The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn

The Kiss

of
the

Concubine

Judith Arnopp

For Sally, with love

Copyright © JudithArnopp2013

First Edition

The author has asserted their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Cover photo:
Andrey Kiselev | Dreamstime.com

Edited by
Cas Peace

The Kiss

of

The Concubine

It is almost midnight and January has Whitehall Palace clenched in its wintery fist. The gardens are rimed with frost, the casements glazed with ice. Like a shadow, I wait alone by the window in the silver-blue moonlight, my eye fixed on the bed.

The room is crowded, yet nobody speaks.

I tread softly a
mong them. The flickering torchlight illuminates a sheen of anticipation on their faces, the rank odour of their uncertainty rising in a suffocating fug. Few can remember the time that went before, and both friend and foe balance upon the cusp of change, and tremble at the terror of the unknown.

I move through the heavily perfumed air, brush aside jewelled velvet sleeves. At the high-canopied bed I sink to my knees and observe his face for a long moment. He is changed. This is not the man I used to know.

They have propped him on pillows, the vast belly mountainous beneath the counterpane, and the yellow skin of mortality’s mask is drawn tightly across his cheeks. There is not much time and before death can wipe his memory clean, I speak suddenly into his ear, a whisper meant only for him. “Henry!”

The king’s eyes fly open and his eyeballs swivel from side to side, his disintegrating ego peering as if through the slits in a mummer’s mask.

He knows me, and understands why I have come.

He whimpers like a frightened child and Anthony Denny steps forward and leans over the bed.
“Your Majesty, Archbishop Cranmer has been summoned; he cannot be long now.”

Henry’s fat fingers tremble as he grips the coverlet, his pale lips coated with thick spittle as he tries to speak. I move closer, my face almost touching his, and the last rancid dregs of his breath engulf me. “They think you fear death, Henry. But you fear me more, don’t you,
my Lord?”

“Anne?”

The sound is unintelligible, both a denial and a greeting, but it tells me what I need to know. He recognises and fears my presence. Those assembled begin to mutter that the king is raving, talking with shadows.

I sink into the mattress beside him and curl my body around his bulk. “How many times did we share this bed, Henry?” His breathing is laboured now and sweat drips from his brow, the stench of his fear exceeded only by that of his festering thigh. I tighten my grip upon him. “Did you ever love me, Henry? Oh, I know that you lusted but that isn’t the same. Do you remember how you burned for me, right to the end?”

I reach out to run my fingertip along his cheek and he leaps in fright, like a great fish floundering on a line, caught in a net of his own devising. One brave attendant steps forward to mop the king’s brow as I continue to tease.

“Poor Henry.
Are you afraid even now of your own sins? To win me you broke from Rome, although in your heart you never wanted to. Even the destruction of a thousand years of worship was a small price to pay to have me in your bed, wasn’t it?”

Henry sucks in air and forgets to breathe again. A physician hurries forward, pushes the attendant aside and with great daring, lifts the king’s right eyelid. Henry jerks his head away and the doctor snatches back his hand as if it has been scalded.

Even now they are fearful of him. Although the king can no longer so much as raise his head from his pillow, they still cower. How long will it take for them to forget their fear?

Mumbling apologies, the physician bows and backs away to take his place with the others.
As they watch and wait a little longer, the sound of mumbled prayer increases. “Not long now, Henry,” I whisper like a lover. “It is almost over.”

A door opens
. Cold air rushes into the stifling chamber and Archbishop Cranmer enters, stamping his feet to dislodge the snow from his boots. He hands his outer clothes to a servant before pushing through the crowd to approach the bed, his Bible tucked beneath his arm.

I
playfully poke the end of Henry’s nose. “Time to confess your sins, my husband.” Cranmer takes the king’s hand, his long slim fingers contrasting with the short swollen digits of his monarch. As he begins to mutter the last rites, I put my mouth close to Henry’s ear to taunt him.  “Tell the truth, Hal. Own up to all the lies you told; how you murdered and how you cheated. Go on ….”

But King Henry has lost the power of speech, and cannot make a full confession. Gasping for one more breath he clings tightly to Cranmer’s hand
, and I know there is not long to wait before he is mine again. A single tear trickles from the corner of his eye to be lost upon his pillow.

“It’s time, Henry
,” I whisper. “And I am here, waiting. For a few short years I showed you Paradise and now, perhaps, I can do so again. Unless, of course, I choose to show you Hell.”

England seems small after the glories of the French court, and my father’s house cramped and inconvenient. I am horribly bored kicking my heels in the country, and long for company. Mother is distracted, Father wears a face like a thundercloud, and neither of them pays my arrival home as much heed as I would like. There is no one save George, who is home for a few days.

My brother is always glad to listen to me and pretends
to delight in the stories of my adventures overseas. “You do look fine, Anne,” he says, admiring my fine French-styled clothes. I have grown used to admiration and whereas once I would have blushed and dismissed his words, I am far too elegant to let my discomposure show now I am older. George takes my arm and leads me inside, the interior of the hall suddenly dark after the brilliance of the day. “Have you heard about Mary?” he whispers.

