The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn

by Arnopp, Judith

  24th January 1536 - Greenwich

  Cold blue light streams through the chapel windows where I kneel praying for the health of my son, the security of my marriage. The edge of the stone step digs into my knees, my neck aches, and behind me I can hear my women growing fidgety. I have been here too long. I must not become like Catherine. Piety is a virtue, but I must not let it consume me.

  I am half way up, one hand on the altar rail, when I hear a shout in the corridor, a clattering of weaponry, a bang on the floor. As the door bursts open I hurry to my feet, wrenching my knee. I put a hand to my racing heart.

  “Your Majesty!”

  My uncle of Norfolk, still clad in armour from the tiltyard, scarcely takes time to bow. “It is the king,” he cries, panting for breath. “He has taken a fall. We fear he is dead!”

  The world dips and sways, and my bowels plunge sickeningly. His voice ebbs and flows, the high-pitched panic of my ladies twittering like a cage of birds. I push away encroaching darkness, force myself to remain standing as I search for words in a parched throat.

  “Where is he?” The voice is unlike my own; panicky, strained, terrified.

  “They are bringing him now, to his apartments. The physicians have been summoned.”

  Norfolk has removed his helmet, his damp hair standing in spikes about his head. I have never seen him less than calm. Now his eyes are wild, his face bleached of colour. He is unprepared for this, afraid of what Henry’s death will mean. He waves his arm in the direction of the royal apartments and I find myself suddenly running, my skirts held high above my knees, my heart clanging in my chest like a great bell. I run faster than I have since I was a child at Hever.

  The doors stand open and the guards outside do not move. They make no attempt to hinder me. “Henry!”

  I burst in. A crowd is gathered around the high-canopied bed; a hubbub of voices, knaves running hither and thither bringing bowls and towels, taking away soiled linen; linen that is stained crimson with royal blood.

  “Henry!” I push my way through towering male bodies with the stench of tiltyard sweat. They part unwillingly and let me close.

  His body lays upon the bed, his armour partly removed, his chest laid bare. For a moment I feel a sharp rush of relief that it is slowly rising and falling. He is breathing. I close my eyes and send up a rapid prayer.

  But then I see that his face is bloodless. His lips are blue, a trickle of blood oozing from his temple. Tentatively, I reach out and touch him.

  Cold, clammy skin.

  Like a corpse.

  A hand slides across my shoulder and George is there. He grips my elbows, gives me a shake, urging me to stay calm. I turn into his body, lay my head on his armoured chest, seeking comfort from hard steel. With a great sob, I cry, “What happened?” my voice sounding as if it comes from afar.

  “It was all so quick, I don’t really know. One moment he was mounted, bearing down on his opponent, and the next the horse seemed to stumble. There was a great cry, a scream, and the king was thrown, his horse coming down upon him. We feared the worst right away …”

  “Norfolk said he was dead.” My voice breaks. I shake my head, unable to believe I am not in the midst of a nightmare. I do not want to leave the bedside, but George manoeuvers me away. “Let the doctors do their work, Anne.”

  We sit close by, hands clasped. I feel sick, unable to breathe properly, my lungs tight with unshed tears.

  “George, what if he should die?”

  His hand tightens on mine. “Don’t even think it. God won’t let that happen. He is the king.”

  But other kings have died.

  While the doctors do what they can, I imagine a life without Henry. It is a bleak picture, so long has he been the pivot around which I move. George and I do not speak of the danger to us should Henry not survive. We do not speak of it, although the threat looms larger with each passing second. In my mind, the demonic shadow flickers and reforms into the image of Chapuys and his master, who will not hesitate to depose Elizabeth and put Mary on the throne. What hope has an infant against a young woman? No hope at all.

  And then there is my uncle of Norfolk, his daughter conveniently married to Fitzroi, the king’s bastard who has for so long had the expectation of being made heir. Before this day I had thought Norfolk my friend, but now I see that, if the worst should happen, it will be every man for himself. Elizabeth and I will have few allies. There are not many who would be prepared to stand against Spain, or even the power of my uncle, for the sake of a baby girl.

