Lace|Me|Tight
a/n: another one? Yes, it's true. I just finished watching Anne birthing Elizabeth in 2x03 and when I saw her break down when she got the news it tore at me. So, I decided to write this :) Reviews are always welcome. Also, please be aware that when I reference Anne's looks, I am referencing the actress that plays Anne on the Tudors.
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Her child is crying again.
With a frenzied, irritated sigh, Anne slides out of bed - despite every muscle in her body protesting - and reaches for the babe in the cradle beside her. The child's angelic face is screwed up with pain and her plump red lips wobble as she shrieks once more. Sliding her arms under the child, Anne prays to whatever deity supports the legitimacy of her child in the hopes that the Lord will grant her mothering advice.
"Shh," she croons a bit hurriedly, clutching the child closer and crying to control the wobble of her own lips. "Shh."
Of all days, her ladies-in-waiting and male servants were called to His Majesty's side with the invitation of a day off. It's his way of punishing me, Anne thinks bitterly, closing her eyes and remembering the way Henry felt as he slid in and out of her, his beautiful groans melting against the outer rim of her ear. There are still bruises left on the backs of her shoulders and the corners of her elbows from His Majesty's violent love-making, but she chooses to wear them as proof of his devotion to his Queen.
It's my own fault. I couldn't give him the son he so desired. Tears tremble and she forces them away, hating her volitile emotions. They crest and dip without her permission, something she thought she mastered long ago. Oh Sovereign Lord, she feels like such a failure.
The babe in her arms - my child, Anne realizes with a little start - lets out one last whimper, then snuggles close, quieting.
"You're a natural," a male voice rumbles from the doorway.
Anne feels her shivering limbs freeze and she wishes that the tears wouldn't come so easily to her eyes. "Do you think so, Your Grace?" she asks Charles Brandon, watching the way his keen eyes sweep the room before landing back on her and her child.
"I do," he says, bowing respectfully. "Your Majesty is looking well."
"Thank you," Anne says briefly, ignoring his attempt at changing to a more pleasant subject. "Did His Majesty send you?"
He doesn't trust you to be on your own, her thoughts whisper. She cringes.
"No," Brandon says.
Anne sucks in a surprised breath, wondering quietly, "Might I inquire as to your purpose here today, Sir Brandon?" She rocks her child slowly in her arms, turning back towards the cradle as the babe's eyes slowly close and she falls into the clutches of sleep. Her tiny fingers make tiny grasping motions towards the covers as Anne lies her back in the cradle, wrapping her snugly in two layers of fur. Her arms twinge once the extra weight is gone and Anne tries to keep her legs from shaking, to no avail.
"I intended to check on Your Majesty's health and the well-being of the new Princess." Brandon steps in further and, automatically, Anne offers him her hand. He takes it immediately - probably noticing how unable she is to keep it aloft - and presses warm lips to the ring on her finger.
"We are well," Anne answers with a little nod, reaching out to press her weight against the cabinets to her right. "It will not take long for me to recover my full strength."
The man's dark eyes flick from her head to her toe and Anne cannot remember the last time someone looked at her so intently, in a manner unlike scrutinizing cattle for purchase. Deep in his irises, she thinks she catches a glimpse of sadness for her, tempered with a sort of satisfaction. As someone who dearly loved Katherine of Aragon, Henry's first wife, Brandon must despise her for stealing His Majesty away. And yet, he appears to care at the same time, just enough to make Anne wonder just what his motives are.
"You should be resting in your bed," Brandon answers after a long, uncomfortable pause. "After all, you only gave birth yesterday, Majesty. One can only expect you to recover so fast."
"I am fine," Anne insists, gritting her teeth as her head spins with the beginning of a dizzy spell. As much as she detests asking for help from anyone, even her sister, she does not believe she can reach the bed all by herself. At last, Anne swallows her pride. "Your Grace, would you provide your arm that I might lean on it?" she asks, swallowing again and biting down on her tongue. It swells, throbbing.
Brandon nods, holding out his arm. She takes it, leading him slowly towards the imperial closet housing all of her finery. Dresses line the walls and finally, Anne realizes that she is still wearing a silk shift that does nothing to hide the bump her stomach makes after carrying her child. She looks absolutely indecent.
"I beseech you not to look at my current attire, Sir Brandon," Anne tells him softly, unable to force a regal tone. She is too exhausted and Brandon is a part of the Privy Council, a group of his Majesty's trusted advisors. She can trust him more than others.
"You look beautiful," he says just as she reaches the golden gown she must squeeze into this morning. Once more, surprise floods through her and she is unable to keep from giving him an odd look. He returns it with an amused smile.
"I thank you for the compliment," she returns, trying to curtsy. Her legs nearly give out on her and with a frown, Anne leans her full weight into Charles Brandon. He looks shocked only for a moment before catching her weight and wiping all emotion from his face.
Disappearing into the back of her closets, Anne squeezes into the dress, panting and leaning against the wall every moment to keep from collapsing. It hurts every muscle in her body attempting to fit into this dress, but she forces it anyway, knowing that His Majesty's displeasure is already great enough. There is no need to provoke him further.
