The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn

by Arnopp, Judith

  Early Summer -1524 Hever

  Time slides by so slowly, days, weeks of limited company. The proposed match with Ormond is not progressing well, and George and Father have returned to court to try to deal with it, leaving me kicking my heels at Hever with a houseful of women. Mother, usually to be found in her stillroom, is distracted, a faint frown on her forehead, her greying hair tightly concealed beneath her coif. Mary is engrossed in her child and has little time for me. As for Grandmother, she is bedevilled with age, her mind as winsome and as changeable as a wisp of wind. Always cold, she clutches a wrap about her shoulders and complains about the smeeching fire in the parlour.

  Her thin, imperious summons eventually brings a houseboy who settles the wood further into the grate and works the bellows to invigorate the flames. “That’s better.” She coughs weakly and her rheumy eye, following him from the room, catches sight of me standing by the window. “Mary? What are you doing up and about so soon after childbed? Stupid girl, if you were mine I’d have you whipped for the trouble you’ve brought upon us.”

  I step forward, lean into the noxious odour of her body. “I am Anne, Grandmother, not Mary. She is still abed where she should be.”

  She chews her gums, the lines of her face shifting and quilting. “Oh yes, so it is. The plain one, I see that now.”

  She retreats into her thoughts and for a fleeting second I wonder what old women think about. They have no use for fine gowns or suitors and, due to her lack of teeth, even her dinner has to be ground to a fine mince and can bring her no joy.

  Yet Grandmother was once my age, balanced on the cusp of life and full of hopes for the future. How must it feel to be at the end? To retire to bed at night not knowing if your eyes will open on the morrow?

  Something shifts on her lap and her dog, Merlin, emerges from the recesses of her many layers. He opens a pink mouth and stretches, his tail beating against her thin chest. As he leaps from her knee, Grandmother grabs but fails to catch him, and he lifts his leg against the hearthstone. She emits another feeble cough. “Take him outside, child, before he fills the room with the stench of his shite.”

  Grateful for the chance to escape I grab the dog, who snuffles and snorts, trying to lick my face. His breath is ripe with all the things he has eaten that were better left untasted, and I avert my nose and hurry outside.

  In the garden, I drop him to the ground. While he leaves a ripe curling turd on the gravel, I begin strolling among the emerging flowers. Spring is here now, warmer days interspersed with sudden unnecessary showers that leave the fresh grown leaves bejewelled with diamond rain drops. From an open casement I hear baby Catherine begin to wail, and shortly afterwards her nursemaid begins to sing gently in an attempt to lull her back to sleep.

  Poor Mary is still kept close in her chamber until such time as she can be churched. It seems a shame to be incarcerated indoors on a day like this, when the sun is shining and the world is waking up to the joys of love.

  I visit Mary in her chamber every afternoon, and most days I find her deep in the megrims of motherhood. A wet nurse has been engaged and my sister’s breasts are tightly bound to stop the milk. Yet she complains of pains, and her nose is red and beginning to peel from too much weeping.

  She thought the king would come, just once, to look upon her daughter, but there has been no word from him. Will, who spends his time wearing out his mount by dashing to and fro between court and his wife at Hever, brings royal congratulations but that is all. We all know there will be no acknowledgement. Not now.

  “If he just came once, to ensure all is well with us, it would be something.” She weeps again, bringing her knees up beneath the bedcovers, curling into her own misery.

  I peer at her child and decide she looks a little better today. It is as if one of the maids has smoothed out her wrinkles a little bit. She is more like a human now, and less like a monkey. She peers at me through slit eyes and lets out a bubble of wind, a trickle of milk on her chin. I have yet to see a new born babe I admire. Perhaps it would be better if they came into the world at a few months of age, when they have grown into their skin a little and can look around, pay more attention to what is going on about them.

  I turn my attention back to Mary.

  “For goodness sake, Mary. Crying will get you nowhere. And suppose the king did decide to call? All he would find is you with your hair like a hayrick and your nose as red the queen’s ruby. Look, sit up, dry your eyes, and take a drink. Why not get dressed? There is no need for this … this sloth.”

