The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn

by Arnopp, Judith

  After much searching I seize Henry’s letter, tear open the seal and unfold the parchment, my eyes quickly scanning the laboriously hand-written greeting. I let the letter drop and give a stifled scream. “It is infuriating! He says the Legatine court will not now sit until October at the earliest, and he insists that I stay here until it is done. He cannot risk my presence undermining all the hard work he has put in.”

  George turns, decently clad now, tying up his sleeves. “Your Henry is putting on a good show. The other day he was declaring before all in hearing distance that the impediment to his marriage with Catherine was a great trial to him, and if the great clerks could only clear his conscience and prove that his marriage was acceptable to God he would be glad of it, for if he were to marry again he would surely choose Catherine above all other women.”

  “He said what?” I am on my feet, shouting, outraged at such a betrayal. George holds out his hands, placating, begging me to be silent.

  “Hush, hush. He did not mean it, we all know that. There was not one among us who believed him. His words were an act, designed to be carried to the Pope to persuade him that Henry has no intention of marrying elsewhere.”

  “Huh!” I shake off George’s hand. “And you can be quite sure his words were carried straight to Catherine, and that she is gloating over them in triumph. By Christ, George, I wish he were an ordinary man, married to an ordinary woman. Any other wife would go meekly when asked for an annulment, not dig in her heels like a mule.”

  George slides his arm about my shoulders, kisses my head. “Would you?”

  I scowl at him. “Certainly not, but that’s different.”

  He laughs quietly.

  “Would you like your gift now?”

  I nod. My eyes are moist and my nose is beginning to run, but I cannot find my handkerchief. When he notices the lack, George gives me his own and I dab my eyes, blow my nose. Through my tears I see him haul a large parcel from his luggage and dump it on the bed. Despite my misery, I am intrigued.

  “What is it?” I sit down again and begin to loosen the ties, tear off the wrapping, revealing a pile of books. “What are they?” I begin to turn the pages.

  “Banned, mostly, so keep them out of sight. Only read them in the privacy of your chamber, and for goodness sake don’t let Mother know you have them, she wouldn’t approve. Oh, and don’t tell Henry about them either … not yet, anyway.”

  I squint at the pages in the dim light. “Are they blasphemous?”

  “No, I don’t think so, but there are those who wouldn’t agree.”

  “Father has some books that he keeps locked away … he won’t let me read them. Are they books like this, do you think?”

  George circumnavigates the bed and sits beside me. “Undoubtedly. It was Father who first perked my interest in reform. The Church is corrupt in so many ways, but their power is such that it cannot be broken. These men, the authors of these words, show there is a way to loosen the Church’s hold on men’s souls.”

  “Which should I read first?”

  “Erasmus; his skill in setting out an argument is unsurpassed. Now, go conceal them in your chamber and meet me downstairs. I have much to tell you.”

  I spend much of the wet autumn studying theology, the reformist section anyway. As I digest the words of Erasmus and Lefèvre, I begin to see that the Church as it is now has many faults, and as I absorb the words, my mind is no longer entirely taken up with the king’s great matter but also with the idea of religious reformation and change. I no longer think solely of becoming the king’s wife, I now think of my future role. For the first time I realise that as Henry’s queen, I will have a voice and, more importantly, the leverage required to implement real and important changes.

  December 1528 – Hever

  I angrily jab the needle into my sewing, fumble at the back of the fabric, pricking my skin. I drop the material, suck the tip of my finger and swear violently, making Jenny gasp. She flushes. “Sorry Mistress Anne, you took me by surprise. Does your finger need binding?”

  “No, it is just a scratch. What I need, Jenny, is diversion. I am dying of boredom. All summer it seems I have been shut away here, while the king …” I tail off, remembering belatedly to whom I am speaking. I shake my head. “No matter.”

  “It will be Christmas soon. You will enjoy that, you always do.”