  Henry must not die.

  I am not asking God, not even begging him. I am bargaining with him. I will do anything, give up everything, if He will only spare my husband. For the sake of my daughter, for the sake of the English Church, and for the sake of my son, who is not, as yet, even born.

  For more than two hours I wait, refusing both food and drink. I refuse to lie down. I even refuse a cushion when Nan brings one for my back. I am determined to sit here, without respite, without comfort, until my Henry opens his eyes.

  A servant stokes the fires. The flames leap, illuminating the ring of faces that wait upon the comatose king. No one speaks; the silence is peppered with sighs, fidgeting feet, whispered prayers.

  And then he sighs. A jewel glints as a finger moves and I leap to my feet, pushing aside the physicians to grasp the hand that is my lifeline.

  “Henry,” I croon, gently, willing him to speak to me.

  He opens one eye and exhales, foul breath swamping my face. He squeezes my hand feebly and at last, he speaks.

  “Jane?”

  29th January 1536 – Greenwich

  They are burying Catherine today. I wonder if she is laughing from her Heavenly seat? For while she escapes the cares of this wicked world, I find myself living her life, thinking her thoughts. Her trials are become mine. I wonder if it is divine retribution.

  The child within me moved yesterday for the first time; another reason I should be happy. But how can I be? How can I rejoice in bringing forth a child whose very presence is the cause of my losing Henry’s love?

  He asked for Jane. I was there, holding his hand, yet he asked for Jane. I am full of anger. If I could I would have her whipped, have her burned at the stake, boiled alive as a traitor and a witch. I have never hated before and the feeling makes me ill.

  I am unable to eat, unable to sleep, unable to even think straight. For the first time in my life, jealousy is corroding my sanity. Now I know how Jane Rochford feels, and how cruelly George has treated her. I must somehow persuade him to make amends.

  It is a wet miserable day, as if the Heavens are mourning the death of the woman who called herself queen. I wonder if by some chance she is conscious that her body is to be interred, not in the Carthusian monastery as she wished, but in Peterborough Abbey, for the Carthusians are gone, put asunder by Cromwell’s hand.

  Does Catherine know that the marking on her gravestone will read ‘Princess Dowager’ and not ‘Queen of England?’ And will she hear Bishop Hisley’s sermon claiming she acknowledged in the hour of her death that she was never England’s queen? If, by some chance, she does know, the rumbles of her anger will thunder in the skies above us.

  I am afraid, although I cannot show it. I keep to my chamber, pacing the floor, my hands on my belly. This child, this child who will ensure that Henry loves me still, may also be my downfall. I am rendered unable to fight simply by his occupation of my womb. I am disarmed.

  “She will not sleep with him.” I want to tell Jane Rochford to shut up but I cannot help myself. I tilt my head closer to hers, while her gossip lacerates me. “The king is beside himself with lust but she will have none of it; she is devout.”

  Or perhaps she is just clever, I think, remembering my own refusal to go easy to Henry’s bed. Perhaps she has been instructed to tag him along, get out of him what she can.

  I remember similar advice from my father and my uncle, even from George. At the beginning I was instructed to
entertain the king, and I did so to appease my father. At what point did I stop pretending and begin to love him in earnest? At what point did the tables turn and I become the quarry?

  The walls are high, the windows shuttered, and I cannot see the sun. Even the air I breathe is unfamiliar, stale. It chokes my lungs; my chest feels as if an iron band has been placed around it and someone is drawing it tighter … tighter.

  There are scuffles in the darkness. I strain to see, fumble along slimy stone walls in search of a friend, in search of human contact. I seek comfort, although I know I am alone. I seek enlightenment, although the sun has been extinguished. In this place, even God cannot reach me. My fingers scrabble against stone, tearing my nails, and I call out, my voice lost in nothingness.

  I wake suddenly, my nightgown sticking to me, a stream of sunshine blinding me. I blink stupidly at Nan who is drawing back the shutters, her friendly smile welcoming me back. She glides toward me, placing a tray beside the bed. “Drink it up while it’s hot, Madam. You’ve been asleep all the afternoon.”

