“Why do they call you the Mad Nun?” Anne asked her, in between little tastings.
The woman held up a finger for silence and went to check the door. Finding George just beyond it, she clucked at him and shut the door firmly. She moved back to Anne’s bedside and lay on the floor. Anne sat up in bed to watch.
The nun was a puddle of black, arms extended at her sides and feet on top of each other. She shut her eyes, murmuring under her breath. “What is it you want to know, mistress? My mind is a whirl of confusion and voices today. If we want a clear sign, we must ask a clear question.”
The nun lay lifeless on the floor, waiting for her. Anne had never asked such questions before. All matters of faith were contained in her prayer books and Masses. People were born and they died and God gave them sun and wine to soothe the journey of days between each. But how to tell devil from angel? She could sense the importance of her decisions at every turn, but no one told her how to discern the right path.
“Have I angered God, or am I used by Him for good? Whose word do I trust?”
The nun opened her eyes and stared at her, making Anne cold and frightened. Standing, the nun placed her hands over her heart, tears falling down her cheeks. “There is great darkness around you, mistress. I have no light from God on this.”
“You told me to ask a question!” Anne protested.
The nun moved to her, her feet shuffling softly across the floor, her voice dropping to a low whisper. “Merlin spoke of these days.”
“Merlin was a madman!” Anne said.
“Aye, madness is of God. Merlin prophesied of a mouldwarp, a ruler who would lead England to a bitter break, rending the kingdom, tearing mother from child.” She grabbed Anne’s hands and pressed them to her beating heart, pounding wildly. Anne recoiled, but the nun held firm.
“You speak of Henry?” Anne asked.
“No. May the angels guard your path, my daughter.”
“But you speak for God! Tell me what I am to do!”
A knock on the door startled them and the nun dropped her hands. Her brother entered, pulling a face at the nun. He presented Anne with a great parchment, sealed in red with a fat waxy center, the impression of Henry’s Great Seal of State upon it. Her fingers were stained red as she rubbed it in wonder.
She looked up, her brother watching her with an accusing stare. The nun was gone.
Anne,
I and my heart put ourselves in your hands, begging you to have them as suitors for your good favour, and that your affection for them should not grow less through absence. For it would be a great pity to increase my sorrow since absence does it sufficiently, and more than ever I could have thought possible, reminding us of a point in astronomy, which is, that the longer the days are, the farther off is the sun, and yet the more hot.
So it is with our love, for by absence we are parted, yet nevertheless it keeps its fervour, at least on my side, and I hope on yours also: assuring you that on my side the ennui of absence is already too much for me: and when I think of the increase of what I must needs suffer, it would be well nigh unbearable for me, were it not for the firm hope I have. And as I cannot be with you in person, I am sending you the nearest possible thing, namely, my picture set in a bracelet.
Wishing myself in their place when it shall please you.
This by the hand of your loyal servant and friend,
Henry
George produced a black velvet bag, which made a clinking noise as he set it in her hand. She pulled open the drawstring, pouring out a gold bracelet made of interlocking roses, Henry’s portrait set in the center, with gold filigree all around him. Anne touched it gently with her fingers, the gold making the red stains darker on her hands.
“A reply?” George asked.
“No reply,” she answered. “There is no reply.”
Two more days passed and more strength returned, pouring into her bones like sunlight flooding through an eastern window, her body warming and springing back to life. She took nothing for granted, drinking wine more slowly, letting it sit on her tongue and tasting it with relish. A cook made her the most delicious pies, brought trays to her bed, still steaming from the ovens below. She loved to cut a slit into the top crust, peeling it off to set it aside, watching the steam roil up and away, inhaling the scent of thyme and venison. Even her sweetmeats, the perfect little bubbles of berries set into silver dishes, made her groan with the pleasure of life. Anne turned her face towards the sun as it rose above her room and sighed. She would find her footing. God’s graces were so many, so rich, and so sustaining that they left no room for rotten fears.