Oh my Christ I left you waiting for a long time! Errrmm Sorry? Ah who cares for apologies, onto the next chapter!
"My two knaves win" Charles revealed his cards with a smug smile. Henry, Charles and William were gathered in the King's parlour; Anthony had fallen asleep on a settee with a half full goblet clasped precariously in his hand. Henry threw his loosing hand to the centre of the table.
"I still hate cards." The friends laughed as William shuffled the deck; Henry drained his drink and stood from the table. He held his arms aloft, stretching out his back and chest, and then dropped them to his side as though suddenly released from restraints. He paced the room a little as William and Charles played on.
"It would appear his Majesty is distracted. I wonder who it is this time." William said dryly as he raised his bet.
"Oh William you have no idea. I dream of her. You know, that day I almost drowned, a vision of her saved me."
Charles eyed William inquisitively with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Absentmindedly he played with the ribbon Anne had given him which he carried with him always.
"The Lady Anne Boleyn."
Charles froze momentarily, clenching his jaw as he so often did when suddenly angered. Slowly he revealed his cards, his movements carefully measured as he felt himself teeter on the edge of an outburst.
"Our Harry appears to be in love. A knave, Queen and a King. I win." Henry playfully slapped Charles on the back making some comment on his bluffing skills that Charles did not register. Somewhere in the distance a bell tolled the early morning hours and the King bid them to bed, fondly remarking that their dreams should be as sweet as his. William and Charles left Anthony were he laid and quitted the royal chambers. They walked in silence some time until they came to corridor where they parted ways for their rooms and said their goodnights.
Once alone, Charles withdrew the ribbon from its hiding place and buried his face in it. There was still the faintest trace of her on it, though growing stale and weak with time and frequent indulgence. He felt utterly helpless. The walls closing on the trap around Anne and he could do nothing, nothing to stop the King in his relentless pursuit, nothing to save her. If only he had not married Margaret...
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Anne sat in her apartments by her desk running a comb through her hair distractedly; she had changed into a nightgown, her green dancing dress lay in a pile on the floor. Her maids had been dismissed and the fire long since burnt out and the moon now the only light in the room. It cast ghostly shadows over familiar spaces and stirred in Anne an innate fear of the darkest corners of her rooms. Anne sighed; she still felt the press of Charles' lips. There was a knock at her door.
"I wish to be left alone" She said in a monotonous voice realising that in all likelihood the intruder would ignore her regardless. Slowly she turned her head so that the door was barely within her sight. It was too dark to make out their distinct features, though from their shape it was obviously a man. Anne prepared herself for the reprimand of her brother or the abuse of her father.
"Mistress Anne, what are you doing are you doing sat in the dark." William Compton stepped into the streak of moonlight. Anne turned to face him completely, pulling a shawl over her shoulders. She motioned to speak and request he leave but William continued before she had a chance.
"I know many musicians Mistress Anne, many that are skilled at the flute and the organ, or the lute and the virginals, but none can play both at the same time." He slowly reached for the discarded dress, holding it up appreciatively and theatrically he brushed dust from skirt. When he was finished with it he carefully laid it over the back of a chair. "Such fine silk should not be treated so roughly." It was a passing comment but broke the near sense of sinister his opening line had delivered. "This shall end badly, for you that is."
"Is that a threat Sir William?" Anne mustered some nerve though she was inclined to agree with him.
"Not at all." With that he skulked back out into the dark corridors.
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Within a week Sir William was dead. Snatched away by the sweat that had killed the King's infant son not so long ago. A chest had arrived at court that he had bequeathed to the King but was almost immediately returned to his widow, though she would find little use for it as only days later she followed her husband in to the earth. Of course, the whole incident had made Henry increasingly paranoid about illness, subjecting those nearest and dearest to a tally of his supply of medicines. A giant cabinet stocked with countless glass vials, herbs, spices, pills, lotions, ointments, and plants of all kinds – Henry's own private apothecary. The King, for all his power, for all his privileges, was terribly afraid of illness, his fear only exacerbated by the death of his brother Arthur years earlier.
"These are called 'Pills of Rhazes', after the Turk who invented them, they're said to be good against the sweating sickness." He informed his friends as he took out a small china jar and handed each a pill. Anthony eagerly swallowed his while Charles sniffed it curiously; bitter, dry herbs, no different from the spices his cook used and would do nothing beneficial but sweeten the breath.
