The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn (32 page)

Although we enjoy the traditional pageants and feasting, the festivities are quieter this year. Just as the New Year celebrations are about to begin, news comes that Catherine is very ill and likely to die.

She has been at
Kimbolton Castle for some time now, constantly complaining of the cold and damp, and Henry’s neglect. Many times have I wished her dead, and my life would have been so very much easier without her, but now that she is about to breathe her last I find that, for the first time, I feel pity.

Guilty.

Guilty that Catherine, who was born to greatness, now dies in ignominy
because of me. Had she only gone quietly to a nunnery we would have treated her better, endowed her monies and allowed her to see her daughter. But she was stubborn, foolish, pig-headed. It is not my fault that she dies alone, and in misery.

It is not my fault, I tell myself, but deep down I know that it is.

As a green girl, I could never imagine how it felt to be dispossessed, passed over for a younger, prettier woman, but now that I myself fear losing Henry’s affection, I have a little more understanding. Had our roles been reversed, I would have acted no differently; I would have clung on to my husband and my position to the end. Perhaps Catherine and I are more alike than I thought.

So when I go to hear
Mass, I spare a prayer for her. Not that she may live, but that her passing may be peaceful and her place in Heaven assured.

Henry
, on the other hand, is remorseless. Excited by the prospect of peace with Spain, the relief of the imminent war, he swears she cannot die quickly enough. I cross myself, send up a prayer assuring God that he does not mean it. For all her faults, Catherine was once the woman he professed to love and, lawful or otherwise, she was his wife for many years. She bore his daughter and buried his sons … as I have done.

A letter arrives from Mary begging to be allowed to see her mother, just to say goodbye.

“Not unless she signs the act of succession,” Henry bellows, making Cromwell cringe away in fear of a cuffing. Yet we all know she will not sign, not even if it means she never sees her mother again.

If I were Mary, I would sign it. I am not as brave as she. Perhaps it is because I lack her Spanish blood, her royal breeding. If it were me
, I would swear anything for a last glimpse of my mother, even my own death warrant. For the first time I realise I am, deep down, a coward; to me, life and liberty is everything, and worth much more than pride.

It is a week before we learn that Catherine has passed. On the eighth of January
, I am already dressed and ready for the feast. I have a new gown of yellow silk, the colour of renewal and fertility. I have had it made to celebrate my fruitfulness and to remind the king, and all who look upon me, that I carry his heir within. If anything will prevent him straying to another woman’s bed, it is the lure of the prince I have promised. But when the news comes of Catherine’s passing, I slowly begin to untie the sleeves.

“What are you doing?” George places his hand over mine, keeping my fingers from the knots.

“I must wear something more sombre; this shade would be an insult.”

My ladies have paused in their tasks and are watching us. Jane is close by, her hands hovering over the jewel casket, pretending not to look at us. George manoeuvres me out of her hearing.

“Don’t change. You must show the world that she was nothing. She was not queen; she was just the Dowager Princess of Wales, nothing more.”

“Oh …
but.”

“Her death is a good thing, Anne. It frees us from Rome, frees us from war with Spain. Henry can now make peace with them. Catherine’s passing liberates the country from
danger, therefore you must act as if nothing has happened. You must not appear tainted by fault.”

I look down at the yards of material in my skirts that are shimmering in the firelight. George’s fingers knead my
arm, his head is close to mine, his breath warm on my cheek, his eyes glittering with intensity. “Listen to me, Anne, I would never misadvise you.”

“Some may see this gown as a mark of celebration; that would never do.” I am uncertain, hesitant, and sensing this, he pushes his point home.

“Let them think what they will, but be sure of this. If you show remorse in any way, or mark her passing with mourning, your enemies will whisper that she was the true queen and your position will always be questioned. And so will Elizabeth’s.”

