Anne remembered the words of her brother: “Only two people dare speak for God: the optimist and the fool.” Anne looked at Henry’s joy, his face radiant as he extended his hand and took hers, gentle as a lamb, leading her back into the palace. Servants and courtiers alike parted without speaking, staring at the king who was still grinning wildly. He led Anne to his chamber, where he spent the day stroking her hair and turning her smallest whispered request into a loud barked command. Anne was every inch the queen. Marriage was a formality they could attend to later, Henry said. After all, God’s will had been done, evident in her womb.
The force of life in this man was so great, his own will roaring above the others around him, that Anne had no more troubling humours. Henry was her strong tower, and she turned to him in the quiet of the chamber, thankful at last to be forever free of the storm. Christmas was fast approaching.
Chapter Twenty-two
“I would like time to read this well, my friends. It is a large document, as you have said yourselves. The best minds in England have produced it; how could I, then, understand it in one brief glance?”
“No. Henry requests your assent. Today.”
Sir Thomas sighed and stood. Rose and Margaret were watching from the hallway, peering into the family room where several officials from court were circling around Sir Thomas, including a man they had only just seen, Cranmer. Oh, but he was a sour-looking man, the line of his mouth always drawing down, the heavy flesh above his eyes hooding them so that he looked to be always squinting. He had a tremendous shadow along his jowls and above his lips, where coarse hairs defied the morning’s razor and sprang up. Sir Thomas had often spoken of him with disdain. He was the worst sort of cleric, More said: an ordained priest who was secretly married and carried his wife about in a trunk so they would not be discovered. They compared the disdain More had for him with the very man himself standing before them and judged More to be right.
“He’s a greasy weasel,” Margaret whispered.
“A pock-faced bit of trash,” Rose replied. They tried not to giggle. Margaret held her hand, and Rose patted it, grateful for the assurance. Sir Thomas had disagreed with men before, even men of the court. He would shake these men off.
Cranmer folded his hands across his ample stomach. He wore a billowing white shift, with black robes over it, and a long black sash around his neck. The effect was that he looked like a great white sausage bursting out from its narrow black casings.
“Sir Thomas,” he said, “it is my belief that the marriage between Henry and Catherine was unlawful, by God’s law and the laws of this land. Will you join me in correcting this grievance?”
More smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Tell me what you know of God’s laws, my friend. Do kings dispense with barren wives and clerics marry big-breasted girls who come to confession?”
Cranmer lunged at More, but a low table blocked his way, which he did not see because of his stomach and the robes. He stumbled and caught himself, smoothing down his black vestments, clearing his throat. “I will make my report to the king.”
“You say that as if it were a threat,” More replied. “All I have done is request time to read the document.”
“Time is not on your side, More,” Cranmer replied. “And neither is Henry. You haven’t been at court since the sweats broke out, but Henry has been busy.” Cranmer started laughing. “Oh, he’s been busy! What news!”
More stared at him, not asking for details. This sent Cranmer into more rage, and he ground his teeth as he exited, pushing past Margaret and Rose roughly, the other men following behind him without a word.
Sir Thomas saw the girls when the doors swung open. He sighed and sat on the couch.
“How much of that did you hear?” he asked.
Margaret rushed to sit with him, and Rose stood.
“Are you going to sign it, Father?” Margaret asked.
Sir Thomas picked up the stack of papers left by Cranmer, the letter requiring his signature laying on top. He walked to the fireplace and threw them in. The flames fed upon the papers with lust, snapping and growling. Rose saw the ashes collecting. A few flew up the chimney. It was strange to her mind that some would do that. All she understood was that none of them could be pieced together again.
“But what was he saying about news from court?” Margaret asked. “If the sickness has passed, let me go to the Christmas revelry there. I can find out what is going on.”
“I’ll not have you involved!” More shouted at her. “You have done too much already!”
Margaret looked at Rose and back at her father, her eyes wide in alarm. Rose saw her biting her lip to keep composure. Tears were pooling in her eyes, but she spoke sternly to her father.
“You are not safe. Cranmer said that himself,” she said.
Sir Thomas smiled, a serene look washing over his countenance. “I am not safe. Perhaps. But you, my daughter, you are safe. I am willing to sacrifice everything so that you may live.”
He was looking at Margaret as he spoke, and Rose wondered why there was mixed in his expression such tenderness, with such cold recognition of something ahead she could not see.