A/N: Hello everyone! This is my very first fanfiction, or any creative writing, for that matter. I've written quite a bit already but want to gradually post it.
The story begins 19 April 1536, one month to the day prior to Anne's execution – although no one knows that yet. You'll see that there are parts based on scenes from 'The Tudors,' of course, but much of the story is made up.
I hope you love it and please review – be kind! Oh, and of course, I own nothing.
For Thine is the Kingdom
19 April 1536 - Morning
The Queen ran her fingers over several different pieces of ribbon as she stood in her dressing gown before her wardrobe. Silently she took inventory of them: damask, silk, satin. Olive, ebony, twilight, copper – lovely colours, all. Her fingertips sought the ebony satin, but she did not pick it up. Her gaze strayed, and she began to wander about the room, looking at nothing. Ordinarily she took great pleasure in dressing, and sought to outfit herself in a selected, consistent manner from head to toe. Today her thoughts were elsewhere.
Eleven weeks, she thought, her hand coming to rest on her flat stomach. Her abdomen was as slender as it had ever been – even more so, actually, since her appetite was not what it once had been. There was no hopeful swelling, no blessed hill on her lower belly, no God-given protrusion of any kind. No baby. No prince. It had been nearly three months since she had lost her son. "The Queen has miscarried of her saviour," Chapuys had written to the Emperor that day in January. How she hated that damned mincing little Spaniard. The thought of crushing his forehead with the heel of her shoe shot a current of malevolent delight through her, and she blinked slowly, her eyelashes lowering and raising indulgently as she relished the thrilling thought of the Imperial Ambassador's death. She would be rid of Spanish-accented irritants forever.
Of course Chapuys had said that. He hated her as much as she hated him. And he thought that no one would tell her what he had written in his slanderous reports to Charles? The fool. The gossip had, of course, filtered back to her eventually; everyone had prophesied about what this latest miscarriage meant. She was barren; God was punishing her for supplanting a good woman; she was not made of the stuff of queens. Never a word about her husband's repeated infidelity and the pain it had caused her. Never a word that, perhaps, Henry was not the potent progenitor that he fancied himself. Katherine of Aragon – Princess Dowager, Anne reminded herself of her predecessor's rightful title – had had eight, eight, miscarriages and stillbirths. Anne had lost two sons. Each had produced a daughter. What did they have in common? Their husband. My husband, Anne corrected herself again. Henry had never been Katherine's. Yet a tiny mirthless smile crept to her mouth. She had to admit that he went through similar phases with her. As he had not lain with Katherine for the last several years of their pretended marriage, he was now chasing others and neglecting his current wife.
Henry had not visited her bed since she had informed him that she was with child in November, and had made no indication that he intended to do so ever again. She had done her best to enchant him, to beguile him, to make him recall what they had shared in the past, especially since her miscarriage. It was to no avail. He remained, and seemed to grow ever more, hardened against her. He was polite and cordial when necessary, but there was an utter lack of intimacy to any of his interactions with her. She laughed, but it could not be truly called a laugh; it was instead a single burst of air exhaled through her nostrils as an ironic smile possessed her mouth. She found it eerie how little he cared to act intimately with her in light of the onslaught of passion which had endured throughout the early years of their relationship. At this thought she closed her eyes and forbade further memories from entering her mind, but failed. She had to admit that she was desperate for his touch. She loved her husband. She wanted him to return that love in the same way that he once had. Those years of holding him off, stepping away from him, shaking with desire as she weakly denied him access to her body, now haunted her. He had burned with lust for her, and now his flame appeared quite extinguished. With age? No – he did not ignore women, just her. With boredom? Doubtful. Their last coupling had been absolutely spine-tingling. A real smile lit her face as she glanced at the space where the corset that she had been wearing that wonderful night hung in her wardrobe. She could not see it, could not even see its red lacings dangling against the wall of the wardrobe chest. But she knew where it hung, where it had hung since that night, against the wall. She had returned to her own rooms a bit disheveled, had undressed, and washed their mutual sweat off of her skin. Bade Nan to hang her clothes up, triumphant, and as Nan combed out her hair, admired the glowing of her own complexion. She had replayed the encounter, one of few in those weeks, over in her mind.
