A/N: I'm back! After 2 painfully long months of not updating (and not being able to set aside a night to write in all that time), I'm back with another chapter. I hope you all like this one – it's a bit transitional and I'm not sure the writing is my best, but it serves its purpose and this is a tough part of the story to write.
Leaderofpancakes, welcome and WOW! You read the whole thing in just 2 days? Kudos! It's quite long and that's an impressive feat. So pleased you are enjoying it, and I hope you enjoy this installment too.
Carriebess, Thank you for your reviews on the earlier chapters. I hope you are still with us and enjoying the progression =)
Rae, the Carew storyline explodes in this chapter so buckle your safety belt ;) And I refer to it as Seymourcest too, I guess we've coined that term. I hope you do like it, as I certainly do, and there's more to come. When it comes to dressing down the reactions of Anne's loved ones to her fall, your guess is as good as mine, but I have to say that those scenes tend to write themselves. The dialogue between Norfolk and Boleyn last chapter flowed through my brain to my fingertips with little to no effort at all. Perhaps I'm just imagining how family members of my own might talk about such a thing, and drawing from the experience that everyone has skeletons in their closet? I think that means I should probably put more time into understanding the characters, because they are not always consistent, but consistency also isn't a mark of human nature. We just do the best we can! I hope you like my Anne section this chapter. She, on the other hand, is growing harder and harder to write. I'm just so eager to get to the next stage (the next chapter after this one) that I couldn't contain myself! As for The Borgias, you've probably discovered all the best vids, but I will send you my favorites in a private message. =) Enjoy, dear!
Alyson, I hope you will offer me feedback on the trajectory of the Carew storyline in this chapter. It went in a different direction than I anticipated but I am oddly happy with it. The tension and heartbreak is just going to get worse from here, too, but I'm hoping I write it well enough that it's still an enjoyable and not entirely depressing read ;)
i.
17 May
Wee Hours of the Morning
"This one," Lissie said firmly. "She'll appreciate the singularity of the Christ. And it is so different from other scenes of the passion." She touched the frame of the chosen painting.
Carew smiled, satisfied. "It is a fine piece indeed. Now I won't have to create diversions to keep your sister out of here."
He picked up the painting carefully and started from the library, heading toward his study. She glanced around and followed.
"May I ask you something?" Carew said over his shoulder. He was looking around for the best spot to conceal this painting.
"Yes."
He glanced at her. "D'you fear your brother?"
"Edward?"
Carew chuckled, eyes roaming the room. "I don't think you fear Tom."
Lissie smiled too. "No – and, no. But Edward certainly keeps close watch on all of us."
"That befits his status as the most senior member of the family active at court," Carew reasoned. He slid the painting between the end of a bookcase and the corner; not entirely hidden, but one would have to search to find it. Lissie nodded and held her ground on the carpet. It was perhaps two, or two-thirty in the morning. She'd gone through the motions of preparing for bed, only to pull on a set of stockings, slipper shoes, a dressing robe, and an overdress. Her nightshift was not visible, nor was, really, her figure. Part of her had known she would not be going to bed. Part of her had known she would accept Sir Nicholas's invitation, that she'd accepted it already. Still, ever the gentleman, he had looked surprised and pleased to see her appear in his library.
"And the eldest brother," she agreed.
He nodded. "What would he say if he knew you were here now?"
Lissie felt a little heat rush to her cheeks. "I cannot say I would expect him to approve."
"No." They faced each other uncertainly. Elizabeth took a few steps forward.
"Yet you invited me, and here I am," she pointed out.
"Indeed." His gaze traced her face, the lines of her tightly wrapped garments, head to toe. "Here you are."
The thrill that ran through her when he looked at her that way, spoke to her thus, was undeniable. She decided on a bold gamble and took another step forward. "And why have you asked me here?"
They now stood a few paces apart, and Carew narrowed the space by one step himself. "I would ask you to let me be your friend. Elizabeth."
"My friend?" she echoed.
"Your admirer."
"Ah. You would ask permission to enjoy me. Is that it?"
Now Carew looked a bit flushed. "Yes."
"I told you that I would not be your mistress."
"And I do not ask you to be," he maintained. He stepped forward again in earnest, now only an arm's length from her. "I ask that you would let me admire you, indulge you. Take pleasure from your pleasure."
"More wine?" she teased, eyes dancing even as Carew raised one hand to touch her face. She could not help but to lean into his touch.
He slid his fingers into her hair. "If that is what you wish. I enjoy your company. It pleases me to see you pleased. Tell me what pleases you and I will do my utmost to secure it."
She closed her eyes as he kissed her right cheek, the one he was not caressing. His lips were soft and the kiss was gentle. He pushed his hand entirely into her hair, tied back simply with a ribbon, and kissed her now-free left cheek.
"Would it please you?" he asked, hovering before her lips.
She still felt unbalanced from the night's libations, a sensation which was heightened with her eyes closed. She could hear Edward's voice, Edward's selfish, insistent demands in her ears, but it was drowned out quickly by the pounding of her heart. She nodded, and Carew's mouth pressed against hers.
Some time later they parted, each a little breathless, and Carew touched her lip with his thumb again. He smiled. "You taste like my wine."
Lissie smiled back and moved into his arms. Carew's hands found her waist through the layers of fabric. He bent his head and kissed her again.
"I am drunk with you," he murmured the next time they parted. Lissie felt more intoxicated now, somehow, than she had before she'd finished her last cup of wine at the party. Heat radiated from her skin. She'd never felt arousal like this. Outright, brazen arousal. Arousal that could lead somewhere.
Again, she did not respond. She hardly trusted herself to speak, fatigue and drink and lust clouding her senses as they did. Instead she leant up to initiate their next kiss, parting her lips and sighing when Carew's tongue slid across them.
Carew was panting, his own skin hot to the touch as well, and he lifted her off her feet to kiss her neck. "Elizabeth," he whimpered.
"Nicholas," she replied firmly. "Nicholas."
"Tell me." It was a request, not a command. Barely a murmur. He set her back on her feet and tugged her along with him, kissing her lips gently, each kiss lingering. He sat down in the great chair next to his desk and pulled her onto his lap. His gaze was piercing, serious. "Tell me how to please you."
"I do not know," she confessed. "I've… no knowledge of the ways of love."
He pulled back. "Surely you demur? You have no knowledge of love?"
