The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn

by Arnopp, Judith

“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.”

  Early Summer - 1528

  “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 real
ise 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.”

  His eyes sweep the chamber, his smile fading when he notices me waiting in the shadows. He makes a small bow, my nebulous status making him uncertain how to greet me. The king’s mistress demands no special etiquette, but the king’s future wife? A future queen? That is something different. Both he and I know that one day soon he will greet me on his knees.

  “Did you hear that, Sweetheart? Wolsey promises it shall be a matter of months!”

  “I will do my best, Your Majesty.” Wolsey is as red as his robes, his laugh nervous. He fumbles at his cassock. “Your Majesty, there are other matters I need to discuss with you, erm … in private.”

  Henry, pleased with the news from Rome, slaps him on the back. “Of course, Thomas, of course, but the morning will suit us better.”

  Now it is Henry who is blushing, embarrassed at the unintended inference of his words. Taking pity on him, I put down the lute and glide to his side, place one hand on the king’s sleeve and hold out the other for Wolsey’s salute. “Good night, Wolsey, the king and I appreciate your efforts on our behalf very much.”

  Dismissed by the king’s concubine, Wolsey’s colour increases, but there is nothing he can do except bend before me to leave his salute upon the back of my hand.

  “My Lady,” he murmurs before turning to Henry. “Your Majesty.” And he takes his leave, disempowered by a slip of a girl … at least for the moment.

  My satisfaction does not last long. All the next morning Henry is closeted with the cardinal, while I am left to wander the palace corridors at a loose end, anxious to know what the next step in the king’s Great Matter will be. When at last the door to the privy chamber opens, and Wolsey hurries away bent upon the king’s business, I slip inside. “Henry, what took so long? I thought your council would never end.”

  He turns to face me and I notice he looks a little pale. “Shall we take a turn about the gardens?” I ask, anxious that he should have some fresh air, but he holds out his hand.

  “No, Anne. Come here. I must talk with you. Come, sit here, on my knee.”

  I rush to his side, perch upon his lap, glad to feel his big hands slide about my waist, his kiss upon my cheek.

  He speaks hesitantly, thinking over his words before uttering them, but five minutes have not passed before I leap from his embrace, pulling my hand away from his. “Go back to Hever? Are you mad? Why should I do that? I will lose what little status I have managed to gain in your court. You mean to reinstate Catherine, don’t you? Wolsey has persuaded you!”

  “No, no. Don’t be foolish. Wolsey thinks …”

  “I don’t care what Wolsey thinks,” I sob, “and you … you should care what I think, not some fat old priest.”

  Henry is shocked. He looks about him as if he fears Heavenly forces will strike me dead. His lips narrow, he tucks his chin into his neck, his blue eyes piercing and severe. He clears his throat. “I invited the cardinal to speak his mind. He is my chief advisor and as such is at liberty to do so. Anne, what he says makes a lot of sense. He says it will not sit well with the Pope or the cardinals if I am seen to be estranged from Catherine. He says I must at least be seen to be doing my best to be a faithful spouse.”

  “So you are going back to Catherine! I can’t believe you would do this to me … after all I have given up for you!”

  “I am not going back to her. I am just putting distance between you and I, for the sake of our future, and it breaks my heart to do so.”

  He does indeed look distraught. There are two straight lines above the bridge of his nose which I have learned only become visible at times of great stress.

  “How long for? Won’t I see you at all?”

  He crosses the room and takes my hands in his. “Not for long, Anne. I couldn’t bear it if it were long. As soon as the annulment comes through I shall summon you back to my side – as my betrothed.”

  That sounds a little better and I draw some comfort from his reluctance to be parted from me. “I couldn’t bear to be away from you for long.”

  He is delighted by my admission and lifts my hands to his mouth. His lips are hot on my fingers, sending snakes of desire through my belly, feelings that I must hide lest he think me wanton.

  ***

  I am awoken early, George’s wife pulling urgently at my bedcovers. “Anne, wake up. Alys is sick.”

  I sit up, blink blearily about the chamber. The casement is open and I remember waking in the night, finding the room starved of air, and throwing it open. I recall leaning on the sill, inhaling the scent of roses from the moonlit garden. Now the blue-black dark is replaced by bright sunshine, the birds are singing, and a fat bumblebee is beating his head against the window.

