his new title. His greying
hair was cut French fashion, just above his broad back.
She could make out the thickness of his neck even at this
distance. As Thomas bowed to receive his honor, Anne thought of how long he’d
worked in the court, sometimes as liaison, sometimes as diplomat. He was an
intelligent man, with a gift for speaking and linguistics, which made him
valuable as many English could barely read and write, let alone speak a second
language.
He’d been in court service since he acted as Squire to the
body of Henry’s father, had been knighted and aided in planning the Field of
Cloth-of-Gold. Not long ago, he’d participated in the jousts to honor Henry's
first legitimate son, and had mourned when the son passed away, a babe of seven
weeks. He finally received acknowledgement now, and was granted the
long-coveted title of Lord Rochford. But the ceremony was quick and short-lived
with hardly any pomp or circumstance.
Anne couldn't say she regretted the end. She couldn't wait
to get out of the garden, away from the heat. Her attention centered on the
dance that was to follow. She imagined the cool room filled with hundreds of
well-dressed courtiers. Ah, it’d been so long.
"Do you think she came?"
George looked at his wife for a moment, watched the sky-blue
eyes cloud with anxiety that Anne might be present somewhere in the garden. The
tender flesh around them crinkled with doubt. She obviously regretted her
outburst last eve, and might even have been afraid he’d not forgive her.
"Yes, love." He grasped her fingers reassuringly.
"I know it as surely as I know we sit here." He turned his attention
again to the front where his father stood before Henry beaming and silently
gloating. Her voice came again. This time it sounded more certain and he
thought the endearment had been a good response.
"I offer my greatest apologies for last eve,
husband."
He sighed, wondered for a moment how he’d handle the
discussion, gave up in favor of speaking his mind.
"You have to forget this jealousy of Anne. It surely
makes our union worse." He tried to soften his words with a caress, but a
startling blare of trumpets made her jump.
"The only way for us to have a peaceable marriage is
for you to accept that Anne will always be a large part of my life. Sweet Jesu,
if you could only support that, perhaps you would grow to overshadow it."
Her usually meek voice turned harsh and she avoided his eye.
Her stare turned towards the front. "I know the only way for us to have
peace is for her to stay away from you. Why, you went to Hever more often the
last three years than you came to bed with me."
For a moment, George felt a heavy guilt. Truth, she spoke,
but he dared not tell her that he went to Hever not only to see Anne, but also
to escape his marriage. How could he admit that it took great strengths for him
to smile at her, and speak sweetly, and remain polite. it was like living a
court dance, with never the leave to be yourself. With Anne he didn’t have to
pretend—she knew all there was about him, and he need not fear her
condescension. Instead he touched Jayne’s arm and pulled her chin to face him.
He didn’t care that the couple behind had taken to whispering about their
quarrel—his wife’s heart needed balming and if anything, she deserved that.
"Jayne, it’s not as bad as you fear. We’ve only spent a
short time together, surely we’ll grow used to each other’s ways in time. And
for now, if you like, I shall endeavor to make you the center of my
world." She turned away. He wasn’t sure it was enough.
"I should like to hold you to that this eve."
The dance was in full swing. Anne watched bitterly as the
dancers twirled around the floor of the enormous room, chatting to one another,
laughing, flirting. Her old chum, Thomas Wyatt, was at this moment dancing with
a plain, under-dressed woman whose buck-toothed smile could be seen even at
this distance. And from here, Anne could see that Wyatt was
hair was cut French fashion, just above his broad back.
She could make out the thickness of his neck even at this
distance. As Thomas bowed to receive his honor, Anne thought of how long he’d
worked in the court, sometimes as liaison, sometimes as diplomat. He was an
intelligent man, with a gift for speaking and linguistics, which made him
valuable as many English could barely read and write, let alone speak a second
language.
He’d been in court service since he acted as Squire to the
body of Henry’s father, had been knighted and aided in planning the Field of
Cloth-of-Gold. Not long ago, he’d participated in the jousts to honor Henry's
first legitimate son, and had mourned when the son passed away, a babe of seven
weeks. He finally received acknowledgement now, and was granted the
long-coveted title of Lord Rochford. But the ceremony was quick and short-lived
with hardly any pomp or circumstance.
Anne couldn't say she regretted the end. She couldn't wait
to get out of the garden, away from the heat. Her attention centered on the
dance that was to follow. She imagined the cool room filled with hundreds of
well-dressed courtiers. Ah, it’d been so long.
"Do you think she came?"
George looked at his wife for a moment, watched the sky-blue
eyes cloud with anxiety that Anne might be present somewhere in the garden. The
tender flesh around them crinkled with doubt. She obviously regretted her
outburst last eve, and might even have been afraid he’d not forgive her.
"Yes, love." He grasped her fingers reassuringly.
"I know it as surely as I know we sit here." He turned his attention
again to the front where his father stood before Henry beaming and silently
gloating. Her voice came again. This time it sounded more certain and he
thought the endearment had been a good response.
"I offer my greatest apologies for last eve,
husband."
He sighed, wondered for a moment how he’d handle the
discussion, gave up in favor of speaking his mind.
"You have to forget this jealousy of Anne. It surely
makes our union worse." He tried to soften his words with a caress, but a
startling blare of trumpets made her jump.
"The only way for us to have a peaceable marriage is
for you to accept that Anne will always be a large part of my life. Sweet Jesu,
if you could only support that, perhaps you would grow to overshadow it."
Her usually meek voice turned harsh and she avoided his eye.
Her stare turned towards the front. "I know the only way for us to have
peace is for her to stay away from you. Why, you went to Hever more often the
last three years than you came to bed with me."
For a moment, George felt a heavy guilt. Truth, she spoke,
but he dared not tell her that he went to Hever not only to see Anne, but also
to escape his marriage. How could he admit that it took great strengths for him
to smile at her, and speak sweetly, and remain polite. it was like living a
court dance, with never the leave to be yourself. With Anne he didn’t have to
pretend—she knew all there was about him, and he need not fear her
condescension. Instead he touched Jayne’s arm and pulled her chin to face him.
He didn’t care that the couple behind had taken to whispering about their
quarrel—his wife’s heart needed balming and if anything, she deserved that.
"Jayne, it’s not as bad as you fear. We’ve only spent a
short time together, surely we’ll grow used to each other’s ways in time. And
for now, if you like, I shall endeavor to make you the center of my
world." She turned away. He wasn’t sure it was enough.
"I should like to hold you to that this eve."
The dance was in full swing. Anne watched bitterly as the
dancers twirled around the floor of the enormous room, chatting to one another,
laughing, flirting. Her old chum, Thomas Wyatt, was at this moment dancing with
a plain, under-dressed woman whose buck-toothed smile could be seen even at
this distance. And from here, Anne could see that Wyatt was
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