Lissie looked down. She wanted to say, but I ache to find out. Her legs trembled, draped as they were across his. "None, as yet."
"I think…" Carew swallowed, visibly nervous. He laced his fingers through hers where her hand rested on her lap. "I think there are things that would please you."
She prayed that he could not feel her arousal. It was such folly, such stupidity, what she was doing. That she was even here was grounds for scandal. But the sensations were far beyond what she could have imagined, and it was only his kiss. Only his eyes and words.
"I think so, too," she replied finally.
"Things you would enjoy…"
"Yes," she breathed and kissed him again.
His hand came to rest on her foot, which was so conveniently perched on the seat next to him. Through her stocking she felt the warmth of his palm and a thrill went through her at the contact. Innocent though it was, and full of promise. He traced a gentle line up her ankle, moving slowly, while his lips lavished adoration on hers.
By the time he came to her knee, Lissie's lips were quivering.
"Are you pleased?" Carew murmured.
"Yes." She could not manage anything further. His hand ventured slightly above her knee and rested on her inner thigh. She forgot how to breathe. Another finger's length, and her stocking would end, and he would be touching her bare thigh. No man had ever, ever touched her there. Her first husband had not even groped beneath her nightshift, preferring to watch her dress and undress from bed, since he was not able and seemed ashamed of this fact. She would never understand men.
Carew's fingers stole up quickly to the top of her stocking and she gasped. He hesitated. "Elizabeth?"
"Nicholas." She whispered his name into his ear and he pushed his fingers closer to her sex, and then stopped.
The smile was evident in his voice, even as her eyes were closed. She had pressed her face against his neck, unable to keep up with the kissing, unable to manage both sensations at once. "You must be pleased."
"Oh?"
"I feel your arousal." He pulled back, forcing her to face him, and then kissed her sweetly. "Would you have me stop here?" The question was serious, not teasing. She could stop him any time she wished.
The pleasure was so forbidden, so certainly immoral and she wished she had the power to ignore it. She thought, hazily, of Edward's praise of her, that she was still pure as the day she'd been born. Edward had such faith in her. Yet Edward thought nothing of crawling on top of her in her bed, waking her from a peaceful sleep, and then finding his way back to his own room and his wife. She could not remain his pure, careful sister forever. She could not wait forever. She would not. She shook her head, and one of Carew's fingers grazed her uppermost thigh, then the area between. Lissie sighed deep and long, wanting something she knew she could not have.
He stroked her a little, his touch careful but sure. "Yes?" he asked her, finally understanding that she was incapable of true conversation.
"Yes."
His free arm wrapped around her waist and he pulled her closer, gripping her firmly, as if to make her aware that she was safe. She could now feel his excitement too, unmistakable and arousing against her thigh. Time passed, probably no more than a few minutes, but what felt like an eternity. A blissful eternity. Lissie gasped and whimpered, the force of her sexuality heightened by the knowledge that Carew took pleasure in pleasing her.
Then, suddenly, Carew pushed a finger inside of her. Her lower back arched and she uttered an unintelligible syllable. Her lips parted to speak, to murmur Carew's first name, or to tell him "yes."
But instead, the reality of what she was doing, what she'd spent the past hour doing – indeed, the sun would be up rather soon – broke over her like a clap of thunder. Here she sat in the study of a long-married man, in his lap, with his hand between her parted legs. She had promised she would be prudent. She had scoffed at the revelation that he'd seduced a number of women to his bed. And here she sat, closer than not to becoming one of them. She was acting like a common harlot, not the sensible sister of a future Queen of England.
Lissie's eyes flew open. "Sir Nicholas…"
"Elizabeth?" He failed to notice she had not addressed him intimately, his head resting against her shoulder as it was.
"I must –" she shifted uncomfortably in his lap, the evidence of his lust for her now making her feel exposed and tawdry. "I must go to my bed."
"Of – of course. Of course. Are you all right?" He withdrew his hand from between her thighs, even that small sensation causing a fresh thread of arousal to pull through her.
Now her cheeks burned with a heat that was not delicious. She slid from his lap, her chin trembling. "Yes. Thank you. And thank you for your kind attentions," she babbled stupidly, turning away.
"Elizabeth… wait – I…" He rose as she hurried from the study, almost breaking into a run, desperate to put distance between them. She could hardly believe what she'd just done. What she'd almost just done.
Please, God, spare me being seen by anyone at this hour. She balled both hands into fists and did not release them until she stood alone in her bedchamber. She was sweating and shaking. She cast off her overdress and her robe and knelt on the cool floor beside her bed, too overwhelmed to cry or pray. Her head pounded. After a time she comforted herself that Nicholas, Sir Nicholas, would not come after her. She climbed into bed and pulled the covers entirely over herself, falling into an exhausted sleep.
ii.
Morning
The news of the deaths of Anne's supposed lovers was related with an air of nonchalance about court: did you know they're all finished? Yes. This morning. There had been little in the way of discussion about the arrangements. Henry had not been moved to sentence the men to traitor's deaths, and so each was dispatched with the single swing of an axe. It was, under the present circumstances, considered merciful.
Each man had remained steadfast, as they had done at their trials. One by one they'd mounted the rickety scaffold that had been built for them. The group of those awaiting their turn stood still together, united in understanding, in agreed-upon, mutual, ill-concealed disbelief. They offered one another no final words but exchanged glances and nods, as if afraid to look upon one another for too long. Had any of them had the wherewithal to gaze up and around in the pale morning light, they might have seen their queen's face pressed against a window high above, where she leant her forehead and watched their demises with tears that began silent and flowed into hysteria.
It was a ghostly play more than a real event. A conspiracy, arrests, even trials and sentencing were one thing. But with every man that mounted the scaffold and met his end, with each head stricken from its body, the brutality of Henry's reign, its policies, and its chief minister grew chillingly clearer.
Kingston watched the spectacle through grim eyes. He had never had difficulty watching executions, and these were no different. Mark Smeaton trembled as though he would break apart into pieces and rain shards over the witnesses, effectively completing the executioner's duties in his place. Yet he held himself together and gave a nod to the fellow who would send him to his death, thirty, forty years before his time. He murmured last words to himself – Kingston could see his lips moving, but the crowd did not strain to hear him, nor did that seem to be his intention – and raised his dark eyes heavenward as he got on his knees before squeezing them shut and bending his form over the block. He kept his hands behind his back rather than steadying himself against the wood. He'd knotted his unruly mane somehow and secured it above the nape of his neck, so that the blade's path would be clear. If only he had been so circumspect during his life.