  I had hoped to spur her into action, but I fear I make things worse, for Mary opens her mouth, tears spout from her eyes again, and she dives beneath her pillow. Exchanging glances with the nursemaid, I raise my eyes to Heaven and stand up. “I will come back tomorrow. Hopefully you will be recovered by then.”

  With Mary’s megrim taking up most of Mother’s time, I am left alone to wander the gardens and meadow. Sometimes of an afternoon I climb the hill and linger beneath the trees at the summit, remembering Tom Wyatt and that kiss. He hasn’t been back for more and the memory of our sudden passion is fading, just as my thoughts of Percy have dwindled.

  Henry Percy is married now. Safely ensconced on his Northumbrian holdings where no doubt he forgets about me, too. I put a hand to my brow for from my vantage point on the hilltop, I spy a horseman riding toward the house. Squinting, I recognise Father’s man, Ned Baines, and guess he brings messages for Mother.

  I do not shorten my walk to greet him, for the news he brings will not concern me. Instead, I lift my skirts a little and tiptoe through emerging spring grass with the sun on my back. The only thing missing is good company. If George were here, the silence would be filled with his talk of politics and theology. He is very learned and has never hidden his knowledge from his sisters. Although with Mary it goes in one ear and out the other, I hoard the information so that I can bring it out one day and use his arguments against him. Of all the things and people I miss while rusticated here at Hever, it is George I miss the most.

  Suddenly full of restless energy, I begin to skip downhill, startling a huddle of sheep that look up from their grazing and scuttle off en-masse to the far side of the meadow.

  When I reach the bottom, I tightly grasp the orchard gate, breathless. My cap is crooked and my veil stained with lichen. It takes a little time for my breath to steady and then I straighten my cap, smooth down my skirts and wipe the worst of the mud from my shoes before hurrying through the garden toward the house.

  “Anne, there you are. Where have you been?” Mother doesn’t wait for a reply but thrusts a pile of linen into my arms. “Take that upstairs, all the servants are busy. Your father has sent word that he arrives tomorrow in the company of the king.”

  “The king?” My jaw drops. “But we are not prepared to receive the king.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that, Daughter. Now, take those things to your Father’s chamber and then find Jenny, she must assist the other maids to change the draperies in the parlour.”

  As I climb the stairs in a daze of disbelief, the parlour door opens and four male servants emerge bearing Grandmother aloft in her chair. Sparing nobody’s blushes, she gives vent to her indignation at their chosen method of transport. “Am I a sack of coal or a bushel of apples to be carted around so? Put me down, you hedge-born foot-lickers, or I will have you whipped.”

  One red-faced boy pulls a comical face at me as they pass and I stifle a laugh, ducking my head into the pile of fragrant linen before scurrying about my business.

  Jenny is chasing dust from beneath Father’s bed, the casements are thrown open and the hearth is being hastily swept. “Mother is looking for you, Jenny,” I say, and she turns a red, perspiring face toward me.

  “What news, Mistress Anne! The king coming here? Your sister is beside herself and demanding that all her best gowns are made ready.” She doesn’t add, ‘as if there isn’t enough to do.’ She doesn’t need to.

  As she run
s downstairs to answer my mother’s summons, I slip into Mary’s chamber. Catherine is blue-faced and bawling in her crib, while her mother sorts through a heap of gowns and sleeves on the bed. “Where is the wet nurse?” I yell above the child’s screams. Mary shrugs.

  “Helping Mother … she is sparing none of us the rod. Which sleeves go best with this bodice, Anne, the red or the gold?”

  She turns to me, holding a garment beneath her chin, her face pale and anxious. Unable to bear the child’s protests any longer, I lean over the cradle and, for the first time, gingerly lift her into my arms. Her head nods against my shoulder, her cries lessening a little.

  Hesitantly, I jog her up and down and pat her back, turn my head toward her as I do so, inhaling the scent of her hair. The sweetness of her fragrance is new to me; she is replete with promise, as soft and fragile as a duckling. Something lurches in my breast and I close my eyes and inhale again, holding her a little tighter.

