Free Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) by Thea Atkinson Page A

away.
    "Good night," she whispered and after a few
seconds, couldn't help but say, "Your majesty."
    She suppressed a smile. Terrible, she thought, to have such
a distorted sense of humor.
    Then came an answer, rough and intimate, and equally
perverse, "Good night, Mistress Boleyn."

Chapter 12
    F or days after the masque Anne tended to her duties with
little interest. Her mind was too preoccupied to concentrate on her sewing. And
in truth, sewing was one of her most hated tasks—except for going to mass,
which Catherine did three times a day—or so it seemed. The early morning masses
were the worst. Anne would moan and grumble when it came time to be out of bed
and dressing. This morning she chose a somber gown of damask for the small
tribulation—to match her mood. The cool air of the room forced her to hurry.
Tapestries and wall hangings did little to keep the room warm when the fire had
been forgotten. Anne took one look at the black hearth and shivered.
    "Would that we had a small piece of Hell this
morning," she said. "Perhaps I could take it with me to service. Jesu
knows there won’t be any heat."
    "Why do you so hate going to mass?" Mary helped
Anne with the clasp of a locket.
    "I don't hate mass, I hate the feelings it gives
me." Anne replied, linking a pomander to her girdle. "Truth be known,
I believe in God with all my soul—too much."
    "Then why the forlorn look each time we're called to
chapel?" Her sister’s tiny arched brows made two neat triangles.
    Anne chuckled, trying to cover the mental squirming.
"Because the chaplain is so sure we’re to be called to judgment, not mass.
He never speaks of joy nor goodness. Always it is damnation and repentance,
dispensations and tithes."
    She couldn’t explain just what troubled her. She was certain
the Almighty could find no good in lowly Anne Boleyn—what was there to love?
And what if the priests were wrong about God? She could imagine spending her
life as a prudent woman of beliefs—helping the poor, praying unceasingly, only
to discover on judgment day that there was no judgment—that indeed, there was
nothingness. Or worse yet, that God sat before her laughing mightily and
saying, "Oh, Anne. What made you think good works would get you in?"
    The imagined derisive laughter echoed in her mind as she
walked the gloomy hall to the courtyard. It stayed there as she crossed the
starlit cobblestones to the chapel. Oh, the feelings mass brought her—she hated
it. The air was biting and frost glistened on the stones and statues. She was
relieved to gain the chapel door. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to
the new light and she stood like a statue ’til Mary prodded her.
    "The holy water."
    Anne fought off a nervous laugh and dipped her fingers into
the fount. Sweet Jesu, it felt like ice. She no more wanted to touch it to her
breast than she wanted to spit in it. But then, if it had been warm on such a
crisp day, she’d doubt its holiness. She found her pew a few rows behind
Catherine, knelt quickly. A furtive prayer later and she sat. The priest droned
on and on. Catherine sat rigidly in her pew with an odd look on her face as she
stared into the priest’s eyes—as if she were looking straight at God and
couldn’t believe the beauty of the sight. Anne wished she felt so inspired, but
couldn’t let go those nagging doubts that clung to her mind. She wished
fervently that God could so move her, but all she felt was guilt and shame.
    She watched the priest’s lips move, tried not to hear his
words on judgment and sin. She stared instead at the candles and the incense,
often having to be prodded when she didn’t notice the priest order them to
kneel. During her musings, she wondered if the sun had finally crept from its
bed. At one point, she had such a terrible urge to see if the stained glass
portrait of Jesus’ first position of the cross had taken the light of life,
that she turned straight around in her seat. She met George’s eye and locked