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

on
it.
    In the still gloom of the chapel, the heavy wooden door
opened briefly to admit a latecomer. Beautiful orange light shone in and
ensconced her brother’s trim figure. His chestnut hair seemed haloed with the
light of the rising sun. The sight tightened her chest. Truly, God had visited
her. Just this once, perhaps she’d listen avidly to the priest, but when she
turned back, he stood surrounded by the smoke of incense and the grayness of
the early morn. How different was this vision. She found her mind trailing
away.
    As George met Anne’s eyes and held them, he knew instinctively
what ran through her mind. Mass made her panic—always had. He tried his best to
speak with his gaze and tell her to allow the wonder of God to meet her, but
always she could only see the fear. When she’d turned back to face front he
couldn’t lose the image of her black eyes, round with something he’d not seen
in them before. He lost track of what the priest was saying. For the rest of
the mass, he kept remembering times from childhood when theology ran rampant in
their quiet bedchamber.
    "Do you think that God exists?" he’d asked her
once. The evening was cool but the roar of the fire heated their hearts. He
looked eagerly at his big sister for the sage wisdom of an eleven-year-old.
    "Surely he does, George. Don’t be silly."
    "Do you think he knows our hearts, as chaplain Cranmer
says?"
    He watched her shift upon the bed so that her eyes alighted
on the large crucifix that hung over the headboard. Something in her manner
suggested he’d said something that unnerved her, and he waited anxiously for
her response.
    "I pray he knows not all our thoughts, for my mind is
the one thing I cherish privacy in. It would be horrible to think I may not
even think a thing without reprimand."
    Now in the chapel where the rising sun sent rays of color
through the stained glass, he wondered what she thought, and if she’d ever
managed to find hope in the knowledge that God knew her heart.
    Later in the day, Anne sat in the queen's presence chamber,
playing melancholy music on the virginal for Catherine. Most of the girls sat
about sewing or embroidering; some worked on lessons. Dull things, really, and
Anne thanked the heavens her musical skill spared her from those boring tasks
for the afternoon. The notes she played sounded plain to her, so that every so
often she would make a mistake on the keys, simply to see if she were indeed
playing. Things had lost their lustre in the days since
the dance. Paintings held no beauty, food no flavor. The smoke from the
torch-lights smelled sooty and black. She kept thinking about her marriage and
how pleasant it would be to marry Harry Percy, instead. But she hadn’t seen him
since the eve of the dance, had gone about her daily routines automatically.
    As she stared into the expanse of gray stone, ignoring the
many companions who chatted to Catherine, she heard a ruckus behind her.
Someone had come into the room, someone different, someone unexpected. She
could tell it by the rush of satin and exclamations of delight. When she
turned, from curiosity, the grayness of the room lightened, the green velvet of
the drapes shivered to match the quiver of her stomach. Harry stood silently in
the doorframe, allowing the many women to coo about him and offer him wine. He
smiled at each one indulgently and playfully. His expression reminded Anne of George.
She swallowed the clump of excitement and waited for him to see her. Many of
the women who had flocked to the door tugged at his coat in their haste to draw
him in—trying to make him more comfortable, or more vulnerable, she wasn’t
sure. She stayed where she sat.
    "Keep playing, Mistress Boleyn." Catherine’s
imperial tone broke the spell. "Make it something pleasant. Something
happy."
    Anne could have played nothing else; her heart rocked with
happiness. Her chest even ached from its mad hammering. And as her fingers
echoed the emotion, Harry came toward