  ***

  The king seems bigger now he is here at Hever, his frame fills the doorways and his laughter echoes to the vaulted ceiling. In bluff good humour that shows us his visit is to be informal, he lays an arm across my father’s shoulder and congratulates Will on the birth of his child. He must realise we all know the truth, but if the king demands a game is to be played, who are we to gainsay him? Will is forced to conceal his scowls, and Mary flushes beneath his chilly greeting. The kiss he leaves on the back of her hand is not that of a lover, and when she summons a maid to bring her child, the eye he casts over her is disinterested. He gives a non-committal grunt before turning the subject back to hunting.

  Mary cannot hide her stricken face. She shrinks into her chair, and as the conversation moves on to other things, she takes no part in it. She sits silently, her hands clasped in her lap as if all her grief and outrage are contained within them.

  Father is boasting of the wild game that runs free across his lands, and King Henry declares that he must revisit very soon to sample it. Although royal visits have been the financial ruin of lesser men than Father, Mother tries not to look dismayed. She nods her head at the steward in a silent summons for refreshment to be brought in from the kitchens.

  The cooks serve up fare far superior to what we are usually accustomed and King Henry smacks his lips and compliments Mother on her housewifery, making her blush with pleasure. Afterwards, he pushes his platter away and lays back in Father’s favourite chair, his hands on his belly while Mother makes her excuses and disappears into the kitchens to organise supper.

  “A turn about the gardens, Your Majesty?” Father asks, and Henry rises to his feet and looks about the chamber. When his eyes settle on Mary, they hesitate for a heartbeat before moving on to me.

  “Since Madam Carey is indisposed, perhaps your other daughter will accompany me. Anne, isn’t it?”

  I leap to my feet, the blood rushing from my head as I open and close my mouth in confusion. I manage to mumble something, aware of the silent stab of Mary’s outrage as the king holds out his arm. I smile, slide my fingers into the bend of his elbow, rest my palm on his fine slashed sleeves and allow him to escort me into the garden.

  He is so tall that I feel like a child again, my head bobbing below his shoulder as we pass into the pleasance. The sun has blessed us today and still shines high in the sky, the clouds staying away as if unwilling to mar the monarch’s pleasures.

  “So, Mistress, when are you returning to court?”

  I don’t know how to reply. I was dragged from Greenwich at the behest of Cardinal Wolsey, and I have no doubt he will not be sorry should I never return.

  “That is in my father’s hands, Your Majesty. I await his pleasure.”

  Henry bends over and exclaims at an early rose bud, drawing my attention to the deep pink hue just peeking from its wrapping of green. “Summer is not long away, Mistress. That is good to see. I will speak to Thomas and tell him his daughter is missed. He will have you back in no time. I can’t think how you amuse yourself all day, buried here in the country.”

  I wonder if he has such concerns for Mary who is likewise rusticated but, of course, I would never dare ask it. I pluck a leaf from the honeysuckle and begin to shred it. “Oh, I like to walk when the weather is fine and when it is not, I read. My father has a fine collection of books.”

  “Books? A little thing like you enjoys reading books? That is a thing I would not credit.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty, my brother George brings me things to read too, mostly so that he has someone with whom to share his wisdom of theology. I take great delight if I can best him at an argument.”

  King Henry bellows with laughter, his entire frame shaking with mirth. Then, when he has sobered a little, he wipes a tear from his eye and pats my hand.

  “Oh, Mistress Anne, I had not expected that. I can well imagine your brother’s discomfort at being beaten by a girl.” Laughter is still rumbling around his frame, a dimple winking in his cheek. “I imagined your chatter would be of sleeves and buckles, and here we are on the brink of intellect.” He turns and looks down at me, keeping hold of my hand. “I like you, Mistress Anne, and I believe you will amuse the queen too. I will instruct your father to bring you back to court just as soon as he can.”

  I bob a curtsey. He tucks my hand once more into his elbow and proceeds to conduct me around my own garden, pointing out primroses and a clump of Lent lilies beneath the hedge. As we turn a corner and duck beneath an arbour that will soon be smothered with roses, a movement from above draws my eye. I see my sister reaching out to slam her casement, and hear the tinkle of shattered glass fall to the gravel below.