Henry wears a matching doublet and a yellow hat with a big white plume. We parade Elizabeth, who has been brought to court for the seasonal celebrations, between us, holding her high for the courtiers to see. Elizabeth sits on Henry’s left shoulder, her plump hand clutching his right ear. She laughs at the crowd as they pay her the homage that is her due. No mention of Catherine is made
; her passing only whispered of in corners. I try to be happy, to think only of the future. For the first time I am Henry’s undisputed queen, but I cannot help but be aware of those who think us callous. And before long my enemies are accusing me, whispering of poison, and prophesising that Mary will be my next victim.

Cold blue light streams through the chapel windows where I kneel praying for the health of my son, the security of my marriage. The edge of the stone step digs into my knees, my neck aches, and behind me I can hear my women growing fidgety. I have been here too long. I must not become like Catherine. Piety is a virtue, but I must not let it consume me.

I am half way up, one hand on the altar rail, when I hear a shout in the corridor, a clattering of weaponry, a bang on the floor. As the door
bursts open I hurry to my feet, wrenching my knee. I put a hand to my racing heart.

“
Your Majesty!”

My uncle of Norfolk, still clad in armour from the tiltyard, scarcely takes time to bow. “It is the king,” he cries, panting for breath. “He has taken a fall. We fear he is dead!”

The world dips and sways, and my bowels plunge sickeningly. His voice ebbs and flows, the high-pitched panic of my ladies twittering like a cage of birds. I push away encroaching darkness, force myself to remain standing as I search for words in a parched throat.

“Where is he?”
The voice is unlike my own; panicky, strained, terrified.

“They are bringing him now, to his apartments
. The physicians have been summoned.”

Norfolk has removed his helmet, his damp hair standing in spikes about his head. I have never seen him less than calm. Now his eyes are wild, his face bl
eached of colour. He is unprepared for this, afraid of what Henry’s death will mean. He waves his arm in the direction of the royal apartments and I find myself suddenly running, my skirts held high above my knees, my heart clanging in my chest like a great bell. I run faster than I have since I was a child at Hever.

The doors
stand open and the guards outside do not move. They make no attempt to hinder me. “Henry!”

I burst in. A crowd is gathered around the high-canopied bed
; a hubbub of voices, knaves running hither and thither bringing bowls and towels, taking away soiled linen; linen that is stained crimson with royal blood.

“Henry!” I push my way through towering male bodies
with the stench of tiltyard sweat. They part unwillingly and let me close.

His body la
ys upon the bed, his armour partly removed, his chest laid bare. For a moment I feel a sharp rush of relief that it is slowly rising and falling. He is breathing. I close my eyes and send up a rapid prayer.

But then I see
that his face is bloodless. His lips are blue, a trickle of blood oozing from his temple. Tentatively, I reach out and touch him.

Cold, clammy skin.

Like a corpse.

A hand slides across my shoulder and George is there. He grips my elbows, gives me a shake, urging me to stay calm. I turn into his body, lay my head on his armoured chest, seeking comfort from hard steel. With a great sob, I cry, “What happened?” my voice sounding as if it comes from afar.

“It was all so quick, I don’t really know. One moment he was mounted, bearing down on his
opponent, and the next the horse seemed to stumble. There was a great cry, a scream, and the king was thrown, his horse coming down upon him. We feared the worst right away …”

“Norfolk said he was dead.” My voice breaks. I shake my head, unable to believe I am not in the midst of a nightmare. I do not want to leave the bedside
, but George manoeuvers me away. “Let the doctors do their work, Anne.”

We sit close by, hands clasped. I feel sick, unable to breathe properly, my lungs tight with unshed tears.

“George, what if he should die?”

His hand tightens on mine. “Don’t even think it. God won’t let that happen. He is the king.”

But other kings have died.

While the doctors do what they can, I imagine a life without Henry. It is a bleak picture, so long has
he been the pivot around which I move. George and I do not speak of the danger to us should Henry not survive. We do not speak of it, although the threat looms larger with each passing second. In my mind, the demonic shadow flickers and reforms into the image of Chapuys and his master, who will not hesitate to depose Elizabeth and put Mary on the throne. What hope has an infant against a young woman? No hope at all.

