“As if I could ever climb so high as to forget you and George,” I say, squeezing a sponge along my arm, watching the trickling water glisten. “I intend to raise you both as high as I can. We will find you a handsome nobleman of your own, Mary. How would you like that?”
Her pretty cheeks flush but she shrugs her shoulders, doesn’t meet my eye. She slides from the bed and moves to the window, leaning across the sill to inhale the freshness of the morning. Windsor is one of Henry’s favourite palaces and each summer, to avoid the pestilence that season can bring, the court adjourns to the leafier pleasures offered by the castle. With a prime hunting ground on his doorstep, Henry mounts up most days and rides from dawn to dusk, coming home tired and famished. But not today.
Today is special, for it marks my ascendency to the nobility. My new title of Marchioness of Pembroke will not only offer me new property and vast wealth, but also marks another step on my passage from commoner to queen.
I have never been more popular with my family. Their gifts come flooding in; some from my closest kin, but many from cousins and second-cousins I have not spoken to in an age, most of them by way of angling for preferment. Of all the gifts, the one presented to me by William Brereton is my favourite. It is a puppy, an Italian greyhound who I’ve named Urien, from the tales of Arthur. He is a timid little thing who, when he cannot seek the warmth of my skirts, hugs the hearth in search of comfort. He is chewing on a jewelled slipper that was part of a gift presented to me that morning by the French ambassador. The whole chamber is piled with sumptuous frivolities.
In a spurt of generosity I make a gift of some of their offerings to Mary. “I have so much,” I say, “and you have so little.” But instead of gratitude, a look of irritation flashes across her face. She tries to hide it but it is too late, I have seen it, and some of my euphoria dwindles. “I want us to be friends, Mary, that is all.”
She stands up, the hoods and bracelets she has been holding falling to the floor. “You don’t have to buy me, Anne. I am your sister. If you want my advice, I would concentrate on winning the love of those about court who would do you harm.” She sighs, puts a hand to her forehead, her brow wearily furrowed. “I must make ready for the ceremony,” she says, her voice dull but still vaguely irritated. “I will come back once I am dressed.”
“I thought you wanted to borrow a hood …?” I call after her, but she is gone. I shrug my shoulders, not sure what I have done now to upset her. She is so prickly, and the more I try to regain our former friendship the further she slips from me. Deciding to speak to Henry at the first opportunity and get her a good husband, I let the matter slip from my mind.
A little later while my ladies are lacing me into my petticoat, George pokes his head around the door, his demeanour as different from Mary’s as chalk is from cheese. “Can I come in?” he says, and without waiting for confirmation he makes his way across the room, picking his way through dropped linen and abandoned sleeves. He places a protracted kiss on my cheek, inhaling deeply as if I am a buttercup. “Mmm,” he says, “you smell heavenly.”
“Thank you.” I hold out my right arm while my woman fixes on a sleeve. “What are you hiding behind your back, George? Is it a present?”
He winks gaily at one of my servants and she giggles, smiling shyly back at him. We are all merry today but I flick my hand, bidding her get on with the task of picking up the clothes from the floor. Despite my silent reprimand, from time to time she cannot help casting an eye in his direction to see if he is still watching. But George has forgotten her.
He perches on the edge of my bed, holds out his hand and opens his fingers. “Of course, anything I give you will be overshadowed by the jewels that Henry brings, but I thought you might like it.”
Moving forward, wearing only one crimson sleeve, my hair as yet loose, my bodice not properly laced, I lean over his outstretched hand. “Oh George,” I say. “It is exquisite. I love it.”
“You are just saying that.” He watches as the girl bends over to gather an armful of shoes and when she rises again, he smiles appreciatively. I can never fathom my brother’s intrigue with the lower classes. To give him credit, although I know his relationship with Jane remains cool, his name has never been linked in scandal to anyone. I begin to wonder if his wife wears a long face because he prefers to spend his nights curled up with a hearth wench, or vice versa.
“You are silly, George. Of course I love it, but you know I cannot wear it today. I must please the king and wear the jewels he has sent me.”
