Chapter 31 #2
“Sit, sit,” Henry encouraged. His brows rose as he noticed for the first time the attendant with Anna. “And who is this lovely lady?”
For a moment, Anna was sure she would either laugh or blurt out the truth. “This—this is Lady Genevieve d’Toulouse,” she answered shakily. “One of my new ladies-in-waiting. She hails from France.”
Henry frowned at the mention of his rival nation, and Anna wondered what latest fight Henry had picked with the French king or vice versa. She had never understood why powerful men insisted on trying to prove their dubious claims to manhood by sending others to die in battle.
“Your Majesty,” Anne said, curtsying again. Anna wondered just how difficult those words must be for her to say.
“A rare delight to make your acquaintance,” Henry said, a mix of shrewdness and lust in his gaze that turned Anna’s stomach. She didn’t feel at all bad knowing his wife was sleeping with another man.
Henry spent the next half hour regaling Anna with all she had missed since she “left court,” from Cromwell’s execution to the troubles he was having with the Holy Roman emperor—“the boy with the jaw,” as Henry called him—to his gleeful plan to seize and melt down all the remaining shrines to the Catholic saints.
“Dissolving a religion is far more lucrative than war,” he confided in her. “I really should have thought of it sooner. England is going to be very, very rich—I daresay the richest nation on earth. A true golden age, all thanks to me.”
Anna forced a smile. Despite his schemes, or perhaps because of them, Henry was always on the verge of bankruptcy, having wasted his entire fortune and the fortunes of many others on his marriages and parties and castles and attempted invasions on the Continent.
Anna had always been disgusted with his spending habits—he spent the hard-earned coin of his subjects like it would disappear if he dared put it in England’s coffers.
Henry was lavish and indiscriminate when it came to showing the rest of the world his wealth and power, but he turned away from addressing the poverty, sickness, and lack of infrastructure in his own country.
“And what about you?” Henry finally thought to ask. “What has kept you busy this last half a year?”
Anna wasn’t sure which answer would have shocked him more: that she spent the first three months in a lover’s haze with Brigid or that she spent the second three months plotting against him with his two dead ex-wives.
“I’ve been painting,” she answered instead. “I find it a very rewarding exercise.”
Henry nodded absently, as though he couldn’t even be bothered to listen to the answer to the question he’d posed. “That sounds amusing. I recall you liked to dabble in art. I know I’d be proficient myself, perhaps even better than that Michelangelo fellow, had I the time.”
Anna was ashamed to realize that his dismissal of her interest—nay, her talent—actually stung.
She clenched her jaw and forced herself to take a calming breath.
Why should she care one bit what this awful man thought of her?
And yet she always had, at least a little.
Even though she had been the one to concoct her unappealing disguise, she had always hated how he looked at her with such disdain, like she was a creature so revolting he could hardly stand to be in the same room as her.
Had he not looked in the mirror? Looked inside his own putrid soul?
Anna was furious that his opinion held any sway over her mind, and she banished the negative thoughts with a vengeance.
There was a knock at the door, followed by the whisper of men’s voices. Anna forced herself not to turn around, ignoring her curiosity. She heard Anne’s skirts rustling behind her, followed by a sharp intake of breath.
“Your Majesty, please pardon the intrusion.” Archbishop Cranmer appeared in Anna’s periphery, and every drop of blood in her veins turned to ice. He bowed to Henry, then to Anna. “Your Highness, a pleasure to see you.”
Anna nodded to him, her neck stiff. “And you.”
“What do you want?” Henry asked. He had gone from patronizing, self-important man to short-tempered monarch in an instant.
Cranmer shot a look at the king, his expression grave, and Anna noticed a bit of sweat ringing his brow. “Your Majesty, I fear I have a report not suited for feminine ears. I hate to interrupt your meeting, but it is of the utmost importance that we speak privately.”
A scowl crossed Henry’s face, and Anna wondered if he might send Cranmer away.
But he merely shrugged, waving a ringed hand.
“Very well. We shall have to pick up our conversation another time.” He smiled over her shoulder at Anne.
“I am honored to have met you, Lady Genevieve. I hope you shall not be a stranger to court.”
“I’m sure I won’t be, Your Majesty,” Anne replied, and only Anna could hear the acid note in her voice.
Reluctantly, Anna stood, wishing she could think of an excuse to stay behind and hear Cranmer’s report.
It had to do with Kat, didn’t it? Cranmer’s sudden appearance couldn’t be chalked up to coincidence.
As slowly as she could manage, she gathered her skirts and crossed the room, Anne one step behind her.
They were nearly out the door when she heard Cranmer’s whispered words.
“Your Majesty, it’s about your wife.”
Skip Notes
*1 The Hellebore Sisterhood needs women like Anna. We need her empathetic heart as much as we need Anne Boleyn’s bright anger, Lina’s careful scrutiny, and my own cheerful scheming. Together, we will remake the world.
*2 A wise instinct.