“He forbids me, at the request of the queen, to remarry until the decision of the case, and …” Henry stabs the letter with his stubby forefinger, “furthermore, he declares that if we do marry all issue will be illegitimate.”
I take the letter from him and quickly scan the page. As I read, the sickness in my belly grows, kindling anger in my heart. The Pope forbids any one in England, of ecclesiastical or secular dignity, universities, parliaments, and courts of law, to make any decision in the affair because the judgment of it is reserved for the Holy See.
I look up at the king, who continues to storm up and down the chamber, his face puce, his lips clenched so tightly they have all but disappeared. “Excommunication?” he rages on. “Does he think that will stop me? I am done with popes and cardinals, I am done with Rome! Send for Cromwell, he will have the answer to this if anyone does.”
A page creeps from the corner where he has taken refuge, and after a hasty bow quits the chamber in search of the secretary. While we wait, Henry continues to simmer. I can’t find the words to soothe him, for my own spirits are as battered as his. On days like this I wonder if it is all worth it. Had he not laid eyes on me, I could have been wed and become a mother by now.
I might have been happier.
I wonder if Henry feels the same. His quest of me has blown his cosy world asunder. His wife and daughter are estranged from him, half the court murmur against him, and even his friends are turning their backs. And now the Pope threatens to sever all ties with Rome.
Henry is a pious man, a devout Christian. It is not so many years since he earned himself the title ‘Defender of the Faith’ for his treatise on the defence of the seven sacraments. But the days when Henry was young and brimming with youthful ideology have passed. These days he barely listens to anyone as he single-mindedly pursues his own ends.
I pick at my finger, tear a strip from the side of my nail, making it sore. As I pop it into my mouth Henry sits down, his hands on his knees, his eyes on the floor. Then he gets up again and begins to pace about the room. It seems a long while before Cromwell is announced.
Cromwell’s advice has been sought more and more of late. He is an astute man, putting the desires of the king before everything else, even his own wishes. We are affected by his presence, his cool detached manner, as soon as he enters the room. As always, he is clutching a sheaf of papers. He bows to the king and then graciously inclines his head to me, not as reverently as he will when I am queen, but low enough. I give him a brittle smile before his dark-lashed eyes swivel from my face to the king and back again. “How can I be of service, Your Majesty?”
Henry thrusts the balled up letter into Cromwell’s chest. He takes it, slowly smoothes out the creases, and begins to read. “Ahh,” he says. “It is as I expected.”
Henry sits again and fixes the secretary with his eye. “If you expected this then I assume you have already concocted a remedy.”
Cromwell smiles slowly and inclines his head again. “Indeed, Your Majesty, I have a remedy of sorts … although I am not sure you will find it completely pleasing.”
Henry gestures him to continue, the jewels on his fingers flashing in the firelight. “Go on, go on, don’t hedge, man. I don’t bite.”
I raise my eyebrows at this but Cromwell doesn’t flinch. He places his papers on the table and takes a seat, presses the tips of his ink-stained fingers together. “Your Grace, I have discussed the remedy with my colleagues and, with one or two exceptions, we all agree that it may be possible ... or even necessary, for you to dispense with the services of Rome altogether and become sole protector and supreme head of the Church in England … and its clergy.”
Henry straightens up, narrows his eyes. I can almost see his brain assimilating the information and envisioning making it so. “As a sort of Pope, you mean? Head of the state and the church?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“I would no longer need to consult Rome on any matter ecclesiastical?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“And the revenues from the churches, that would no longer go to Rome?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
Henry looks across the room to me, a gleam in his eye, a half smile playing on his lips. “That would be a blow, to both Pope Clement and Spain. I can be free of Catherine, free of the Pope, and free to marry as I see fit and get myself an heir. Can this really be done, Cromwell?”
Cromwell inclines his head, and as the full implications of what this might mean filters through his mind, Henry slaps his thigh in satisfaction. He holds out his arms. “Come here, Sweetheart. Cromwell, my man, sort this out for us and you shall be richer than a Jew. Go now, don’t make me sorry.”
