Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) (2 page)

T
hat night, her palms began sweating, and her breathing
grew annoyingly short. She couldn’t bear to think, so she called to her
women—hateful women though they were—and asked for their company.

It sounded as though the Tower had been surrounded; shouts
and screams filled the air. She couldn’t make out any one single sentence, but
it reminded her of the riots of years before when the city discovered she would
be Queen. Terror fluttered in her chest like a swarm of bees pummeling her from
the inside. She tried to smile at Coffyn as the woman chewed her filthy
fingernail. The woman’s crimson velvet gown looked like a blotch of blood
against the earth brown tapestry on the wall. For a moment Anne’s gaze remained
transfixed by the collage, but when Coffyn spit out a piece of nail to the
floor, Anne’s attention mercifully let go.

"At least the people will have no difficulty finding a
nickname for me." She laughed gaily to fool the terror that squeezed her
throat nearly shut. "I shall be Queen Anne LackHead."

Her women shuffled their feet, ashamed or nervous or
uncertain, Anne didn’t know. She did know that it bothered her—she had hoped
they’d at least companion her through this night. When she saw they had no
interest, she sighed heavily. Could they not at least spare her that mercy?

"Get me an almoner. I wish to pray," she told the
jailer’s wife, tired of making all the efforts. She didn’t really want to have
her last hours spent with these wardresses anyway.

He came just before two a.m. Lady Kingston ushered him in, a
tiny squeaky kind of man, found, no doubt, on the edges of the city and pulled
from his bed without sympathy. His cassock smelled of must.

"What may I give you in return for this service—early
as it is?" Anne asked him.

"Give me?" He looked confused. "Why, you’ve
already given me opportunity to serve my God, my dear. I require naught else."

Such a kind man, he seemed. Yet Anne knew there had to be
reason for him coming so early in the morning. Perhaps he came so he could tell
all he knew that he spent the night with England’s condemned Queen. The thought
made her voice sour when she spoke. Though she knew it, she couldn’t help the
edge she heard.

"Everything comes at a cost, Father. Especially those
things of God. Surely your parish could use..."

She wanted to offer gowns for him to sell, or plate from her
dinner, but he interrupted her.

"My parish could use more people who work for God
unselfishly," he said, and sat on her bed. For a second he looked
surprised at its comfort, but soon turned his eyes to hers. His stare was
penetrating. "Know you not the difference between earthly treasures and
spiritual, child?"

It was such a direct question, and one that took her so off
her guard, that she answered without thinking, or without carefully wording her
answer. "I have done what I’ve been taught, what I thought was
expected."

"And in so doing, have lost your faith." He took
her hand and tugged her to the bed where he passed her his cross. The ornate
carvings on the pewter pendant made it even heavier than it should have been.

"Look at it, girl. Meditate on it." He pressed it
deeper into her palm, stared into her eyes until she had to lower them to her
hands. Her fingers trembled as she held the cross, and she thought the imprint
would stay on her skin when he took it away, so tightly did he squeeze.

"Think again how you believe everything comes at a
price, and know that this is the most important gift ever given."

He rose painfully from the bed, knelt on the bare floor.
When he bowed his head, she felt shame that this simple priest who had nothing
but his faith had come to her, and required that she give nothing but an open
mind to his beliefs. She thought of George and his faith. She thought of God
and his judgment.

"But my brother... My friends?"

He looked up at her. She saw a glimpse of compassion in his
blue eyes, a specter of comfort.

"Those things have been done, child. They are not a
cost of your salvation, nor are they a punishment—they came from your own
decisions, not from God, or his perverse sense of humor or justice. He may know
all, but he created us with a free heart and mind. We make our mistakes, and he
forgives them. Sometimes he even uses those mistakes to teach us."

She looked away at the linen paneling, but his voice came to
her nonetheless.

"You want to believe God has taken your brother in
return for your deeds, that he is punishing you. You may even believe God will
allow your salvation at the cost of your brother’s life, but I tell you the
treasures of heaven are free and without stain. You have done your deeds on
your own, and the King has done his. The price you think you must pay has
already been rendered."

