A/N: Welp, I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update! That's not nice of me. Happy holidays, and I hope my new chapter is a treat worthy of yuletide joy! =D
EVERYONE: From here on out we will be moving at a faster pace, toward the trials of the men and Anne herself. I'm going to be rediscovering and resolving a number of storylines in the next few chapters. Is there anything you really want to make sure gets addressed? Any character you definitely want to see? Any plotline you want me to pick up again? Let me know.
Another question, or poll, for my readers – do you like these longer chapters? Do you feel that the quantity/quality ratio is worth the wait? Or would you prefer more frequent, but shorter, chapter updates? Sometimes I am at 5-6,000 words and I don't have a chance to sit down to this story for 10 days, which delays the whole process. But I aim for around 8-9,000 words per chapter. Let me know what you think.
Claire, welcome! I'm glad you liked my first chapter and I hope you are able to continue reading. Thank you for the compliments and happy holidays!
Oh, Louisa, I'm so glad to hear you were pleased with the last chapter. And thank youuu for the comments on the "love" (ish) scene – those are super awkward to write and I'm never sure if they read awkwardly or not, so I appreciate the feedback on how the chemistry works on paper. Please let me know what you think of this chapter; there's more coming soon!
Hello, guest! Endless gratitude for the time and effort of writing a review. I really appreciate that and hope to keep earning it =D I was trying to write her ladies as a band of wayward and naïve spies, trying to roll with the politically astute men at court and adorably unaware how over their heads they are (a little eleventh-hour, girls). The arrests did not come out AT ALL like I planned them – but I am actually really happy with how they read. The title was something I came up with because of the confusing state of the Lord's Prayer at this point, especially as the tensions with the Dissolutions are rising and Cromwell is faced with the task of ousting the religiously radical queen. The Reformation is in a very tough stage right now. I didn't initially think I would have Anne and Cromwell say it together, but once the opportunity presented itself I couldn't deny how well it worked. =D As for the Seymours… things are about to get interesting, but there will be more questions than answers, if I do my job correctly. You be the judge! Happy holidays!
Alyson: you are bad for my ego. You really are. I'm so glad you found the last chapter compelling. Wolf Hall is a wonderful precursor to having a multi-faceted view of Cromwell and I'm flattered that you see anything approaching that level of characterization in my own story. I'm LOVING Nan, did not expect her to turn into this complex of a character but I really like how she's taking on a storyline and personality of her own. I'm trying to demonstrate how she's learned to comport herself with the severity and composure of Anne. Speaking of composure, that moment with the jealousy over Lissie was one of my favorite things in the whole chapter. I wanted it to be so begrudging and uncomfortable, but at the same time a real moment of envy; not only over the physical connection, which neither of them wants to acknowledge, but maybe even over the fact that Lissie is young, and single, and most importantly, free? I loveeee Lissie. Adore her. She's going to become a big deal as the story draws to an end. Yay conflict! Thank you for your compliment on the desperation being palpable – that was a big goal of mine. I want them frantic for each other but also mutually apprehensive. The threat about the guards was probably my other favorite moment, honestly. =D
CrystalSearcher, LOL thanks for the flailing review yet again! 1.) So glad you liked it. I hope it was as good upon the second reading. 2.) I agree, and although it's a little abbreviated due to how the scene wound up unfolding with Anne and the household (I swear this stuff writes itself), I like the Riche/Suffolk dynamic. Cromwell isn't together enough to arrest her, you're totally right. But now the question… when will he come face-to-face with her again? 3.) Did you? I only saw it coming like 2 chapters ago. But is it incest if they're not DOING anything? Hum. You be the judge. 4.) *flail-dance*
Rae, you make me laugh so much! Oh, no, I just realized I'm publishing this on a day when you don't have school. Forgive! Seymours… idk, that family's a hot mess. We'll see how that works out for them. I'm glad you liked the, ahem, private scene, and I love that you love the protective Cromwell. He only exists for a flash here and there, but he's great. Let me know how you feel about the way I handled the arrest scene. I'm eager to know if you think the dynamic worked. =D Happy holidays!
3 May
i.
Morning
George Boleyn rubbed at his eyes in the chilly pale sunlight. He sat up in bed. The palace seemed deathly still. He had had such dreams before, where he strolled the halls of Greenwich only to find that he was alone and abandoned, unprotected and unaccompanied by all. Unloved by all. He hated those dreams.
He looked around, felt for his wife under the heavy coverlets and found nothing. He squinted, patted the mattress again. He cleared his throat. "Jane?"
She never rose before he did. He had not overslept; where was she? Was she ill?
"Wife?"
He got out of bed, shivering as his bare feet hit bare stone, and ran a hand through his hair. Their bedchamber door was still bolted from the inside. She had not left and could not have drawn a bath for herself. He double-checked the chairs and the little sofa that sprawled beneath Jane's favourite window. She was not there. Dubiously, he yanked the bed coverings back, part of him believing she must be in the bed because there was no other place she could be.
He went toward Jane's closet. It was not enormous, certainly not big enough to qualify as another room, but perhaps she was in there choosing what to wear on this morning. It was out of character, for sure. Although he had made practice of spending time in others' beds, George Boleyn returned to his wife's side nightly, and in ten years of marriage she had rarely been on her feet before he was.
He knocked at the door, which was closed firmly. "Jane?" he asked the door. "Are you in there?"
No response. George's forehead wrinkled. Had his wife evaporated into the air? She had been here when he had gotten into bed last night, had she not? He cracked the door open and there was no acknowledging movement. He pushed it and saw her at once, a dark shape folded over itself in the far corner. He stepped toward her and checked: if she was ill, he should keep his distance.
"Jane?" he called. "Wife. Sweetheart, what are you doing?"
"Nothing," she replied quietly. He could make out no movement. His eyes were not accustomed to the darkness in the closet, which had no window.
"Are you well?"
"I…" she trailed off. "I fear not."
He took a step back. "Shall I fetch the doctor?"
Jane shook her head. "No. I will be fine."
"Come… come back to bed." Creeping alarm was tugging at him. She was behaving very unusually. It seemed as though the court had been turned upside down in the past few days. He came into the closet, finally. He had been trying to make good on his promise to his uncle that he would be kinder to his wife.
