The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn

by Arnopp, Judith

  His hands are large and strike cold through my shift. He cups a breast, making me gasp. It is lost in his palm but he rubs and massages, teasing my nipples until they stand proud. When I am almost ready to swoon I place a hand either side of his head and drag his face down, cover his mouth with mine, but he pulls away. He lifts me bodily from the floor, carries me to the bed and throws me onto the mattress.

  I am panting, the secret place between my legs is throbbing and twitching. I want him so badly I can hang onto virtue no longer. All my self-imposed chastity is forgotten as I scramble up to rest upon his pillows and open my arms.

  With great grunting and struggling, Henry wriggles from his hose, casts his shirt to the floor and leaps onto the bed beside me. It is like wrestling a bear. He tosses me from side to side so I can scarcely catch my breath. Some part of me remembers that I must not offend him with undue lust, so I become pliant. I keep my eyes firmly closed, and resist the urge to slow him down and guide his hand to where I need it most.

  But as soon as I get comfortable and begin to relax, he shifts position again. One moment his mouth is slurping like a child at my breast, the next he is biting and sucking at my thigh. Then he turns me over, his great hands massaging my buttocks, his fingers prodding and penetrating, making me wriggle and squeak. I want him to slow down, to stroke me, love me gently, and ease me into the experience but, like a ship lost at sea, I am at the mercy of his storming passion.

  He bites and nibbles at my quaint. I throw my head back, melting into the heavenly sensation, but just as I feel I am drowning and my breath becomes deep and slow, he pulls away. I open one eye in time to find him sliding up my body, his blue gaze gleaming with intent.

  He is bathed in sweat and something hot and hard is nudging at my thigh. I instinctively part my legs. He rolls heavily upon me, my face squashed between the pillow and his downy chest, my mouth full of hair. As he lifts both my knees and plunges into me, I cry aloud at the sudden shock and grab his shoulders, digging my nails deep into royal skin.

  Thereafter I hold my breath, astonished and out of control. As he moves rhythmically upon me, I open my mouth, my breath knocked from my lungs while Henry’s voice rasps hoarse in my ear. His grip becomes more painful as his thrusts grow deeper and more rapid. And then he ceases, stiffens, shuddering deeply, setting the whole bed aquiver, before slumping upon me like one dead.

  Henry rolls away, sits on the edge of the bed, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat. He turns to look at me, his red hair stuck darkly to his head and in his eye I recognise gratitude, mixed with more than a little shame.

  Was that it? The wondrous thing everyone whispers about? Is that the act that people have killed for, men have started wars for, women have died for?

  “Did I hurt you?” He comes back to my side, picks up a strand of my gnarled and knotted hair. I shake my head. Feel a tear trickle toward the pillow.

  “No,” I whisper and it’s true, he didn’t hurt me. Not really. He surprised me, shocked me, exhausted and overwhelmed me, but my overriding emotion is not one of injury or anxiety. It is disappointment.

  In the morning he takes me again, and later that afternoon, when the rest of the court are taking the air, he locks his chamber door and begins to raise my skirts. I put out a hand, clasp his wrist. “Henry, suppose I have a child. What then? We do not want our prince denounced as a bastard.”

  Not to be deterred, he tips me backward across the counterpane and begins to untangle my legs from my petticoat. “Don’t worry.” He looks up from between my thighs. “We will be wed the moment we reach the shores of England.”

  I lie back and close my eyes as his lips brush the contours of my quaint. How can that be, I think, when he is still tied to the Spanish woman? But some remedy must be found for I can no longer keep his lust at bay. Indeed, it is a wonder that I have held him off for so long. Now that I am his wife in all but name, I swear for the sake of our unborn child that I will go to any lengths to secure him.

  For days now a storm has been blowing, preventing our return to England. Fortunately the exchequer has beautiful gardens and a tennis court, and the rooms I have been given are sumptuous. My apartments adjoin the king’s, a convenience that he takes every opportunity to enjoy. Since the evening of the revel I have not spent one night alone, and most afternoons have seen me in his bed. I begin to look forward to the days when state affairs keep him occupied and I am accorded some relief.