And then there is my uncle of Norfolk, his daughter conveniently married to
Fitzroi, the king’s bastard who has for so long had the expectation of being made heir. Before this day I had thought Norfolk my friend, but now I see that, if the worst should happen, it will be every man for himself. Elizabeth and I will have few allies. There are not many who would be prepared to stand against Spain, or even the power of my uncle, for the sake of a baby girl. 

Henry must not die.

I am not asking God, not even begging him. I am bargaining with him. I will do anything, give up everything, if He will only spare my husband. For the sake of my daughter, for the sake of the English Church, and for the sake of my son, who is not, as yet, even born.

For more than two hours I wait
, refusing both food and drink. I refuse to lie down. I even refuse a cushion when Nan brings one for my back. I am determined to sit here, without respite, without comfort, until my Henry opens his eyes.

A servant stokes the fires. The flames leap, illuminating the ring of faces that wait upon the comatose
king. No one speaks; the silence is peppered with sighs, fidgeting feet, whispered prayers.

And then he sighs
. A jewel glints as a finger moves and I leap to my feet, pushing aside the physicians to grasp the hand that is my lifeline.

“Henry,” I croon, gently, willing him to speak to me.

He opens one eye and exhales, foul breath swamping my face. He squeezes my hand feebly and at last, he speaks.

“Jane?”

They are burying Catherine today. I wonder if she is laughing from her
Heavenly seat? For while she escapes the cares of this wicked world, I find myself living her life, thinking her thoughts. Her trials are become mine. I wonder if it is divine retribution.

The child within me moved yesterday for the first time; another reason I should be happy. But how can I be? How can I rejoice in bringing forth a child whose very presence is the cause of my losing Henry’s love?

He asked for Jane. I was there, holding his hand, yet he asked for Jane. I am full of anger. If I could I would have her whipped, have her burned at the stake, boiled alive as a traitor and a witch. I have never hated before and the feeling makes me ill.

I am unable to eat, unable to sleep, unable to even think straight. For the first time in my life
, jealousy is corroding my sanity. Now I know how Jane Rochford feels, and how cruelly George has treated her. I must somehow persuade him to make amends.

It is a wet miserable day, as if the
Heavens are mourning the death of the woman who called herself queen. I wonder if by some chance she is conscious that her body is to be interred, not in the Carthusian monastery as she wished, but in Peterborough Abbey, for the Carthusians are gone, put asunder by Cromwell’s hand.

Does Catherine know
that the marking on her gravestone will read ‘Princess Dowager’ and not ‘Queen of England?’ And will she hear Bishop Hisley’s sermon claiming she acknowledged in the hour of her death that she was never England’s queen? If, by some chance, she does know, the rumbles of her anger will thunder in the skies above us.

I am afraid, although I cannot show it. I keep to my chamber, pac
ing the floor, my hands on my belly. This child, this child who will ensure that Henry loves me still, may also be my downfall. I am rendered unable to fight simply by his occupation of my womb. I am disarmed.

“She will not sleep with him.” I want to tell Jane
Rochford to shut up but I cannot help myself. I tilt my head closer to hers, while her gossip lacerates me. “The king is beside himself with lust but she will have none of it; she is devout.”

Or perhaps she is just clever, I think, remembering my own refusal to go easy to Henry’s bed. Perhaps she has been instructed to tag him along, get out of him what she can.

I remember similar advice from my father and my uncle, even from George. At the beginning I was instructed to entertain the king, and I did so to appease my father. At what point did I stop pretending and begin to love him in earnest? At what point did the tables turn and I become the quarry?

The walls are high, the windows shuttered, and I cannot see the sun. Even the air I breathe is unfamiliar, stale. It chokes my lungs; my chest feels as if an iron band has been placed around it and someone is drawing it tighter … tighter.

