A/N: Hello, hello! I had sworn to myself that I would not publish my next chapter until I turned in two chapters of my thesis, which I have, HOORAY! So, without further ado (other than the obligatory review responses)… (PS: I promised you dancing and Anne/Cromwell interaction but this chapter was too long already, so that'll be the whole next chapter – much shorter, but delicious, if I do say so myself. And it shall be soon, I daresay.) …
Pandora, I hope you like my Seymour section! We will be getting to know Elizabeth and Jane a little bit in this story, but the brothers won't be too intimately involved – for purposes of not making this story the longest thing ever, which it's already shaping up to be (to put it in perspective, the first prospectus had the entire thing finished in fourteen chapters; we're at eleven already and barely past the first two days! Whoops.). I also loved the Cromwell/Brandon angle. Brandon is a fun character – I'd love to involve Norfolk but since Cavill's Suffolk (smokin', by the way) is more an amalgamation of the two dukes, it would get too complex. Plus then we've got the delightful Katherine d'Eresby to contend with, and she is a delightful woman, to be sure.
Nat! Never fear, I swear I shall see this story through to the very end. I'm too in love with it to do otherwise. I appreciate the compliment more than I can say – I think when someone is so passionate about an idea and they run with it, beautiful things happen! I hope you enjoy this chapter too. And as for your misgiving, I have to apologize but for this story that is the ending that works. I hope by the end that you'll understand and be on board with the conclusion =)
Anna, my Anna! I've enjoyed our correspondence so. I am SO pleased with my choice to include Lizzie too, she'll play an extremely interesting role in the remainder of the story. I'm so glad you enjoyed my selection and portrayal of the scenes and would love suggestions on further scenes (THIS GOES FOR EVERYONE! If there's something you'd like to see, suggest it!) Please publish your story soon, I simply cannot wait. I'll translate it!
BoldLikeBlack – I'm so flattered that everyone was afraid I wasn't coming back! That's terribly encouraging. Don't worry, I shall never leave. This story's going all the way. Anne will have a number more setbacks, naturally – and there will be a ton more Cromwell as I get more used to writing his character – it's surprisingly difficult to make him come off as a combination of the Cromwell we saw in the series, and the man I perceive him to have been historically, and the rounded and flawed and funny human being that I think he must be. Your hope for their feelings is certainly not invalid – and may be the twinkle in this story's eye.
MPS! Oh my goodness. Please post your story! PLEASE! I would love to read ittttt!
StarsInTheRain, WELCOME! Thank you for that amazing review. There is a surprisingly high number of people, I guess, who do like the idea of Anne/Cromwell. I appreciate your compliment on my grammar, I do try to write with stylistic cleanliness – although I often play fast-and-loose with incomplete sentences and so forth when I am feeling dramatic. But usually it is in an attempt to portray a certain mood to my reader. There will certainly be more emerging undercurrents, as I am trying to write this story in the style of a novel (historical fiction style, of course) to try my hand at real creative writing. I'm loving it so far! I think you're the first person I've encountered who doesn't like Anne and Henry together – most feel they were the type of fighting soul mates that you read about in movies (or, in this case, history books). I think there was too much temper and ego in the relationship for it to have had any real chance at lasting. Anne does have a ridiculous amount of charisma, and that is historically extremely accurate – I am playing off the sense that you get when you read the real Letters & Papers, any time that Anne is mentioned or described you almost feel like the writer is drawn to her regardless of their opinion of her. Love her or hate her, she was always on someone's mind. A minor underlying theme in this story is going to be how drawn to her everyone is, for one reason or another. It's like they're all a little in love with her. Except (or including? We just don't know!) her husband. Ha! As for my opinion of Anne, I think she was fantastic and operated within the boundaries of her time to an unbelievably efficient degree. I have to disagree with an opinion of her as not poised or elegant; I think she had both of those down. I think it was more the requirement of keeping her mouth shut that gave her trouble. Historically Anne was quite a solid person, certainly not perfect; too much of a flirt, pretty vain, and so forth, but if she was arrogant she had every reason to be, if you ask me, and anyone in her position would have been. I agree that she would have had vastly different relationships with people had the circumstances been different; Cromwell, for example, is so like her that they could have been great allies and better friends. That in part is the point of this story: their similarities have them tripping over their consciousness of them, and of each other, and that one moment of lapse in judgment, as well as the lingering consciousness of that on top of everything else, is going to follow both of them to their respective ends. Neither of them are bad people; it is their circumstances that have left them thus. There will certainly be lots more outbursts and so forth. I love Daniel too! He'll be popping up here and there throughout the story, and although Mrs. Lockton will play no major part, she'll make a few cameos too. I like the relief of having characters, and scenes, who are not so intrinsically part of the story that they give the reader a bit of a deep breath before the plot trips on ahead of them. Anne's ladies are interesting, and although some will play more importantly in her downfall, their 'girl-time' is something that I enjoy writing in general. And onto Cromwell… I thank you for the compliment on how I write him. =) I have a bit of a fixation with the historical Cromwell, but Frain's Cromwell is extraordinarily enjoyable to write. As for Brandon's outburst – I certainly agree that it was a stupid thing to say, but my point in portraying Brandon is that for all his intriguing he is still a bit of a rake. As he admitted to himself in the passage, he is not the brightest candle in the chandelier, and his passionate hatred of Anne (this will tie in in an extremely minute way with the aforementioned theme of attraction to Anne) overtakes his sense of reason when he is presented with a potential opportunity to be rid of her. When it comes to Cromwell's guilt over Anne's downfall… that will all be laid out later, but I think you will find it quite along the lines of what you're theorizing it would/should have been. I'm glad you liked the 1533 flashback, it seems to have been a popular scene! (I also think it's great how much Frain and Dormer have the chemistry and the dark curly hair that makes them look so good together on screen – it plays right into my manipulative hands!) Yes, we certainly will see Cromwell wavering between forced solidarity and the brink of madness, not hysterical guilt, but Anne-reminiscent paranoia and being plagued with thoughts of her, just as we have seen how disturbed she is over the state of affairs. The rosewater definitely was the first hint of that. He hates himself for being drawn to her, but at the same time it is such a sinfully pleasurable sentiment that he has, as we have seen, let himself indulge in it already. As I mentioned the whole 'loving Anne' theme, Cromwell is, it goes without saying, the chief example of this throughout the story. Other reviewers have asked and I have answered, so I won't keep it from you: Anne will still die at the end. The story's basic ending will occur with her death, although there will be an epilogue involving Cromwell's subsequent four years in office. As much as I'd love to see them run away together and as much fun as I can see a marriage between them being (and, SPOILER ALERT, although one or both of them may entertain similar fantasies before all is said and done), it's just too painfully unrealistic and the whole point of my historical fiction (I say that like I've written more than this one story, haha!) is that I want to keep it as realistic as I can in as many veins as I can. If that makes sense. Never apologize for a long review! I was so flattered and so glad you liked the story. I hope you're on board with the rest of the twists and turns, and I hope to keep hearing your thoughts!
HERE WE GO!
21 April 1536 – Evening
i.
Standing between two poles, two axes, what was a woman to do?
That was the question that confronted Elizabeth Seymour as she entered the Great Hall that evening, amongst the queen's ladies, all abuzz with the excitement of the banquet. Elizabeth trailed along behind the other ladies, for she could see, across the open hall, a gleaming head of blonde ringlets that could only be her older sister Jane. For a few moments, Elizabeth suffered in this agony privately, wondering to whom her feet must of necessity carry her – but then her father saw her, and with one finger beckoned her toward the cluster of Seymours, slightly shaded by a large pillar. Elizabeth's feet tried to follow the queen, genuinely not wanting to cause any trouble, and for a short distance longer she was able to walk in a neutral direction, not choosing to whom she must demonstrate her loyalty just yet. She watched her regal mistress greet several courtiers on her way across the open floor, men and women bowing their heads and doffing their caps as she passed. Quietly, she noted in one corner of her mind that sweet, pious Jane made no effort to so much as nod deferentially in the direction of her queen, and Elizabeth's father, Sir John, kept his ostrich-plumed cap unequivocally on his head. This was perhaps excusable since the Seymours had distanced themselves so much from the queen's party. On the other hand, it was really not.