  I lower myself delicately into a seat, my rump as tender as if I have been a week on horseback. Guessing the cause, George quirks his brow and chuckles as he leans over my chair to whisper in my ear. “Our king is treating you well, My Lady Marchioness?”

  I punch his shoulder. “If it is any of your business, Brother. I am as well and as thoroughly serviced as a brood mare.”

  He sits close to me. “So, the rumours are true, our king is indeed a stallion. You are a lucky woman …” He begins to laugh but something in my face halts him. “… or maybe not?”

  I flush, feeling a sudden rush of tears. My chin begins to wobble and my mouth goes out of shape, making it difficult to form my words. He reaches for my hand.

  “Hey, don’t cry. It can’t be that bad. These things sometimes take time to get right.”

  My breast judders as I dash the tears from my cheek. He is the only person I can confide in, for there is no way on God’s earth I will ever tell Mary. She would not be able to hide her delight that her one-time lover has disappointed me.

  “I had thought there would be more to it …” My words fade as my confusion grows. I should not be talking this way, not even to George. It would be betrayal to speak this way of any man, but to defame a king’s sexual prowess is tantamount to treason. While my cheeks continue to burn, George shows no such reticence.

  “You went the whole way, then. He …?”

  “Yes, George. Spare me your questions, for Heaven’s sake.”

  “So, what was wrong? You found him displeasing, you do not love him after all?”

  George’s hand is on my lap, the pressure of his fingers caressing the bony contours of my knee, his expression so concerned and loving that tears nudge behind my eyelids again. I take a kerchief, shake it out and begin to dab my cheeks dry.

  “I love him very well, as much as I ever did. It is not that, at all. It is … well, I had imagined … I had been told that there was great pleasure in it.”

  For once, he doesn’t laugh. He straightens his spine, tilts his head to one side, one corner of his mouth lifted in a sorrowful smile.

  “Ah, poor Anne.” He gets down on his knees before me and slides his arms about my shoulders, his voice muffled in my hair. “There is pleasure to be had, Sweetheart, with the right man, in the right circumstances. Very great pleasure that I cannot begin to describe.” He sits back and, taking my kerchief, dries my eyes. “We can only hope that you will find it one day. In the meantime, concentrate on conceiving the king a prince. Often, it is when we are not looking for pleasure that we find it.”

  “Dear George, where would I be without you to comfort me?”

  He stands up, stretches his back, and picks up a cup of wine. “We, all of us, have travelled a long hard road to get where we are. You most of all, and if a brother can’t support his little sister in her travail, then who can …?”

  The door opens and Jane enters. “Oh, there you are, George,” she says, letting the door bang behind her. “I should have guessed.” She looks at me, her eyes kindling with barely suppressed rage. “Can I get you anything, Anne? A bite of supper, perhaps?”

  I shake my head and gesture for her to take a seat, although I would rather she left us in peace. She perches straight-backed on a stool, her dislike for me dissolving the former intimacy.

  “I can see you’ve been crying; is anything wrong?”

  I shake my head and try to smile. “No, I am fine, now. George has just been advising me on a private matter.”

  Her mouth spreads in a forced show
of pleasure. “You are fortunate to have both a brother and a king to offer you comfort when you are unhappy.”

  I ignore her inferred insult, and shake my head. “I expect I am just tired from all the excitement, and I am finding the delay in our departure for England tiresome.”

  “Aren’t we all?” George leans back in his chair, stretches his long legs toward the hearth and refuses to look at his wife. He raises his cup. “To a quick return of our Marchioness’ smile,” he says. “And here’s to a hasty change in the wind.”

  As if George’s words have some heavenly influence, by the next morning the storm has abated, and a few days later we are able to leave. Henry and I stand on deck and watch the port of Calais dwindle into the distance. I hold on tight to the rail and turn my head and look across the surging grey sea, focussing my sight on the coast of England, the white cliffs eventually emerging from the mist like a welcoming banner. As we draw ever closer to home, I remember Henry’s words. “We will be married just as soon as we reach the shores of England,” and I wonder if he meant them.

