Chapter 44
Anne
Somehow, life went on.
Most nights, Anne still woke in a cold sweat, certain she held Lina’s body in her arms or had Henry’s blood sprayed across her chest. The latter was disturbing enough, but whenever Anne dreamed of Lina, she would wake up near tears.
What was she supposed to do now without Lina there by her side?
Who else would talk her out of bad ideas or commiserate when she missed her daughter?
Who else could know her, truly know her, in this strange half-life she lived: part spy, part queen, part ghost?
There was nothing for it. Anne was heartbroken.
She’d had to burn Lina’s body on a cold February morning, for the ground was frozen solid and she could not dig a grave.
The ashes had sat in the study until spring, close to the books Lina had loved.
One day in May, Anna von Kleve, Brigid, and Parr all arrived at St. Margaret’s without notice or invitation.
They held a funeral devoid of any religion but full of love, and buried Lina’s ashes by the garden.
After, Anna begged Anne to return to Hever Castle.
Parr offered to teach her the art of poisons at Kendal.
Gisa wrote to her from Spain, inviting her to come and stay for the summer, and although Kat did not write her own letter, she added a postscript to Gisa’s with her sympathies.
Even Marguerite’s letters included repeated requests for her to visit Paris to recuperate. But Anne declined them all.
Instead, she drifted around the convent, reading books she’d read a hundred times before, weeding the garden, and spending every sunset sitting next to Lina’s resting place.
The grass had started to grow back, though Anne could still see the lines in the soil marking her friend’s small rectangle of eternity.
There was no headstone, no name or dates or inscription, for those things were all in place at Peterborough Cathedral, placed above the body of Sister Agnes.
But Anne had transplanted a rosebush at the head of the grave, one that bloomed with delicate, peachy flowers every summer.
It reminded Anne of Lina: beautiful, thorny, and strong enough to last through countless changes and English winters.
Already, the bush had taken to its new home, and as Anne sat beside it, she saw that the first rosebud had appeared.
“It’s beautiful.”
Anne turned at the sound of the familiar voice.
Marguerite was watching her from the back door, a bittersweet smile on her face.
Anne wasn’t even that surprised—Marguerite was always popping into her life when Anne least expected it, and she was a welcome sight after years spent apart.
The Frenchwoman crossed the grass and sat at Anne’s side, and before Anne could think better of it, she buried her face in her friend’s shoulder and began to cry.
“There, there,” Marguerite said, rubbing Anne’s back in gentle circles. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t come sooner. With Francois under suspicion for Henry’s murder, I didn’t want to draw any undue attention.”
Anne drew a shaky breath and sat up, wiping her eyes. “I miss her so much.”
Marguerite nodded. “I know. I miss her too.”
They were silent for a while as the evening shadows stretched their limbs across the garden and the sky turned blush and gold.
“What do I do now?” Anne said, her voice small.
“You don’t have to do anything,” Marguerite replied. “You can stay here forever if you want—the convent is yours. Or, when you’re ready, you can begin working for the Sisterhood again. But, Anne”—Marguerite gave her a serious look—“believe me when I say you have done enough.”
Anne looked away. Yes, she and Lina had done everything they’d been asked and more. But even now, it felt like something was still missing.
“Why isn’t every woman around the world part of the Sisterhood?” Anne asked as she stared at the patch of earth that marked Lina’s grave.
Marguerite considered this. “Well, for one thing, I only just began it twenty years ago. You can’t expect everything to change overnight.”
Anne smiled faintly. “Certainly, I can.”
Marguerite smiled back, looking relieved that Anne could still make a joke.
“Not everyone is ready. Not just the men—many of them will never be ready to see women as their equals. But there are thousands upon thousands of women who have been told all their lives they are less clever, less important, less valuable than men. They’ve been told to hide their bodies and limit their minds and ignore their desires.
Generations of women have been shoved aside to make room for men, and it is hard to undo that way of thinking. ”
“It is built into the fabric of our society,” Anne agreed, conscious of the holy building behind them. “The Bible says we’re good for cooking and cleaning and breeding, virtuous only when obeying the orders of our husbands and fathers. Or our gods, who are also men.”
“Precisely. So it’s up to us to start a movement that convinces women to question or reject what society has told them, has told their mothers and grandmothers through time immemorial.” Marguerite winked. “But it might take more than a few years to accomplish that.”
Anne acknowledged this with a nod, though her soul still felt restless. “I just want Elizabeth to be part of a better world. I don’t want her to fight the same wars I had to fight.” The last part, she whispered. “I don’t want her to end up like me.”
Marguerite reached out and put her hand on Anne’s arm. “She will, and she won’t. Our daughters are destined to follow in our footsteps until they can forge a new path. And they will. Think of what they might see fifty or one hundred or even five hundred years from now.”
Five hundred years was a long time. By then, surely, there would be no need for the Hellebore Sisterhood, for the daily battles for dignity and fairness and safety.
“One day, England will have a queen,” Anne mused, hoping the words would make it true. It was, after all, what Gisa d’Arc had foreseen. Three more queens one day shall rise. The mystic had not been wrong yet.
“One day,” Marguerite said decisively, sounding like a prophetess herself, “women will rule the world.”