Evermore

Chapter XII

A QUEEN'S DUTY

Hampton Court, July 14, 1536

Anne's first public appearance since her life had been irrevocably altered came swift, and it felt as if she were stepping into the world anew, cloaked in the weight of expectation. The grand hall of Hampton Court Palace shimmered with opulence, golden candlelight casting flickering shadows upon the richly adorned tapestries. Beside her, Mary sat a few chairs away, a silent sentinel, each thump a reminder of her precarious position. She observed Henry with a mixture of admiration and disdain as he reveled in the festivities, his laughter booming across the hall, a jarring contrast to her internal turmoil. He drank deeply from a goblet of rich red wine, far more than any other noble present, oblivious to the storm brewing in his queen's heart. Anne picked at her plate, the lavish feast before her—roasted peacock, spiced fruits, and fine pastries—barely touched, each bite a calculated risk, a reminder of the treachery that surrounded her at court.

As the evening wore on, shadows deepened, and the cacophony of merriment enveloped her, threatening to suffocate her resolve. She could feel the night closing in around her, like the tightening grip of a noose. Soon, she would find herself alone with Henry in his bedchamber, a place that had once held the promise of passion but now felt like a prison. The very thought sent a shiver down her spine. How many sons must she bear to ensure her safety and reign? Each unanswered question gnawed at her, weaving a tapestry of doubt that entwined her thoughts: Would she succeed in providing him with heirs, or would she meet her end in the process once and for all?

To endure the night, she resolved to numb her senses. She poured herself another glass of wine, its deep crimson hue glistening like liquid rubies in the candlelight. With every sip, she sought to drown her worries, careful to maintain the guise of composure lest the court's whispers turn to scandal.

As the evening drew to a close, Henry's voice rang out, commanding the ladies-in-waiting to prepare Anne for him. Resentment coursed through her veins as she rose, following her ladies across the vast palace, each step heavier than the last. The walls seemed to whisper of her fate, of the betrayal she had narrowly escaped, the specter of Jane Seymour lingering in the back of her mind.

Upon reaching his chambers, Anne's ladies undressed her with swift efficiency, the silk of her gown pooling at her feet like discarded dreams. She was assisted onto the vast bed, adorned with sumptuous fabrics and rich brocade, but it felt more like a gilded cage than a place of comfort.

Time dragged, each minute stretching into an eternity as she waited for Henry's arrival. When he finally entered, there was an unsettling silence between them, the air thick with unspoken words and unresolved tensions. He undressed with a practiced ease, climbing onto the bed as if it were a mere formality, the weight of duty eclipsing any remnants of desire.

As he moved against her, the harsh reality of their union unfolded; his ulcers rubbed against her leg, a reminder of his frailty and the unsavory circumstances of their marriage. She could feel her distaste radiating from her, and Henry noticed it, the flicker of hurt in his eyes a wound to his pride. Each thrust felt mechanical, a stark reminder of the affection that had faded between them, replaced by resentment and fear.

Anne's heart sank as she realized that, despite the facade of their royal life, they were bound not by love but by a fragile alliance forged in the fires of ambition and survival. Each moment stretched on, heavy with the knowledge that her own existence hung precariously in the balance, as she wrestled with the emotions that churned within her—a queen trapped in a web of political machinations, longing for the freedom to reclaim her life, if only for a fleeting moment.