  There is a priest waiting, and although Henry’s divorce from Catherine is by no means certain, and I have some doubts as to the legality of it, we make a hasty vow before him. Henry promises a more public marriage when we reach London and, despite the vile weather, I am anxious to travel on. Yet Henry tarries and seems to have forgotten that, even now, I may be ripening with his prince. We stop at each and every manor house we pass to enable Henry to make full use of my newly available body.

  Part Three

  Queen

  January 1533 – York Place

  I spend the night alone, or in as much solitude as I am ever afforded. As I slide from my bed and creep across the floor, my attendant raises a sleepy head from her pillow, but I hush her back to sleep. Used to my nocturnal comings and goings, she obediently turns over, thumps her pillow, her gentle snores resuming almost at once.

  Knowing she would not relish the business I am bent upon, I do not wake Mary but tread even more carefully as I pass her door. Hurrying along the corridor, tying my gown as I go, my stomach churns with anticipation until I reach the side chamber where I have instructed Nan to wait upon me. She is fully dressed and waiting, and when I slide through the heavy door she dips a curtsey in greeting.

  “I have your things ready, My Lady.”

  With great stealth she helps me from my night attire and into the gown I have selected for my wedding to the king. She bathes my face and washes my hands, and then I stand erect while she ties in my sleeves and fastens back my hair before placing a jewelled cap upon it.

  I like Nan, and have come to rely upon her calm nature that ensures she never frets or fusses. She has never yet expressed any shock or surprise, even when I instruct her to carry out the most extraordinary things, and she did not bat an eye when I asked her to meet me here at dawn, bringing with her my favourite gown and jewels. I smile at her suddenly, glad to have her as an ally, and she grins back, curious as to our purpose but too well-trained to enquire.

  “There,” she says, “you are beautiful.” She curtseys again and hands me my psalter before following me along the corridors of Whitehall. Our scurrying feet and lowered voices raise no alarms, for the guards have been forewarned to turn a blind eye to that which is none of their concern.

  Outside the royal chapel I stop, catch my breath, and bite my lips to redden them while Nan ensures my French hood is straight. My fellow conspirator looks at me. “Wish me luck,” I say, and her face blossoms.

  “Oh, Lady Anne. I do wish you luck, all the luck in the world.” And then she pushes open the door and stands aside to let me pass.

  Dawn light filters through the narrow windows, adding to the illumination of the flickering altar candles. A choir boy, dragged recently from his bed, knuckles his eye and begins to sing, the initial discordance soon clearing to rival the tones of the early morning blackbird. A huddle of men look up from their conversation and one, larger than the rest, detaches himself from the group and comes toward me, his jewels winking in the half-light. He pauses halfway along the aisle. “Anne.”

  I glide toward him, lay my fingers in his palm and close my eyes as his kisses warm me. His companions follow: Henry Norris, William Brereton, and Thomas Henage. They incline their heads graciously and Norris ushers the king back toward the altar to take his place for the ceremony.

  Dr Rowlands Lee, with sweat beading his upper lip, opens his book upon the lectern and calls down a blessing on those gathered. While I glide to stand at Henry’s side, Nan, clutching my psalter, takes her place among the gentlemen.

  It has not been easy for Henry to arrange this, and Dr Rowlands Lee, wary at the clandestine nature of the marriage, insists that we show him papal licence before he agrees to conduct the ceremony. But Henry, his eyes narrowing and his face darkening, draws himself up to his full height. “Blast you, man, the licence is with Cromwell for safe-keeping. I can show it to you on the morrow. I am damned if I am sending for it now. You would do well to do as your king asks, and let me deal with papal trouble if and when it comes.”

  He is not telling the truth, there is no papal licence, but Dr Rowlands Lee is not a sturdy fellow and is disinclined to argue, not with the king. He begins to speak the words that bind Henry and I together as man and wife, before God and before the church.

  “In nòmine Patris, et Fìlii, et Spìritus Sancti.”

