The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn (4 page)

His step does not falter. “If Her Majesty can be made to wait while you dally with my secretary, she can wait a while longer.”

Harry, who has turned from a randy lion into a mewling kitten, makes a face at me, begging me not to argue further. When the cardinal turns suddenly up a sweeping stone stairway, we both follow like miscreant children.

Wolsey storms into his chambers and slams a book on the table. His aide quietly gathers his papers and melts into the tapestried walls
, as if used to this kind of interruption.

“Well, explain to me, Percy, what you are doing dallying with this girl when you are betrothed to marry Mary Talbot in the spring.”

Percy’s face turns as red as the cardinal’s robes. He flaps his arms helplessly, decides to engage the cardinal’s mercy. “My Lord Cardinal, I have known Mistress Talbot for years, I have no wish to wed her, nor she to be joined with me. Anne and I ….”

“Anne and I?
Anne and I? There is NO Anne and I. There is only Mary Talbot and Henry Percy – the match is made, all is settled. You will marry in the spring!”

Percy makes a strangl
ed noise in the back of his throat. “But I’ve promised ….”

“Then you had no right to promise … and neither did she.” He waves his arm rudely in my direction. “She is intended for Ormond. That too is decided. It is not your place to decide.”

Not our place to decide? The rage is bubbling inside me. Who is this fat priest to tell me what I should do? What I should feel?  With the anger still rising, I take a step forward.

“We are pledged.”

The accent I picked up in France becomes more pronounced when I am upset, and even I can hear the foreignness of my voice. He slowly turns his head, fixes me with his liverish eye. “Pledged?”

My knees begin to tremble. I creep closer to Percy, hoping for his support
, but he says nothing, his hands hanging limply at his sides. I am forced to speak out to try to save the both of us.

“Yes, My Lord Cardinal, pledged before witnesses to be married.”

He turns his face back to Percy. “Is this so?”

Percy stammers and sweats, shifts from foot to foot. His face works as he thinks up a reply, he bites his lips, loosens his collar until, at last, he discovers his courage.

“I love her, My Lord.”

“Love?
You are Northumberland’s heir. It is not your place to love. If you continue with this … this folly, your father will disinherit you. And then what will you do? Feed her on worms?”

I can see Harry’s bravado diminishing. He is easily beaten
, but there is yet a little fight left in me.

“We had hoped you would speak for us, My Lord Cardinal. My father has much love and respect for you as, I am sure, does the Earl
….”

“If Boleyn …
if your father wasn’t in Europe, he would have spotted this misbegotten attachment and stopped it in the bud the moment it began! Percy here would be safely married and you’d be at Hever nursing a sore arse.”

He turns back to Percy. “I will summon your father to court. He will put you straight. Meanwhile, you are not to look upon this …
this girl, again.”

I turn to Percy
, who reaches for my outstretched hands. Wolsey steps between us. “Or touch her!” he roars.

He swivels his head toward me, his eyes full of venom. “Get you to the queen, Mistress, and don’t let me see or hear of you in this boy’s company again.”

“Percy!” I wail as Wolsey edges me toward the door. He won’t look at me. His head is lowered, his eyes on the floor, The cardinal stands between us, ready to block any move I may make toward Harry.

My eyes fill and Harry seems to dissolve, his features blurring as if I am looking at him through a rain-washed window. I see him shatter and his cheeks grow moist and, as I look, I realise that he is really just a boy. I try to hang on to the passion we have shared, the love we pledged
, but it is shifting into something more resembling pity.

Winter is losing its grip, although the wind still bites. Green shoots are showing in the garden and lamb’s tails shiver on the hazel trees. Within the house the servants are throwing wide the casements, shaking out the bedding while Mary huddles before a lazy fire, her belly too swollen with  the king’s child for her to move around and warm herself. It is mid-morning, and if I do not stir myself Mother will set me some menial task as a way of punishing me further for my wilfulness.

“Why can’t you be more obedient, like your sister?”
she says. Like my sister? My ears can scarcely credit it. They wish me to be more like Mary, who bears a child that is not her husband’s? For all the benefits Mary’s immodesty has bestowed upon the family, I shall never be like her.

I tie on my cloak and slide out the kitchen door, duck through the yard where they are unloading apples from a cart. A boy, struggling with a heavy load toward the storeroom, pauses to let me pass
. I reward him with a wide smile, thankful I am not born to toil.

In March the garden is bare, tidy. The paths
are swept, the shrubs trimmed, burgeoning buds depriving the early bees of nectar. The gardener whips off his straw hat and pulls his forelock. “Fine mornin’, Mistress,” he mumbles but although I nod my head, I do not tarry. I make for the orchard, duck beneath lichened limbs, through the gate and into the meadow.

Here, the spring grass has not yet re-coloured the faded windswept clumps of last year’s uncut hay
. Several times I stumble, turning my ankle. I put out a hand to stop myself from falling and my veil slips, my cap askew. I drag it from my head, tuck it up my sleeve and struggle on with the wind in my hair.

Now I am free.  I can breathe again.

I have always loved the meadow. When we were children, Mary, George and I would crawl in the long sweet grasses, making hideaways, sharing stories, embarking on adventures. Today, the ghost of our memories follows me, our childhood spirits dancing at the periphery of my vision, laughing like wind in my ears. They were happy times, although we did not know it then. We never know happiness until it is gone.

At the top of the rise I pause beneath a stand of trees and scan the horizon with a hand to my ribs to ease the pain in my side. I am slightly out of
breath, the winter has robbed me of my usual vigour. The wind is blowing my hair all over my head, I must look like a Gorgon. I put up a hand to trap it, sweep it from my face.