Anne looked beautiful, her hair shining in smooth interwoven ribbons twisted around on the back of her head, her gold-and-red dress bringing out what little colour the sun had given her today. Her hands folded demurely, gracefully, in front of her, showing off her trademark billowing sleeves, no outsider would have thought there was any question of who was queen of this realm. She was a vision. Elizabeth sneaked a glance at Jane's face as her own eyes flitted back and forth, trying to calculate how much farther she could walk before abandoning her queen and making a silent public choice to join her family rather than remain with her mistress. Jane's pastel gown did little for her, but then, Jane was just coming into her own regarding fashion. Against the pallet of the rest of Her Majesty's ladies, Jane's tentative, non-jewel-toned gown would look superficial and childish. But then, there was little chance that Jane would spend much time with Her Majesty's ladies – and was she, truly, even one of Her Majesty's ladies?
Finally, the moment had come. Elizabeth must go to her family. She knew where her loyalties should lie, and, truth be told, they did; she loved her sister, wanted the best for her sister, wanted to see her brothers and father ennobled, wanted, naturally, selfishly, a good marriage with a rich, handsome peer that loved her madly. Of course, none of these things would necessarily follow a royal match for her sister. And her sister's royal suitor, in fact, had a wife. And Anne had done nothing wrong. And it was not right. But even still, Elizabeth gulped and scuttled around the Mistresses Shelton, past Nan, and Bess, and caught up with her mistress as they rounded a corner and the royal dais came into sight. "Your Majesty?" Elizabeth murmured, her dress whispering along in her wake, as she tried to tread lightly in that of the queen, "My father beckons me to his presence. May I?"
She saw the queen's shoulders stiffen at the effrontery that was the elder Seymour sister's refusal to attend upon the queen of England. But Anne answered evenly: "Of course, Elizabeth. You do not need my permission to go to your father. And sister."
Elizabeth's cheeks burned, and although no one was paying her any attention, she suddenly felt naked in front of the room full of courtiers with their judging eyes – although, truth be told, most of them would probably prefer to be rid of Anne anyway. "I know, madam, but I just…"
Anne stopped walking, her entourage slowing behind her, and faced Elizabeth, smiling her serene smile. "I know, Elizabeth. I know. Go."
The younger Seymour needed no further prompting. Waiting for the other ladies to pass, she made her way, alone, across the open space of the Great Hall toward her stern-faced father and sweet-smiling sister, flanked on each side by one Seymour boy. Thomas Seymour, Elizabeth's younger brother, characteristically piped up first: "What kept you so long, sister?"
"I was just informing Her Majesty where I was going," Elizabeth whispered back scoldingly, trying to maneuver around Jane and hide herself from further questioning. She watched the queen lower herself gracefully onto her throne, no husband beside her, as the banquet began to gather momentum before her.
"It looked as though you were asking her authorization," accused Edward. "Would she dare refuse you permission from being with your own family?"
"Of course not." Her tone was flat. Whatever loyalties she must of course keep toward her family, and they were heartfelt, Elizabeth would never engage in slandering of Queen Anne; there was no need for lying. Henry had finished with her, and he was on to Jane. There was no way around it, so why, she wondered, did the situation require such manipulation?
"And why are you dressed like one of the queen's group?" whispered Sir John, twitching his shoulder in front of Edward's to reestablish himself as alpha male and head of the Seymour family. Edward merely rolled his eyes and looked away, waiting for his turn. Since it had been discovered, a few years before, that Sir John had been making a habit of Edward's wife and had in fact sired the two children that Edward had thought were his own, the father-son relationship was predictably strained. It seemed to Elizabeth, and Edward would probably not deny, that the eldest Seymour boy was simply waiting for his father to die so that he could be in name what he already was in fact: the efficient, shrewd head of the family. Sir John had been, for several years, rather ineffectual in politics, and were it not for Henry accidentally falling in love with Jane at Wolf Hall last year, the family would probably still be lounging about their country seat, picking wildflowers and churning butter. All except Edward. Edward could always be trusted to be at the center of whatever he could.
"I am one of the queen's group," Elizabeth hissed up at her father, plainly sated with his company already. She had to stop her hands from twisting bunches of her amber silk gown, one that she had had made while she was married to her late husband, into her fists, from crushing the fine fabric between her fingers, although whether she would do that to hide the rich colour that so plainly agreed with the gowns of Anne's other ladies, or to vent her frustrations at her hypocritical father, scolding her about loyalty when he had taken his heir's wife to bed countless times, she could not be sure. "Do not scold me like a child. I am one of Her Majesty's ladies. We dressed together. Accordingly, I dressed as one of the group. Would you honestly expect me to do otherwise? I am in the service of the queen."
"Well," Tom pointed out fairly, gesturing at Jane's powder-blue embroidered gown, "so is Janey."
A long moment passed as each of the Seymours exchanged glances. Is she really? asked Elizabeth's eyes. Am I really? chimed in Jane's raised eyebrows. Not for long, Edward's sideways smirk, half hidden by his wine goblet, affirmed. With a simple shrug of his shoulders, Tom glanced away, ceding defeat. Point taken.
The silence needed to be broken. "True," Elizabeth replied, no emotion in her tone. "True, brother." She looked at Jane, not wanting her sister to be angry with her. "You look lovely, Janey," she whispered, her lips closer to Jane's blonde hair than Elizabeth could remember being to her sister in weeks. She meant it as a peace offering, as a way of trying to show Jane that she loved her and wanted the best for her, but without completely turning traitor. She wanted to be fair and honest. She wanted them to be sisters. Unfortunately, Edward overheard and characteristically interjected.
"But so does she."
As though someone had shouted, "Seymours!" across the hall, the four of them turned their heads at once and looked at the queen, sitting up straight on her throne. The four Seymour children, their father behind them; boys tall and lean, girls of smaller stature and round-faced; Tom, Edward, and Elizabeth, auburn-haired and dressed in forest green, sumptuous brown velvet, and auburn silk respectively. And then Jane, on the end, all blonde ringlets in her powder-blue gown. Their little blonde puppet, their card to play against the queen. Elizabeth thought to herself, I do not belong in this world. I cannot survive here. As though the queen felt their eyes on her – which she probably did – she looked up as she accepted a goblet of wine from a page, and her eyes fell upon this row of three dark Seymours and one beacon of light, all staring at her. Elizabeth frowned, incredibly uncomfortable. Next to her, she felt Edward draw in breath. Suddenly, Elizabeth bent at the knee and made an abbreviated curtsey to the queen. Tom and Edward followed suit slowly, nodding their heads, and finally Jane grasped her gown and ever so slightly bent at the knee, offering the barest display of obeisance. She did not even bow her head. But her sweet smile stayed on. Anne tried to smile back but it registered as more a quavering of the lips than anything, and she turned her head away, trying to end the moment.
At once, Tom rounded on Elizabeth. "Why in the blood of Christ did you do that?"
"I knew not what else to do! She was staring straight at us! Why did no one else do anything?"
Edward raked a hand through his hair and took a ragged breath inward. "She is dangerous."
Slightly taken aback, Elizabeth bit her lip. "Why? What do you mean?"
He rolled his eyes again and hustled his siblings behind the pillar. "She could still win. They – the Boleyns – could still win."
Jane tensed, a genuine look of fear in her eyes. "How? The king loves me."
"She is… there is something about her. She has an effect on him, on men. This is not the first time he has tired of her, but she has the power to pull him back in. She is…" Edward craned his neck backward, trying to steal another glance at Anne around the pillar. "There is just something about her."
Of course, Elizabeth knew what he meant. Anne had an incredible appeal, some vitality of her person; it was the way she moved, the way she spoke, the way she laughed and smiled, even the way she turned her head and flicked her eyes about her. Jane had no such element to her. Could a milk-and-honey angel really stand a sustainable chance against the most alluring woman in England? Jane could barely read a sentence, let alone debate theology with her husband and keep him entertained with witty commentary on the newest humanist or political tracts. Let alone make a man catch his breath when she smirks and flicks her eyelashes down over her eyes, Elizabeth thought, and suddenly glared at Edward, for she realized that when she had felt her brother suck air into his lungs just a minute before as they all met their queen's eyes, Edward had been for a moment under that spell of attraction that Anne exercised, often without knowing it.
"What is it?" Edward asked, furrowing his brow at her.
