“I know my prayers.”
“Leviticus states that no man must take his brother’s wife for his own, or they will die childless. It is a prophecy as sure as stone. The Pope granted a special dispensation for me to marry Catherine after her first husband, my brother, died. By doing so, the Pope has violated God’s law and called down a curse on my throne. I must be free of my marriage; it has violated God’s law. If I do not obey, God’s wrath will break out, and England’s sons will lie dead on a battlefield.”
“Yet,” Anne countered, “it is not a matter between us.”
“It is a very great matter between us. You met me on my pilgrimage, washed my wounds, and spoke words of comfort. You were an angel sent to comfort me in that time of great distress. You were my unexpected answer, a promise to me if I will obey.”
Anne knew her temper was flushing her cheeks. “I will not speak of that night, nor will I speak of the future. I will speak only on what I know today. I have not read this book of Leviticus, but I know my prayers. You have a wife. I will never consent to be a mistress.”
“Perhaps you should pray about it,” Henry replied, pulling out his dagger to cut a rose. He handed it to her without looking at her. “There is your family to think about.”
“It is my family I think about. I will not partner with you to ruin our good name.”
“I can save your name,” Henry said, his voice soft and delicate with the words. “Your family has secrets. Your brother … he does not have a taste for the ladies, does he?”
Anne froze, cursing her sister silently for being so free with her body and words, letting this wolf through their door.
There were two groups who suffered vile, violent deaths under Henry: heretics and unnatural men. It was great entertainment for the people to see such an offender hung until almost dead, then revived and tortured to death. Fear made a marvelous housekeeper for Henry, sweeping secrets neatly away and keeping a pristine order.
“My brother is not your concern, my sovereign,” Anne replied steadily. “Let Your Grace consider only your servant Anne.”
“Henry’s getting what he wants,” the Scribe said to me. “How does that make you feel?”
“You already know,” I replied.
“Oh, but I want you to write it down. It means so much more.”
“I’m angry. Jealous. I didn’t get what I wanted, and I played just as dirty as he did.”
“You got what you asked for. You stole David’s book.”
“It wasn’t good enough,” I said.
“It was his best.”
“No! He could have done better.”
“But he didn’t,” the Scribe answered. “He was working on a love story for you. It can never be written now.”
I closed my pen and sat back in bed. The walls, the sheets, and even bits of my chart were scribbled over with ink.
“I can’t do this,” I said. “I can’t write this book by wrenching my heart out for your amusement.”
“You are becoming a writer.”
He handed me back the computer, and the words lifted and peeled away neatly from around the room, filing into the computer and appearing again on my screen.
I hated his smile.
Chapter Eight
Sir Thomas pushed back the double doors with the heavy iron hinges that guarded his private library. Rose followed, lifting each leg and setting it down with great effort, her body dead even as her stomach danced and her heart battered her ribs. Sir Thomas moved to one side to allow Rose to enter, and she saw him.
Rose began running the fingers of one hand along the walls. She had to touch the walls and know that this place had been real, that she had not dreamt this remission of suffering. She would lose it all.
Cardinal Wolsey stood, the parchment in his lap landing on the floor. He made no move to grasp it, staring at her.
“Rose, you have the extreme privilege of meeting Cardinal Wolsey. He is the highest official in all of England, whether in matters of court or church.”
She couldn’t move her arms. They were hanging, useless, at her sides.
“Rose.” Sir Thomas prompted her.
Rose curtsied, staring too long at the little fibers in the rug, seeing flecks of the rushes Sir Thomas had carried in on his shoes and curling brown leaves from the garden. She took one last breath and lifted.
Sir Thomas was pleased; she could see it in his face.
“Cardinal Wolsey was telling me such stories that I could not believe,” Sir Thomas said. “He says that the heretics have grown in numbers and fervour, infecting even the common parishes with their contagion. I myself thought these men to be more select—those rare scholars who crumple under the weight of rigorous studies, easy enough to extinguish one by one, their madness so plain that it would draw none to it. Wolsey needs my help to act.”