1524 Greenwich Palace (Edited)

It does not take long for Anne to seek me out once I am settled at Greenwich Palace. She knocks loudly before I can call her inside. She lets herself in, embracing me swiftly—squeezing me tightly in her strong embrace.

"Bonjour, Madame." She rolls the french of her tongue elegantly.

"Bonjour, Madame," I reply. My French sounds unusual, even to my own ears.

Breaking apart, she looks upon me. There is no scrutiny in her look; she appears as though she only wants to refresh her memory.

"It feels like it has been too long," I say, reverting back to English.

She frowns in jest. "I thought I could continue speaking French with you. It sounds more beautiful. Makes me appear more intriguing, do you not think?" she asks.

I laugh. "It is a beautiful language, but I fear if we speak it between ourselves, people will believe we are conspiring. You know how the Queen hates the French."

"I thought she did not like the French because her husband appears to have taken up with a French mistress," she quips.

"Rumours in the courts of Europe are like winter storms. The king has no mistress except your sister, who is as English as they come." I do not break my gaze.

She holds my gaze for a moment before breaking into laughter. "I would not judge you if the rumors were true. However, if you say it is just gossip, then I believe you, Kat."

We spend the next few hours busying ourselves in gossip and talk. Anne, although sent away in disgrace, has grown during her time away at the French court. She now holds herself strong, surer of her place in the world. She has adopted a French style to her wardrobe: long silk sleeves, a square-cut bodice and the most daring: a thin hood adorned with jewels—a bold outfit that, at the same time, is in compliance with the rules of modesty.

"Your mother says you do not write." Anne hands me a parchment.

I take it slowly. It is true; we do not converse, but she has not written to me either, until now. "You should read it later, then burn it," she whispers.

I glance at the parchment in my hand. If she means me to destroy it, then it must contain dangerous, damning words.

"Do you know what is written?" I ask.

"Yes and no. Your mother did not trust a normal page to deliver this to you without reading the content," she whispers.

"But she trusted you?" I ask, shocked.

"I can be very charming, Mistress Champernowne!" she says with a grin.

"Charming, I am sure, for my mother trusts no one," I reply.

"Well, she trusts me. I have so much to tell you about the French court," she exclaims.

"I guess things will have changed," I say half-heartedly.

"Read your letter tonight, then find me tomorrow at the wedding. I must talk to my brother George before his big day."

She embraces me once more before leaving me with the parchment in my hand.

* * *

Wringing my hands together, I sit impatiently at the back of the chapel. I can still smell the lingering, potent incense used in the morning mass. I feel uncomfortable—almost suffocated. I do not belong here, in their god's home, and I feel like everyone present can sense my discomfort.

It is only early morning and already my day has been consumed in this chapel, first with mass, then in wait for the wedding. My thoughts have been out of place, and my mother's scrawled script has been constantly flashing behind my closed eyes. I almost failed to look at the raised host, nearly forgetting to say the timely pronounced Amens with which the devout Catholics show their pious devotion.

My mother has entrusted Anne with some books, at Anne's persuasion. It will allow us both to learn and benefit. She believes Mary Carey carries a girl, with the stars still showing promise elsewhere. I am to learn, to use, and to invite the King into my bed as originally planned. She still believes that I am the one. She has heard the rumors in regard to my status as mistress and she wishes it to be true. If not, I should make it so before someone else snaps up the opportunity.

It kept me away from the sweetness of sleep. Master Ashley's face appears whenever I picture myself bedding the King. It is John's face that came into my dreams. I do not want this task, and I hate my mother for asking this of me.

A hand on my shoulder breaks my thought. "I must sit behind the curtain. I am not all forgiven, it seems. They wish me to hide, so not to instigate gossip on George's special day," Anne remarks. "Will you care to join me?"

I get up a little too quickly from where I am seated. I will feel better hidden away from the stone carvings of watchful eyes. Her eyebrows raise at my haste, but swiftly, she returns back to normal. A good courtier never lets their emotions play out in open.