"I…" Elizabeth threw her hands up, disgusted with the whole situation. She could not stand to look at him a moment longer, and thankfully their father had left them alone, for she certainly could not tolerate him either. "Nothing. Nothing, brother." Elizabeth turned to Jane with a smile, only to discover that she cared not much for her sister at the moment either. Jane's usually dimpled face had hardened, and there was an undeniable look of jealousy in her eyes. She was jealous of the woman that she was trying to supplant. It was a good thing that she had not sensed Edward's reaction to Anne, however brief; if her own brother could find Anne appealing, how was Jane to tempt Anne's own husband away definitively and keep him there long enough to rid himself of his wife? Much as Elizabeth did not want to ask, she forced herself. "Janey, will you join me with the queen's ladies?" Her tone was forcedly bright.
"No," Tom jumped in.
"She'll stay here with us," Edward affirmed.
"My gown does not match theirs anyway," Jane's tone was leisurely, "I would look quite out of place."
Elizabeth appealed to Jane with her eyes, but Jane seemed uninterested in any further discussion. Her eyes were roaming the hall, perhaps looking for Henry. "For pity's sake," Elizabeth whispered to no one in particular. "She is Her Majesty's lady in waiting. Could she not just spend a little time with the queen?"
"She has other tasks than bearing Anne's train," Edward scoffed, his tone informing Elizabeth that this was the end of the negotiation. Elizabeth turned wordlessly to leave her family, and Edward caught her elbow. "Careful, Lissie," he said low in her ear, his head close beside hers, not looking her in the face, "or soon you will be bearing hers."
Elizabeth wrenched her arm away from Edward and glanced back at Jane, who met her gaze levelly. She waited for Jane to say that, of course, Elizabeth would be her principal lady when she was queen, that Elizabeth would be married quickly and would never attend upon her like a maid, but Jane said nothing. Incredulously, Elizabeth looked to Tom. An almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders told her that this was not his control either; the future of the Seymours, then, lay with Edward and Jane. Elizabeth and Tom meant nothing and were of no real value, but by God, they would lay aside their scruples and serve their family and if they got nothing out of it, then so be it. The woman in powder blue who said so little spoke volumes with her silence.
"I see. Good evening." And she left them, before Edward could wrinkle her silk sleeve again.
As Elizabeth made her way back across the hall, a feeling of comfort washed over her. Should it not be the opposite way around? she asked herself. Should being with my family not give me comfort? But it did not, and she could not deny that she would rather, at the moment, be with her queen and the other ladies than any of her own kin. Elizabeth glanced upward as she plucked a goblet from a page's tray, nodding thanks, and saw Sir Thomas Wyatt above her, leaning over the railing of the mezzanine gallery above the Hall. He raised his cup prettily, and Elizabeth grinned, mirroring the action. She made a mock-scolding face and gestured that he should join the queen's ladies – what woman wouldn't enjoy Wyatt's company? – but he waved his opposite hand and twisted his face into an exaggerated picture of boredom, glancing the ladies over as if they were old news. His eyes lingered on the queen for a moment too long, Elizabeth thought. She shrugged up at him and smiled again – your loss it is, Master Wyatt – and joined the cluster of ladies around Anne.
"How is your sister?" Mary Shelton asked blithely.
"You know, Mary," Elizabeth responded softly, "I really could not say."
Elizabeth fell into the conversation, unable to help admiring the queen's disposition. She was entirely regal, despite her rather undesirable circumstances. Yesterday, Anne had been rather quiet, after having spent such a strange night in her bathtub the evening prior. After Anne's argument with Master Cromwell that afternoon and her subsequent flight from her chambers, Anne had clearly been upset by whatever she had realized or learnt; Elizabeth was certain that her family was the root of her queen's unhappiness. Anne had barely spoken at dinner that day, shooed her ladies away during the evening hours, and spent the night in solitude. When she had awoken the following morning, she seemed less leaden, but still troubled. The melancholy had not worn off throughout the day, and the queen had not seemed much interested in conversation; she had taken her meals in peaceful silence, tried to remain cheerful, spent the afternoon doing needlework, and caught up on correspondence after supper. Her smile had been ready when anyone came calling, but she was clearly distracted, and had remained so until she had gathered her ladies for their excursions to the garden this very morning. Now, however, the queen seemed much recovered, her skin glowing and the ruby necklace – clearly the right choice, Elizabeth congratulated herself – catching the torchlight of the Great Hall. It would be the perfect picture of king and queen, if only it included a king. But His Majesty was probably in some dark corner somewhere, kissing Elizabeth's sister's demure hand, or introducing Edward to Cromwell, or Richard Riche, or someone else who would make Edward feel more important and demand more respect from everyone. Just what the Seymours needed.
As if on cue, the crowds of courtiers parted and bowed as the King of England strode through them, his chief minister beside him. How it must have goaded the Duke of Suffolk to bow to Thomas Cromwell. Elizabeth chewed on the side of her lip, looking for her brother through the crowd in spite of herself. She waited for Henry to summon Edward, to complete her ironic fantasy, but he did not. Elizabeth curtseyed as Anne stood and sank toward the dais, but she glanced up, her head bowed, to watch Henry's reaction to Anne and Jane, on opposite sides of the hall. He did not do much to acknowledge either one, in truth. He was entirely involved with his quiet conversation with Cromwell, and until he reached the middle of the hall and turned to make his cursory grand welcome to the beginning of the summer banquets, he made little indication that he saw any of the courtiers at all.
Elizabeth, though, did not hear Henry's speech. She was watching Cromwell's face; he had backed away as he realized that the king had realized they were in the middle of a banqueting hall full of people who were waiting for His Majesty to speak, and as Cromwell backed away from the center of the floor, he glanced down the hall. Elizabeth meant to look away and listen to her king, but she was transfixed by Cromwell's face. He looked like he had just seen his death. His diplomatic lawyer's face masked most of his horror, but on Cromwell, the tightening of his mouth, the setting of his jaw, and the slight wrinkle in his forehead certainly meant horror. He seemed frozen. Elizabeth waited for him to snap out of it, but for several long seconds he did not, and finally, she followed his gaze, subtly turning her head in the direction toward which he seemed to be staring.
On the dais behind her, the queen was staring past Elizabeth, unseeing, her expression a mirror image of Cromwell's.
ii.
Anne knew the mistake even as she made it. Perched high above her, at a post overlooking the Great Hall and the banquet therein, Thomas Wyatt watched her flinch and recoil even as she spoke the words. He checked at his habit of calling her 'Anne' in his thoughts, and then reasoned that since it was only in his thoughts that he regarded her thus and not under any other circumstances, it was no matter. Anyway, he had known her before she was queen. Long before. Since she was a child, a demanding, interesting, not particularly attractive little girl. Since she returned from France, still demanding, now fascinating, now ravishing. He had climbed trees with her, with George and Mary, and with his own sister all in tow. He had danced lively country dances with her before she learned the art of grace in Francis' court. He had kissed her hand, and her lips, and her neck, and tried to kiss her elsewhere, and although he had failed, he maintained silently that he, and not the king, had the most right of all persons living to call her 'Anne' and not 'Her Majesty.'
"Then you will agree with me," Anne had just said, "that the French are deceitful in everything."
Wyatt, unseen to the courtiers below him, did not hide the shock on his face. What in God's name was she talking about? His gaze darted from her bare collarbone, where it usually fell, up to inspect her expression. His eyes ran over her cheeks, her mouth, her nose, her eyes, her forehead. Was she flushed? Did she have a fever? She must be ill to speak such ridiculous words. But her face looked as ever it did, save for a slight blush on her cheekbones and an altogether glowing countenance, as though she had been warmed in a bath just before she had come in to dine. Her face was calm, her countenance steady, her eyes sharp and shrewd. She knew what she was doing, but as he watched her spout malice against the realm that she probably loved above England, he watched her lose her nerve and her dignity, and if any of those men in the Hall had known her as well as he himself did, they would have seen, as well, that the words she spoke and the sentiments that drove them were not her own. Everyone knew that she loved France.
"... How many treaties do they honour?" Her eyes shifted about her, waiting for some sign of a positive reaction from someone, anyone. If just one person would appear to be in agreement, would speak out to support her, she could find an ally. If she must abandon her loyalties to France in public, or at least make a statement to that effect, someone must be of that same mind. Wyatt assured her silently that if he were standing before her, he would speak out in agreement. He would slander the French and defend her, believing it no more than she did. But he was on a balcony above her, watching her, watching everyone in the Hall. Watching her. He saw her draw in a breath and force herself to continue, although she was realizing rapidly that despite whatever advice she had been given about pro-Imperialist sentiments at court, no one else was ready to deride France like that, particularly not in public, particularly not in front of the French ambassador. Who should have been Anne's principal advocate, and whose expression of horror at Anne's words was no better disguised than Wyatt's own.
