In the Shadow of Lions: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Chronicles of the Scribe #1)(11)
A guard met her there with a professional disinterest, which she knew would be responsible for a thousand rumours by dinner.
Chapter Six
She was right.
At dinner every woman at the court paid great attention to Anne without speaking to her. She felt their eyes on her, and they were cold. She was not used to being so scorned. Steadying her fork as she raised it to her mouth, she swallowed only once when she raised her cup. She missed her friends at the French court, she missed her brother, she missed being liked. She had not even been allowed to see her betrothed, Lord Percy, since her return.
It was a cold rain the day she got off the ship and it rained still—at least in her soul—a sour rain that could cause nothing to grow. Perhaps soon she would be finished here, the family’s name restored, and she would sleep beside Percy every night. Her small act of rebellion, bringing a forbidden book into the country, had gone unnoticed. Indeed, some of the nobles here already had it.
The servants set before her a bowl of steaming pottage and a plate of roasted venison. She sat at an enormous table with courtiers lined up according to rank and usefulness to the crown, servants and pages darting in among the diners to deliver food and messages. The cook’s politics involved the belly only, not books, so the servers spoke freely with Anne. She silently blessed them for it.
“How do you like the venison, my lady?”
“It is wonderful,” Anne said, throwing a bone on the floor, as was the custom. “Though I feel sympathy for it, having been hunted by this court. Everyone here relishes the suffering of the weak.”
The server, a boy of about thirteen, noted the women staring at Anne. He winked at her and set a plate of fine bread on the table.
“Anyone hunting in here would need mighty sharp arrows to pierce those old hides,” he remarked, and Anne laughed out loud.
Everyone stopped.
“Anne?” Queen Catherine spoke from the head of the table. King Henry was not beside her. He had not joined her at dinner since Anne had come to court. “What remark has pleased you?”
Anne wiped her fingers on her bread and rested her hands in her lap. “I meant no disrespect. I was enjoying the dinner.”
Catherine stared at her, but Anne could not see what the queen weighed in her mind. Catherine brushed her hand across her face and returned to eating in silence, her cold face intent on Anne’s. If Queen Catherine blamed her for her sister, Anne did not know. Anne’s sister was carrying Henry’s baby, and the family’s shameful secret was everyone’s favourite course at this table. Anne had been retrieved from the French queen’s court to serve Catherine in humble apologetic submission, and her father hoped she would redeem the family’s name. Anne wanted only to marry Percy and be free of them all. This was what pleased God, the priests said: Women living in obedient service, tending hearth and children. Anne had learned in France that she could never please both a royal court and God, and she had seen too many broken lives at court to set her heart there. She would marry and be free at last to live by the church’s rules instead of men’s.
With the next round of courses, the court returned their attention to Catherine, and Anne was relieved to be ignored again.
After dinner, the noon sun was burning the last of the morning clouds away, and Anne requested permission to rest in the quiet of her bedchamber rather than accompany the women to the garden for music. It was not a thing that would be done by another lady of the court, but Catherine walked as if in a dream and gave her leave with no further thought. Catherine did not have the energy to sustain a hatred for her. Anne noticed that Dr. Butts, the court physician, hovered around Catherine, testing her brow with his wrist and urging her to sit.
Anne gave it no more consideration and fled to her chamber, the delight of having it alone making it the sweetest place on earth. Ten empty beds greeted her and the drapes were drawn against the window so that it was shadowed, the still air sweet and heavy inside the thick castle walls, making exquisite conditions for a nap. She had slept, but not truly rested, in the weeks since she had been here, always awaking to the feeling that something had been near. The book was still on the foot of the bed, and she glared at it, moving it to a night table where it would not be disturbed by a breeze.
Taking off her farthingale and laying it over the foot of the bed, she pulled back her coverlets and saw it.
A new sleeping gown, soft white linen with ribbons gathering the neck and sleeves and painstaking lavender embroidery spiraling the sleeves and down the front of the gown, with a gold weave of the great Tudor rose. It had been folded and placed under her coverlet, and a note fell away as she lifted it up for inspection.
Because you did not despise the sorrow of a broken man.
There was no signature.
There was a stirring of air around her, and Anne covered her mouth with her hands. She could not tell where the stirring came from … if something was sweeping in or departing. Either way, she sensed the breaking fissure beneath her and prayed.
“Anne, Anne.”
She opened her eyes and winced. Someone had pulled back the drapes and the sun was at its peak. It must have been nearly four in the afternoon, and the youngest of the ladies-in-waiting, a girl named Jane, was still shaking her.
“Anne, you must dress. The masquerade is starting!”
Anne sat up. She held the sleeping gown in her hands like a blanket and slid it out of view under the coverlet, frowning. Jane did not notice but grabbed Anne’s hands and helped her dress. Anne studied the girl when she could, wondering why this lady-in-waiting had warmed to her.