  I drag myself up on my pillows, reflecting that Henry did not attend me although I waited until long past the appointed hour. Still half asleep I reach out for the cup, not really wanting it but too weary to fight such gentle concern.

  It is then that I see the blood on my hand.

  For a long while I stare at my fingers, the nails rimmed red, the iron tang of my own blood revolting my senses. My head reels as I slowly become conscious of the deep dragging sensation in my belly.

  In trepidation I push back the covers and find my nightgown, my thighs, the sheets, all covered with gore. I open my mouth and begin to scream, and from all directions my ladies come running.

  30th January 1536

  George comes to me first, full of sympathy, full of assurances that I will soon be with child again. I do not believe him. I feel I am damned. Catherine has cursed me, somehow taken away my ability to give Henry what he wants. Misery sits like a stone in my stomach and I cannot rouse myself, not even for George.

  “What did Henry say?” My voice is small, betraying my fear of his answer. George shrugs, his eyes full of sadness.

  “He weeps, and prays. He will come to you when he is recovered.” He strokes my fingers, his hand large and brown against my small white palm.

  “I expect She comforts him. She has certainly not shown her face in here.”

  “Perhaps they told her to keep away. Your dislike for her is no secret.”

  “And who would blame me?” I snatch my hand from his and wrap my arms about myself. “She seeks to steal my husband.”

  George shifts on the mattress. “To be fair, Anne, it is your husband who seeks her, not the other way around.”

  Only George would be brave enough to say this and despite the jagged edge of his words, I do appreciate his forthright reasoning. I fidget my legs, rumpling the covers.

  “What am I to do about it? I lack the will to live, let alone fight for him.”

  He sighs, running a hand through his hair, ruffling it so he looks like a boy again. “Perhaps you need do nothing but be yourself. Anne, Henry isn’t the first man to stray and he won’t be the last. Take it from me, she is nothing but a dalliance. Once you are back on your feet and the colour has returned to your cheeks, he will be eating out of your hand again. I warrant you will be pregnant before the year’s end.”

  Pregnant, so he can wander off again? I do not speak the fear aloud; after all, my sole purpose is to provide England with a prince. I cannot neglect my duty, even should I want to. Maybe George is right, but privately, I resolve to be rid of the Seymour girl. I will send her from court at the first opportunity I get and if Henry tries to stop me—well, there are other ways.

  It is two days before Henry comes. He is somehow smaller, shrunken, trying to disguise the defeat beneath bluster. I know him too well. He stands at the end of the bed, feet splayed, hands on hips, his chin tilted so that he is forced to view me along the length of his nose.

  “How are you, wife?” There is no warmth, just husbandly duty in his request. To win back our old affection will be a test indeed.

  I try to smile but it is false, brittle; it makes my cheeks ache. My eyes fill with ready tears. “I am well in body, My Lord, although my spirits … well ...”

  “You must eat well, take plenty of rest, and you’ll soon be up and about again.”

  “I am getting up tomorrow.”

  “Good, that’s good.” His eyes trail away from me. Like two strangers we have nothing to say. He clears his throat, turns as if to leave.

  “Henry!” I am on my knees on the mattress, clinging to the bedpost. “Forgive me, Henry, forgive me. I will give you a prince, I swear it.”

  He takes a step nearer, reaches out and pats my hand dismissively as if I am a child, or one of his hounds. “Yes,” he says in a distant voice. “Next time fortune will smile upon us, and God help us if it does not.”

  He doesn’t linger. He turns to go, his head down, his broad shoulders filling the doorway for a moment, blotting out the light, leaving me with nothing, not even hope.

  February 1536 – Greenwich

  My legs are as unsteady as my mind when first I rise from my sick bed. I demand to be dressed in my finest clothes, and layer by layer, my status is reconfirmed as I prepare to fight the battle of my life. I am determined to win my husband back and defeat the insidious woman who creeps like a louse into our marriage bed.

