The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn (29 page)

The king is waiting, the horses growing restless in the yard. His face lights up when he sees me and he tightens his reins. The grooms help me mount and as I settle myself in the saddle, I let Henry have the full force of my smile. I am Queen of England, Henry’s wife. I am looking my very best and we have weeks of pleasure ahead of us.

The progress will keep us from London for the whole of the summer. By the time I see it again the leaves will be falling, the evenings growing darker and the sun lower in the sky. I plan to make the most of the ensuing weeks.

Even in London,
which so far has been eager for Church reform, the crowds stand sullen in the rain. George tries to explain that they are sick of the suffering, of witnessing the public destruction of formerly great men, and as we ride by I cannot help but hear their mutterings of discontent. But when we reach the countryside and travel through villages and hamlets where news from London is slow to arrive, children run from their hovels to cheer us on our way. I toss them a purse, laugh to see them scrabble in the puddles, fighting over the coin.

“God bless Your Majesties!” someone calls, and I raise my gloved hand and salute their loyalty. As I do so the shower resumes, sending a scattering of raindrops across my face. I wrinkle my nose and George rides up alongside.

“Why don’t you call for your litter and escape the shower?”

I shake my head. “No, George. The rain isn’t much and the people need to see me if they are to learn to love me.” I throw more coin, the cheers rise
, and Henry bobs along ahead, the feather on his cap looking more like a drowned hen with each passing minute.

I’ve a mind to stop at Hook Norton, a property recently recovered from Henry Brandon, who has so displeased his king with his continuing support of Catherine. On a fine morning we set out from Langley Castle, en route to
Sudeley, our hawks on our wrists, the hounds running free.

It is a rare dry morning in a wet month
, and at the top of a rise we look down on the property nestled in a fold of the hills. Brandon, who owns it, claims to have renovated and improved it, but from what I can see of it, it is a dreary place, surrounded by trees, and I can tell from my vantage place that it will be chilly and damp. There is also a scarcity of game, although Suffolk claims the parkland to be well-stuffed with red deer.

I decide I don’t want it.

Henry will have to let it rot.

D
isappointed in the hunt, we reach Sudeley without the hoped-for meat for the kitchens. Even so, the retainers who have ridden ahead of our party manage to provide a royal feast. We are well received, the best apartments have been aired and cleaned, and we are entertained by the finest minstrels and players.

I love
Sudeley Castle. It has a certain peace, an almost spiritual calm. The gardens are full of sprawling wet roses and vines and their scent, together with the lavender and lilac, make it smell like Heaven. The trickling fountains, the mossy seats, evoke memories of Hever and the joys of home. We should visit here more often, bring Elizabeth I decide as, our arms linked, Henry and I glide along the honey-coloured paths.

We can forget things here, we can be ourselves; Henry and Anne, not the king and queen, not Mouldwarp and Salome. Our bodies relax, our smiles are more spontaneous
, and that night the passion returns to our marriage bed.

I wake in the morning, roll over and groan at the ache in my limbs. Groping for my shift, lost in the night among the covers, I notice the bruises left by Henry’s mouth on my thigh. What will my ladies have to say about that, I wonder? Smiling to myself, I fumble for and make use of the pot from beneath the bed.

Henry opens one eye and I smile good morning from my inelegant throne.

“Come here.” He lifts his arm and I slide beneath it. His fingers walk across my belly until my breast sits neatly in his palm. His lips shift to my neck, just where it meets my shoulder, and shivers consume me. I close my eyes, let my head roll back, giving access, giving him permission. He props himself on his hands, rearing above me. He smells of sex and sweat, and last night’s supper; his beard is damp from kissing me and his blue eyes are full of intent. I part my legs and lick my lips like a trollop, welcoming him home.

It is so different from the first time; so different from the months following the loss of our son. This time, just as he was last night, he is certain. Cousin Madge is forgotten.

