The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn

by Arnopp, Judith

  “Yes.”

  His eyes flick to my stomach, and my hand flies instinctively to the bulge of my womb. Cromwell’s smile settles more comfortably into the contours of his face. Master Cromwell is as careful with his expressions as he is with his purse, and one can never quite tell what he is thinking. I move from the window and cross the room to where a table is laid out with papers and bills. Master Cromwell follows, his books clasped beneath his arm. I locate a sheaf of paper. “My sister’s child, my ward Henry Carey, is approaching ten now.”

  His brow furrows and he runs an eye over the lines of script as I continue. “I want to engage a tutor and he has to be the very best. I wondered, what is your opinion of Nicholas Bourbon?”

  Of course, I know his opinion very well and although he betrays no emotion, I know he must be delighted. Bourbon, known for his Evangelical leanings, is a great friend of Cromwell and has recently been released from prison at our instigation. He is presently installed in the home of Henry’s friend and physician, Dr Butts.

  Betraying no pleasure, Cromwell smoothes the papers and replaces them on the pile. His hands are square and strong, the clipped nails and clean, pale skin belying his early life as a tradesman and soldier. I have always found this man intriguing and slightly repellent. Maybe it is his deference, his economy with words, or the conviction I have that he is concealing something. I am certain that if I spent each day of the next twenty years in his company, he would remain a stranger at the end of it.

  “I think he would do very well, Your Grace. He is a known reformer and will ensure young Henry’s mind is not filled with too much popish nonsense. The future of reform lies with our young people, and Bourbon is a fine linguist and popular with his peers … he will provide an all-round education.”

  “I have always found him most pleasant. As you know, my nephew is presently at Syon in the company of Henry Norris’ son and Nicholas Hervey’s boy. I think Bourbon’s rhetoric will counterbalance the nuns’ teachings a little.”

  He closes his eyes, inclines his head in agreement. “You have discussed this with his mother?”

  I jerk my head toward him, surprised he should mention her. Mary has left the court and Henry refuses to allow her back. She has crossed and burned her bridges now, and no amount of shoring them up will bring her back to us.

  “It is no concern of hers; you know that, Master Cromwell. My sister is dead to us.”

  My words trail away. I can scarce believe I am saying them, for I miss Mary more than I had ever imagined. Somehow, with George away so often on the king’s business, she had managed to fill a gap in my life. Now, the family member most often in my company is Jane, and her sour face is sometimes enough to curdle milk.

  Cromwell watches me. He puts down his books and turns toward me, pressing the tips of his fingers together, making a cathedral of his hands. “Madam, may I speak freely?”

  I am surprised. Unless asked for it, Cromwell usually keeps his own counsel. My curiosity piqued, I nod and lower myself into a chair.

  “Your Majesty, I suspect that it is the king who is most displeased with your sister’s behaviour. Her actions have not only offended his sense of propriety, but deprived the king of a beneficial arrangement. You, I suspect, loving her as you do, would show leniency … after a suitable period of punishment, of course.”

  I nod again. My throat constricts with unexpected grief, and I have the inexplicable desire to lay my head in my hands and give way to tears. It is the child making me mawkish. I swallow, blink away emotion and turn away so he cannot see my sudden weakness.

  “She has behaved dreadfully, but I would forgive her … eventually. Henry says she is not to return to court … not ever.”

  He is silent for a while, watching as I try to school my face and calm my agitated hands. Apart from anything else, I would like Mary with me at the birth. My child and the one she is carrying will be of an age, they could be raised together, cousins at court, had her choice of husband not ruined everything.

  Cromwell gropes beneath his gown. “Your Majesty, I received a letter.”

  “From Mary?”

  A pause. The logs settle in the grate, a puff of smoke drifts into the room.

  “It is not meant for your eyes.”

  I hold out my hand and after a moment, several sheets of parchment crackle between my fingers. I scan the pages, reading quickly the first time, and more slowly the second.

  “Well, a strange letter indeed …”

  “Why strange?”

