In the Shadow of Lions: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Chronicles of the Scribe #1)(16)

Wolsey had sent her a few books, knowing that her years in France had given her a man’s education, just one of the little scandals the French were known to cause. There was a book in the satchel from Sir Thomas More called Utopia. Anne found it a strange turn from a man well known for torturing men in his gatehouse when their ideologies conflicted with his own. One man had died before More could torture him properly, so More had dug him up and burned him, dead—yet still he publicly promoted his idea of a peaceable utopia.

There was a tract, in Latin, on repentance and the miracles Christ performed when saints turned back to Him with their whole hearts. Anne wished the author had considered that sometimes Christ didn’t want the saint back. This, at least, was what she felt.

Her own book, the forbidden Hutchins book, was not in her things. Someone had it. Someone knew her secret. The book would not forget her; she had a shadowy feeling the book was not done with her. She would see it again.

She sighed; none of these dead books inspired tonight. She tried to sleep but could not get warm. She blew out the candle and listened, shivering in her bed, tears evaporating on her cheeks, leaving her cold and miserable. There was an owl nearby who hooted to her and the insects keening together. No human voice could be heard, and Anne was glad. She fell asleep, still shivering, murmuring the prayers she had been taught in France.

Only once did she wake, when she had grown too warm under her blankets. In the darkness she heard the redwings singing as they flew away, the last of them leaving now that the weather was turning warmer. “See! See! See it!” they called, their tiny voices singing as they flew on.

Anne reached down to pull a blanket off, wondering dully how she had come to be under such a blanket, when there had been nothing but a silk coverlet she remembered seeing on the bed. But her mind was occupied with matters greater than blankets, and she returned to these thoughts in her sleep.



Three more days and nights passed. Every morning about five, when the sun was beginning to light the clouds that rested on the far horizon, Anne heard the horses and the men, saddling for a day of hunting. Henry was always among them. She could tell when he walked among them: their voices became soft, even as he thundered about. Every evening, near six, when the sun had made a start on its setting, she heard them return, the horses exhausted and breathing hard, Henry bellowing about what he shot or missed. He was escorted into the castle and all was quiet again. These glances through the glass windows with iron scrolls protecting her were her only glimpses of the world.



The eighth morning she sat at the table, brushing her black hair out, studying her face in the mirror. She didn’t care much for the proportions or effect. The ladies of fashion had pale, powdered skin and fair hair, just as Queen Catherine had. Anne could not undo everything God had set in her, so she regarded herself with only fleeting care. She found greater pleasure in reading and sports, and neither activity required her to be beautiful.

She was still in her thin shift and had no time to cover herself when the door opened. He stood there.

“Anne.”

She glared at him, once, before the view behind him drew her eye. She saw the sun was not yet too high, and the roses were all in bloom. The breeze entered, dancing past him and parading around her chamber.

“Come with me on a walk,” he said.

She stood, shoving the chair back in her hurry.

He held up a hand. “You really should dress.”

She ground her teeth in humiliation, keeping her eyes away from his. In court, no one was ever to look a king in the eyes, but Henry was known for his bald staring. He kept control this way, the servants said, for he watched every courtier to know their mind even before they spoke.

“Turn around,” she said, meeting his eyes as she delivered the command.

He turned.

Anne slipped a petticoat on, crushing it between her knees so she could pull up the farthingale next. She yanked her bodice down after that, and noticed it was not as tight as last week. Days of anxiety in this prison had left her weak and thin. But she could walk. She would not have to talk, or listen, but she could walk in the open air. She was not altogether dressed, but there was no need to present her best self.



Within minutes, Anne was outside for the first time in eight days. She touched every new green leaf, ran her hands over every plant and along the rivers of bark running up and down the yew trees.

Henry watched her but said nothing, keeping a few paces away as she wandered through the garden, testing and inhaling the fragrances and turning her face up to the sun.

Bees swarmed the tall purple blossoms that edged the beds, and Anne could almost taste the honey that would be on the table in a few weeks. This was a spring thrown out into the world with abandon, every plant and creature catching its fever.

“Catherine’s ladies say you are a witch,” Henry said.

“They’re fools and liars. No good Christian should listen to them,” Anne retorted.

“You’re a good Christian?” Henry asked.

“Yes.”

“Yet you’ve listened to fools and liars about me, haven’t you?”

“I’ve only listened to my sister. How do you classify her?”

Henry stopped to smell a bloom just beginning to split the green seams of its bud. He didn’t answer.

“You’ve already taken what you wanted from my family,” Anne finished. “Why must you ruin me, too? You should keep your word and send me away. Today.”