The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn (35 page)

Then Tom Wyatt is there, his teeth flashing white, his eye kindling with pleasure. He whispers treason in my ear, about my step being the lightest in the land, my lips as tempting as the sweetest honey, my smile the cruellest dart. His heart is bleeding for me afresh. I laugh at him, knowing he is only half in earnest, and then I move on and Francis Weston takes his place.

Finally I am back with George, and as the music ceases he draws me to him, holds me close, and leaves a kiss upon my ear. I tuck in my chin, giggle at the shimmer of pleasure his lips send across my skin. I shiver, smothered in goose-pimples – an unattractive name for such a pleasurable sensation.

My brother leads me back to my seat in the shade where, a little breathlessly, I call for drinks. While I wait I arrange my skirts, pat my moist forehead with a kerchief and crane my neck to see if Elizabeth has stirred. She sleeps still, her thumb fallen from her mouth, a dribble of drool on her chin. Then I look up
, and Henry is there.

He is standing with Cromwell by the gate
, watching the revel as if hesitating whether to join us. Henry raises a tentative hand to me while Cromwell turns away, casting a smug smile over his shoulder as the king approaches me. I feel a squirm of discomfort and wonder how long they have been watching. I raise my hand and smile, beckoning him into the garden.

Much later, as the moon rac
es through windy skies, Henry comes to my chamber. A jerk of his heads sends my ladies scurrying, and I look forward to a night of love. I move toward him with my arms open, ready for his kiss, but he sits down heavily on a stool on the opposite side of the hearth.

He sighs deep
ly.

“What is it, Henry?” I lean forward, reach out a hand
, but he pulls away. I realise he is angry. “What have I done now?”

Of late, our squabbles have grown worse and more frequent. He is less easily appeased with promises of bedtime games. He rubs his face with both hands, mumbles something into his palm. The few words I can distinguish fill me with fear.

“What did you say?”

He looks at me, his eyes cold
, and when he speaks his voice is clipped. “I said, Madam, that your behaviour was unqueenly, today in the garden. You were behaving immodestly with my servants, my friends.”

I open my mouth to protest but he forestalls me.

“I saw you, Anne. I saw you flirt first with one, and then with another. Whatever you said to Norris shocked and astounded him. What were you promising, some of the tricks you learned in France?”

“Henry!”

“And Wyatt, drooling over you like a lap dog. Even your brother couldn’t keep his hands off you. Were you not content with me, Madam? Do you seek to bewitch us all, stain us all with your vile ways?”

I cannot believe I am hearing this. I can scarcely breathe.

“Henry, My Lord! I do not know what has brought this on. What poison has been dribbled into your ear? You must listen to what you are saying. I am your wife ...”

“More’s the pity,” he snarls.

I bite back a sob, leap to my feet.

“How dare you speak to me this way? You, who pursued me, would give me no peace until I relented. I could have wed another, mothered twelve children in the time I have spent with you. I tell you, Henry, there are days when I wish to God you’d never laid eyes on me.”

“And I you.”

We are nose to nose like angry dogs, both of us trembling with the enormity of the moment, both knowing we are trapped in this marriage, for better or worse.

Fear wallows deep in my gut.

The court whispers that he wants
to be rid of me, but I never really believed it before. Let him have his whores, his concubines, but he must never tire of me. I am part of him. I begin to grope for firmer ground, searching my mind for a positive aspect to our union. And then I remember Elizabeth.

Turning on my heel
, I run into the nursery. Ignoring the protests of her nurse, I wrench back the covers and lift Elizabeth into my arms. Then I march with her back to Henry, who takes one look at his daughter and quietens his rage a little, for her sake.

She knuckles her eye, moans in protest at the rude awakening. She is warm and fat and smells of wet linen. “Look Henry, look at the child we made. Is she not worth all of this?
All the pain? All the fighting? Is she not a worthy reason to cherish our love?”

He turns away. “Put her back to bed.”