Anne stumbled visibly, but maintained her steady face and adopted a coy, knowing expression. "How many promises do they keep?"
At once, Thomas wanted to shake her. He wanted to run down to the dais and grasp her shoulders and haul her from her gilded chair and shake her until sense found its way back into her brain. Whoever had had the idea that a public denunciation of the French would do anything for Anne's position – for, certainly, it had not been her idea – had led her clearly astray. Wyatt's eyes suddenly flew across the floor of the Great Hall, searching for Thomas Boleyn, and they found him not far from Anne, watching her like a hawk might watch a field mouse. It was not difficult to imagine Boleyn as a hawk; his beady eyes, his beakish nose, the way he could swoop down upon a person; Wyatt had little doubt that he could probably peck a man to death if called upon to do so. Boleyn fancied himself a great diplomat, and certainly, he had proven himself capable in that respect in the past. But now, as Wyatt watched the French ambassador sweep past Boleyn without so much as a nod of acknowledgement, he wondered if Boleyn would be able to survive the damage that he himself was causing. And, personally, he hoped not. He could remember the man standing above him as Wyatt sat helpless on a bench in the gardens of Hever, his hand stretched out, forsaken, on the rough stone beside him, its graceful white partner having just fled at her father's commandment, being told that it was not meet that he should be spending such amounts of time with a virtuous young lady such as Anne Boleyn. The Duke of Norfolk would not have his niece's good marriage name sullied by a flighty young poet and his fixations with her eyes, and a married young poet at that.
As he remembered Boleyn's own eyes widening in an attempt to intimidate him, Wyatt's grip tightened on the stem of his goblet. If Wyatt had his way, he would spirit Anne off to France and spend the rest of his life writing poetry about those eyes, since he had never been able to find the right words to finish any of them in his youth. To hell with Henry, and Cromwell, and Boleyn. He would delve his hands into that hair, something he missed greatly since she ended their 'true friendship,' and delve his member into her, as she had never allowed him during their 'true friendship,' and finally, finally she would become his muse, truly his, and no one else's.
Wyatt's eyes fell next on another Thomas, this time Thomas Cromwell. He was making his rounds, implacable smile on his face, stopping first to gladhand Sir John Seymour and share a knowing smirk with the eldest son, Edward, and then bowing his head to Jane Seymour, his smile warming. Clever man, Wyatt commended Cromwell silently, taking a sip from his goblet. Let the lady know who is in charge, who is so kindly, so selflessly, so dexterously laying the cobblestones that pave her way to the throne. In a strange way, Cromwell's sense of foresight was so strong that it gave the impression that he had become associated with the Boleyn family back in the 1520s just on the slim chance that the king's raven-haired darling might become queen someday, and the notion that to be on friendly terms with her and her family would serve the lawyer well. Wyatt had no doubt that once Jane was queen – which fate Wyatt could hardly see not coming about – the Seymour brothers would find themselves sorely deceived in Cromwell's cooperative and helpful personality, as would the sugar-sweet blonde herself if ever she found herself on the wrong side of Henry's patience.
As Cromwell caught sight of the Imperial ambassador, he excused himself and wove his way through the crowd toward him, crossing away from the shadowy, half-enclosed corridor where the Seymours, sans one sister, huddled, and moving across the open floor of the Hall. He tracked Cromwell's route past the indignant-looking French ambassador, who was whispering to one of his clerks and gesturing to the stone stairway on one end of the hall that hugged the outer wall, his face scrunched up in confusion and frustration. Cromwell tactfully touched the Frenchman's arm and nodded deferentially before continuing on his way, seeking Chapuys, the only ambassador worth courting tonight. The unfortunate Spaniard had been captured by the two Boleyn men in one corner of the room and was attempting to escape without appearing rude, although Wyatt was not sure why he should care. Watching Thomas Boleyn's generous sneer of a smile, Wyatt could almost see the desperation in the earl's face, and he was sure that if he could see it from this distance, Chapuys could too. Boleyn realized that his position was slipping, had been slipping for some time; George, while not politically astute enough to do much on his own, sensed himself drowning alongside his father. And yet, one was an earl, and the other a viscount. And… Wyatt glanced back at Anne, who was conducting a conversation with two of her jewel-coloured ladies, and at that moment threw her head back and laughed a real Anne Boleyn laugh, and, she could still win him back. If anyone had the power to win Henry back after all that had happened between them, it was Anne. It could be tonight; she looked beautiful enough. It could be tomorrow morning; she was serene in the black gowns she had taken to wearing to mass. It could be in ten days; Wyatt had no doubt that her presentation on May Day would be as stunning as it had been every year. Christ, it could be any time, any time at all. It dawned on Wyatt that he was imagining Anne winning him, himself, not Henry. She could, it was true, win him, Wyatt, at any time at all, he thought. His love was sprung and spent, but one flicker of those eyelashes, one slow-spreading smile over her shoulder, he realized, would rejuvenate it. He could not tear his eyes away from her for a few long moments more, so sparkling was her face, so bright her cheeks.
Incomprehensibly, the thought came to Wyatt that he needed to warn her. He needed to tell her somehow that she should take better care to think of her future, that her position was slipping through her fingers and that she was failing, had failed, would continue to fail. But he was not her hero, he reminded himself. He was not her champion, not because he was unwilling to be, but because he was not the man that she had chosen to be. She had chosen the wrong man. It was all very romantic to have the king of England as your defender, admirer and lover, but when you were married to him and that marriage was falling apart, it became considerably less romantic and considerably more... dangerous. The thought dawned on Wyatt and he pursed his lips, his face hardening as he watched the candlelight bounce off her neck. Henry would likely rid himself of her if she did not make some drastic change, but it had just occurred to Wyatt that he had the power and probably the will to do worse than that. It would not be the first execution due to the king's displeasure and little else. And yet, His Majesty was not cruel. He was not a monster. Shaking the thought out of his head, Wyatt blinked his eyes, ran a hand over the hint of blonde stubble on his chin and bade the images of Anne's beautiful neck stretched across a wooden block go. That would never happen, he assured himself. Surely that would never happen.
As though she felt him staring, Anne glanced up, her appraising blue eyes standing out despite his distance from her. She threw him a small, noncommittal, queenly smile and let her eyes slide past him, having invested no more than a second in eye contact with him. Her eyes lit with much more joy at the sight of her husband strolling about through the crowd, although he had not acknowledged or really even looked at her. Her head tilted to and fro as she followed the royal body through the crowd, analyzing his quick movements, watching as he dipped his head low to this lord or that knight, made a joke, intimated a secret, secured a vote for the next Parliament, or a host of other things that were by now second nature. Much like ignoring his wife. He ignores you, Wyatt gasped silently to Anne. He ignores you, he will throw you out of his bed and his marriage and his palace... and maybe his kingdom. I would throw myself on a sword for you, and yet you pass me over as though I am nothing, as though you never loved me. You have eyes only for him. And he ignores you. I do not. Please, please, look at me, his heart, astonishingly and irritatingly aching for her all of a sudden, pleaded. But instead of complying with him, Anne did the opposite, as was her wont, and turned her head the other direction so that he could see the nape of her neck. He watched as she tensed, and followed her gaze to Secretary Cromwell, who was still making his rounds in similar fashion to the king. The king he may as well be, Wyatt half-snorted as he took a sip of his wine, averting his eyes from her, letting the spell break once again.
What was this wrenching effect that she had on his heart and stomach, after all these years? After all the anger he had had with her, and all the betrayal, and all the times he had promised to care for her no longer? Apparently not all things were sprung and spent, and Wyatt made a mental remembrance to fall to his knees and beg God to free him from her this evening before his crucifix. The last thing that he owed her was assistance and love. Turning away from her, Wyatt made for the stairs down to the hall, muttering to himself, "Sometime I fled the fire, that me so burnt, and the coals thereof, shall no more me hurt... shall... me no longer hurt?" As he tried out different phrases under his breath, Wyatt neared the stairway and began down it. He wove his way through the crowd, unsure where he was really going, still trying to decide on the syntax for the second part of the sonnet that he was apparently composing.
"Master Wyatt!"
His heart skipped a beat. It was her. Turning stiffly, he made a bow. "Your Majesty."
The eyes sparkled. "Are you anticipating with great excitement the trip to France in a few weeks?"
He nodded. "Of course, Your Majesty."
