In the Shadow of Lions: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Chronicles of the Scribe #1)(15)
“It’s much better to live today, to be the one who steals and ruins?” the Scribe asked. “You have done so well with your liberty.”
“I’m not going to talk about that.”
“But why? You want people to know. You want them to understand what you felt, because it means so much to you. Emotion is law to this generation. I feel, therefore I act. I do not feel pain, therefore it must be okay. Tell me what you felt, Bridget. It matters so very much now, doesn’t it?”
Hearing my name startled me.
“Not at all,” I lied. “This is your story, not mine. Continue.”
Chapter Seven
“I need fresh air,” she pleaded. “This is a catacomb.”
A Yeoman shut the door behind him as he left. He had appeared when Wolsey escorted her from his office and had not left her side yet. He was a man of considerable height, with a face red from the sun and white whiskers around his chin. His hair peeked out from his hat, and she could tell it was a reddish colour, though flecked also with white. His face was familiar to her, with deep lines under his eyes and around his mouth, a face made gentle by years of harsh treatment and bitter weather. He was, she decided, a true son of England, as content to serve others as to rule them.
The apartment was gilded in every possible way: Gold bullions ran along the ceiling, woods carved with delicate patterns set off by the gild. The chairs were set off in gold, with green silk cushions and tassels. The bed was monstrous, crafted of dark wood, with starbursts carved into the top finials and lions’ feet resting on the floor at each corner. Anne pulled back the sheer curtains that ran along all four sides of the bed to peer in. Along the headboard, running along the highest beam, were the words Dread God. Love God. Blessed be God!
There were silk tapestries hung from the walls showing the great miracles of Christ and embroidered rugs at her feet showing Hercules’ great deeds. In any direction she was wooed by the money fairly dripping from the place, and the first bloomed roses cut and displayed at her bedside and table and on perches throughout the apartment. She did not know where these had come from; someone must have ridden a distance to find a warmer garden in bloom. Anne breathed in deeply as she tried to steady her mind from this rapid turning of events.
Their fragrance was thick—and the first sweet thing she had found in England. She walked to the vase at the bedside and touched the cool petals. They were softer than any linen on her bed. Working only with mud and storms and heat, God crafted such wonder that no craftsman could duplicate, though he had all the materials in the world. Anne smiled and thought her life was misspent; she should have been a butterfly. Contented to fly for a few days, with nectar for wine and blossoms for blankets, she would not protest a short life. And she would not make so many mistakes.
“Anne,” a deep voice said.
The voice startled her and she screamed, bumping against the table she leaned on so that the roses spilled onto the floor.
Henry entered, taking slow, circling, deliberate steps, like a hunter watching a fallen deer to know how deep the arrow had gone. Anne grabbed the vase, lying on its side on the table, and hurled it at him.
He edged closer.
“Get away from me!” Anne screamed.
Other guards looked in, smiled at each other, and resumed their posts beside her Yeoman.
“I will have nothing to do with you!” she yelled.
“Sit down, Anne.” Henry stopped and motioned for her to sit. The gesture carried the command of his office. She sat on the edge of the bed and cursed the table chair for being too far away. She didn’t like even sitting on a bed in front of him. She wished there were no bed in the room at all, no suggestion of the things he must be thinking.
“What do you want from me?” he asked her.
She gasped without meaning to. “I don’t want anything from you,” she spat.
He waited. “Everyone wants something, Anne.”
Anne’s mouth twisted. “If I tell you what I want, will you let me have it?”
“Of course,” he replied.
“I want to be sent away from here. I want to marry Lord Percy. And I never want to see you again.”
“You can’t return home, Anne. There are too many rumours circulating about you.” He moved a little closer, and Anne sat up straight. “We’ll have to repair that…. You don’t love Lord Percy.” He was only a few steps from her. “I didn’t even need to meddle in that, save for canceling the marriage contract because you were too weak to do it yourself.”
“I certainly don’t love you,” she said.
He turned to walk away.
“Wait!” she called out. “You promised to give me what I asked for!”
“No, Anne.” He smiled. “I promised to give you what you want. And I will.” He walked to the door, his hand on the frame when he looked back to her. “You are a true maid?”
She scrambled to grab something else from the desk to throw at him. He ducked as he pushed the door open. Anne listened to it lock from the outside.
The afternoon faded, and an unwelcome night spread around her. It was cold, the cold of a spring not fully resolved to allow summer to enter. Spring was inconstant in England, with all the charms and frustrations of pretty girls who flirt one day and play petulant the next. Still, all loved her and greedily awaited her favour.