As he crouched beside her, Jane looked at him. Her small, dark eyes were like bullets in the darkness. "Do I look well?"
"I can hardly tell in the dark," he responded honestly.
"Generally," she amended. "Generally, do I look well?"
An odd smirk crossed his features. "Do you fish for compliments, wife? You are an attractive woman."
"Thank you." She smiled a little. "I find you an attractive man."
He chuckled. Most do, he thought. Jane said the most dim-witted things sometimes. He had been trying to think of her lately as someone younger than she was, to excuse her dullness and immaturity thus. No one would accuse him of being a husband who did not try, he had resolved. "And I thank you. Now please me and come back to bed."
She let him take her hand, but she did not move yet. "I… I am sorry we have not yet had a child, my lord."
George almost sighed, but he stopped himself. This was no moment to snap at her. "Well, sweetheart, what activities did you think I hoped for us to do when we get back into bed?"
"I fear I will be past my bleeding soon," Jane continued. "And I so wanted to give you a child… a son… many sons, daughters too." Her eyes implored him in the darkness.
Moved and startled, George touched her cheek. She sounded like a woman in mourning. "Is this why you've hidden yourself away? You are not past your time yet, not for years, Jane," he insisted. "You are too young to be speaking thus. Your body will bear our sons yet."
Jane's face scrunched from forehead to chin, and she buried it in her palms. "It's too late," she whimpered. "It's too late."
"Shhh," George attempted to comfort her despite his growing unease. "Hush, sweetheart. We've got so much time, yet. So many evenings and opportunities. We are no perfect match, I grant you that, and you'll have to learn to be more accepting of my personal ventures, but we can have a happy life together."
Her concern at having disappointed him was endearing. Why could she not have been this pliant all along? She sniffled and wiped at her eyes. "I am sorry if I have made you unhappy," she whispered. "I did not mean to."
"Marriage is not meant to be a happy thing," he teased. "We are much better off than many married couples I know. Let us rejoice."
His lips found hers, and his tongue came out to lick at the warm, salty tears around her mouth. He found he quite liked the taste. She melted against him a little, murmuring, "let us try to put a child in my belly."
George smiled against her lips. All at once he hoisted her into his arms and kicked their way out of her closet. He kissed her before dropping her onto the bed with a flourish. "Let us make a number of tries, eh?"
"Yes," Jane agreed, shivering as his cold fingers touched her skin. He peeled off her shift. "As many as possible on this morning."
George found that his wife's sorrow made for much more joyous coupling than did her nagging; after a decade of marriage, in this unimportant encounter on an ordinary morning, he found himself enjoying Jane and accepting their relationship for what it was. Never had she been so conformable to his will, attentive to his priorities. He wondered what had caused her change of heart. As he fell onto her, entering her from the front as he rarely had, George thanked the Lord for having brought his wife to her senses. They made love thrice before George sank, exhausted, on top of Jane. He kissed her breasts before he dozed off, almost certain that he saw tears in his wife's eyes. Probably still upset over their lack of a child. But if Jane could sustain this new approach to wifehood, he thought, he would have her as often as it took for her to conceive a house full of sons.
When he woke again, the sun had climbed high in the sky and Jane had not moved a muscle. He started up on the mattress, worried that he had slept the day away. Jane's eyes fluttered open sleepily, and her usual frown had been exchanged in favour of an expression of pure bliss. She looked almost like a saint on the bed, if he could picture the way a saint would look after lovemaking.
"Must you go?" she yawned.
"Mmmmm," George replied as he stretched. "We both should. It's late."
Jane stretched her body as well, and rolled over onto her stomach. "Do you not have just a moment more?"
He watched as she positioned herself in the way she knew he liked best. "Just a moment? Do you underestimate me, wife?" he chided in reminiscence of their usual bedtime games.
"I can't recall…"
"Those three times we just had?"
She arched her back. "One more should remind me," she teased.
He was aroused just watching the way she unfolded her naked body. Where had this creature been for the past ten years? "Oh, wife," he sighed as he crawled behind her and pushed into her without preamble. "I shall make sure to remind you more often."
After they climaxed and collapsed together, George got dressed without washing off the evidence of their lovemaking. He gave his wife a wink that weakened her knees as he left her, still naked, under the sheets of their marriage bed. When the door closed behind him, Jane closed her eyes and prayed to Jesus that she had conceived George Boleyn's child that morning, for she would never have another chance.
ii.
When Nan came into the queen's rooms, her mistress was already dressed. Nan stopped short. "Majesty," she said, curtsying. "Am I tardy?"
"No," Anne replied, not taking her eyes from her own reflection. "I have not slept. I've been trying on gowns all the night."
Nan considered and rejected all the incredulous replies she could make before asking, "and is this Your Majesty's favourite?"
Anne considered. "No, but I think it is the most regal. I've picked out that crown –" a crystal-studded silver filigree tiara, taller than the crowns she usually preferred "and need some slippers."
She was wearing the gown that appeared dark blue in normal light but green in the sunshine, the one that she had suggested the royal seamstresses assemble outside. It was plain, straight, and singular. As Nan neared, she saw that the queen had laced herself into the gown. The fact was clear in that it was unevenly tightened and the laces were inconsistently overlapped; when Nan laced the queen, it was right over left at all times. But how often did queen consorts dress themselves? To Anne's credit, the sleeves had been attached flawlessly, a hard feat to do on a gown that one is wearing at the time.
"All I can do is a simple knot," the queen sighed as her chief lady-in-waiting set to work on another of her creations. "Or brush my hair out and leave it down."
"Queens are not responsible for knowing how to dress their hair, my lady," Nan reminded her gently. "I should think you've got enough cares of your own. This is my function, the reason for my existence."
Anne smiled. "To twist my hair?"
Nan met her eyes in the mirror. "To make you look every inch the queen you are."
"You do the best that anyone could." Anne paused. "D'you think you will be invited to remain at court once Jane Seymour is queen?"
Nan's hands did not so much as falter. She had considered this, and she knew she could speak honestly with her mistress. "I would be surprised if I were asked to stay on the basis of allegiance," she said quietly, "for everyone knows where my loyalty lies."
"You could conform."
