If the patient could survive the first day and night of sickness, he had a chance of survival. If not, well at least the suffering was not long.
Upstairs in a private bedroom of Hever Castle it was unnaturally quiet. A letter from the King lay discarded on a desk, buried under a mess of basins, stained rags and doctors implements; 'eat and drink sparingly, burn coal braziers, wash the walls and floors with vinegar' the list went on. However, such detailed instructions were of no use now, Anne Boleyn already lay in her bed, her body overcome with such a sickness that she did not have even the strength to cry out in pain, though she did not have the inclination to do so even if she could.
Though the night was not warm, and no fire burned in the room, sweat beaded on her brow. A thin film of sweat had also formed on her top lip. Anne lay, wracked with shudders, almost unconscious. Her body was drenched in sweat. Doctor Linacre bent over her; a tourniquet was tied tightly around her upper left arm, and cut into a vein. While he drained her arm Anne studied the man's face; he was tall, though slightly stooped, with a heavily lined face and a kindly expression but noticeably anxious. The blood pooled into a copper dish and when sufficient had been gathered Doctor Linacre withdrew and Anne's maid dressed the wound with thick gauze. Doctor Linacre studied his fresh sample for some time, noting the colour and tipping the dish ever so slightly to examine its fluidity. Without a word he left, the hopelessness of her situation written on his face. The door closed softly behind him yet in the quiet Anne could just make out his words to her brother and father,
"In my opinion, there is no hope. The vital signs of life are weak and worsening. The priest should attend her now, in extremeness. I'm very sorry."
There was an audible sob, the voice recognisable as George, then silenced reigned once more. Anne slipped into an uneasy and dreamless sleep, when she awoke an old man hovered over her, rosary in hand, muttering her last rites. When the old man had finished Anne beckoned over her maid and demand that they wash her, she could not stand lying in a pool of sweat even if she was dying. It took all Anne's effort to remain conscious while the girl reluctantly swabbed Anne's body with a wet rag but when the girl withdrew and Anne had on a clean nightgown she fell into a deep and dark sleep.
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Anne was running through the maze, behind she could hear the sound of the royal hounds bounding after her. Her heart raced in her chest to the point she thought it would stop when the skies tore open with a roar of thunder and poured rain down on her. She turned a corner to find a dead end but when she turned to go back the maze suddenly grew up around her until the four walls of leaves loomed high above her. As quickly as they had risen, the walls fell back revealing a path and Anne was suddenly watching herself from afar. The terrified girl ventured further until she reached the centre of the maze where a ghastly sight waited for her.
Set firmly in the ground stood a crucifix and tied to it, limp and lifeless, was Charles, his stomach split open and innards hanging freely from his belly. Anne collapsed to her knees at its base with wail that shook her entire body. She reached up and could just touch his foot, his blood dripping slowly on to her hand, then with a simultaneously sob and crash of thunder the maze began to flood. The waters rose higher and higher until Anne was drowning in a vast black ocean, the weight of the water crashing down her. As her lungs burned for air she realised Charles had disappeared, she was alone in this horribly silent world. Then an alien noise came, like a moan, and in the distance a shape, large and yellowish, drew closer. It was huge, a giant golden whale swimming directly towards Anne at a tremendous speed. Then, like the story of Jonah, the whale opened its castle wide mouth and swallowed Anne whole.
When Anne opened her eyes she was lying on the Queen's bed. Her majesties chambers were empty, the curtains and shutters still closed so only a sliver of light broke into the rooms, and eerily quiet. Anne stood from the bed and walked out to the Drawing Room, her footsteps echoing loudly down the empty halls, and heard something. Quiet at first then louder and louder until it was inside her head. The cry of a baby tore through her brain when the ground started to shake, the wood flooring beneath her feet gave a terrifying creak and several long thorny arms shot up from the ground. They quickly seized Anne by her wrists and ankles, the thorns pressing painfully in to her flesh and drawing blood, while another arm snaked up her leg, past her belly, scratching over her breast and slowly wrapped itself around her neck. Tighter and tighter it gripped, Anne couldn't breathe, she couldn't think and all the while the infant's screams rung harshly in her ears. But there was something, the faint sense of a fight taking in place, someone come for her. She could not see, her hold on consciousness slipping with each breath denied. One of the veins seizing her wrist retreated but it was too late and Anne's world slipped into black.
