The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn

by Arnopp, Judith

  To keep myself sane when he is away from me and I fear he is with her, I bury myself in work. I raise funds for charity, giving aid to the poor and needy, and I continue to work toward Church reform, although these days my ally, Cromwell, sometimes seems to be more akin to a foe.

  He blocks my wishes, coolly countering my argument with his own as if he were my master and not my servant. “He is the king’s servant,” George says when I complain to him.

  “And I am the queen. What better way to serve the king than to please his wife?”

  George does not reply, his raised eyebrows say it all. He has removed his doublet and his shirt sleeves are white against the darkness of the chamber. “The problems with Spain persist,” he says, joining me at the table. “The conditions they demand in exchange for peace suggest to me that it is not peace they really seek.”

  “I know. How dare they demand that Henry make amends with Rome, and that Mary be reinstated in the succession? I am confident Henry will never agree to that, so the Emperor is doing me a favour; the treaty with France is as good as signed.”

  “Yet Cromwell appears to be considering the Spanish treaty. Do you think he is stalling? Perhaps he has plans of his own.”

  I shrug. No one can be sure what Cromwell is thinking, or what he is plotting. His duplicity will never cease to astound me. His underhand politics were fine when I was sure he was working with me, but recently I am not so sure. There is something in his manner; his eyes slide away to dark corners and do not meet mine, conversations halt when I enter a room and another begins on a new subject of little import. It is as if he is squeezing me out, diminishing my influence with the king.

  The greatest bone of contention between us is the use to which we put the Church lands and benefices from the closure of the smaller abbeys. I insist that the buildings would make ideal seats of learning; we could fill them with the best books, open schools of theology to educate future preachers of God’s word. But Cromwell has let Henry realise the riches to be gained, the gold he could have to fill his coffers, the property he could sell to the highest bidders. Before the Bill is even penned and passed through Parliament, Sawley Abbey in Yorkshire has been sold to Sir Arthur Darcy. This is not the way forward, it is not the path to betterment; it is gluttony and makes our motives for reform questionable.

  My arguments are lost. Male voices being louder than female, and my influence over the king less than it once was, I feel my feet slipping from beneath me, my hold on the reform policy picked from my pocket. Like everything else it undermines my security, increases my unease. Each time I enter a room I cast about for enemies, and more often than not find Jane Seymour’s brothers hovering like wasps, with their stings at the ready.

  At night when Henry comes to my bed, after he has loved me we lie in the dark and he speaks of his inner fears. In the black of night I can pretend that nothing has changed, that all is as it ever was. He places his hands on my belly, silently asking if there are any signs of pregnancy, but I have to disappoint him, tell him there is no hint that I have yet conceived. He falls back on the pillow and sighs.

  “I am the last Tudor, Anne. Why does God not send me a prince? Have I offended him? Is he punishing me? Punishing us?”

  I stroke his damp brow. “No, my love. There has not yet been time. We must give it a while, our prince will come.”

  I smother his face in kisses and urge him to love me again, but in truth, I fear he may be right. Perhaps I am barren. Cursed!

  Whenever I can I pray, my knees growing stiff and roughened from kneeling. I am like Catherine, praying and praying to a God who does not heed me. But the difference between Catherine and I is that whilst she resorted to prayer alone, I am not content to do so. I am a queen and can indulge in politics just as effectively as Cromwell.

  Part Five

  Traitor

  March 1536 – Hampton Court

  The caged birds at the window sing gaily of the spring, their song filling the chamber with brightness. I am being idle, teasing grass and pieces of stick from Porquoi’s coat. He lies across my lap, from time to time licking my hand in gratitude. He is growing fat, and I make a note to feed him fewer treats and make the grooms exercise him more vigorously. The English tongues at court, making their usual chaos of the French language, have long since degenerated his lovely name ‘Porquoi’ into ‘Purkoy,’ and I find myself using it too. It suits him somehow. He is everyone’s favourite, and I often have to seek him out when he has followed one of the servants from the room, or secreted himself beneath the skirts of one of my ladies.

