Satin
She drew her fingertips across the satin material. It was so absolutely perfect. It was purple, the colour of royalty. It would be suitable for her. At times Mary had told her that red fit her better. Red was ambition and passion. Purple was nobility, class, and sophistication. She liked the sound of the latter far more than the former. Passion seemed more appropriate for Henry. After all, he was the one passionate about her.
So how did she feel? When it had all begun, it was as though she'd been pushed into it. Love was meant to be something sacred, said some of the blasphemous books. A part of her wanted to bathe in that special experience. The other part was all too aware of her position as a woman. She had no influence as a simple lady-in-waiting. She would need to become something more. That was far easier said than done, however.
It was then decided by her family, save for Mary, that she would catch the eye of the man who ruled it all. She would not hand herself to him entirely, but she would lead him down a treacherous path of temptation. And once he had gotten close enough, he would find himself unable to escape her web. That was the definition of her success, to have King Henry VIII eating from the palm of her hand like a domesticated animal.
The path itself was not so easy. Queen Katherine of Aragon had caught onto her plans. She had turned a cold stare onto the lady in question. Yet, she had not dismissed Anne from court, or from her duties. Surely she had not broken the code of conduct. Kisses were not lewd actions, not the way her elder had been used by the king to ease his physical desires. Anne could never suffer that same humiliation. It was every intent that she was to remain a flower untouched until the opportune moment, for even that was an essential part of the scheme.
Anne smiled to herself as she lifted the fabric she had been sent. It fell out of its perfect folds, something she would remedy shortly after finding one in her abode to share her good fortune with. She held it to her chest, over her bust, in the form of a makeshift dress. With vain eyes, she paused by her mirror and she began the routine of outrageous scrutiny.
"My, you really are perfect. Surely his good graces should not be wasted upon me," she purred to herself.
The creak of her door caught her attention. She found her brother, as handsome as he had always been, dressed in appropriate apparel, his hair in perfect place, his chin lifted, and his posture tall and proud. What a creature was man at the bare minimum! Even she could not deny their wonder.
He looked over to her, Mirth within his expression. She was a capable woman, yet as he eyed her, he saw someone remarkably in likeness with a child. The similarity was that of the young girls who grew up wanting to be princesses and more than simple women. Anne had a personality that contradicted that, though. She was an individual, a woman who had her own mind and simply not enough power to properly convey her thoughts.
"Ah," George began as he strode across her room. Taking her into his arms with a broad smile, he continued, "You are magnificent." Then he fingered the material gripped by her delicate hands, "What is this? Too fine for our family and yet you've worn it as though nothing else manages to satisfy your particular tastes."
Anne withdrew and held out the fabric to him, "It is a gift. From him, of all people. His Majesty has only been too kind in doting upon me. He wrote me with this one, and there is ferocity in his words perhaps."
"Ferocity?" her brother asked. "Or desperation, do you think? Even he can only take so much before he may wish to simply close in for the kill. He may begin to view you as a hunt of sorts. How primitive any man would become for you."
As he took the abundance of satin, she fished for the missive upon her vanity. Opening it carefully, mindful to prevent tears in the parchment, she read aloud in a tone that could only be defined as her representation of the king.
"'My beloved Anne,'" she began with an imploring smile. "'These days without you have been long and taxing. For every day, I can only see the lack of your presence to be bothersome. Things at court are hardly radiant without you filling the halls with your remarkable light.'"
Anne paused and she laughed, "If a woman were to say such things, she would be mocked. A man says it and we, as women, are to fall over ourselves. I cannot, however, deny that there is charm in those words."
Of course. Even Anne could be powerless against the wit of a man in such impeccable standing.
"'I tire of this game, in a way, and yet fully enjoy the pursuit as any man would for a beautiful woman. Your presence is endearing, intoxicating like a fine wine that should remain untouched for many a year. With such influence, I have found that I am obsessed and cannot simply stand for one day. I must have more of it… More of you within my mind's eye. Even my dreams of you cannot possibly compare to the realistic glow of sensuality I detect for every moment we pass by one another."
"Glow of sensuality," George kindly broke in. "I would not have thought our king such a poet. Does he write to you of these things often?"
Anne flushed with maidenly pride, "He does, yes. Even his very first struck the chords of my heart. He plays well and weaves a beautiful melody. I would not insult him by turning away his words."
