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

happy, slightly inebriated crowd.
    "Did you know I've been betrothed?" George could
tell his face hung to the dirt. He'd got the news just that morning from his
father, and the thought of being married made him ill.
    "And who could father find would take you?"
    "Pah." He spit. "Some Morley girl. Her
father's a friend of ours. But I'll have none of it. I've agreed to marry her,
but not ’til I'm good and ready."
    He studied her face. It had been so long. Too long.
    For a moment, he recalled the night before she had left for
the Netherlands. Seven years past was it? He had only been a boy, barely old
enough to understand that she was leaving for good. Probably never to return.
They lay in bed together, the quilts curled into a small ball beneath her chin
as she spoke, staring out into the early gloom of the chamber.
    "I’m afraid." She looked at him for an instant,
the wetness in her eyes shone in the firelight. He wanted to hold her, to shush
her as his mother did so often with him. He dared not—Father had said he was
growing, and such things were not for a man. Still he yearned to comfort her,
and it seemed she pleaded with him for the same.
    "It will be exciting in the Archduchess’ court, Nan.
Think of the things you’ll see." Her voice took on a harsh whisper as
well.
    "That doesn’t stop the fear."
    "As well it shouldn’t." He tried to comfort her.
"I think we should always fear what we don’t know. It keeps us from
treading where angels darest not."
    "I suppose you’re right." She gave him a quick
hug. "Father says with the experience I may well wait on our Queen when
the time comes."
    "Yes." He gave a wry smile. "And it’ll get
you out from under my foot. I may well be able to make a few friends without
you here to coddle me."
    She slapped his shoulder and he stuck his tongue at her. The
next morning, that tongue was too thick to speak. An early morning mist
enveloped the pier, touched her lashes so they looked wet with tears. He could
only touch her chin, stare into her eyes. Now years later, he could hardly
believe she sat beside him, reveled in the feel of her hand in his.
    "I missed you." He watched her grin, knowing she
needed to hear it.
    "It’s for certain you did. But in all that time, I only
received four letters—less than one a year."
    He shifted in his seat, tried to think of a witty remark,
knew as he struggled for one, she’d better it. He’d be left sitting and trying
to think of another.
    "It’s only that your clumsy efforts at French made your
letters hard to understand. It took me all that time to decipher what you were
trying to say."
    " Grand Dieu ! My French is impeccable. Certainly
Father would have translated had you been brave enough to ask."
    "Bravery has little to do with it—I didn't dare show
your ineptness to Father. But alas, I’ve lost interest in this debate. I’d
rather listen to stories of your bawdy French court."
    The way her jaw slackened told him he’d won. Where had that
remark come from about her ineptitude? He dared not think on it—if the muses
were with him today, he’d better not tempt them. She harrumphed, touched his
arm in a tender way.
    "Not all the stories are so intriguingly bawdy. Some
are grim." She crossed her arms against her chest, it was a habit she had
so that she could tuck her finger with the extra nail beneath the ring finger
of the same hand. She only did that when she was uncomfortable, or
self-conscious. He chewed his lip, touched her hand.
    "What is it, sister?"
    "A lady friend of mine died last month."
    "I’m sorry to hear it." He knew she had few women
friends, and to lose one would have grieved her more than most. He fingered her
nails, clasped her hand tightly. She turned away, but he caught sight of the
tears.
    "She was with child." Anne closed her eyes, the
thick curve of black lash rested on the rise of her cheek. He brushed them,
released the wetness.
    "Her husband cut the babe from her womb and laid it in
her arms. And all