The doors were not locked, but no light was set in the room. It smelled of leather and linen, of candles that had burned throughout the night, and of wax seals poured onto dry parchments. Her stomach lurched and tingled as the voices grew louder in her ears. It was here. She knew it. But looking around the room in the dim light from the hallway, she could see only bales of wool, marked at the ports as they came in. Why Wolsey would be impounding these imports was not a mystery in itself; these could infringe on the English trade. But this was not a matter for priests and cardinals.
They held her attention, and her heart beat faster. Without knowing why, she took a knife from Wolsey’s desk, meant to split seals, and loosened the tie holding one bundle together.
A dozen of the forbidden book spilled out across her feet in the darkness. She cried out from the touch of cold leather against her skin. Every one of these bundles contained them, no doubt—hundreds in this little room alone. Each book was like an accusation, a reminder that she had failed to read it, failed to trust it. She picked one up, reading the marks on the inside page. It was indeed from William Hutchins. She flipped through the pages, eyeing the new woodcuts Hutchins was using. One line caught her eye. It said she was surrounded by invisible witnesses.
The room was still, but not empty. Trembling, she dropped the book, spying on Wolsey’s desk shipping papers and documents that had broken seals.
Checking to be sure no one approached, she picked up a letter. It had only names—a long list of men and women. Her name was on it, hastily scribbled along the bottom.
“He approaches!” a guard called below.
A loud burst of activity made Anne jump. She grabbed the letter—and on impulse took one of the books too—determined to silence it. She ran out of the room and saw servants springing out from all directions, rushing to be in place and presented well as he arrived. Only her Yeoman was unruffled by the king’s arrival.
Anne ran down the hall to a window that afforded her a view of the great path leading into the estate. She saw a line of carriages and litters, with riders accompanying them bearing the flag of England and the Tudor coat of arms.
She ran back to her room to check her mirror, licking her lips and setting a diamond pin in her hair to pull the dark curls off her shoulders. She hid the letter she had stolen from Wolsey and rushed downstairs.
Henry was in the courtyard, towering above the servants and guards who scurried about, trying to scrape and bow and never look directly at him while they carried out their business. His red hair pierced her vision, and she looked at him for a moment as she stood in the shadows on the stairs, peering out into the courtyard. He was indeed handsome, and today he looked free and happy, like a man pleased with a change of winds.
He was laughing at a young servant who was having trouble grabbing the reins of a temperamental black mare. She showed him her teeth every time he lunged for the reins, and the boy began to sweat profusely, understanding himself to be sudden entertainment for the king. Henry stopped laughing and turned, facing her where she was hidden. Anne swallowed nervously and touched her hair. He extended a hand in her direction, and a curious silence whipped through the men. The young boy seized the opportunity to lunge for the reins and caught them, yanking the horse hard in the direction of the stables.
Anne stepped from shadow into light, smiling at Henry, her body softening to anticipate his embrace. Henry did not take his eyes from her but held his hand out still, and she crossed the courtyard. All the men were so startled by her sudden appearance that they scrambled to observe protocol. Anne knew that none were entirely sure what this was, as their official queen was not in residence, and Anne was known to be more than a temporary mistress. They averted their eyes and bowed their heads.
As the wave of men submitted to the king’s wishes, Anne’s weak knees made the slick stones treacherous. She placed her hand in Henry’s.
He pulled her in, his other hand circling around her waist. He was a full foot taller and bent to her, not for a full kiss on the mouth, but a gentle, lingering kiss on her cheek. His breath was hot on her neck, and his whiskers scraped against her face. He held her there, inhaling deeply, until she rested her head against him and exhaled.
“When can I see you?” he whispered in her ear. His voice brought up goosebumps all over her skin. This was not the monarch who had sought her company only for his bed. That she was surprised, even a little, made her ashamed. She had much less faith than she imagined.
“I have something I must show you,” she said.
He bowed to her and replied, “The gardens. Tonight.”