  Nan comes breezily into the room. “Good morrow, Your Grace. The king has just arrived back from the hunt, did you not hear the furore in the courtyard?”

  “Thank you, Nan.” I lift Purkoy from my lap. “Look after the dogs for me, please. I have something I wish to discuss with the king before he closets himself with his council.”

  I get up and move toward the door, the dogs following expectantly. “No!” I order them back to the hearth. “Stay.” As I hurry along the corridor I can hear them creating a fuss, lifting their voices in a conjoined howl. I smile as I picture them with their noses pointing Heavenward, lamenting the fact of our parting, although I shall be gone no more than an hour.

  Henry is distracted, his brow furrowed. We both need to get away, escape from court and the constant barrage of problems that beset us, if just for a little while. I try to get his attention, tear his mind from matters of state, but I fail. “Later, Sweetheart,” he says, absent-mindedly patting my shoulder. “I will come to you later and we can talk about it then.”

  I turn away and march crossly back to my apartment. I am so distracted I do not notice Nan’s red eyes, or the way the women tread so carefully around me for the rest of the afternoon. Neither do I notice that someone is missing from my household. I take myself early to bed and wait for Henry, promising that if he fails to come, I will go in search of him.

  Yet he does come, much, much later, creeping guiltily through the door like a clandestine lover. He sits heavily on the bed, his sigh a gust of winter air.

  “What is it, Henry? What troubles you?”

  He doesn’t answer right away but rakes his fingers through his hair, easing back onto the pillow, resting his injured leg carefully on the mattress. “Does your leg trouble you? Shall I call for someone?”

  “No, no. It is not that. Anne … Anne, I have something to tell you. Something you will not like to hear … it is difficult …”

  A wave of anger. It is her again. He has been misbehaving. “Maybe it is best I don’t hear it, then.” The tart words emerge from clenched teeth, and his hand tightens on my knee when he hears and understands my rising fury.

  “Nay, it isn’t that, Anne. It is your little dog, Purkoy.”

  “Purkoy?” Only then do I realise he wasn’t there to greet me when I returned from Henry’s apartment. Urien was there, but not his companion, not Purkoy. “Where is he? What have they done with him?”

  I do not know what I mean by the question. I am only certain that some ill has befallen him. I see him in my mind’s eye, his little white curly head cocked questioningly, his black eyes gleaming with mischief, the soothing feel of his soft coat. “Where is he?” I repeat with rising panic.

  Henry takes hold of me, draws me close to him, but I pull away, forcing him to look at me as he tells me the news.

  “There were none in your household brave enough to break the news. I am sorry to be the one to tell you but, Purkoy, well, he had an accident …”

  “How? When? What happened?”

  Henry sighs. “You know how he loved to bark at the cage birds? Well, he jumped up, barking, on to the sill and … and well, the window was open … and he fell … he broke his neck …”

  “Fell? Oh, my dear God.” Tears are pouring from my eyes, my heart breaking. “And I didn’t even notice he was missing, I thought he was out with the grooms or something. Oh Henry, the poor little fellow …” I am in his
arms, his chest soft beneath my cheek. He rocks me to and fro like a child, like a baby. My tears fall, absorbed into the priceless material of his doublet.

  “Poor Purkoy … poor, poor Purkoy.”

  2nd April 1536 – Chapel Royal- Greenwich

  As my almoner John Skip’s voice echoes about the vaulted ceiling, the listening congregation sit in stunned silence. I risk a glimpse of Henry beside me, his hands on his knees, his lips compressed into a slash. The shocked stillness rings in the air, and then feet begin to shuffle, a cacophony of coughs, a murmur of voices. Henry stands up and I follow his example. Without taking my elbow in his usual manner, he stomps along the aisle and through the high-arched doors.

  I follow after, afraid now of my bold action. I see George, he tries to smile, but I have no time to linger. I throw him a look of worried exasperation and hurry after the king.