"And if forced, I think I would. But I cannot see the new queen wishing to keep me in her rooms. I would be unsurprised if most of us are dismissed. On the other hand," she rambled on, "if Master Cromwell…"
Nan's voice drifted away and their eyes met in the mirror again. Anne's lips rolled together before she resumed her neutral expression. "If Master Cromwell?" she prompted.
Her lady-in-waiting shook her head.
"If Master Cromwell thinks to repay all of you for providing testimony against me?"
Nan did not move.
"I do not blame you."
"How could you not? We are supposed to be your protectors."
One cheek twitched in an ironic smile. "I thought a woman's husband was supposed to be her protector." Anne sighed. "Things are different at court. You must not tell me that you thought I had no idea."
"I knew," Nan admitted, finally reaching for a handful of pins. "I just… I wanted to – if there was one thing I could take back…"
"It is not your fault."
Nan smiled sadly, her eyes on Anne's emerging coif. "Whose is it then?"
"A good question." Anne ran her finger over her lips. "Perhaps as a sinner I can expect no better."
"Your Majesty is a pious and virtuous woman."
"I have sinned as much as the average Christian woman," Anne said firmly, "and many times more if one is to count the sins committed on my behalf as even partially mine."
"You mustn't talk like that." Nan was surprised at the sternness of her voice.
Anne handed her a few more pins, seeing that she had run out. "It is the truth."
"Bite your tongue if you must, my lady," Nan said wearily. For the first time, the queen could see the utter exhaustion on her lady's face. "Do whatever you must to make it easier on yourself. But no talk of sinning, and certainly not of your own sins. You must have a care."
The queen smiled and covered the smile with one palm. "You are right. Should leave all the work to our most industrious Master Cromwell."
Nan looked at the queen's reflection in the mirror and tugged at the knot she had created, adding a few more pins with careful precision. "'Industrious' may not be my adjective of choice for that man."
"Slandering, traitorous, unethical, ruthless," Anne said boredly. Her head lolled to the side. "How will I ever manage without you?"
"You won't." Nan warmed a drop of Egyptian oil between her palms and used it to smooth the hair against the queen's scalp; a polishing touch.
They both heard the patter of feet in the outer rooms as the other ladies began to trickle in. "I shall have to. They won't let you come to plait my hair in the Tower, my dear." Anne smirked.
Nan smiled back, and the queen noticed how similar their expressions were. That was new. "There are many ways into and out of that place," Nan said lightly, meeting Anne's eyes for a moment and then flicking away. She went off in search of slippers as the Sheltons came in to bid their mistress a fair morning.
iii.
Charles Brandon had not expected to walk into an ambush; when he entered Master Secretary's office, it was to find Cromwell seated with Richard Riche. The two men faced him, dossiers in hand, as though he was about to be judged before a jury of peers. Brandon's eyes slid between the two men. "Cromwell. Riche."
"Your Grace," Cromwell greeted him with a blank smile. "I've a personal favour to ask of you."
Brandon's nostrils flared a little. "A personal favour?"
"Yes, Your Grace. A political commission, but a personal favour." The bland expression stayed in place.
The duke looked to and fro impatiently. Riche had yet to speak or move. Upon closer inspection, the Solicitor General looked awash with trepidation: bloodshot eyes, mottled nose, hunched posture. But he kept a steady countenance nonetheless. "Out with it, Cromwell."
The secretary placed five fingertips on his dossier. "I wonder if you would do me the service of assisting Master Riche here in the apprehension of Queen Anne."
"The queen?" Suffolk repeated.
"She is to be conducted to the Tower this morning."
Brandon's lips parted in surprise. "You want me to put her there?"
Cromwell jabbed a thumb at his quiet companion. "A joint effort betwixt yourself, Your Grace, and Solicitor General Riche. Alas, I have made the trip to the Tower more than a few times in the past day, and will conduct more of Her Majesty's partners in lechery there yet. For this most notable apprehension, I thought Your Grace, as the dearest friend of His Majesty, would make a suitable supervisor."
"And report to His Majesty every detail," the duke smiled. "I understand."
Cromwell held his gaze, meaning infusing his every syllable. "And with the public display of Your Grace as apprehender of the queen, it will be clear that the charges against her have the endorsement of the nobility. I am not so cruel as to send His Grace the Duke of Norfolk along with you," he chuckled.
"I wager to say that the nobility, in its entirety," Brandon enunciated, "will condone the legal action against the king's whore of a wife."
Riche looked wearily between duke and secretary. Cromwell made no comment on Brandon's forecast. Instead, he opened his dossier to find the parchment that had been drawn up for the arrest of the Queen of England. The long sheet was rolled from both ends and the ribbons remained untied. Cromwell held it out to the duke. "I hope Your Grace does not mind to do this errand as a personal favour to me."
Charles Brandon's face broke into a boyish grin as he stepped forward to take the indictment. "Oh, Cromwell. I've never liked you better."
iv.
Anne found herself trembling as her ladies sat around her with embroidery. Their chairs formed a circle together. Anne touched her crown to be sure it was secure enough that she could bow her head to focus on the linen. Bess Dormer caught her eye and offered a shy smile. The queen tried to smile back. "Never did figure out which man it was that you admired, Mistress Dormer," she said softly.
"No one important, my lady."
Anne watched as Nan turned her head to look at Mistress Dormer. The two ladies made eye contact and then looked away mutually. "I am sorry I could not help," she offered. Bess just smiled and nodded.
The Sheltons sat close together, working on a large piece of linen – what would, given the opportunity, become a tapestry. Their elbows bumped and settled. Madge's full lips looked bigger than usual today, and even Mary had dark craters under her normally lively eyes.
The queen tried to thread her needle but failed. Her stomach turned. She had not gotten ill this morning, and was living in fear that she would begin heaving in front of her ladies. She was weak; she knew it. She was exhausted. She was ready for this to be over.
"Pardon me, ladies," she murmured as she got to her feet clumsily. She jostled Nan's chair as she bolted for her bedchamber, closing the door behind her, and rushed toward the chamber pot beside her bed. She retched into it as quietly as possible. Nan had laced her loosely again this morning; the inflating of her ribs was not as painful as it might have been. Anne washed out her mouth and was about to get to her feet when a fresh wave of nausea pushed her back onto her knees, this time more forceful than the last. A hand tapped on the door.
"Majesty?"
