To Anne Boleyn, from William Hutchins.
Presenting you with the New Book, translated from original texts, free of error.
She couldn’t resist cracking open the stiff spine; the woodcuts were new and interesting. Perhaps later, she would read. There was no reason why she should not master this book. She was safe, her future secured. Nothing from these pages could find her here. There was so much time.
She set the book aside.
It was a lovely tradition, Anne always said, this opening of presents to celebrate the New Year and the gift of another Christmas just past. Anne had never received so many gifts of such value; her chamber was a hive of activity, each servant carrying a heavy purse or parcel.
“Is Henry coming soon?” Anne asked, turning her head to the left a bit so Jane would know she was addressed.
No one answered.
Anne, with much effort because the scarlet pillows were stacked high all around her tender midsection, turned and saw Jane was not in her place.
“Where the devil is she?” Anne yelled, slapping the red coverlet.
The servants stopped, their eyes on the floor. Anne saw she would not get an answer and summoned the next girl forward with her gift.
Jane burst through the door, all apologies, bowing to her mistress. “Forgive me, my queen, I was checking the wait line outside. More presents are arriving.”
“But not Henry?” Anne snapped. “Am I to have no comfort?”
“You know he loves you,” Jane answered. “And you know why he cannot be your companion here. He says to content yourself until the blessed hour.”
Anne looked at the bed, made of dark oak, with a heavy wooden canopy and urns carved into the posts at the foot of the bed. On her worst nights, it was like a coffin. And she was having worse nights more often since she had been moved back into her own private chamber, where Henry would not visit, for fear of harming his unborn heir.
But he had ordered that all would be done to make her comfortable. There were scarlet pillows and a coverlet in scarlet with gold embroidery. There was a separate chamber pot for retching, which was kept at the side of the bed so she never had to ask for it.
Even her dress was extraordinary proof of his affections: He had fabric sent to her as a gift and crafted into a dress of such luxury that no other woman in England could claim to be adorned like her. It had a bodice of gold, with gold embroidery and a marvelous ruby brooch in the center, with a row of rubies sewn along a scarlet velvet ribbon. Her puffed sleeves had slashes at the wrists so white silk could pop through, and a long velvet braid with a swinging tassel down the center of the dress, with a dozen tiny pomanders of gold hanging down it. Her fingers were heavy with rings.
But in truth, Anne sighed to herself, the bodice caused much pain, pressing her swollen and sore breasts up tightly so that she winced whenever she turned. Her fingers were swollen, too, and the rings dug deeply in. She couldn’t bear the bodice against her stomach, and kept trying to push against it by hooking her thumbs under the seam along her ribs and pulling it out and away. Yes, she looked splendid, and it was splendid proof of his esteem, but she wanted only to be in a simple shift and sleep for days.
“I am sorry, Jane,” Anne said. “You must forgive me. I am not myself these days.”
“My mistress is tired, is she not?” Jane called for the attention of the other servants. “Our mistress needs rest! We will resume presenting gifts tomorrow.”
Everyone filed out, and Jane moved to leave, but Anne caught her hand.
“Please, Jane, help me take this dress off.” Her voice was thin and pitiful, she knew, but she wanted only to be free of this weight and sleep deeply again.
The room was cool and she slept on top of the ruby coverlet, but still her neck was damp and she pulled her hair away from it. Rolling to her other side, facing the door, Anne tried again to find a moment’s relief from this sweaty nausea of pregnancy, and sleep. The shadows grew darker in the room; it must be getting close to late afternoon, Anne realized.
“Why can’t I sleep?” she moaned. Never had she been so tired, and never had sleep proved to be so fickle.
One shadow at the door shifted, and Anne saw it was the shadow of her Yeoman on duty outside. He was the only man in England never to sleep, she thought. He was always there.