Tudor Rose

iii. heart of the lion's den

January 2, 1519

"It's been tasted, Anna. It isn't poisonous," Henry whispered to me, "Eat."

I glanced over at him dazedly. "Oh," I replied simply, "I know. I was just thinking."

"About what?" Henry inquired, "New gowns? I can have that arranged."

"No. Politics, actually," I answered, "The French alliance in particular. I thought about what you said- that the French are frivolous with their promises- but I still think it will be worthwhile. France and England have been at odds for so long, don't you think it is time to resolve things? Is it truly so unbelievable that it is Francis and Claude who made the first step towards peace and not us?"

"Yes!" Henry responded, "That French pig isn't to be trusted, not wholly."

"But don't you think-"

"No," he said firmly, "I understand that you care for our daughter, as do I. But you meddle enough in affairs of the heart, so please leave the politics to me."

__

January 6, 1519

The Holbrook residence, a spacious country estate called Chevelely, had been my home for the first seventeen years of my life. Nearly a decade has passed since I'd been there, and just the thought of returning made the humid, confined carriage even more unbearable. My father and one of his cousins called a family meeting. I agreed to go, suddenly back to playing my part as the dutiful daughter. 

As the carriage came to a smooth halt, I quickly composed myself. Patting down my hair ad gown as I made my way up the cobblestone pathway, I reminded myself that I was willing walking myself right into the heart of the lion's den. I had to be slyly cautious, never revealing too much whilst acting reasonably secretive. 

I was clearly the last person to arrive because when I entered, a group larger than I expected was waiting impatiently for me. Elizabeth and Beatrice were sitting beside each other, and our parents were sitting parallel to them. I noticed a comfortable looking armchair that was reserved for me beside them, and casually took a seat there. 

In another corner of the large, snug room sat faces I hardly recognized anymore-the Boleyn family. Mary, the only familiar face out of the group, seemed mostly unchanged save for the small child sitting quietly beside her. Her expression was mainly bitter, but I could tell she wasn't completely unhappy to see me. I was certainly glad to see her again. Next to Mary was the younger of the Boleyn girls, Anne. She had grown quite a bit since I briefly met her many years prior, as she was a young woman rather than a girl. Her nearly black hair and enchanting brown eyes were a stark, solemn contrast to the jubilant expression on her pasty face. A teenage boy, probably a brother of Anne and Mary, and a man who I presumed was their father sat adjacent to the two girls.

"Would anyone care to explain why the Boleyn family is here?" I asked loudly, "I thought this was a family meeting." I looked uneasily between our families, confused.

My father spoke up first, and we were hardly able to make eye contact. "Thomas Boleyn is your uncle in-law. The Boleyns are family."

My gaze shifted to Thomas Boleyn, who nodded affirmatively. "I know I am related to them, but I was led to believe the relation was distant and irrelevant. I didn't realize we were as closely related as we are," I expressed, "It was an unintentional error and I apologize. Now, shall we begin?"

My father nodded. I eyed my mother carefully, who had a shawl pulled tightly around her despite the displeasing humidity of the room. Exile hadn't treated her well. Lines around her eyes and the corners of her lips were more prominent than ever, and she was noticeably thinner. She looked unhealthily and sad, and my heart ached with remorse and regret. As I finished examining my mother, my father began speaking.