  “Anne, did you hear what I said?”

  I blink at her stupidly, shake my head to chase away sleep. “No, Jane. I am sorry. What did you say?”

  She is still in her nightgown, her hair tied in loose braids, a robe thrown across her shoulders. “Alys. You recall she retired to her bed early with a headache? Well, now she shivers and sweats and calls out in delirium.”

  Now Jane has my attention. Fear runs like icy water across my body. “Is it the Sweat?”

  “We fear so.”

  I slide from the mattress, thrust my feet into slippers, tie on my wrap. “Where is George? Perhaps it is as well we are leaving for Hever today. Has the king been told?”

  Jane is pulling on her stockings, thrusting her hair beneath a cap. She looks up at me. “The king has already gone, Anne. He and the queen left as soon as the news was abroad.”

  “Without saying goodb –”

  Her look of triumph cuts short my sentence. I swallow my sudden jealousy as the picture of Henry hurrying his wife to safety sends a twist of grief deep into my bowels. He protects Catherine from contagion and leaves me to cope as best I can, because I am nothing but his concubine.

  The sweating sickness is a dreadful thing; striking suddenly and leaving its victims dead in just one night. Few survive it. Henry, who lives in fear of infection, always flees at the merest suggestion of an outbreak. I am not surprised he has gone, but I am surprised he has abandoned me. I must look to my own safety.

  “Go and find George,” I say. “Tell him to order the horses made ready. We must leave as soon as possible.”

  For once, she doesn’t argue. The door slams behind her and I hear her feet scurrying along the passage. Her obedience is indicative of her own fear. She would usually argue that she is not my servant but my sister-in-law, and demand that I summon a page.

  As my things are gathered together I try not to think of Catherine’s triumph. She will feel she has won him back and that I have lost. I know that none of her household will be sorry to see me parted from the king. Those about court who have gravitated to my side will be left in limbo, afraid to speak out in my defence and reluctant to sneak back to Catherine’s faction.

  Faction. What a word that is. I had never dreamed it would come to it, but Henry’s court has divided in two. Those loyal to Catherine and her particularly mundane method of worship shun me whenever they can, and I resent their temporary return to prominence. Those who prefer my more liberal approach to life and Christianity will now be left out in the cold.

  But only until I return. Wolsey must convince the legate to
find in the king’s favour, and Catherine can go to a nunnery where she can pray in peace for the rest of her days. Then, and only then, can I finally take my place as Henry’s queen. It is what the king deserves. It is what I deserve and I will have it, if I can only escape this contagion.

  We take horse across the countryside toward Hever. It has been a dry summer so far and the fields are parched, the roads thick with dust that rises in great choking clouds, stinging our eyes, coating our clothes, laying like a mask across my face. To avoid it, I spur my mount forward so that I am at the head of the party. George, enjoying the chase, joins me, hallooing as he raises his whip and tries to take the lead.

  My skirts billow in the breeze and my hat bounces on my head but I lean further forward, feeling my horse’s mane flick against my chin. Laughing aloud I risk a glance at my brother, whose face stretches in a grimace of exhilaration, his laughter lost in the wind. He brings down his whip again and his mount surges forward, forcing me to dig in my heels harder. Behind us, Jane bumps along unsteadily, her cries for us to slow down ignored. She will be unforgiving later, and George will suffer.

  We pause on the rise to look down upon the rooftops of Hever, and the gardens laid out like fine embroidered handkerchiefs. The chimneys are smoking, the windows glinting in welcome. As we reach the meadow the sheep raise their heads, ruminating slowly, their big eyes blinking. Exchanging glances, George and I dig in our heels and our horses take flight again as we hare through the grass, scattering sheep and raising dust.

  By the time I have washed the grime of the road from my face and hands and changed into a fresh gown, I realise I am exhausted. I long to sink into the mattress and lose myself in sleep, but a meal is waiting, a reunion with family and traditions of old. We sit around the old table just as we did as children, and I try not to mind Grandmother slurping at her soup. Despite the exertions of the ride, I have little appetite. I toy with my food and try to concentrate on the conversation. Mother is speaking, suggesting that she should come with me on my return to court. “I think you are in need of a proper chaperone now, Anne.”