The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn (9 page)

“Did you miss me?”

I make no answer but nod my head while we sway tranquilly back and forth, half-embracing, half-dancing. “Then, will you not kiss me? I have waited so long.”

Keeping my eyes closed I raise my face to his, sense his closeness, his breath on my cheek as, very softly, his lips touch mine.

Even if I am entertaining the king of England in my workaday gown, at least the gardens at Hever are looking their best. He leads me along the paths where the scent of roses fills the air, and daisies sprawl across the gravel. Our footsteps make a soft crunching sound, my skirts swishing along behind. As we walk he talks of his past; tales of his mother, the gentle queen of York, and the strict regime imposed upon him by his father, the first Henry Tudor.

I picture my Henry as a boy, round-faced and flushed from play, inwardly rebelling against too much time in the schoolroom and not enough in the tiltyard. “He would not let me joust
,” Henry exclaims in remembered outrage. “He wanted me in the schoolroom where there was no danger of me outshining my brother.”

“Prince Arthur? What was he like?” I accept his offering of a daisy and tuck it into my bosom.

“According to my father and our tutor, Arthur was the perfect prince. I am a poor substitute.”

I can see the old sibling rivalry still bites deep. Henry’s brow is lowered, his mouth tight as he continues. “But I could always best him on horseback, or in the dance. It’s a shame Father can’t see me now, that would make him eat his words. Never, in all my youth, did I hear a single word of praise from his lips …”

“But I am sure your mother was different?”

“Oh yes. She was as different from my father as chalk is from cheese. She had an inbred kindness … empathy. Although I tried to hide it
, she always knew when I was hurting. She would appear at my side, take my hand in hers and suddenly, the world would be less bleak. She never said it but I knew she preferred me to Arthur. I am like Edward, you know, her father, and Arthur was just like the king … my father, I mean. After my brother died, quickly followed by Mother, I was left alone with him, the old king. He wanted Kate for himself, you know, but I got …”

“Kate?” For a moment I do not know who he means
, but as the colour rushes into his cheeks and he begins to bluster an explanation, I realise that he means Queen Catherine, the woman from whom he longs to be free. For a moment he had forgotten the rancour he feels for her, had forgotten the queen is now old. By remembering the old days he recalls her as she was; young again, young and pretty, and apparently fertile. I draw my hand away and walk on without him, surprised by the injury his words have inflicted.

“Anne.” He catches up with me, snatches at my hand. “I wanted to talk to you about Catherine.”

“What about her?” I cannot inject any warmth into my voice and I keep my eyes on the flowers behind him.

“You know I seek a divorce?”

I nod, still refusing to look at him.

“I never visit her now, especially at night, and have not done so for a long time.”

Feeling the warmth in my cheeks, I shrug my shoulders, as if it is of no moment to me.

“Anne.” He draws me into the arbour and sits down, pulls me beside him, our knees touching, hands clasped. If I didn’t know any better I would think he was ready to propose. “If you will be my mistress, I swear to forsake all others. You would be my official mistress, I would give you honours, make you wealthy in your own right.”

I snatch away my hand, wounded beyond measure by the inference. “Like a court official, Your Majesty? Would I have apartments next to Wolsey’s? Where his sign would read ‘The King’s Lackey’, would there be one above my door with the words ‘The King’s Whore – Keep Out’?”

“Anne!” He is astounded for no one has ever dared speak to him like this before
, but I am trembling with rage.

“Just what do you think I am, Henry? How can you claim to love me when you hurt me so very much?”

Tears wash down my face. I fumble for my kerchief and see that it has mud on it where I wiped my dirty fingers this morning. To my relief, he hands me his own. It is edged with the finest lace and I recognise the embroidery as Queen Catherine’s own. I put it to my nose and blow hard, filling it with snot. Then I turn to him.

“Henry, if I am not good enough to be your
wife, and it is not meet that I become your mistress, then I fear we go no further. I know from experience what becomes of your cast-off women, and I must avoid that fate at all costs. Perhaps from now on we should only meet as friends.”

He snatches back his filthy kerchief and thrusts it into his doublet. “Friends
be damned!” he cries, leaping to his feet. “If I can have you no other way, then marry you I will and may the rest of the world go to hell.”

“Don’t be silly. How can that ever be?” I sniff, blink away more tears and look up at him, silhouetted against the sky, the biggest, bravest prince in Christendom.

“We must work on it, Sweetheart. I will win Wolsey over, get him to speak to the cardinals. The Pope must be persuaded that my marriage to Kate is sinful, unlawful. I must be free, Anne, I must be free to be with you and get myself an heir.”

He sits down again and draws me onto his lap. “How will you like that, Sweetheart? Will you make a prince with me?”

My breath catches in my throat and I blink away more tears, half-laughing, half-crying. “Oh yes, Henry. Yes, yes, I will.”

Swamped by his arms, his mouth clamped upon my throat, I am faced with the task of keeping his courtship within modest bounds. He hoists me higher on his lap, knocking off my cap
, and I let out a shriek. “What are you doing?”

He looks up from my bosom, his mouth wet with kisses, and his face red with desire. “I thought we could make a start,” he laughs, and I throw back my head, bursting with happiness
. I twine my arms around his neck.

“Not yet,
my love,” I cry, “but soon, very soon we will be married and then, I swear, I will fill your royal nursery with sons.”

“I am not sure how much more I can take.” I burst unceremoniously into the room, waking George who has fallen asleep by the fire. He stretches his arms, uncrosses his legs, and still yawning, mocks the abruptness of my greeting. “Good morrow, Brother. How goes your day?”

I plump into a seat and scowl at him
. Suddenly realising I am in earnest, he sits up and shakes the sleep from his weary head. “What is it now? You haven’t fallen foul of the king, have you?”

