The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn (18 page)

“I saw him but did not speak to him
, since you were both nattering away nineteen to the dozen.”

She flushes. “We haven’t seen each other for years, not since …” She squints, trying to recall
, but in the end she gives up. “Oh, I don’t know, but it is a long time.”

“How is he?” I ask nonchalantly, leaning on the cold stone of the battlement.

“Well in health, I think, although not happy in his self.”

“Why is that?” I ask, although I know the answer before she gives it.

“As I understand it, he mislikes his wife, and she him. He says he hasn’t been home to Kent in a long while.”

“That is because Henry keeps sending him overseas. There is nothing wrong with Elizabeth Wyatt, as I remember her.”

“Well, that is as maybe, but you don’t have to live with her.”

I laugh and, calling
Urien to my side, link arms with my sister as we continue our promenade. It is early afternoon and I am missing Henry, who has been visiting King Francis in Boulogne. I imagine, from what I remember of the French king, that the carousing will have been thorough. I expect Henry to be tired on his return, and probably rather tetchy. Of course, had our plans not gone awry I should have accompanied him to the French court, but Francis’ new wife had other ideas.

At first, when I heard that Queen Eleanor would not agree to meet me, I was angry and wanted Henry to refuse to meet with them at all. And, to be honest, the injury went deeper because my dear friend Marguerite, Francis’ sister, with whom I had been great friends during my youth in France, also declined to be introduced to me. She claims to be too ill but I know she fears to undermine her queen’s staunch support of Catherine. I suppose queens must stick together
, but instead of blaming Eleanor and Marguerite personally for their slight, I add it to the list of Catherine’s other crimes.

Why is that woman so stubborn? Why couldn’t she just retire gracefully? Why
, oh why, does she have to cause us so much trouble? Does she not want Henry to be happy, or to have a legitimate son? These are the questions that constantly jostle in my mind. She spoils so much; she is like a great blot of black ink upon the perfect snowy page of mine and Henry’s relationship.

Ye
t not for one moment do I let my disappointment show. Not even Mary or Jane Rochford, who are constantly at my side, know how deep the insult cuts. What care I for the love of the French king’s wife and sister? –I have other friends. There is no doubt I am loved. For the ten days we’ve spent in Calais so far, I have been treated as if I am already Henry’s queen, and it is a feeling I like very much. Everywhere I go I am accompanied by a train of thirty ladies-in-waiting, all of whom are overwhelmed by the courtesy we receive. The soldiers stationed at the garrison battle to outdo each other in gaining our attention, and twice I have had to call Mary away from unsuitable company and reprimand her.

“You must remember who you are,” I tell her. “If we are to find you a good husband
, your reputation must be unsullied.” Or as unsullied as a girl with two bastard offspring can be, I add silently.

Mary shrugs and doesn’t apologise. Without a hint of regret she says, “They are harmless, Anne, and far from home. They are glad of the company of English ladies, it is not just me. Nan was getting along very nicely with a certain fellow last evening.”

I cannot prevent a little ire from creeping into my voice. “That’s as may be, but make sure you remember that you are a lady, and soon to be sister to the queen.”

“As if I can forget that,” she snaps. After a few moments, which pass in silence, she makes an excuse to leave my presence and I sulk for a while, as at odds with her as she is with me.

What is wrong with her? Surely she isn’t still jealous? She can’t still be pining for Henry. It has been years now since they were together. I bite my inner cheek and wonder what it is that ails her. I am still lost in thought when a herald arrives to inform me that Henry is on his way from Boulogne, and that the king of France is in his train.

I don’t know when I have attended so sumptuous a feast.
Never one to waste an opportunity to show off, Henry ensures that everything is done to impress the French king. The servants stagger in with course after course of fine food, and the wine flows forth in a stream of ruby-red celebration. The last time I saw King Francis I was still a lady-in-waiting, a green girl with her life as yet unmapped. This time, after a meagre span of years, I am introduced as Henry’s intended queen. Life truly is a great leveller.

My ladies and I have spent the last few weeks putting together a masque for his entertainment. And since the first thing he did on his arrival was to present me with a diamond the size of a baby’s fist, I intend to entertain him well.

With my ears still ringing from the three thousand gun salute that was fired in his honour, I join my favourite ladies on the floor. A gasp eddies about the hall and both kings put down their knives as Mary, Jane, Nan, Elizabeth, Lady Fitzwater, Lady Lisle, Lady Wallop, and I, masked and clad identically in cloth of gold, burst into the hall. After a few dainty circuits of the floor to the accompaniment of hoots and whistles of appreciation, we each choose a partner to lead into the dance. I, of course, prowl laughingly toward King Francis, who gets up, takes my hand and drools like a dog over my naked arm.

From his place at the table
, Henry watches, his eyes narrowed and brooding, but I have a job to do and I mean to do it well. It is imperative that I woo Francis onto our side; he must support us in Rome, stand fast with us against Spain. Without France as an ally, England will be isolated, forced to stand alone against the whole of Europe. So, trying not to stare at his nose that rises like a pinnacle in the centre of his face, I smile and simper and make a great friend of him.

He stands too close to me, squints down at me. “I could not believe when I heard of the English
king’s infatuation for a commoner, Lady Anne, but now I have met you, all becomes perfectly clear.”

“But, Your Majesty, we have met before. I spent my youth at your court with my sister, Mary.”

He looks blank and I can see he has no recollection of me, no recollection of taking my sister’s virtue, and I am fuelled with sudden anger. How dare this vain, ugly – yes, ugly –French pig have ruined my sister’s reputation and then forgotten her very existence! It takes all my wits to maintain my smile as I must do to ensure his allegiance. As the evening continues, somehow I tolerate his slimy attentions and focus upon my goal.

