He persecuted heretics and scooped beggars and lost souls from the streets, forcing them to work in terrible conditions, living as slaves in his house. His wife had died under mysterious conditions, she had heard, no doubt driven to her death by his violent manner. Any man who was so cruel to heretics in public could only be a monster in private. Anne was sorry for his children and their certain suffering.

Henry would give him free reign to murder as it pleased the Pope, until the Pope gave him the annulment so he could marry Anne. She shuddered and was glad she had only peeked at the Hutchins book in her rooms, never submerging herself completely in the pages. She would not be drawn further in.

She inhaled and caught a whiff of fire. Probably a fire from the kitchens behind her in Greenwich Castle, but the smell of the roasting spits turned her stomach. She had business with the cook, however. She needed to speak to him.

As she walked from the kitchens, back through the portico shaped like a sun, the warm stones under her feet, she heard the hooves of horses and saw a servant running to raise the royal flag. Henry was back in residence. Anne rushed to find a place to hide. She was ashamed and betrayed, having trusted in him. She had thought he was becoming a man of comfort and righteousness. But he had spent all his good intentions in Catherine’s bed, hadn’t he? Anne looked the fool. Whether queen or concubine, forever she would be giving her heart and losing her dignity, in a dance that returned her again and again to this cowering moment. Shame burned in her stomach, branding her cheeks with red blotches. How could she have been stirred to love him? How could he have slept with Catherine if he professed to love Anne? She had not slept with Henry, but this was in obedience to God’s law. How would God let her be humiliated for it?

A whiff of the fires caught her again, turning her stomach. God was on no one’s side in this. Anne frowned.

A hand on her shoulder made her jump. Her Yeoman had found her, huddled in a dark hallway, unsure of where to run. It was a gesture that could cost him his life, but neither moved. His grip flooded her with peace. She closed her eyes, letting it wash down her body and work into every knotted muscle. She remembered being a child, when her father would cradle her or her brother would take her hand as they walked. There was still goodness in the world, she thought. There was still hope.

He dropped his hand and led her back into the portico. Henry was just entering and saw her. The Yeoman stepped into the shadows. Anne reached for him, but he was gone.

Henry took the distance between them in four strides. He towered over her, taking her hands in his own and lifting them to his lips. She was pulled into his embrace. His hands circling around her waist, she was tempted to believe she was wrong. Henry stroked the hair back from Anne’s face, tucking it behind her ear, her jeweled crescent hairpiece letting too much hair spring loose. Henry ran his fingers over her face, setting little curls back into place.

She looked at him as he loomed over her. Her doubts were too weak to stand in his presence. He bent to kiss her, but she pulled back.

“What is it, Anne? Am I not to have even this?” His voice had an edge.

“I thought you would have had your fill,” Anne replied, her heart pounding. She couldn’t believe she had the sudden strength to test him. It was strange to her that he could make her so weak and so enraged in the same breath.

“And if I had, what business is it of yours?” He could turn in the same breath too.

She saw the courtiers all frozen, some from fear at witnessing an intimate moment, others in great hunger for more detail. This would make the gossips favoured seating partners at tonight’s dinner.

“Leave off!” he shouted. Everyone fled like scurrying mice.

Now Anne was completely alone, drifting in the center of the portico. Henry circled around her, his anger setting itself in his jaw, flashing in his eyes. She looked down at her feet. The hairs along her arms prickled and rose. She could sense Henry behind her.

His arm shot out, grabbing her around the waist, and she screamed as he dragged her into the shadows.

They were alone in a stairwell, the cool air tainted with the scent of mould and leaching moss.

“I’ll not be made sport of in public,” he said.

“You come from Catherine’s bed and accuse me of making sport with you?” she asked.

“Anne, she sent her case to the Pope, refusing to acknowledge me as her authority. I went there to convince her to step aside with grace, to save what little dignity she has left.”

“And what of me, Henry, what of me? What of my dignity? Am I nothing but the king’s whore?”

He slapped her. Anne placed her hand over her stinging cheek, turning to run from him. He caught her, pulling her in tightly. “Anne, Anne …”

She shoved back from him, fighting against his tightening grasp, jerking her arms, trying to stab him with her elbows.

He gave her a little freedom, releasing her only enough that she could look at him, keeping her arms pinned against her body.

“You have ruined me!” she cried. “If you let me go, what good would I be? My sister only received an offer of marriage after you ordered it. Who would dare love me?”

“You think I am going to discard you?” he asked.

Anne stumbled for a second over his sudden shift in humour. She took a deep breath, exhaling before she met his gaze.

“I am trapped,” she said, his grip on her arms remaining firm. She laughed once, the irony lost on him. “You will not let me leave your court. Outside, my name is dragged through the streets. Inside I am betrayed by courtiers who hope to steal a little nibble of my soul, a moment of my distress, to make good conversation at their tables. This is a court of madness.”

