Anne sat on a bench, its stone still warm from the sun. But the sun was gone, and a rich black night blanketed the garden, punctuated by scattered torches at the far ends. A perfect breeze, like cool silk on her skin, brushed her face and shoulders, and Anne lifted her skirts a fraction to let it relieve her feet and calves. In July, the garden was in full bloom, even while the ladies wilted. The wisteria released a strong sweetness that the breeze carried through the garden, and Anne smiled to see a ladybug land on her skirt. She let it explore the folds of material until it decided to fly away. Ladybugs were good omens, the seven dots on their shells representing the seven sorrows and seven joys of Mary, the holy mother, and their red shells representing her red cloak.
Anne reflected on the meaning of such blessing—of being visited by a ladybug even so late, well after ten o’clock at night. Mary had suffered much but borne the child who would save all men from their sins.
The thought sent shivers down her arms. Perhaps there were travails ahead, or God was acknowledging the rough path she had just left, but the message was the same: God would use Anne to send peace at last to England.
A few birds still sang, their long trills punctuated by sharp short bursts. The garden was packed with life yet still quiet. How was it the palaces were packed with quiet people, yet were so stressful? The natural world was no less crowded, and the animals had no guarantee of survival. Even one of these birds in the garden could well be eaten tonight by a snake or hawk, yet there was a tranquility here, an acceptance of order and destiny.
Men were not content with their place in the order, Anne decided. This was why people made the palaces uninhabitable. Their discomfort, angling, grasping, and ambition ruined the place.
Henry’s hand was warm on her shoulder, but it did not startle her. Reaching up to lay her hand on his, she turned her neck to allow the breeze to reach more of her skin and did not mind that Henry watched.
“When I thought you might die,” Henry began. He gripped her shoulder. “When I thought you might die, I was lost.”
“God did not let me die,” she replied.
He moved to pull her up to him but she resisted. “Henry, what do these names mean to you: Thomas Garrett, John Frith, John Clarke, Anne Askew?”
Henry removed his hand and grunted. “Enemies. Thomas More wants to burn them. Wolsey asks for mercy. Says they may yet repent.”
Anne felt fear. Her name was on that list. “But Henry, why would Wolsey have mercy on your enemies?”
“He is a merciful man.”
“He is going to be Pope, is he not? Do you trust him?”
“Do not speak of him like this. Wolsey is not stupid, and he is not a traitor.”
“It may not be treason. It may be faith. He has not worked with all haste to secure your annulment.”
“This pertains to the Hutchins book, not my annulment.”
“Hutchins pertains to you, Henry. He offers the people a new path to God, one that has not so much need for the Church. The realm will be in an uproar. Their faith will be shaken, their king will be held in disdain, and Wolsey will be Pope in another land, another land that stands ready to invade. Maybe More will burn these people; it can only work in Wolsey’s favour. He will be the kind saviour.”
“Wolsey banned these books,” Henry corrected her, “because of a violent uprising in Germany, attacks on the princes and nobility. This man Hutchins incites fury against establishment. I will not tolerate this book in my realm, and I’ve no more patience for the matter.”
He pulled her up and she turned into his arms.
“The Spanish, the French, and the Pope,” he said, “all these want one thing: power. As long as I am without an heir, I am weak. Without a queen in my bed, Anne, I do not think I will have much luck producing one.”
“I do not want to refuse you, Henry, and harp like a shrew night after night.”
“Do not make me wait. I have no marriage in the eyes of God.”
“Neither do I.”
He released her and pushed her away.
Anne reached for his arm, to put her hand upon it and so soften her words, but Henry jerked his arm away and would not look at her.
“The law serves the king,” he retorted. “I suggest you adopt the same attitude. I will speed this matter to its conclusion, but I will not take a shrew for a wife.”
“Henry,” Anne began.
But Henry yelled, “Back to your chambers! You’ll wait for me in the city, where the heat and stench will remind you to cherish the respites I offer.”
He turned his back. Anne did not know how to make a dignified exit, being swept from under his feet like a kitchen dog. She picked up her skirts and walked back to her room, her tears glistening as they fell to her bodice, a thousand tiny stars falling on this dark night.