"Already rendered?" He had her attention at that,
and she knelt with him on the floor. She wanted to believe him, wanted so to
know God was a god of love, not judgment. What did this poor man know that the
great Cardinals did not, or did not tell?

He nodded. "Rendered by the son, child. Paid by
Jesus."

She felt a tear trickle down her face, and he wiped it with
the sleeve of his cassock. "Paid, my dear. You have only to believe
it."

"I do, Father. I do so want to believe it."

He shrugged. "What have you to lose? Do you think I
spend my time doing this because I enjoy the night air?"

All through the night Anne prayed with him. He hugged her
close occasionally, when she took to weeping. The night passed slowly. The rise
and fall of chants from outside broke her concentration now and then, so she
was grateful for his company. By morning, Anne wanted only to have it all
finished. She’d tired of gods and grief. She’d exhausted her will to live.

"Lady Kingston, could you summon your husband for
me?" she asked.

It took only moments for the jailer to appear.

"I should like you and my ladies to witness my
communion, if you would. It is important to me that someone speaks of it when
I’m gone. And this kind soul you so benevolently found for me, will be hindered
by his order from doing so."

Kingston nodded gravely, his eyes dark and veiled. Ignoring
what she thought might be flitting through her jailer’s mind, she knelt before
the red-eyed almoner who waited patiently with the items of communion. He
looked tired, as tired as Anne felt, and she smiled at him before she bowed her
head.

"I am innocent," she swore, before his offering
could touch her tongue. "I am innocent," she swore again, after she
had swallowed the bread. When she rose, she noticed Kingston’s eyes clouded
like the churned sea. It warmed her heart that her communion could so strike
him. She knew well he admired her bravery for this act; had counted on it. She
would die, true. But he would tell all of her last hours—if a woman could swear
while taking the holy body into her mouth just before her death, then innocent
she had to be.

He left in a hurry.

She began to lay out her clothes with great care. Henry had
sent a messenger asking if she would prefer different women to aid her. Of
course she did and replied so. Her favorites: her sister, sister-in-law, and
dear Nan were dispatched to her, and as Kingston let them in, he addressed her
with some alacrity,

"The matter is postponed, my lady, ’til this
afternoon."

She ignored George’s wife, Jayne, for a moment, glanced
quickly to her sister who had been let in with her along with Nan Gainesford.

"Postponed?" Had Mary known of this? "But I
had thought to die before noon... and be past my pain."

"There will be no pain, my lady. It is so subtle."
His voice was quiet, and just as quietly, he closed the door.

She embraced her sister. "Mary, has Henry changed his
mind?"

Mary’s amber locks shone faintly in the dull light as she
moved to hug Anne. "I don't know. But if so, I only wish it had been
yesterday."

Anne buried her face into the soft flesh of Mary’s neck.

N
an knelt with Mary beside the bed, praying. Now and again,
one would begin weeping, and the other would lay an arm across her shoulder,
squeeze tightly. Anne found she couldn’t pray. Her mind was so preoccupied with
thoughts that meant nothing, she couldn’t maintain a still enough mind to keep
a good prayer going. Instead she had begun composing little songs in her mind,
with tunes and bridges and melodies, all to ward off those little annoying
thoughts that kept stealing in.

Things like: where was Henry this hour? Did he sup with
Jane, laughing into her eyes with his own, as he had done a thousand times with
herself? Was he at the Royal Chapel, praying for forgiveness for what he’d
done? Or was he laying abed grinning from ear to ear, content that his
conscience was correct and that justice was being served. She hated these
thoughts and yet, in they came, creeping into her consciousness like a beetle
creeping from a wall to a plate of food. Jayne, however, sat in the corner
reading. She said nothing, nor did she pray. Anne pitied her more than she
pitied herself, for she knew the woman was silent for the grief and guilt. She
let Jayne be.

For most of the day, Anne said nothing, merely paced or
stared or read. She knew her silence made her friends uneasy, and yet, she
could do nothing to avert it.

"Please, Anne, say something," her sister said
once, her eyes the color of cool ale.

"I’ve naught to say. I wish it were other," she
answered, and Mary began to weep.

Nan came forward and enclosed Mary in her arms, something
Anne hadn’t thought to do. "Come now, Mary. Anne has enough worry. Hold
yerself, girl."