"I do not see the purpose of Your Majesty getting dressed formally today," Brandon says politely, as if echoing her thoughts. "After all, you are in recovery. The guests at Court will surely survive without seeing your powdered nose."
She laughs, though it is flat. "Your tongue is as sharp as ever," Anne remarks, reappearing with the dress on. "Would you help tie the laces, Your Grace? I'm afraid my arms are not so long as to reach the center of my back. I apologize." Two pink spots appear on her pale cheeks and the lines in his forehead deepen.
"Of course," Brandon says, leading her from the back of the closet towards the main bed-chamber. Once by a wall where Anne can lean, he begins to knot the laces of her dress. She sucks in her breath to try and make her aching stomach as tiny as possible and ignores the pains that come from the tightening of her corset and the dress' laces, as well as the warmth of his fingers brushing the bare skin of her back.
"Lace me tightly," Anne orders him gently.
"I do not want to hurt you," he answers.
She admires his gentleman-like qualities, his steady mind-set, for just a moment.
"Lace me tightly," she says again, sucking her stomach in and wincing as the laces are tightened again, keeping her from breathing properly. It is the only way that she can look beautiful, however. It is the only way the King and the rest of the kingdom will accept her, as this perfect, dazzling woman with the slim body and the clear face, the face with no lies or deceit. Not only that, but it must also be a blank face His Majesty can mold
"Can I ask a personal question?"Anne begins when silence has reigned for a long while.
Brandon looks confused, but nods.
"Where is His Majesty?" Anne asks slowly, attempting and failing to keep the tremor from her voice. The thought of Henry sliding into some other woman's bed is sickening, a thought that makes her want to scream at him. But that would accomplish nothing.
"Your Majesty, I'm afraid -" Brandon begins, attempting to protect his King's business.
Anne's ice blue eyes meet troubled brown. Tears boil in her eyes. "Please," she begs, hating having to act in such a manner. "Just - is he fucking some other lady of the court in her bed-chamber, hoping that I will not find out?"
Brandon says nothing, but the look he offers answers any and all questions on the matter.
She takes a breath, and it's so hard. Her heart beats sluggishly, pleading with her tear ducts. "I should not be so upset," Anne says, wondering why she is sharing so much with Charles Brandon of all people. "I did this very thing to Katherine and thought nothing of her feelings, just what power and prestige I was soon to gain. I do not have a right to be so upset." Her tears betray her yet again, and before she realizes it, drops are skimming down her hollow cheeks. He wipes them away with the pad of his thumb and Anne tries to recall being touched so lovingly - not sexually - by Henry. There isn't a single memory in which he's been sweet without wanting something.
"We are all allowed to feel hurt," Brandon says, and she respects the fact that he didn't grovel to try and make her feel better. She knows that his respect is not with her. He does not support her as Queen, but his loyalty to His Majesty keeps him where he is, gritting his teeth.
"Indeed," Anne responds, her voice sinking until it is barely perceptible. "I am sorry, Charles. I know that you hate me for everything I have done."
Again, Brandon says nothing to contradict the statement. He simply nods to let her know that he has heard.
"We are very alike," she whispers, touching his cheek. His eyes flash to hers, wide and filled with a burning of some kind. She would call it a vulnerable connection, but such a thing is impossible between them. "We both put on the mask and play our parts well, both with the hope that we will keep our heads."
"His Majesty would not have you beheaded," Charles says, voice muffled into his sleeve.
Something cracks within her and more tears fall, nearly blinding her.
"After seeing what he has done to Katherine," Anne murmers, "I have no expectations of what His Majesty is capable of." She presses two fingers to her neck, feeling for a pulse to make sure she is still alive and well. "If I do not bare him a son, Henry will find some way to get rid of me."
Brandon draws closer and she inhales his comforting scent dreamily.
"I know that you hate me," Anne repeats.
He shakes his head, looking at her quivering lips for a long moment. Then he kisses her cheek slowly, as though savoring her silky skin.
"I cannot hate another victim," Brandon says at last, something shifting in his eyes, breaking apart his old ideas of her, she hopes. He bows. "You will be a great mother, Anne." It is the first time he has said her name and she inhales sharply, knowing that his statement is not just referring to this child.
"Charles," Anne begins hesitantly, holding out her hand. As he kisses it, she breathes, "Could you please tell His Majesty that his loving wife and Queen is waiting to recieve him?"
"Of course m'lady," Brandon answers, glancing at the cradle. "Have you decided on a name yet?"
She should wait to tell the King. No one else is privy to such information.
Casting a tender gaze on the sleeping child in the cradle, Anne says, "I was thinking of naming her Elizabeth. It means: God is my oath. If nothing else, perhaps my child can reestablish the power of the Lord."
"If she is considered legitimate," Brandon says. She respects his honesty.
"If she is considered legitimate," Anne says, eyes filling with tears. She leans against the wall and wraps her arms about herself, trying to draw strength from them. "I just pray that the Lord lets me see another day without eternal damnation. His Majesty is very angry."
"I will pass along your message," Brandon says slowly, placing a soft hand on her shoulder.
Their eyes meet for a lingering moment, and then he is gone. Anne inhales - a shuddering breath - while fighting the raging storm of tears and tries to remember the last time someone took the time to talk to her without being ordered.
She cannot think of even one moment.