I hold her closer, put my nose to her hair and inhale the wonderful baby smell of her. “If I can give you a daughter like this, imagine how fine our son will be. I will give you a son, Henry. I swear it.”

I do not speak loudly, there is no need. I have his attention, and he is listening intently. After a long silence he takes her from me, carries her to the door and calls for the nurse
, who appears as if from nowhere.

She has been listening. Tomorrow
, our disagreement will be all over court. Our private words bandied about as if they are the property of all men. Henry is quiet now, miserably pensive, defeated, and I think of how alone he is.

In this royal court of which he is king, he has no kin, no family remaining, apart from me, apart from Elizabeth. I risk reaching out and when he doesn’t pull away, I stroke the fur on his doublet, take a step nearer.

He smells comfortingly of spice and rosewater, a hint of garlic. When I take his hand he doesn’t jerk it away, so I lace our fingers together and sigh deeply. Noting how his glance darts to my swelling bosom, I sigh again.

“Henry
.” I kiss his fingers. “There is nothing on this earth I’d rather do than give you a son; a prince to follow after.”

Am
I imagining the growing pressure of his fingers, the increasing depth of his breathing? I lift my chin, look into his eyes. His nostrils flare, he licks his lips, the tip of his tongue is red and wet. On tiptoe I place my mouth lightly on his, my own tongue flicking, inviting a deeper kiss. And, as he engulfs me, I tell myself that everything is all right. He loves me still.

“What a lovely day.” Nan raises a hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she peers across the tiltyard to see if she can spot her husband, George Zouche, preparing for the joust. Of course, I can spot my Henry a mile off. His splendid clothes mark him from the others. Since the accident in January his leg continues to trouble him, preventing him from competing today, and the inactivity bothers him. His envy is undisguised as, waving his arms around, he advises his friends on the best tactics. I smile at his boyish ways and let my eyes sweep the rest of the field. 

It is the sort of day that stays in
one’s memory. I know I will remember it forever. A perfect summer morning that is surprising, coming so early in the spring. The sky above is blue, as if an artist has over used the lapis lazuli. The birds are busy building nests, and in the hedgerow early bumble bees bounce in and out of frothing may blossom. Above us the pennants snap and strain in a brisk breeze, and sunlight frolicks on the knights’ armour, dazzling the onlookers.

In the stand, my women and I wait for the tournament to begin. I see George
approaching, in full armour. He nods a cool greeting to his wife, his smile spreading to his eyes as he grows nearer to me. I lean over the railing, my veil undulating in the breeze, hovering around me like a lost spirit.

“You do look fine, Sir Knight,” I quip. “You are sure to win the hearts of all the ladies, even if you miss the main prize.”

His visor is raised, his face flushed with the heat, his hair beginning to stick to his forehead. “Well, since the king does not compete, I may stand a chance. Can I carry your favour?”

“Sorry
, George, I promised it to Norris. Ask Jane for hers, do yourself a favour.” I laugh gaily at my dreadful pun and George joins in. He leans on the stand below me, his eyes straying to where Jane sits, staring into the distance as if she is unaware of us.

“Go on, George.
It doesn’t hurt to be nice to her,” I hiss. “Do it for me.”

He stands up straight, executes a comical salute. “Your wish is my deed, O
Queen.”

From the corner of my eye I see him approach his wife
. I try not to applaud when, after a few moments, she passes him her kerchief. He tucks it beneath his armour and makes an elegant bow.

I wish Mary were here, for she always loved a tournament. I remember her clapping her hands, calling out her support of a favourite. On days like this I miss her more than ever. Last week I wrote her a letter, the first since our estrangement. It was an informal note, asking after the health of her son, born soon after
I lost my prince. By all accounts she is living blissfully, in near penury with her horse-master husband. Perhaps it is time to make amends and call her back to court. I owe it to my nephew. I make a mental note to talk Henry round to forgiving her.

