The priest handed the cloth to another priest behind him, and Anne saw he was attended to by two such servants, one carrying candles and one a bowl of holy water.
He read the 121st Psalm in Latin. Anne closed her eyes in ecstasy, the words being balm to her body, wounded by birth, and her soul, wounded by things she had yet to name clearly. She felt so poor, so lost, that to lie here receiving the words of God was strengthening her very bones.
A stirring behind her reminded Anne she was not alone. She was attended to by servants, and behind her servants were the guards, including her own Yeoman.
She held up a hand and stopped the priest. “In English,” she commanded.
The priest reddened and did not speak.
“For the sake of my servants, who wish to hear the Word of God.”
“They do.” His voice was thin and sharply edged. “They cannot understand it.”
The priest fumbled with his robe, tucking his lips into his teeth. He turned to the two priests behind him, who were careful not to look him in the eye.
He cleared his throat and began.
“Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His goodness to give you safe deliverance, and hath preserved you in the great danger of childbirth; you shall therefore give hearty thanks unto God, and say,
“I am well pleased: that the Lord hath heard the voice of my prayer; that He hath inclined His ear unto me: therefore will I call upon Him as long as I live. The snares of death compassed me round about: and the pains of hell gat hold upon me. I found trouble and heaviness, and I called upon the Name of the Lord: O Lord, I beseech Thee, deliver my soul.”
Anne repeated his words.
“Let us pray,” he said. “Christ, have mercy upon us.”
Anne, and her servants, repeated his words.
“O Lord, save this woman Thy servant,” he said, “who putteth her trust in Thee.”
They all replied. “Christ, have mercy upon us.”
“Be Thou to her a strong tower,” he said, not sprinkling her with holy water, “from the face of her enemy.”
They all replied. “Christ, have mercy upon us.”
He finished without passion:
“O Almighty God, we give Thee humble thanks for that Thou hast vouchsafed to deliver this woman Thy servant from the great pain and peril of childbirth; grant, we beseech thee, that she may faithfully live, in this life present, and also may be partaker of everlasting glory in the life to come: through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
Anne rose to enter the church, but he did not move aside. Hate filled his face, something evil swimming just below the surface of his features. Anne heard metal scrape against metal, and his eyes darted past her, behind her in the crowd. Anne closed her eyes in relief. Her Yeoman must have stepped forward. It was enough to frighten the priest into remembering his place.
He stepped aside.
Anne entered the church and inhaled sharply. She had not seen this many people for weeks. They all stared without blush or modesty, eager to see if her figure had been retained and her countenance proud. She had had a girl, after all.
Henry was kneeling at the altar, ready for Mass. Anne walked and knelt at his side. She was grateful to be forbidden to speak here, for she doubted she could say anything at all.
He looked just as she had kept him in her heart: regal, with ermine and scarlet and chains of gold hanging from his wide shoulders.
There was a commotion off to the side, the priests consulting one another. Anne knew the source of the disturbance. The priest conducting the service kept glancing from Anne to Henry to the room crowded with nobles and courtiers.
He approached Henry and whispered to him.
“You ask permission to conduct the service in Latin?” Henry asked. “Why?”
The priest waved his hands in an empty explanation. “I do not know it in English.”
Henry’s brow furrowed. Anne saw his appetite for mystery was awake.
“Do you not know what it means?” Henry asked.
“It is the tongue of angels, my king. It is sufficient that He alone understands.”
“It is sufficient for whom?” Henry asked.
“The words themselves have such meaning, such great power, that merely to hear them will produce the desired effect.”
“My words accomplish much the same effect,” Henry said. “Merely to hear them sets the world in motion around me. And I have a word for you, my priest.”
Henry waved his finger and the priest bent to hear the quiet command. “When you speak to me, you will speak in English, for this is the language of the realm. Latin is the tongue of the Pope and he speaks for Spain and France, not God.”
The priest stood and cleared his throat, again. He would be hoarse by nightfall, Anne thought. He faltered for words, and the hour-long Mass was reduced to a few simple prayers.
“Christ’s body!” he declared, lifting the veil to place the host on Anne’s tongue, as the church bells tolled. He placed the host on Henry’s tongue and gave them the wine to drink.
“Christ’s blood!”
They drank, and Henry leaned toward Anne, lifting the veil away from her face, kissing her on the mouth. Anne caressed his cheek before he pulled away.