"But this infusion is even better" the King waved three crystal goblets in front of his friends before setting them on the table. From the cabinet he took a vial and shook it.
"A mixture of marigold, manus Christi - a very efficacious herb - sorrel, meadow plant, linseed vinegar, ivory scrapings, all mixed with sugar." He poured the vile coloured liquid into the glasses and handed the first to Anthony, who looked at the concoction uneasily. However, as before, Anthony was the more willing of he and Charles to sample the King's remedies and took the glass.
"Are you sure?" Charles added, watching as Anthony's arm stopped dead before the glass could touch his lips. "Someone told me that taking infusions was the worst thing."
"Trust me" The King gestured to Anthony. He closed his eyes and swallowed the liquid in a single gulp and promptly gagged. "It will make you feel sick, but its better the sickness what prevents." Charles chuckled as Anthony turned green but Henry turned on him quickly with a severe look in his eye. In all honesty, Charles had to clench his jaw to prevent a snigger escaping but it did the job of making the King think he had delivered some warning. However, even the great threat of the sweat could not dissuade Henry from pursuing Anne.
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Though the threat of the Sweating Sickness held fast at the back of King Henry's mind, he found absorbing distractions in Anne's company. The Bishop of Bayenne, Jean de Bellay, the new French ambassador was to visit and Henry planned to pay him all kindnesses to please his sweetheart. To welcome the arrival of the new ambassador, Henry arranged for there to be a picnic in the parklands surrounding the palace. Anne and George were to arrive later once the initial political patter and delegate pleasantries were done with. Slowly they rode through the parkland surrounding the palace while the King entertained his guest. It was a fine day, the sky clear and bright though there was a slight autumn chill, nothing should spoil such a day yet Anne felt weary. The role of Family Pawn was growing ever thin and no one seemed to notice, if they did they certainly didn't care.
"Must I do this George?" She asked, her question sounding a little whinier than she had intended.
"It would reflect badly on our family if you did not."
"I was a lady-in-waiting to the Queen of France and a friend to Francois! I doubt a single ambassador will make much difference to France's opinion of us!" She scoffed, cutting her brother off sharply.
George brought his horse to an abrupt stop just ahead of Anne, blocking her path.
"Paint on your smile if you must!" He barked, a glimmer of their father showing through what had once been a sweet boy. He kicked his horse back to the path and led on, Anne reluctantly following behind. She looked down at the greyhound led by an attendant that she was to present to the new ambassador. Another sigh came; the dog had been the strongest of the litter born by Anne's own pet, Minette, who was now unfortunately dead. Anne had fought with her father that she keep the dog but no, mustn't disobey Papa.
They neared the picnic where the King and Bellay were already engrossed in conversation, the war against the Emperor being the dominant topic. From a distance Anne looked over the new man; he was a middle-aged man and fussily dressed, most obviously French. Henry glanced around,
"Ah!", he exclaimed upon seeing the small group of figures approaching. Henry made no effort at disguising his joy at seeing her, only just managing not to run as he hurried forward to greet her. George helped his sister down, managing to pass a last warning look to her before she was stuck to the King's side.
Henry took her arm and guided her over to the ambassador. "Your Highness, allow me to..." However, Bellay anticipated him.
"Is this not mademoiselle Anne? Enchante." Bellay kissed the back of her hand, "His eminence, Cardinal Wolsey, has told me all about you but he did not tell me how beautiful you are! For a Frenchman that is almost a crime!" Anne laughed a little, feigning polite amusement.
"But Frenchmen tell every woman she is beautiful. Is that not a crime too?" Anne replied in fluent French. Both Henry and Bellay laughed. Anne waved to her brother to approach. "I have a gift for you" she told the ambassador.
The picnic passed with little event save for an intruder shouting "go back to your wife", but he was quickly dispatched by the guards and made no impression on the mood. By the time the party returned to the palace darkness was falling. The horses strode gently down the path as their riders engaged in leisurely conversation. Anne rode easy, her hands resting lightly on the reigns and from time to time Henry half-turned to look and smile at her, radiant with happiness.
"Madame," Bellay addressed Anne when the King's attention was elsewhere, "You are a rose of Christendom. You should have stayed in France. "We would appreciate a creature as fine as you. King Francis would appreciate you." Anne laughed aloud and readied a reply but she was silenced by the sound of rioting at the palace gates and a sharp, acidic smell invaded her senses. Vinegar.