  She picks up a tray of empty cups and moves across the room. What can she know of the joys I am missing? She has never been anywhere but here. All her life has been spent as a servant at Hever, the heady joys of a royal court are impossible for her to imagine, and she probably has no idea of Henry’s plans to marry me, make me his queen. To Jenny, I am probably just another royal whore, like my sister.

  Mary has still not returned to us. Although she writes frequently, complaining of penury and misery, Father will not let her come home. She is soiled goods, mistress to two kings, a penniless widow with two of the king’s bastards in tow. Not a marriageable prospect and so of no use to Father. All his attention is on me. He envisages honours and property if only I can be securely married to the king. He has no use for my sister.

  Soon, Mary writes to me privately, asking me to intercede for her with the king, begging for a return to court. I tuck her letter away. She will have to wait until my own position is more secure and I am ready to have her flaunting her charms around Henry. It is bad enough having him sharing lodgings with Catherine again, but an ageing barren wife is one thing. I can deal with that, but a pretty, ex-mistress is something else altogether. I do not want Mary back at court, at least, not until I am there to keep her in check.

  It is cold, wet and dismal. Grey slush is piled in the corners of the yard and lies in pockets across the meadow. I have no zest for the day but with my hands tucked firmly in my fur-lined sleeves, I walk briskly about the bleak garden, sucking in air. The wind is bitter, peppered with specks of snow; it batters my cheeks, almost whipping the hood from my head. My eyes might be streaming from the cold and each breath cuts painfully at my lungs, but I am so tired of the dark, smoky rooms that I cannot face returning to the house just yet. Fed up to the teeth with Grandmother’s wheezing cough and whining voice I cannot even lose myself in reading, and to make it all worse, I have read every book in the house, even the forbidden ones.

  The last time he was here George promised to bring me more, but he has not come. “The roads are impassable,” Mother says, making excuses for him. “You can’t expect to see him until the thaw.”

  Well, now it has thawed. The streams are running lush and loud in the valleys, and the snow that has mantled the countryside is now giving way to floods and mud. I know George well enough to realise he could get here now … if he wished to. I put a hand to my veil that is whipping like a whirligig in the wind, and scan the horizon, watching, waiting for someone to rescue me. My desire to escape is so great that if the devil himself were to ride over the hill and offer me freedom, I would take it.

  The skyline remains empty. I remember other times when I have looked up to see George or Henry galloping toward me, and the need to see them now is so great that the image is conjured up. I see them hallooing down the hill, hats waving, mounts snorting and steaming. Then I blink and the landscape is empty again, empty of everything but the drab shades of winter, and dirty woolly sheep.

  Cross, I turn away to make two more swift circuits of the garden before heading for the door. The warmth of the hall engulfs me. I kick off my pattens, my frozen fingers struggling with the ties of my cloak. I am making it worse, the knot becomes tighter, and almost in tears, I yell for Jenny.

  She comes running, her soothing words doing nothing to calm me. Yet soon I am seated at the fireside with a steaming cup in my hands, and the heat of the flames is making my nose run. Grandmother is fingering through the dog’s wiry coat, searching for fleas. Every time she discovers one she squeezes it between her nails with satisfied pleasure and shows me her gums. I watch with distaste, my nose wrinkled and my l
ip turned up.

  Jenny pops her head back around the door.

  “Mistress, your brother is come, and the king is with him.”

  “The king?” I leap from the chair, spilling warm ale down my skirt. “I must get changed,” I cry. “Oh, my goodness, what a time for him to pick! Just when I am looking my worst.”

  We make hasty reparation to my appearance and by the time he is dismounting at the front of the house I am waiting in the hall, seemingly as calm and collected as he could wish.

  Mother and Father go forward to greet him. They fuss and fawn before him, apologising for being so unprepared for his arrival. I can see his growing impatience, for they are hampering his approach, his steps necessarily slow to accommodate them. I smile as his eyes scan the company looking for me. His face lights up and he sweeps off his jewel-studded hat, tossing it to George who catches it in one hand.