“I know. I am sorry I cannot afford to give you gems fit for a marchioness.” He gets up, kisses my neck where it meets my shoulder and I duck my chin to my collarbone.
“Don’t, it tickles,” I laugh, pushing him away. “I shall wear your jewel tomorrow. I may even wear it when I accompany the king to France. I may wear it on the day I am introduced to King Francis himself.”
I hold the single drop pearl to my throat and turn my head this way and that, admiring myself in the looking-glass.
“If you do that it will be all around Europe that Henry is a miser and keeps his future queen in penury.”
“I am hardly in rags!” I wave my arm about the chamber indicating the furs, the velvets and fine silk. “I have more finery than the king himself. He has demanded that Catherine hand over the royal jewels … and look, George, look at the robes I am to wear this afternoon.”
I summon Nan, who hurries forward to hang the ermine-trimmed robe about my shoulders. My hair is loose, falling to my waist like a dark silken shroud. I raise my chin, assume a haughty demeanour and look at George from the corner of my eye. I expect to find him laughing or mocking, but instead his face has grown sombre, his eyes dark and kindling. “Oh Anne,” he whispers, “my little sister. You have climbed so high.” He comes closer, lifts my fingers to his lips. “I am so proud; it almost makes me want to weep.”
Our heads are close together. He leans his forehead on mine and I raise my eyes, but he is so near his face is blurred. “God bless you, Anne,” he whispers, and the kiss he leaves upon my forehead is as soft as summer rain.
Henry, enthroned in splendour, seems like a stranger. As I am led toward him amid a great clarion of trumpets, he keeps his expression neutral. All around me the courtiers jostle for a better view, the crush and the atmosphere is heavy with the solemnity of the moment. In raising me to the nobility, no one can doubt the sincerity of his intention to marry me, and realising that I am soon to be queen in deed, they are all come to do me honour. And soon they will all be vying for the privilege of seeing me crowned queen.
They are all here, or at least, those that matter. Now that I am to be the highest peeress in the land, many noses are out of joint. Henry’s stubborn mule of a sister has stayed away, feigning illness, but her husband, Suffolk, has reluctantly agreed to attend. My father is there with my uncle of Norfolk, his eagle eye darting about the hall, no doubt marking all who are absent, including his own wife, my aunt Elizabeth, who continues to obstinately champion Catherine’s cause. But I do not care. I am winning the battle, while the old queen shivers in her draughty exile. I, the new queen, am in ascendancy and no one can stop me.
We approach the throne and the trumpets cease. I curtsey low before the king and then kneel upon the steps as the hall falls silent, waiting for Bishop Gardiner to read out the patent, conferring upon me and all my offspring the title of Marchioness of Pembroke.
As Marchioness in my own right, no one can take it away from me. Even after my death, those rights will pass to my sons and to their sons, forever more.
Henry comes forward and as he draws close I recognise the gentleness, the warm affection in his eyes, and also the hint of a tear. I bow my head, look down past the jutting royal codpiece to his well-turned calves and jewelled square-toed shoes. He places the coronet very lightly on my head, letting his hands run softly down my hair as I rise to stand before him. He briefly clasps my shoulders, and without moving my head, I raise my eyes to
his and discover a smile quirking the side of his mouth as he drapes the crimson mantle about me. He is so close I can detect the aroma of rosewater, the underlying musky scent of his body.
In his grandeur he looks all powerful, invincible, and I am suddenly full of wonder that I have this man’s love. This man, who is almost a god, has seen fit to endow me, a nobody from Kent, with his heart and his hand in marriage. I close my eyes, trembling with emotion, and thank God for it. I thank God not just for Henry the king, but for Henry the man too, and I silently swear to be a good wife, a noble queen and, just as soon as I am blessed with Henry’s son, I will be a mother fit to rival the Virgin Mary herself.
25th October 1532 – Calais
“Did you see Tom Wyatt today?”