The King had gone very pale. A panic stricken mob struggled with the palace guards as they begged for aid. Through them came the palace chamberlain who hurried towards Henry. The King jumped from his horse and bounded into the throng of panic and the chamberlain confirmed his worst fears.
"There had been an outbreak of sweating sickness in the city. 300 deaths this day alone." The King, sounding almost as panicked as the mob, ordered for his physician, Doctor Linacre, and inquired after his wife. He almost hurried off without even saying goodbye or showing any concern for Anne. Henry disappeared in the sea of attendants and guards that bore him away into the palace. Behind her, Bellay and his attendants rattled away in rapid, frightened French. Anne did not respond, she made an attempt to scoff at their paranoia but she could not bring herself to be such a hypocrite for in the back of her mind a terror crept in.
By the time George had escorted his sister to her room the palace was manic with fleeing noblemen. Servants swept from room to room carrying smoking braziers, wafting the fumes of the burning herbs over everything to destroy the bad humours that brought pestilence and disease. Anything to keep the sweat at bay. The smoke was thick and like an overpowering perfume caught in the back of Anne's throat, a faint nausea settling on her until she became accustomed to the smell. She wafted a fan in front of her face for fresher air but it made little difference. In the dull hum of the palace Anne heard a small, sombre note penetrate the walls from the world outside. Through the window and across the river Anne watched a small cart pulled by an old horse trundled slowly along the banks. Every few paces a door would open, a small square of light being cast out, and the living brought out their dead loved ones wrapped in sheets, and piled them on the other bodies already in the cart. There was no time for ceremony, only a hasty crossing of breasts, and a few stifled sobs in the darkness. The cart moved on, the bell tolled, the cart rumbled on. Under her breath Anne muttered a prayer for the lost and for herself, God prevent this sickness from me, as London was lit by an orange hue and the sense of menace, And God save Charles, of all things save him. Unexpected behind her the chamber door opened and in thumped the heavy steps of a man.
"Anne." Her heart surged in her breast. "I want you to leave court." He stood little more than an inch from her, his built masculine form dwarfing hers.
"And if I do not?" Every nerve in Anne's body tightened with anticipation as he leaned a little closer, she could feel his heated breath trip past her ear. A delightful shiver ran up her back as he gently took her arms yet with a firm grip.
"Go to bed with me." Anne felt the tug as he tried to turn her to face him but she stood firm.
"What about your wife?"
"This could be our last chance" he began to pull her into an embrace
"You're married." Anne shrugged off his hold and broke away from him. Charles balled his fists at his side, his nails digging into his palms, and clenched his jaw a little.
"Would it make a difference if I had a crown?"
Anne gulped; she had not been expecting that. Charles took three steps away from her towards a table. On it lay a bouquet of a dozen or so striking and exotic flowers bound by a thin strip of gold cloth and tied to that was a jewel encrusted ring. He picked the ring up and pondered it. Suddenly he yanked at the ring, tearing the cloth.
"Is this your price?" Anne did not answer, she could not even bare to look at him for it broke her heart. He asked again more sternly than before and still Anne was silent. Charles threw the ring the floor with such force that the firmly set stone broke from the metal. Anne finally snapped.
"Yes! Yes, I am a cheap Boleyn whore! For all my breeding, for all my education I am just a whore, a goddamn royal whore." Anne bit back a sob as her heart raced and breath became laboured under her restraint. There was a familiar sting at the corner of her eyes and Anne whipped around to face the window least he should see, though the occasional sniff did much to betray her.
"If we were free" She muttered a little. There was a gentle pad as Charles drew near, gently he took her side and wrapped her in his arms. Slowly Anne looked up at him and they kissed. Softly at first but, whether from the danger outside or the sudden flurry of emotion, the urgency grew. She coiled her arms around his neck and kissed him back; her mouth opened willingly, drawing his tongue inside as they embraced. An instant rush of warmth flooded her senses as Charles' tongue swirled tenderly around her own. Reluctantly she withdrew her arms from the embrace, ignoring the voice of virtue telling her to stop, and put her hands to his doublet working the fiddly buttons, many of which she tore impatiently from the fabric, her efforts made harder by Charles' insistent and unrelenting want to kiss her lips, her face, her neck, her. His hands began playing with laces that held her bodice closed but Anne stopped him only as it was loose, she pressed a hand to his face and held it there.
