The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn (37 page)

As the boat glides toward mid-stream I spy a pale face watching from behind the thick green window glass
. Not knowing if it is friend or foe, I lift my hand, see a flicker of movement and am comforted, although I cannot tell who it is that dares to bid me farewell.

Erect on the barge cushions, I remember a happier May
day when, dressed in splendour, I was taken to my coronation and all the world was wild with celebration.

I remember the warmth of the sunshine, the cheering of the crowd, the pushing onlookers, the exuberant excitement of my sister, Mary.

I remember a child on one of the barges, dressed as an angel. She waved at me and I recall making her day by raising my hand to return her greeting and sending her one of my best smiles. I wonder where that little girl is now, and if she will weep for me when she learns how low I am fallen.

As the river glides along beneath me I have time to think back, try to see what I have done wrong, how I may have offended the king. Every so often a shaft of panic rises, takes up residence in my breast
, and it is all I can do to stifle it, thrust it back down again and maintain, at least outwardly, some semblance of serenity. I do not want them to see my fear. I must not give way to panic. Oh, where is George? Why does he not come?

As the outline of the Tower grows clearer, I draw my cloak about me, trying not to shiver in the shadow of the soaring walls. A blast of canon fire sends a dark host of screaming ravens into the sky
. I cringe, fingers in ears, my heart hammering, tears springing disobediently to my eyes. The canon signals to London that a person of note has been taken prisoner. Soon everyone will know that the prisoner is their queen. Surely the king will stop this foolishness.

Help me, Henry, I whisper. Help me, George. God send me a reprieve from this nightmare.

The oarsman put up their oars, the barge collides with the wharf wall, and I take my fingers from my ears and look fearfully about me. Upon the slick green steps that will take me to my fate, Mr Kingston is waiting, his hands folded quietly in his sleeves. He is calm, a look of gentle concern creased across his brow. At his kindness the queen in me takes flight, leaving just a terrified girl. I scramble to my feet, grab desperately at his proffered hand and stumble from the boat. “Mr Kingston.”

“
Your Grace.” There is something about his calm manner that vanquishes the last of my dwindling courage. A sob breaks from my throat and his grip tightens encouragingly on my forearm.

“Mr Kingston
.” I try to smile but my mouth refuses to conform and all I manage is a grimace. “Are you going to put me in a cell?”

He pats my hand. “No, no, Your Grace, you will be lodged in the royal apartments, where you stayed before your coronation.
All has been made ready for you, and my wife is waiting to attend you there.”

His wife.
Mary Scrope is a long-time lover of the old queen and an open enemy to me. Cromwell has chosen well. I wonder what other adversaries await me here. I shake my head, smile my wobbly smile as I take his arm. He leads me on quaking limbs across the inner ward and past the Lanthorn Tower to my apartments.

As my eyes become accustomed to the dim interior I see the chambers are just as I remember, although in my new unstable status they seem somewhat tarnished and chilly, the hangings a little faded, like Henry’s love for me. But the familiarity of the apartment reassures me a little. I force myself erect. I am still the queen, still as yet unvanquished.

Cromwell hasn’t beaten me yet.

As the door is opened six women turn to greet me, bobbing to their knees, their faces detached and formal. Lady Kingston; Mary
Cosyn; and my aunts, Elizabeth, Lady Boleyn, and Lady Shelton, mother of my cousin Madge. But I do not rush into their arms, for they are not my friends and I have no doubt they’ve been sent here to spy and report any misdoing to Cromwell.

Aunt Elizabeth has made no secret of her allegiance to the bastard Mary, and Lady Shelton resents how, to help save my marriage, George and I manipulated her maiden daughter, Madge, into Henry’s bed.

The other two women, the chamberers, are a far more welcome sight.  Mary Orchard is my old nurse, and Mrs Stoner an honest woman who loves me well. They come forward to greet me and I am soon divested of my cloak and gloves and offered refreshment.