  “Anne.” Henry takes my hand, his mouth moist on my fingers, his eyes brimming with love for me. All the trials and miseries of the past months seep away.

  “Good day, Your Majesty,” I say, sinking to my knees in obeisance.

  “Oh, get up, get up, we will have none of that,” he says, taking my wrist again and smothering my fingers in kisses. When Mother suggests we move into the parlour, he tucks my hand beneath his arm, keeping me close. I know that soon he will see to it that we are alone but for now we must bear with the company, as tedious as it is.

  For a while, talk is of the commonplace; the winter weather, the state of the roads, the hope that the cold will chase away the sweating sickness for good. At the mention of the Sweat we fall silent for a space, reflecting on those we have lost to the pestilence. Indeed, of all of us present, it is Henry who has suffered the most since the fever took not only his good friend, William Compton, but also Will Carey, who was his good companion as well as our brother-in-law. I send up a little silent prayer of thanks that God saw fit to spare my father, George, and I. Henry, seeing my closed eyes, whispers, “Pray it will never come again.” His chin wobbles as he grips more tightly to my hand.

  To lighten the sombre mood I suggest refreshments, but as soon as Mother has gone off to arrange it, Henry jerks his head at George who, correctly interpreting the silent command, diverts Father’s attention while Henry and I slide from the room and into the privacy of a side chamber.

  I immediately fall into his arms, and he pushes me flat against the panelling while his soft warm lips rain kisses on my face. His hands travel deliciously over my body, skimming my breasts, reaching down to cup my buttocks and pull me against his jutting codpiece. “Henry,” I gasp, but he smothers my protests with kisses, issuing little grunts of desire as he pulls my cap from my hair, tangles it in his fingers. “Henry!” I protest, louder this time, and at length my anxiety intrudes upon his business. He pulls back, his red hair ruffled into damp spikes, his blue eyes wide.

  “I must have you soon, Anne, or die of it.”

  Henry doesn’t like to be made a figure of fun, but I risk a laugh. “You won’t die of it, My Lord. And imagine if I were to submit and you were to get a child on me? He would be derided as a bastard. You would not want our prince to be base-born, would you, Henry?”

  He sits down, runs his hands through his hair, making it stand up even more. “No, but … there are … ways of preventing conception …” He looks at me sheepishly and I feel the blood surge into my cheeks at his inference.

  “I would not know about that, My Lord, and I am sure no virtuous woman would allow such a thing.” Despite my words I am indecently curious to know how one goes about preventing pregnancy. I make a note to ask George the next time we are alone.

  “Anne.” He takes my hands again, pulls me closer. “There would be no shame in being my mistress, my sole mistress. It would be an honour …”

  “No. I’ve told you. I will be no man’s mistress, not even yours. Not if you were king of the world.”

  “We could still be married, when the time is right. Once I am rid of Catherine, there is no other who will do for me, but Anne, I am burning. I am a man, in the full flush of manhood. I am not made for abstinence.”

  I snatch my hand away. “Divorce her, then! Force their hand. Stop pussyfooting around Wolsey and demand that he gets a result. He is your servant, isn’t he?”

  His mouth opens and closes like a fish as he searches for a reply. I forestall him.

  “They are playing with you, Henry, can’t you see that? Campeggio is taking his time on purpose, shilly-shallying. He is afraid to say ‘no’ to you, and afraid to say ‘yes’ to the Pope. And as for Wolsey, well, he has no love for me and would sooner see you wed to the barren, toothless mare you are presently keeping in your stable. He would rather see you childless than happy, Henry. Force his hand. Make them act in our favour and I will be in your bed sooner than that.”

  I snap my fingers.

  For a long moment we stare at each other, my breast rising and falling with the passion of my words. Henry is white-faced, his cheeks drooping, his mouth defeated. At this moment, the picture he presents is not that of a renaissance prince but rather a small child, refused his sweetmeats.

  If the king’s visit to Hever serves to reignite my desire for him and increase my frustration, it also brings about a change. My days of pining at Hever are done and Henry orders me to return to court. Before I agree, I demand certain conditions.