“You are a witch, Madam,” he whispers, the rhythm of our movements stirring the bed hangings, the ropes twanging and stretching beneath us. “You have bewitched me with your wicked wiles.”

This is Henry’s favourite bed-time game. He pretends I am a bad woman, or a witch, or sometimes a little girl. I have no need of such games myself but if it gets me a son, I welcome any invention that pleases him.

“I am indeed,” I cry as he rolls over onto his back, clamping me to him. I am aloft, my thighs straining across his loins. “I am Hecate, and you are under my spell, powerful under my control.” 

Riding him like a horse we gallop on, my nails scoring his flesh, my hair running like black snakes across my naked breasts. Henry grows rigid, I ride harder, my own pleasure mounting, pinching and scratching until, all of a sudden, he sits up, grabs me and
smothers my face in his golden-furred chest. He bellows in my ear as we peak together, his groans, coarse and loud, mingling with my own kitten-like mews, his fingers tangled in my hair. He falls back on the pillows with his mouth agape and I slump forward, my breasts dangling in his face. “Anne,” he gasps, “Anne, I swear you will be the death of me.”

While Henry sneaks off to make his peace with God, I take a bath. Jane must notice the bruises
, but she has the grace not to remark on them. I am tired and happier than I have been for a long time. If I can get Henry to make love to me like that more often, I will soon be with child. The need for a prince is never far away, even at my happiest times when I am dancing or riding through the woods with the hunt; the thought of a boy child hovers in the back of my mind.

After
Mass, I watch Henry and George play tennis. They are close matched and it is a humid day. The rain outside is intermittent, but there is no air and soon both men are sweating. From the gallery I watch, not really minding who wins but knowing from experience that Henry will expect my cheers to be only for him. During the interval he mops his face with a large kerchief and scans the crowd, knowing he will find me in its midst. I wave and blow him a kiss, which he pretends to catch. He holds the imprisoned kiss to his lips and we both laugh. Even at this distance we are together.

“I swear you and the king are closer than you’ve ever been before.” Nan takes a chair beside me
, which Jane has recently vacated. “It does my heart good to see it.”

To my surprise I find myself blushing
, and in a sudden rush of affection I cover her hand with mine. “We are very happy, Nan, and I have every hope that soon we will be happier still.”

She turns to me, her face pink with curiosity. “Do you mean
…?”

I shake my head. “Not yet, but I am sure to be soon. The king keeps me …
very busy.”

“Busy? I am surprised he has the energy for tennis.” Her dancing eyes belie the disapproval of her words and we are still laughing when Jane returns. As usual
, she is looking disgruntled about something.

“What is so funny?” she asks, hurt to have missed a joke.

“Nothing, just a silly trifle, not worth repeating,” I say, but as the tennis resumes I have to concentrate hard on the ball as it bounces back and forth about the court, for laughter is still rumbling in my belly and I cannot risk looking at Nan again for fear of bursting out afresh.

He seeks me out after the match. “I heard you cheering,” he says, like a schoolboy showing off in front of his mother. His snow-white shirt cling
s to a torso damp with sweat, the open lacing at his neck revealing a tangle of wet red hair. I want to twirl those curls in my fingers, lick the sweat from my fingertips. It is hard to tear my eyes away.

“You were wonderful, Henry.” I mop his brow with my own
kerchief and as I help him back into his doublet, the unique scent of his body floats up to me. I step closer, reach up to kiss his earlobe. “I have need of you, My Lord,” I whisper, trailing my hand down his chest to leave him in no doubt as to my meaning.

Then I walk away, leaving him stunned, looking back at him over my shoulder before calling to my ladies that I wish to retire to freshen up before dinner. As we take our seats at table
, I am aware of him watching me. He seems preoccupied, anxious, and when I smile at him, his returning grin makes me hope I am the only one able to detect the lust that hides beneath.

