January 1531
Anne's New Year's gift is presented to her with great pomp by servants as she shares the last course of supper with Henry.
The gift is hangings that he explains are meant for both her bed and bedchamber, the expanse of which is held on either end by pairs of liveried footmen: masses of crimson satin, cloth of gold, and cloth of silver stretched for their viewing.
"Do you like them?" he asked shyly, breath warming the shell of her ear.
"Oh, yes," she breathed excitedly, squeezing her fingers over his hand, "Henry, thank you…may I examine them more closely?"
"You may do whatever you wish," he said, leaning back in his chair, goblet of wine in hand, "as long as I may remain seated, sweetheart."
She laughed at their private joke (she was the only person in England of her rank he allowed to remain seated when he entered a room- although, for decorum's sake, this exception was reserved for their private chambers) as she eased herself up from her own chair.
Anne roamed the room with a posture most regal, back arched, cutting an elegant, black figure, the ends of her skirts and hair pinned behind her French hood swaying as she moved. The firelight from the hearth and candles set around the room were flattering upon her, highlighting the gleaming fox fur on her sleeves, the auburn in her hair, especially as she moved.
He liked to watch her; she figured it was probably this rather than laziness that motivated him to keep to his seat (although perhaps a little of the latter as well).
And he liked to watch her reactions to gifts, as well: Henry knew she had a special appreciation for beauty, much as he did.
She rubbed each separate swath of material between her thumb and forefinger, and paid special attention to the detail of the crimson satin especially (in closer proximity, she could see that it was embroidered). It reminded her of the gift she had received from him but months ago, the 19 and ¾ yards of crimson satin that she had used to order the making of a gown that was now his favorite (the fabric remaining after the gown's completion had been repurposed for…something he had yet to see- she was not one to waste given material, after all).
The memory turned to an idea for the near future in her mind, and she returned to her seat with questions for him:
Could she have them hung tomorrow evening?
Could he oversee it with her? (Because, she explained brightly, he had such a knack for these things, she could use a second opinion to ensure they were hung in such a way that was pleasing to the beholder, a symmetrical fashion)
To which he had answered:
Yes.
and
Yes- he would look forward to it, all day (this, with a kiss to her hand).
Henry and Anne surveyed her bedchamber and its decoration the evening next, as snow drifted on the other side of the latticed window.
As suggested finishing touches are made, Anne leans up towards Henry's ear, her hand on his shoulder (he kneels slightly, to even the natural distance of their respective heights) to whisper:
Love, next we should view what the bed hangings look like…from the other side.
Henry cleared his throat before dismissing all servants (all but one, unbeknownst to him- Anne had requested that one of her lady's maids remain in her closet until she came to her).
Once alone, they laid beside each other on the bed, all the drapes on all three sides (the fourth being the wall) closed.
They discussed the past, idly and pleasantly: he spoke of how his own father had required a papal dispensation for marriage. They spoke of how every family in his court had ancestry on either side of the country's previous war, and how they were no exception: Henry, the white and red rose combined, and Anne with a far off grandfather that fought against Lancastrians, who was knighted by Henry's own maternal grandfather.
It was quite their own private world, all the crimson satin surrounding them made her feel as if they were inside a heart- one both took refuge in due to the often tumultuous opposition to their much-prayed-for union outside of it.
Except…Anne could not quite forget the outside world.
"Was there any…important correspondence today?" she asked, unable to keep a note of hope from her voice, pressing her small hand, palm raised, against his larger one.
"Not especially," he answered- quickly.
Too quickly, and he had slanted lightly blue eyes away from what she knew to be the penetrating, black fire of hers as he did besides; her suspicion pricked:
"I don't believe you."
"It will upset you."
"If I am upset then I am upset! Tell me."
"I received…a letter from the Pope."
Anne withdrew her hand from his and rearranged her position, moving so that she sat on the other end of the bed, the corner of it. Henry pulled himself up to sit as well, crossing arms covered by slashed green sleeves.
"What did it say?"
He rubbed both hands over the bridge of his distinctively Roman nose, failing to think of a way to soften the blow, wishing he had different news, wishing he had read something different, before answering:
"'At the request of the Queen-'"
Anne scoffed, this enough seemed to be enough to set her into a more frenzied state, as she parts the draped hangings on the left side of her bed, landing her feet on the floor.
Henry joined her as quickly as he was able, parting the crimson as if he were Moses meeting the Red Sea of her disappointment (red for love, red for anger, red for passion) to reach the floor himself, following her to where she stood in front of the glowing hearth, gnawing at her fingernails:
"He forbids me to remarry until the decision of the case, and declares that if I do…all issue would be illegitimate."