The first riders appear, their plumed helmets glinting, their steeds snorting and restive in the sunshine. I can just make out the badge of my cousin, Francis Bryan, who has not been at all hindered by the loss of his eye all those years ago. His opponent is William Brereton. They rein their mounts
back, hold them steady, their hooves turning the turf to mush, until the command is given to ride.

Then, like a fury unleashed, they thunder toward each other. In the stand, we hold our breath, hands to our face
s, scarcely able to look but somehow captivated by the promise of violence.

They come together in an explosion of splintering wood, screaming horse
s and clashing metal. For a moment it seems neither will fall; both horses career on, their riders swaying in their saddles, lances tilting. Then Bryan emits a loud curse and tumbles slowly and elegantly from his horse to land with a crash of steel in the dust. There is a brief silence until we are sure he is unharmed, then a great cheer goes up from the crowd and we all relax, chattering and laughing in a mixture of relief and disappointment. Drinks are passed through the stand, pages weaving in and out, tipping jugs, replenishing cups.

As Bryan limps away, Brereton raises his fist in victory and canters past, his horse’s hooves kicking up sods.

Next are Norris and Heneage. Norris approaches the stand and I rise from my seat and offer him my favour as I had earlier promised. He tucks it away, leaving just a flash of crimson silk showing bright against the blue sheen of his armour. He rides away. I sit back down, fanning myself and turn to make a comment to Nan.

And then I notice Henry
. He has taken his seat in the stand a little way from us, and I raise my hand, my mouth stretching in anticipation of his company. He doesn’t look at me. His eye is averted, his spine stiffened and his pudgy fingers tightly gripping his knees. I instantly recognise the anger in his stance. What is wrong now? I wonder as I turn my attention to the next match.

Norris gallops past, my crimson kerchief flapping at his breast
. For a moment it looks like a splash of blood, a gaping hole in his chest. I shake the image away, clapping my hands as both contestants canter off unscathed. Tension released, a wave of chatter breaks out again, the incomprehensible words erupting like birds freed unexpectedly from a cage.

Henry stands abruptly and, without taking leave of me, heads for the competitors ring. I can see from the set of his shoulders that he is displeased but I shrug it off, used to his bouts of bad temper that have grown more frequent of late.

I am engaged in a lighthearted argument with my ladies as to who has the best chance of being crowned champion at the end of the day. Usually it is Henry, whose skill on the field is unsurpassed; today the prize is open. It must be hard for Henry to be debarred from competing by his own ill-health.

Several moments later I see Henry mounted
on his horse. For a moment I think he means to enter the list. But just as I realise he is not in armour, he rides swiftly away without bidding me farewell, a cluster of his most favoured attendants about him. Following after, on his already winded mount, is Norris, whom I recognise from my kerchief which still blazons my favour on his shoulder.

“How odd,” I remark to Nan. “Norris went through to the next round and still has another bout to ride. Surely he cannot have forgotten. I do hope nothing has happened.”

*

Later that evening, George and Madge are illustrating the steps of a new dance in my apartments. It looks complicated but intriguing and I long to join in
, but there is no joy in dancing without music.

“Let me take a turn, George. Where is
Smeaton? Someone fetch him, we can have the steps worked out and demonstrate it to the king tomorrow.”

But
Smeaton is nowhere to be found and we have to make do with less accomplished players. Mark Smeaton has a way of blending in with the furnishings and would never speak of anything he heard or saw in my privy chamber. I have grown used to his invisible presence, taking him for granted, and now that he is absent I miss him for the first time.

As the evening stretches toward dawn
, my apartments grow quite rowdy with music and laughter. I am pleased to see George including Jane in his circle. She is lightly flushed, her fingers in his palm, her step light. When she smiles she is quite pretty. It is about time George was reconciled with her. I cannot see what there is not to like and, if the Boleyn line is to continue, his duty is clear. When her head is turned away I smile at him, and he winks at me, blows me a kiss.