In the Shadow of Lions: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Chronicles of the Scribe #1)(13)
The man walked straight towards Anne, evidently not minding where oranges flew or paying any attention to the cries of the captive maids who called down increasingly ridiculous insults on the victors.
Her knees jellied, and she held tight to the ladder as he climbed it.
He stood beneath her. She noted his sword and the men gathered at his feet, their women surrendered. She was the last woman on her ladder.
“How will you go?” he asked.
He took another step up and extended his arm. Beneath him were more men, their swords ready to bring down the ladder if she refused him. Everyone was silent, watching. Anne could feel their eyes on her, like the heat from a close fire that drew the blood to her cheeks. How did she always manage to shame herself? She bit her cheek to keep a tear from spilling out and lowered herself into his arms.
Her face was inches from his, his red whiskers scratching her cheek as she bumped against him. He smelled of smoky embers and honey, the yeast of English ale and salt of the sea. He was a foreign taste to her French palate of perfumes and gardens, and his mystery made her breath deeply, learning the scent of a man.
He pressed her into his muscular body to lower her down, and his warmth was a childish comfort to her. The confusions in her spirit calmed for a fleeting second.
His hands dug under her ribs as he lowered her, and she tried to readjust her weight. He winced as her legs brushed his.
“Mind the knees,” he whispered.
In the deepest hours of night, when everyone else staggered to their beds for sleep, the women returned from Catherine’s chambers bursting with activity. Anne did not know why they refused sleep before the moon disappeared and breakfast was served. Now their faces appeared grim and determined as they forced their way out of the tight, boned bodices that had been known to crack ribs, and above yards and yards of fabric that announced station and wealth. Everyone was changing into simpler gowns, whispering little instructions to each other.
Jane spoke softly to her as Anne expelled a hard breath and pushed herself out of the bodice. “We must go into the countryside tonight, before the sun rises on the May Day festivities. We go to collect branches of mountain ash.”
“Why?” Anne whispered back.
“A witch has been discovered in the castle. The branches will protect the queen.”
“What evidence of a witch?” Anne asked, straining to turn and see Jane’s face. Jane pressed her face nearer as she did up the laces of the new skirt and bodice. Her voice dropped lower again.
“Catherine miscarried a boy two nights ago, another boy. She always conceives but miscarries, except for Princess Mary. Henry has turned cold towards her and offers her no comfort. Catherine knows he has been seduced again. Tomorrow at dawn is the only moment of the year we may cast a witch out.”
In silence they walked down to the garden and waited for the carriages to be brought round. Anne wondered if they would wait for an hour or more still. Catherine was old, Anne knew, at least forty, and always sleepy after banquets.
But not today. Catherine came to the garden straightaway and was first in a carriage. Anne strained to see if she was frightened, but her closest ladies-in-waiting kept her shrouded from view.
The horses took off with a great lurch and the ladies ran to clamber into their own carriages and follow. They went a short distance, about five or six miles, until the road became clogged with wet leaves and the trees were thick all around.
Catherine alighted first and urged the women to work. The branches had to be gathered while still wet with dew, or they would not work. Anne had no idea what she was to look for and tried to watch the other girls as they worked, but each girl would spy a small tree and remove the choice branches, tucking them into her skirts and dashing to deliver them to Catherine. The creeping fog made it all worse, and the servants held the torches too far away to help Anne see clearly. She arrived at each tree late and gathered nothing. She began to panic, her inexperience marking her out again for ridicule. She wanted to be sent away with honour, Catherine spying some greater piety in her that her sister did not possess. She had never been thought of as the fool, and she panicked to see her plan sliding into some unforeseen pit.
“Anne, quit thinking of yourself and help us!” one scolded her. “We won’t do your work for you!”
But the only flowers she knew by sight here were the hawthorn, and they were not yet in bloom. Even then, she had brought nothing to offer the fairies, so it would not be wise to clip one.
The sun was rising. Catherine called the women back to their carriages, fleeing back to the castle with the witch’s bane as the sun rose. The horses ran with great strength, but the roads were wet and rough, and Anne clung to the side of the carriage. She did not speak. All the words she could say were pooling in her eyes. It did not take the girls long to check and see that Anne had gathered nothing. She tried not to notice their stinging glee.
God, she prayed silently, I thought I could serve You here, but I was wrong. I dishonour us both. Send me away!
The horses were covered in sweat when they arrived, their earnest run under the drivers’ whips having exhausted them. The ladies stepped out of their carriages and ran to attend to Catherine as she stepped down. Every girl except Anne carried her branches like a baby in her arms. Witches frightened them as much as the plague; both could steal in, unseen. Witches could make a man fantasize about another woman until he was driven mad with desire and forced to break the bonds of matrimony. Witches lured women to commit foul acts of desire, which led to the birth of misshapen babies and barren wombs. A single witch could undo the work of a hundred saints. Witches were birthed in hell, and every good Christian prayed to send them back there as well.