"I can't help it. First George, now Anne. I think I’ll
never bear it." She stood stock still, stared intently into Anne’s eyes.
For a moment, Anne thought she stared into those of her brother.

For the first time, Jayne made a sound, a tiny exhale of a
sob that made Anne realize she was still there.

"He died well," was all Anne could think to say to
her sister-in-law.

"I didn't mean to send him to his death." Jayne
responded.

Anne took her hand. "I know, and I suppose he knew it
as well."

"No. I think he imagined I hated him, and wanted to do
him ill."

"What makes you say such a terrible thing?"

"Because of the way he looked at me. Because of the
sound of his voice when he spoke of me to the court. You weren’t there, Anne. I
could tell he loathed me in that instant, and I’d do anything not to have
betrayed him. But it is too late now. Way too late, and my only love is
gone."

Anne grieved for her brother too painfully to think of
comforting words. She only knew that George had been a kind man all his life,
putting the thoughts and feelings of others before his own. She guessed he’d
not have changed because his wife was afraid for her life.

"
Mais non
, Jayne. George may have been angry in
the moment, but he could never hold hatred in his heart. He’s past pain or
caring, and you must live on. Know only that your part was a small one, and
forgive yourself, as God forgives you."

When her sister-in-law turned back to the window, Anne left
to return to her own thoughts. She fiddled with the curtain at the window. She
may have stayed there for hours, and indeed, believed time had ceased to march.
It was later in the day, seemingly moments past her last conversation, that
Anne heard a staccato knock.

Her chest refused to inhale. Surely, it was time. Kingston
opened the door

"You shall not die before the morrow." He sighed
heavily as she studied him, and she knew he sighed for her welfare. The agony
of waiting was like being burned to death. She turned to her ladies who were
gathered in a circle praying quietly.

"This can only mean good news." She hated hearing
the hope in her voice.

Mary shook her head. "I fear not. The crowd outside is
calling for justice. Cromwell and the King fear what you might say to incite
their rioting. I’ve heard the delays are in hopes they will all go home."

The hope died.

Anne prayed again during the evening and all through the
night. Her ladies slept off and on, but Anne knew no fatigue. Sleep would come
when peace did. She used the cool night air to spur wakefulness and that waking
time to pen a long letter to Elizabeth. In it she explained her paranoia, her
utter terror of the last year. She named the brothers and sisters Elizabeth
could never know, told of how it ate at her soul that she failed to provide
them their lives.

And when she had purged her guilt, Anne ended the letter,
"always know I loved you. May God keep you long enough to read these
thoughts and longer." Anne signed it simply, "Anne Boleyn. Sister,
Mother, Queen." Then she stuffed it in Mary’s chest of clothes with a note
to keep it safe.

Just before eight in the morning, Lord Kingston came for
her. "The matter will be attended to in short order," he said and
waited quietly beside the door.

Anne could swear she tasted the blood from her own heart and
swallowed with great difficulty. She shunned the clothes she had selected
before—they were all wrong now. Mary laid out all of her favorite gowns. Tissue
cloth: too light for such a sober occasion. Green velvet: too festive.
Cloth-of-gold: definitely out of the question.

In the end, she chose a gray damask gown mantled by ermine.
But beneath she selected a crimson kirtle—for what reason she couldn’t
fathom—but it seemed right that with each step to the scaffold, a glance of red
should be seen. It made her smile each time she thought of it, and she wasn’t
sure if she smiled because it was a perverse joke—the kind she always liked—or
if she was indeed going mad.

She had Mary put her up hair in a light coif, held by a
spidery net so her thick tresses wouldn't hinder the strike. For shoes, she
chose her oldest pair of satin slippers. It wouldn't do to have her toes
pinched—her legs would be trembling enough to take all of her concentration.

When the time came, she felt oddly calm. Kingston led the
way. Mary held tight to her arm as she walked down the cold hallway. The other
two flanked her, carrying her bible and a large heavy cloth to cover her body
when it was done. But when she gained the open air, she shrugged off their
holds and quickened her pace so she would be ahead of them—she wanted to go
unassisted, supported only by God. The sun nearly blinded her as she stepped
from the tower, and with the light came a thousand memories.