This is my very first Tudors fiction. It was fun to write, and I do hope to continue with this. Please point out my blunders! The story takes off right before the scene where Anne catches Henry and Jane in a rather compromising position. Apologies if the first few paragraphs are a bit rushed and confusing. I typed them up reallllly quickly. The fic is of my own creation directly after Anne leaves the room.
Oh, and don't forget to review. :P
Disclaimer: All characters, and everything that has to do with the Showtime series, The Tudors, belongs to, well, Showtime. Basically, I own nothing.
"Where have I left those pearls?" Anne Boleyn, Queen of England, muttered to herself. Seemingly, she had misplaced the string of lovely jewels. They were small spheres, glittering in their creamy white color, bound together by a pale pink ribbon. Oh, it was such a beautiful necklace. Perhaps she had left it in the sitting room adjacent the dining hall. After supper last evening the necklace had been pinching her skin, causing a considerable amount of pain. She must have slipped it off quickly before walking to her bedroom for undressing.
Anne gathered her deep blue skirts in large fistfuls, making her way down the narrow hall without noise. Her slippered feet made a gentle plodding on the mahogany floors. It seemed ludicrous to be so deeply worried over an item of jewelry, when much larger obstacles were making their way into her life. The obstacles were rapidly becoming claws, deeply fastening themselves in both her mind and heart. Anne paused, the folds of her dress bunching around her ankles. Her eyes dropped to the ground, weakness overcoming her. Even thinking of such things destroyed any increment of inner peace she had found over the course of the day.
"The pearls, Anne," She reprimanded herself in a coarse whisper, moving off once again. Anne's raven colored hair bounced with each step she took. Her eyes skimmed each door, seductive and dark, beckoning her inside. Finally, her eyes locked upon the large door that was the suspected hiding place of her necklace. As she reached for the doorknob, Anne realized it would have been much more simple to just have a servant search for it, or better yet, have a new one purchased. It was only proof that even as the Queen of England, a spartan side lived within her.
"Oh my God," She breathed, as soon as her eyes raked in the scene before her. "Oh my God!" Her mouth reformed the words, however at a much louder volume. Anne's breath caught in her throat acutely, allowing no breath down into the deep pits of her lungs. Briefly, she looked away, unable to process this. Henry, oh Henry, sitting with that-that wench upon his knee! Their lips were interlocked in a moment of passion, intruded upon by Anne. Sheer lust burned behind Henry's eyes, illuminating them with a charge that should have been directed towards his wife. Now they turned upon her with shock and irritation. "What is this?" Anne questioned, doubled over and ready to break. The world was crushing in upon her, slowly, blackening the corners of her vision. How could this be happening? Oh good Lord, how could this be happening? Painfully, she jerked her eyes up to look at them both. Jane sat with such frigid poise and fright, looking as if she were a bird prepared to take fright if Anne moved. Meeting her Queen's gaze, Jane rushed from Henry, cautiously standing behind his chair. Behind the water in her eyes, all Anne could see was the swishing cream colored silk of Jane's frock.
Immediately, Anne began to tremble with months worth of pent up rage. No, she was not blind. She had seen Henry's wandering eyes and his waning interest in her. But as soon as her stomach was beginning to acquiesce to her repeated trails for a healthy baby, he was ready to trade her in for a golden haired whore? No, this simply couldn't be! Her quivering hands took the door, slamming it closed with an amount of force even she did not know was within her. Anne's seething anger was crossing the thin line into violence, the same violence lurking beneath her clenched fists, directed both at Henry and Jane.
"Just when my belly is doing its business, I find you wenching with Mistress Seymour!" She had not noticed Henry standing, his capable arms desperately trying to smother her outrageous noise. Anne was mentally careening out of control, sucking in large gulps of air. She searched for some stable object to steady her mind, and found the nearest table to lean over. "God," She choked, the disbelief still not subsiding. I should have seen this coming.
"Sweetheart," Henry attempted to soothe, quickly seeing that with Lady Seymour in the room, it would be futile. "Jane, you had best leave." He called over his shoulder, trapping Anne once again. She needed to be quieted before the entire Court new of this affair.