As we dance and make merry together
, Henry watches, as if uncertain whether my admiration is an act or not. I inwardly despair at the conceit of these kings, so different in appearance yet so alike in vanity. It is quite clear that once I have snared Francis’ friendship and made a slave of him, I will have Henry’s damaged pride to soothe. It is a delicate path I tread, juggling the demands of both kings.

It is late when the evening finally draws to a close and I am able to prise myself from the attentions of King Francis. At first, when Henry and I are alone in his chamber
, he is quiet, withdrawn. Dispensing with their services, he chases his yawning attendants to bed and I move from the warmth of the fire to stand beside him as he draws the shutters.

The pale pink stripe of morning is snug against the horizon
, and the cold blue day set to begin, but we are alone and drenched in weariness. I stretch and yawn.

“The evening went well, I think.”

“Yes, it did, thanks to you and your coquettish ways.”

He draws me close and I tuck my hands beneath his fur doublet, feel the warmth of his body through the lawn of his shirt
. I smile into his chest.

“The French king is less a man than you,
my love. You must know I was only play-acting to bind him to our cause.”

He sighs deeply, rests his chin on my head and holds me so tightly I can feel the thud of his heart, the rise and fall of his breathing. I am safe and I am warm, and I am cherished. I have no wish to leave his company for the loneliness of my maiden bed. I raise my face to his, close my eyes, my
pursed lips asking for his kiss.

At first he is gentle, his touch as soft as a baby’s
, but as I press against him and let him feel my nakedness beneath my loose chamber-robe, he grows more ardent. We have been here many times, he has had me naked to the waist, he has spent his ardour many times upon my thigh, but tonight something is different. His hands roam over my body until I am breathless, desperate that this time there should be more. He draws away a little, looks down at me, his face dark and serious. Even though no words are exchanged, we both know that tonight there can be no turning back.

Not tonight. 

He takes my hand and leads me toward the bed, stopping just short of it to kiss me again and slip my robe from my shoulders, leaving me in nothing but a thin chemise. With great daring I pull his doublet apart and begin to tug at his shirt; the cuffs and collar of which have been lovingly embroidered by his discarded wife. 

His hands are large and strike cold through my shift. He cups a breast, making me gasp. It is lost in his palm but he rubs and massages, teasing my nipples until they stand proud. When I am almost ready to swoon I place a hand either side of his head and drag his face down, cover his mouth with mine
, but he pulls away. He lifts me bodily from the floor, carries me to the bed and throws me onto the mattress.

I am
panting, the secret place between my legs is throbbing and twitching. I want him so badly I can hang onto virtue no longer. All my self-imposed chastity is forgotten as I scramble up to rest upon his pillows and open my arms.

With great grunting and struggling
, Henry wriggles from his hose, casts his shirt to the floor and leaps onto the bed beside me. It is like wrestling a bear. He tosses me from side to side so I can scarcely catch my breath. Some part of me remembers that I must not offend him with undue lust, so I become pliant. I keep my eyes firmly closed, and resist the urge to slow him down and guide his hand to where I need it most.

But as soon as I get comfortable and begin to relax, he shifts position again. One moment his mouth is slurping like a child at my breast, the next he is biting and sucking at my thigh. Then he turns me over, his great hands massaging my buttocks, his fingers prodding and penetrating, making me wriggle and squeak. I want him to slow down, to stroke me, love me gently, and ease me into the experience but, like a ship lost at
sea, I am at the mercy of his storming passion.

He bites and nibbles at my quaint
. I throw my head back, melting into the heavenly sensation, but just as I feel I am drowning and my breath becomes deep and slow, he pulls away. I open one eye in time to find him sliding up my body, his blue gaze gleaming with intent.

He is bathed in sweat and something hot and hard is nudging at my thigh. I
instinctively part my legs. He rolls heavily upon me, my face squashed between the pillow and his downy chest, my mouth full of hair. As he lifts both my knees and plunges into me, I cry aloud at the sudden shock and grab his shoulders, digging my nails deep into royal skin.

Thereafter I hold my breath, astonished and out of control. As he moves rhythmically upon me
, I open my mouth, my breath knocked from my lungs while Henry’s voice rasps hoarse in my ear. His grip becomes more painful as his thrusts grow deeper and more rapid. And then he ceases, stiffens, shuddering deeply, setting the whole bed aquiver, before slumping upon me like one dead.

Henry rolls away,
sits on the edge of the bed, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat. He turns to look at me, his red hair stuck darkly to his head and in his eye I recognise gratitude, mixed with more than a little shame.

Was that it? The wondrous thing everyone whispers about? Is that the act that people have killed for, men have started wars for, women have died for?

“Did I hurt you?” He comes back to my side, picks up a strand of my gnarled and knotted hair.  I shake my head. Feel a tear trickle toward the pillow.

“No
,” I whisper and it’s true, he didn’t hurt me. Not really. He surprised me, shocked me, exhausted and overwhelmed me, but my overriding emotion is not one of injury or anxiety. It is disappointment.

In the morning he takes me again, and later that afternoon, when the rest of the court are taking the air, he locks his chamber door and begins to raise my skirts. I put out a hand, clasp his wrist. “Henry, suppose I have a child. What then? We do not want our prince denounced as a bastard.”

Not to be deterred, he tips me backward across the counterpane and begins to untangle my legs from my petticoat. “Don’t worry.” He looks up from between my thighs. “We will be wed the moment we reach the shores of England.”

I l
ie back and close my eyes as his lips brush the contours of my quaint. How can that be, I think, when he is still tied to the Spanish woman?  But some remedy must be found for I can no longer keep his lust at bay. Indeed, it is a wonder that I have held him off for so long. Now that I am his wife in all but name, I swear for the sake of our unborn child that I will go to any lengths to secure him.