"Charles," She sighed, he tried to kiss her again, "Charles, this can only be for tonight." The disappointment in his eyes was undeniable, "You knew that before you came here." His grip softened and the ardour died a little; that had not been Anne's intention. "But I would rather spend a night in your arms than be Queen of England." Charles re-approached his love, delicately lifting away hair from her neck then his mouth pressing just at the nape. She exhaled slowly as his arms came around her, crossing over her back, pulling her to him, and bent to kiss her. As the kiss grew more passionate her hands began to press through the layers of his clothing, growing more impatient for him. A little shyly Anne withdrew from the kiss but his hands remained on her, the laced bodice falling from her body like the first petal of the opening flower.
"I do not want him to be my first."
"First?" Charles smiled in response.
Anne bit her bottom lip a little, "I am not such a whore after all." She smiled back at him and pushed off his jerkin then untied the bow holding his white undershirt closed. Freely she placed her hands on his chest, his strong, young and well muscled chest. She stared, her mouth dry, feasting her eyes on him while Charles dropped his hands to her waist and the drawstring of her skirt. Dressed only in stays and petticoats Anne led her lover to her bed. She stopped at the edge and turned around so that he could undo the lacing of the stay and once done her underskirt fell away on its own. He traced her curves and kissed her again, slowly lifting her and placing her on the bed. Charles removed his breeches; the lovers beheld the others body as if it were the bountiful oasis in the desert dunes. He slowly advanced on her, his hands drifting over her, exploring her body like no other man.
"Please," Anne mewed, her voice trembling. Gently he raised himself on top of her, aligning their bodies and with a palpable effort held himself there. Charles patted kisses over her face and neck and Anne instinctively pressed herself to him. She held her breath and bit her lip. There was a sting and shifting as she discovered this new sensation. There was some discomfort but was quickly pushed aside as the pain gave way to truest pleasure as Charles moved in earnest. This night she would never forget; his taste, his smell, the feel of him this first time. With only a few hours to spend together they wasted not a moment; when not making love they lay side by side, from time to time trembling with little aftershocks, or absentmindedly tracing their fingers along the curves and dips of their bodies, or simply holding each other before taking to each other's arms again.
.
In the early hours of the morning, before the sun graced the sky, Anne and Charles woke together. However the passion which had caught them was broken and a sullen, sombre realisation sat in its place. Charles wrapped his strong arms around her, pulling her as close as possible without crushing her. They kissed, sweet and innocently.
"You are so beautiful." Charles whispered as he pulled back the hair from her face and caressed her jaw. They huddled close against the morning chill, the only sound in the room their breathing. Outside a bird merrily chirped to itself. Reluctantly Anne sat up and got out of bed, faintly on the horizon there was pinkness and no longer could the morning be denied.
"You should go." Not looking at him Anne picked up her skirts and stay and half dressed herself, behind she heard the rustling of fabric as Charles did the same.
"I'll go to Hever, if there are any horses left in this place." Anne knelt down and picked up Charles' discarded doublet. Like a loving wife she held it up so Charles could slip his arms in and then devotedly fastened the same buttons which she had previously fought with. Once finished she rested her hands on his collar.
"Now go," She softly ordered. Charles stalled, rubbing her arms helplessly, the reluctance was mutual. There was something that needed to be said but neither could find the words, or they didn't want to say them. Either way Charles slowly walked out of Anne's rooms leaving her alone with the songbird taunting her.
Anne collapsed on the bed. It still smelt of him. It smelt of them both and of the heady aroma of sex, almost overpowering the stench from the herbs of purification. Warmth lingered on his side of the bed. She breathed in deeply and held the bed clothes close, wrapping herself in a cocoon of blanket but it was undeniable that the same bed she had slept in many times now felt larger and emptier than before. Though she felt the bitter hand of loneliness reaching out to her, Anne took some solace in the ache between her legs – it was proof that last night had happened, not a dream, and that Charles' name would be etched into her mind, soul and now body for eternity. Then a sudden it hit her. She sat bolt upright and hurriedly looked over her room. At the foot of her bed lay the evidence, a ruined and stained underskirt trapped between the mattress and blankets. But how to dispose of it? There was no fire to burn it and what if she summoned a maid to light one and they saw it? Never mind that burning something so big might set the palace on fire. Out the window? No, it would be too obvious where it had come from. Randomly her mind conjured something a lady had once said while Anne was in service to the Duchess of Savoy, that in some places they would hang the bloodied wedding night sheets out the window as proof of consummation and the bride's virtue. Anne sniggered at her own morbid curiosity; thank God they don't practice that in England. She could try to take it to the palace washers herself but if she were to be seen, whether by servant or noble, there would be rumours in no time at all quickly followed by the wrath of her father, let alone the King's. Anne cursed under her breath before pulling the garment free. Curious she wandered into the next room. Scatter about lay books, a lute, some incomplete embroidery and a pair of large and most definitely sharp sewing scissors.