His appetite is unaffected
, but while he makes short shrift of his meal with his right hand, his left lies clamped on my thigh, intent upon an investigation of its own. While the minstrels play, he taps his jewelled fingers on the board and sighs impatiently.

I lean toward him, speaking quietly so none can hear. “You are king, Henry. You can call for a quick end to this.”

As if remembering himself, he stands up, claps his hands, and the music dwindles into discord.

“The queen is unwell and wishes to lie down. You will excuse us.”

Pink-faced from the blatant fib, he stands up, offers me his hand and leads me from the dais. When my ladies rise as one and make to follow us, he waves them away. “No, no. You can stay, ladies. Enjoy yourselves. I will see to the needs of the queen.”

George’s laughter still burn
s in my ears when Henry and I enter the bedchamber. “You couldn’t have made it clearer if you’d tried!” I cry. “You might as well have said, ‘You people stay here and have fun while I do husbandry service on the queen.’”

He kneels on the floor, his hands creeping up my skirts
. Two huge palms cup my bare buttocks, drawing me closer. “Be quiet,” he says, diving beneath my petticoats. He continues to speak but his voice is muffled, his tongue hot on my quaint, and I don’t care what he is saying. I stumble a little, grab for the bed which luckily is within distance, and fall back upon it, give myself up to the pleasure of him.

We are taking a late breakfast in my chamber when Cromwell asks for admittance. He comes in, deferent as ever, asking after our health, remarking on the weather.

“Sit down, Tom, share a little wine. Have a wafer …”

Henry calls for another chair and after some hesitation Cromwell lowers himself into it, although he does not partake of breakfast. “Are you enjoying the west country?” Henry asks, pouring honey liberally over a handful of wafers.

Cromwell closes his eyes and smiles. “I am, Your Majesty. The land is fertile, the game is good. The place leaves very little to be desired.” He hesitates, looks from the king to me and back again. “I took the opportunity to ride to Hailes yesterday, to look into the matter we discussed a few weeks ago.”

“The Holy Blood?”
I look up, curiosity piqued. “Did you see it?”

He leans back in his chair. “I saw a phial with some fluid inside … whether it
be the blood of Christ or the blood of a farmyard duck is anyone’s guess.”

Henry chokes on his wafer
. I thump him on the back until the moment has passed. He emerges from the attack laughing, thinking it a joke. “A farmyard duck,” he repeats, “I like that.”

But I can see that Cromwell is in earnest
and my hand stills on Henry’s back. “A duck? You are not serious?”

“Madam.”
Cromwell’s face is paler than usual, his eyes unusually restive. “If every relic were genuine, St Peter must have had several dozen fingers, Cuthbert fifty ribs or more, and our lady a mouthful of teeth that would grace a crocodile.”

Henry wipes his mouth and puts the cloth on his plate. “You mean the monks are deceiving us?”

Cromwell nods. “I mean they may be deceiving us, yes. I would like your permission to look into it. Have the phial examined to discover if it is indeed Christ’s blood, or simply a deception.”

Henry leans back in his chair. “I don’t know
…”

“Henry, you must. If this is a trick then it has to be exposed. Pilgrims come from far and wide to see the
Blood of Christ, it has healing powers. Oh Cromwell, how can it not be genuine?”

“As I said, Madam.
It may be, but just to be sure, I think we should look into it.”

I turn in my seat, grab Henry’s wrist with both hands. “Henry, please! We must know the truth. Once we are in possession of the facts then we can decide what action, if any, is necessary.”

I open my eyes wide, blink winningly, and he is unable to resist me. He sighs so gustily I feel it on my cheeks. He pats my hands, smiles at Cromwell.

“Oh very well
, Cromwell, see what you can discover, but be discreet. Bring the findings to us and speak to no one else of it.”

Cromwell bows from our presence, leaving us alone
. Henry leans back, puts his hand beneath his shirt and scratches his belly. “Now, what shall we do today, Sweetheart? The rain is still falling, shall we return to our bed?”