"Only by turning him away as a whole," her brother corrected with a knowing smile.
"That is enough; let me finish." She drew in a deep breath, "'It is with every longing of my heart that I lay my eyes upon you again, insurmountable grace. Accept this satin as a token of my true affections for you. Know that I will have no other and want only you. And return to court to be in my midst. Your humble servant to my dearest lady, Henry.'"
"Good show, Anne!" the taller brunette exclaimed. "Your imprint upon his heart is a vivid one. He'll not soon forget you, I'll wager." Then he returned her fabric to her, "So what will you do?"
"I will return to court, of course. I wouldn't want to disappoint him. I must—as you and our father say—keep his interest high and his suspicions grounded," she replied nonchalantly.
"Then will you write him or simply surprise him with your return? He may wish to honour you with some form of great entertainment. Lavish parties and jewels upon you."
She shook her head, "He would not do such a thing yet. His wife lives. It would be far better to keep us a secret. When he has left her, however, for me, then even the heavens will rejoice for our love of one another."
Her brother began to question her use of words, curious as to the nature of her true feelings. He was cut short by the maid in the doorway.
"A visitor, if it pleases," she announced. "His Majesty, the Highness of England, King Henry VIII." With a simple curtsy, she stepped aside for their guest.
Henry was a man—if there ever truly was to be one. He spoke with his stance. He spoke with every stiff gesture to straighten his cuffs. He spoke with each flick of the wrist. Perhaps not an overwhelmingly graceful man, yet he managed to say many things with how he carried himself. Colloquial speech was not required. When he lavished words upon his audience, however, it was not uncommon for a shudder to scale the spine. His words carried power, for all knew that his will was absolute and would always be carried out, whether it was to be by Cardinal Wolsey or one of the others of the court. He certainly had the necessary connections, even with the shaken alliance with France.
He nodded once to the maid and looked between Anne and George, silent. His eyes did not betray whatever it was he felt or thought as he waited for their next motion.
Anne gave a pointed stare to her elder, "Leave us."
With reluctance present in his gaze, he bowed to Henry, a charming gesture and took no hesitance in excusing himself.
No eyes upon either one of them, Henry allowed Anne to curtsy before he cautiously began to approach her, "Beautiful Lady Anne."
Her head inclined and focused upon the hardwood floor beneath her feet, "Your Majesty."
It was all the invitation he needed. His hands extended, one hungry for the underside of her brown hair, and the other to her chin, lifting her face to his. Without mercy and compassion, he crashed his lips upon hers. He could have tasted her for eternity, suckling upon her as though her mouth was a fountain for the very nectar of God.
Only when he believed she would faint in his arms did he draw away faintly. Even so, in between his words, he plastered her angelic face with tender kisses.
"Anne, my love," he began, as heartfelt as ever. "Did you receive it?"
With heated cheeks as her hands pulled over his hairline and the nape of his neck, she nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty. Could you have come all of this way for only that?"
Henry smiled, "Of course not, my dearest lady. I have come from the castle to take you back to court with me. I will not take any other answer than the affirmative, so place your protests aside. I am only half a man without you. And when you are near, I become complete. Leave me not in pieces."
"Your Majesty…" she breathed in a sultry tone. She could listen to him forever if he insisted upon dropping those words about her.
"My Lady Anne, did you like it?" His expression was content and Anne believed she saw a form of excitement in his features.
"Oh, yes!" She replied hastily, "I look forward to have it made into something splendid."
He drew near her ear and blew softly before resting his lips upon the lobe, "Then come back to court with me. I will have it fitted for you and it will be perfect, just as you are."
His tone softened as he held her near, "When you come back with me, in time, I will make you my queen. Then everyone will love you as much as I do."
For just a moment, she withdrew to look up at him with eyes of wonder. To become queen… Of all the gifts Henry could have given to her, to be queen would surely be the greatest of them all. She would right things properly. She would draw his attention onto her and her alone. She would be beloved by all. She would… bring forth all of the ideas she had locked within her heart.
When she was queen, everything would become clear.
"What say you, my Lady Anne?" Henry asked, exposing the desire in the depths of his tone.
She gave him a charming smile, a sweet smile, and she nodded. With her hands at the skirts of her gown, she curtsied once more, this time with a strange glee attached to it.
"Yes… Your Majesty."