The axe fell, and Smeaton was finished. His blood poured out over the scaffold, the garish crimson more characteristic of the man than any of his recent appearances or actions. As his head dropped off to the side, the twisted knot fell apart and Smeaton's curls swirled about his still-lifelike face.
Henry Norris was next and the man hardly contained himself better than his predecessor: his face the picture of disbelief, Norris approached the executioner with skittish eyes that sought a reprieve. Kingston averted his own eyes. He did not want to see the anguish there. And so it was that he missed the man's last words, if indeed there were any. Norris lowered himself to the block and clutched it as one might clutch at the Lord's feet. He may have even kissed it as he stretched out his neck and, like Smeaton, closed his eyes.
The axe fell with vehemence this time – or perhaps it just seemed that way. Norris' long, lean frame remained wrapped around the block, and the executioner had to nudge his body out of the way. One of the axeman's boys spread handfuls of fresh hay over the block to mop up the mingled blood of the queen's first two lovers, the differences between the fluid that was all that remained of these two men already indiscernible as it seeped over the scaffold. This was why a new scaffold was usually built for executions: the wood was always ruined, stained. It gave rise to ghost tales and dark memories that no one, Kingston included, wished to entertain.
Brereton all but hopped up the stairs to the platform, the panels creaking a bit under every step. Brereton was of broad and muscular girth, with shoulders so wide he had to pass through some doorways diagonally. He extended his arm and shook hands with the executioner, no fear or challenge in the gesture. His expression of grim understanding matched Kingston's own. They both understood this day as a sacrifice to their age. To their king.
He ran a hand through his dark hair, looking almost as wild as Smeaton's, although this was not his usual appearance. Time in the Tower did different things to different men. For Brereton, it appeared to have simplified him. No barber services or rich soaps to be found within the stone fortress. The Brereton before them was a bare, unpolished version of the aggressive Welsh governor that had, they all knew, brought this fate on himself. And not through any sexual liaison with his similarly dark-haired queen, which would certainly have been preferable in terms of enjoyment to the running of Wales.
"If you judge, judge the best." Brereton's powerful lungs boomed: the first man to make a farewell speech. Well, a farewell comment. Kingston's eyes surveyed the crowd. No one seemed much moved by Brereton's sparing oration. The statesman looked around, too, hair and beard unkempt, and Kingston could have sworn he saw the man shrug before he knelt. The block was too low for him. Brereton was substantially taller than Cromwell, who dwarfed the king by a few inches. This was the first moment of doubt for Brereton. The first and the only: he walked his knees backward a few paces and laid his shoulders and head in the mostly-clean curve of the wood. His eyes drifted closed, not the determined squeezing shut of Smeaton or the reverent hopefulness of Norris, but a casual shutting of the eyes. Like a nap on a breezy summer day.
The axe fell, and the power with which Brereton's body continued to eject blood was far greater than either of the men before him. The foremost layers of spectators were sprayed with the essence of Brereton's life. The axeman's boy hurried over with fresh hay from his basket. Kingston wondered idly if the boy was in apprenticeship to be an executioner. How did one choose that vocation, at – the boy could not have been more than thirteen or fourteen years old, with a mop of fuzzy blonde hair like the down of a baby bird. And how did the lessons go? Was the boy permitted to practice his technique on unwitting prisoners who were of no account?
A bit of panic registered on the boy's face as he sought the eyes of the executioner. Brereton's body was still spurting sticky, warm blood, at a rate that would exhaust the entire basket of hay. The crowd shrank back against itself. The front rows were anointed with Brereton, hopefully judging the best, as he had requested.
Did the pressure of the blood pumping still through Brereton's emptying body belie the man's true fear? Had the lightness, the indifferent gestures and body language, all been an act to conceal his terror? Under the surface, had he been stricken through with a paralyzing horror and dread that he had practiced and planned to hide for the final few minutes of his life? They would never know.
The boy backed away and all eyes turned toward Weston, who personified the fear that Brereton may have been hiding. The scaffold was home to an ever-expanding red stain. Brereton's body will pumped out its blood, staining the headless corpses of Smeaton and Norris beside him. Weston shook his head at the executioner, his shoulders hunched forward as if to protect his vulnerable spots. His head strained forward and downward as well. Weston's animal instincts of self-protection were on full display.
"Come along," the executioner beckoned, not sternly, not gently. The man was toneless. Kingston glanced at the boy who was apparently in apprenticeship to this position. How it must ruin a man to kill for a living, he thought.
Weston held his place still. One of the Tower guard turned to look at the gaoler, but Kingston shook his head. He would not have Weston hauled onto the platform unless truly necessary. Weston shook his head again, not to anyone but himself. His eyes were far away. His hair was close-cropped like that of George Boleyn, who was the only man left standing beside him. As a peer, George had the privilege of being killed last. It seemed counterintuitive to Kingston that watching four other men die, while knowing that the same horror will soon be one's own, would be considered a privilege.
The crowd crept forward again as Brereton's bleeding slowed – there could not have been much left, Kingston thought – and anyway, they were eager to see the actions of Weston. The man shied back, actually taking a small step behind him. He looked around, lost. His eyes brimmed with tears.
All at once, George Boleyn was beside him and had a hand on his shoulder. The crowd's jeering was drowning out the conversation, but George held Weston's gaze and spoke slowly. He nodded all the while. Weston shook his head minutely, and then stilled. After a few moments he nodded too. George turned his head toward the crowd, and from what he could see of George's profile, it looked to Kingston like he was saying, "you must be strong." He seemed to be indicating the crowd as the enemy, a short-sighted concept to be sure. But when facing one's death in just a few minutes, there was not much need for anything longer.
Finally Weston nodded and touched George's shoulder, returning the gesture. He gave the other man one last look and steadily mounted the stairs. "Pray…" was all he had to offer, the word visible on his lips rather than audible in the din. He dropped to his knees and tucked his head down over the block. Tears began streaming almost immediately and dripped down his cheeks and off the tip of his nose onto the bloodstained wood below.
The axe fell and George Boleyn exhaled heavily in front of him, bowing his head. Now it was his turn.
iii.