"A moment of peace, ladies," she called back. When she was sure the illness was past, Anne rinsed her mouth again and got to her feet. She looked around her empty bedchamber and thought to herself that this may be the last time she was ever in it alone. Sadly, she brought her palm to her lips and blew a kiss into the air.
When she resettled herself among her ladies, their concerned gazes sticking in her like stakes, Anne said a short prayer for whoever was coming to arrive shortly. She could not stand to wait like this much longer.
She heard a growling stomach and knew it was not hers; she had no appetite. It occurred to her then that none of her ladies had tried to insist that she eat breakfast. Finally, too late, they had accepted the fact that she would not eat when she did not wish to. But had they abstained from food as well?
Moments of heavy silence stretched into long minutes, a quarter hour, and the queen lost track. It was nearly midday when an uncoordinated onslaught of boots could be heard in her outer chamber. The footsteps were quick, purposeful; Anne could make out their rhythm in the otherwise silent royal apartments.
Nan began to breathe heavily, quickly. She bit her lower lip to keep from crying.
"Keep yourself together," Anne hissed at her, harsher than she meant it. She cast a glance around the circle, but no one would meet her eyes. "All of you. You mustn't fall apart. You must be my strength in these moments."
Madge sniffled loudly.
"Madge, please, for I've almost no strength of my own." Anne twisted the linen handkerchief she had been embroidering between her fingers, pulling on it, and dropped her unthreaded needle to the floor. "Ladies, look at me."
Four heads swiveled toward her at once, like choir boys to their music master. Anne had a fleeting vision of herself, arms raised, conducting this ballad of her own downfall.
"You'll all be all right." Her eyes filled with tears and she nodded as reassuringly as she could. "It's all going to be all –" the group jumped as the door to her presence chamber slammed open. All five women turned to see the men approaching. It was Master Riche, looking very similar to Nan in condition, and a smug Charles Brandon. His expression reminded Anne immediately of the smile he had given her that day last week or maybe two weeks ago, when he had knelt and kissed her wedding ring. She blinked, gaze to the floor, and took a moment to pull herself together. When she looked back up, she was ready. She cleared her throat to finish her comforting comment to her ladies. "… right. It's all right, ladies."
Suffolk and Riche approached awkwardly. Riche seemed to want to keep his distance, but when the duke continued ahead, the Solicitor General had no option but to follow suit. They positioned themselves just beyond the ladies' closed circle, so that the Sheltons had to twist in their chairs to regard the two men.
Suffolk gazed at all of the ladies in turn, clearly waiting for them to stand and curtsy to him, a dainty chorus of "Your Grace" to welcome him to this occasion. Instead, Anne's household met his eyes steadily. No one spoke.
"Ah-em," Anne tutted. To her private flattery, her ladies responded to the sound of her voice and turned their backs on the men. Mary Shelton swiped up her linen with a flourish. Bess Dormer held her needle high in the air, concentrating on threading it in the most ostentatious way that one could possibly thread a needle. Nan straightened her spine, no longer leaning against the back of her chair, and dropped her embroidery on the floor. She folded her hands together on her knee and stared straight ahead.
Anne made eye contact with Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, a former brother-in-law and best friend of her lord and husband. Brandon was a powerful, handsome man. He had spent his life getting what he wanted: women, fortune, power; all were his for the taking. Even the capital sin of marrying Henry's sister without permission had been forgiven. The only challenge to his will and influence throughout his friendship with the king was a dark-haired woman from a family that was, on one side, mercantile and of the barbaric Irish descent; on the other, a disgraced noble house trying to regain its footing. The love of Anne Boleyn had caused Henry to turn his back on Charles. The two had spent many a banquet exchanging cool glances and heated words. He had almost never had a decisive triumph over her. For ten years, she had been the victor. She supposed he counted this occasion as tantamount to the ultimate battle. She would give him no satisfaction. She would be the royalty that she was. She watched as he set and un-set his strong jaw, took a breath, and relaxed his broad shoulders. An angry but amused gleam flickered in his eyes. He knew her for his rival, his match, his adversary.
The queen fixed her face to look as prim and condescending as possible. "My lords," she said lightly, grouping them together and refusing to acknowledge Charles Brandon's rank, "I bid you a fair morning."
"And you, Your Majesty." Riche bowed hastily as if embarrassed. Anne thought to herself that here was a man better suited for a polite, comfortable post as a foreign ambassador in a warm country than a messy career of blood and scheming at her husband's court.
Anne, the corner of her mouth turned upward in the slightest of smirks, blinked at the duke. She waited.
A flash of a sneer crossed Brandon's face; she could have sworn he showed her his teeth. He held up a scroll, unrolled it a short space with both fists. The gesture had been practiced. Brandon was not that graceful. "This," he brandished the document, "is the warrant for your arrest."
He paused for a moment to the words to sink in. Anne smiled a little broader and raised her eyebrows. Mary Shelton tossed her long hair and re-settled in her chair. No one else moved.
Brandon shot an annoyed look at Mary and snapped the scroll closed. "You are charged with committing adultery with Henry Norris, Francis Weston, Mark Smeaton, and William Brereton."
Bess Dormer gave a throaty yawn, and murmured, "excuse me."
Richard Riche was staring at the queen with the same lifeless expression. The corners of his eyes wrinkled a little. Pleasure, she saw. He was pleased at her lack of reaction. The duke looked around the room, clearly on the way to becoming infuriated.
He waved the scroll again. "Smeaton has already confessed his guilt."
Directly in front of him, Madge Shelton let out a nervous giggle. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but the laughter continued – to Anne's own amusement as well. Mary chuckled at her sister, nudging her with an elbow, and Bess Dormer shook her head. She was half-grinning. Nan still did not move, but she arched an eyebrow at the duke.
"What –" the duke broke off, took a moment to get himself under control, and addressed the queen through clenched jaws. "What in God's name are your ladies laughing at. Are they too dull to comprehend the gravity of my words? D'you surround yourself with simpletons so as to feed your own vanity, madam?"
Now Anne let out a little gurgle of laughter, light and cordial as if the duke had proclaimed her the mistress of his heart. "Oh, my lord, for shame," she scolded good-naturedly. She waved a hand at the circle of ladies around her. "You know my household is chosen from the most quality candidates in the kingdom. Their pedigrees, education, and manners are without match among the nobility." She met his eyes, the hellfire of her steady words heating her entire body. "They are simply laughing at your statements to humour you. They know a well-constructed joke when they hear one."