  As I follow Henry into his apartments, his attendants scurry out, and straight away he turns and points an accusing finger. “You are behind this.”

  There is little point in arguing, I have no defence, but I stand my ground, and raise my chin. “Someone has to try to stop him. Cromwell is at fault here, not me.”

  “But you cannot have him compared to Hamon, the evil wicked minister who deceived his king and oppressed the Jews.”

  I purse my lips, trying to stop my chin from wobbling and betraying my fear. I take a step forward.

  “Henry, this thing is getting out of hand. Yes, some of the monasteries are corrupt and we need to take action, but we cannot condemn all monks on the actions of a few! We should seek to redirect them, not punish them. We must use the monies from the monasteries to educate, to change the way we worship. By stuffing their treasures in your coffers you make yourself look like an anti-Christ. King Ahasuerus at least was deceived by his minister but you, Henry, you are aware of Cromwell’s intentions and seem to be in full support.”

  “Anti-Christ!” he bellows, his face purple with rage. “You forget yourself, Madam, you are not Esther. You are a nobody raised by my hand. I can just as easily strike you down again.”

  The threat hovers in the air between us. We stare at each other, his blue eyes open wide, his mouth narrowed. When he shouts, his cheeks wobble; he has put on weight since his accident, now that he can no longer hunt from dawn ‘til dusk.

  “I thought you wanted to be loved by the people. What happened to the noble prince you dreamed of becoming? Have you forgotten all that? All ready? Must greed steal away every inch of your goodness? You are not the king I fell I love with.”

  I turn away from him, shaking my head, hating the argument but determined not to be cowed by him. He continues to bombard me with accusations

  “And what was all that nonsense about Solomon and his many wives and concubines? Was that supposed to make me see the error of my ways? If you must scold me about my dalliances then do so in private, not in public, and certainly not in chapel! I will take to my bed whoever pleases me, and you, Madam, have no say in the matter.”

  I shake my head. A tear drops upon my cheek but I dash it away. He stands before the window, obliterating the light, his spine rigid, his head erect. I know I will not reach him, he might as well be lost to me, and all I can think to do is run away.

  I run to find George.

  He is waiting in my chambers and when I enter, he springs from his chair. “Anne. That was a stupid risk to take. What were you thinking?”

  Even George is against me in this.

  “I had to try to make him see sense. Sometimes Henry needs someone to hold up a mirror and show him his reflection is flawed.”

  George relieves me of my prayer book, takes away my wrap, playing the part of a lady-in-waiting. “I sent the women away,” he says, apologetically. “I thought you’d not mind.”

  I nod, only half noticing how cosy he has made the room in my absence. I sit down and ease off my shoes, kick them onto the floor before the hearth. Holding my toes to the flames, I wriggle them and rotate my ankles. The smile I manage to muster dies before it is half born, and my mouth trembles. These damned tears. Why don’t they stop? I feel I’ve been crying forever.

  “What about Cromwell?” George squats at my knee, his hands about mine, our fingers entwined in my lap. “Your distrust of him is out in the open now.”

  I lay my head on the back of my chair. “It is a relief. I dislike deception. I would rather see my enemy clearly than have him hide behind a friendly face. And it is good for once to be compared to Esther rather than Salome. It makes a happy change.”

  “Cromwell is an unpleasant enemy.”

  “I have Cranmer on my side. He should counteract the underhand dealings of the draper’s boy.”

  He laughs quietly, straightens up, letting his fingers trail across my face.

  “Have I made a huge mistake, George?”

  He looks uncertain. “I hope not but next time, tell me your plans before you take action, especially if they are as wild as this one. You know I will always guide you well.”

  I grab for his hand again, hold it to my cheek. “I know. You are the only one I can trust now.” After a pause, I blink up at him through my tears. “I expect he is with her now. I have driven him into her arms.”

