Summer 1536
August was kind that year.1018Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJByWOMEcME
Anne found it deliriously easy to forget, for a few fleeting moments, that she was no longer queen and that her daughter was in the care of another. In the sunlight at least she could close her eyes without fear of the nightmares that visited her when the darkness fell. Each night since she had arrived, her sleep had been broken and plagued with the same dream, over and over, until she woke up screaming, convinced she was back in the Tower, clutching her temples with frustration as cries tore themselves from her throat.
She was in exile. There were members of her household that reported back to the king, and as Anne lay in bed on her first night in the castle, she thought the whole thing was remarkably similar to old Katherine of Aragon. Except Katherine had been banished to Kimbolton Castle, and surely that wasn't nearly so far away and detached from things as Pembroke.
But still... air moved through her lungs and blood through her veins. The king had beheaded his dearest, closest friend and oldest advisor simply because they couldn't agree on scripture. Anne had got off lightly compared to Thomas More... The dark circles under her eyes and the shivers that came at night were nothing in the grand scheme of things. She still had her head.
That was her new outlook on things, anyway. As she stood by the river, forcing herself to relish in the wind on her cheeks, she heard footsteps and her heart froze. The memory of her arrest was too fresh, and with each unexpected noise she found herself jumping half out of her skin. Upon hearing the footsteps, she felt the smooth wood of the block beneath her fingers. She heard the nervous chitter of the crowd before the scaffold. She felt the silk of the blindfold. She saw, for a brief moment, her brother mounting the scaffold and kneeling to die.1018Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡY9ZfQEpTZI
Turning her elegant, swan-like neck, she braced herself for whatever was coming.
She beheld only a young boy that worked in her household advancing towards her. He was a scrawny boy with a thick country accent, exactly the type that Anne used to dazzle in her youth in France. He was the type that would gladly lose his head for her. Little had Anne known back then just how literal Mark Smeaton would prove to be, when he whispered in her ear that he would die for her.
"Lady Stafford to see you, m'lady.”
“My sister?” She asked.1018Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsZLLJEgupC
The boy nodded. Anne inhaled and, after what seemed like an age, nodded herself. She took a deep breath, straightened her skirts, fiddled with the necklace around her neck and braced herself for the coming storm.
"Mary!" Anne said with half a smile, opening her arms and offering an embrace that was refused. For half a moment Anne was waiting for her to curtsey. Then, with a jolt, she realised Mary no longer had to curtsey. Anne was no longer queen; she was owed nothing.
“I wish I knew how I could begin to apologise...” Anne began tentatively.
“Trying might be the place to start.” Mary interrupted bluntly. She took a breath, and then began to speak, her words coming slowly and shakily, her hands almost trembling.1018Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLayJ2xg63w
“Our brother is dead. Our father is in disgrace. Our mother is in the deepest melancholy I have ever witnessed - damn near locked herself away and won't say a word. Five other men were killed along with George - Mark Smeaton, for Christ's sake, beheaded for loving you; Henry Norris, killed because you couldn't hold your stupid tongue, William Brereton, Francis Weston... all of them dead, and the Seymour girl is queen.” She paused for breath and sighed heavily, a sadness hidden behind her irises. "You've ruined us."
Silence fell between them before Mary spoke again. This time her words were softer, having the nostalgic glow that came with speaking of years long past. There was a faraway look in her eye, the type that was unmistakable longing, a yearning for days gone by.
“Four years ago... I thought to be a Boleyn was a blessing. We were so high in the King’s favour that we could no longer see the ground and..." She trailed off into silence, closing her eyes with a sigh. Anne was sure Mary was remembering her golden days at court, when it was she who filled the space in Henry's bed and not Anne.
She took one single deep breath. When her eyes opened again, she was no longer calm; there was a solid fury behind her irises, one that Anne knew was formidable.
“Mary, I never meant...“ Anne attempted, trying vainly to curb Mary’s wrath.
“Never meant what?! What does it matter what you meant and what you didn't?! When has it ever mattered?!"
Anne remained silent. Apologising to Mary would do no good; those that deserved the apology were already in their graves.
"You knew Henry. You should have known he would have other women besides you! You should never have expected to have him all to yourself. If you cage a bear, it bites, Anne. You know that." Mary said sadly. "And if you could have just given him a son..."
At that, Anne bristled. She had already miscarried two babies, and the second was the son the king wanted so desperately. Mary had the nerve to act like Anne hadn't prayed until her lips were sore, like she hadn't wished so hard for a second chance that her soul had grown heavy, wishing that she could have just carried their boy a few weeks longer, just enough for him to survive and open those eyes that were sure to be the same shade of green as her own.
"You think I did not want to?!" She asked incredulously. "It was the one thing in the world I wanted more than anything!"