Master Riche barely contained a grin. He fought hard to keep his facial muscles under control while Charles Brandon seethed next to him. The ringing mockery of the queen's profound insult seemed to reverberate in the room. All waited for the duke to speak.
Finally, Charles Brandon turned to his companion. He inclined his head as if to say, your turn.
Riche turned to the queen and bowed his head respectfully. "We have come to conduct you to the Tower, there to abide during His Majesty's pleasure."
Anne nodded, smiling. "Ah, I thank you, Master Riche. I wondered when we would come to the point. If that be His Majesty's pleasure, I am more than ready to obey." She stood. Her ladies rose with her. "Ladies, shall we –"
"There is no time to pack any of your clothes or gather your belongings," Charles Brandon interrupted, his voice strangled. "All will be provided for you at the Tower."
She started toward her bedchamber door, thinking that she had been right and she would never be there alone again. "I shall require my own –"
The duke pushed through her ladies and grabbed her by the arm, stopping her. "I said there is no time. The barge awaits."
Anne's ladies stepped back from what they perceived to be a scene. The queen looked from Suffolk's face to his grip on her elbow, and back up again. "I am the Queen of England," she reminded him. "Mister Brandon, this may the beginning of the end, but I am not undone. You would do well to observe the etiquette required of a man of your station. Regardless of these absurd accusations, I will not be made slave to your whims. You will remove your perspirations and wait for a quarter hour until I assemble my luggage." She withdrew her arm and strode into her bedchamber without another word. Her ladies followed. The door closed resolutely in Brandon's face.
v.
Midday
Riche bit harder on his lips to stop himself from smiling. He actually wanted to laugh out loud at the scene before him. The queen had taken her time readying luggage for her imprisonment while he and His Grace had shuffled their feet in her presence chamber, Suffolk seething all the time.
She had sent a maid to duck her head out of the room and suggest to the gentlemen that they summon a few pages, unless they wished to carry her trunks themselves.
There were three trunks in all, filled with Heaven knew what, and Riche watched as the last of them was deposited on the dock. There were also two bundles of linens and a smaller chest, which the queen explained harboured books, parchment, extra candles, and other domestic supplies. The queen's ladies had spent the better part of an hour proposing how to send the trunks to the Tower, and one of the Sheltons had suggested that they simply load the luggage onto one of the royal litters and transport the queen thus as well. At that, Suffolk's jaw had dropped. The effrontery that these women could think to countermand his orders that the queen be conducted to the Tower by barge was infuriating. To Riche, who saw clearly that the queen and her ladies were goading the duke with this whole show, their blustering and clucking was beyond humourous.
Anne stood in the midst of her ladies, wearing a glittering traveling cloak and her equally luminous crown. She made suggestions and commands, every so often turning to the two men who waited a few yards behind to apologize for the delay. She approved at last of the method of packing the luggage on the barge and suddenly realized she may have forgotten the proper soap for bathing. "Bess, would you please check in the smaller chest?" The auburn lady went nodding away while Nan Saville re-checked the trappings on the three trunks.
"By the blood-crusted doublet of Christ," Charles Brandon ground out, rubbing his temple from what was probably a splitting headache. "She is going to her death, not on holiday."
Riche nodded. "I know not how to control her, my lord."
Brandon did not either, as had become clear on the occasions in the past hour when he had tried to assert his authority. The duke reached out and grabbed a passing page. He drew the boy almost against his chest. "Fetch Master Secretary Cromwell here," he snarled before releasing him, "immediately."
"Master Secretary, Your Grace?" Riche asked as the boy dashed toward the Great Hall of Greenwich.
"Cromwell will take care of her," Suffolk murmured. "Best to let the blacksmith's boy get his hands dirty. He knows best, eh?" He jabbed his elbow at Riche's arm.
Riche bit his lip against the many responses that he wanted to make. Why summon Cromwell when Charles Brandon was said to be the flower of manhood among the English nobility?
Cromwell saved Riche from insulting the duke by carrying the insult in his demeanor. He bore down on the group at the dockside, just as Bess Dormer went dashing to the queen's rooms to fetch the soap which had, apparently, been forgotten. The minister wiped a hand over his face. "What on earth is the delay," he demanded, "Your Grace?"
"The queen proves unmanageable." Suffolk set his jaw and glared across the water, refusing to look at Cromwell.
With a grandiose eyeroll for Riche, Cromwell sighed patiently. "Unmanageable, my lord? Have you asked her to get into the barge?"
The duke's ringed hands flitted about in the sunlight. "She and her ladies – they are behaving as farmer's wives, bustling and tutting the hens in the coop," he said disdainfully.
"Coop, Your Grace?" Cromwell shielded his eyes. He turned to Riche. "I had no knowledge His Grace knew about agriculture."
"You know what I mean," Brandon insisted. "Move her along. Pick her up and throw her in the boat if you have to, Cromwell."
"For pity's sake." Riche put an extra pace between himself and the duke. He glanced at the queen just as she turned and saw that the number of men had grown to three. She faltered, raising one hand to touch fingertips to her glittering crown, and slid her gaze sideways along the trio before turning away completely to permit the re-packing of her books by Mary Shelton.
Cromwell shook his head. "No such measures will be necessary, Your Grace. Richard, when the lady has finished her organizing, perhaps you could approach her personally and politely request to proceed with the process."
Brandon sputtered. "Master Riche does not lead this apprehension!"
Riche opened his mouth to speak, then closed it as Cromwell whirled on the duke in an unprecedented display of aggression. "Your Grace does not appear to be leading anything, if you will excuse me. Perhaps you've condescended to the lady at some point already and ensured her uncooperative manner? Think back, my lord; were you respectful? She is, after all, your queen."
The duke spent several seconds rolling his lips against each other before replying. "I have showed her every courtesy that befits her rank."
"I should hope so," Cromwell muttered back, so that Riche had to strain to hear. "The arrest and conducting of the queen to the Tower were your chance to display the legitimacy of the nobility. I would like to think Your Grace has represented your station with honour and not allowed any personal considerations to take precedent. I shall await the testimony of the queen's household to verify this. His Majesty should hate to hear that you handled yourself with anything other than integrity." Cromwell's shoulder brushed the duke's backward as he left them. Over his shoulder he called, "Many thanks for your assistance, Master Riche."