"Mark," Henry had said, half-drunk, and too intimidatingly close to the musician for anyone's comfort, "… play a volte."
A secret wave of goosebumps flooded Anne's legs, torso, and arms at the way her husband looked into her eyes when he turned toward her. She had seen that look before, not a few times. Henry was in the grip of wine, she knew, as he increasingly was. She was irritated at how pleased she was with Henry's obvious desire for her: something which she had previously taken for granted was now seldom available to her. She barely hid a smile as her husband turned full circle away from the musician, his body seeking hers. The dance was much too brazen for company. Yet she would not upbraid him; she was as desirous of it as he was, and thrice as desperate.
She was angry at him, too, and she did not realize how much until they were back in his chamber and she was wrestling to get on top of him, then ripping his linen shirt – devoid of any of Katherine's damned Spanish embroidery – from his heaving chest. She kissed him lingeringly and then pulled back and, without a thought in her mind, cracked the heel of her hand across his cheekbone. He was not cross, as she knew he would not be. His skin was alive with the beat of his heart as he registered the blow, then his blue eyes danced and he sighed, an amused, lust-ridden sound, before roughly grabbing her neck and thrusting her onto her back. She knew it would be over quickly, as it always was; it mattered not. She needed her husband's touch, and she needed to conceive his child. She hated to admit how important that was.
Afterward, she tried to stop herself from speaking those manipulative words about Katherine and Mary. She knew it would anger him, but she could not help herself. She must put the idea into his mind that he rid himself of them. Yet even as his body stiffened and he glared at her accusingly, she watched his mind process the information. A fortune-teller had told her? He wondered. I cannot have a son until Katherine and Mary are dead? Anne was no fool. Her husband was superstitious. He wanted them out of the way, too, and before he could question Anne or think overmuch on her motivations, or, God forbid, ask her to leave, she had slithered back up the mattress to Henry's body and rolled onto her side, positioning her body against him. "I love you," she whispered in his ear, trailing kisses from his neck over the line of his jaw, and finally kissing him softly on the mouth, her tongue touching his lower lip for an instant. His response was delayed, but his lips did seek hers in return. She could not satisfy him overmuch, no matter how much she longed to keep kissing him. She pulled her head away, smiled at her husband, and said quietly, "Visit me soon, sweetheart." Sliding away from him was painful – she had very little physical contact with him anymore – but she made herself do it; she must make him pursue her. He lied motionless, naked, as she pulled her underskirts up, smoothed her hair, nimbly laced the back of her stomacher. She resolved not to speak to him again before leaving the chamber. Steeling herself physically so as to not return to the bed for one last kiss – I need it not; I need it not – Anne looked down at her clothes, adjusted one sleeve, and turned to go.
"Wife." The word echoed in the heavy, tangible silence in the room. This was not a room for lovers, playmates, a couple mad for one another, Anne thought vacantly. She rotated only her torso, and arched her neck so that her face almost looked at Henry, unmoving, on the bed. She waited expectantly. Say nothing, she demanded of herself.
"I love you." His proclamation was simple. His voice bore warmth but no passion. He did love her. Her heart erupted in her chest, and ecstatic tears flooded her eyes. She forced them back, clenching her teeth together. Say nothing. Aware of his eyes on her – such a pointless dance they were doing, and yet so much more interesting than their volte a half hour before – Anne paused, then closed her eyes briefly and allowed a slow, flattered smile to cross her face. She dipped her head as she turned her face away from him, trying to play at being surprised. Her cheeks actually flushed, and again she was irritated at herself, irritated at how grateful she was for those three simple words, spoken by her own husband. The next moment, she brought her head up, took a breath, and left him. To bed, she thought, and pray God his love results in a prince.
She had known, even then, that she was carrying Henry's son. To her sadness, but not much to her surprise, he did not seek out her bed in the weeks following their volte. Anne had missed her next courses, and begun to feel her baby growing. Looking at the spot where the corset hung unobtrusively, the corset she had still been wearing when last she made love to her husband, the last time he had been eager for her, the last time she had felt that she had a fresh start with him, the last time he had told her he loved her, Anne closed her eyes briefly. She did not want to wear it ever again.