Mary sniffed and bit her tongue, knowing she had gone too far. Anne cleared her throat and averted her gaze, looking out over the river.
“I know that nothing I can say can ever change what happened,” Anne said quietly. “But I should like to think that I can... repay those whom I have wronged.”
“Oh? How?” Mary replied flatly, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.
“Elizabeth shall be queen.” Anne said with a shrug. "They won't have died for nothing. Boleyn blood will sit on that throne."
Mary raised her eyebrows, but did not argue. She recognised the determination in her sister’s voice and knew that when Anne adopted that tone, more often than not she got what she wanted.
Mary stayed for a few hours more, but refused Anne’s offer of staying for dinner. She had children and a husband to care for at home, after all. Anne was reminded bitterly that Mary had Elizabeth to care for, and whilst Anne had grown accustomed to her child being in the care of others when she was queen, now that she no longer held any power, she found herself longing to hold her baby girl in her arms once more.
“Has she grown?” Anne had asked Mary softly before she left.
“Yes. She can speak full sentences now." Mary replied with a soft, sad smile. "She asks for you.”
Anne felt her heart seize up. Her daughter, her tiny Elizabeth, asking for her and receiving no answer. Wanting her mother’s embrace but receiving only a small hug from an unfamiliar aunt. Wondering why her father had suddenly forsaken her, why her elaborate dresses and all of her toys had been replaced by smaller, cheaper counterparts.
“Tell her I love her. Tell her I shall see her soon.” Anne said, clutching Mary’s hand between her palms.
“Will you?” Mary asked. “See her soon, I mean? I shan’t give the child false hope. Will Henry really let you see her?”
“Must the king know?” Anne said quietly. Mary bit her lip.
“Anne, if I were to bring your daughter to see you, even in secret, the King would find out. You have too many of his men in your household.”
She nodded sadly, and bid her sister farewell, watching her leave until she was no longer visible.
It was in October when Anne saw Cromwell again.
When her page approached her and told her the Lord Privy Seal had come to visit, Anne had felt her heart stiffen in her chest.
He was the same as she remembered. His business air had not diminished, he still carried himself with all of the self-righteousness that he had done before she had been banished. Her pretty, captivatingly dark eyes scrutinised him as he stood before her.
Cromwell removed his hat as a show of respect and Anne nodded to a chair opposite her by the fire. He took the invitation gratefully; it had been a long journey and the October chill had reached his very bones. He was practically shivering, even though he had gained a little weight since last they had met. The king must be treating him well, Anne thought, since he is gaining weight whilst I am loosing it.
“Let us not stall, Cromwell. You are here for a reason.” Anne said shortly. Cromwell nodded.
“I am here on the business of the king. He plans to reduce your income.”
“Reduce it?” Anne asked, almost aghast. “I barely get along already.”
She thought of the pile of firewood that was becoming scarce and, after growing used to vast feasts for every meal in the past, the smaller portions were proving difficult to grow accustomed to. Already Anne was convinced of a lack of shape and colour in her cheeks and the absence of her once-healthy glow. Combined with her sleepless nights and the terrors that the darkness carried, she was horrified to find that, when she looked in the mirror, she looked every one of her thirty-five years.
“Too much is being spent.” He said simply. Anne wondered idly if somewhere, deep inside, he felt some sympathy for her. She doubted it.
“I suppose it is to go to the Seymour girl.” Anne muttered.
“She is addressed as Her Majesty these days.” Cromwell answered bluntly. “You toe the line already, Anne. Don't give the King another reason to be angry with you.”
“I didn't give him a reason in the first place.” Anne said innocently. She leaned back in her chair, but her eyes remained fixed upon Cromwell. He ignored it, and allowed the comment to pass. Anne refused to let it lie and continued.
"You and I both know Thomas, if you wanted to tell the king I am privy to treason, you will tell him regardless of whether or not the words ever actually pass my lips."
Cromwell's gaze hardened.
“You would do well to remember that had I not persuaded the King to spare your life, you would be lying headless in a box like your brother.” He retorted sharply.
Anne recoiled. The absence of George was a wound that was still too tender, too raw. Just hearing Cromwell speak her brother's name made her blood run cold. She clenched her jaw and rose.
“Take what you wish." She hissed, leaning over him until her words were delivered straight into his ear. Her lips brushed the cool skin of his earlobe as she spoke. "As long as I am away from you, I am content.”
“It was, as always, nice to see you, Anne.” He said, rising from his seat, bowing slightly and turning on his heels.
After she was certain he was gone, Anne sank into her chair.
Tears that she had long since held back began to leak from her eyes. The wall around her emotions that she had built so high and so strong began to crumble, and before she could stop herself, sobs racked her body and all she could think of was George, lying dead and headless, and Jane Seymour, sitting proud and docile on a throne that she, Anne, no longer held any claim to.
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