Barely acknowledging the other women, I toss my prayer book on to the bed and move toward the window to peer through thick green glass. Beyond the Tower walls the river is alive with bobbing craft, as traders and passengers alike cross and re-cross the wide grey stretch of water, all going about their daily lives as if nothing has happened.

I suppose nothing has happened, not to them.

And below my window, on the castle green
, the inhabitants act as if there is nothing remarkable in the arrest and imprisonment of an anointed queen. For the first time I realise I mean very little to the ordinary people. If I am locked away here forever, there are very few who will care, and soon I will be forgotten, as if I have never been. All I will leave behind is Elizabeth, and a few unthinking letters, scribbled in haste.

*
**

Although I have no appetite
, I accept when Sir William Kingston invites me to supper. I brush my hair, change my cap and sit at table with him while he serves my wine, carves my meat and selects all the daintiest cuts for my plate. My women wait at a discreet distance, and apart from the two guards who stand like silent sentinels at the door, I can almost believe I am not his guiltless prisoner, awaiting trial for treason against the man I love.

We eat in silence for a while
; the food is good but not excellent, and the same might be said of the company. Poor Mr Kingston, I am dull of spirit and cannot pretend to be otherwise, even though I know that each word and gesture will be reported back to Cromwell. I would prefer the spies to bear tales of my confidence, innocence and strength, but it is beyond my capability to live up to such a pretence. 

But, at last, I break the silence.

“Mr Kingston, would you speak to the king on my behalf and ask if I might receive the sacrament that I may pray for mercy?”

He dabs his lips with a napkin, chewing his food rapidly to clear his mouth that he might answer respectfully. He nods, swallows, licks his lips, dabs his mouth again. “Of course, of course,
Your Grace. I shall make the necessary arrangements right away.”

“Thank you. There is no reason why I may not take the Sacrament. I am as clear of the company of men as I am of sin. There is no truth in these charges, you know.”

A long silence follows, a silence I want to fill with questions, but I fear the answers too much. “Mr Kingston,” I say at last. “Tell me about Mark Smeaton. Have they hurt him?”

He rinses his mouth with wine, presses his napkin to his lips. “I know not, Your Grace.”

“Is – is he here? At the Tower?”

He nods, wets his lips, nods again.
“And Norris also.”

My throat closes up with grief, my voice reduced to a croak.

“Thank you, Mr Kingston.”

I try not to react to the news that poor innocent Mark and brave Norris are locked up like felons because of Cromwell’s need to be rid of me. Mr Kingston pours more wine, the rich ruby fluid flowing thick into our glasses. I reach out and lift it to my lips, inhaling the deep fruity aroma before letting it loose upon my tongue. I swallow and replace the glass carefully on the table beside my plate.

“Mr Kingston … I love the king very much. Have you seen him? Is he well?”

He shakes his head. “I haven’t seen him, Your Grace, not since May Day.”

“May Day.”

May Day was the last time I saw Henry too, the last time I saw George. I grip my napkin, crunching it into a ball. “And what of my father, and my brother George, have you seen them? Do they plead my case with the king?”

“I know not, Your Grace.” His face seems to dissolve a little and I realise that I am weeping, the room swimming in tears. I throw my napkin onto my plate, watch as it absorbs the gravy, the greasy stain spreading as quickly as a plague. My hands are shaking, my chin wobbling.

“Mr Kingston.” My voice is high, unguarded
, and I know I am on the brink of hysteria. “I have a very great need to speak to my brother. He will help me, once he knows … Mr Kingston, they say I am accused with three men, but they name but two …”

I am weeping now, knowing myself to be ridiculous, knowing myself lost. I begin to laugh, place my hand over my mouth, tears spilling over my fingers, my nose starting to run. “They name but
two, and those two are lodged here in the Tower with me ... so where is the third? Who is the third?”

I stand up, my chair falling backward, legs in the air
. I notice one of the guards flinch, his brow creasing, his eyes no longer fastened on the opposite wall. They are not so blind as it would seem. Sensing his pity, I rush toward him.