"I too. It shall be a wonderful visit," she smiled at him, impersonally. "You should consider writing some words for a masque that my ladies and I intend to stage there. You have such a way with words." And there it was, that low intimating tone that only she would be able to achieve in a roomful of people, that slow raising of heavily lashed eyelids, that appraising smile. He looked her over. He was so exhausted of her, tired of her in truth, but again never sated with her.
"Thank you, Madam." He kept his voice level, his expression vacant. "I shall think on it."
A nod. "Do." And she was on to the next, hurting his heart that tried to ignore her even as she turned her head away.
It seemed he spent more time falling in and out of love with her than doing anything else.
There was, of course, the other reason that he felt he should not warn her: she already knew. If he realized that something was afoot, then she did as well. It was part of what drew him to her. She was clever, cleverer than he, more intuitive, more magnetic. He, Wyatt, the great seducer of beauties, the elegant poet and witty satirist, knew that his mind was no match for hers. It irked him, and pricked his lust for her, and broke his heart all at the same time. She was his equal, if not his superior, in everything. Well, everything that could be proven. He had tried to determine the last on many occasions, only to be always frustrated that he could not prove himself to her and win her, to be always rejected and forced to fill his longing for the one woman that he would deem worthy of fidelity and respect and true marriage with women about whom he only pretended to care. So he pretended not to care about her, that she had just been another of his brief thoughtless fancies. And usually, he managed to bring himself near to believing it. And then she would do something like that, and send him straight back to Hell where she could burn him.
He needed more wine.
As he poured some for himself out of a large jug that he found resting on a table against the wall, Wyatt went back to composing.
"And he now sees, that whilom was so blind,
yonder beauty true, that so loves him to scorn;
thus he relinquisheth to her, his heart and mind,
by turns soaring and admiring, narry long til it is torn."
He drained the wine in one gulp, plunking the goblet down on the table. He wiped his mouth, a bit clumsily, with the back of his sleeve. "I've got to write that one down."
iii.
Henry brushed past the poet Thomas Wyatt as he pulled a pretty, dark-haired young lady toward the terrace with him, murmuring in her ear. The girl was slight and thin, with large eyes and a becoming turquoise gown; if Henry recalled correctly, she was one of his wife's ladies. Someone's younger sister. He was never one to forget a lovely face, although it irked Henry to admit that this particular young beauty actually resembled his own wife more than any other lady at court, and this of necessity turned his opinion of her to distaste. And, yes, if he observed her – as Henry did at that moment, turning around with a jerk to watch the blonde poet whispering into the lady's ear, his lips near to grazing her hairline – she looked a great deal like Anne. Wonder if that is why he fancies her, Henry mused, the right side of his mouth curling into a sneer that he found difficult to control of late. I should bed her just to gall him. Then he shuddered in genuine disgust, realizing that the petite version of his queen would probably look a great deal more like her in the dark, something which he certainly did not relish. Shaking the whole notion off of his shoulders, Henry turned back to face forward and continued to move through the crowd. Be not cruel, Majesty, he tutted himself in his thoughts. Let poor Master Wyatt deflower at least a version of her; Christ knows he never got over losing Anne herself.
At the sight of Jane, all thoughts of raven curls and parted legs fled his mind. Jane was listening to her brother Edward as he dithered on about something, probably chess or the business of catching a king, although from the way her eyes wandered Henry could tell that she had heard it before and had had enough of it. For God's sake, who wouldn't have their fill of Edward after being with him more than a quarter hour? Henry loved her all the more for it. Her chest, demurely accented by a simple crucifix hanging around her neck, inflated slowly as she took a deep breath in and then sighed discreetly in boredom. She sipped her wine, nodding along with Edward as he gestured this way and that, jabbed his brother Tom in the chest, and indicated with a wave of his hand the royal dais. A yawn threatened to escape her as Henry neared, having slowed his pace so that when he passed her she would have had time to notice him, and Henry wanted more than anything to rescue her from boredom, to kiss her rosebud mouth and make sure she was never bored again. If he could get her into his bed he would have her exhausted from pleasure, and yawning for that reason, and no other. And get her into his bed – after he got a ring on her finger – he would. Jane's virtue, unlike Anne's feigned purity that served to mask her lascivious mind, went much deeper than her hymen.
He had almost reached her now, and as he was the King of England, the Seymours could hardly help but notice his approach. Henry had no intention of stopping to chat; he needed to speak with Chapuys and get some sort of plan underway with Cromwell. Yet as he neared Jane, he felt such a sense of comfort that he scarcely had the will to propel himself forward, knowing he would soon be too far from her to see the way her angelic smile appeared so readily at the sight of him. Jane had no need to be sultry, nor to appraise Henry, nor to seduce him every day. She was enough, in and of herself, and although she was not the most confident creature in the world, she was enough for him. As dimples dotted her happy cheeks, Henry thought what it would be like to be with a woman so real, so tangible, so utterly uncomplicated and sweet and honest – not that Jane was simple. No, there was much more to Jane than a lovely face and masses of blonde hair, but all of it was good. Every inch of her was good. Her purity emanated from her very being, refreshing, intoxicating Henry who had been for so many years under the spell of a sweltering temptress.
Edward and Tom bowed their heads as he passed. "Majesty," they murmured atop one another, but Henry barely heard, as he slowed his gait to delay passing her by.
"Jane," Henry whispered.
She did not bow; she sensed that there was no time for formality. Instead, Jane bobbed the slightest bit and lowered her eyes. "My king."
He was within an arm's length of her now, and he was painfully aware of how closely her brothers were watching them. He had agreed to see her only in the company of her family, but God, that was tedious. For a brief moment Henry entertained the ridiculous idea that her brothers might continue the practice after the marriage, observing the consummation and accompanying Henry to Jane's bed every night to make sure that their sister's dignity was upheld. Come if you like, boys, Henry challenged them silently, imagining their discomfort when they heard their sweet sister moaning underneath the King of England, when they averted their eyes to avoid seeing her curled toes peeking out from under the drawn curtains of the bed. See what a fecund prince you've got atop your sister. At once Henry desired above all to sweep Jane into his arms, hold her torso against his own, dip her backward and kiss her deeply for the whole court to see. He would never have done it, of course, but when he noticed the blushing of Jane's cheeks as his eyes found hers Henry remembered that he should not even be thinking such things of such a pure maiden as Jane.
Henry crooked his right index finger a little, so that the joint at its halfway point jutted out just enough to catch her same finger when his hand grazed past hers, which still held her skirts from her half-curtsy. Her skin touching his, even that tiny fleeting moment, soothed Henry's nerves immensely. Jane registered the touch and could not resist turning her head to smile even more broadly at her king, craning her neck to watch him go. Henry indulgently ran his knuckles across the back of her hand as he left her, winking before he turned his own smiling face away.
What a pure smile you have, my darling, Henry complimented her silently, his eyes searching for Chapuys but his mind imagining blonde hair and soft skin. What an angelic countenance. What fertile skin, what glowing eyes. What a pretty mouth. He could not shake the impure thoughts of what his mouth wanted to do with hers; try as he would, Henry was imagining the union of their lips and tongues, rather than how nice it felt to touch her hand; he was imagining the delight and anxiety and lust that he would sense in her kiss on their wedding night, before her royal shift fell from her shoulders, rather than how serene her smile was tonight; he was imagining how her chest would feel against his as she arched her back and wrapped her arms around him in bed, rather than admiring her virtue in wearing a crucifix to a notoriously fanciful annual banquet.
With a flick of his eyes, he summoned Chapuys into a small presence chamber off the Great Hall. He glanced over his right shoulder to find his wife staring straight at him, her expression earnest, but he barely let her crack a smile before he turned his head fully away from her. His mind wanted to remain still on Jane, but now the vision of Anne, goblet frozen halfway to her parted lips, her eyes wide, gazing over her slightly lifted shoulder, plagued him. Henry smiled at Chapuys as they crossed the threshold, shaking his head a bit as though to clear the thought of blue eyes from his mind. His head instinctively began to turn back toward her before he physically stopped himself. Leave her where she is, he lectured himself, even though your foreign policy has been for years inextricably bound to her – that is no reason to look at her. You look anywhere else for all the remainder of the time. Leave her where she is now. Pressing his lips together, Henry tried to fight down the sentiment that it was Anne's fault his foreign policy was such a mess, replacing his anger at her with anger at Charles. Had Charles simply recognized Anne, none of this would have happened. But had none of this happened, he would never have fallen in love with his lovely Jane. And he would be, with her, the most happy. Of this Henry had no doubt.