My sister, Mary, has ever had the knack of stealing the attention from me
, and is the centre of things once more. She almost brought disgrace on us by sharing the bed of the French king, but Father has recently managed to marry her off respectably to William Carey. We all imagined that now she was safely wed to a good man, she would settle down to provide Will with a string of infants. But although my parents have not spoken to me of it, I have lately learned that Mary is now enjoying a passionate ‘flirtation’ with King Henry. My sister, it seems, accumulates kings as one might collect butterflies, or compliments.

After supper
, George and I closet ourselves in a small chamber where I poke the slumbering fire back to life. “You can’t blame the king for fancying her, she is so pretty. Not cursed with my long nose and bony chin.”

George laughs and stretches his feet toward the flames. “If I didn’t know you better, Anne, I’d think you were fishing for compliments when you know very well that what you lack in looks
, you make up for with wit.”

He is right; my face does lack
Mary’s softness. Her expression is meek, just as men prefer. To make it worse, she boasts a nature twice as soft as mine. Although I tell myself I’d rather have brains than looks, I don’t want to hear confirmation of my lack of beauty, even if it is only from the lips of my brother. I throw a cushion at his head, but he catches it deftly and laughs at me.

“Poor Anne,” he teases, “is it a sweetheart you are lacking? Don’t worry, sister, soon there will be courtiers aplenty fighting for your favour.”

I try to stop the hot blood from burning my cheeks. “I don’t need a sweetheart. Father is arranging my marriage as we speak, as well you know.”

I am intended for James Butler, the heir of the Ormond estates
, but his father and mine spend overmuch time quibbling over details, protracting the arrangement and leaving me in limbo. Although I have never set eyes on James, I am content with the match. He is young and rich enough to make a good husband, and I have heard no ill stories of him. I trust my father to choose well for me.

George leans forward and offers me a handful of nuts
. I pop two into my cheek, continuing to speak with my mouth full. “Can you imagine Mary in the arms of the king? I am surprised she can think of a thing to say.”

“He won’t care what she says as long as it’s yes.” George laughs, his eyes glinting in the
firelight. He watches me, aware that he has planted unmaidenly pictures in my mind. I have heard that my brother has a way with women, and I can believe the tales. He is good looking, dark like myself but with Mary’s features; a goodly combination for a man.

B
oth Mary and George, it seems, are irresistible to the opposite sex, while I myself have not yet been tempted by any, despite the licentiousness of the French court. Perhaps my reluctance shows; perhaps there is something about me that promises rejection. Whatever the reason, I have never been tempted or even yet kissed; perhaps if I had been, I would have a little more understanding of my sister.

If I were indelicate enough to imagine Mary in a dalliance with any man, I c
ould not visualise her ever refusing. She isn’t the sort to say no. And by that I do not mean that she is in any way cheap, only that her gentleness makes her wary of hurting a fellow’s feelings.

“Anyway,” George continues, “as I said, you can’t blame a man for trying, not when the prize is so full of sweet promise.” Trying to ignore George’s crude inferences, I force my thoughts toward Mary’s husband.

“My sympathies are with poor William. How hard it must be for him to be made so publically a cuckold. What must he be feeling? They’ve only been married a few months.”

“Well, be fair, Anne. He isn’t the first man to be so used and besides, we don’t even know if the
king has so honoured Mary. She might well fend him off and cling to her reputation yet. Although, on the other hand, a romp with the king might be good for all of us. The Carey purse isn’t a long one, and Henry usually looks after his concubines and pays well for a maid’s honour.”

George cannot have forgotten that Mary’s honour was lost some time ago at the French court
, but I don’t remind him. Instead, my mind drifts back to the king.

I glimpsed him once or twice when I was a young girl
, and have never forgotten his overwhelming presence. I cannot imagine ever having the wherewithal to resist such a man. The king does not look like a man who has ever been denied anything. Poor Mary, I’d not be in her shoes, not for all the jewels in the world.

George cracks another walnut in his palms and begins to separate the flesh from the shell. “We will be better able to assess the situation in a week or two when I accompany you to court. You will find it very different to life in France.”

“So I’ve been told. I really need new gowns, but Father says his purse will not stretch to it and I am to make do with what I have.” I pout and look up at George through my lashes, but if I was expecting sympathy, I am sore disappointed. Instead, he gives a shout of laughter that wakes the dog from his slumber. The old hound lifts his head and thumps his tail on the floor.

“Anne! You have more sleeves and headdresses than all of the queen’s ladies put together. Believe me, you will not look ill-turned out beside even Queen Catherine herself.”

He is right and I find myself cheered. I sit up straighter and stretch out my toes, admiring the jewels upon my slippers. “And there will be none with gowns cut in the French mode. I might not be the prettiest of the queen’s ladies, but I can probably manage to be the most stylish.”

“That’s it, Anne, my girl. Astonish both king and court with your style and wit
, and perhaps the gossips will leave Mary alone for a space.”

The Cardinal’s house is crowded. I am drowning in a babble of voices, a thousand candles burning, a crush of bodies, the leaping shadows of the torches on the walls. As Mary helps me into a white satin gown and fastens on my headdress
, I am in a fever of excitement. 

To my relief
, her liaison with the king hasn’t altered her;. She is still my gentle elder sister, overseeing my arrival at court, ensuring I am happily settled.