He placed a hand on the crushed black velvet cap of her shoulder, which she promptly shrugged off.
"Forbids any one in England, of ecclesiastical or secular dignity, universities, parliaments, courts of law, to make any decision in an affair to the judgment of which is reserved for the Holy See -"
"What of the universities that already have decided in our favor?" she demanded hotly, whirling around to face him finally, "Paris, Padua, all of their declarations were just for no purpose at all, they are not allowed to even study the case, is that what His Holiness declares-"
"The whole under pain of excommunication. "
How dare they, she wished to scream, how dare the Roman clergy, many of whom have illegitimate children themselves, decide the validity of mine, how dare old men steal away the time I have left for bearing children!
"Then you will leave me?" she asked, instead, with a calmness in her voice that did not match the her shaking nerves, nor her hands, trembling against the voluminous folds of her skirt.
"No," he said, aghast, color blanching from his face, "I never have, I have remained by your side for years, what would make you think-"
"You fear God more than you love me," Anne said, with a shrug of her slender shoulders, "I cannot even blame you for it, truly; all Englishmen and Christian men are raised to fear God above all else-"
"I do not fear God more than I love you, did you- did I never tell you?"
"Tell me what?" she asked impatiently, only her back remained warm as it faced the hearth, the front of her arms were chilled and she rubbed them.
"What I said when Wolsey asked me to leave you himself, all those years ago…"
And there it is. The name, the man, the ghost: she can still feel a vestige of his presence here (this was his, after all, York Place)- it is one Henry has mentioned so rarely since his death; so rarely indeed that it gives her pause. For whatever he is about to speak of must be a matter most grave.
It is 1528 he speaks of, when the Sweat descended and the number of people in each house he travelled to dwindled.
After Anne had written to Henry of how one of her waiting women had caught the Sweat, and of her fear, he had written her a letter imploring 'my entirely beloved to have no fear at all'.
Shortly after this, while he was already on the edge of anxiety and fear, knowing as he did Anne's proximity to the illness, he received a most unwelcome letter from Wolsey.
The letter had not been unlike the one he just received from Pope Clement- in it, Wolsey had urged him- nay, begged him, in a way most undignified- to abandon his nullity suit.
An unfortunate French ambassador had been there when Henry opened it, to witness his face color with rage before he declared:
No other than God shall take her from me.
Shortly thereafter the news that Anne had come down with the illness herself reached him.
Henry emulated the very begging he been so disdainful of before- but to Dr. Butts and then to God, during prayer: to save her life. Begging and humility (he could not ignore the words he issued, the news of her sickness arrived on its heels so quickly it was almost as if God had answered Himself, as if the death of the one he loved most was an immediate punishment for his vanity, ego, and pride) veered to bargaining to rage:
If she dies, I will renounce you. If she dies, I will tear the world asunder.
Let her live, let her live, let her live…
And then: the news she had recovered.
I hope soon to see you again, which will be to me a greater comfort than all the precious jewels in the world.
And it was: never had he known such relief, or such exultance, as he had the day he visited her to find her alive and healed and well.
"So…we are always told to fear the wrath of God, but maybe it is He that fears mine after all."
She is awed by his declaration
Two months later, he will think of this when he tells Chapuys that the Pope could issue ten thousand excommunications and it would make little difference, he will think of this as a revelation as he declares that the Pope may do whatever he likes in Rome, and that he shall do what he likes here.
But for now, the two reconciled and ended up once again sprawled over the furs upon her bed.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, "I almost forgot, my poor maid- I was to show you your New Year's gift-"
"You already gave me-"
"No, it is a private gift- you shall see," Anne said, pushing his chest back as he made to get up from bed, "stay here, wait for me."
"What is that?"
"It is a night shirt," she answered readily, tugging the high hem down as she approached the bed, "like what you wear, except-"
"You wish to wear my shirts?" he teased, placing both hands on her waist, catching free-flowing crimson satin as he did so.
"I would not mind, no," she said, primly, "they have always looked so comfortable- in any case, there was fabric left over from that gown I made from the material you gifted me November last. I wished to make use of it, in a way that may be pleasing to you."
"It is-"
"Is it?" she teased, nudging the bridge of her nose against his, "Pleasing, Henry?"
"I have always loved you in red," he said, voice deepening as he played with the ribbon tied at the hollow of her throat, "but we cannot-"
"I know- nothing biblical. Except for the Song of Solomon, of course."
Your rounded thighs are like jewels, the work of a master hand.
There are certain parts of the Bible, she knows, that Henry is able to recite from memory- that line is one.
He trailed kisses along the skin of her own thighs, each its own jewel.
After the night shirt is pulled up and off, she thinks, idly and joyfully, that she shall never think of crimson in quite the same way again.