.
Although the Anne's excuse of cutting herself while sewing, regardless that it had been the middle of the night and the random buttons strewn about the floor, even sounded farfetched in her own ears her maids knew better than to question it. A plain girl scuttled the underskirt away with the rest of the dirty linen to the palace washers and Anne at last felt a little weight taken from her shoulders. She sat in front of her mirror with a maid fawning over her hair. Dreamily, and a little bored, Anne watched her reflection, her mind wandering and lingering over her night with Charles. Then, from behind, the girl who handled Anne's dresses and dirty linen made a sudden noise of distress. Anne turned in time to see the girl cradle her forehead and whimper a little louder.
"Child, what is it?"
"Nothing Madame" She replied, her hand resting on her stomach and not at all convinced by her own lie. "I just felt a little dizzy." Anne held out her arms in an attempt to calm the girl but her nerves had already got the better of her.
"That's it. I've caught the sweat"
"No" Anne got up from her place and took her by the hands hoping it would reassure her. The girl complained of pains, not an odd symptom for any ailment, and sunk to knees pulling Anne down with her. Out the corner of her eye Anne saw the maid who had previously waited on her back away from the pair of women on the floor. The girl's breathing became laboured though that was more due to her panic than illness. The poor creature was terrified so Anne drew her into a motherly embrace and the girl settled. However, the peace did not last. She began to sob, her sobs turned to cries and as she doubled over in pain the cries gave way to a scream.
.
In no time at all the Boleyn's were bundled in to a carriage and making for Hever. Even when Anne first laid eyes on it she felt her gut twist with a sudden bout of panic; two black horses pulling a black carriage, not ominous at all.
There was a pregnant silence inside the carriage as the horseman spurred the animals on, the wheels rumbling harshly against the ground.
"How do you feel?" Thomas Boleyn asked his daughter. Anne looked increasingly wan and pale.
"I feel fine papa" The effect of the ride not helping her already churning stomach. Her father frowned. Boleyn nervously twiddled his thumbs and inched away from his daughter.
"You're sure"
"What are you saying?" He didn't answer, his eyes looked a little bloodshot yet Anne couldn't cipher whether he was worried for his daughter or for the potential loss of his influence. "Because of my maid I am certain to be contaminated?" Boleyn denied it with an unconvincing heartfelt attempt. Anne looked away, focusing her attention to anything outside the carriage and trying not to panic. She did feel unwell but surely that was normal for a coach ride? Without permission her mind raced to the list Henry had sent her, only a fool would think sending a loved one a detailed list of symptoms would help hypochondria.
It began with a headache and a feeling of weakness or heaviness in the limbs, or with pains in the heart, or stomach pains, a shivering, maybe a rash. Then the fever came with oppressive heat and unquenchable thirst. Always ending in a sudden outbreak of sweating, a foul, stinking sweat. Within a few hours most were dead. A man could be "merry at dinner and dead by supper"
The thought crept into her mind, 'do I have the sweat?'. The more she thought about it the more certain she became and the faster her pulse became. It drummed in her ears almost drowning out the thud of hooves. Her breath started to come in short gasps.
"What is it?" Boleyn demanded; his own panic rising.
"I can't breathe" she gasped. Anne tugged at her bodice trying to loosen some space for breath. "I can't breathe, stop the coach." Before the carriage had pulled to a stop Anne had already opened the door and tumbled out onto unsteady legs. Anne walked on, dragging in air against her chest that felt as though it were caught in a vice. The carriage rolled slowly on keeping pace with the terrified girl. Behind her father called but she paid little attention, she just kept walking, her gaze fixed ahead of her. Anne didn't know what she felt more of, fear that she was going to die or regret for all the things she should miss. Tears rolled down her cheeks, cold and salty tears.
Not overly satisfied with it (when don't I say that?) but I can't leave you without for any longer. Any complaints, criticisms, suggests you know what to do. And I haven't abandoned this, Uni has a nack of killing an creativity I have.