In the Shadow of Lions: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Chronicles of the Scribe #1)(12)
“They made fun of me at music today. I have no ear for singing, yet they forced me to sing alone, just to make the queen laugh.”
“I am sorry, Jane.”
Anne was shivering in her chemise, though the sun was warm. She could see the dust floating through the air, kicked up when Jane helped her step into her petticoat, the farthingale going over this. The corset went over her head, and Anne began to feel like herself again after her nap, the layers of clothes bolstering her to face the women. Jane fastened the bumroll and parlet on next, and whipped around to grab the kirtle that went on top of the underskirts. The gown itself was the last piece, split open down the skirt so that the kirtle could be seen.
Anne favoured a headpiece she had brought from France, but Jane had trouble securing it.
“I am sorry, Anne! I can’t set it right. Why don’t you wear one of mine?”
“No, let me show you how,” Anne offered, guiding her hand, holding the headpiece down so Jane could secure it.
“You shouldn’t wear it. The queen does not like the ways of the French court.”
“The queen will sooner send me away.” She caught Jane’s hand after the piece was secured. “I am not like my sister, Jane.”
“You shouldn’t draw attention to yourself,” Jane replied. “We are here to serve the court, not command it.”
“Let it remind them that I am different,” Anne said. “I will not make the mistakes of my sister, but neither will I atone for her. I want no part of this court.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” Jane asked.
Anne started to ask why just as a cannon went off from the palace wall. They both screamed from fright. Seeing each other’s hysterical faces, they fled, laughing, down the hall to join the others.
Inside the gilded gold of the banquet hall, a towering white wall had been set in place, with windows and doors painted on it. Ladders leaned against the wall in several places, some connected with a plank across the top to make a scaffold. Workers tested the ladders as others brought in baskets of oranges, setting them beneath the ladders. Anne and Jane joined the other ladies attending Queen Catherine. Catherine sat on a carved dark wood chair, her skirts spreading wide so no one could stand less than five feet from her. Ladies had to shout to be heard over the noise of the work. Catherine’s face was pinched and red, as if she had been weeping, and the women struggled to say merry things to her. Anne tried to smile with detached encouragement whenever Catherine’s face turned in her direction. Catherine saw her headpiece and scowled.
The workers finished their efforts and ran from the room, closing all the doors behind them.
Catherine rose and pressed her palms against her cheeks, inhaling a ragged, determined breath. “Bolt the doors!” she commanded.
Her ladies squealed and ran for the doors, bolting them by pushing a brace against the handles. Anne stood stupidly at Catherine’s side, having no idea what to do. In the time it took her to understand the queen’s command, it was already done—the ladies, laughing, had rushed about, checking the windows, and had flown back to Catherine’s side.
“They approach!” Jane cried out from her perch at a window.
Catherine stood. “When they breach the door, climb to the fortress and defend it! I will reward the maid who acts with courage—and an extra reward for the one with the best aim!”
Every woman stopped where she was and watched the doors, some women turning slow circles to see each one at either end of the room. Anne’s heart pounded. When the first door received a thunderous blow, the spell was broken. Ladies ran screaming for the fortress, grabbing as many oranges as they could stuff into their bosoms and skirts and still navigate the ladders. They began to hand oranges up to the women on the scaffolds, working with speed to empty the baskets as the doors blasted open.
Jane grabbed Anne’s hand and pulled her to the fortress as Catherine returned to sitting and watched with a vague smile. They climbed higher and higher up a ladder, struggling to balance their weight on the crude rungs, laughing when the fortress shook.
The doors slammed back with such force that the tapestries fluttered against the walls. Masked men poured into the room and ran for the fortress as the ladies pelted them with oranges, some hurling them with enough force to knock a man off his feet. Anne laughed, and no one turned to stare at her. In the chaos of flying oranges, frivolous taunts, and men smeared with pith and juice, Anne laughed as loudly as she wanted and no one scolded. She only wished she had taken more oranges.
A few of the men had maneuvered under a ladder, safely away from the stinging orange missiles, and used their swords to hack at the ladder’s joints. A pair of ladies crashed to the floor in a collapse of wood and laughter, and the men turned their attention to another ladder and another pair of armed women.
One man was dressed like all the others but stood so tall that he caught her eye. He had to be at least six foot six, a monster compared to the smaller men in court, and he was well built too. He stood still, surveying the madness and marking each woman on the fortress. Anne noticed Catherine’s sad, eager smile focused on him and his utter indifference to her. It infuriated Anne. Every court was the same: Pressed, thin lips and cold stillness polluting the room when words and action could clear the air.
Anne grabbed an orange and struck the man as hard as she could, hoping Catherine would see. It caught him on the back of the head, and he turned and smiled up at her as Catherine’s mouth dropped open. His amusement did not please Catherine, whose pinched face grew redder as she spat out a word to Dr. Butts, who was checking her brow. Court politics, Anne decided, was perhaps not her own best talent.