No, it was her who repelled him, she admitted to herself. Her person. His own queen. He had, it seemed, outgrown his passion for her. Just as he no longer took such joy from masquing or exhibiting his dancing skills, Anne had calmly come to the realization that she was a frivolous indulgence of Henry's youth which his new, hardened personality could no longer tolerate. Her husband was not the same man that she had once begun to love.
At this she turned away from her wardrobe and looked into the mirror atop her vanity table. Was she the same woman that he had desired in the beginning? The woman in the mirror looked tired, drawn, and old. Anne's fresh, youthful face, full with the vitality of innocence, had dulled into a, still attractive, moonlit pallor. She was still lovely, she fancied herself, but she was no longer the fresh young damsel that she had once been. Her icy blue eyes were as alive as ever, but there was a weariness within them, and shadows directly below. Her lips were still full, but now required cosmetics to attract the attention that once their natural plumpness and shapeliness had done. She had to admit that her hair was the same, not having changed at all, and as it hung in unseemly waves over her dressing gown, she wondered what it would look like when it was streaked with gray. She knew that this would happen eventually, and she tried to picture it, cringed as the image appeared, and turned away from the mirror and toward her wardrobe. She refused to resign herself to that yet – she was still young, and beautiful, and able to wield power in her own court. She would not give that up. She must recapture everything that she had feared was slipping away from her. Her lips compressed into a straight line as she determined to choose an outfit for today that would flatter her image of authority.
Anne selected a meticulous brocade gown from her wardrobe, with puffed shoulders and straight sleeves and an elaborate neckline. It would allow her to cut a regal figure in any room, she fancied. She remembered Henry's insistent tugging at her another time that she had worn the gown, on a night when he had desired her, God, a year at least before. His lips had been on her neck, peeling away the brocade, then near her ear, murmuring words of love. Anne, my own darling, my sweetheart…
Her eyes closed briefly against the memory. Today no such thing would happen. The gown would merely serve to showcase her as what she was becoming: a wife without a husband in the natural sense. Perhaps it would be more fitting to wear black today. But no, she had worn enough black following the death of her son. Today the imperial brocade would do. In a moment of ironic half-thought, Anne opened a tall, narrow drawer and withdrew a stiff lace collar from it. Its buttonholes matched the buttons on the inside of the brocade. There, she thought. There will be no lips upon my neck this day; only lace. She selected a corresponding headdress from the drawer and laid the brocade, the collar, and the headdress upon her unmade bed. Without much thought she added a pair of copper shoes and silk stockings. As she gazed at the clothing assembled on the bed, Anne sighed. This was likely to be the climax of her day, she thought reluctantly. The sun would climb in the sky, peak, and sink slowly into the starry depths of an early spring night while Anne kept a lonely court in her chambers, without her husband or any beloved company. She would be back in this room, fifteen hours from now, peeling off her stockings, removing her collar, combing her hair back into this mahogany cloud and retiring to the bed which now faced her in rumpled, lonely disarray, and nothing would have changed. As any other day.
Anne backed into a chair and gratefully reclined in it, still regarding the clothing on her bed as she perched her head on her fist. She remembered having new gowns made to please Henry. He loved her in bright colors, or at least, he had, when he had a mind to take any notice of her. Red, blue, green, purple. He wanted her outfitted as a jewel. She had taken secret pleasure in dressing in anticipation of his passionate overtures during their courtship: sleeves that she could slip off her shoulders to tease him, pretending it was an accident; stockings with thick garter ribbons, so if his hand ventured to the top of them, he would chuckle at her extravagance; gowns with tapered bodices, which he loved for some reason, perhaps because he could grip her hips hard through them without hurting her, perhaps because the bottom of her stomacher pointed to what he could not have. She'd only worn black or brown when he wanted to go for a gallop somewhere, and she was always his favorite companion. She'd had panels added to her skirts as her belly grew round with child each time, eliciting a kind smile and an "of course, my love," when she asked Henry whether it was all right for her to order fabric for this purpose. They both knew that she only asked to make them both happy: she never asked for permission to order fabric for anything else. Quiet moments of domestic happiness, secret smiles that passed between them as she played the deferential wife and expectant mother, these were all experiences of the past. How different was the process of choosing her clothing now. Her stolid outfit for today unfortunately reflected her matronly life. There would be no trysts in bed, no laughter in the hunt, no choreographed dances. And yet her choice of clothing remained important to her. Of course it did. She must look the part.