"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," Anne murmured over and over, her face pressed against the glass which was warm and slick with her tears. "George, please, I'm so sorry."
George could not hear her, and could not see her. She should have asked Kingston to tell George she would be watching. Maybe her brother could have turned and they could have had one last wave goodbye. She hated herself for not having the forethought. She hated herself for a lot of reasons.
Her brother was speaking, and from inside the Tower it sounded like the crowd had quieted to hear him. Anne hated the hypocrisy: as if George was the only man whose farewell was worth hearing. Because he was a peer. Of course, to her, his farewell was the most worthwhile. But five men would die today for the same crime. Five equal deaths, five equal executions. Five equal parts blood on her hands, on her heart, on her soul. And on Cromwell's hands and on Henry's hands and –
Now George was finished, and he gave a little bow to the executioner and knelt, one knee at a time.
"No, no, no, George!" Anne began shrieking in a voice that was not her own. She heard the voice and knew it came from her throat, but had no intention of screaming, and likewise no ability to stop. She inwardly chastised the woman who was screaming, all the while reaching deeper into her chest for the last burst of volume. "George! George!"
Maybe if she screamed loudly enough, he would hear her.
He crossed himself and said one last prayer. She did not have to see his face to know his eyes were closed. "George…" she started to close her eyes and forced them open, wiping the salt tears away so her vision would not be blurred. She would see George through.
Anne was panting, gasping inside her corset, unable to draw breath deeply enough to fill her lungs. "No, no," she murmured as her brother laid himself on the block. "No, no –"
The axe fell and she was screaming again.
iv.
Early Afternoon
"Thank Jesus," Kingston murmured as Cromwell negotiated the wider-than-usual gap between barge and dock.
"Have you missed me?" the minister teased without a smile.
The gaoler mirrored Cromwell's lack of mirth. "She is hysterical."
Cromwell closed his eyes briefly. He'd come to the Tower as a procedural necessity, to deal with any lingering issues concerning the deceased and to collect the bills for their imprisonment. It was an expensive thing, keeping five men in the Tower. Yet he should have known he could have no hope of a visit to this place without some mention of her. "Certainly it was expected that she would mourn," he tried. They started up the dock.
"She has screamed herself hoarse. She's been screaming since the executions. She says she cannot breathe."
Cromwell's eyes traced the outline of the Tower against the midday sky. It had been over two hours since the executions had finished. "Can no one contain her? Can no one comfort her?"
Kingston's eyebrows rose and settled. He seemed to want to ask if Cromwell himself thought he could do the job, and suddenly, Cromwell wanted to. He wanted nothing more, actually, than to wind his way up to her rooms and take her in his arms and let her scream and sob until she was spent. He owed her that.
But instead Kingston said, "Her maids are scared out of their wits."
"Of course they are." Weren't they all?
"We have asked her if there is anything she needs… she just…" Kingston looked away briefly, and then faced forward again. "She does not respond. Just turns her face into her pillow and screams. Her bed will be soaked through with tears if she keeps this up. She'll rail herself to death."
Both men avoided the irony, but Kingston's message was obvious. He did not want Anne's health endangered under his tenure. His only responsibility was to keep her alive and well long enough that Cromwell could kill her, and he was insistent on fulfilling his duties.
They paused at the door to the lower level of the Tower corridor, where Kingston's offices and administrative staff were located. Cromwell finally looked the man in the eyes, frustration bubbling to the surface. "What would you have me do? Take her into my arms and rock her to sleep?"
To his credit, the gaoler did not so much as blink. "I would have you either tell me what to do, or that there is nothing to be done. Thus I can relinquish responsibility. I am at a loss."
"Relinquish it to me," Cromwell muttered, rubbing his eyes. "I will absorb it."
"And before you go, I would have you check on her, to be certain we are in agreement on her state."
Cromwell's empty eyes in their hollowing sockets connected with Kingston's own bleak gaze. Everything the minister could never have said was in that look. Helplessness, resignation, hatred, guilt. Despair. Burning despair.
But then it was gone, and Cromwell pushed open the door to the dim corridor, and he nodded at Kingston and led the way inside. Kingston watched the secretary's hunched shoulders and recognized the same primal self-protection, the same fear, that he had just witnessed in Weston this morning. Cromwell's head drooped a little, just a little, as far as Kingston could see before he shut the door behind them and cut off the light. Unseen by the secretary, Kingston shook his head. How it must ruin a man to kill for a living, he thought again.
v.
Early Evening
All dead. All but one.
Tomorrow he would be able to say, All dead. And he would pick up the pieces of himself and move on. He would become a whole man again, worthy of a new wife, worthy of a woman like Jane. But tonight, he could not seem to shake the horrible black dread that squeezed his heart. This darkness was frightening to him, because he had not been so gripped by a feeling since he first fell in love with Anne Boleyn, and look how long that had held him. He could not bear to think what would happen if this held him similarly. He would not be worthy of Jane, he would not be worthy of his crown, he would not be worthy of life.
Part of him wanted to call for Charles, his dear friend, the only man in the world who understood him. But not even Charles could understand this. Charles had never had a woman betray him; Charles had never been deceived by a woman. Charles was more a man than he, Henry, was. Henry had always justified his own shortcomings as a product of the greater responsibility he carried as a king, but even he knew it was not so. Anne had challenged him and made him feel whole. Vibrant. She'd made him feel like a man. But just as easily, she had frustrated him and made him feel like a boy again, like that little boy he had once been, in the shadow of Arthur, his brother, the future king. The little boy who had been desperate to please his father and insistent on loving his mother. After a point in his life, Henry had wanted to stop being that little boy. And as time had droned on, God had shown him that Anne was not the way to do that. No, another woman who loved others above him was not the way to be a king. Not the way to be a man.
He wanted Norris back. He'd wanted him back since he was arrested. No one else could possibly be what Norris had been to him for years, a quiet comfort, although whether that was because Norris understood when the king needed him and when to draw away, Henry could never know. Now he never would know.