  I tell him I want my own suite of rooms, the finest in the palace, and I want them close to his. I want the running of my own household, and I want my place in his court acknowledged, not as his mistress but as his future queen.

  And to my surprise, I get it.

  21st June – 1529- Richmond

  I hear him coming long before he arrives. I am in my apartments with my women, our heads bent over our sewing while in the corner a lutenist plays for our delectation. I hear a muffled thump and my head jerks up. The doors are thrown open, guards snap to attention, courtiers fall like harvested wheat at his approach. I stay where I am, waiting for him to come to me, and when he finally bursts into my chambers he is roaring and blustering like a lion.

  He has returned from the Blackfriars sooner than expected. At a nod from me, my women put down their needlework and bow silently from the room, leaving the king and I alone. Henry paces the floor, his cap pushed back on his head, his cloak billowing behind him.

  “What is it, Henry?” I move toward him but he makes a sharp, violent movement and I flinch away. Henry is famous for his rages but I have never yet seen him this angry, so furiously out of control. He snatches off his hat and throws it onto the floor, where the jewels shimmer like fallen stars.

  “That blasted woman!”

  I exhale as silently as I can, relieved it is not me who has displeased him this time. I move forward again, gently persistent. “Which woman, Henry? Come and sit down, tell me all about it.”

  But he is not ready to relax. His anger is so great it cannot be contained, cannot be soothed so readily. I turn away, pour him a cup of wine, hold it out to him. He almost snatches it from my hand and tips it down his throat as if it is a foul tasting medicine. While he drags his sleeve across his wet lips, I refill the cup and hand it back to him.

  Once he has quaffed the second draught, he looks at me for the first time, his eyes almost desperate. I let him see my empathy. “Which woman, Henry?” I softly repeat.

  He removes the lute from a chair and lowers himself onto the seat. “Catherine,” he snaps, as if I hadn’t guessed. “She has shamed me in front of everyone. Her words will already be travelling around the world like a dirty secret. I spoke of her to the court in the gentlest of terms, outlining my doubts, my guilt that I have been living in sin, against God’s teachings. I had them all in the palm of my hand, but then it was her turn and she refused to be judged. ‘I am the Queen of England …’” he mocks in Catherine’s thick Spanish accent, “‘and, as such, this court is not fit to judge me.’”

  “What? Surely the court didn’t
listen to her.”

  He looks up at me, his brow wrinkled.

  “Oh, yes, they listened. She has been well-advised.” He rubs his face, the jewels on his fingers winking in mockery of our quest for happiness. His lips form a snarl. “And when I discover just who it is that offers her such advice, they will swing from the highest gallows.”

  Catherine’s ally has to be Eustace Chapuys, the Spanish Ambassador who is so often in her company, but I have other suspicions too. There are those about court who will risk even the king’s wrath to be rid of me.

  “What does Wolsey say, and Campeggio?”

  “What do they ever say? They prevaricate and dissemble. Not one of them dares look me in the eye. Anne, Anne …” He reaches out, grasps my wrists, pulling until I am on my knees before him. “Who can I trust, Anne? Why can they not see what is best for their king, best for England?”

  I do not answer him for my thoughts are still with Catherine who, I now see more plainly than ever, is a dangerous enemy. The purpose of the legatine court is to listen to the testimonies of both the king and Catherine so that they can come to a just decision … a decision that Henry has made quite clear to Wolsey is to be in his favour.

  I make an angry noise at the back of my throat. “Just who does that woman think she is? What else did she say?”

  “Very little. After pleading with me that she was my true-wed wife, and accusing me of treating her badly, she got up and left the court.”

  “You can’t just leave the court!”

  “You can if you think you are the queen. They called her back. ‘Catherine of England, come into court,’ but she refused to come. To have her dragged back, kicking and screaming, would have only worked in her favour. She is martyring herself, wanting to be seen as the wronged woman. She begs to be allowed to appeal directly to Rome.”