The Concubine

by Norah Lofts

  The scrap of conversation between Wyatt and George Boleyn fell into the category of rubbish, and was discarded.

  Yet for some reason a few words—“Lord Rochfort said that Smeaton was a poor oaf and was in love with the Lady”—stuck in Cromwell’s mind and were one day to come in useful.

  The evening remained fine, though in the West, against the scarlet and gold of the sunset, great slate-colored clouds reared themselves into a fabulous city with towers and spires and minarets, and thunder growled somewhere in the distance. The entertainment was a marked success. All the little ingenious tricks worked and were applauded. Particularly George’s exit which called for skill, since he must carry Leda, still only half-willing, and board a flat little boat which had been moored just out of sight under the riverbank, and with a single thrust against the bank provide sufficient impulse to send it gliding away, giving the impression that it was he, the Swan, swimming. That was, for everyone with inside knowledge, the trickiest moment of all; there’d been two practical attempts, neither very successful, in the afternoon. On the first George had failed to land squarely and the tiny boat had tilted; on the second his propelling shove had not been powerful enough and he had been obliged to try again, which detracted from the illusion of reality. But tonight all went well; in the eerie, cloud-occluded, sunset light the disguised god bore his human bride away while Sir Harry Norris, the most desolate of Leda’s would-be lovers, sang, in his beautiful voice, Thomas Wyatt’s new song.

  “Forget not yet,” the words mourned out on the evening air. Wyatt had written them out of love that he recognized as hopeless; Smeaton had put into the music all the love whose hopelessness he refused to see, and Norris was singing, as always in Anne’s presence, for her alone.

  The heavy, sultry air, the strange light, the theme of the masque, the differing but potent feelings which three men had contributed to the perfection of the final song, even the soft noise of the doves in the trees, all had their aphrodisiac effect. Here and there in the assembly hand moved toward hand, eye caught eye; love was the thought in almost every mind; hopeful, sorrowful, confident, frustrated.

  Henry thought—That song was written for me! “The cruel wrongs, the scornful ways, the painful patience and delays.” Haven’t I borne enough of them? “The which so constant hath thee loved, whose steadfast heart hath never moved.” Wasn’t that true of him, above any man ever, anywhere?

  And she, he thought, had arranged this entertainment. This was her sweetly subtle way of telling him that she knew how well and truly he loved her and realized how much he had suffered for her sake. How much more delightful an acknowledgment made in such fashion than Catherine’s outspoken, “I love you, I have always loved you, I shall always love you.” Anne knew, better than anyone else, how to put flavor into living.

  After all, what was there left to wait for? He was sick and tired of waiting. Once get Cranmer installed as Archbishop and the way was clear. He’d always insisted that he was a free man, hadn’t the time come to prove it?

  There was Anne to consider, of course. And his promise not to demand favors. But surely tonight, even she…He turned his head to look at her and found that she was regarding him with some expression which, before he could read it, had changed to her usual one of calm inscrutability.

  “Did you enjoy it, my lord?”

  He said, in a thick whisper, “Sweetheart, if I could be granted one wish, I’d carry you off in just that way, and leave them all to stare.”

  She said, “Why not?” but so softly that he could not be certain that he had heard aright.

  “Not,” she said quickly, and still very softly, “that we will have any staring or gossip. We must be discreet.”

  So she had said, “Why not?”; she was, after all this long time, surrendering. The blood began to move tumultuously in his body as though it had been dammed for years and then loosened. He was momentarily frightened lest he should have a fit. A fine thing it’d be, he thought, half-humorously, to die of joy…

  Afterward he lay in the dark more puzzled, more disappointed, more depressed than he had ever been in his life. The great experience, so eagerly anticipated, so desperately sought and so hardly won, over and done with, and what was it after all? Just another woman in a bed! When he phrased it like that it sounded unbelievable, but there it was, it was true. All that promise, that hint of some peculiar and precious joy in store, was mere illusion. It was some trick of the eye. Between the sheets, in the dark, she was no different from Catherine, Bessie Blount, Mary Boleyn.

