Anne caught George’s smile, an ear-to-ear grin from her childhood, his eyes twinkling. Anne ran her jeweled hand along her skirt for her brother to admire, a sly grin on her face too. He nodded just slightly, tilting his chin to her. Well done, it said.
Anne burst into a laugh and the court around her applauded, which made her laugh harder. She held out her hands, allowing her brother and father to escort her to her dining seat. Well done, indeed, she thought. It had been a bumpy, harsh road, but she had arrived in splendour and the gates were thrown open to her.
She would never again doubt God’s will, for her halting obedience in matters too great for her to comprehend had still brought her to the pinnacle of this empire. The heir within stirred, and Anne realized she hadn’t eaten in hours. She was famished.
Anne counted the hours off with the church bells that sung every hour for seven hours as they feasted. The platters were in constant motion, courses being set and removed at great efficiency at every table, with every meat Anne had ever tasted in England served in every possible configuration, even little pastries shaped like swans.
There was momentary confusion when Anne stood the first time. Everyone stopped eating, surely thinking she had some remark. Anne blanched at the silence and motioned for her Lady of the Chamber, shuffling away in her billowing skirts to use the chamber pot in privacy. As the hours, and the wine, wore on, Anne did this with such frequency that the diners did not look up anymore but simply set their knives down and continued talking until she returned.
Only one seat remained empty.
“Where is Sir Thomas More?” she asked.
Archbishop Cranmer replied. “He declined to attend, my queen.”
Anne’s head was drooping. Seven hours of sitting had made her sore, and seven hours of feasting had made her sleepy. A man and woman were brought in shackles to the table. A guard kicked the woman to make her bow when she hesitated, seeing Anne.
“It’s the Mad Nun, and a merchant known as Bloody Christopher. He is unkind,” Cranmer told her. “My queen, it is your honour to release a prisoner as you wish.”
“What are they accused of?” Anne asked.
“The man beat another servant to death for stealing,” Cranmer replied. “The other is one they call the Mad Nun. She is accused of prophecy, my queen, proclaiming evil tidings of dark days ahead for the king and his queen. She claims great love for you but tells the people you will die with that crown upon your head.”
“What say you? Does this man speak truth?” Anne asked her.
“I speak only what I see, my queen,” the woman said. “I have naught but love in my heart for ye. God save me, God save us all!”
“Well, God is not making this decision,” Anne replied. Her tongue was getting away from her. The wine was sitting heavy in her stomach, and the crown was heavy on her head.
“I can offer proofs, my queen! Proofs of my affection! For I have been to the home of the Morus, the great fool, and I have heard his whispers. He has no love for you!”
The Mad Nun turned her head to acknowledge those who giggled beneath their breath at her joke. She meant Sir Thomas, of course, but Morus was the proper name of fools, and it drew a laugh even now.
But not from Anne. The nun had been in Sir Thomas’s home, as well as Anne’s own bedroom at her father’s home. The nun had heard secrets at both houses.
“Interrogate this woman. See what she knows,” Anne said. “Release the merchant.”
The nun cried out for mercy as Anne stood and emerged onto the street to a crowd wild with joy. She did not know if this was for her or the coins she began to scatter among them, but she believed it made no difference. She threw coins to everyone, many dressed in masks and mummery, all of them with dirty palms clutching the air for what she might cast to them.
God’s triumph was complete. He had delivered her enemy, given her the crown and an heir, and now she dispensed this same mercy to the poor. She felt the power, and the glory, of being the hand of God in England.
Chapter Twenty-four
Rose heard the heavy footsteps of marching men, the rhythmic beating of metal upon metal, the iron heart of war. And it was here. The men came through the gate, past the gatehouse where another heretic was suffering in the darkness. Sir Thomas was dressed and clean-shaven, ready to meet them. He had ordered the children to their studies and glared at them when they peeked through the windows, as if they spied on him in some private, shaming matter.