  Autumn 1524

  I am glad to be back at court, and after my long, lonely time at Hever the queen’s household seems less dull now. I welcome the other women’s chatter as we wile away our days, sewing quietly or strolling in the gardens. The summer is just a memory now, although a few late flowers still struggle bravely against the encroaching season.

  The gardeners are kept busy gathering up the leaves, the smoke from the bonfires drifting on the chilly breeze. Mary, after leaving her daughter in Hertfordshire, is back at court and in the king’s favour once again. I find myself curious about them. I know that Mary is besotted with the king, but I am unsure if the feeling is reciprocated.

  I watch from beneath my lashes and note how Mary seems to come alive when the king comes into the queen’s apartments. She straightens her spine, her cheeks redden and her eyes brighten, but he gives no sign that he so much as knows my sister’s name. But after dark, when she is summoned to his privy chamber, she gladly follows his messenger along the dim corridors to be with him. I am aghast that after the neglect he has so recently shown her, she can find it in herself to be so forgiving.

  “What has changed?” I whisper to George when we are alone. “He would barely look at her a few months ago.”

  George thrusts a hot poker into a jug, making the ale hiss and bubble. He pours it out and hands me a cup. “The king is not alone. Some men are squeamish, prudish even, when it comes to sleeping with mothers, and although he craves a son, I think he draws the line at co-habiting with a woman who still bears the marks of maternity.”

  I am puzzled. “What marks, George? Does a woman who has borne a child wear some hidden badge denoting her condition? I don’t understand.”

  He laughs and flushes a little at my directness. “There are minor signs on her body and, well, … other small things. But what I really meant was that Henry would not find any allure in a woman who smells of wet linen and is still leeching milk. He is delicate – fastidious even. Now that Mary has left baby Catherine at home, the king is able to see her in a new light.”

  “If it were me, I’d not be able to forgive him. As soon as her condition began to show he turned as cold as stone and was sniffing around other women, making no effort to hide the fact. And when he came to Hever, he paid her no mind at all!”

  George wipes froth from his top lip and examines his sleeve for
dampness. “I can imagine. If you were Mary, you’d call Henry to heel and make him do as he is told, king or not.”

  He is laughing at me. I make a face at my brother for being so rude and turn my attention to my own ale. George shifts to a more comfortable position, tilts his head back in his chair.

  “What do you make of the king’s decision to make Fitzroi his heir?”

  “What do I make of it? You’d do better to ask what the queen makes of it.”

  Henry Fitzroi is the king’s illegitimate son. At just six years old, the boy has been showered with titles and honours. Now, given the royal titles of Duke of Richmond and Somerset, and the offices of High Lord Admiral and Warden-General of the Marches, it looks very much as if Henry’s intention is for his bastard son to rule in the place of his legitimate daughter, Mary.

  I hardly know what I think, but both the queen and my sister Mary are inwardly furious that he is making such a show of the child they delight to call ‘Bessie Blount’s Bastard.’

  Of course, no matter what traditions they may keep in Spain, the Princess Mary cannot rule in England. When she is married, it will be to a foreign prince who will take precedence over her. The English would never tolerate a foreigner ruling over them. All the same, it must hurt Queen Catherine to see her own legitimate daughter passed over in favour of a bastard, especially when she has lost so many beloved sons. But I can see Henry’s point.

  The lack of a legitimate son, or even a younger brother, to inherit his throne, could mean the end of his dynasty. What else can he do? The Tudor dynasty was begun such a little time ago, putting an end to years of civil war. Henry will move Heaven and Earth to keep the Plantagenet heirs away from the throne and to do that he needs a lusty male heir. Yet his hopes of begetting one in wedlock are fading fast.

  Although nobody voices it, we all know there is little hope that Catherine will now produce another child. The queen is growing elderly, her body thickening and stiffening, her youth draining into the cup of time. Although Henry is discreet, and the queen turns a blind eye to his many mistresses, that doesn’t mean she isn’t silently suffering. I don’t know how she stands it, but like many things, marriage is a mystery to me.