  He lay there and knew that everything was wrong; even his sense of smell! For years and years, whenever he had been near her he had been conscious of the scent of her hair, not oversweet, not musky, in no way obtrusive, a dry, clean fragrance, all her own; but now, nearer to her than he had ever been, he was only aware of his own freshly soaped odor and the scented oil which he had had rubbed into his hair and beard. He’d said to Norris—the only one in his confidence—“This is my bridal night, I must make myself fit.” He could have cried when he thought of how he had soaked and scrubbed himself, put on his finest clothes and his jewels.

  But that was all trivial nonsense. There were crueler thoughts. The mockery of the world, the words “the King’s conscience” being made a joke, Catherine’s tears, Wolsey’s last look, the falling out with the Pope, and at the end, just another woman in a bed.

  No. No. He fought off the thought as vigorously as he had ever parried the onslaught of a human opponent in the lists. It couldn’t be true, for if it was, he had been wrong, and Henry Tudor was never wrong.

  The iron weight which depression had laid upon his chest lifted a trifle. Henry Tudor was never wrong; he knew what he wanted and he got it, in the end, despite everything he got it. And if it seemed…No, never would he admit it. His mind flailed around and eventually fastened upon something to which it could cling.

  She was a virgin; that was it. His first virgin. (So much for Catherine’s story!) It would be better later on.

  As an explanation he accepted it; but it could not restore him fully. Even when he thought of next time, and next, there was none of that uprush of anticipation, the emotion which had sustained him all these years. The fact was that tonight marked a summit in his life; and from now on everything would be a decline.

  No. No. He would not permit himself such thoughts. All would be well; it must be. He willed it so.

  Then he realized that rightly he should not be thinking at all; he had imagined himself—a thousand, thousand times he had imagined himself, sated, brimful of content, falling asleep with his head on her breast. And now, here he lay, thinking…

  And she? He never had understood her; the element of mystery had been part of her charm for him. But he had always thought that the moment of revelation would come…and here it was; no mystery had been revealed to him, no transcendental experience shared; just two bodies in a bed. And for this he had rocked the world!

  Intolerable, he thought. He just could not lie here, wakeful, with his mind going round and round. He’d get up, go and find Norris, drink some wine, play a game of chess, divert himself. His premature return to his own apartments could be explained on the grounds of discretion. He had confided in Norris, Anne in her waiting woman. The truth, for many reasons should be kept secret for a month or two. Until marriage was possible.

  And when he thought of marriage he had again that deadly awareness of expectation being lacking. Getting old? Nothing to look forward to, except decrepitude and death. Oh, nonsense, nonsense…A healthy man at forty-one was in his prime!

  He left her kindly. It was no fault of hers; she’d been sweet, loving, perfect—if what you wanted was just a woman in a bed. And if that phrase kept recurring to him he’d go frantic, begin to shout and smash things! Nine years, nine years out of the best part of a man’s life, and the whole order of things overturned…

  Within half an hour he had another, even more comforting idea to offer himself; something he’d e
aten at supper had disagreed with him and provoked a bilious humor which, as everyone knew, made its victim see everything askew. Otherwise there was something wrong with Norris, ordinarily such a gay, good companion. Tonight he looked gloomy, was short of speech, and when they sat down to play chess, he played a vicious game, as though something had upset him, too; as though he were a prey to a bilious humor.

  “Did you eat soused mackerel at supper?” Henry asked abruptly, leaning back in his chair after Norris had made one of his spitefully triumphant moves.

  “I did, Your Grace. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I did. And it lies heavy. It makes a tasty dish—but have you ever seen mackerel freshly caught?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “It’s like no other fish; its skin is like a snake’s, and it isn’t flat, like other fish…and as I say it lies heavy. You feel it, too?”

  “Maybe.”