Yet as he looked at Eustace Chapuys Henry felt a fresh surge of anger, and he tried to explain it to himself. He was angry that Charles dared to challenge him so. Charles had no right to defy Henry – Anne was – is – my wife. Charles could have, should have, accepted her. For God's sake, Henry certainly did not appreciate the ancestry of Francis' wife, but that did not stop him from paying her respect as Queen of France. Why could Charles not learn from the examples of those kings who were older and wiser than he? He remembered Anne's soft, silent tears on a night shortly after Elizabeth was born: "No one will accept her, Henry, and I am sorry that she is a girl-child, but I … I wish not that she would be derided because I am her mother. For much as we may love her, I know that later in her life people will hurl slander and disdain against her, and it will pierce her heart, and she may be shielded from some because you are her father, but … that which she does have to withstand will come because I am her mother. I have doomed my own child to a life of defense." Between sniffles, and although Henry tried with gentle kisses and fingertips to clear her cheeks of tears, Anne had lamented for upwards of an hour the fact that no one would accept Elizabeth. She had never identified this verbally as a result of the utter lack of respect for and acceptance of her queenship throughout Europe, but it was clear that this was the cause. Indeed, Henry realized on the instant, most of Anne's time on the throne had been spent trying to get this or that entity to admit that it was with legitimacy that she sat there. She had never achieved it. What a pity, he had often thought in the past, that Anne had avoided becoming mistress to one king, refused to become mistress to another, and had waited – and made Henry himself wait – nearly a decade for consummation, only to be called and regarded as a whore.
What did it mean, he wondered to himself, that he was still angry that Charles had refused to accept her? Did he side with her? Was there – could there be – any doubt that she was a witch, that their marriage, and by extension her queenship, was false? Of course not. He shook it out of his head again, shook her honest blue eyes out of his head, again. There was nothing honest about them. He resettled his thoughts on Jane, on the peace that would come with their marriage.
Henry barely acknowledged Cromwell as he felt his minister slip into the room behind him and the ambassador and take up residence at an appropriately deferential distance from the royal meeting. Facing Chapuys, Henry tried to see nothing but the Spaniard in front of him, tried not to see the tears of his second wife and her desolation and her genuine – or so it had seemed – personal agony that no one would accept her, that sort of agony that comes from self-doubt and deep-seeded emotional pain. As Chapuys spoke, Henry tried to place himself in Charles' shoes, but all that he could see was that Charles had refused something that would have hurt him not at all, and that his refusal had caused such trouble, and such pain, for all involved other than Charles. Again, he found himself irritated with his own thoughts. Stop thinking about her, about that – Charles was right to refuse; she is not your true wife, you know this, and her tears mean nothing to you. Nothing. Nothing, they mean… Henry glanced down at his thumb, suddenly certain that he could feel the cool salt water of her tears on his hand. Nothing was there. Nothing. They mean nothing.
"Return to papal obedience… and the restoration of the Lady Mary to the line of succession."
Mary. Katherine. Spanish. Spanish words, Spanish accent – well, Mary did not have an accent. She did not have any accent at all – although he could not be sure of that, since he had not for so long spoken with her. Anne's fault. Anne with her French ways. And those blue eyes. Mary, though, had blue eyes as well. As did Katherine. Jane did not. Jane's eyes were brown, deep, sweet, understanding. Henry nearly laughed out loud, but first glanced up at Chapuys, who was clearly unaware of the source of Henry's amusement, and so Henry choked back his laughter. Maybe that was the problem! He needed more brown-eyed women in his life. And less dark-haired ones. Yes. Jane was perfect. Although… that crucifix. She was a good catholic, but a papist catholic. Return to papal obedience. She would love that. Probably a scheming minx in her own right, just like Anne. Maybe even more subtle than Anne; yes, Jane was certainly more subtle than Anne. Maybe even smarter than Anne. But no… no woman was smarter than Anne. More beautiful than Anne? Better between the sheets? He had to draw the line there, for Anne possessed special appeal for the eyes of men, and pleased above what most women could ever dream without even playing in bed. On instinct Henry glanced toward where she sat, but he could not see her through the open doorway to the Great Hall. He caught Cromwell's eye – Cromwell, who had been Anne's main friend and ally at court. No longer. But Henry had no doubt that if called upon to return to her cause, Cromwell would. Not that Henry was considering that in any way. Yet suddenly he wanted to turn to Cromwell and ask him… ask him what? Whether he did not think Anne had a talent of being entirely pleasing to a man without ever removing an article of clothing. He wondered what Cromwell would say to that.
No, no. That was not what he wanted to ask Cromwell. Christ's blood, what did he want to ask Cromwell? Chapuys was still talking: "A female succession." Henry stopped himself from rubbing his temple; he could not appear weak or confused. Not that he was weak or confused. Was he drunk? He had barely had any wine. He needed to make sure that he did not have any wine, in case… he thought of Thomas Wyatt and the little Anne-double. In case he was called upon to act in the capacity of Wyatt later. But with whom could he expect to act thus? Not Jane. Not Anne, of course. No one. He would not mind giving a try to a young lady at court sometimes… maybe Wyatt's little sweetheart. But no, she looked too much like Anne. He would never want that – would he? No. He had Jane. Jane was perfect – what had he been thinking, considering her a schemer a moment ago? She was an angel. He needed to prove himself worthy of Jane's undivided, pure love, which they would consummate on their wedding night. Which was not tonight. Well, then he could have as much wine as he wanted. Was that what Chapuys was insinuating? Henry glared at him, trying to snap his vision back to focus on the ambassador's face, fuzzily reaching for the exact phrase that Chapuys had said that had brought Henry to this conclusion. It was more of a suspicion than a conclusion, really. Suspicion was a dangerous thing. But not if you were the King of England. Which Henry was.
Had Chapuys implied that Henry was not acting in his capacity as king? That he would not have a son who would be a better ruler than… Mary? Than a girl? May as well put Elizabeth on the throne, as she was at this very moment. Just pluck her from the arms of her governesses and hand her the scepter. That would go roughly as well as Mary on the throne. What in the name of Christ was Chapuys saying? Of course he could have a son. And would. With Jane. Anne was the problem. Katherine had been the problem. Women who bore only girls were cursed, everyone knew that. Henry broke away from Chapuys and took a step back in the small room, ignoring the fact that his feet drew him in the direction of his wife – and also of Jane, he reminded himself – and laughing at the falseness of women. This one and that had promised him a son, and who had delivered? None. Save for Bessie. But Bessie had promised him nothing, except that she would meet him in bed at sunset that first evening. And Jane had not promised him anything, either – a token of good luck.
But what did Chapuys mean to insinuate, then – for Charles would never countenance his ambassador implying that Katherine of Aragon was at fault for Henry's lack of a male heir. So then Chapuys must be insinuating that it was Henry himself who was at fault. This realization brought Henry's blood near to boiling. He told himself to keep his tone level, and for the first half-sentence, he did:
"What are you implying – ambassador?" He waited for Chapuys to retract, but to his outrage Chapuys did not, instead remaining completely still save for a creasing of his forehead as though to implore Henry how he had offended. "Am I not a man… as other men?" He shouted the last into the Great Hall. The first few layers of courtiers outside the small chamber turned to look at the red-faced King of England, his arms flung wide, beads of perspiration slicking his hairline and a few of them trickling down the sides of his face, like tears. Henry tried to mask his rage with joviality – "Am I not?" – and failed miserably. "Am I not?" Still, Chapuys' implacable expression remained in place. You cannot get a son, said a voice in Henry's head, and he could swear that it had a Spanish accent. Charles? Chapuys? Katherine? Mary? No, Mary did not have an accent, he reminded himself with a quick shake of his head. You are a man unable to conceive a son strong enough to survive. It could have been anyone's voice – indeed, Henry realized as he thought about it later, it may have been his own – but in the moment the voice manifested itself in Chapuys, and Henry grabbed him by the collar, barely resisting the urge to smash his head on the rough stone floor beneath their feet. He was vaguely aware that the music and merriment of the banquet behind him had faded into stillness. Good. Everyone needed to hear this – everyone, anyone, who might ever consider daring to slander the King of England's virility. "You do not know all my secrets!" Dragging Chapuys along with him a step or two toward the Great Hall, Henry debated whether to haul him outside and string him from the palace gates or throw him to the ground and force him to kiss Henry's feet, and kick him in the face while he so did. But his mouth continued on its tirade and Henry found himself unable to do either.