Mary and I are walking along the chemin de rond – the walkway behind the battlements. We can see for miles across the choppy waters of the Channel, and it is strange to think that England lies somewhere across those waters. All the people we have left behind are there, continuing their lives. I spend some time considering the implications of Mary’s question before deciding she is too guileless to mean anything by it.
“I saw him but did not speak to him, since you were both nattering away nineteen to the dozen.”
She flushes. “We haven’t seen each other for years, not since …” She squints, trying to recall, but in the end she gives up. “Oh, I don’t know, but it is a long time.”
“How is he?” I ask nonchalantly, leaning on the cold stone of the battlement.
“Well in health, I think, although not happy in his self.”
“Why is that?” I ask, although I know the answer before she gives it.
“As I understand it, he mislikes his wife, and she him. He says he hasn’t been home to Kent in a long while.”
“That is because Henry keeps sending him overseas. There is nothing wrong with Elizabeth Wyatt, as I remember her.”
“Well, that is as maybe, but you don’t have to live with her.”
I laugh and, calling Urien to my side, link arms with my sister as we continue our promenade. It is early afternoon and I am missing Henry, who has been visiting King Francis in Boulogne. I imagine, from what I remember of the French king, that the carousing will have been thorough. I expect Henry to be tired on his return, and probably rather tetchy. Of course, had our plans not gone awry I should have accompanied him to the French court, but Francis’ new wife had other ideas.
At first, when I heard that Queen Eleanor would not agree to meet me, I was angry and wanted Henry to refuse to meet with them at all. And, to be honest, the injury went deeper because my dear friend Marguerite, Francis’ sister, with whom I had been great friends during my youth in France, also declined to be introduced to me. She claims to be too ill but I know she fears to undermine her queen’s staunch support of Catherine. I suppose queens must stick together, but instead of blaming Eleanor and Marguerite personally for their slight, I add it to the list of Catherine’s other crimes.
Why is that woman so stubborn? Why couldn’t she just retire gracefully? Why, oh why, does she have to cause us so much trouble? Does she not want Henry to be happy, or to have a legitimate son? These are the questions that constantly jostle in my mind. She spoils so much; she is like a great blot of black ink upon the perfect snowy page of mine and Henry’s relationship.
Yet not for one moment do I let my disappointment show. Not even Mary or Jane Rochford, who are constantly at my side, know how deep the insult cuts. What care I for the love of the French king’s wife and sister? –I have other friends. There is no doubt I am loved. For the ten days we’ve spent in Calais so far, I have been treated as if I am already Henry’s queen, and it is a feeling I like very much. Everywhere I go I am accompanied by a train of thirty ladies-in-waiting, all of whom are overwhelmed by the courtesy we receive. The soldiers stationed at the garrison battle to outdo each other in gaining our attention, and twice I have had to call Mary away from unsuitable company and reprimand her.
“You must remember who you are,” I tell her. “If we are to find you a good husband, your reputation must be unsullied.” Or as unsullied as a girl with two bastard offspring can be, I add silently.
Mary shrugs and doesn’t apologise. Without a hint of regret she says, “They are harmless, Anne, and far from home. They are glad of the company of English ladies, it is not just me. Nan was getting along very nicely with a certain fellow last evening.”
I cannot prevent a little ire from creeping into my voice. “That’s as may be, but make sure you remember that you are a lady, and soon to be sister to the queen.”
“As if I can forget that,” she snaps. After a few moments, which pass in silence, she makes an excuse to leave my presence and I sulk for a while, as at odds with her as she is with me.
What is wrong with her? Surely she isn’t still jealous? She can’t still be pining for Henry. It has been years now since they were together. I bite my inner cheek and wonder what it is that ails her. I am still lost in thought when a herald arrives to inform me that Henry is on his way from Boulogne, and that the king of France is in his train.
I don’t know when I have attended so sumptuous a feast. Never one to waste an opportunity to show off, Henry ensures that everything is done to impress the French king. The servants stagger in with course after course of fine food, and the wine flows forth in a stream of ruby-red celebration. The last time I saw King Francis I was still a lady-in-waiting, a green girl with her life as yet unmapped. This time, after a meagre span of years, I am introduced as Henry’s intended queen. Life truly is a great leveller.
