Chapter 7
Anne
Anne awoke in agony. With gritted teeth, she raised her bandaged hand to inspect the wounds, pleased to find clean linens only lightly stained with crimson.
Despite a voice in her head warning her off, Anne pricked her right pointer finger with the bloodletting knife and tried performing a small spell to ease the pain, but the well had run dry.
A witch’s blood had to fuel her body and her magick, and at a certain point, it could only fuel one or the other.
She knew from experience that it would take weeks for her to regain her power unless she wanted to further risk her health.
She was clean, at least, and though she felt weak as a kitten from the blood loss, her stomach grumbled for food. Anne took the return of her appetite as a sign she wasn’t headed for an imminent death.
Her quarters were small but neatly kept, with a straw mattress, a washbasin, and an armoire, where a traveling cloak she didn’t recognize hung on a peg.
There were boots beneath the cloak, and when she slipped them on, Anne was pleased to find that they fit.
The Sisterhood always took care of its own.
With slow, unsteady steps, she descended the flight of stairs between her room and the common hall, where she smelled fresh bread and sausage.
Like the rest of the boardinghouse, the hall was simply furnished, two long tables and benches lining a low-ceilinged room dotted with windows open to the spring air.
Lina was there already, and for the first time Anne noticed that the former queen’s hair, once a ruddy brown, had faded to silver gray.
The years apart had aged them both, and Anne felt miles away from the ambitious, bright-eyed young woman she’d been when she joined Lina’s ladies-in-waiting.
“You’re looking better,” Lina remarked, giving Anne an assessing once-over. “How do you feel?”
Anne reached for a joke but came up empty. Instead, she shrugged. “I’m alive. That’s good enough for today.”
Lina nodded. “So it is. Even still, we’ll give you a few more days before we head toward the convent. I can’t imagine your hand will take kindly to the roads between here and Hertfordshire.”
Anne shook her head, both in rebuttal and confusion. “Hertfordshire?”
Lina motioned for her to sit on one of the benches across from her. A mug of warm cider appeared before Anne a moment later, followed by bread slathered with strawberry preserves and butter. Anne gave the serving woman a grateful smile and then had to force herself to chew a single bite at a time.
“The convent was my gift to the Sisterhood,” Lina said as Anne ate. “Last year, when Henry started seizing the monasteries, we took the opportunity to buy the convent. St. Margaret’s, it’s called. It’s a simple enough place, but I chose it because—”
“—it’s close to Hatfield Palace,” Anne finished, understanding dawning on her. It was the royal residence where Henry had sent his daughters, where Mary and Elizabeth were now, both believing themselves to be motherless.
“Do you…” Anne trailed off, hope lodged in her throat. “Do you see Mary often?”
Lina looked down at the table. “Only from afar now. But yes, sometimes. I thought it would be a comfort to you as well, to be close, though of course the Sisterhood has other places you could go.”
Anne shook her head. “No. I would very much like to be near Elizabeth. Both of them.” Now she was the one looking down. “Queen Cath—Lina, you must know, I never meant to separate you and Mary. I begged Henry to change his mind, but—”
Lina reached out as though to put her hands over Anne’s, but drew back before they touched. “I know,” she said at last. “Marguerite has explained it to me. Some things were set in motion none of us could control.”
“I can’t imagine how you must have felt to be parted from your daughter. I’ve only gone a few weeks without Elizabeth, and I think I’d rather meet the executioner’s sword than accept that I’ll never see her again.”
Lina chuckled, and Anne narrowed her eyes. “I’m sorry,” the older woman said, holding up a placating hand. “I had just forgotten how dramatic you can be.”
“I would hardly call a mother missing her child dramatic,” Anne retorted.
“Ah, but if the rumors I have heard are accurate, you certainly were stirring up a commotion before Henry got it in his head to get rid of you. Is it true you ripped the locket he gave Jane Seymour right off her neck and sliced her throat with the chain?”
Now it was Anne’s turn to laugh, though it held little humor. “Hardly. I had to make a scene so Henry would believe I actually cared who he was sleeping with. No one was hurt during our little tête-à-tête, I can assure you.”
When she’d caught Jane with a locket containing her portrait and Henry’s, Anne hadn’t thought of anyone but Elizabeth.
She knew all too well what would happen if Henry decided he wanted a third wife, and she wouldn’t let her daughter be relegated from heir apparent to a bastard girl child.
So she’d yelled and screamed a bit—publicly, for good measure—and then took the locket and gave it to a much more deserving woman who worked in the royal bakery.