The queen acquiesced cordially with Riche's deferential request, placing a hand on his arm and apologizing again for the hindrances. "Such a heavy consideration, you see, Master Riche." Her expression was troubled, but then she broke into a grin. "I am not packing for holiday but for the rest of my life. I go not to a well-equipped manor house but to a cell in the bowels of the Tower of London."
"Not to a cell, Majesty," he assured her with a slight bow of his head. "To the royal suites where you stayed before your coronation."
Anne brought both hands to the neck of her traveling cloak and drew it closer around the front of her body, in spite of the mild spring weather. "A gilded cage is still a cage, my lord." And she turned to select the first trunk to be loaded, directing royal pages with the effortless flick of a wrist. The Solicitor General closed his eyes for a moment, trying to memorize the look on her face and the regality with which she comported herself. He suspected that Cromwell would want to know of it later, and given their friendship, he would not hesitate to tell the man that he had been absolutely in awe of the queen's behaviour on the bank of the Thames that day.
The last obstacle was in parting Anne from her ladies – or, rather, in parting Anne's ladies from her. The pretenses of royal farewells were so drawn out that Suffolk leaned over and muttered that they must have rehearsed them in advance. "I've half a mind to throw Nan Saville in the back of the barge and imprison her for the time being," he added. "Little banshee is going to make trouble."
"On what charge?" Riche chuckled, unsure whether Suffolk was jesting.
The corner of Suffolk's mouth twitched up as he glanced at the sky, estimating how much time had passed. "Being loyal to the queen. Irritating me. However you'd like to phrase it."
Again, Riche kept his peace. He nodded respectfully toward Suffolk as though acknowledging the validity of his absurd statement.
The last of the parcels was loaded and the queen's household stood quivering on the landing while Anne led her gaolers down the dock. "Your Grace, would you mind –?" She held out her hand to Suffolk.
He took it and supported her, other hand behind his back like a suitor, as she tiptoed across the ramp onto the waiting barge. With the final step, the queen ceased to be a free woman and became a prisoner of the crown.
"Shhhhh," Nan insisted as Madge broke into tears, wiping her upturned little nose on the sleeve of the day gown that no mistress would expect to be kept clean now. "Shhh. We've got to hold ourselves together."
"Why?" Mary Shelton demanded, angry. "She's gone."
"We have tidying to do," Nan replied. "And I believe the seamstress will be delivering the pearl necklace that Her Majesty requested. Come, ladies, we're behind on our chores." She started up the bank toward the cobbled entrance to Greenwich.
The others strayed behind and looked back and forth between themselves. "The queen is gone," Madge echoed. Her lips quivered with the sentence.
Nan turned back with a wrinkled brow. "And does that mean we are not her household? God's sake, you mustn't be so quick to abandon your duties, Mistress Shelton." When she continued toward the palace, the other ladies fell into step behind her. "Madge, have you misplaced your handkerchief? Her Majesty's absence does not mean you should disregard the proper habits she has taught you…"
vi.
Evening
After nightfall, the Seymour siblings sat at a table near the fire in a cramped upper chamber at Wolf Hall. All four held cards, but none paid them much heed. Tom tapped the toe of one boot against the floor at a jolly beat; Edward, still bundled into riding clothes, was dusty and drawn. His hair fell into his bloodshot eyes.
Jane eyed him. "You could do with a haircut, Edward," she said lightly.
"Other things on my mind."
Elizabeth shivered and edged her chair closer to the fireplace. She snuggled into the blankets she had wrapped unelegantly about her body, drawing her knees to her chest and tucking the coverings under her feet. "There will be a trial?" she asked.
Edward nodded, picking at the corner of one card. "More than one," he reminded her, "enough to investigate all the charges with the different partners."
"Who?" Tom looked up from his hand in surprise. "Was it not just Mark Smeaton?" He had come home to Wolf Hall with his sisters the previous evening, and they'd had no news from court.
"No. Henry Norris and Francis Weston were arrested yesterday; William Brereton was apprehended on the road back to Wales overnight. They were all thrown in the Tower."
Lissie's mouth dropped open. "Four? Four men?"
Edward shook his head. "And Thomas Wyatt and George Boleyn, this afternoon."
"What? Not on the same charge," Lissie insisted. Her brother just nodded slowly. Her mouth went dry. "Six? Her brother? Six?"
"I did not expect six," Edward admitted. It was shocking to hear Edward admit that he had less than full knowledge of what was happening at court.
Lissie turned to Jane, who raised her eyes guiltily. Tom mumbled something like, "The queen was a busy woman…"
"Shut your mouth, you fool," Lissie spat. "The charges are not true, and no one believes them but those who choose to, who must for political purposes. I do not believe them. Even Edward does not believe them." She jabbed a thumb at her eldest brother. "Do you?"
He gave her a warning look. "Elizabeth…"
"Edward!" she screeched. "Do you believe it?"
"My beliefs matter not at all."
She felt sick. "Six innocent men and one innocent queen. Seven bodies. All for the sake of our advancement."
Tom's normally lively eyes found her. They were somber. "Lissie, do you not understand –"
"I do." She dropped her cards on the table and got to her feet clumsily. "I do understand. I am for my bedchamber."
Edward watched her. Jane kept her eyes on her cards. Tom rubbed his temples, eyes closed.
Lissie turned back, angry with her siblings. "I understand our position and the cost of our elevation. Jane's elevation," she amended. Jane turned her head slightly and looked at her sister. "I support our family to the very end. I have not shown myself as anything other than loyal. But if any of you thinks the queen guilty of the crimes Cromwell has fabricated as a means of removing her, you are beyond idiocy. Good evening, Seymours." Their blank looks disgusted her. How would they feel if someone did this to a member of their own family?
She gathered her blankets in a huff and left the room. She waited for Edward to come after her, push her against the wall or pull her hair. He was the only one of her siblings that seemed to consider her important enough even for punishment these days. But not this time. He let her go.
vii.