As the secretary bows from the room, Henry nuzzles into my neck, his tongue sending shivers of delight along my spine. For the rest of the afternoon he is my Henry again, our enemies are all but vanquished and all the old passions are rekindled.
Less than a month later, the deed is all but done. Henry declares himself Head of the English Church and clergy, although it takes every inch of Cromwell’s acumen to do so, and even then he has to concede to their reservations by adding the codicil ‘as far as the law of Christ allows.”
Although Henry and I are happy, Cromwell is happy, and my father and George are ecstatic, not everyone is as delighted as we. There are some courtiers who oppose the move, and even more who oppose our marriage.
Suffolk, as I had guessed, speaks out against me, as does my aunt, the Duchess of Norfolk. More, I suspect, to spite her unfaithful husband than me. Bishop Fisher dissents, of course, as does Henry’s oldest and heretofore mentor, Thomas More.
I fear Henry’s heart will break at the defection of ‘Dear Tom’, as the King calls him. I hold the king’s hand as he weeps, and try to help him steel himself to accept More’s resignation as Chancellor and look about for a replacement, more sympathetic to our needs.
As word of our plans spreads, discord breaks out in the streets. We begin to hear tales of a lunatic nun, whom the common people refer to as the Nun of Kent. She defames me in the streets, declaring from the town cross that should Henry marry me, he will die shortly after and that his place in Hell is already marked.
She has long been a thorn in our flesh, speaking out against reform, renouncing Lutherism and naming me a whore and a disciple of Satan. I would have her hanged, but Henry, although he will not admit it, is afraid. In some parts of the country she is more popular than the king himself, and he is reluctant to stir up rebellion.
To take my mind off it, I turn my attention to renovating York Place. Soon my chambers are heaped with fabric and hangings as I select the best for our new home. I send for tapestries from Florence, glass from Venice, and as the pile of sumptuous trappings grows, so does the bill from the drapers.
Mary and I are engaged in the vital decision of what colour draperies I should choose for the bedchamber when Henry arrives. I am not expecting him and as I scramble to my feet, a swathe of priceless silk slithers to the floor. “Henry!” I hurry toward him, rise on my toes to kiss his whiskery cheek, while Mary stays where she is sorting through a pile of samples. By rights she should rise and greet her king in the proper manner, but neither Henry nor I reprimand her.
He leads me into the antechamber and holds out a roll of parchment. “What is it?” I ask, unsure if it be good tidings or bad.
“Open it and see.” He is smiling, so guessing the news is not bad, I break the seal and unroll the missive, begin to scan the contents. As I read, the colour rises in my cheeks, the heat builds up in my face, and my ears begin to ring. “Henry!” I gasp, and look up at him, a hand to my throbbing heart.
He is like a benign uncle, his mouth stretched into a smile, his cheeks as flushed as mine. “I thought it would please you.”
“Please me? Why, it’s, it’s … oh Henry!”
Throwing decorum away, I fling my arms about his neck, kissing him over and over. For a while he flounders, trying to capture
my lips as they fly about his face, until finally he seizes my head, clamps it still and kisses me properly, his mouth fastened over mine and his passion as uncontainable as it has ever been.
I have won him back, I think, with a huge surge of relief. I had feared that all was lost but he wants me still. We stumble backwards onto a settle, almost overbalancing it, my skirts tumbling, my legs bared to the knee. As we grapple together like a child wrestling a beast, I laugh as loudly as he. He is a bear of a man, there is nothing I can do to control him, but I don’t want to, not really. But then I remember our prince, and how vital it is that he be born within wedlock. I reluctantly seek to put an end to the tussle.
“My Lord,” I cry, “is this how you would treat a marchioness?”