Anne glanced to her right and unblinkingly selected an olive silk hair ribbon. She slid it through her fingers, wrapped it around them slowly, then unfurled it and watched its spirals slacken and die. She remembered the ribbon on which she had written that defiant motto during her courtship with Henry, then placed it under her gown and bid him find it. Then he had not been able to go an hour without her. Now, as she counted, she realized that she had not seen him in a fortnight. A ghost of a smile, having formed at the memory, turned to melancholy on her downcast face. She asked herself honestly whether she would ever possess his heart that way again. True, he had turned his heart against her… but he would not act upon it, of that she was sure. He was too steadfast in his belief of his own authority, his right to marry her, and the defiance of those who argued against it, and that, if not his enduring passion for her, would save their marriage. Of this she was sure. But would he come to desire her again? She wanted his love, his hands, his skin, his passion. She could not deny the truth of what she had said to him last September – not since – and what she still felt: she loved him, loved him deeply. She was steadfast, even if he was not.
The ribbon was smooth and flawless. Anne placed the fingers of both hands in its middle, slid them outward, and then picked up the ribbon and placed it behind her neck, allowing it to drape over her shoulders with her hair. She bit the edge of her thumbnail, then turned her head to look once again at her reflection. It cheered her to see that, indeed, she was still beautiful. She ran her fingers through her hair, turned her face from side to side, and attempted a small smile, pretending that she was smiling at Henry. The effect was pleasing. She dipped her head at her reflection, as though ingratiating herself to someone. Even more so. Her confidence bubbled a little. I am the Queen of England. Now the smile was genuine, if a bit sly. She turned away from her reflection and called toward the door, "Nan! Come and help me dress!"
"Cromwell's rooms?" Anne repeated breathlessly, turning her head in a manner that she hoped disguised her alarm. Cromwell had given his rooms to the Seymours? Just given them? For shame, Master Cromwell, she tutted him mentally. Giving up his apartments to the Seymours, parading his disloyalty for his queen for the whole court to see. He really should know better than that. Anne bit the inside of her lip as she waited for Nan's response.
"Yes," breathed Nan. Her tone of voice reflected pity: Yes, Cromwell. He is not your friend.
Not my friend, Anne thought to herself. No, Master Cromwell was no longer her friend. She had lost his support, she was sure. He had become arrogant, overbearing, and had ceased to value the aspects of their Reformation that had once been of the utmost importance to him. And when she had taken him to task about it, instead of making amends or even deigning to understand the folly of his ways, he had failed to respect her authority as his queen. As though she knew not of what she spoke. Anne bit the inside of her lip harder in annoyance at the memory. Perhaps her threat to make him a head short had been excessive, but a man who failed to regard the opinions and warnings of his anointed queen had no place influencing the reform of a corrupt religion – or the court, or the king, for that matter. So, Master Cromwell had transferred his loyalty to the Seymours, had he? He would not get away with it.