How he hated them, all of them. His blood ran hot and angry when he imagined them with Anne: Norris pleasing her quietly, the way he had been for Henry, discreetly under cover of darkness and sheets. Smeaton probably performing unspeakable acts on her body, pleasuring the basest parts of her that Anne herself would not have known she wanted pleasured. Smeaton would be the man to know those things, to teach her those things. Weston, with all his youth and ardour, enthusiastic as Henry imagined he would have been in bed, making love to her all through the night until she begged him leave for her exhausted body. And Brereton… all that muscle and brawn. He had probably hoisted her clean off her feet, sank into her in midair. Her slight weight would have been nothing in his arms. With George, Henry could not even begin to imagine. If Anne was so incautious about her transgressions that she would take five lovers, God only knew how she had come about with George. Henry could only get as far as imagining them together, whispering "shhh" to one another and stifling their cries against the other's skin.
How often he had wondered in the last month which one she had liked best.
How often he had wondered how he had measured against them.
How often he had wondered if it was too late to ask.
He was crying again, and he kept his eyes closed because he was convinced – and afraid – that his tears were black. Crying ink. Crying his blackened soul out his eyes, letting it seep through his skin. He had to get it out now, had to purge himself of this torment, of his friends, of her… he had to let this die with her. He had hoped it would die with them, and been secretly and intensely disappointed when it had not. If it did not die, how could he marry Jane? How could he trust Jane? How could he hope for things to be different with his next wife, in his new world, if he could not set himself to rights first?
A grown man should not weep the way he had been lately, and he knew that. These tribulations were nothing in comparison with what other men faced: his father, exiled from boyhood and nearly killed several times before even taking the throne, which he then spent the rest of his life fighting to keep. He imagined what Henry Tudor would have to say of his son's heartache. He could only picture a grim, bored shake of the head. He imagined what Jane would say to hear of his troubles. He could picture her warm brown eyes, her outstretched arms, her cloud of blonde hair which she would not fuss to have dampened with his tears. He could not imagine his own mother having comforted him quite so.
But Anne had. In their years together they had shared everything. He had woven her the tapestry of his boyhood, mother, father, siblings, death, love, education. Kingship. Betrayal. She had listened to him like no other person ever could, and had always offered him her insights, her observations. She had asked him searching, delicate questions that made him think again about difficult subjects that he thought he had reckoned fully. Sometimes, without meaning to, she had shaken him to his core. This had been in the early years of their relationship, when they were courting and not lovers. So he would excuse himself to his bed and she to hers, separately, and he would have to go alone and get under the covers and stare at the ceiling, thinking about what she'd said and wondering whether she was right and he was wrong and he misunderstood himself, and his family, and his life, and…
Jane would not. Jane would nod and soothe him, he knew it. She would comfort him with open arms and then she would come to bed with him and not leave him alone. She would never leave him alone when he needed her. He could tell what type of woman she was. And he must be certain to be a worthy husband, a worthy man for her.
He had tried to be worthy for Anne. He had thought himself worthy. He had offered her everything. And his friends – his men… what had he done wrong? What had he done to deserve such betrayal? Everything I do, he had once told Anne, is for you. And she had smiled, tears in her eyes, and kissed his open palm. I know, my love. And I would do everything, anything, for you.
Henry curled into a ball and wept into his forearms, tears pooling in the crooks of his elbows. Like a little boy. It was not too late to ask her… what? She had one more night on this earth, and he would be free of her. He would never weep thus again, for his life with Jane would not end this way. He tried to picture it, tried to soothe himself with the image of his future bliss. But all he could picture was Anne's reverent eyes as she kissed his palm, squeezed his fingers, and assured him of her love and devotion. As she listened intently to his rambling stories and nodded, her attention unwavering and genuine. It was not too late to find out the truth about why, why, why. It was not too late to hear it from her lips.
Mucus slicked his mouth and chin, but no more tears came. Henry lied still for several minutes, breathing in and breathing out, his mind flicking between Anne. Jane. Anne. Jane. His mother. His father. Anne. Jane. Katherine. Mary. Elizabeth. Arthur. Katherine. Mary. Anne. Elizabeth. Jane. His mother. Anne. Jane. Anne.
He drew a great breath into his lungs and stood shakily. He wiped his face on his sleeve and thought to change his shirt. But there was no need. He found a jacket – damask and too formal for the occasion, but it was the first one he spied – in case the night was chilly. On the river, it probably would be.
vi.
Evening
"Liss?" The inquiry startled her out of the beginning stages of sleep, but she was not alert enough to answer promptly. "Liss?"
That could only be one person.
"Yes?" Dragging herself up on one elbow, Lissie peered into the darkness. "What time is it?"
Edward crossed the floor, not bothering to tiptoe. He stood beside her. "Late. What's the matter? Are you ill?"
"No. Why?"
"You barely spoke and spent the day up here. You would not look at any of us. What's the matter?"
"Nothing," she whispered.
"D'you think I'm a fool?" Edward replied tiredly. He touched the tip of her nose, trying at a jest. "Shall I try to tease it out of you?"
When she did not laugh, he crawled over her and sat on the bed, his black velvet robe like an ink stain on her white coverlets.
"You must tell me," he said simply.
Lissie sat up and pulled her knees into her chest. Indeed, she must tell him, and she'd known all day that she would. "I… you must try not to hate me, for I hate myself already."
Edward moved closer and reached for her arm. She shied away a little. He withdrew his hand. "Never. Why would you say so?"
She cleared her throat. "Last night, at the end of the reception, I was bidding Sir Nicholas a good night and he related that he required my opinion presently on which painting to give Jane as a wedding gift… and he said that they were in the library."
"Where they've been as long as we have stayed here," Edward clarified.
"Yes. He made a point of… well, before, a few days ago he'd said the library was adjacent to his private study."
"So it is."
Lissie was silent for a few moments. "And he expressed that the need was immediate."
His expression never faltered, but she felt Edward stiffen. "He invited you there, then? To the library? To his study?"
"Not… not outright."
"But he insinuated it. For the middle of the night?"
"I…"
She trailed off, hearing Edward's breathing. Each breath was long and deep. He stared into nothingness. "Did you go?" He finally asked, gaze flitting up to her face.
Lissie lowered her eyes.
"Lissie… my God," Edward murmured.
"I am sorry, I'm so sorry." She buried her face in both palms, a few tears leaking from her eyes. "It was a horrible, terrible mistake. I thought, I thought I understood what I was doing, and I did not."
The room was so silent outside of her hands that Lissie was afraid Edward would strike her or scream at her. Instead, he reached out and pulled her arms away from her face. "Did he…" He looked into her eyes, failing to finish the question.
"No." She shook her head, swiping her hand over her cheeks. "But –"
Edward moved so swiftly and angrily that he cut her off. "But. But." He climbed over her and was on his feet in a second.
