She was hungry. That was the shame of it. There would be elderberry syrup, as the elderberries were at last ripe for picking. Those fall fruits encapsulated a perfect spring rain and lingering summer days and let you remember them both in one satisfying bite. She remembered picking them with her brother … how the juices stained her chin and made his teeth black. They had howled with laughter, careless in their joy.
The other fall fruit, hawthorns, would be turning orange, and the songbirds would eat those before flying away for the winter. Anne, too deep inside the palace to hear them, was suddenly sad because they would take something of herself with them and only leave the dread of winter. She closed her eyes and stopped, as if she could hear the beating of their wings. God, she prayed, how I long to fly away with them. How different this would all look from a distance.
She opened her eyes in the cold air and realized she was crying. Her Yeoman stood at her side and nodded, once. Perhaps it was just as terrible to be a Yeoman, or any other servant in this palace—all of them witnessing events, none of them able to step outside of who they were, none of them able to act. Everyone’s livery served to announce their moves in advance—how far each may go, and what each may say. Only Henry was free.
Except for this: The Pope would not grant the annulment, and Anne would not grant her body. Both claimed to serve God’s interest, but Anne suspected, from His distance, there was no real interest at all. This was the growing fear in her heart, the reason she dreaded winter. She had once thought all things were under His control, and He would allow the bitter weather to claim only so much ground but no more. Maybe in the past, winter had claimed only what it had appetite for. Maybe it was hungrier now. Maybe many more would die.
She pushed the Hutchins book under her mattress, afraid to even touch it. She wanted any reason to never read it, but it called to her each day. If she listened, she could hear of sword striking sword, of metal shields and boots marching through darkness, the great iron heart of war, beating between its pages. It terrified her.
She was led to her table and seated. She searched the room and saw, with much relief, her father and brother seated at the table near Henry’s seat. The room had been arranged so that Henry’s table was at the top of the room, nearest the doors the servers used, which served two purposes. First, his food was the hottest and fresh, and second, that every other table could be turned to look upon him as they ate. The other tables were lined up, perpendicular to his, all in a row, with about sixteen people at each table, and eight tables all in a row across the room.
George and their father looked well. Anne bit her cheek as she smiled and nodded. She would not let them see her distress. She would not spoil tonight for them.
All rose when Henry entered and took the seat above her, just on her right. The jewels of the queen dug into her green silk dress, and she waited as the guests murmured their comments on her placement, her dress, her jewels, and her demeanour. What stories they would weave out of the thinnest material, the way she reached for the butter dish, the way she ate with pleasure or disinterest, the way she held a fork or smiled at a server.
Henry lifted his goblet, and it commenced.
As they ate, Henry singled one man out. “Anne, you have heard stories of the man, but have not met him. This is Sir Thomas More, and his daughter is seated at the table just beyond us.”
Henry pointed to the table facing hers on the left. A girl who looked to be no more than sixteen stood, her eyes not meeting Anne’s, her body rigid as she bowed. It was not so hard, between women, to understand that the girl hated her. It would be lost on Henry, of course, and impossible to explain. The daughter had a servant, though, and this girl smiled and met Anne’s eyes for a second before she bowed her head in respect. Anne tried to keep her face still and composed. There was no sense giving the servant away and causing her a beating later tonight.
Sir Thomas was asking a question, and Anne returned her attention to him.
“How do you find the English court? Do you mark it well as compared to the French?”