She knew his voice, and it comforted her. He continued.
“‘Wherefore let us also (seeing that we are compassed with so great a multitude of witnesses) lay away all that presseth down, and the sin that hangeth on, and let us run with patience unto the battle that is set before us, looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, which for the joy that was set before him, abode the cross, and despised its shame, and is set down on the right hand of the throne of God. Consider therefore how that he endured such speaking against him of sinners, lest ye should be wearied and faint in your minds. For ye have not resisted unto blood-shedding, striving against sin.’”
He said nothing more, and Anne remained in her sleep until morning, the words replaying in her mind, with no dreams to interrupt them.
When she awoke, she refused breakfast until her servants had found and delivered the book. She began reading, determined to unlock its secrets. She had flirted around it for too long, embraced the fashion and form of the new learning and the men of the book, without becoming one of them herself.
She had not gotten deep into the book when her Yeoman opened the door to her chamber, and Henry entered. His face told her the news was not good, and her hand instinctively went to her belly. That was silly, she knew, for if anything had happened to the child, she would have known first. But she feared he had heard an omen or dreamed vividly, as she had.
He stopped when he saw she was reading the Hutchins book and exhaled.
“What is it, Henry?”
“It is nothing. Matters of state.”
“Why don’t we take a walk in the gardens?”
“It is not warm enough yet. Perhaps later in the day. Would you like for me to read to you?”
“No, no,” she said.
He rose to leave but Anne caught his hand. “Henry.”
“Let me be!” He left with a hurried stride.
She walked to her window, pausing to let a bit of sickness sweep over her and pass. There were men outside in the courtyard, and she could not decide who they were. By their livery, they served Henry, but she did not recognize their voices.
“It happened last week. Every petition of Henry’s failed.”
“They will declare war on us.”
“No, no, they won’t. They did this to spite him. And her.”
“They say an Englishman paid for it. Henry will be looking for him.”
“Nay. Henry knows exactly where this man is. He just doesn’t know how he did it.”
Something or someone must have alerted the men and they stopped talking. When Anne leaned out further, to hear any last bit, they looked up and saw her. One man crossed himself and fled. The others froze, staring in horror at her pale face in the window.
A servant came in, carrying a tray of breakfast. He saw the book laying on Anne’s bed, and the tray shook in his hands, the crockery bumping against each other. A bit of wine spilled from her pewter cup and onto her linens.
He looked up at Anne in fear. “Begging your pardon, my queen! Forgive me!”
Anne saw her chance. “You’ve ruined my linens.”
“I’m so very sorry, my queen!”
“What’s your name?”
“John, and it please you.”
“Well, John, I can have you thrown in the Tower or cast outside naked, depending on my mood. Which would you prefer?”
His answer stuck in his throat.
“Or you can tell me a little news, to amuse your queen after disturbing her so greatly.”
“I, I could tell news! Um, the cooks have ordered new pewter goblets for Hampton Court that—”
She cut him off. “No. What has happened that has the court talking in whispers? Last week, something was done that made Henry mad. It was done in another country. Some say it was to spite me.”
He shook his head, but Anne could see it was from fear, not because he had no reply.
“I have always been a merciful queen. You have nothing to fear by telling me the truth.”
He looked at his feet, and Anne could see the colour rising in his face. She waited.
With a quick glance at the door and back to her, he confessed it.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The early spring air was chilly, but beads of sweat dotted Rose’s upper lip. No one stirring in the house had the stomach for breakfast. The servants had set the table anyway, and bowls of porridge steamed, their vapors dispersing into the air above them. Rose could not look at them.
No one had slept; this was plain on their pinched, tear-stained faces. But a noise from the back bedroom caught her ear. Dame Alice, back from her travels, was snoring loudly. She must have drunk much wine and exhausted herself from packing. Rose did not expect the woman to be there when she returned today.