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This time, when the burly, costumed man bursts in and accosts Anne, she blushes prettily and goes pliant in his arms. She still cannot speak English, but the king swears her blue eyes can speak to his soul, says, “she knows my heart without ever having said a word.” The king’s worries seem to disappear in an instant, his misgivings melting away as Anne allows herself to be flattered and danced with and fawned over even as she shoots her ladies concerned glances.
It is no doubt shocking to be introduced to the English and the English king thus when one was raised in a glorified convent, Cromwell thinks, and wonders that nobody thought to explain this to the girl. Wonders belatedly if perhaps this was his job.
The king is in good spirits on the ride home, so merry it is almost desperate. He spends the night composing poetry, and has wine and jewelry sent to Anne. Cromwell, left to read over the lines, winces internally and sends them off. He cannot change them- he has a feeling he has interfered enough for one night. He rubs the back of his neck on his way home, soothing a phantom ache.
Anna sits in her room later that night, wondering what kind of king this is, who would expect her to laugh off her virtue on the eve of her wedding, and what sort of country would suffer him. It is a good question. She will never get an answer.
“I like her,” the king says simply. “But we must have words with Herr Holbein.”
Cromwell doesn’t wince, doesn’t think, just asks, “Why is that, your Majesty?”
The king looks mildly displeased, as if Cromwell has missed a step somewhere. Perhaps he has; he has felt off lately, as though his body was walking around without a head. He doesn’t know what to do with that; ignores it mostly, drowns it in the chatter of Rafe and Greg.
“I would think it would be obvious. Can you not see- he has failed to truly capture the beauty of my lady wife. Does this not deserve a reprimand?”
Anna, sewing quietly, smiles. She cannot speak fluently, not yet, but she has recognized the tone the king uses when he wishes to compliment her, has memorized the cadence of the words “beauty,” “wife,” “love,” and “dear.” She has discovered the art of blushing on cue. Her ladies tell her she is quite good at it- they host salons in her rooms, her ladies pretending to be the king, saying swoon worthy things to her in rapid fire English.
“My kitten,” the countess of Rutland purrs, “how lovely you look today! It does one good to gaze upon you, as if gazing upon the finest gardens in the country. Tell me, my lady,” she says, seizing upon the poor Lady Bayton, trying desperately to finish sewing and not let treasonous laughter escape her lips. “Tell me,” she says again. “Our lady the queen- is she more of a red rose or pink?”
“Surely no earthly flower could match my lady’s cheeks,” Countess Paston says demurely, eyes glued to the small dress she is sewing for her seemingly endless brood.
A brood, Anna’s reminded, she should aspire to. Her hand twitches toward her stomach and she stills the motion. Nobody seems to have noticed the movement, and she leans back into the conversation. She cannot yet tell her servants her fire has gone out or ask them to hem her gown, but when the king compliments her she understands. Maybe this is what love is meant to be? she thinks. She has no experience in the real emotion. She supposes she loves her new land, strange and vivid as it is. Certainly she does if anyone asks. She loves her Savior, but not enough to refuse to yield to the king’s expectation of conversion. She loves her family, but not so much that she refused to marry.
She could have; her family is pragmatic and knows forced marriages rarely end well. There are no political benefits to a runaway bride.
(“Anneke,” her mother says, brushing her hair. “The English king is a flighty man.”
It is as close to permission to say no as her mother is likely to give her. Her brother will rage, her father will glower, but truly- they will understand. A part of them will be relieved, even as they rant of her unbiddable nature, that she will not be sent to a cold castle across the channel to a king who has a poor reputation with matrimony.
Divorced, beheaded, died.
Anna thinks it over, quiet as her mother braids her hair. It is a risk, surely, but it could bring perhaps some good.
“I think it is my duty,” she says finally. Her mother looks pained. She had raised Anna to be obedient, but perhaps she was not meant to be thus tested. She says nothing, however, just finishes Anna’s hair and brushes a kiss to her temple. Anna clasps her mother’s hand and tries not to think it will be the last time.
The next morning, Anna leaves.)
“Madam,” the countess of Rutland says with an arched eyebrow that sends a pit burrowing into Anna’s belly. “There must be more than this.”
And Anna is lost. Perhaps it shows on her face, for the Countess flushes.
“Madam,” she tries again. “Surely your lady mother instructed you on the relationship of husband and wife?”
Anna treads on unsteady ground. “My mother,” she starts, unsure, “instructed me in the manners of a goodly wife, devoted to her husband and her lord, to be pleasant, to sew and run a house. That is what instruction she has given me, I have received no other.” The countess looks dumbfounded.
“I see,” she murmers. “My lady, begging your leave to be excused.” Anna nods. It matters little where these women go.
Cromwell blanches at the news.
“Surely the queen’s mother-“ he says. The count of Rutland sighs.
“Would that she had,” he grumbles. “But this is the report I have received. Perhaps you can find some solution as you find them for everything else.” It is not a compliment; the marriage to Cleves lays heavy on Cromwell's head.
Still, he has to appear nonplussed. But what can one say to a queen so unprecedented, one whose chastity is so guaranteed that even her husband cannot have been said to have designs on it? He almost misses the Boleyn woman- for all her shortcomings, she did not need to be instructed on the bedchamber.
In the end, the unfortunate Countess of Rutland engages a midwife to explain to the bewildered queen of what her duty is. She sits gravely, the only indication of her outraged modesty the high flush on her cheeks.
“I thank you,” she says faintly, at the end of the lecture, and retires to her chamber to sob for the rest of the afternoon.
The king greets his councilors with a wide smile, uncharacteristic of him this many a day. Cromwell eyes Rafe, equally perplexed.
“Gentlemen,” he says, echoing the words of a half century ago, “I have this night been in Cleves.”
Anna cannot be said to be a virtuoso. But she will never be accused of being direlict of duty.
When she misses her courses, she slumps in relief, praying quietly in German until her ladies come to collect her. She says nothing, unwilling to break the spell her body has over her. Until someone else notices, it is best to stay quiet.
And finally someone does notice, brings it up with her as they dress her. Surely the laundress has hinted that something is amiss- there is no privacy, not anymore. Even her prayers have witnesses. But she confirms what they have hoped for, and she is initiated into the rite of feminine friendship, surrounded by gentlewomen squealing like schoolgirls, eyes bright and joyous, having completely forgotten themselves. It is a comforting feeling, the closest to a sisterhood she has felt since she left Amalia and Sibylle behind to come to England to be pawed at and humiliated and overlooked. But perhaps, she thinks, touching her belly, this is her chance.