  Henry fumbles for my hand, squeezes it, crushing my fingers with his heavy rings. His nervousness spreads and, finding it contagious, my knees begin to quiver as the ceremony begins.

  Dr Rowlands Lee’s voice drones on, his words binding me to Henry, and he to me. The solitary voice of the choir boy rises, the aroma of incense fills my nose and my fingers grow moist in Henry’s palm. Just a few moments more, I tell myself, just a few moments more and he will be mine. I will be the king’s wife, and queen in all but name.

  As we are joined before God, the sun breaks from the clouds as if in heavenly approval, an ethereal stream of light falling upon us. Henry leans forward to kiss me, then he raises our joined hands and his voice is hoarse with emotion as we face the witnesses to our union. “Behold,” he says. “Gentleman, I give you your Queen.”

  As our friends gather round us, Henry grows anxious again, his brow lowering, his blue eyes piercing. “You are to speak of this to no one, not even your wives and sweethearts.” He turns kindly toward Nan, addressing her gently but firmly. “And not to any members of the queen’s household. I know how keen you ladies are for gossip.”

  Later, when we are alone and he has sated his needs upon my body, I shift away from him in the bed. “Am I not even allowed to tell George, or my mother?”

  He rolls toward me, his face softened by love. “And would you listen if I were to forbid it?”

  “Of course, you are my husband, whom I must listen to and obey.”

  “Ha!” He slaps me playfully on the thigh, making my body jerk in alarm. “You would do well to listen to yourself.”

  His open palm begins to massage my leg, his hand skimming across my skin. Intrigued by the exploration of his own fingers, as if he is not party to it, he keeps his eye fastened on the contact as he answers carelessly. “Yes, you can tell them, as long as you impress upon them the need for absolute silence.” He pauses before adding, “But perhaps it would be best not to tell Mary just yet, my love. Not until we have finalised the arrangements for her own wedding.”

  The very next morning I am sick upon rising, losing my breakfast and unable to take any food until long past noon. Having missed my courses, I immediately suspect I am with child, but I daren’t tell Henry in case I am wrong. Clutching the secret to myself, I smile through my nausea and pray that the day our secret can be revealed will come soon.

  After a week of looking at my pale face and putting up with my listless lovemaking, the truth finally becomes plain to Henry. He hedges at first, unwilling to ask the question in case he is mistaken. “You are not well, An
ne,” he says. “How long have you been off your food now? Two weeks? Three?”

  I keep my head lowered over my embroidery and glance at him through my lashes. “Almost a month, my love.”

  “And …” He clears his throat, his face turning a little pink. “Have you missed anything that you should not have missed?”

  A mixture of excitement and dread bubbles up in my chest, making it difficult to breathe, difficult to speak. What if I should be wrong?

  “I … I have, My Lord. My monthly flux is almost two months overd –”

  Before I can complete my sentence he is on his knees before me, my needlework snatched away and thrown in the rushes, his hands circling my belly. “Anne! You are with child. You must be. We must call Dr Butts. We must summon the astrologers. You are carrying our prince. Oh, Anne, it must be a boy. It must be.”

  My mind quickly conjures up the unlikely scenario that I am carrying a girl, but I push the image quickly away and place my hands over his so that we are both cradling my womb. While he kisses my belly, I nurse his head. His hat has fallen to the floor and his close-cropped hair is burnished into slivers of bright gold by the torches.

  A thought nags at my mind. “Henry,” I say. “If we do not announce our marriage soon, I am afraid the people will claim our prince was not conceived within wedlock. I would not have him called bastard.”

  He looks up at me, his face glowing, his eyes alight with triumph. “I shall summon Cromwell and Cranmer, they can do what I pay them to and put their clever heads together and come up with an answer, so worry no more.”

  Satisfied, I lie back in my chair again while he continues to stroke and kiss my flat belly. I suddenly crave an apple, not the shrivelled fruit that has been stored since the autumn but a fresh, plump apple, just plucked from a tree, smelling of sunshine and … Tom.