"Edward, stop," she pleaded.
"I'll kill him." It was a growl. A vow.
Lissie's heart lurched in panic. "No – stop – Edward, please, stop," she begged, a fresh wave of tears coursing down her cheeks. She caught him and tugged at his robe. "Please. He did nothing wrong."
He gripped her shoulders angrily, as though it was her he wanted to kill. "Inviting a woman fifteen years his junior into his private rooms in the middle of the night, when she's had plenty of wine to drink? Does that not strike you as wrong?"
She nodded, ceding the point. "The error is mine. Please, no one must know. I shall die of shame."
A battle waged visibly in her brother's face, what little she could see of it in the dark room. He swallowed a few times and his nostrils flared and settled. At last, he raised his knee and crawled back onto her bed, settling beside her. "What happened?"
"I… told him which painting I preferred for Jane's wedding gift. He agreed and I followed him into his study where he planned to hide it. He…"
"He what?" Edward's voice was flat and hard.
"Earlier he had asked me to let him enjoy me, to be my friend, and he broached the same. I agreed. I saw no harm," she explained, hoping desperately that Edward would not lash out at her. "I thought… I was flattered."
A sigh. "Of course you were."
"He kissed one cheek, and the other, and then," she faltered.
"Your mouth."
"Yes, my mouth."
Edward blinked a few times. "And that is all?"
Lissie bit the insides of her lips; they'd begun to tremble. Her eyes filled with tears again.
"Liss," Edward prompted, his voice urgent, "is that all?"
"No." She shook her head. She would not sob, she promised herself. Tears may flow, but she would not give herself over to sobbing. "Then…"
"Jesus Christ," Edward groaned, putting a hand over his own eyes. "Please do not tell it to me like a story. Just – the worst of it."
Lissie nodded although he could not see her. "He touched me," she whispered.
His head shot up and he stared at her. "What?" he rasped.
"He –"
"Where?"
Her eyes were trained on the mussed linens that covered her lap. "Between…"
She trailed off, but he did not need her to finish. "God," he murmured again.
"Edward, please, I'm so sorry." She could barely whisper. "Please do not tell me that you warned me; I know you warned me. I was stupid. I'm foolish, I..." She looked over at him but he was looking away, looking at nothing it appeared. "I was flattered, he said he enjoyed me and I just… I am twenty-three years old now, I want, I mean I cannot help but… that sort of attention… but I know, I was wrong and I…"
He cleared his throat. "How did this end?"
"I stopped him and said I had to go to my bed."
"Did he try to join you?"
"No, no." She shook her head vehemently. "He forced none of this upon me, I swear. It was my own idiocy. I felt I could not help myself. And then suddenly, I could."
Edward nodded slowly. "I see."
"Please, you mustn't hate me for this," she said again, anxious at his bare sentences, his emotionless tone.
He looked down at her and slowly lifted an arm. It encircled her in a loose embrace. "Never. We all have our moments of weakness. You must learn from this, though. It seems you have." She turned her face into his shoulder and hid her tears with both hands.
"I wanted to die, Edward, I thought I would die of shame once I realized what I was doing, sitting on a married man's lap…" with her face buried, she missed the fury that flashed across Edward's face when she divulged that detail. "Letting him touch me so, in all my life I've never done anything like that, I cannot think what came over me."
"Lust," Edward suggested, so low she barely registered the word.
"My lack of sense frightened me – I could not believe what I had done, what I had thought about doing. I … I am so sorry." Neither one had to ask why she was apologizing so profusely to him. She sniffled, wiping her tears dry now. She'd unburdened her soul to him, so it seemed, or at least placed the burden on his soul instead. "I should have kept my wits about me."
Lissie shook her head at her own actions, rubbing her face against Edward's robe and drying it. She had curled her knees tightly to her chest and they began to relax. She had been granted a pardon, it seemed. An absolution. Perhaps she could yet wash this memory away.
Minutes later, Edward's voice broke the silence. "Did you like it?"
She pulled her face away from his shoulder and met his gaze. She nodded, guilt evident on her face. "I am sorry," she whispered again.
Edward let her settle her back against him, both siblings looking across the room and out the window. He put both arms around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. "You needn't be sorry."
She closed her eyes and eased back against him, ignoring the cool streaks her tears had left on her face and neck. "But I am."
In time she fell asleep, dreaming nothing, the peaceful sleep of a calm mind. She woke to a hoarse voice screaming a name in the distance, and she tensed and straightened in bed, taking note that her neck ached from sleeping in an awkward position.
When she shook the fog from her mind, Lissie identified the voice as the king's. He was screaming for Jane. And casting a glance around her bed, Lissie realized with a sort of wistful acceptance that Edward was gone, leaving only a carefully-straightened coverlet to indicate she had not dreamed that he had been there.
vii.
Jane's eyes were wide with panic. Tom was knocking low, steady, on her door. "Jane!"
Still downstairs: Jane? Jane!
Tom nudged the door open. "Coming," Jane hissed, finding the dressing robe she had shed when she'd gone to bed. She knotted it around her waist and ran her fingers through her hair, hoping it was not too mussed. It was clear who was downstairs, who had come looking for her in the dead of the night. Why did Henry always have to show up unannounced, when she was not ready? But of course, this was what marriage would be. She must always be ready.
"God's sake." Tom's own hair was entirely unkempt and stuck up every which way. His eyes were bleary in the light of the single candle he held. Down the corridor, Lissie peeked out of her room.
"Why is he here?" she demanded in a whisper.
Jane! The king's voice was growing raw and desperate.
Edward was upon them in a moment, looking alert enough that one could hardly believe he'd just been asleep. His wife hung back at their bedchamber door, squinting and rubbing her eyes. "Go," Edward said.
"Alone?" Jane's eyes widened further.
"This is not a moment for a family welcome," he replied, prodding her down the hall. "He's here for you."
Jane smoothed her hair again and drew the robe closer about herself. She shot Lissie a pleading look as they passed her on their way to the top of the stairs. "But what about…"
"Trust me," Edward murmured into her ear. Jane could not have seen that his eyes met Lissie's over Jane's shoulder. That they mutually looked away.