  The court talks of nothing else. I am now officially in opposition to Cromwell’s reforms. I stand for neither Rome, nor for total monastic censure. It is an uneasy position to be in. Conversation ceases at my approach, even my most trusted women cannot help but gossip behind their hands. At least they have stopped speculating about Henry and Jane. And at least they know my support is for reform, not suppression. At least it must be plain, even to my deadliest enemies, that I am for the king and what is good for the future of England.

  Henry doesn’t stay angry with me for long, but he vents his wrath on poor Skip, and then Dr Latimer, who preaches a similar reprimand a few days later. I soon realise that our row meant very little, it was just another marital spat. They seem to be increasing lately.

  But everybody has them.

  Within two days he is back in my bed, his sulks forgotten in our quest to make another prince. There is nothing lacking in our marriage bed now, and he makes love to me with as much skill as I could ask for. We have been together long enough to know exactly what is pleasing, and what is not. Henry is easily bought and as soon as I begin to feel secure in his love again, I begin to quietly campaign for John Skip’s return to favour.

  For championing my cause, the poor man has been hauled before the council on charges of slandering the King’s Highness, his councillors, his lords and nobles, and his whole Parliament. I work on Henry subtly so he is scarcely aware of my wiles. If a queen cannot support her friends, she is no queen indeed.

  18th April 1536 – Greenwich

  As soon as we enter the chamber, George and I fall back against the door, convulsing with laughter. The ladies gathered at the hearth look up, surprised to see us holding our middles, tears streaming down our faces.

  George recovers first. He goes deeper into the room, among my attendants, wiping his tears. “Oh, you should have seen his face, Jane.” For once he is civil to his wife; he places a hand on her shoulder and I see her flush, and glance longingly up at him.

  “Who?” She glances eagerly from her husband to me and back again.

  “Chapuys. I don’t know when I have seen a fellow so ill at ease. He would not have looked more uncomfortable if he’d been tricked into shaking hands with Satan.”

  I join them, bounce onto cushions, my heart light. Nan scurries forward with a tray of refreshments and takes my gloves and wrap, puts my prayer book on the table. “What has happened?” she asks. “I’ve never seen you laugh so much.”

  “Chapuys was finally forced to acknowledge Anne. For years, ever since she came to court, he has shunned her and managed to avoid a meeting.”

  I interrupt George, eager to give my side.

  “His refusal to acknowledge me has always angered Henry. I suggested to him that ther
e might be a way to force his hand, if Chapuys could be persuaded to attend Mass with George.”

  “And while Mass was being offered the king, with Anne in tow, suddenly emerged from the royal pew on his way to the altar to accept the blessing.”

  I interject again.

  “We came face to face in front of everybody and after just a little hesitation, he bowed and offered me two candles to burn on the altar.”

  It is a great triumph, my ladies exclaim, and clap their hands at our victory, but they do not see the funny side, having not been witness to his dismayed face, the sweat that popped out on his forehead. It was as good as a play.

  As ambassador of Spain, Chapuys’ acknowledgement amounts to acceptance from the Emperor. He is now wedged tightly between the disapproval of his Spanish master and the displeasure of the English king. It pleases me greatly to see him so discomforted. The affair has made me very happy. Not the acceptance of a greasy-haired foreigner, but the fact that Henry puts enough store by me to think that Spain’s acknowledgment of his queen is worth his notice.

  April 29th 1536 – Greenwich

  My courses are late but I dare not tell the king lest I be mistaken. I do not think he can bear another disappointment. The whispers about court are not comforting. The gossips say that Henry is tired of me, convinced I cannot bear a healthy child. They say he means to put me aside and marry Jane, although how he can put aside his legal wife is beyond my comprehension.

  George swears it is nothing but gossip, for Henry has said nothing of it to him, and they play tennis together every day. The rumours make it hard for me not to run to him and declare I am with child. To prevent myself I have to sit on my hands, mentally tie myself into my seat. I have to be certain. There is no point in telling him until I am sure.