“Of course not,” I snap, maintaining my pout. “The king is fine. It is the rest of the court that
is the problem. They hate me and do everything they can to drive a wedge between Henry and I. I know Catherine is behind it …”

“Well, you didn’t expect her to just roll over, did you? Run off to a nunnery like a tame pup? She will fight you, Anne, with every inch of her soul.”

He throws a log on the fire and puts a hand to his belly, which is rumbling loudly. “What time is supper? I am starving.”

I shrug. “I am eating with Henry in his privy chamber.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, alone.
If I can free him from his council. They give him no rest. George, I just know Wolsey isn’t doing all he could to secure the annulment. He hates me. I know it, ever since he …”

George stands up, still stretching and yawning. “Anne, there are many names I might be tempted to call Wolsey
, but I would never label him a fool. He knows that to keep the king’s favour he must do as the king wishes. I am sure he is doing all he can. It isn’t a simple matter. There is Spain to consider, and Rome is in no position to act against the Emperor’s interest. You must be patient.”

“You don’t know what
it’s like,” I whisper, lowering my head so he will not see my ready tears.

“No,” he says. “I don’t suppose I do, but I do know what it’s like to be wed to a woman who hates me, who accuses me of betraying her with every female in court.”

Distracted momentarily from my own problems I look up at him, note his bloodshot eyes, his dishevelled clothing. The constant harping of his unhappy wife is driving him further away from her, and everyone whispers that he keeps undesirable company. Jane is always complaining of him not returning to their chambers until the early hours. I wonder that she wants him home at all when all she does is berate him once he is there. “And do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Sleep with other women.”

He flushes
and shrugs, his eyes focussed on the wall behind me. “Sometimes. I am a man, Anne, and I get no such comfort at home.”

I
lay back in my chair, fiddle with my girdle chain. It is a fine one, made of pearls and rubies, it was gifted to me by the king. It makes a satisfying sound as I pass it from hand to hand.

“Jane needs a child, George. Motherhood will soothe and gentle her. You will not get a child on her by sowing your oats all over the court.”

“I know.”

He scowls into the flames as we sit in silence, listening to the crackling flames devouring the fresh fuel. Beneath it, the embers of the spent logs are glowing red and black. It is like looking into the mouth of hell. I remember how, as a child, I would stare into the fire and imagine monsters and demons and fill myself so full of fear that I could not sleep at night. When they heard me crying
, Mary and George would creep to my bed to comfort me.

But that was long ago
. I could do with such comfort now, but George has his own problems and Mary is still in the country, raising the children of the man I will shortly wed. She must have heard by now of the king’s intention and I wonder what she thinks of me. I fear that after what I have done, she will shun me and I will have lost a friend.

The evenings I spend alone with Henry are always difficult, for although I want to keep his love, I must also ensure our relationship remains chaste. Once he has had me, my enemies will say I am no better than a whore, no better than Mary whom I have scorned for loving him.

But when Henry kisses me, I burn for him
, and in burning, I understand my sister better now. Yet when all is said and done, Henry is squeamish when it comes to women, and I must be careful not to offend his sense of propriety. I must not give my need for him too much rein. He may desire to know me carnally, but should he suspect that my own craving matches his, he will cease to love me and think me immoral. Henry will never wed a whore; he likes his women innocent, untouched. As long as he knows me to be unsullied, the gossips can whisper as much as they like.

So, when his kisses begin to burn me up inside, I pull away and pretend to be overwhelmed, confounded by the insistence of his passion.
Yet all the time I am screaming internally for him to take me, and let the consequences go hang.

Other men avoid me now. They are pleasant, polite
, but none seek to woo me, for who would dare pay court to Henry’s intended queen? I am even denied the honeyed words of Tom Wyatt, whose devotion has warmed me for so many years. Henry, losing no time in ridding himself of a rival, has sent him on a mission overseas, away from court, away from temptation, depriving me of another friend.

Henry sends his servants away, picks up his lute and begins to play one of his latest compositions. His fingers skim across the strings, his face flushed more from a surfeit of food than any embarrassment at the lyrics. I paste a look of contentment on my face and sway my head gently to the music. As the final note dwindles, I sit up straight and clap my hands enthusiastically. “Wonderful, Henry. Is it about me?”

He puts down his instrument, laughing gently. “Of course, who else should it be about?” He opens his mouth to continue when someone scratches at the door
. A shame-faced page enters to tell us that Cardinal Wolsey is without and craves a word with the king.

Henry throws me an apologetic smile
. By the time Wolsey enters a few moments later, I have already withdrawn to a corner where I tinkle the strings of Henry’s lute as if the presence of a cardinal is unworthy of my notice.

There is something about Wolsey that brings out the worst in me
. Some inner demon prompts me to don my haughtiest, most disdainful manner. George tells me I am foolish to act so in the cardinal’s presence, for Wolsey’s power almost matches that of the king. Yet there is one part of me that cannot forget the cruel manner in which he wrenched Percy and I apart.

Even though I have come to realise that what I felt for Percy was nothing more than youthful folly, I resent the inference that I was not good enough for the son of an earl. I am good enough for a king
, for Heaven’s sake, and one day, I swear, I shall enjoy watching Wolsey eat his words.

“Thomas!” Henry gets up
, and flinging an arm about Wolsey’s shoulder, ushers him toward the fire. “What news, Tom? What did the Cardinals say?” He slops some wine into a cup and hands it to Wolsey, while I try to look as if I am not hanging onto his every word.

“Your Majesty, I managed to persuade His Holiness that the case can be heard here in England. He is sending a legate without delay and he and I will officiate. So, between us we should have the result you desire within a few months.”