Henry stepped back from her, shaking his head. He turned to walk back into the light of the portico.

She sank down on the steps, her legs feeling like they were made of water.

“God help me,” she whispered.

If Henry was violent in professing love for her, she did not know how he would behave when he was angry with her tonight.

Jane put her knee on Anne’s back, leaning back and tightening the laces on her bodice until Anne cried out. Another girl was below her, fluffing out her skirts and strapping pattens to her shoes. Anne couldn’t see her.

Jane came round and attended to Anne’s hair, combing it carefully, making little ringlets set off from her face. She set the hairpiece on next and draped the veil across Anne’s shoulders. Next came the cosmetics, a little powder with rouge for her cheeks and lips. Jane always was a little overzealous in applying powder to Anne’s darker skin, and Anne reached out to steady her hand.

Tucking a pomander of perfume—her favourite, roses—into her bosom, Anne followed Jane to the dining hall. Anne forced herself to breathe in little measured doses.

Henry and Wolsey were already there. Anne took her place next to Henry, and her servants moved to another table, stealing glances back. It was a small dinner tonight, with only ten or so tables, mainly for all the body servants and a few special courtiers, the men who never did much beyond gossip and spy. But, Anne thought, Henry was a king who didn’t mind intimacy with an enemy.

When the servers pushed open the wooden doors, Anne knew what was cooking in the kitchens. Henry and Wolsey must have caught the aroma, too, for they glanced at the servers with questioning looks. Henry conferred quietly with Wolsey, who nodded. Anne’s heart began beating faster, and she fiddled with a piece of bread she had no interest in eating.

The aroma was overpowering. The servers were running up and down the halls, staging their trays in a little room just outside the doors. Every time the doors opened, a stronger whiff of the meal came in with them. Everyone began to murmur. Some tried to eat the bread, keeping their eyes on a tapestry across the room or making meaningless chatter with their neighbour. But the scent grew, the warm summer air making it unbearably delicious.

Finally, they came in with it: great heaping platters of sausages, sizzling and steaming.

Henry jerked to his feet. “What is the meaning of this?” he screamed.

The youngest of the servers dropped his platter in fright.

Wolsey stood, outrage on his face. “Do you not know what day it is?”

Anne rose next. Jaws were flopping open all across the room.

“My king, do not be angry,” Anne said. “Perhaps this is a most fortunate mistake.”

Henry turned to her, his eyes blazing. The servant boy stooped, trying not to draw attention as he scooped the sausages back on his platter.

Anne turned to Wolsey. “My friend, we have a custom of not eating meat on Friday, and this is from the Church. Could you please remind us of the passage from Scripture that commands this practice? We would all be edified to know it, and the cooks will not make this same mistake again.”

Wolsey’s eyes narrowed. She would not be safe again around him. He smiled and addressed the room. “I see you have persisted in reading Hutchins. The Church teaches—”

“Forgive me, Cardinal Wolsey! I did not ask what the church teaches, for we all know that quite well. I am but a woman, and the Church will not allow me to read the Scriptures. So you must tell us where in the Bible it says we are not to eat meat on Fridays.”

Wolsey took a sip of his wine, looking at Henry and the hungry courtiers, clearing his throat before speaking. “We honour …,” he began.

This time Henry cut him off. “The passage?”

“I will retire to my room and find it, my king.” Wolsey excused himself from Henry with a bow, not looking at Anne again, and left.

Anne whispered to Henry, “He will not be back. The passage does not exist. It is one more way the Church has controlled your life, your realm.”

She smiled innocently at everyone in the room. “I have heard a delightful story today! Shall I tell it?”

Henry was still looking at the doors where Wolsey had departed. He muttered his “yes” to Anne and sat.

Anne spoke to him but with enough volume that others could hear. “A priest was wandering among the poor, selling indulgences. Salvation was to be purchased for a silver groat, and release from purgatory for the dead cost a half-angel. Forgiveness of all sins was included when you purchased salvation. One rough-looking boy approached the priest and asked, ‘Sir, does forgiveness of sins cover only my past, or will I be forgiven for those acts I have yet to commit?’ The priest was delighted to save such a rough-looking fellow, and he replied, ‘Aye, purchase salvation and all sins are forgiven, even those sins not yet committed. God is wondrous to forgive us all our debts!’

“So the rough-looking chap paid a silver groat and listened as it fell into a purse weighted down with coins. The villagers all came round, marveling that the boy had been saved. The poor gave the priest their money, securing eternal rest for their dead and salvation from their sins. It was a happy day in the village, and as the sun went down, many people feasted and drank what little they had left, while the priest went on his way. But he had not gone two miles out of town when the boy leapt from behind a boulder, beating the priest mercilessly and stealing his coin purse. He ran all the way back to town, giving everyone back double and triple what they had given the priest, because the boy had paid in advance for this great sin, and it was no sin at all.”