“Dear God, please just let me sleep!” she whimpered. She must be going crazy with this nausea—that was not a prayer she had ever learned at matins. Her eyelids grew heavy, and she hoped this was it. But still a hand seemed to hold her back as she stood at the edge of a deep cold river, one she desperately wanted to be lost in.
A wild thought came. She had only to cry out and the Yeoman would save her. He could steal her away and she could sleep in her own bed, in her father’s house, where the rooms were quiet and her mother made ginger tea to cure a roiling stomach. George would be there too. He would stay at her bedside, telling outrageous lies to amuse her, until she slept at last.
Anne looked about the room. There was much gold. And in her womb, an heir.
She did not cry out. She turned over, once again, resolute, and cursed the sleepless minutes that passed.
“My lady, wake up!” Jane was at her side, shaking her gently. Anne groaned and tried to slap at the hands pressing on her. It had been a full month since the presenting of gifts, and sleep still came late in the night, and morning still brought this sickness.
Her stomach pushed up into her throat, and Anne reached for the chamber pot, retching violently. Jane held her hair out of the way. Anne collapsed back onto the pillows, and Jane handed her a leather cup with some warm liquid in it.
“From Dr. Butts. A tincture for your stomach. Today should not be ruint, he says.”
Anne swallowed a bit of the tincture. It had a sour taste to it, like grapes before their season. She could take in only a little, but Jane pressed it to her lips again.
“Look, Anne!” Jane wanted her to see something, and Anne blinked heavily, watching a chorus of girls enter the room bearing a large box. It resembled a coffin, and Anne’s hands trembled, spilling the tincture so that Jane grabbed it away from her.
The girls opened the box, lifting out the contents for display.
It was her wedding dress.
After a gentle washing, and rinsing her mouth well with mint, the women set to work dressing Anne. She stood shivering in her undergarments while the women steadied her and helped her step into a petticoat. A corset was next, and Anne winced as they tightened it, though Jane scolded them to use a light hand. A farthingale made her silhouette complete, and the sweeping skirt came next, with a forepart panel of gold and layers of white silk. A velvet bodice with sweeping strands of pearls, pearl buttons, and sleeves ending with lace cuffs—all were finished with fine silk thread. Anne held out her arms to inspect the sleeves, which blossomed beautifully and had buttons made of diamonds at the cuff. Over these was draped a white fur.
While the girls busied themselves with the final touches—her headpiece, jewelry, braiding and setting her hair—Anne smiled, despite the dress and despite the nausea. She would see Henry today. It would all be finished: her work to establish a good name for herself and her family. Her brother’s station in life would be secure; her parents would be provided for by the crown. God had been so good to her, blessing her with an heir, paving the way for this marriage, disposing of the false queen.
She was led, in secret, through the castle and to a barge that took her to York Place. A few on the shore saw her and stopped, but the cold winds and grey skies demanded their attention elsewhere. She met Henry in a turret on the west side, which afforded them a view of London, from Charing Cross to Westminster. Anne stood, sick and weighted, under the shadow of the Tower rising above them as the marriage was conducted. Her family was not there. This was to have been a day for music and dancing, but instead she heard the iron heart beating closer, and she held to Henry for her life.
Three days later, the world wore silver and scarlet and every beggar and thief lined the streets to steal a glimpse of her glory. Warships in the river made her bones as cold and loose as the water. Guns firing from their sides and the Tower made beads of sweat pop out with every explosion.
All monks of St. Peter’s Abbey greeted her wearing their golden robes, with the Duke of Suffolk carrying the queen’s crown in front of her. Two earls carried her two sceptres as she was carried under a canopy of gold, wearing a kirtle of red velvet, an ermine sleeve capelet, a robe of purple velvet with ermine trimming, and a headpiece of pearls and rubies. An older woman, the Duchess of Norfolk, carried her train.
Jane followed in a scarlet robe trimmed with white fur.
She was brought to St. Peter’s at Westminster, set in a high platform before the altar, anointed and crowned Queen of England by the Archbishop of Canterbury.
She did not breathe until the Mass was done and the feast laid out in the hall.
Her brother and father fell at her feet as she entered. She had not foreseen that her father and brother would bow to her; she had only coveted the crown for what it might lay at their feet. She was alarmed to see them fall and motioned for them to rise.