Читать книгу Secrets of the Tudor Court - D.L. Bogdan - Страница 14

Though my feet ache from practicing my walk, it is well worth it when at last the day of Anne’s elevation ceremony arrives. I vomited everything I ate that day, so decide against eating anything else, and Madge Shelton continually pinches my white cheeks to bring color to them.

“You mustn’t worry so,” she reassures me as we dress Anne for the event. “You’re going to do wonderfully.”

“You’d better,” Anne cries as ladies flutter about her in an effort to dress her. Nothing is good enough for Anne today, and the slightest thing causes her to unleash a string of curse words I did not think ladies even knew. No one can do anything right. Her corset is not tight enough. Her sleeves are not tied right. The velvet itches. The ermine smells. Her bum roll is lopsided. Any grievances that can be aired against both her gown and attendants, are; and it is no surprise to fall under her criticism.

“All I need is you falling with my robes,” she goes on in a sharp voice as her sister brushes out her long black hair. Despite her foul temper and the scowl that crinkles her forehead, she is the most alluring woman I’ve ever seen.

“I won’t, my lady,” I assure her. “I’ve been practicing.” Indeed, the last few times I was with Norfolk he piled a few cloaks in my arms so that I would adjust to the weight of the robes.

Anne scoffs and regards her reflection in the glass as the other ladies offer their admiration.

When my father comes to escort her and the procession to the king’s presence chamber, I cannot contain my trembling. This is the moment. This is what I have been practicing for.

I will be solemn and grand. I will do my lady and Norfolk proud. I carry the robes and the coronet to the presence chamber, following my lady with slow, measured steps.

Once there I behold the king in all his majesty beneath his canopy of cloth of gold. He radiates light and glory and power. This is a stunning personage and not one to be crossed. To think my cousin will soon be his wife. They will be a formidable couple. A sudden lightness in my heart tells me they will be a happy one as well.

I follow the standard-bearers, each carrying Anne’s symbol: the falcon, a creature as exacting as she is. My father follows them. The Duke of Suffolk, Charles Brandon, a cantankerous old buzzard with an ever-present scowl, is there offering begrudging support to his brother-in-law the king.

The countesses of Sussex and Rutland help Anne to kneel on the platform, and already I am eager for the ceremony to end. I am shaking, and fear my father will notice and begin rehearsing his lecture in his head even as we speak.

I endure all the prayers uttered by the king’s less-than-personable secretary, Bishop Gardiner. I am amazed the king has shown such mercy to Gardiner after his vociferous disapproval of the king’s becoming head of the Church of England, but sometimes he surprises me. Instead of burning him at the stake or some such horror, he merely confiscated his home, Hanworth, and made it another gift to Anne.

I wonder fleetingly how many other bold clerics might lose their homes to Henry and his bride before his reign is out, then chastise myself for the treasonous thought.

At last the king approaches me, taking the robes and coronet. I am relieved to hand them off. He meets my eyes with his own glittering blue gaze and offers a bright smile. I smile back. Perhaps that is his way of telling me I did a good job and he is proud of me.

He wraps the robes about my lady’s shoulders and, with the utmost loving care, places the coronet atop her dark head, creating her Marquess of Pembroke.

She stands beside her intended, glowing with pride and triumph. The air thrills with their happiness. The world seems full of hope and endless possibilities.