Darkness had fallen slowly, gently. It was May. This was not the darkness of winter, the wet, chilling depth of night, but rather a violet twilight that crept over the early summer sky. Anne dressed herself for bed early. Apparently, the spies that would pose as her ladies of the bedchamber during her imprisonment – and she was no fool; she knew these women for spies of Cromwell – would not arrive until tomorrow. The royal household in the Tower had been an afterthought. She had refrained from begging Master Kingston to send for just one of her ladies from the palace to help her. She would not be seen as a desperate or doomed queen. She could certainly manage for one evening. She forewent the offered bath, afraid of shedding her clothes before anyone with whom she was not familiar, and decided she would wait until the following day when her new household was here. She pulled a clean shift over her head and spent the better part of an hour leaning against the glass pane of her new bedroom window, combing the snarls out of her hair. Her clumsy ministrations yanked and stung her scalp; she cursed herself for not appreciating Nan more. At this rate, she would look like an unkempt, unwashed cindermaid in no time. She smiled a sad smile as the punchline occurred to her: and if it were so, I could put on an apron and find my way out of this fortress and into the safekeeping of anonymity. She looked around, wistful for company to whom she could make this wry comment.
She had, of course, brought bedchamber slippers with her to the Tower. But something appealed to her about the unfinished stone floor. She dug the pads of her toes into it, feeling the unyielding gristle and the rough-hewn edges, testing her threshold for pain.
At every sound in the corridor, Anne jumped. Her eyes darted about constantly as though assailants concealed themselves within each shadow. She did not want to sleep alone in these rooms. As much as she had craved solitude at court, the queen found herself suddenly afraid of being exposed, unprotected. She knew that two Tower guards stood outside the door to her rooms, and that the door was locked with a thick iron bolt, but this knowledge did nothing to make her feel safe. Her thoughts were cyclical. First, she would fear being alone. Then, she would remind herself that she was secure under the protection of the guards outside her door. But her mind would then splinter into a dozen lines of thought, imagining the ways in which this might not be true.
The guards could be bribed or intimidated. They might be overpowered by a group of other guards who wanted to force their way into the rooms of the royal prisoner. They might fall asleep or abandon their post or otherwise fail to protect her. And they were, after all, Kingston's men. Who knew their allegiances. Their wages were not paid through the royal payroll; they were not her husband's men, nor those of Cromwell. He had – had it only been last night? – assured her that no harm would come to her, but she could not rest in serenity with that promise. It was too frightening to be locked in this stone palace-prison with its unforgiving, unpolished floors and the brutes with spears that guarded her door, whose fingernails had dirt under them and who lacked the pretty manners of the guards to whom she had become accustomed. She feared murder, death by suffocation while she slept, that she would start awake with a pillow over her face. She feared torture, for who was to watch over her to ensure that she was protected from physical harm? She even feared rape. The entire kingdom, those who did not know her personally, had thought her a whore for years. She had been called temptress, witch, demon. The people would see her arrest as proof that this slander was true, and Anne did not trust the intentions of men toward a woman whose existence had caused such turmoil in their land, only to be arrested for adultery with multiple partners. If they thought her a whore while she was in fact a virgin, she could hardly imagine what they would say now. She had little difficulty imagining a group of Tower guards forcing their way into her rooms, here, while she had no waiting women to witness it. She wished that the palace would have sent someone, anyone, to stay with her; someone to ensure that her guards would act as protectors rather than the predators that they could so easily become. She hoped to God that someone, and she was grudgingly aware that that someone could hardly be other than Cromwell, had made clear to them that she was to be respected and left in peace.
These rooms echoed, although they were full of furniture and decorated as tastefully as when she and Henry had planned her coronation lodgings over three years ago. They felt full of the pain that lay ahead. Anne had a nagging feeling that matters were worse than she had even imagined; she heard shouting and racket echoing through the stone cells on the lower levels, and the voice was familiar, but she could not hear it clearly enough to place it.
She would not let herself think of her daughter. Each time she tried, her eyes welled with hot tears, and she had to tip her head back and breathe quickly to stop herself from sobbing.
Reading was unsuccessful tonight. She could hardly get through a sentence without her eyes wandering to the end of the line, over the margin and into thin air. Finally, Anne put the book down and pulled on a dressing robe. The linens she had brought were piled on the bed, but she was cold. There was not enough firewood to last through the night if she built it up now; she did not want to have to invite the men to bring her more logs in the wee hours of the morning. She would rather shiver. She thought of a letter opener, a gold chain around the neck of a man dressed in black who would drive an assailant backward against a wall with the heave of a shoulder; quick stabbing motions, in, out; and back away to leave the victim for dead. But no letter opener could protect her in the moment.
Anne got into bed astoundingly early. Her body was exhausted, but her mind would give her no rest. She lay taut and alert, tensing in fear at every hint of movement or a presence near her rooms, and wondered who the ladies would be that she would meet tomorrow. A small, fleeting thought told her that she was not herself, that she had not yet grasped what was happening to her and what would happen to her yet. She could not bring herself to face what she knew must be coming. If she was honest with herself, she lacked the strength and faith to do so. Instead, Anne busied herself with making a mental list of requests for Master Kingston. In spite of everything, internal and external, she had promised herself that she would remain Queen of England until her very last breath.
viii.
She found herself alone, finally alone, for the first time in what felt like years. She and Jane shared one maid; the majority of the family's staff had been left at court in the siblings' hasty flight. Moonlight spilled through the window of Lissie's bare bedchamber, her room from girlhood. It was devoid of finery and courtiers, hungry-eyed and spouting hollow words and gestures. It was divine.
After she had patted herself dry from a quick bath and combed out her hair next to the cheerful fire, Lissie bundled herself in sheets and wriggled beneath heavy woolen blankets, blissfully at comfort. Her thoughts wandered, in the way that thoughts usually do before sleep; five minutes or an hour may have passed when, in a foggy half-asleep realization, Lissie sensed someone entering her bedchamber.
Her eyes flicked open: the moon was high in the sky. It was the middle of the night.
The door opened softly, barely creaking on the hinges. Lissie sighed as the figure padded across the floor – clearly barefoot – and crawled into bed behind her. An acidic fear gripped her stomach, but she knew she was not in danger. A light touch on her shoulder, wrapped in layers of bedlinens, and she turned to look at him. "What are you doing here?" she whispered.
"I missed you," he whispered back, a sad smile on his face.
Lissie turned away. "You are not welcome."