Jane…
Jane took off, barefoot, down the staircase. She did not want to shout back as Henry called for her yet again. She burst through the foyer into the great hall, set back to rights after the reception last night, dark and deserted. Henry exhaled deeply as he saw her, and Jane stopped short in front of him. She began to curtsy a greeting but Henry stopped her and got on his knees instead. His hair was mussed, much like her brothers', and he seemed oddly dressed up. Moonlight fell on him as he knelt before her like a supplicant.
"Jane," he managed, finally in a whisper.
"Your Majesty."
"Please do not call me that." He reached for her hands and drew her closer. He cupped his hands around her own and put his face into both of her palms. "They're dead," he mumbled uselessly. "All dead, and my fault."
Her heart jumped a little in alarm. "Not your fault…" she trailed off, unsure how to address him. "But because of their actions."
"I must have… I…" Henry shook his head. She felt wetness in her hands. He was crying. "I cannot think what I have done to deserve this."
In spite of herself, Jane's mouth opened in horror. "You deserve none of this," she murmured. "You are a wonderful man that I am honoured to know." She paused again, heart still pounding, and decided to risk it. "And love."
Henry descended into tears. "Jane…" The way he said her name sounded like begging.
Slowly so as not to startle him, Jane slid her hands over his hair, pushing it out of his face. Then she knelt before him and encircled his shoulders with first one arm and then, as he moved closer, the other. She cupped the back of his head and tilted it against her shoulder. "Henry," she whispered back firmly.
"I do not deserve you," he managed, his face buried in her neck.
Tears sprang to her eyes but she could not understand why. Empathy? Guilt? Fear?
She kissed his temple, hoping he would forgive the presumption. "It is I who am undeserving, my love."
Her siblings were arranged on the stairs far behind her, from only a small section of which one might spy the king and his sweetheart. Edward, Tom, Anne and Elizabeth all crouched and leant to position themselves within this small space, looking absurdly like a group of children hiding from their parents.
Tom shook his head. "What on earth?"
"Love?" Anne Stanhope suggested in a whisper.
"Comfort." Edward nodded in approval.
Lissie shook her head. "Weakness," she murmured. "And strength. In perfect balance, for this moment at least."
"Wonder where Sir Nicholas might be," Anne mused.
Edward's jaw tightened. "Even he is not such a fool as to make himself known at such a time."
"The king won't try to…" Tom trailed off. Henry and Jane were wound around one another, arms and legs intertwined.
"I think this is a different type of intimacy." Lissie nudged him with her elbow, trying to silence his reactive chuckle.
He smiled. "Much less enjoyable."
"Not necessarily," Edward countered without turning around.
"Should we… leave them alone?" Anne whispered to her husband. Edward still did not move his gaze, and with perfect timing Henry kissed Jane, chastely and softly.
He shook his head. "Not yet. You should go back to bed, wife. I will join you as soon as I can."
Anne nodded and kissed his cheek. "Goodnight," she whispered to Lissie and Tom, and left them alone, the three Seymours watching their sister. Edward eased onto the stairs and Tom hovered on his knees directly behind. Lissie settled on the step above and leant her head over so she could see, nearly resting it on Edward's shoulder.
"What would we do if he were to attempt?" Tom persisted.
"Let them," Edward whispered. "They've gone too far now. He will marry her. Come what may."
"A bold statement." Lissie yawned.
"So we would just go back to our beds? Surely we would not watch," Tom needled, ever the rogue.
Lissie glared at him. "Tom, have some manners. You're about to be brother-in-law to the King of England."
"The two of you are too serious," he rolled his eyes in return. "I'm for my bed. Come fetch me if they start undressing."
When they were alone, Lissie looked at Edward. "You really would let him take her thus?"
Edward thought a moment. "I would not interfere. Can you imagine?" They both smiled at the thought: Edward bounding down the stairs out of nowhere and demanding the king separate from his sister in this most private of moments. "And anyway, why not let him have what he wants. What they both want."
"I suppose they should have what they want, at this stage." She nodded along, eyelids heavy.
"Someone should." He kept his gaze straight ahead.
Lissie smiled a sad smile. After several uneventful minutes, she could fight her fatigue no longer. "I am for my bed too." She kissed his cheek as Anne had, and whispered in his ear: "Thank you, for before." She straightened. "I'll leave the door open. In case Jane does not want to be alone after."
Her hand lingered on his shoulder, and he patted it. "Shall I come get you if they start undressing?" he teased. She pulled herself up and tiptoed back to bed, aware that his eyes were on her now.
vii.
After Midnight
She had known she would confess before Cranmer, and had prepared herself accordingly. She had wondered when it would happen. He'd come and gone with a palpable sorrow, but also with a silence and a guarded expression that let her know he was Cromwell's man and she should not mistake him for anything else.
The traditional confession would make sense, of course, even though neither she nor Cranmer nor Cromwell would have thought such a thing necessary. God knew all her sins; oh, indeed. She recited them to Him hourly, lest He forget. God did not need to hear her confession to a priest. She had taken up enough of His time in the past days. He would not be angry with her for doing what she had to do: confess her innocence. And innocent she was, of the charges laid against her. Cranmer would have known this to be true, but she wondered whether Cromwell had felt a hint of anxiety when waiting for the Archbishop's report of her confession. She wondered, too, what would have happened if she had been entirely truthful, made it an honest and thorough confession.
Cromwell had been in the Tower today. One of her maids had come to tell her that he was in the fortress and would fetch a doctor if she was ill. She could not quite remember it now, but apparently she had been screaming, screaming herself hoarse after her brother was killed. The maid – Kit or Kat, she could never remember and was still too embarrassed to ask – told her when she awoke after falling into a fitful sleep that they had tried to pull her from the window before George's death, but she did not remember that either. She only remembered watching him, her face pressed to the window, shouting, No, no, no, George, no…
The maid had shifted nervously and said Cromwell was just outside her rooms, in the corridor. Would she like an audience?
This had frightened the scream out of her. No. No, she needed no audience. She had turned her face into the pillow that was soaked with her tears and let the discomfort of the cool wetness shock her body into gooseflesh, which gave way to shivers, which gave way to numbness. She supposed it was at that point that she'd fallen asleep.
To be truthful, the entire day was a blur. Anne no more knew what the hour was, nor did she care. She would be dead in the morning and there was no need to live her last night on earth in any state other than this. Any energy devoted to gathering herself would be poorly spent.