After a moment Henry sits up, and I hastily straighten my garments, catch my breath, and tuck my hair back beneath my cap. He looks at me sideways as I adjust my garters. “It pleases you then, to be Marchioness of Pembroke?”
My smile is like the sunshine. “It does indeed, my love. It does indeed.”
June 1532
Henry and I are alone. Ostensibly, he is listening to the new piece I have been practicing on my lute but in reality he is plucking his bottom lip, deep in thought. I hate it when this mood takes him. He retreats so far into himself that I have no clue to his feelings, I am not party to his problems. When he sighs for the hundredth time, I cease mid-tune and put my instrument down. “What is bothering you, Henry?”
“Hmmm?” He looks up, dragging himself back from wherever he has been. “What did you say, my dear?”
“I asked what it is that troubles you.”
“Have you spoken to George today?”
“George? No, I had a glimpse of him this morning but he was waylaid by his wife. Since I had no wish to be involved in another of their marital disputes, I beat a hasty retreat.”
The king smiles, and sighs again. “There is more trouble, I fear.”
There is always trouble. Catherine is behind it all, I have no doubt about that. She is always harping on about her penury and tribulation, although she is housed in luxury with more than three hundred retainers and no less than fifty ladies in waiting, not bad for a woman who is no longer queen.
I feel my features harden as I think of her, and it takes some effort to shake away the tension and present Henry with a calm, gentle face. I fail miserably and when my words tumble from my mouth, my voice is full of bitterness and frustration.
“And what does Catherine want from us now, my love? A liveried servant to exercise her dog?”
He looks up, surprised at my venom. “No,” he says, “it isn’t Catherine, not this time.”
“Then what is it, Henry?”
He shifts in his seat, turns his eye upon me, his gaze so penetrating that I can feel my colour begin to rise.
“Your dealings with young Percy … how far did they go?”
I open and close my mouth, my cheeks flushing deeper. “I don’t know what you mean, My Lord. It went nowhere at all. The cardinal saw to that.”
“Oh come, Anne. There must be more to it than that. Were you not in love? Did you not meet in secret, hold hands? Did he never kiss you?”
I stand up, afraid now. Unsure of where he is leading me, unsure what answer he requires, but certain he must never know the truth. “Our meetings were brief. He kissed my hands and my cheek, but no more than that. I was an honest maid. Does Your Majesty think I would refuse the bed of my king yet succumb to the fumblings of an untried boy?”
It is only a little lie, there was very little more to it really, but Henry’s jealousy is sometimes out of control and I am not prepared to risk losing him now. He stares at me for a long moment, his slitted eyes darting about my face, looking for lies, searching for deceit.
“So there was no contract?”
“No! Nothing more than the pretensions of a pair of silly children. Wolsey was right to intervene; it was nothing more than folly.”
Henry seems to relax a little.
“Why do you ask, Henry? What has brought this on?”
I hold out my hand and he takes it, pulls me closer, and I perch on the arm of his chair.
“Percy’s wife is seeking a divorce. She claims that a pre-contract with you before witnesses makes their marriage illegal.”
Dread creeps like a spider up my spine but I try not to shiver. “And what does Percy say?”
“We shall find out very soon. I have summoned him to appear before me. Let us hope his story is the same as yours.”
Henry looks at me from the corner of his eye, judging my reaction. I keep my expression bland as I have learnt it is best to do. I toss my head and smile at him, for all the world as if my belly is not churning with fear.
“Well then, there will be no problem. Mary Talbot is clutching at straws, seeking any way to be free of him.”
Outwardly, I am calm, pretending indifference, hoping with all my heart that Percy will have the sense to lie. Any hint of a pre-contract between us will put an end to my marriage with the king, and Henry’s wrath will be terrible, for both of us. Percy cannot be unaware of the danger in which we both stand, or so I hope, but as I recall, he was never the sharpest blade in the king’s armoury.
“Let us hope so, Madam. His arrival is expected any time now, and then we shall know the truth of the matter.”
