In the Shadow of Lions (5 page)

The irony was not lost on me.

“You’ve got to keep me safe until I die?” I asked.

He turned to me. “No one dies alone. Before the night is done, you must choose who will carry you over that threshold.” He spoke to the book and its page turned. “Though Rose is in trouble, I must begin a new story.”

Chapter Five

The pages of the book fluttered in the midnight breeze. The noise, like the snapping of a flag in the wind, startled her from her dreams of her wedding night soon to come, imagining Percy’s face as her shift fell away from her shoulders, imagining his child growing within her and the pleased expression Percy would wear every day among the men of law. Never again would she spend her days flattering strangers; she would at last have an honest life. It would be the end of her secrets.

The other ladies-in-waiting were sleeping heavily in the dark room. Some of them snored, and Anne often wished for a light to know who it was. But this was not what had awakened her. From her dream, she had heard the words spoken.

Sitting up, she saw the book was open and near her feet on the bed. She reached down and shut it but heard them whispered again. It was a language she had never known, except perhaps in childhood, when she could read the moods of the sun and hear the dialect of rain. Those were the days she could laugh with George and play wicked pranks on their father, and they had nothing to fear in the world but scoldings and early bedtimes.

She remembered nothing of the whispered words, but their effect remained. Her heart pounded with an urgency that made her thoughts race. Anne fled from the chamber, something drawing her away from the sleeping court into the gardens below.

The garden was alive and rejoicing in its dark seclusion. Dew fed the roses and hawthorn, each with great tight buds ready to burst open. Crickets sang the same note, over and over, like a needle and thread bobbing in and out of the dark blanket of the night sky. She had worn no wooden pattens on her soft shoes, which she regretted immediately once her feet set upon the garden path. Thousands of small stones were unkind to her soles. She walked down the path, weaving between clusters of sleeping buds and cool vines, moving farther and farther from the palace, watching her linen shift float about her, lit only by stars. Something was drawing her.

Anne saw there was a small chapel at the end of the path she had followed. Despite the hour, a lamp burned within. The chapel was made of stone, with plain windows instead of elaborate scenes of glass. There would be only enough room in such a place for a handful of people and its altar. This chapel was for earnest prayer, surely, and not ceremony. This thought comforted her and pulled her farther in, until she was about to step out from the path and open the door. She would wait here for the voice to return.

She heard a noise that made her throat seize even as her arms jerked. It was a scraping, a thick scraping of stone against something soft, with a gutted moan upon that.

“Deus meus, ex toto corde pænitet me ómnium meórum peccatórum, éaque detéstor, quia peccándo, non solum pœnas a te iuste statútas proméritus sum, sed præsértim quia offéndi te, summum bonum, ac dignum qui super ómnia diligáris!”

She was too frightened to peer out from behind the plantings. The dragging continued, and the moans changed to weeping. Something heavy dragged itself along the path, or was being dragged. She strained to hear if there were any more words, until in a wail she understood its pain, ground up and spat out in one word.

“
Why?”

When it became visible to her, her fear changed to wrenching pity. A man, clothed in a rough brown cloak, edged his way along to the chapel on bare knees. The stones had bit and cut into his flesh, and she could see he left a glistening black trail behind him.

He collapsed on the steps, crying out. “I have repented, my Lord! God, in Your mercy, give me a way to repair my great sin, so that no more may die!”

His face sank into his arms, and he did not move again. Anne stood in her dark shelter, unsure what she should do. Christian charity would have her comfort him and see to his wounds, but she was alone and unprotected. She looked at the fallen man and feared him for his size and great distress; he might do anything to her if he caught her witnessing this.

She saw the glistening stain spreading out from under his cloak, and the way the cloak moved with his breath. She couldn’t be sure if he was conscious. She bit her lip and looked around, but there was no one in the garden or approaching the chapel. Exhaling hard, she pulled her shift tightly about her and went to him. Kneeling, she stroked his back and whispered what words of comfort she knew.

“
Et lux perpétua lúceat eis.
Amen.”

His back tensed under her first touch, then softened and his breathing grew strong. He began to sit up, his cloak falling over his face, and she lifted the wet cloth away from his bloodied knees. He wanted to cry out—she could tell by the way a breath was forced back down when she touched his leg—but he did not.

His knees were desperately in need of tending. They were cut at all angles, deep slices shooting out from the center like starbursts, the tiniest stones still embedded. Indeed, these stones were all that was stopping the bleeding in places. Anne looked around for anything she could use and saw a fountain not far from them. She ran and dipped the edges of her shift in it, running back and carefully dabbing at the wounds, hoping to expel the dirt and stones that polluted it. She made several trips, neither of them speaking as she worked, cleaning the wounds and tearing the hem away from her sleeping gown to bandage them.

His hand caught hers as she began to tear.

“You mustn’t do that,” he whispered. His voice was dead, numb from exhaustion. His touch was weak. It made Anne pity him even more and fear him even less. It opened up her heart as nothing else had in this palace of pageant and pretense. She would be glad when her service here was done.

She pressed her hand over his for a moment, then removed it and continued to tear.

“No one here will ever see it,” she whispered and thought of the voice she had heard from her bed. “I think I was sent to you.” She stood, pulling her torn shift close. “I am grieved for you, my friend. May God answer your prayers with swift mercy.”

“Wait!” He fumbled at his neck, removing a gold crucifix. “Wear this, for me.”

“I do not require payment.”

“It is not payment. It will keep you safe.”

She held out her hand to him, uncertain, and he poured the cold chain and cross into her palm. The moonlight made it flash, and she was afraid.

A cock crowed and they both started. He tried to stand, but the pain drove him back to sitting.

“You must return,” he urged. “The others will be waking.”

She ran towards the palace, her feet finding their way through the plots and gathered bushes, straining to find the certain path back to the entrance she had used. But in the growing light the garden’s paths made no sense. When she reached the doorway, she rested her head against the cold stone of the arched frame.

“Lord, I am a foolish woman to go wandering about at night. I should have obeyed the priests; I should not have brought that book with me. Please forgive me, and take me from this place.”

A guard met her there with a professional disinterest, which she knew would be responsible for a thousand rumours by dinner.

Chapter Six

She was right.

At dinner every woman at the court paid great attention to Anne without speaking to her. She felt their eyes on her, and they were cold. She was not used to being so scorned. Steadying her fork as she raised it to her mouth, she swallowed only once when she raised her cup. She missed her friends at the French court, she missed her brother, she missed being liked. She had not even been allowed to see her betrothed, Lord Percy, since her return.

It was a cold rain the day she got off the ship and it rained still—at least in her soul—a sour rain that could cause nothing to grow. Perhaps soon she would be finished here, the family’s name restored, and she would sleep beside Percy every night. Her small act of rebellion, bringing a forbidden book into the country, had gone unnoticed. Indeed, some of the nobles here already had it.

The servants set before her a bowl of steaming pottage and a plate of roasted venison. She sat at an enormous table with courtiers lined up according to rank and usefulness to the crown, servants and pages darting in among the diners to deliver food and messages. The cook’s politics involved the belly only, not books, so the servers spoke freely with Anne. She silently blessed them for it.

“How do you like the venison, my lady?”

“It is wonderful,” Anne said, throwing a bone on the floor, as was the custom. “Though I feel sympathy for it, having been hunted by this court. Everyone here relishes the suffering of the weak.”

The server, a boy of about thirteen, noted the women staring at Anne. He winked at her and set a plate of fine bread on the table.

“Anyone hunting in here would need mighty sharp arrows to pierce those old hides,” he remarked, and Anne laughed out loud.

Everyone stopped.

“Anne?” Queen Catherine spoke from the head of the table. King Henry was not beside her. He had not joined her at dinner since Anne had come to court. “What remark has pleased you?”

Anne wiped her fingers on her bread and rested her hands in her lap. “I meant no disrespect. I was enjoying the dinner.”

Catherine stared at her, but Anne could not see what the queen weighed in her mind. Catherine brushed her hand across her face and returned to eating in silence, her cold face intent on Anne’s. If Queen Catherine blamed her for her sister, Anne did not know. Anne’s sister was carrying Henry’s baby, and the family’s shameful secret was everyone’s favourite course at this table. Anne had been retrieved from the French queen’s court to serve Catherine in humble apologetic submission, and her father hoped she would redeem the family’s name. Anne wanted only to marry Percy and be free of them all. This was what pleased God, the priests said: Women living in obedient service, tending hearth and children. Anne had learned in France that she could never please both a royal court and God, and she had seen too many broken lives at court to set her heart there. She would marry and be free at last to live by the church’s rules instead of men’s.

With the next round of courses, the court returned their attention to Catherine, and Anne was relieved to be ignored again.

After dinner, the noon sun was burning the last of the morning clouds away, and Anne requested permission to rest in the quiet of her bedchamber rather than accompany the women to the garden for music. It was not a thing that would be done by another lady of the court, but Catherine walked as if in a dream and gave her leave with no further thought. Catherine did not have the energy to sustain a hatred for her. Anne noticed that Dr. Butts, the court physician, hovered around Catherine, testing her brow with his wrist and urging her to sit.

Anne gave it no more consideration and fled to her chamber, the delight of having it alone making it the sweetest place on earth. Ten empty beds greeted her and the drapes were drawn against the window so that it was shadowed, the still air sweet and heavy inside the thick castle walls, making exquisite conditions for a nap. She had slept, but not truly rested, in the weeks since she had been here, always awaking to the feeling that something had been near. The book was still on the foot of the bed, and she glared at it, moving it to a night table where it would not be disturbed by a breeze.

Taking off her farthingale and laying it over the foot of the bed, she pulled back her coverlets and saw it.

A new sleeping gown, soft white linen with ribbons gathering the neck and sleeves and painstaking lavender embroidery spiraling the sleeves and down the front of the gown, with a gold weave of the great Tudor rose. It had been folded and placed under her coverlet, and a note fell away as she lifted it up for inspection.

Because you did not despise the sorrow of a broken man.

There was no signature.

There was a stirring of air around her, and Anne covered her mouth with her hands. She could not tell where the stirring came from … if something was sweeping in or departing. Either way, she sensed the breaking fissure beneath her and prayed.

“Anne, Anne.”

She opened her eyes and winced. Someone had pulled back the drapes and the sun was at its peak. It must have been nearly four in the afternoon, and the youngest of the ladies-in-waiting, a girl named Jane, was still shaking her.

“Anne, you must dress. The masquerade is starting!”

Anne sat up. She held the sleeping gown in her hands like a blanket and slid it out of view under the coverlet, frowning. Jane did not notice but grabbed Anne’s hands and helped her dress. Anne studied the girl when she could, wondering why this lady-in-waiting had warmed to her.

“They made fun of me at music today. I have no ear for singing, yet they forced me to sing alone, just to make the queen laugh.”

“I am sorry, Jane.”

Anne was shivering in her chemise, though the sun was warm. She could see the dust floating through the air, kicked up when Jane helped her step into her petticoat, the farthingale going over this. The corset went over her head, and Anne began to feel like herself again after her nap, the layers of clothes bolstering her to face the women. Jane fastened the bumroll and parlet on next, and whipped around to grab the kirtle that went on top of the underskirts. The gown itself was the last piece, split open down the skirt so that the kirtle could be seen.

Anne favoured a headpiece she had brought from France, but Jane had trouble securing it.

“I am sorry, Anne! I can’t set it right. Why don’t you wear one of mine?”

“No, let me show you how,” Anne offered, guiding her hand, holding the headpiece down so Jane could secure it.

“You shouldn’t wear it. The queen does not like the ways of the French court.”

“The queen will sooner send me away.” She caught Jane’s hand after the piece was secured. “I am not like my sister, Jane.”

“You shouldn’t draw attention to yourself,” Jane replied. “We are here to serve the court, not command it.”

“Let it remind them that I am different,” Anne said. “I will not make the mistakes of my sister, but neither will I atone for her. I want no part of this court.”

“Aren’t you afraid?” Jane asked.

Anne started to ask why just as a cannon went off from the palace wall. They both screamed from fright. Seeing each other’s hysterical faces, they fled, laughing, down the hall to join the others.

Inside the gilded gold of the banquet hall, a towering white wall had been set in place, with windows and doors painted on it. Ladders leaned against the wall in several places, some connected with a plank across the top to make a scaffold. Workers tested the ladders as others brought in baskets of oranges, setting them beneath the ladders. Anne and Jane joined the other ladies attending Queen Catherine. Catherine sat on a carved dark wood chair, her skirts spreading wide so no one could stand less than five feet from her. Ladies had to shout to be heard over the noise of the work. Catherine’s face was pinched and red, as if she had been weeping, and the women struggled to say merry things to her. Anne tried to smile with detached encouragement whenever Catherine’s face turned in her direction. Catherine saw her headpiece and scowled.

The workers finished their efforts and ran from the room, closing all the doors behind them.

Catherine rose and pressed her palms against her cheeks, inhaling a ragged, determined breath. “Bolt the doors!” she commanded.

Her ladies squealed and ran for the doors, bolting them by pushing a brace against the handles. Anne stood stupidly at Catherine’s side, having no idea what to do. In the time it took her to understand the queen’s command, it was already done—the ladies, laughing, had rushed about, checking the windows, and had flown back to Catherine’s side.

“They approach!” Jane cried out from her perch at a window.

Catherine stood. “When they breach the door, climb to the fortress and defend it! I will reward the maid who acts with courage—and an extra reward for the one with the best aim!”

Every woman stopped where she was and watched the doors, some women turning slow circles to see each one at either end of the room. Anne’s heart pounded. When the first door received a thunderous blow, the spell was broken. Ladies ran screaming for the fortress, grabbing as many oranges as they could stuff into their bosoms and skirts and still navigate the ladders. They began to hand oranges up to the women on the scaffolds, working with speed to empty the baskets as the doors blasted open.

Jane grabbed Anne’s hand and pulled her to the fortress as Catherine returned to sitting and watched with a vague smile. They climbed higher and higher up a ladder, struggling to balance their weight on the crude rungs, laughing when the fortress shook.

The doors slammed back with such force that the tapestries fluttered against the walls. Masked men poured into the room and ran for the fortress as the ladies pelted them with oranges, some hurling them with enough force to knock a man off his feet. Anne laughed, and no one turned to stare at her. In the chaos of flying oranges, frivolous taunts, and men smeared with pith and juice, Anne laughed as loudly as she wanted and no one scolded. She only wished she had taken more oranges.

A few of the men had maneuvered under a ladder, safely away from the stinging orange missiles, and used their swords to hack at the ladder’s joints. A pair of ladies crashed to the floor in a collapse of wood and laughter, and the men turned their attention to another ladder and another pair of armed women.

One man was dressed like all the others but stood so tall that he caught her eye. He had to be at least six foot six, a monster compared to the smaller men in court, and he was well built too. He stood still, surveying the madness and marking each woman on the fortress. Anne noticed Catherine’s sad, eager smile focused on him and his utter indifference to her. It infuriated Anne. Every court was the same: Pressed, thin lips and cold stillness polluting the room when words and action could clear the air.

Anne grabbed an orange and struck the man as hard as she could, hoping Catherine would see. It caught him on the back of the head, and he turned and smiled up at her as Catherine’s mouth dropped open. His amusement did not please Catherine, whose pinched face grew redder as she spat out a word to Dr. Butts, who was checking her brow. Court politics, Anne decided, was perhaps not her own best talent.

The man walked straight towards Anne, evidently not minding where oranges flew or paying any attention to the cries of the captive maids who called down increasingly ridiculous insults on the victors.

Her knees jellied, and she held tight to the ladder as he climbed it.

He stood beneath her. She noted his sword and the men gathered at his feet, their women surrendered. She was the last woman on her ladder.

“How will you go?” he asked.

He took another step up and extended his arm. Beneath him were more men, their swords ready to bring down the ladder if she refused him. Everyone was silent, watching. Anne could feel their eyes on her, like the heat from a close fire that drew the blood to her cheeks. How did she always manage to shame herself? She bit her cheek to keep a tear from spilling out and lowered herself into his arms.

Her face was inches from his, his red whiskers scratching her cheek as she bumped against him. He smelled of smoky embers and honey, the yeast of English ale and salt of the sea. He was a foreign taste to her French palate of perfumes and gardens, and his mystery made her breath deeply, learning the scent of a man.