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Anne slowly opened her eyes and she was back in her room at Hever. She lay absolutely still, waiting for the next onslaught of her nightmare but nothing came. Her body felt heavy and her strength was all but gone yet something in her felt recovered. Sluggishly her eyes looked down the line of her nose to look at her body; she had been laid out for death, if she had the strength she would have laughed. Mustering what little life she had Anne raised her ailing voice, "Water" the sound that came out was not Anne, it was too raspy and dry as though it were of someone who had just been let down from a noose. She tried again a little louder, "Water!", it was painful but her effort roused her weeping maid. The young attending girl rushed to her mistress clasping her hand and then quickly retrieved water from a table. Anne tried to hold herself up but her arms were too weak and she lay stranded like a babe. With a nod the maid propped Anne up against many pillows to support her back then ladled the water into her mouth with all care and attention of a dutiful mother. Her thirst sated Anne sank back against the pillows and her maid rushed out of the room.
"Master! Come, come and see her!"
The momentarily deathly silence in the corridors of Hever Castle was finally broken by the rumble of running feet. "Papa, come quickly" George shouted to his father, fearing the worst for his little sister, and burst into Anne's room. She looked thin and wan, her eyes shadowed and looking paler than ever but she was indeed alive. With a faint smile Anne acknowledged her brother and was shortly joined by their father. Thomas Boleyn fell to his knees at his daughter's bedside.
"Oh, sweet Lord" he panted between kisses to her hand. "You know what you've done child? You've risen from the dead" He was almost laughing for joy and for a single serene moment Anne thought her father was truly glad his daughter had survived. "Now you can see the king again," he exclaimed happily "it can be just as before," Anne stared at him in momentary disbelief, and then quickly dropped her gaze, how could she expect any more from her father. Boleyn stroked the side of his daughter's face the way one does when appreciating fine cloth. With a weary sigh Anne sank into the pillows and closed her eyes. In truth it was not the thought of seeing the King again that distressed her, in fact in light of situations he was a tolerable substitute for a certain Duke, but that she had sunk so low in her father's value that in his eyes her salvation was little more than another chance at riches. Where had the man that played games with his children on summer nights, or who had chastised his brother-in-law, Phillip Calthorpe, for scaring Anne and George with a ghost story, gone?
Her father got to his feet, still looking incredibly proud of himself, and clapped his hands together appraisingly. "Just like before" he repeated then left. George still lay at the bottom of his sister's bed, he had said nothing, only watched and Anne's reluctance was not unknown to him as it was his father. He gently patted his sister's leg.
"I'll wager he's off to write to His Majesty now."
Anne did not move.
"There are worse things in this world than to be a King's Mistress. And besides, it would not be like Mary and Francois, Henry wants you to be his Official Mistress."
He struggled for something to say; as much as he wanted to comfort his little sister he was caught in the awful dilemma that though he loved her as much as any brother could and wanted to protect her, he could not say that the position and power her sacrifice gave the family was unwanted.
"At least the King is young and, some think, handsome.."
Anne rolled her head to the side and with a sigh interrupted George,
"That's not the point."
"Point of what?"
There was silence. The words ran from Anne as she tried to form the vaguest appearance of logic about an idea that was so concrete in her head.
"Love? For us there is no such privilege. Besides, you might grow to like the King and if not, one day he will give you children and you can love them," George rose from the bed and kissed his sister firmly on her forehead. "Rest now," and once again Anne was alone. Utterly alone and it was bliss. The thoughts that moments ago that were scuttling though her mind gradually slowed and all resistance fell as Anne succumbed to another sleep, this time without the nightmares.
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Some hours later the sound of the maids bustling about her room roused Anne from her slumber. On the desk where torture-like medical instruments had rested not long ago were piles of fresh laundry – sheets and bedding to replace the current ones that stank of sweat. Though her limbs still felt heavy, using her ever building stores of new energy Anne lifted herself up using the bed post as a crutch. A maid watched and offered to help but Anne was determined to stand on her own feet by her own will. It is a strange thing to suddenly stand after weeks of being bedbound; legs which have lain redundant and forgotten how to support a weight suddenly recall all ability to balance and bear the body about, though shaky at first and the odd cramp as muscles reluctantly are forced by fresh blood to move. Step after tentative step Anne regained her freedom and her body felt more alive with the blessed relief of activity.
"Girl, have a bath drawn for me and, for the love of God, have someone change those sheets" Anne gave a tittering laugh and the maid set to work. Two girls scuttled into her room and remade the bed while Anne stood by her desk watching with a somewhat misplaced interest. A little devious smile graced Anne's face and soon enough, as her bath water was drawn, Anne felt something of her old self return with a ferocious swoop of determination.
