In the Shadow of Lions: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Chronicles of the Scribe #1)(9)

So it was that Rose began to love, growing less afraid of them all. They cared nothing of her past; they were too busy weaving her into their futures. The affection she gave them meant nothing to her, though its magic worked within her. Her heart softened and coaxed her arms to hang more loosely at her sides, instead of folded at her chest, so she would receive a hug without bristling. She learned how to give one, too: The proper technique for hugging a child involved sitting on her haunches as the children wrapped thin, tender arms around her neck, pressing their soft cheeks against hers. She learned to wrap her arms around their waists and give a little squeeze back. It was almost always over in a moment, which helped.

One afternoon she settled the children around the table at dinner and retreated to another table at the end of the room to eat her own meal. She lowered herself into the chair, its wood creaking a bit. She had filled out since coming here, discovering little rolls of fat around her waist. Her thighs had lost their harsh definition. She loved the changes, believing them to be proof that she could become a different woman with the regularity of honest work and frequent meals, two things she had never known. Leaning over the children’s books, seeing sketches by the artists of Europe, the fine ladies they drew with round faces and generous bodies, Rose began to believe that she would become one someday herself.

Her face was still warm from the sun, and she was glad to have a moment’s rest. She tucked her hornbook into her skirts, and Margaret made eyes at her. Rose sighed and took it out, setting it beside her bowl. Though she had worked all morning and could read simple sentences, Margaret was not satisfied.

Sir Thomas entered the room and everyone cried out for his attention. The youngest ones giggled and sprang from their chair, forgetting all the lessons of decorum. Their hungry affection for him left no room for pride, and he scolded them only gently as he scooted them back to their chairs. Rose noticed he did not embrace them or return their hugs.

“Come to my study, Rose. I have a special guest who would ask a question of you.”

She swallowed her soup and followed, her thoughts swirling through muddy fear. Sir Thomas opened the door to his study, and she knew. Her stain was discovered.



I was aggravated as I waited for the Scribe to turn the page. It did not turn as a normal book would but had to be coaxed. He spoke a language not of words, but of notes, I suppose, and the pages began to slowly curl, revealing the story word by word.

I was aware of nothing but my breathing. My fingers crushed around a pen, ready to drill out the next chapter. Thomas More, of course, was one of history’s darlings, and every teenager in America was still forced to read his Utopia in English class. At least this story had appeal to history buffs, so I would die writing something that might even turn a profit. My executor would be thrilled.

“He’s a hero everyone loves,” I said, waiting for the stubborn page to unveil the next chapter. It snapped closed over the words like a blanket yanked up in a cold room in winter.

“I just meant that your readers will know who he is, if they stayed awake in English class.” The Scribe glared at me, his immobile face making me feel like a child, or an idiot, or both.

“What you call history is written by another scribe, one who sets each generation upon the next, like dominoes.”

He shook his head. “Real history is a dangerous, unfinished story.” He heard something and his face turned to the door. I jerked and looked, but there was nothing.

He stared at the door, his eyes narrowing, one hand lifting, pointing to it. He spoke to me, still watching the door, as he nodded and began to lower his arm. “A selasal, a roach, is at the door. He desired entrance, but your guardian has removed him. Hurry. They know the Tablets of Destiny has been opened. You are not safe.”

The irony was not lost on me.

“You’ve got to keep me safe until I die?” I asked.

He turned to me. “No one dies alone. Before the night is done, you must choose who will carry you over that threshold.” He spoke to the book and its page turned. “Though Rose is in trouble, I must begin a new story.”





Chapter Five

The pages of the book fluttered in the midnight breeze. The noise, like the snapping of a flag in the wind, startled her from her dreams of her wedding night soon to come, imagining Percy’s face as her shift fell away from her shoulders, imagining his child growing within her and the pleased expression Percy would wear every day among the men of law. Never again would she spend her days flattering strangers; she would at last have an honest life. It would be the end of her secrets.

The other ladies-in-waiting were sleeping heavily in the dark room. Some of them snored, and Anne often wished for a light to know who it was. But this was not what had awakened her. From her dream, she had heard the words spoken.

Sitting up, she saw the book was open and near her feet on the bed. She reached down and shut it but heard them whispered again. It was a language she had never known, except perhaps in childhood, when she could read the moods of the sun and hear the dialect of rain. Those were the days she could laugh with George and play wicked pranks on their father, and they had nothing to fear in the world but scoldings and early bedtimes.

She remembered nothing of the whispered words, but their effect remained. Her heart pounded with an urgency that made her thoughts race. Anne fled from the chamber, something drawing her away from the sleeping court into the gardens below.