  “One minute she pleads for you to intervene with Henry and I, and our parents, inferring that she and Stafford are destitute and that she is desperate to return to court. Yet the next moment she insults me. Listen to this bit. ‘I had rather beg my bread with him than to be the greatest Queen christened.’ It seems a strange way of engaging my sympathy.”

  He holds out his hand and I pass the letter back to him. “She did not intend you to see it, Your Majesty. In her words I read desperation, bravado, and a sense of exile.”

  I am cross, mulling over her letter, irritated and unsettled by her passion. I cast an eye over Cromwell. He is still standing, his shoulders hunched, his face turned toward the hearth where a small summer fire burns. He looks inscrutable, unapproachable—reptilian, in many ways. Mary must be desperate indeed to turn to Cromwell, and yet … many women of my acquaintance speak well of him. Perhaps it is our relative positions that makes him so reserved with me.

  “What do you think I should do?”

  He turns his head slowly, raises his brows, eyes opening wide, the creases in his forehead deepening. He splays his hands.

  “Help her, Your Majesty.”

  “Help her? Against the king’s will?”

  He smiles, a slight twinkle gleaming in the dark depths of his eyes.

  “I suggest you use your, erm … charm to persuade His Majesty that perhaps she is deserving of a little help. In the meantime, perhaps Your Majesty would permit me, personally, to send her a little aid, out of my own pocket?”

  My jaw drops. “Why would you do that?”

  He shrugs. “She is the sister of my queen and she is not a bad woman, just rash and a little, shall we say, too eager to please.”

  I place both hands on my belly and stare into the lick of flame in the hearth. I remember Mary’s tinkling laugh, the fall of her fair hair, the forgiving warmth of her embrace.

  “Very well,” I hear myself saying. “You may send her alms and I will speak to Henry, but not until I am sure he is ready to hear it.”

  July 1534

  I enter the hall, Urien at my heels, and immediately spot George speaking with our cousin, Francis Bryan. Both men turn and make a knee to me , and I cannot help but note that Francis’s handsome smile is unblemished by the loss of his eye. The jewelled eye patch adds a reckless charm to his previously smooth good looks. But beside George, of course, he is nothing. My brother is laughing.

  “Anne,” he says, “our cousin has been saddled with an unwanted gift.”

  “Look at my doublet.” Francis lifts his arms to indicate the liberal spread of white hair that clings to it.

  “Have you been grooming your horse in your court clothes, Cousin?” I laugh, knowing that is far from likely. He puts his head close to mine and lowers his tone.

  “Lady Lisle has given me a dog, Your Grace, and as much as I adore them, this one is not the type I would choose.”

  “A dog? Where is it?”

  Francis and George search the floor. “He was here just now. “Dog … doggy, where are you?”

  “Is that his name?”

  Francis pulls a face. “I haven’t named him. I am hoping I won’t have to keep him.”

  “There he is!” George swoops down and holds aloft a bundle of white fur. “You can see he isn’t exactly a dog suited to the likes of a hero of the lists.”

  I reach out a hand, feeling the lick of a tiny, hot tongue. A pair of big brown eyes look up at me.

  “Oh, the
sweet thing!” I take him from George, who immediately proceeds to brush his own doublet.

  “I see what you mean about the hair,” he laughs.

  The dog scrabbles at my bosom, longing to reach my face with his long lapping tongue.

  “He is as eager to kiss you as the rest of us.” Francis laughs. “I think you should do me the honour of keeping him, Your Grace, he is clearly made for you.”

  “Can I, Francis? Can I have him?” I am quite smitten, my cheeks wet with slobber, the jewels on my bodice already snagged and covered in hair.

  “It would be my pleasure to present you with such a gift, my dear cousin.” Francis bends over my hand, his relief clear to see. “I am sure Lady Lisle will understand when I explain that the Queen’s Grace was so enamoured of him that I couldn’t refuse.”