"If the emperor wants to deal with me," Henry stipulated through clenched teeth, raising his voice so that all could hear, "then he will have to first apologize for all of his ill treatment of me in the past!" Yes, this was true. Millions of examples came to mind as Henry took a quick glance around the Great Hall: Charles' breach of the betrothal between himself and Mary; his abandonment of Henry on the French campaigns of 1523 and 1524; his betrayal of English interests at the sacking of Rome; his alliances through marriage with France; his ambition in the New World after he had made an agreement with Henry to wait until they could pursue such a venture together as uncle and nephew. Henry could easily recall his anger at all of Charles' betrayals of him in the past, and had an urge to narrate these to his courtiers who stood, rooted, staring back at their king. Henry tightened his grip on Chapuys, who was finally looking appropriately flustered, preparing to inform him of what a disgusting master he had. But then Henry's eyes slid, of their own will, to the royal dais, and the wide blue eyes that met him there removed from his mind all images of his daughter and his first wife and his battle plans for France and his exchequer and replaced them with only one image: Anne's matted curls, mottled nose, and puffy lips, as his fingers brushed at her cheeks. Covered in tears. His fingers felt wet again, and inexplicably this compelled him more than any of those other memories. The words sprang, unbidden, to his lips:
"He must accept Queen Anne."
An even deeper hush fell over the Hall. Anne herself looked as though Jesus had just appeared to tell her that she could, in fact, use indulgences to buy a plot in heaven. 'Accept Queen Anne'? That is your monumental demand for Charles' obeisance? He must 'accept Queen Anne'? Henry wanted, once again, to shake his throbbing head or rub his pounding temples. Christ's blood, why had he said that? The room was beginning to swim a little before him. He was angry with himself for having said that, but then the realization that he had said it began to fade from his mind until it was a hazy memory, although it had just happened moments before. Henry suddenly could not remember the source of his anger, and this made him even more angry. But he could not afford to lose any more of his composure in front of his people. Gulping down the cold, shaking feeling that had begun to overtake his body, Henry righted Chapuys on his feet and hissed, "That is all that I have to say to your master." He turned on his heel, threw Cromwell a glare for good measure, and strode out of the room, through flocks of courtiers that bustled backward and jostled each other to let their king through. Behind him, he could feel confused stares, Spanish and English, probably French and Italian too; and he did not care. As Henry swept through the crowd, making for his own chambers, he made the mistake of glancing once more at the royal dais and saw Anne, frozen in her chair, in a position which suggested that she had been on the verge of leaping out of it to run… to him? Why this mattered, he could not say. It did not. Henry looked for Jane, waiting for Edward to shove her out in front of the crowds of courtiers so that His Majesty would have better access to her, to show her off in front of the court as his unannounced next wife. Henry would not have cared; he just wanted to see a comforting face. Unfortunately, no honey waves were forthcoming, and no crucifix gleamed up at him from the neckline of a powder blue gown. Well enough, Henry thought, not having checked in his stride and approaching the exit of the Great Hall. He would happily spend the evening alone.
But as he neared the archway, Henry felt something tugging him back. Was he not the king? He had not ordered this banquet, true, but that made him no less the figurehead of this court and country, and with this position had always come responsibilities, none of which he had ever shirked. He could not begin now – he could not become the intemperate king who behaved as a child when his desires were not fulfilled. It had nothing to do with anyone in this Hall, not Anne, not Jane, not Cromwell – nor with what any of them, any ambassadors or courtiers, would report back to anyone else about him. Henry simply needed to return and preside as king over his court. Even if that meant sitting next to a shrilling, smoldering brunette rather than composing a love poem for a beloved blonde. I can do the composing later, he reasoned with himself.
Henry turned slowly to see that his whole court was waiting, bowing, for him to leave the Hall or return to it. His people awaited his decision, and he would not disappoint them. Henry clapped his hands together, pasting a wide, magnanimous smile on his face. "Continue!" He gestured at Mark Smeaton, who was half-bent at the waist, fiddle still perched on his shoulder. "Play on, Master Smeaton!" Lords and ladies straightened stiffly; dance partners reached for one another hesitantly; knights reached for another helping of pudding cautiously. Henry threw his hands in the air, his voice coming out a little more harshly than he meant it to: "Eat! Drink! Dance! Be merry!" With one last flourish, he added: "Celebrate!"
Unfortunately, he did not feel much like celebrating within the space of five minutes when he had resigned himself to the chair beside his dearly beloved wife. Although he had given Anne only the most dutiful smile and then avoided her eye as he approached and lowered himself into his chair, Henry could have taken a bite out of the tension that fitted itself uncomfortably between their bodies. He was painfully aware of her every movement, conscious that she was trying to move with discretion, to avoid irritating or provoking him, but also that she desired more than anything for him to look at or speak to her. Even more unnerving was his constant burning desire to glance at her out of the corner of his eye for, although Anne was trying to be inconspicuous, Henry could sense her every movement and gesture, and a dangerous heat was developing in his chest as a result. But he was sated to death with this woman. Why, how, could he still have these sentiments when he was in her presence? What was this spell that she had cast over him? His heart was racing. God, he just wanted Jane. Jane never made him feel like this. Jane's presence was a beautiful, serene, calming force. In his youth, although it pained Henry to admit this, he would have desired nothing more than this loin-tingling, stomach-burning, fantasy-provoking connection with a woman – indeed, this had been the basis of many of his youthful young affairs. Anne included, Henry told himself. There was nothing more than that; she was nothing more than a fountain in which you were not allowed to swim. He folded and unfolded his hands, trying to ignore the condensation that had appeared in their creases and forcing his eyes to search the crowd in front of him instead of making quick darting glances to his left. God's blood, I am too old for this.
He wanted to dance. With Jane. He had spotted her, having moved a bit from her location when he had touched her hand a short bit ago, and he could see the shadows and torchlight bouncing off of her gleaming hair as she dipped her head to listen to something that Tom, her more likeable brother, was murmuring to her. She stifled a giggle behind her hand, swatting Tom lightly on the arm with her other. Henry would have paid anything to know what was making her laugh, to be part of her conversation, to feel safe and relaxed and blissful. If he could snake his hand through her arm and get her out onto the floor, he could discuss whatever he wanted with her – and he should like to discuss their wedding plans, were he given his choice of topics. But that may be a bit too much too soon. Yes, when he was rid of Anne he would send a dozen seamstresses to Jane with bolts of fabric from all over the world, and bid her to create for herself a new wardrobe to last her through her first year as Queen of England. But now, maybe, it was too soon to be discussing aspects of their coming marriage. Instead he could ask Jane what she thought of Erasmus' new book, or… well, he realized as he scratched at his chin, still staring at Jane's shining blonde hair, he did not know if Jane actually read much. She was so virtuous, it was difficult to imagine her engaging in such radical activity. So much more becoming a woman than Anne was she that it seemed inherently wrong to attribute any of Anne's traits to her. It was not that Henry was at all disappointed that he should never discuss literature and theology with her; it is just, he assured himself, that you have gotten so used to a woman who forces her opinions in your face that you are accustomed to think of women as acting that way in general… which, he cracked a smile as he watched Jane's expression transform into one of utter innocence, a surprised smile gracing her parted lips as her doe eyes slid upward and sideways in the most angelic fashion imaginable, is clearly not the way of things.
He could not, of course, dance with Jane. That was all that he needed; to irk Anne into further begging for private time with him by exhibiting his first affections in front of the whole court. He could just picture it, and he stopped himself from imitating Anne in the shrill voice that he sometimes used to impersonate her when he was alone: "Henry, why must you humiliate me so, my love? Know you not how much I love you, how much I suffer, when you treat me thus in public? You drive me to distraction, my own husband, you cause me to pray Jesus Christ to send me patience and perseverance, for which I thought I no longer had much need, having exhausted my reserves thereof during the years I waited to marry you…" Henry realized that Anne's complaints had morphed into Katherine's in his mind, her dark hair and blue eyes becoming those of the elder dark-haired, blue-eyed wife, her graceful French lilt turning into a chopping Spanish accent. Anne's complaints of Henry's fantasized actions turning into Katherine's verbatim protestations about Henry's actual past actions. Not that that made them any more valid. How similar were the first two women to whom he had bound himself in matrimony, he thought. Rigid, demanding, strong-willed… stubborn, really, to a fault. He would free himself from all that with his third match, to a soft, sweet angel.
"God, I need it done, and quickly," he muttered to himself before he had realized what he was doing. Henry cringed immediately and held his breath, hoping that no one had heard.