"Why are you doing this?" Anne's shaking voice was hardly a whisper. She felt her belly doing unnatural acts; twisting, turning, revolting. Her breath was now hardly coming at all. "Why did you have to do this?" She continued, turning to look up at her husband. His eyes were like the lake outside of the castle perimeters, iced over and glaring. No remorse, sorrow, or shame showed in them. The only thing moving were his lips, tender and curved. Words from Henry were the last thing Anne wanted to hear. She knew his games. She had seen the tricks he had played on Catharine and herself alike, simpering and sweet to quiet their anger. But Anne didn't want his apologetic lies or explanations. She wanted for Henry to feel sorrow, to love her as he used to.
As Henry opened his mouth to speak, Anne struck him in the bicep, as hard as her drained body could muster. He had committed the act of infidelity even while his child was in her stomach. She had been warned of this-this process, of mistress', but nobody warned her how difficult it would be. Had she just been Henry's puppet all along, someone to gracefully fill the mold as Queen? Hadn't he loved her?
Now, Henry was approaching her as she swiftly backed away. His arms were opened, grabbing her at each chance they got. Each time, Anne would vehemently jerk her sleeve or hand away.
"No!" She screamed, turning to bolt from the room, run as far away a Queen could run.
"Please!" Henry repeated over and over again.
"No, no, no, no, no!" Anne sobbed, finally collapsing under the weight of her own tears. They flowed from her crystalline colored eyes in steady torrents, splashing down onto Henry's hands, which were now securely wrapped around her waist. This was not the kind of embrace she had dreamed about for many nights. Anne writhed and kicked, not one to give in to the King. Her energy was slowly draining, down until it trickled to nothing. She finally lay in his firm hold, crying uncontrollably.
"Stop, stop it!" Henry hissed against her ear. "Stop it," He was gentle now, feeling her still slim body go slack in his arms. "Please." His voice was a whisper, chin resting against her shoulder. He had never planned on being discovered. Seeing Anne in so much pain was excruciating, only for the reason she could lose his heir if she distressed herself too greatly. He continued to coo to her, feeling her delicate white hand stroke his face.
Anne regained her steady breathing pattern. Her dark hair tumbled about her shoulders, escaping the pin it was contained with. One hand feebly brushed against her belly, as if the baby had disappeared as soon as Henry's lips came in contact with Jane's. They stood fused together like this for innumerable seconds, Anne panting for air and searching for answers, and Henry glad that her fit had subsided.
Very suddenly, Anne shoved herself away from the King.
She had regained her poise, along with her demeanor. As soon as her fingers touched the swell of her stomach, an unfulfillable melancholy had lit inside of her like a fire. For months she had been worrying herself to illness at the thought of her husband with another woman, and now that she had seen it, and was calm enough to process her thinking, she needed to be alone. She needed to escape. Anne needed a way out. Millions of emotions were overwhelming her at the moment. She had witnessed something that would forever change her life.
"Anne-" Henry was making an advance, but Anne coolly pulled her skin away from his reach. Perplexed, he halted. "Anne, I wish to-"
"Stop," She snapped, staring into his eyes as a route for leaving worked its way into her mind. Anne wiped at the remaining tears laying on her cheeks and gathered her skirts. This time as she made her way for the door, Henry did not try to stop her. It was only as her hand twisted the knob of the door she felt his feverish palm on her own. Anger burned underneath his skin, she could feel it. Before he could utter a sound, Anne pushed the door open, but lingered in the room.
"I think it's best you leave me alone," She spoke with certainty, fury stricken eyes flickering up to meet his gaze. Unshed water glittered behind them. Before she could let them fall, Anne turned her head. She left the morbid room, folds of her dress bunched in the tight hold of her fists.
Anne rushed down the hallway, not taking the time to walk with grace. Her legs churned beneath the yards of rustling fabric, moving her down the endless, meandering halls. All she needed now was a private place, some place where she could, indeed, be alone. She stumbled down the stone staircase, chest heaving back and forth in a wild rhythm. The tears were forming behind her eyelids once again, but a small grin was forced onto her lips for the onlookers scattered about the castle's corridors and hallways. Each time she would see another person upon her path, Anne would dip her head and smile, acting as if nothing were amiss. If only they all knew! Each humble member of the Court would pay their respects to their Queen, confusion behind their blank faces. Some of the more erudite members in the castle even took the liberty to ask her if everything was all right. It was at times like these that Anne fervently wished she was not the Queen.