There are scuffles in the darkness. I strain to see, fumble along slimy stone walls in search of a friend, in search of human contact. I seek comfort
, although I know I am alone. I seek enlightenment, although the sun has been extinguished. In this place, even God cannot reach me. My fingers scrabble against stone, tearing my nails, and I call out, my voice lost in nothingness.

I wake suddenly, my nightgown sticking to me, a stream of sunshine blinding me. I blink stupidly at Nan who is drawing back the shutters, her friendly smile welcoming me back. She glides toward me, placing a tray beside the bed. “Drink it up while it’s hot, Madam. You’ve been asleep all the afternoon.”

I drag myself up on my pillows, reflecting that Henry did not attend me although I waited until long past the appointed hour. Still half asleep I reach out for the cup, not really wanting it but too weary to fight such gentle concern.

It is then that I see the blood on my hand.

For a long while I stare at my fingers, the nails rimmed red, the iron tang of my own blood revolting my senses. My head reels as I slowly become conscious of the deep dragging sensation in my belly.

In trepidation I push back the covers and find my nightgown, my thighs, the sheets, all covered with gore. I open my mouth and begin to scream, and from all directions my ladies come running.

George comes to me first, full of sympathy, full of assurances that I will soon be with child again. I do not believe him. I feel I am damned. Catherine has cursed me, somehow taken away my ability to give Henry what he wants. Misery sits like a stone in my stomach and I cannot rouse myself, not even for George.

“What did Henry say?” My voice is small, betraying my fear of his answer. George
shrugs, his eyes full of sadness.

“He weeps, and prays. He will come to you when he is recovered.” He strokes my fingers, his hand large and brown against my small white palm.

“I expect She comforts him. She has certainly not shown her face in here.”

“Perhaps they told her to keep away. Your dislike for her is no secret.”

“And who would blame me?” I snatch my hand from his and wrap my arms about myself. “She seeks to steal my husband.”

George shifts on the mattress. “To be fair, Anne, it is your husband
who seeks her, not the other way around.”

Only George would be brave enough to say this and despite the jagged edge of his words, I do appreciate his forthright reasoning. I fidget my legs, rumpling the covers.

“What am I to do about it? I lack the will to live, let alone fight for him.”

He sighs, run
ning a hand through his hair, ruffling it so he looks like a boy again. “Perhaps you need do nothing but be yourself. Anne, Henry isn’t the first man to stray and he won’t be the last. Take it from me, she is nothing but a dalliance. Once you are back on your feet and the colour has returned to your cheeks, he will be eating out of your hand again. I warrant you will be pregnant before the year’s end.”

Pregnant, so he can wander off again? I do not speak the fear aloud
; after all, my sole purpose is to provide England with a prince. I cannot neglect my duty, even should I want to. Maybe George is right, but privately, I resolve to be rid of the Seymour girl. I will send her from court at the first opportunity I get and if Henry tries to stop me—well, there are other ways.

It is two days before Henry comes. He is somehow smaller, shrunken, trying to disguise the defeat beneath bluster. I know him too well. He stands at the end of the bed, feet splayed, hands on hips, his chin tilted so that he is forced to view me along the length of his nose.

“How are you, wife?” There is no warmth, just husbandly duty in his request. To win back our old affection will be a test indeed.

I try to smile but it is false, brittle; it makes my cheeks ache. My eyes fill with ready tears. “I am well in body, My Lord, although my spirits … well ...”

“You must eat well, take plenty of rest, and you’ll soon be up and about again.”

“I am getting up tomorrow.”

“Good, that’s good.” His eyes trail away from me. Like two strangers we have nothing to say. He clears his throat, turns as if to leave.

“Henry!” I am on my knees on the mattress, clinging to the bedpost. “Forgive me
, Henry, forgive me. I will give you a prince, I swear it.”