Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) Read Online Free PDF Page A

contained.
Down the stairs to the library he’d sneak, and steal one of his Father’s
language books. It would rest beneath his mattress all the next day, waiting
for the night when he’d open it by the light of a candle, and hunch over it at
his desk well into the wee hours of the morning.
    He hadn’t wanted either of them to know these things, and so
he merely mentioned that he’d worked at them, and learned skills that his
father left to the slack schoolmaster.
    The guilt and shame didn’t have to interfere with his peace,
he decided; rather, he'd cleanse his mind by watching the stragglers peter out,
leaving only a few to sip at goblets or chew on hardened bread. Servants
bustled about, clanging bells to scare dogs or swiping crumbs from the tables.
    He thought of his Anne. She was so full of energy, so eager
to prove her worth. He saw how men followed her with their eyes; how women
whispered as she went past. But that wasn’t all of Anne, not even a small
portion. He thought briefly of how often she’d been easily moved to tears or
laughter.
    While they’d been apart, he’d often remember her wide black
eyes as they laughed or cried. Memories had been all he’d had of her after
their separation. The actual flesh, now, brought it so clear. Knowing they’d
separate at the end of thirty days and that memories would once again have to
suffice, made him lonely. He shifted his feet, uncrossed them, and re-crossed
them. The smell of damp earth and hay teased his senses, gave him an image of
the two in early evening, enjoying one of their many childhood dusk picnics.
The sounds of birds and the feel of the breeze filled the early eve.
    "Father loves you best, George." He recalled her
saying. How small she looked standing beside a tree, becoming part of its
shadow. He remembered rushing to her, holding her hands in his, not sure
whether to deny it indignantly, or comfort the sprit that nagged her.
    "It’s not true, Nan. He loves you the more. You’ve his
temper, his wit."
    She sighed, fell to the grass in a squat. "He’s proud
he has a child so like him, for sure, but he wishes it were you."
    He sat with her. He could smell the strong aroma of
wildflowers.
    His chest felt hollow. There was soreness in his spirit,
that his father thought he showed no promise.
    He squeezed her hand. "All that Father meant was he’s
disappointed in me—and proud of you. Sweet Jesu, would that it were
different." He pulled her to her feet. "Now come along, we’ve time to
play a game of chess before bed."
    In the dusk, he could see her smile, felt relieved.
    "Why don’t I beat you at soldiers instead?"
    He laughed. "Because you can’t. That’s a game I shall
always win."
    In the banquet tent, amid the smells of grease and sounds of
dogs, George grinned. It wasn't much longer after that night that she planned a
coup of his bedroom, and had him yelping when she poured ice cold water onto
his sleeping face. She was a tricky one, that. And she’d have taken over the
house had Thomas not sent her away.

Chapter 7
    A nne found the two Queens already at the tiltyard, the pale
wheat colored hair of Claude close to that of Catherine’s shining auburn. Mary
was there, gesturing for Anne to hurry to the seat she’d saved. She took it
quickly. Ah, the smells of the field. She drew a deep breath. The scents of the
various grasses and flowers mixed with the fragrances of many people. Even the
faint aroma of perspiration did nothing to dampen her spirits. How she loved the
colorful scene of crimson and greens against a backdrop of gold canvas and blue
sky. She only wished she hadn’t decided to wear velvet; it attracted the heat
as if it were a cast iron pot. Her head must have been in her pottage this
morning.
    The English King had the field. Covered with armor and
screaming like the legendary banshee, he also had the crowd. They hissed his
opponent with vehement passion, and threw oranges into his path. Despite the
distractions, Henry sat