Festina Lente

Chapter Forty-Eight: Poetry

20th of January 1534 - Hampton Palace Court

Waking to the sound of giggling from her ladies, Anne frowned slightly moving to sit up in her bed and look around her bed chamber; she was alone there and she was not quite sure of the time in the morning. 

Henry had not stayed with her that night and Anne would not deny that she was further disappointed that he had not; she missed how he hugged her while she slept when she had been pregnant with both Alexander and Elizabeth. 

Anne could not help but miss the days when Henry's attention had been on her, when he had not been able to look away from her and would have do anything to make her smile. 

Climbing from her bed, Anne rested a hand on her stomach almost thrilled at the small bump that she now carried; her midwife assured her that she would be delivered this summer of her Duke of York. 

A smile formed on her face at the mere thought, she longed to give Henry what he desired for he had done so much for her and she did not wish to displease him when he desired sons above all else like he had once done her. 

The whispers of her ladies grew louder as Anne approached them and she paused trying to make out their hushed words when it became clear that something was being read. 

"Cousin Madge," Anne called making the three women stop reading and quickly bow to their Queen, she eyed them for a long moment as she slowly made her way towards them. 

Secure in her cousin's hand was a book that Madge quickly attempted to hide behind her back so that Anne would not see it; each of the ladies heads lowered but even Anne could see the smiles on their faces. 

"Lady Shelton, what are you reading?" Anne asked not pleased to find them remiss in their duties to her so they could giggle over whatever was written that had amused them so. 

The three continued to titter more so at being caught in the attack and Anne felt slightly uneasily; it almost felt like they were laughing at her to her face though she had done nothing to amuse them.

"Nothing, Your Majesty. Just some poetry, by Sir Thomas Wyatt," Madge revealed, her eyes still trained on the floor and the book hidden from view; she had not been able to help herself when she had come into the possession of the book in question. 

The other two ladies giggled more at the mention of the man that had written the poetry that Madge had been reading to them; they dared not chance a look at their mistress. 

Anne frowned ever so slight, she could only imagine the things that he had written and Anne could only imagine how he might have painted her in such poetry that he had written. 

She could not help but think of the last poem that he had recited for her, one that accused her of such cruelty and she had been so foolish to allow the man so close to her without thinking of the whispers it would cause. 

"Give it here," Anne ordered holding out her hand for the book, she could not allow such readings and she cursed her childishness; the woman that she had been then had never dreamed she would be a Queen. 

It had been around the time that she had caught Henry's attention, her father summoning her back from France where she had been a lady-in-waiting in hopes of arranging a marriage for her. 

Madge did as she was commanded, her eyes still lowered but she could see when Anne lifted the book to read the title on the spine.

"You should not be wasting your time on such trifle, if you must read when you're supposed to be attending on me then you should read that book," Anne scolded her ladies, she gestured back to the bible that she had acquired for her chambers.