  George arrives in a gust of fresh air to escort me to the hall. He holds out his arms, lets his hands slap against his thighs. “Anne, you are magnificent. If you weren’t my queen and my sister, I would woo you myself.”

  Ignoring his wife’s scowl, I manage to laugh. I link my arm through his and we process to the hall. The court falls to its knees at my entrance, Jane Seymour included, and when I am half way to the throne, Henry rises and comes to meet me. His smile is warm, his eyes soft with concern. For the benefit of the court, I wonder? Or is his gentleness genuine?

  He tucks my hand beneath his elbow, keeping it covered with his own, and leads me to my chair next to his. Together we sit and face the court. “You look beautiful,” he whispers as he lets go my hand, and a shiver of hope flushes through my body. I feel warmer than I have in days.

  His fool, Will Somer, begins to do his work, wandering about the room like a dotard, making jokes of the ladies fashions, blithely insulting the greatest lords of the land, safe in the king’s protection. The hall fills with laughter and merriment, our lost prince forgotten. Life goes on.

  When the music begins Henry leads me out and we dance before them all, our hands touching, our eyes locked, our feet much lighter than our hearts. When the musicians pause, he bows over my hand and leads me back to my place.

  Jane is nowhere to be seen. I hope she has been dismissed and is snivelling somewhere en route to Gloucestershire; but perhaps she is ensconced in some secret boudoir waiting for Henry’s return. Uncertainty and fear nibble at my mind, and my eyes dart constantly about the hall. But I keep a smile on my lips and George, the only person who knows that my hold on sanity is tenuous, hovers nearby, every so often leaning close to place a hand upon my shoulder or on my knee.

  Henry behaves as if nothing is amiss, as if baby princes are as easily obtained as buns from a baker’s shop. Determined that none shall think him vulnerable, his laughter is loud, his wit bouncing about the vaulted hall. Like George on my right, he often leans close to draw me into the revel.

  I am in the midst of court. It is warm—too warm—the people are laughing, the music is loud, and I am surrounded by friends. And yet, I feel I am not really here. I have become a priceless relic, encased in glass, seen yet not touched, admired yet not used. A queen of ice, my feelings numbed.

  That night, Henry comes to me. He draws back the bed hanging and without speaking, lifts the sheets and slides naked into bed beside me. He is huge and safe, and I am so glad. I roll into him, lay my cheek upon his furred chest and anoin
t him with my tears, his kisses light, like butterflies on my face.

  He loves me gently. There are no games, no French trickery. I lay in his arms like a wounded hind grazed by his arrow, and beneath his kisses I begin to heal, the angry sore of loss is soothed; a scab begins to form.

  As he loves me the numbness begins to gradually recede, and feeling creeps back. I stretch my limbs, open myself to him, delight in the ecstasy of his touch flowing like blood through my veins. My breasts, that have ached to nourish my dead son, now ache for him, my quaint leaping and throbbing beneath his fingers. He mounts me, his face serious, and fumbles between my legs. I gasp at his entry.

  His movements, slow at first, grow rapid and I cling to him, my mouth open, my eyes closed. As we leave our cares behind and ascend to the stars, my tears begin to fall, releasing my sorrow and filling me with life.

  Life that smarts and burns.

  ***

  Jane Seymour has not left court, but she has the sense to stay out of my way. On the morning I encounter her in the garden, she sinks into a curtsey and stays there as I sweep past, her head low, her skirts spoiling in a dirty puddle. I pretend to be unaffected. She is as insignificant as the other small beasts that frequent the court; the rats in the cellars, the beetles in the wainscot, and the fleas on the court dogs. Yet my hands tremble and I need to sit down, but the turf seats are wet, the lawns soggy and dotted with worm casts.

  Nan offers me her arm. “Don’t let her worry you,” she whispers, full of concern. “She is nothing. Carry on as if she does not exist.”

  But she does exist, and the king persists in his courtly game. My sister-in-law, Jane, delights to bring me news of it. I hear of every move or gesture the king makes toward her, and the knowledge consumes me. Yet it is to me he comes at night, we make love regularly and desperately as he battles to conceive his son.