No such good fortune. "What have you said, husband?" Anne inquired brightly, leaning toward him. He could smell her rosewater perfume, and before he could stop himself – curse my compulsivity – he was leaning in too, breathing her in, close enough to whisper or kiss. He got lost in her eyes. For lack of anything better to do, Henry cleared his throat, with effort, and tried to find his voice.
"I…"
A dark shape had approached the dais rapidly and now bowed to the royal couple. "Majesty, excuse me-"
He could have kissed Cromwell. Pulling back from Anne, who had gone ashen for some reason, Henry nearly leapt out of his chair. "Master Cromwell!" He crooked his finger and beckoned Cromwell up. "Thank Christ you're here," he whispered in Cromwell's ear. "She is ruining my evening."
Cromwell registered Anne's presence with a quick flick of his eyes, and responded to Henry's comment not at all. "Majesty, I wanted to discuss with you the terms of the Emperor's alliance offer. I have taken the liberty of conferring further with Ambassador Chapuys and-"
"Wife," Henry suddenly said, under the din of the Hall, turning back to his queen from his minister, to the shock of both, and holding up an index finger to signal for Cromwell to wait. "Did it please you that I demanded Charles recognize you?"
A rosy blush spread across Anne's collarbone and her cheeks simultaneously. "Of course, husband." She looked so surprised. Was it not ironic that she should be surprised that he would defend her interests? She was, after all, his wife. At least as long as legalities were concerned. The irony of that was that she was not, after all, his wife, in any other way, and he knew that he felt that way, and she knew that he felt that way, but neither of them could let the other know what they each knew themselves. He was planning to rid himself of her for another, a power that she had helped bring to him when she had insisted he do it for her, and now he no longer regarded her as the wife for whom he had waited a decade, because she had failed him, and lied to him, and in all likelihood cast a spell over him in the bargain. But it was so funny, so deliciously ironic, that she looked surprised – because it was perfectly valid that she should be surprised. Her expectant, innocent witch's stare pushed his hysterical mental ranting over the edge, and Henry let a chuckle escape his lips.
"It was funny," he explained, rolling his hand over in the air between himself and his wife, running his fingers along the tension that he had felt there since he sat down. "Ambassador Chapuys said the most ridiculous thing, about the Lady Mary, he… what was it, Cromwell?" Henry twisted back around to face Cromwell, beckoning him into the conversation; Anne's face had darkened at the mention of her step-daughter. "What was it that Chapuys said Charles would require for the Lady Mary?"
Cromwell cleared his throat and shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable. "Her restoration to the succession, Majesty," he murmured, glancing up through his eyelashes at Anne's blanched face, only for them to look away from each other quickly in mutual dislike.
"Yes," Henry went on. "Yes, and I thought it was funny, because of how much you and I have done to legitimize our own lovely daughter." He tripped on despite the brightening of Anne's face at the mention of her child. "And it reminded me – do you remember that evening in bed, sweetheart, when you wept and cried and lamented that no one would ever love Elizabeth for who she was, and that her life would always be difficult, because she had had the misfortune of having you as her mother, and try as you would to demonstrate your piety and kindness, everyone called – well, still calls – you 'The Great Whore'?"
Anne's face was the very picture of horror. "I…"
"She did." Henry nodded at Cromwell. "It was heartbreaking. It was all I could think of while I was listening to Eustace. You should have seen. You know, everyone thought that Anne was all confidence and severity after Elizabeth was born, but in truth she was fearful and sensitive and concerned for her daughter, in a way that only a mother can be… in a way that every mother should be."
Stunned silence fell over the royal couple and the king's minister. Cromwell swallowed, unbeknownst to Henry responding silently that in fact, he himself was acquainted with Anne's tender love and concern for her daughter, and that he had comforted her – albeit not in bed – over much the same concerns just after the birth. How long had it been before she had been able to communicate these to her husband? But Henry was staring fondly past Anne, perhaps imagining the mother of his next child, perhaps remembering his own mother.
"You might not believe this, Cromwell, but I wiped her tears away. These very fingers." Henry held his hands up for Cromwell's inspection. Cromwell remained rooted, staring deferentially to his left. Henry reached out suddenly, tracing Anne's cheekbone with his thumb. Cromwell's jaw dropped, and he wrenched his head sideways to see Edward Seymour take a stumbling, disbelieving step forward in the crowd. Edward narrowed his eyes at Cromwell, his face clearly demanding, "Sweet Jesus, are they reconciling? Do something!" Cromwell returned with the minutest of nods and composed himself, putting on this most thoughtful minister's expression.
"Majesty, I have spoken with Eustace further, and I must say I am-"
Henry snatched his hand back from the entirely bewildered Anne, who looked halfway between crying again and preparing to flee the Hall in shame; by God, if Henry had not just shared details of their second-most intimate bedroom activity. The king folded his hands over one knee and reclined in his chair as though he had not just described his wife's deepest fear and pain for all who could hear as though it was a Holbein miniature. "Later, Master Cromwell. The imperial alliance is not necessarily the top of my prioritized items at the moment. This is an evening for celebration."
Cromwell nodded, bowed, and backed away obediently. Henry now saw Edward Seymour, a look of panic frozen on his shrewd face, talking rapid-fire at his blonde sister, whose eyebrows were furrowed in confusion and fear. Christ, Edward, you are ruining her for me, Henry thought irritably. He needed to get Jane away from her eldest brother with all speed. Tonight is a night for celebration… and yet I am surrounded by nothing but distractions and interruptions, discomfort and unease. Nothing but bodies stands between myself and my one true love, and yet I cannot rid myself of the obstacles which should matter not at all.
But then a thought occurred to him.
Henry was on his feet before he could think it through, although this, he trusted, was not a decision he would come to regret. "Stop the music!" Mark stopped immediately, and without him the music died within moments. "I've an announcement," Henry grinned. "As you all know, this banquet is an annual tradition, observed to recognize and celebrate the beginning of the summer season. It serves as a precursor to the May Day festivities." The members of court gazed back at him eagerly. "But tonight you have been let down, for the king and queen ourselves have abstained from much merriment at all." He glanced down at Anne, whose bafflement from his earlier revelation was still evident in her face. She met his gaze hopefully and a bit fearfully, as though afraid what would come out of his mouth next. "Your queen," Henry continued, his eyes still on Anne's, "is known as the best dancer in this court, and yet tonight she sits quietly amongst her ladies. I propose to change that."
Now Anne was grinning. She was on her feet beside him, her cheeks flushed with pleasure, smiling so hard that her chest strained with the effort of keeping the rest of her body in check. She barely refrained from grabbing his hand. Her mouth opened to accept his invitation, then closed, waiting for him to properly invite her.
Some dark part of Henry caused his mouth to salivate with pleasure as he delivered his next sentence: "I would like for my queen to honour with a dance the man who has aided in every way during her queenship, as a token of the friendship that has existed between her family and him for the past years; in respect, and alliance…" Henry gave a diplomatic guffaw. "And in the hopes that she can teach him a thing or two about exhibition-style dancing, I insist that my lovely wife dance a turn with my most trusted adviser-" a gesture of the right hand "-Master Thomas Cromwell."
Henry sat back down in his chair, entirely pleased with himself, leaving his wife standing stark, just as her red nose stood out on her face when she cried, in front of the court. He absorbed Anne's discomfort, soaking it up like a sponge, the pleasure of the burning in his stomach at having caused it almost overwhelming him. He glanced back at Cromwell, who was as white as heaven and looked like he was being dragged by his fingernails to hell. Oh, lighten up, Henry chided him silently. I did not think you would be pleased about it, but accept this commission, as you do all others, with grace. You feel the same about her that I do; see the irony, man. Enjoy it. Savour it. Relish it. Besides, you may not be a creature of great agility, but that is half the fun of it… at least for me.
UP NEXT:
Anne nearly snatched her arm back as she felt Cromwell's knuckle touch the band of her wedding ring, probably unconsciously; he had probably not even noticed the contact. They were making slow, graceful progress down the floor toward their final position for the dance, but Anne suddenly found herself wondering if he was wearing the same type of shirt now that he had been that other afternoon, when her hands had been inside his jacket and her ring had snagged the fabric. In a moment of hysterical self-derision, Anne wondered if she had torn the linen of Cromwell's undershirt and whether she should offer to have a new one made for him. Well, she reasoned, holding back a horrified giggle, he ripped two buttons from my collar. I should inform him that he owes me a new Venetian ruffle.
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