“Do you know my brother? Can you send a message to him for me?”

The young guard does not move, even when I hold out my hands, clasp them beseechingly as Mr Kingston takes me by the shoulders and leads me away. I turn toward him as if he were a father, and cling to his robe, plucking the fur at the neck, trying and failing to remain calm.

“You are a good man, Sir, a very good man
, and I know you to be my friend. You will tell George, won’t you, please? Oh Lord, how my poor mother will weep … I think she may well die of sorrow …”

“Hush,” Mr Kingston whispers and jerks his head in silent command to my women, who come to take my hand, lead me back to my chambers.

When darkness falls I do not lie easy in my bed. I toss and turn, throw back the covers only to feel cold again and wrench them back to my shoulders. Mrs Cosyn, who has been appointed to share my chamber, sleeps on in her truckle bed, oblivious to my suffering, her snores rattling the casement glass.

I pray for myself, for Elizabeth, for George and for Henry; and I pray for those accused alongside me too. I get up, peer through the dark window to the lightening dawn
, and then I lie down again, to toss and turn some more.

Mrs
Cosyn is sorting my linen. I watch her sinewy hands smoothing the creases, tucking in the pleats and tidying the lace. Her movements are mesmeric and I find I cannot tear my eyes away from her fingers. “They’re questioning young Weston,” she says suddenly, and I blink at her, astonished that she should know, that she should break the rules and offer me news of the events outside my prison.

“Not Weston! I fear him more than the others, lest he betray poor Norris.”

“Norris? Why? What has that poor innocent ever done?”

“Only loved me, Mrs
Cosyn, or so Weston told me once. Norris would never make so bold himself.”

Her eyes slide from my face back to her
task, and too late I realise I should have remained silent. “As his queen, I mean. His love for me is honourable, as befits the wife of his monarch.”

I scramble to undo the detriment of my words
, but I don’t know if she believes me. I had thought Mrs Cosyn to be gentle. I had believed she was a friend, but now I am not so sure. She might carry my comment to Cromwell and increase poor Norris’ trouble. I must remember that I can trust nobody. There is no such thing as a friend, not in these hideous days.

If I could only see Henry, talk to him, make him forget the poison dripped into his ear by my enemies. Help him to remember only that he loves me. Jealousy twists and tears at my heart as I wonder if he is finding comfort with the Seymour girl. Even now, in the midst of my suffering, he might be with her, stroking her hair, kissing her ‘duckies’ as he used to kiss mine. A sob escapes me. I sit up and knuckle away more tears, before fumbling for my cup on the night stand. The room is lit only by a dying brazier, and I plead into the dark night,
Henry, Henry, don’t forget me. Don’t forget your Anne.

*
**

“What will happen to me, Mr Kingston?”

He looks so troubled and his face is so lined with care he seems to have aged a dozen years during the week I have been here. He shrugs his shoulders, turns up his palms.

“How can I know, Your Grace? An anointed queen has never been in my charge before. There is nothing to judge your case by.”

An anointed queen has never been arrested before, let alone accused of adultery and imprisoned in the Tower. His words are like a death knell, my innocence as inconsequential as that of a gnat beneath a monarch’s boot.

“I have to get a message to the king. He cannot know that these accusations are the constructions of our enemies, those whom he believes to be our friends. You must help me
, Mr Kingston, to smuggle out a letter.”

He backs away, his hands raised in submission
, and begins to slide out of the door. “I am not allowed to send messages, least of all to the king, Your Grace.”

And all the time the spies are working against me, listening to my ravings, reading and stealing the many letters and notes I try to smuggle out. Mr Kingston is the nearest thing I have to an ally, and even he is not prepared to risk the wrath of the king for the sake of a cast-off concubine. I am alone. Shut off from the world, kept away from George, from my father
, and from Henry. I have not a friend in the world.