“Then, I shall make myself scarce …”
“No. No, Anne. You are to stay here and receive him with me. I would watch his reaction. I will know from his demeanour if he dissembles, just as I will from yours.”
And so I stand at the king’s right hand, and wait for Percy to be shown into our presence. I have no idea how it will feel to be face to face with my old love again. I try to remember what he looked like, what it was I felt for him, but it evades me. All I remember is my banging heart, my throbbing pulse and the secrecy, the excitement and the sense of danger our dalliance evoked. It was never real. Poor Percy was nothing but an outlet for my youthful longings, and I hope with all my heart that what he felt for me was equally as fabricated.
A sound outside the apartment alerts us that our conversation is at an end. Marching feet, a thump on the door and the guards snap to attention; Percy’s arrival is announced. The man who used to make my heart race stands just inside the door, twisting his cap in his hands. When Henry beckons him closer, he shuffles forward and makes his bow, first to Henry and then to myself, as if I am already queen.
As he straightens up he glances at me, whipping his eye quickly away before I can acknowledge him, and thereafter concentrates on the face of his king. Although he is the Earl of Northumberland and one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, he looks pale, but whether this is due to illness or the impending wrath of his monarch I do not know.
How puny he is, I think, how very feeble. His father, the great Earl, must have been sore disappointed in his son. He continues to twist his cap, the fine velvet will be ruined, the teardrop pearls loosened and lost if he carries on. I notice how bony and white his fingers are. He has bitten his fingernails to the quick and I remember, with a sudden shudder, those fingers tangling in my hair, his palms cupping my breasts, and those trembling blue lips biting and sucking at my throat. I swallow and turn away, disgusted at the laxity of my younger self. It takes a great deal of determination to thrust the picture away and remember who I am. I am Anne Boleyn, and soon to be Henry’s queen. I take a deep breath and try to still the fear in my gut.
Percy’s voice has not changed at all. He clears his throat, swallows, and in shaking, high-pitched tones denounces his wife as a liar and a scold.
“Our marriage has not been a happy one, Your Majesty,” he says. “From our first day she has made it her mission in life to make me miserable. I will be as happy as she to see an end to it, but I will not let her lies slander a good woman’s character, nor impinge on Your Grace’s future happiness. There was no contract between the Lady Anne and myself. We shared a few dances and a walk in the gard
ens; that is all.”
That is well said, Percy, I think, looking on him with new, approving eyes. He is sweating. I can see it popping from his forehead, trickling down the side of his neck, dampening his collar. Beside me Henry leans forward, his mean mouth tight and threatening.
“You swear that to your king and, should the need arise, will you swear it before the court?”
Percy stands tall, no longer shaking so much, his chin firmer, his eyes curiously bright as, for both our sakes, he calmly perjures himself.
“Before God, Your Grace.”
Silence in the room, apart from a fly banging its head repeatedly against the mullioned window. I am abruptly aware of how very hot it is in this stuffy chamber, and I wish I could push the walls and the ceiling away and feel the sun on my face and the wind in my hair.
I long for the meadows of Hever, the days of my youth. After so many years, Percy’s presence reminds me of all those times of pleasure and laughter, and I realise I am growing old in the king’s company. When I first came to his notice, I was little more than a girl. I was in demand, courted by many and flirting with any, yet all these years later, although laden down with jewels and property, I am still a maid. Still not wed, still not a mother.
1st September 1532 - Windsor
I am up with the lark on the morning I am to be crowned Marchioness. The early September sun streams through the casement, the light flashing and flicking upon the surface of my bath like bright water nymphs. One of my women brings a jug and trickles warm fluid through my hair, the steam rising and infusing the air with the scent of roses.
Warmed by braziers, the room is busy with my attendants. Mary, who perches nearby watching the proceedings, quirks her brow. “Quite a ceremony,” she sniffs as she tests the nap of my new velvet gown between finger and thumb. “I hope you will not forget us once you are of the nobility.”
The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn Page 12