"Lissie, don't be angry with me," he begged. "Not now. We've gone through so much…"
She punched a pillow next to her head. "Yes, we have. And I hope you think it was worth it."
"It will be. I trust it will be. It has to be." His voice was quiet. He slid across the bed toward her.
"Go away." Lissie squeezed her eyes shut even though she did not face him.
"Elizabeth, please. This has not been all joy and rapture for me either. I need you. I need my sister."
"You have another sister. As if you could forget." But her tone was weak.
Edward propped his head on a pillow behind hers, so he could see her profile in the dark. He put an arm around her and gave her a gentle squeeze. "It is not the same," he whispered in her ear.
"And a wife," she reminded him.
"None of them are like you." He placed his palm over her hand where it rested on the mattress.
She could smell the soap he used to wash his hair. The heat of his shoulders behind her was a comfort, ironic in the face of the fear and tension that had been the driving force of their relationship for the past months. She sighed again, a relieved exhalation this time. "It's been a long time," she murmured.
"You are a woman now." He chuckled.
"Everywhere but where it counts."
He wrapped his fingers around her hand. "It would not matter. You will always be pure as the day you were born." She smiled in the dark. "And more beautiful every day. The loveliest Seymour sister by far."
"Shhh," she warned sleepily. "Hush. We are what we are."
"I know." He nuzzled his nose against her hair. "I'm only here this one night – tomorrow I am back to Greenwich."
"Then, soon, we are part of the royal family." Lissie shook her head. "Can you believe it?"
He did not answer. "Maybe never again, Liss."
"They arrested Lord Rochford," she said softly, a comment that they both ignored. "And so you will go back to being a wolf."
"And you the lamb."
"Edward," Lissie said carefully, "do you love Anne?"
Edward paused. "I do."
She turned his hand over and kissed his palm. "I am glad for you."
He nudged one of his feet between her ankles. Their lower legs tangled together. Lissie re-settled on her pillow, allowing Edward to support her, and laid her head to rest. Her fingers toyed with Edward's absently.
Lissie recalled a tune from childhood, words that had echoed about these halls when they were but small, gangly limbs and unkempt hair, little scoundrels that could not be kept out of trouble – particularly the eldest and the youngest Seymour children, who were often nestled in some corner while the other brother played at marbles and the other sister buried her face in embroidery. The eldest and the youngest, both ruddy and sharp, making each other laugh and bruise and scream with outrage. Lissie smiled. "I took a bow, and aimed it low," she whispered.
She felt his smile. "Caught you on the chin, chin, chin."
"My mother said, 'now go to bed'…"
Edward tightened his hold on her, pulling her close and wrapping his form around her. She had always been his. He put his lips to her ear, whispered through her hair: "I'll have to lock you in, in, in."
Lissie turned her face and they looked at one another in the darkness. In the past, they had taken turns being careful. He tilted his head so she could only reach the corner of his mouth, and she kissed him there. He smoothed her hair away and kissed her temple as they both laid against her pillows. "You'll wake in time?" she asked him sleepily.
"Always." He squeezed her reassuringly.
UP NEXT:
Cromwell cleared his throat, seeing in Henry's tortured expression that the king was a vacant crucible, willing and eager to be filled with whatever substance Cromwell selected. "Siblings are often of one mind, my lord. Perhaps they are adept at hiding it," he suggested, thinking what words one might use to describe his own public relations with the queen lately. "Perhaps they have had a quarrel. Perhaps Lord Rochford became jealous."
Henry crossed himself solemnly. "It is an abomination against the Lord and against nature," he said. His voice was soft. His eyes were far away. "You're sure?"
"I am," Cromwell said without pause. "A jury of lords will review all the evidence, of course, to address any oversights. And Lord Rochford will have his chance to defend himself."
As his fingers rubbed his eyes, Cromwell saw that Henry still wore his wedding ring. "Dear God, Cromwell, that's an image worthy of nightmares. My brother-in-law on top of my wife."
Start imagining the others on top of her, Cromwell urged him. The images alone would not ruin the king, but their implications – suggestions of inferiority, of inability to satisfy – might be enough to browbeat him into self-isolation. What Cromwell needed was for Henry to lock himself away for a few days, a week, to mourn and move on. To say to him, Cromwell, you are my man, and I need for you to bring this matter to conclusion through whatever means at your disposal. Incidentally, allow me to place all conceivable means at your disposal. And with that, to turn on his heel and leave Cromwell to his own devices. Lawful and legitimate, to be sure. But perhaps with a few shortcuts. He had barely slept in days. The reports of the queen's physical illness and emotional instability, but of her astounding mental clarity, were what would ruin Cromwell. He could not move with his usual alacrity for consideration of her. So what he needed was a royal order to do whatever it took to lay this matter, in its entirety, to rest. And for that, the king would need to be driven as mad as he himself was.
He ran down the names again, pretending to defer to Henry's discomfort at the idea of incest. "Henry Norris, Your Majesty's chief groom. William Brereton, deputy governor of Wales. Francis Weston –"
"D'you think she loves Wyatt?"
"Love?" Cromwell held the word on the tip of his tongue as though it tasted like rancid meat.
"I… I wonder if she loves him." Henry's eyes searched his, and Cromwell tried not to blink as he ran down the columns of benefits and disadvantages to answering one way or another. It was sad that his life had become thus, he thought. Each honest word predetermined by a hasty ten seconds of unscrupulous figuring and reasoning within his mind; each solemn promise precontracted with a series of mental clauses, conditions to which only he was privy, that provided him with multiple ways out of what he pledged. He could count on one hand the number of times in the past year that he had behaved as he pleased, without calculation or stratagem. Unfortunately, his present feint – his master feint really – would purge those examples and eventually he would doubt whether his memories were real. He would train himself to render them as nothing more than desperate manifestations. He wanted her dead; he needed her dead; but the last proof of his liberty would die with her. From the swipe of the sword onward, he would exist truly and solely as the king's man.
It had been more than ten seconds. The king's eyes bored into his. He had forgotten to decide which answer was better. "It would seem very possible, my lord," he told his king gravely. Henry's countenance flinched, genuine pain and grief wrinkling his already strained features. He had chosen correctly. If only he could make himself believe these notions, he thought. It would be so much easier to wash his mind clear of her.