There was no denying the pleasure that washed over her as she sank into the rose-petalled waters of her first bath in too long a time. It was more than refreshing; it was pure and utter Heaven. With a wonderful sensation of overindulgent satisfaction Anne slowly, almost teasingly, sank lower and lower into the bath until finally her whole body was submerged. She held herself there as long as her breath would permit with her eyes scrunched closed, then in the dark a memory of that dream came and Anne shot to the surface, gulping down air and sending water everywhere. She was gripped by an unnecessary fear but there is was; the panic in her chest that made her heart beat faster than a savage's war drum. Yet, there was no whale; there was nothing to harm her.
"Girl, get me some wine" She ordered, her voice noticeably shaky. Alone she sat waiting for her maid in silence, vaguely she tried to draw reason from her dream but she was neither philosopher nor astrologer and when the girl returned, with each mouthful of the tangy beverage her nerves abated and her heart rested. Wrapped in the waters and the drugging affect of her drink she seemed to forget all that she had feared moments ago.
"A mirror" She bid, trading her wine for a piece of glass. Anne held the cold mirror in her hands and watched as the steam crawled over her reflection.
"Now leave me" Her maids hurried out. Anne wiped away a streak from her reflection that she might look herself in the eye.
There were worse things in this world than to be a royal mistress and, in all honesty, a future with Charles was impossible. Charles was married to Henry's sister, even if Henry could forgive his marrying Margaret without permission, if Charles and Anne admitted their affair or were caught together, that would be a mark against the King and an insufferable blow to Henry's pride. Charles would not be spared the axe this time, or worse, he would be given that long and unspeakable death of a traitor.
True, Anne did not love the King but she was fond of him and, who knows, maybe in time, once her heart had time enough to grieve, she may learn to love him. If not she would just have to pretend, other ladies would deny their self a life and lock themselves in a nunnery but Anne could not bear that. To be imprisoned until use and old age take them. No life, no joy, no memory. She loved Charles but they could not be, it was too impossible and she would not risk him.
Things would be so much simpler if society did not hold such double standards when it came to extramarital affairs. For a man, most certainly the King, it is almost expected and should they get caught there is little to no reprimand to be paid, hell they may even boast their number of conquests. However, should a woman be caught she was damned, an unmarried girl lost all value and a wife became a disgrace who could be burned, if her husband was that possessive, or cast out with no-one to keep her and no-one willing to risk sullying their reputation by association. For all the corruption, the vice and debauchery, the orgies of Caligula's Rome certainly made things simpler.
Anne emptied her glass with a huff of disappointment. She had two roads to choose from and both ended in heartache.
She was resolved; she would not risk Charles' life and though she may not love the King, nor come to marry him, she could use him. She could become greater than any of her fellows, rising higher in rank and esteem than any royal. She could become more loved not only in the eyes of the King but of his people. With time, and her fabled perseverance, she would be made immortal in the memory of this country. And who knows, maybe she could grow to like Henry after all.
.
The Sweat retreated across England and soon it was deemed safe enough for Lords and Ladies to return to court and no other was more relieved than the King. He looked up at the tower which had been his home these past few weeks and smiled. He dug his heels into his horse's flanks and began the long ride back to London. His party drove their horses hard across the Welsh lowlands and chased the Sun over the horizon into Shropshire. It would take a further six days until they arrived in London but nothing would come in the way of the libertine Monarch and seeing his Lady. Elsewhere up and down the country others were making such journeys, though at a more leisurely pace.
The Duke of Suffolk's household was buzzing with activity as the final preparations were made for the Duke's return to court. Margaret, however, was less than enthusiastic.
Even though she was glad for the sickness to be gone, she maintained her position that she would never set foot in any of her brother's palaces until he gave up the Boleyn harlot. That her husband was more than eager to return did little to improve her temper, typical of her Tudor blood, and the irritableness given by her condition made matters no better. The not so happily married couple sat in their drawing room, Margaret entertaining herself with a game of cards and Charles lounged by the fire swirling a glass of wine in his hand. They did not speak to each other yet there was, for Charles, that unbearable staleness that a room gets when one in the party disapproves of another and openly wears it on their face but does not admit it. With a great effort he prised himself from his place and advanced on the window.
"God I loathe the landscape" he moaned before draining his glass completely. "Life in the country chokes you to death. Very, very, slowly."
"You miss life at court sir?" Margaret asked, barely paying much notice to her restless husband.
