“Aye.”
Anne would not follow a snake back into its den. She would stay here, in the plain sun of easy conversation. It was curious, though, how unremarkable his face was. Perhaps another woman could find it compelling and wish to kiss those lips, but Anne could not imagine how a woman would blind herself to the evil he did, and allow herself to be swept into his bed. While they dined, were not a dozen or more poor souls in the Tower? She had the book herself, in her bedroom not far from here. The servants rushing in and out of the doors at the end of the hall—they had stolen glances at it. Some had even read a page or so … those who had learned to read in their time here. Anne looked over the room and wondered how many of them More would like killed tonight.
She raised her goblet to her lips, keeping her face turned from him, and drank. More’s daughter gasped. Anne froze, Catherine’s ring before her face as she held the pewter goblet.
Henry continued eating.
“Forgive my poor mind, for I do not know what has happened at court today,” Sir Thomas said. “You wear the queen’s ring. Are you made queen?”
Henry dug his spoon into a terrine set before him. “She will be queen soon enough,” he commented, and the dish was passed to Anne. “The marriage is a formality.”
It was her favourite, brawn, and she had no appetite.
Henry followed her to her bedroom. He was brushing her hair away from her shoulders, and his hands were moving along her back, finding the buttons on her bodice. He was pleased with the evening. Anne saw her hand and knew she had what she had asked for. She had honour and a secured good name.
She grabbed his hand and kissed it, praying if she held it so, it would not strike her when she spoke. “Henry, we are not free yet. I thank you for the earldoms of my father. You have given me what I asked.”
He pulled his hands back, but she would not release them.
“You have her jewels and her bed. Why are you not content?” he asked.
“You have not given me God’s blessing of marriage.”
Henry sighed, and Anne released his hands. He walked a pace away, turned back to her, coming and wrapping his arms around her waist, brushing his face against her hair.
“Anne, you are too new to court to see this well. There are two questions here, are there not? What is the will of God? And what is the will of man? The will of God has been made plain. Catherine is cast off, and you will bear a son. This I have done, and this you will do, but you must silence your inexperienced mind and let me be king in all matters.”
The pleasure that swept over her at his touch was the rush of fools. Her mind was opposed to her desire.
“And for the will of man?” he continued. “The will of man is power. The Pope wants power over my realm, my enemies want power over me, and I want the power of a great name.”
“Aye,” she replied. It was safe to agree to this much.
“But, Anne, who must you please: God or man?”
“Henry, I am but a woman. It is you I must please.”
“Why will you not have me?”
“Because you are a man who is king. Once there was a woman who found what was pleasing to the eye and good to her taste, and when she offered it to the man, death entered the world. I will not make her mistake.”
“Let this sin be on the man. Let me taste first.”
“Have you not thought that perhaps the will of God is bound up in the will of men? I fear your desire for me is God’s judgment on the Church. That to have me, you must free the people to read the Scriptures for themselves. Let the Hutchins book go out. Call off Wolsey and More. I am afraid there is a coming war.”
“Is what they say true? Are you a witch, sent by the reformers?”
She took his hand and pushed it into her bodice, between her breasts, to the hot, flushed place where, beneath, her heart was beating too fast.
She wanted to kiss him, to let him feel her willingness beneath his touch.
Henry’s face turned stern as he moved his hands to pull her in close, his eyes lingering on the place his hand had been. He pulled her in tight, too tight, so that his strong hands were bending and snapping the bones of her bodice, digging them in to her side. She bit her lip to keep from crying out.
He whispered in her ear. “If I am driven from the garden for this, I will not go alone.”
He released her and called to a servant who ran and listened to a quiet message. The boy returned, the court scribe close behind, trying not to spill ink from the black glazed inkwell, the feather dancing in his hand over the flapping papers. A boy behind him carried a candle and dish and was sweating profusely as he tried to keep the flame alive despite his fast pace.
The scribe, clearing a place on a table near them, set down the goods and prepared to write. The servant ran and fetched a little stool from the kitchen and the scribe thanked him, then cleared his throat and looked in Henry’s direction.