  Urien growls when I enter the chamber with my new pet. “Stop it,” I say. “Don’t be nasty, it is your new companion.” I hold the puppy close, let them sniff each other, and Urien, being the soft fellow that he is, is soon won over. By supper time they are fast friends, and I have no qualms about leaving them alone with the servants when I descend to the hall for supper.

  “What have you named him?” Henry asks when I introduce him to the puppy.

  “Well, you see how he puts his head on one side like that, as if he is asking a question.”

  Henry nods, and obligingly the dog cocks his head, looks at us questioningly. “Well, I thought I’d call him Pourquoi, you know, the French word for ‘why.’”

  Henry throws back his head and laughs. “That is perfect, my love, quite perfect. You couldn’t call him anything else.”

  July 1534 - Hever

  For a moment, when I tell Henry of my desire to visit Hever, he looks as if he has been stung by a wasp. “But what about the tournament,” he cries, “and the pageant?”

  “Oh Henry, there are so many pageants and jousts. It won’t hurt me to miss one.”

  We have already had to postpone a trip to the French court because of my condition. He lowers his chin, pouts and looks at me through his eyebrows. “I suppose you would like me to come with you.”

  “No, no. You stay and enjoy the fun. All I shall do is sit in the sun and gossip with my mother. It is what our prince and I need just now, there is no need for you to be inconvenienced.”

  He rises from his chair and pulls me to my feet. “Won’t you miss me?”

  I poke the end of his nose, pull his beard playfully. “Of course, but it is only for a week or so. Then, when I get home, there will be but a month or two before the confinement.”

  He turns me in his arms, so my back is toward him. I lean against him and he rests his chin on my head, letting his hands slide down to caress my belly. “And then we will meet this little man,” he murmurs. I cover his hands with my own, give his fingers a squeeze and don’t let him know I have heard the rumours. My brother makes sure of that.

  Of course I am acutely jealous, but George says it is natural for a man to seek solace from another when his wife is so close to confinement. “Look upon it as doing you a service,” he says. “You wouldn’t want the king’s demands in bed to undermine the health of your prince.”

  My eyelids are pricking. I look down, shaking my head, and a tear drops onto my lap, followed by another. George’s hand is instantly on my shoulder. “Anne, don’t worry. Our cousin will ensure that Henry’s eye does not stray too far. Once you are able to facilitate his needs she will hand him back, as good as new.”

  My chest feels as if it will burst open. My chin wobbles, my mouth turning upside down. “But I see them, George, inside my head. Horrible visions of them together …”

  “Hush, hush.” He draws me close, comforts me as only he can. “It is Madge, our little cousin, no enemy. She does not want him for herself, her affections lay elsewhere. You should thank me for putting her in the king’s way once his eye began to wander.”

  It is true; George acted in my best interests. As soon as my pregnancy was advanced enough for Henry to begin to fidget and cast his eye upon the daughter of our enemy, he dangled our cousin like a carrot beneath the royal nose. “Look upon her as a wet nurse, caring for your husband until you are fit to see to his needs yourself.”

  George, being a man, doesn’t understand the pain of handing one’s child into the arms of another woman. He doesn’t realise it is equally as difficult when it’s your husband. But there is nothing to be done, so I square my shoulders and try not to think about it. Yet still the images creep up on me unawares; in the dead of night or in the middle of the afternoon, it makes no difference. I see them in disgusting clarity and in my mind’s eye Henry loves her, far more than he has ever loved me.

  So to get myself away from it and to prevent another dreadful row with Henry, I come back to Hever. And if not for the fact that the servants fall on their noses every time they see me, it would seem that I have never been away.

  There is something relaxing about the lack of formality. It is nice to put on a plain gown and tie up my hair beneath an ordinary cap. I am in the garden, Urien and Pourquoi investigating the array of aromas beneath the hedges as I stroll along the path. The summer sun winks through the trees, warming my face as I spy a stray weed unnoticed by the gardener. Acting on a sudden impulse, I kneel on the grass, reach out and dig my fingers into the soil, grasp it tightly and tug it out. It comes away easily, the tap root sliding from the well-tilled earth. Then, hidden beneath the lavender, I spy a seedling of rosebay willowherb that will spoil the look of the border if left to grow wild. It comes up easily, and soon I have a small pile of wilting weeds on the grass beside me. It is sometime later when the dogs set up a commotion and, raising a hand to shield my eyes from the sun, I look up to see who they are greeting with such enthusiasm. My visitor, after fighting himself free of eager paws and tongues, whips off his hat and makes a bow.

