Chapter Twenty-five
England slept, the white fugue of winter descending on the wisteria gardens and narrow paths. London’s own streets were drunk with fog and mist. At night a halo could be seen around the moon. The rains gathered for each new morning, unleashing such torrents that none were in the streets but the army of raindrops, stealing away into cracks and crannies and uneven doorways. The rains washed away the previous year, scouring the smells off and out, rinsing clean debris and stains of memory.
Anne took to her lying in, claiming a chamber inside Greenwich palace—the same one, Henry said with pride, that his mother had used. Swept clean and laid with fresh plaited rushes, dried mint, roses, and vervain, he had ordered it decorated with the finest white silk fabrics embroidered with gold and pearls. Artisans had been commissioned to create special dishware for her, because she would take all her meals in bed. Every dish, done in a wonderfully heavy crockery that did not spill, featured a secret—an underside painted with good omens like healthy male infants and happy fathers. Anne of course had to finish each meal before she could safely turn over the crock to see her good wish for the moment. It was one more little amusement that kept her full and happy.
Gifts had been arriving with regularity. Anne’s favourite was a hanging from her brother, George. It was the colour that made Anne grin. It was green, the colour of spring leaves. In France, where she had spent so many hours longing for home and writing George letters of her dreams, dreams of a quiet life away from court, green was the colour reserved for royal births. Anne watched it hung near her white bed, and saw the contrast displayed so well between her dreams and her future.
There were clothes for the boy, a dress for her churching from Henry, too, elaborate as usual—and, Anne thought, too small through the waist. But Henry was impossibly optimistic. There was also the birth announcement, done in advance and sent for her approval. Everyone in England would celebrate when they heard the guns being fired again from the Tower.
Henry visited in the afternoon before he went out hunting. He supplied himself with a special stock of stags and deer and blessed the quiet that had stolen over the country. With so much rain keeping everyone inside, there was less mischief and less law to write.
Today Henry brought her a mass of yellow primroses, which were in winter bloom, along with Candlemas bells. He rested his head against her belly and listened. Anne reached down and stroked his hair, noticing that Jane blushed and turned away.
Anne made a note to speak with her. Jane had been in service to her for too long to still be nervous when the king entered the room. Anne gave her an encouraging smile so she would not be afraid.
Henry lifted his head and leaned to Anne, kissing her lips and her forehead. “How precious you are to me.”
“I am sorry,” Anne whispered, trying to keep him close as she said it. “I know it cannot be easy.”
“What?” Henry asked.
“Waiting like this. Waiting for the birth … waiting until I can be back in your bed,” Anne replied.
Henry stammered something, backing away. “There are too many in here,” Henry said, looking at the number of people attending Anne and his own servants following him. A fire kept at a constant crackling height caught his attention too, but it would be needed for warm water when the birth occurred. “The room grows too hot for the mother. I must go.”
“No, Henry!” Anne protested. “Stay but a minute more! What news? Tell me a tale and keep me company.”
Henry looked uneasy but returned to her bedside. He did not want to upset her, this was plain enough to her, but the baby kicked so wildly in her womb, knocking about between her ribs, that Anne had no fear its life was too delicate for his amusements.
Henry looked at his folded hands, pursing his lips.
Anne burst out laughing. She reached over and took his hands in hers. “It’s all right, Henry, really it is. Give me news.”
“I have done more to assure your place,” he answered.
“Yes?”
“Three more acts have I passed. The Act of Succession, so that the throne will pass through your son, not the girl Catherine gave me.”
Anne was uneasy at the way he spat the word girl.
“The Act of Supremacy,” he continued, “to be assured that I retain the power to govern in my own country, and not some puppet Pope in another realm.” He paused. “And lastly …”
Anne squeezed his hand.
“Lastly, the Act of Treason. To be assured of loyalties.”
“And all have been sent out? All have been signed?” she asked.
“All have seen the future and will follow,” Henry said. “The people, I am told, the people are relieved to be free of unjust clergy stealing bread from their mouths. They see me as their great defender.”