  I’m eaten up with envy, Harry Norris thought, but if he sees and puts it down to something I’ve eaten, I should thank God. He is my King; I must not think of him as a gross, lecherous swine who having attained the very height of man’s desire on this earth, can come away and discuss the processes of his digestion. If I think in that fashion, he thought, beating his fingers on his knees, I shall end like my grandmother, raving mad…How could I know? I’m a man solemnly betrothed, my future lay fair and clear; but I fell in love, as any man subjected to her company must do. But she belongs to him and tonight he took possession, and, God forgive him, comes back here to talk about mackerel and what it does to his belly! Let it swell till it bursts!

  And then Norris remembered the countless times when Henry had been kind, understanding, amusing, admirable, worshipful. It was indeed typical of him at this moment to attribute his attendant’s awkward mood to indigestion, when he was, in fact, suffering from a futile attempt to get drunk.

  “Your move, your Grace,” Norris said, in something of his normal manner.

  “Is it so? Is it so, Harry? I’m afraid my mind isn’t wholly on this business tonight. There! Move now, if you can.”

  She lay where he had left her; and when she lay in her grave she would not be colder, or more alone. She felt no disappointment, having expected nothing; she’d known, ever since her forced parting from Harry Percy, that from this part of life enchantment had gone forever. And she knew that tonight she had only shared an experience common to most women—since only in the rarest cases were they allowed to marry the man they loved. But without love it was a cold and lonely business; the close intimacy only emphasized separateness.

  She had an impulse to turn her face into the pillow and cry—but that would be to give way to self-pity, which in her situation would be absurdity, since everything she had done had been done deliberately and with open eyes. Every word, every gesture, every smile almost, directed to the one end. She deserved to be called, as she so often was, “calculating and ambitious.” But it was impossible at this moment not to think how different everything would have been, had she and Harry Percy been allowed to marry.

  A waste of time, even to think about!

  Think that the deed was done now; the result still to come, to be watched for, waited for, prayed for. Let her be pregnant and Henry would speed up the final arrangements for his divorce, and make her Queen.

  She thought again—My child will be King of England.

  XXI

  …we, by the consent of the nobility of our kingdom present, do make, create and ennoble our cousin Anne Rochfort…to be Marchioness of Pembroke, and also by putting on of a mantle and the setting of a coronet of gold on her head do really invest unto her the name, title etc., and to her heirs male.

  From the preamble to Anne’s patent of creation

  WINDSOR. SEPTEMBER 1ST, 1532

  EMMA ARNETT SAID IN HER firm yet unassuming way,

  “My lady should have a respite now. There is ample time.”

  The ladies thankfully relinquished their little tasks; they had a certain amount of titivating to do upon their own toilettes, and refreshments would be welcome, too. Emma edged herself close to Anne’s cousin the Lady Mary Howard and murmured, “It is my lady’s worst day of the month, most unfortunately.”

  Ever since Anne had come back to Court in the summer of 1527, Emma had taken pains to convey to somebody, month by month, by hint or direct statement, that Anne was not pregnant. Enemies naturally spread evil rumors; twice it had actually been said that she had been brought to bed. Such tales did no harm in places where Anne could be seen, but there was the rest of the world to think of, so every month Emma was careful to make it possible for someone to say, “Her own woman told me…”

  As soon as they were alone, Emma said, “Lie flat on the bed, now. What upset you? Isn’t this a great day?”

  Anne unclenched her teeth—it was the clenched teeth, the gripped hands, and the gray pallor that had warned Emma—and said,

  “I don’t know! Nobody knows. That’s the curse of it. I doubt if the King himself knows what he is doing, or why. It came over me as they fastened my petticoat. I should be robing for my wedding, not this, this empty senseless business…I’m frightened, Emma; I’ve lost all courage. I believe that now, after all, he intends to shuffle me off with a title and a thousand pounds a year.” Her voice rose shrilly.

  “Do you want them,” Emma nodded toward the outer door, “to hear what you fear?”