  “Tom!” I try to get up, but the size of my belly hinders me. Tom stoops down and offers me his hand, hauls me to my feet. I stumble, hang onto his sleeve and laugh up at him. “I am not very nimble at the moment.”

  “So I see.”

  I look down at my muddy hands and slap them together, sending out a shower of dirt. “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh,” he slaps his hat against his thigh, “I often ride over and see how things are … remember the old days.”

  His words evoke the memory of four children, two boys and two girls, running in and out of the flower beds, tumbling in the meadows, playing hide-and-go-seek in the grain store.

  “Those were happy times,” I say, my face beginning to ache from smiling so widely.

  “And now you have children of your own. How is Princess Elizabeth?”

  He listens attentively, feigning interest, as I launch into a lengthy description of my daughter’s virtues. “She is so clever, so forward. She toddles to meet me when I visit and can already say a few words. If her brother is half as bright, he will be a king to be reckoned with.”

  Of course, I see Tom from time to time at court. He has a prominent place in the household and is often around on the king’s business, taking part in pageants and state functions. But when we meet there, by some unspoken agreement we are reserved, detached. Here at Hever it is as if the years have been torn aside like a curtain, and the sunshine of our youth is smiling down upon us.

  “Will you walk with me?” He shows no sign of mischief so I lay my hand on his arm and he assists me slowly around the garden. We speak of ordinary things. He makes no mention of his former love for me and we are at ease; old friends sharing a precious afternoon. He laughs a lot, and even when he is serious there is a twinkle in his eye, a quirk to the side of his mouth where his laughter always begins.

  Before he takes his leave, he tucks my hand beneath his, close to his heart. “Are you happy, Anne?”

  I close my eyes, turn my face to the sun and nod. “Yes, very happy. And I will be happier still when my prince is born.”

  He raises my fingers to hi
s mouth, presses his lips against them. “You know I am yours to command. I will serve you, even in the face of the king’s wrath.”

  And then he is gone, springing into the saddle, clamping his hat firmly onto his head before gathering the reins and cantering away. As I call to the dogs and turn back toward the hall, I realise that perhaps Tom does still care for me, after all.

  It is dark inside and I do not notice Grandmother until she speaks. “Was that the king I saw you with?”

  I leap at the sound of her voice and with a hand to my breast to still my banging heart, I move closer so that she might hear my reply.

  “No, Grandmother. It was Tom, Tom Wyatt.”

  She shows me her gums, the creases on her face moving and settling into new lines. “Little Tom Wyatt? Here all alone? Does his mother know he is out unaccompanied?”

  It would be funny were it not so tragic. My smile is sad. “Grandmother, Tom is past thirty now! His mother is long dead.”

  “Eh?” She squints as if it will help her to hear, but I do not repeat myself, there is no point. Let her stay in her strange world that has no regard for the present. The past is a happy place, let her live it.

  Poor Grandmother, I think, her life is almost over now and all her pleasures past. I can just recall how she was when I was young. A proud upright woman, mother to ten and given to interfering in her children’s lives long after they were grown. She has been a widow now for thirty years, each year growing older, slipping slowly and steadily closer to infirmity, her mind as dishevelled as the bottom of a chicken coop. It will not be long before we lay her in her grave … I shake off the thought, thrust it aside. Even though it has long been expected, it will be a hard day for us when it comes.

  “Here, look at this,” she says, crooking a wizened finger. “Merlin has a canker; he needs a physic.”

  I reluctantly bend over the dog, the noxious fumes of Grandmother’s skirts making me blench. She runs her fingers through his coat, parting the wiry hair to display a livid looking boil, or a rat bite.