She was trembling. It came in waves. She was struggling to finish her handkerchief; just a little embroidery left and it would be complete. But every stitch required a few attempts at stabbing the needle into the correct spot, and most failed attempts resulted in sticking herself with the needle.
She was hungry and she knew it. She noted it like a person might note that they've muddied the stairs on the way inside. Her stomach was empty and had been empty all day, but she knew she would be sick if she ate anything.
Master Cromwell has come calling, the girl had said. He has come to check on your state.
Anne had smiled a little. Her state?
If she ate now, she would be sick and nauseated and she merely had hours left until it was time. And so much to do. Finish embroidering. Write a letter to her sister. Which, she had no delusions, would probably never reach Mary. But she still had to write it. She could not die without putting to paper the words she should have said two years ago. She had just thought she had more time. More time. Always more time. It echoed through her mind, which was at once teeming with other thoughts and empty of any substantive ideas.
My state? She had asked the girl. I am not entirely well.
The maid had twitched nervously. He… Your Majesty had been screaming. We –
Would you not scream, too? She had snapped at the girl.
She'd thought she had more time, more time to have children, more time to spend with Elizabeth, more time to repair her relationships: with Henry, with Mary, with George. More time to spend with her mother. More time to see her ladies and her favourites happily settled in marriage. More time to read and write and learn and become something other than the desirable lady who had ensnared the King of England and caused a scandal in Christendom. More time where she could find herself, find Anne, a person who had not existed for over ten years – over a third of her life. And for the first twenty years of one's life, could one really be deemed oneself? No, she thought not. So then, Anne, herself, had never truly existed. She had never had the chance. Thus it was perhaps not such a tragedy that she would die in a few hours, never having lived in any real way.
She had not cried since she woke up earlier, which was a great victory. Her recent victories differed substantially from those of her younger days: holding out against her lust for Henry for six years, maintaining her composure while her entire homeland mocked her as a whore, continuing her religious practices even while the church she had grown up with denounced her as a Jezebel. Now victory was being able to count more than an hour's worth of minutes without weeping. And she would not cry now. But she did wince a little as she pierced her thumb yet again. She'd become a clumsy embroiderer of late.
The handkerchief was finally finished, nearly all of her black thread having been sacrificed for this project, and Anne found herself feeling ill although she had not eaten. Her eyes tracked to the sky in spite of herself, and she saw that it was well past three in the morning. Where, she asked herself again, had the time gone? Her maids, bless them, were sound asleep two chambers away. She would not wake them with her retching if she did succumb to it – not entirely out of consideration, but also because she would rather spend her last hours alone than in the company of women whose names she could hardly remember. Actually, that mattered little, she realized as she lifted herself from her window seat and blew out several tapers. She made her way to her bed, beside which rested a goblet of forgotten wine. She would not even want Nan right now. There was a certain elegance to knowing that one's death approaches. Certainly, many people could predict their deaths when they were ill, or might fear and expect death in battle or other circumstances. But to know for certain the hour of one's death, and the minutes left that one has to endure, was a rare thing. An unsettling and comforting notion at once.
Anne had tried to plan her final hours countless times: she would pray, bathe, pray, try to rest in bed to preserve her strength, pray, dress carefully, pray…
She should have known the reality would not be so easy. At this moment she would be satisfied just to keep the contents of her stomach where they were. Small victories again. She eased herself down onto the bed and sipped the wine, willing herself not to get sick.
My lady, should I allow him entrance or inform him that you are well and will require no further attention this afternoon? Kit or Kat had asked.
Unspeakable, unthinkable responses had splintered and crashed through Anne's mind. Let him in, she'd wanted to say. I have something to tell him. Something he should hear before I go. Something he deserves to know. I'm not only screaming because my brother is dead. I'm not only screaming because I soon will be too. I'm screaming because…
Tell him I am fine, she had said softly, her throat smarting at even this small usage. She had turned over, away from Kit or Kat, and clutched a nearby pillow against her lower stomach. She'd squeezed it there and murmured over her shoulder at the girl, who hovered in the doorway, Tell him I am preparing myself and will require no further attention.
Alone now, with just a few hours to go, Anne put both hands over her stomach. She used to do this with Elizabeth, and with the others while she'd had them. It was early now – nearly four weeks, given what she knew the date of conception must have been – far too early for much of anything, but since she had less than six hours to live, it seemed as good a time as any.
"Your father," she whispered into the silent room, "I would have you know, does not mean to do what he is doing. It is not his fault entirely. It is mine, too, and the fault of another man. Your father is not a bad man. He is not an entirely good man, either, as I am not an entirely good woman. It is better that you will never have to learn about what either of us is, entirely. It is better that you will not have to endure what you would have to endure, as the child of both of us together.
"But you would be loved." She swallowed, but no tears threatened themselves. She rested her head backward and spoke toward the ceiling now, hands still resting on her lower belly. "Indeed you would be very loved. I hope… I hope that I will meet you after, in… I hope that you will be there, after. I would so love to have you there. I pray God sees fit to let us be together. I pray He will take mercy on me. And on your father, too.
"I would have you know that I am not a wicked woman," she tried to say, but this time the vow caught in her throat. She coughed and swallowed it down. She had to stop this. Her hands shook against the slight swell of her lower belly. "And your father is not a wicked man. He does not know what he is doing, you see, and – if he did, there is nothing that he could do now. He does not understand what he is doing to us. It is my fault, that. I know you cannot understand me but I pray that somehow, in some world, you might."
My lady, Master Secretary Cromwell has departed for Greenwich. He sends you his well wishes for your continued health.
"I wish it could have been different. I would trade a great deal for this to have been different. Truly, I… I am so sorry, my sweetheart, you've no idea, how sorry. I love you."
Anne closed her teary eyes. "I love you, sweetheart." She breathed in and out, trying to envision herself in the afterlife, hopefully not alone and damned. Hopefully with some chance at redemption. In the afterlife, there might be endless amounts of time. Endless chances at redemption, at absolution. Time might stretch infinitely before her, possibilities in every direction, further than the eye could possibly see. She would always, she hoped, have more time.
She started, eyes opening in terror: the guilty look of a person who knows she has overslept. She had not meant to fall asleep at all. Frantically, Anne looked about; one hand remained on her stomach, where it had been for all this time. She propped herself up on the other arm and looked out the window to the east. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, shy and gentle like an admirer. The last sunrise; she would never see a dark, starry sky again. Her hours were over.