  “If I’m right, what does it matter? They’ll be the first to say that my sister Mary did better—she got a husband!”

  She put her face in her hands for a moment and sat, shuddering.

  Emma regarded her without pity, but with genuine concern. The woman had now—had for a long time—two sets of standards by which everything must be judged; her own inborn, ingrained sense of what was decent; and what was expedient for the Protestant cause. To a great extent they overlapped, and where they did not, she was now satisfied to be governed by opinions of her Milk Street friends. Anne’s admission of Henry to her bed before marriage had offended both codes; it certainly wasn’t decent; it might be inexpedient. But the battle was not yet lost, and what small thing Emma Arnett could do to bring about victory would surely be done.

  She tried with words.

  “I know nothing of great matters,” she said, “but to me it looks as though what His Grace is doing is good sense. He wants to take you with him when he goes to visit the French King and he wants you to have a high rank of your own.”

  “I know. I know.” Anne jumped up, and hugging her arms around herself, began to pace up and down the room. She was already wearing the long inner robe of crimson velvet, trimmed with ermine, and as she made her swift turns the train of it swung and lashed like the tail of an angry cat. “So he says. But he knows his world well enough to know that it makes no difference. Twenty titles and fifty thousand pounds a year couldn’t alter my status. All this day’s work will ensure is that I shall take precedence of other men’s mistresses; for no respectable woman will come to the meeting.”

  Her words, her voice, her movement about the room, were all indicative to Emma of a dreaded mood about to break. The Lady would work, patiently and painstakingly, toward her chosen aim, and then appear to give way to an impulse to destroy, to undo all she had done. She was capable, in another moment, of saying that she didn’t want a patent of nobility, didn’t want to be Marchioness of Pembroke, wanted to go back home and be left alone. She’d say that once too often—that was Emma’s fear, especially now, at this very touchy time.

  She said, “I’m going to give you a little dose; just enough to steady you, my lady. The King is doing you an honor today and you must be calm and smiling. It’s the waiting,” she said soothingly, as she found and poured the poppy syrup, “but there’re ruts in every road, my lady. Holding on is what counts, in the end. Drink that. And if you don’t feel like lying down, I’ll start on your hair so there’s nothing to do when they come back.”

  Anne said, “You’re very kind,
Emma. I don’t know what I should do without you.”

  The remark evoked no compunction in Emma Arnett’s breast. For one thing it was justified, few ladies anywhere had such devoted, watchful, cunning, tireless service as she gave Anne. And the motive behind it was a worthy one; shared by every Protestant in England; to keep Anne in favor; to see Anne made Queen; to see her produce a son. At all costs, for their purpose, the Princess Mary must be kept from the throne. She was a Papist. Henry was Papist, too, but a disgruntled one; in his threats and roarings and calling himself Head of the Church, there was hope. Under Mary there would be no hope at all; if the Pope said all women were to shave their heads, Mary would be the first to shave hers.

  That was a natural thought to enter the head of a woman busy with her mistress’s hair. It was long and black and glossy and seemed to have a life of its own; it curved under the brush, and then, as she threaded the strings of pearls through it, it clung to her fingers. Beautiful hair.

  “You mustn’t give way now,” Emma said. “Things often aren’t as bad as they look.” In the glass her eyes met Anne’s and wrinkled in their rare smile. “I learned that when I was no more than seven. My mother sent me to take some eggs and butter to an old woman who’d ordered them. She was well-to-do and scared of thieves, so she kept three great dogs and they were loosed at sunset. On my way I fell in with some other children, going birds’ nesting, and I went off with them; so when I got to the old dame’s house it was nearly dark and the dogs were loose. Before I got my hand on the gate they were leaping up on the other side, savage as wolves. I was scared. But I knew my mother was counting on the eight pence, and we might get no more orders. So I picked up a bit of branch and went in as though I was ready to clout them all, left and right. They knew my mind was set and kept well away. I got myself a name for being brave; but really I wasn’t so much brave as desperate.”