“I knew you’d come!” A man leaps suddenly from a branch above my head, making me squeal.

“Thomas! What are you doing here? You scared me half to death. Why aren’t you at court?”

“The king took pity and sent me home to nurse the megrim I’ve been suffering.”

I cast an eye over his robust frame, his rosy cheeks and fair windswept locks. He is the picture of health.

“You look very well to me.”

His eyes are as blue as the king’s. They bore into mine, a hint of laughter disguising something deeper.

“Now I have gained the thing I lacked
, I am fully restored.”

Disconcerted, I turn away and begin to walk along the ridge where the grass is shorter beneath the trees. He follows, a little behind. “I’ve written a verse.” He fumbles beneath his doublet and draws out a parchment
. The wind takes it, threatens to whip it from his fingers.

“Another one?
I hope it’s better than the last.”

“You are a cruel mistress.” He clears his throat. “It isn’t quite right yet, but I have the gist of it. Are you going to listen?”

I slow my pace and, spying a fallen bough, I move toward it, perching on the rough bark while he praises me with gentle speech.

“The flaming sighs that boil within my breast,

Sometime break forth, and they can well declare

The heart's unrest, and how that it doth fare,

The pain thereof, the grief, and all the rest …
.”

Poor Tom, he is nothing if not faithful. How can I not be touched by such lines? His face as he reads betrays his sincerity.

At court it is fashionable to love in vain
. All the young men strut about the palace with their hearts on their sleeves, weeping and wailing over some married woman or another. But Tom, I fear, is different. He has made the mistake of loving sincerely … albeit in vain.

His voice trails off and he folds his verse, tucks it back inside his doublet. “Of course, it still needs something
. I may rework it ….”

“It’s
lovely, Tom, but you are your own worst fool. You are not free to love ...” I get up and begin to walk away, but he grabs my wrist.

“Anne …
one kiss and I will be silent. You used to let me kiss you, when we were children.”

I look at my feet, smile ruefully. “You never kissed me, Tom. That was Mary.”

“Well, it was you I wanted to kiss. I’ve never wanted anything so much …”

“Try telling that to your wife.”

I have known Thomas Wyatt since childhood. His family seat is but a little way from Hever and they were regular callers in the summer season. He is part of my childhood, part of me, but I cannot love him. Kissing him would be like kissing George. He is too familiar, too close; almost kin.

He is very near now, my forehead level with his jaw. He puts a finger beneath my chin, forces me to look at him. “You are so fair,” he whispers
, and I open my eyes wide.

“No, I am not. No one has ever called me fair. You are mistaking me again for Mary.”

“Well, Mary may be fairer but what you have, Anne, shadows her like the sun outshines a torch. The king can keep Mary; it is you that I want.”

It is not easy to rebuff the poetry of his words
, but I have to for both our sakes. He has a wife and I, well, I have my virtue and intend to keep it. Since the disaster of loving Harry Percy, I am done with men.

“Just one, Anne, please? Call it payment for the verse.”

I consider for a while. I like Tom and hate to be the cause of such hurt. His pursuit of me has been long and as yet, unrewarded.

“Just one little one, then.
On the cheek.”

I close my eyes and tilt my face. After a moment I sense him
coming closer, his head shadowing the glare of the sun. I am swamped with the scent of apples and summertime.

His lips are warm on my skin, he leaves a gossamer touch on my mouth, a kiss so gentle that I relax, enjoying the chaste sensation of his salute. Perhaps I
am wrong, it is pleasant to be kissed by Tom after all. Then suddenly, he pulls me closer, driving the breath from my lungs, our bodies tight, his mouth swamping mine as he injects all his passion into me as if he fears it will be his one and only chance.

When he finally lets me go
, I stagger, almost fall, and while I gasp for breath and equilibrium, he spins away from me and goes leaping and bounding down the hill toward the house, like a thief who has successfully made off with the crown jewels.

“God bless you, Anne Boleyn,” he calls over his shoulder, his jubilance dissipating in the wind. Inwardly I am laughing, refusing to acknowledge the sudden passion that sent the blood surging through my veins as it hasn’t done since I was sent down from court.

“You are a rogue and a devil, Thomas Wyatt,” I call after him. But as I make the slow journey home his kiss stays with me, and it lingers in my mind for many a day.

When I arrive back at the house
, Mother and the servants are all in a scurry and no one notices my muddy skirts and flushed face. Mary’s pains have started early and she has been borne to her chamber to await the birth.

In the parlour
, William Carey paces the floor until Father, who has little patience with such things, suggests they have the horses saddled and go out on the chase. Once the household women are left alone, we all begin to relax a little, except Mary whose screams echo all around the house and can even be heard in the bailey.

I hover on the landing, watch
ing the women dart in and out with bowls of warm water, piles of linen. When Mother emerges, I step forward and indicate I would join them in the chamber.

“Go to your room, Anne. It is no place for a maid.”

I bite my lip and turn away, but do not argue that Jenny, Mary’s servant, is a maid also. There are different rules for women like me and the likes of her.

It is no more restful in my chamber. My fire has gone out and, due to the scarcity of staff, I try to light it myself, struggling with the tinder until finally, a tiny flame takes hold. At first it licks at the kindling, a tongue of flame that grows ever more passionate until the wood flickers and is consumed, writhing in the heat. I add more fuel, quenching the blaze, cooling the ardour, grey smoke,
the embers simmering. I lie back in a chair and gaze into the hearth, trying to make sense of my fickle feelings. First it is the king, and then it is Percy. Now it is Tom, whom I have known all my life. It is as if my body has a mind of its own. It grows demanding, difficult to manage.