My ladies and I have spent the last few weeks putting together a masque for his entertainment. And since the first thing he did on his arrival was to present me with a diamond the size of a baby’s fist, I intend to entertain him well.
With my ears still ringing from the three thousand gun salute that was fired in his honour, I join my favourite ladies on the floor. A gasp eddies about the hall and both kings put down their knives as Mary, Jane, Nan, Elizabeth, Lady Fitzwater, Lady Lisle, Lady Wallop, and I, masked and clad identically in cloth of gold, burst into the hall. After a few dainty circuits of the floor to the accompaniment of hoots and whistles of appreciation, we each choose a partner to lead into the dance. I, of course, prowl laughingly toward King Francis, who gets up, takes my hand and drools like a dog over my naked arm.
From his place at the table, Henry watches, his eyes narrowed and brooding, but I have a job to do and I mean to do it well. It is imperative that I woo Francis onto our side; he must support us in Rome, stand fast with us against Spain. Without France as an ally, England will be isolated, forced to stand alone against the whole of Europe. So, trying not to stare at his nose that rises like a pinnacle in the centre of his face, I smile and simper and make a great friend of him.
He stands too close to me, squints down at me. “I could not believe when I heard of the English king’s infatuation for a commoner, Lady Anne, but now I have met you, all becomes perfectly clear.”
“But, Your Majesty, we have met before. I spent my youth at your court with my sister, Mary.”
He looks blank and I can see he has no recollection of me, no recollection of taking my sister’s virtue, and I am fuelled with sudden anger. How dare this vain, ugly – yes, ugly –French pig have ruined my sister’s reputation and then forgotten her very existence! It takes all my wits to maintain my smile as I must do to ensure his allegiance. As the evening continues, somehow I tolerate his slimy attentions and focus upon my goal.
As we dance and make merry together, Henry watches, as if uncertain whether my admiration is an act or not. I inwardly despair at the conceit of these kings, so different in appearance yet so alike in vanity. It is quite clear that once I have snared Francis’ friendship and made a slave of him, I will have Henry’s damaged pride to soothe. It is a delicate path I tread, juggling the demands of both kings.
It is late when the evening finally draws to a close
and I am able to prise myself from the attentions of King Francis. At first, when Henry and I are alone in his chamber, he is quiet, withdrawn. Dispensing with their services, he chases his yawning attendants to bed and I move from the warmth of the fire to stand beside him as he draws the shutters.
The pale pink stripe of morning is snug against the horizon, and the cold blue day set to begin, but we are alone and drenched in weariness. I stretch and yawn.
“The evening went well, I think.”
“Yes, it did, thanks to you and your coquettish ways.”
He draws me close and I tuck my hands beneath his fur doublet, feel the warmth of his body through the lawn of his shirt. I smile into his chest.
“The French king is less a man than you, my love. You must know I was only play-acting to bind him to our cause.”
He sighs deeply, rests his chin on my head and holds me so tightly I can feel the thud of his heart, the rise and fall of his breathing. I am safe and I am warm, and I am cherished. I have no wish to leave his company for the loneliness of my maiden bed. I raise my face to his, close my eyes, my pursed lips asking for his kiss.
At first he is gentle, his touch as soft as a baby’s, but as I press against him and let him feel my nakedness beneath my loose chamber-robe, he grows more ardent. We have been here many times, he has had me naked to the waist, he has spent his ardour many times upon my thigh, but tonight something is different. His hands roam over my body until I am breathless, desperate that this time there should be more. He draws away a little, looks down at me, his face dark and serious. Even though no words are exchanged, we both know that tonight there can be no turning back.
Not tonight.
He takes my hand and leads me toward the bed, stopping just short of it to kiss me again and slip my robe from my shoulders, leaving me in nothing but a thin chemise. With great daring I pull his doublet apart and begin to tug at his shirt; the cuffs and collar of which have been lovingly embroidered by his discarded wife.
The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn Page 13