But that was when everything started falling apart.
Just weeks later, Anne was accused of her myriad false crimes and Jane Seymour was moved into the queen’s quarters.
Anne wondered how on earth Henry managed to escape the smear of hypocrisy in the eyes of his peers.
Exiling and killing wives to marry your mistresses?
Surely there were some men still left in England who had to find Henry’s tactics repulsive.
Of course, Henry had been clever enough to declare himself the head of the Church of England, so it was harder for others to claim the moral high ground.
Anne didn’t believe in a Christian God, but some days she hoped he was real and full of the fire and brimstone of the Old Testament, solely so Henry could be excruciatingly and eternally punished on his judgment day.
It was a lovely thought that sustained her during the hours she’d had to waste pretending at the chapel on Sunday mornings.
“Your mind is somewhere else,” Lina observed, drawing Anne back to the present. “Where?”
“Hell,” Anne answered blithely, feeling like she was returning to herself now that she’d had food and a night of rest. “Just some wishful thinking.”
This earned a real smile from Lina. “I’m sure we’ll be there soon enough.”
The door to the Winter Rose banged open, creaking all the way back on its hinges.
A girl of ten or so rushed inside and looked around the room.
Her wide eyes found only Anne and Lina, the serving maid having taken their dishes back to the kitchen.
If she knew the identities of the two former queens, she didn’t show it.
Instead of curtsying, she hurried over to them, her face flushed bright pink with exertion.
“The king,” the girl said breathlessly. “The king has announced his betrothal to Lady Jane Seymour.”
Anne blinked, certain she’d misheard. She had only been dead a day, and Henry was already engaged?
She’d had little doubt a third marriage would happen.
But the shock of hearing the news from the mouth of a girl shook loose something in her gut.
The feeling was more complex than anger or indignation or jealousy.
It was a dark, primal response to knowing she could be so quickly and easily replaced.
That her greatest fear—years of her life had been wasted—was coming true.
Henry would get away with this. He would marry Jane, perhaps behead her when it was convenient, and continue to toss aside lovers and wives and daughters like they were nothing. To him, women were infinitely disposable, and the cycle would continue with more death, more heartbreak.[*]
The thought made Anne want to shatter the mug in her hand.
“Alice?” The maid had reappeared, beckoning for the girl. “Leave the ladies alone, please, and come help me in the kitchen.”
Alice rushed away with the same enthusiasm she’d entered with. Silence fell in her wake, and Anne felt Lina’s eyes on her. She looked up and held her gaze.
“You know how this is going to end.”
Lina sighed. “Unless she bears him a son.”
“Even then, we can’t be sure she’ll be safe.
” Anne had little love for Jane, but she wasn’t so cold as to wish death or banishment on the woman.
Jane wasn’t much younger than Anne, twenty-eight to Anne’s thirty-five, but she was no match for Henry’s schemes and would wind up discarded or worse as soon as the king’s interest burned out.
“There’s nothing we can do to help her now.”
Anne’s smile turned dark, her expression going predatory. “Well, we could sneak into Hampton Court and see how Henry likes it when someone cuts off his head.” Her smile went darker still. “I don’t care which one we take.”
Lina recoiled. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Why? Ghosts make perfect assassins.”
“Killing a king—especially one who is currently without an official heir—will only lead to more trouble for everyone in England. We need to take our time and follow the Sisterhood’s lead.”
Because that has worked out so well for the both of us, Anne wanted to say.
The Sisterhood had given her plans, given her a reason to fight.
But it had also led to the hardest, most unhappy years of her life.
It had, in essence, led to her death and her separation from Elizabeth.
And while Anne bore no ill will toward Marguerite and was indeed grateful to be alive, she did not feel like taking orders anymore.
Anne had given enough—it was time for the Sisterhood to give back.
All Anne would ask for would be for them to look the other way.
She knew Lina well enough to know there was no convincing her with passion—the former queen was thoughtful and measured, perhaps to a fault. Lina hated Henry, that much was clear, but she’d never move against him.
No, if Anne wanted something done, she’d have to do it herself. Not today, and probably not tomorrow.
But one day, she’d find a way to make Henry pay for all his sins.
Skip Notes
* When I sent the Boleyn sisters to court, England was poised to have a woman inherit the crown, with Mary Tudor as heir apparent.
The only other ruling queen that Europe has seen is Isabel, Lina’s mother.
It is hard to believe so many centuries have gone by in our nations with only men on the throne.
(Though, I will say, it explains a great deal.)