In winter, London was a feast for the senses: the smoky fragrances of burning coals, roasting hazelnuts, and the last of the young venison, the ringing of horses with bells on their harnesses, the sight of the vendors’ stalls lined with hanging birds of every variety for the cooks—woodcocks, thrushes, robins, hens, wrens, quail, hawks, pheasant, partridge—though the palace cooks insisted that from now until Lent, hens were the only proper bird to be eaten. The rag dealers would be doing a fine business, selling the castoffs from the shearers and weavers.
Anne spied a group of heretics being led and kicked down a side street. A small crowd followed them, mainly children who were glad to be entertained by a suffering worse than their own. The poor souls looked ill used, and Anne had no doubt they had been tortured, either for information or pleasure. Henry had never liked the reformists; their kind had caused such unrest in Germany that they threatened to unseat the authorities. And he had once loved the Church. Now he set about destroying it, breaking her back until she swayed easily in his embrace.
Many more people had read the Hutchins book and the blame fell partly to Anne. They thought they were safe, that she had much influence, that the crown was becoming fond of their secret passion. She did not want to suffer; how could she have led these people to it?
Anne fingered the dress that sat next to her. It had looked lovely when Goodie Grisham had presented it to her, but the woman had been so tight-lipped that Anne decided against trying it on for one last fitting. She would make do with it. She touched the design at the neck.
La Plus Heureuse, it said in a thousand delicate stitches. “The most happy.”
Anne burst into tears.
Henry was at his prayers when she arrived at Hampton Court. He had gone there upon learning of Wolsey’s death. Wolsey had built Hampton Court for himself. Every sign of submission to Henry’s throne came across as an afterthought, a thin scrape of plaster over the heart of stone and wood.
The chapel was a fortress of oiled wood and strong sunshine. The stained-glass windows running on each side cast a rainbow of light across the dark pews, and above the altar were angels. It was the only chapel she had been in that had these angels, fat children reaching to each other above the repentant. These angels seemed no more than God’s children, and He could not get them to sit still during church either.
She sighed and waited for some sign that Henry would be through soon. He was bent over, alone, kneeling in prayer before an empty altar.
Anne wanted to pray, too, but all her prayers were memorized as a girl, and none worked for this moment. She considered the Lord’s Prayer and decided it was close enough. She bowed her head and repeated it to herself. “Thine is the kingdom,” she whispered at the end, “and the glory, and the power, forever and ever. Amen.” The final words were like bread in her mouth. There was a sweet, satisfying taste of peace, an easement of fear, and she let the words sink deeper, nourishing her weak heart. Yes, she repeated the prayer, wanting more strength, wanting the peace to linger, afraid that if she moved it would fly away again.
Henry’s shoulders heaved up and back. He was crying. Anne made her way to him and knelt at his side.
Then Anne saw he was laughing. He had trails of tears on his face. Rising, he took her by the hand and kissed her full on the mouth. With the brush of his lips and the tickle of his beard, she felt the warmth of his body and for a moment—just a fleeting, shy moment—she liked the warmth. Confused, she cursed herself under her breath.
Henry led her from the room, past guards who would not meet her eye, men whose rumours and insinuations would work their way through the court until they ruined her name even as she slept alone night after night. There was no one to comfort her, no one to see her long, lonely vigil. She was the faithful virgin, waiting with a full lamp of oil for the bridegroom to invite her into the feast, but the nights had grown so long with no stirring at her door. She held out in obedience, and honour still fled from her. She saw the stone angels overhead, closing her eyes as she took the step from their world into the court of bitter tongues. She had waited for God to save her, as a sign of His favour for her faithful deeds. She stepped out into the world of the court and opened her eyes.
Anne could hear the low rush of breath, in and out, like small waves breaking on a shore far away. Her servants were asleep. They had plaited her hair into a long braid to keep it out of her face as she slept and set a new piece of fur on her pillow. The lice she had collected at court would find her smooth skin unpalatable and seek this fur out while she slept. The servants would discard it in the morning, and so had fallen asleep, their work done.
She swung her legs off the bed, landing them gently on the floor, holding her shift bunched up in both fists so it wouldn’t swing out and tickle anyone in their sleep on their trundles on the floor. She raised one hand, still trying to grasp her shift, and pulled open the door.