Anne regarded Lady Jane Seymour once again across the room. The mincing wench. In a vague corner of her mind, Anne thought for a moment that Jane Seymour and Eustace Chapuys would make a nice pair. And she'd love to see them each a head short, next to Cromwell. At present Jane stood, doting over a locket which lay open in her palm, in front of the fire. On the wall beside her hung Anne's red velvet gown, the one she had worn to her ennoblement. She could recall the steadiness of her procession through the court toward Henry, not yet her husband; the weight of the robes of the peerage on her shoulders; the almost imperceptible triumph in Henry's voice as he created her Marquess of Pembroke in her own right. The effect of the triumphant memories unleashed by that gown coupled with the intuitive knowledge that it was her own husband's image upon whom Jane glowed was too much for Anne. Jane had been half the cause of the loss of Anne's prince. Her family had gotten hold of Cromwell's rooms, and that smacked of conspiracy. Jane was no Madge, no Eleanor Luke, had quickly by Henry and discarded. She was all virtue and morals, as Anne had been ten years before. Jane Seymour was after Anne's chair, there was no question in Anne's mind. And brazen insolence was a game that Anne could play. She had little direct power over Cromwell, as he was Henry's secretary, but Lady Jane was Anne's own servant. She was in the employ of the queen, and she needed to learn a lesson that none of Tyndale's work could teach her. Anne's eyes narrowed at Jane, and she handed her book of hours to Nan, rising from her chair in a swift if not entirely graceful fashion. As soon as she was on her feet, the ninny glanced up from the locket, snapped it shut, and regarded Anne apprehensively. Anne's footsteps were loud – these copper shoes were not appropriate for intrigue, she noted in a small corner of her mind – and as they neared Jane she attempted to scurry away, but it was too late. The Queen had cornered her. "What is that?" Anne inquired clearly.
Jane attempted to demur by glancing down, but Anne's icy gaze froze her into submission. "It is a … locket, Your Majesty."
"Let me see it." Jane hesitated, but there was no way out. She hoped to satisfy the Queen with minimal compliance. She held the closed locket out, still an arm's pace from Anne. Oh, yes, Mistress Seymour is all sweetness and purity, Anne thought to herself. What disgusting impertinence. Anne's eyes hardened. How she longed to throttle this woman. "Let me see it."
Jane Seymour stepped forward, her shoes making a distinctive click in the Queen's now-silent rooms. Anne could feel the eyes of her ladies on her back but she was too tightly within the grip of hard, quiet anger to heed it. She removed the closed locket from Mistress Seymour's fingers, forced her to come closer, and opened it. There, plain as day, was Henry. A miniature. Around Mistress Seymour's neck. Anne remembered Katherine when she had discovered an expensive royal gift around Anne's own neck – God, was it ten years ago? She had been dismissive, had assumed that it was of little ultimate consequence. Anne was not so. She refused to be so. She knew better. Who should know better than she? Jane's eyes, less than sweet in their appearance, bored into Anne's when the latter looked up. She met the gaze of this inexperienced, foolish woman and held it, tightening her grip on the locket.
Anne replayed, against her own will, the similar scene with Katherine. She had called Anne a whore and had been sanctimonious with her. What a mistake that had been. Katherine released the necklace around my neck, she recalled. I am not Katherine. She would not sink to the level of name-calling; she would not betray herself so. But before she could consider the aftereffects, Anne braced her fingers around the chain of the locket and yanked. The chain snapped from Mistress Seymour's neck. Mistress Seymour glanced up, her face torn between meekness and accusation, and then hurried away.
Anne watched her go, imperiously. She flung the locket into a corner and immediately felt the wet warmth of blood dripping down her fingers. Anne had not felt a thing, but the chain had apparently sliced into the flesh of her hand as she snapped it. Suddenly, she remembered that she had done this in the sight of her ladies in waiting and, returning to reality, she glanced toward the doorway. The ladies scattered under her gaze. Anne felt her eyes fill with tears and forced them down, turning away to compose herself. You are the Queen of England, she thought, steeling herself. Taking a deep breath, she turned on her heel and departed the room. She meant to return to her seat in the presence chamber but felt herself sweeping past her ladies in waiting, her gown nearly brushing them as they dropped into curtsies at her passing.
Anne bit her lower lip hard. In her mind she saw Mistress Seymour admiring that damned locket, the same way that Anne's eyes had lit up when she received some new token from her love so long ago. She felt bile in her throat. This was the way that it had happened, was it not? She had been recast as Katherine, with a new young damsel to play the king's sweetheart. I will tolerate it no longer, she seethed. She knew that she had enemies at court, and few true friends, but she was the Queen, and that position was never without power. She had set her reaction in motion, and she knew where she was going: to the Secretary.