Her walk continued, rushed and uneasy steps carrying her to the garden just on the perimeter of the castle. Thank God nobody was observing the foliage now! All of the roses and azaleas were wilted, their fiery colors taken away with the winter temperatures. Thorns stuck out like sharp black omens, waiting to slice open Anne's skin at any moment. She paid no heed to the flowers. Nature never struck a deep chord within her, especially in winter when they were all long deadened.
Luckily, no snow laced the ground. The grounds were green, an icy sheet over each cold blade of grass. In the prior days, temperatures had been moderate, melting away the snow and leaving a facade of spring. Unfortunately, the crisp air still remained, shooting a chill down Anne's spine.
As she finally found her way to an enclosed portion of the garden, where no one in the castle could spot her, Anne let out the breath she had been holding. For what seemed like days, she stood, face distorted as one about to cry. The brisk air whipped around her, tossing the curls of her hair and winding about her ankles. Finally, she could contain it no longer. Anne sank to her knees. The tears formed and spilled more quickly than she could process. Her flight from the scene with Henry had just been one long pent up of tears, all of them now pouring from her eyes. Anne's hands gripped the earth, clumps of dirt forming around her curled fingers. It was a wonder she had not broken down like this earlier. Her dress was a sufficient cushion against the hard surface of the ground. It did not matter that the garment would be ruined. It was only a garment after all.
Slowly, her mind began unweaving.
Everybody had warned her of this. The King would take his mistress', and it was the Queen's duty to bear it. So why was this so difficult? It's because you love him. Her mind answered. Anne refused to believe it. How could she love such a vile, infidel of a man? She turned her eyes up to the looming castle with its strong stone walls and effortless beauty. Henry was inside of those walls, most likely chasing after Jane Seymour once again. How she hated him! Struck with a sudden combination of fury and irreparable sadness, Anne leaned over the ground, shoulders shaking with sobs. Her aching heart was straddling the thin, but acrid line of love and hatred.
It was all so inconceivable. Only a short year prior to this day, she and Henry had been out of their mind's in love with each other. His courting of her was quick and simple, and his courting of her heart was the same. The first time she had captured his rapt attention was behind a golden mask. At the time she was confident in trapping his emotions, but soon after he began to trap hers. She was a fool for falling in love with Henry Tudor. But did she not have a right to love her husband?
He was slipping through her fingers like gravel. She was losing him, and soon, she would lose her position as Queen. It ailed her to distraction to think of this. When Henry loved, he loved with incredible passion, but when that love waned, he was so cold and spent. Losing Henry was a death sentence, considering the fact that her chances at delivering a male heir were slim. Anne choked on her tears, and touched her swelling stomach. What if this was a beautiful baby girl? Or what if she ended up having no child at all? Anne was never healthy with child, it had been proven.
As she pulled her soiled fingers up from the ground, Anne took in a large breath. She must look ridiculous. Small half-moons of dirt were lodged in her finger nails, face streaked with water, hair a wispy mess, frock dirtied beyond repair. Whatever happened to that strong, poised Queen of years past? How could she ever bring a child into this world and carry the weight of a kingdom upon her drooping shoulders?
She felt blindingly alone. All she had was herself. Even as the Queen, Anne Boleyn was alone. Nobody would be there to protect her if Henry cast her aside. A new round of tears touched her eyes. Oh God, what would she do? Anne encircled her arms around the narrow trunk of a nearby tree, finding little comfort in its barky torso. She longed for the tree to be a warm, compassionate human being, one who cared for her without an ulterior motive. But when she looked through her the watery veil over her eyes, it was only a tree, and she was alone.
Yet, she was tired of being alone. Alone was not what she was made to be. After another wasted twenty minutes of sobbing and pity, Anne staggered to her feet. Many people would be worrying about her whereabouts. Surely she had told somebody that she passed by she had just gone for a quickl stroll through the garden. For what seemed like the hundredth time that day, she stroked her belly. Though it was such a common task, a charge surged through the Queen. She sniffed, scrubbing the lingering tears off of her face with the back of her hand. Things weren't over yet. She could not let her husband lay each stepping stone to her fate.
"I cannot give up," said she, through gritted teeth and determination. If she had captured him once, she could ensnare him again. Though she would have to be a bit more crafty and sagacious this time around, Anne Boleyn, Queen of England, was going to get Henry back somehow, for the child she was about to bring into the world. She simply had to. It seemed so simple, yet it would be the most difficult and perhaps impossible task she had ever faced in her life.
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