"I miss the people."
Margaret flipped another card over, placing it back down on the table with an audible twack; the Queen of Spades, the Black Queen.
"All of them? Or is there one in particular?" She eased herself around to stare down her husband.
"My lady Suffolk, you should learn not to ask that sort of question if you wish for this to be a happy marriage."
"Happy? " Margaret turned back to her game, "I had forgotten that word."
Scenes as such were not uncommon in the Duke's household. The pair had little tolerance for each other, something they had never noticed when Charles had spread his time between court and country, now their company was forced upon one another with no comfort of being able to walk out the door. Meaning their days together passed as pleasantly and swiftly as the hundred years war.
When the call from his servants finally came that the horses were ready, cases and bags packed and loaded, and that the Duke may travel to London at his pleasure, Charles could hardly hide his relief. The very next morning he left his country estate, his wife still in her bed, without taking breakfast.
Each mile put between the countryside and the court lifted the oppressive tedium that had clung to everyday and was replaced with a wonderful sense of release and freedom. Charles felt his old self return with a flurry of delightful anticipation and in a rather roguish notion, opened his carriage door and climbed up to sit beside the driver. He gave a shout making the horses ran just a little bit faster and the fresh air hit him. There was the sound of church bells on the wind replacing the doleful, weary ringing of the dead cart bells with joyful pealing, celebrating the abating plague and the triumph of the survival. Charles breathed in deep and almost laughed. It was like the sweat had never come at all.
Life returned to court and for those the sweat had spared they were thankful but normality could not spring back so simply.
Many gathered in the palace chapel and Charles sat in the middle of the sombre scene surrounded by a sea of mourners. There was no priest rambling on of God's omnipotence, his eternal plan or the peace of the hereafter, just a simple requiem for the dead sung by Tallis' choir resonated through the chapel accompanied by a chorus of crying widows.
Beside him lay an empty seat where William should have sat, his spurs rested in his place and behind, in his wife's seat, sat another empty pillow. The empty places dotted the congregation, a spur in place of a departed master or a glove or handkerchief for the mistress and a tiny pair of shoes for any family member who died with them. Friends, husbands and wives all lost. The choir sang on. Even the King, whose public emotions were usually limited to anger or joviality, had given into the sorrow. Henry sat with his Queen, weeping quietly with tear streaked cheeks and she, somewhere between devoted wife and mother, held his hand. A lump formed in Charles throat and he clenched his jaw to fight back the emotion. He scanned the bowed heads for survivors. Three places sat vacant, Thomas, George and Anne Boleyn. A pang of regret struck him and he gave a disappointed sigh; it was common knowledge that the Boleyn's had survived for the day the King returned to court all his questions where of the Lady Anne Boleyn. How far recovered was she? When would she return to court?
Why of all women must he want Anne? But Charles knew exactly whey. Anne did not pander to title or ceremony, she did not submit to a single gift or compliment, she was a challenge and most of all, because once you gained her admiration it was true unlike the all too common sycophants who would declare love for any man if it meant they should benefit. Reasons aside though, why her?
.
Once the service was ended and all protocol had been concluded Henry, impatient for a groomsman, nearly bound to the palace stables to collect his own horse.
He quickly rode out, the rhythm of the horses hooves sounding the words Anne Boleyn in the King's ears. Coming out of a wooded grove he pulled his horse to a stop and was struck dumb by the sight before him, like a starving man suddenly faced with a feast of food. Anne Boleyn lounged in the shade with her maid and at the noise of the horse got to her feet. The pair stared at each other for a long time, just taking the other in for it was all too dream like. Henry threw himself off his horse as Anne slowly walked towards him. She held out her palms flat as a sign of submission but as they drew close whatever ceremony had been intended was defeated by the need for each other. Henry broke into a run and swept her into his arms with a hard, passionate and truly thankful kiss. In that kiss was a prayer, a tribute to God for letting love survive a plague. Henry engorged the sense of feeling Anne, crushing their bodies and lips together, pawing her hair and holding her with a grip that meant 'I will never let you go'.
Exhilarated by love, relief, desire, happiness and all things good on this earth, Henry swung her round and smiled. He rained kisses on her, murmuring her name and then settled into her arms.
"Thank you, thank you God." Unable to think of anything else to say expect her sacred name.
'Anne'
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Wow. Sorry about the wait, was so torn over what to do for this chapter. Thank you for hanging on, thank you for your patience and thank you for the reviews and ever increasing view count.
I really hope you enjoy this chapter, reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome :)