Chapter 21 #2
Somehow, Anne managed a reply, and the young woman walked away.
But all the while, there was a roaring in Anne’s ears.
Yes, Henry was still married to Anna von Kleve, but his regard for holy matrimony was so low that Anne knew better than to doubt the lady’s words.
She had been hoping against hope that the king’s interest in Kat was merely a passing fancy, that if she and Lina intervened at this juncture, Kat would go no further in his affections than as a pretty young mistress.
But as Anne struggled to calm her pounding heart, one thing had become very clear.
She was too late. Gisa was right; Kat was going to be queen.
They stayed overnight at Hampton Court and most of the next day, arriving in London late in the evening.
Anne boarded with Mistress Leighton, for it was too late to return to Hertfordshire.
Frustration had Anne turning in early and waking up before the sun to stare at the ceiling and curse her bad luck and worse timing.
But then she remembered what one of the ladies-in-waiting had said, that Cromwell could be facing a mutiny from the Privy Council. Unless their schedule had changed in the years Anne had been gone…that meeting would be today.
If Lina had been there, she would have told Anne it was a terrible plan.
Even Anne knew it was terrible, but she still found herself standing outside the Palace of Westminster a few hours later with her bloodletting knife in hand.
No one noticed when the black-clad woman blinked out of existence in the shadows, nor did they see the drops of blood she had left behind.
Under the power of her distraction spell, Anne slipped inside the building, following the sounds of men arguing into the Star Chamber where the Privy Council met, so named for the golden stars painted on the blue ceiling overhead.
She tucked herself in the back corner of the room, checking every few seconds to ensure that her curse held.
Of all the places she wouldn’t want to be caught practicing witchery, Westminster was at the top of her list.
But Anne soon realized that even if she had cast a curse to light the entire room on fire, no one would have noticed her, for all eyes were on the display at the center of the room.
Anne’s uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, and a man she recognized as Stephen Gardiner, bishop of Winchester, stood with crossed arms and barely concealed smirks as two royal guards flanked Thomas Cromwell.
Cromwell wore his Order of the Garter robe, the black velvet offset by a red sash, golden tassels, and the Garter crest over his heart, and Anne gritted her teeth at the thought of such a man being awarded one of the highest honors in all of England.
[*3] Her anger was tempered only slightly by seeing that her enemy had visibly aged since Anne had last seen him; his ever-present frown lines had deepened into harsh grooves, and his expanding frame stretched the seams of his robe.
Though Cromwell’s eyes were bloodshot and his hands were shaking with rage, the man could still thunder, and his voice boomed throughout the hall.
“This then is my reward for faithful service?” He lunged at Norfolk, but the guards held him back. “You of all people dare to call me a traitor? You who have never served any man but yourself?”
Norfolk didn’t even flinch, and Anne was repulsed all over again by her two-faced uncle. “I serve the king in all I do. It is you, Cromwell, who has been acting in the spirit of personal gain, you who have betrayed the honor of our king.”
Winchester reached out and tore the Order of the Garter from Cromwell’s shoulders, the tassel ropes scratching a swath of reddened skin along Cromwell’s neck. “A traitor must not wear this,” he sneered.
Cromwell’s face turned a deep, hideous purple, and this time the guards didn’t catch him quickly enough.
He threw himself at Winchester and landed several great blows before he was pulled off, thrashing in the arms of the guards and showering curses on his accusers.
The guards hauled him away down the aisle of the Star Chamber, the men of the Privy Council gaping or hiding their own grins.
Cromwell had not been popular among his peers, whether for his ego or because the king’s favorite was always a target for other men’s jealousy.
As Cromwell neared, his voice breaking as he hurled insults over his shoulder, Anne did another thing Lina would not have approved of.
She used the edge of her sleeve to stem the flow of blood from the cut she’d opened on her palm.
Her hand stopped bleeding just long enough for her to appear right when Cromwell passed by. She raised her veil.
Cromwell caught the motion and turned, eyes going wide with confusion, then fear.
With a reaper’s smile, Anne held up her bleeding hand and held it to her throat, drawing her finger in a scarlet line across her neck. She waved to Cromwell just before her wound began bleeding freely again and the spell took hold once more.
Cromwell’s shouts had turned to screams. “Did you see her?” he shrieked to the guards as he was removed from the chamber. “Did you see the ghost of the queen?”
Either no one heard him, or no one cared about the ravings of a disgraced man. A pity—a part of Anne had almost hoped she could have frightened the entire chamber. But her hand was stinging, and it was time for her to go.
Before Anne turned to leave, she saw Norfolk and Winchester slap each other on the shoulder, congratulating themselves on a job well done.
Celebrate now, she thought. For you’ll be next.
And then, simply because she could, she pricked her finger, whispered a curse to start a fire, and slipped through the doors just as the first councilor noticed smoke.
Skip Notes
*1 Mistress Leighton is the only dressmaker I trust in London.
She cuts a gown like the French do, and her proximity to the powerful women of England made her a natural asset to the Sisterhood.
Besides, her position meant I had reason to visit her every time I was in the country.
(As though buying a new gown weren’t reason enough.)
*2 Brigid von Brocke, a minor baroness, was the only lady-in-waiting who came from Germany with the queen. Little wonder Anna preferred her company over these sniping foreign ladies.
*3 It is both saddening and ironic how many terrible men in history have worn these robes, meant to be for an order of greatest chivalry dating back more than two hundred years.