The wedding is beautiful. The chapel is full to the brim with well-wishers and the King stands in all his grandeur at the front. A shining beacon which notifies the court that this wedding is blessed, honoured, and approved by the King of England.

I feel a pang of sympathy for Anne. Here she is behind a curtain for her beloved brothers big day, while her family sits upfront and centre, dressed in their best, with Mary. She reminds me of a spring chicken, plump and round, her tight dress stretched over her swelling bump. Even a fool can read the intention behind placing Mary so close to the King in that condition.

I do not know how Queen Katherine can stand there so regal with this display of infidelity so purposely placed in front of her. The Spanish must be made of iron, for she smiles with the rest at the Boleyn wedding, polite and in good spirit.

Jane Parker plays the willing bride, smiling all the way through the ceremony. She is highbred and from a rich family. To marry a Boleyn—the rising stars of the court—would make most women smile. It helps that George has the looks and ambition to match.

"That girl has a courtier's smile across her face," Anne whispers sternly. I glance sideways.

"She appears genuine to me." I reply. It is the truth.

"Kat, you are always so naive," she says in despair.

"Perhaps, you do not trust easily," I retort.

She pouts at that. "I trust people. I just have an uncanny good judge of character." Her eyes stray upon the crowded courtiers.

"I thought you said it was a good match?" I say.

Her eyes meet mine. They are black as coal. "For the money, status, and good noble heirs. She does not like him, though, that much is evident."

"Your brother is very handsome, why would she not be happy?" I ask.

"Ay. A handsome husband is not likely to be a faithful one. She has no regal attitude. She will not be quiet or ladylike with her displeasure. Instead, she will whine like a lame mule."

I look at Anne, surprised. The French court has given her a strange sense of the world. Or maybe her heartbreak has taken something from her whimsical soul. Either way, I reach out and grasp her hand, to which she she squeezes back gently. Together we watch the rest of the ceremony in silence.

Anne is not allowed to attend the celebrations, much to her displeasure. We wait until the crowd has ebbed away before saying our goodbyes.

"I will see you at court when we return for Mary's lying-in." she says.

"What will you do until then?" I ask.

She moves her hand to the side to grasp a small, black bound book. "I have much reading to catch up on," she says.

I note the cross engraved into the black. "Since when have you become a theologian scholar?" I laugh.

"I have a thirst for opinions, especially since we both know the world is not so black and white," she says.

I look around me cautiously. The chapel is almost empty, but I do not want her words traveling to unwanted ears.

"Be careful with your words, Anne. Some could take it as heresy." I almost choke out the last word.

"Some will. People do not like change, Kat. Even the King's sister at the French court allows her ladies these speculations," she whispers.

"You are no longer at the French court, so do not voice your newfound hobby too loudly," I say seriously.

"I am no fool, Katherine. I have learned my lesson well."

I feel our conversation has taken a turn for the worse. I do not want to anger her, but she is being foolish carrying such literature upon her person.

"We will talk more at court." She interrupts my thoughts, beating me to the goodbye, before walking off.

* * *

A man on his wedding night should not be so drunk. George and his male companions, the King included, have been heavily drinking since the start of the celebration. Loud, boisterous men who were first cheerful are now more competitive, uncourteous individuals.

I sip my drink carefully among other ladies of the court, cautiously keeping my distance from the unruly. I glance at Jane Boleyn. Her face is nearly as white as her gown. She will soon be taken to consummate her marriage, and by the blankness of her gaze, I reckon the rumors of her not being a maiden are unfounded. She can barely hold her wine and she appears to be drinking more than is expected of a woman on her wedding day. If she wishes to catch up with her new husband, then she is not far off.

No one appears to give her much notice. The courtiers are either joining in with her husband's antics or are keeping their distance. I hope when I marry this is not what I am reduced to. I wish to be merry and in love, nervous but also excited for my husband's touch.

Jane catches my eye. There is almost a pleading look about her. She has never shown me hate, nor has she offered me friendship. I think she realizes at this moment that she has isolated herself from the friendship of others, leaving herself open. I give her my most reassuring smile and she hesitantly smiles back.