The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn (10 page)

His eyes sweep the chamber, his smile fading when he notices me waiting in the shadows. He makes a small bow, my nebulous status making him uncertain how to greet me. The king’s mistress demands no special etiquette, but the king’s future wife? A future queen? That is something different. Both he and I know that one day soon he will greet me on his knees.

“Did you hear that, Sweetheart? Wolsey promises it shall be a matter of months!”

“I will do my best, Your Majesty.” Wolsey is as red as his robes, his laugh nervous. He fumbles at his cassock. “Your Majesty, there are other matters I need to discuss with you, erm … in private.”

Henry, pleased with the news from Rome, slaps him on the back. “Of course, Thomas, of course, but the morning will suit us better.”

Now it is Henry who is blushing, embarrassed at the unintended inference of his words.  Taking pity on him, I put down the lute and glide to his side, place one hand on the king’s sleeve and hold out the other for Wolsey’s salute. “Good night, Wolsey, the king and I appreciate your efforts on our behalf very much.”

Dismissed by the king’s concubine, Wolsey’s colour increases
, but there is nothing he can do except bend before me to leave his salute upon the back of my hand.

“My Lady,” he murmurs before turning to Henry. “
Your Majesty.” And he takes his leave, disempowered by a slip of a girl … at least for the moment.

My satisfaction does not last long. All the next morning Henry is closeted with the cardinal, while I am left to wander the palace corridors at a loose end, anxious to know what the next step in the king’s Great Matter will be.  When at last the door to the privy chamber opens, and Wolsey hurries away bent upon the king’s business, I slip inside. “Henry, what took so long? I thought your council would never end.”

He turns to face me and I notice he looks a little pale. “Shall we take a turn about the gardens?” I ask, anxious that he should have some fresh air, but he holds out his hand.

“No, Anne. Come here. I must talk with you. Come, sit here, on my knee.”

I rush to his side, perch upon his lap, glad to feel his big hands slide about  my waist, his kiss upon my cheek.

He speaks hesitantly, thinking over his words before uttering them, but five minutes have not passed before I leap from his embrace, pulling my hand away from his. “Go back to Hever? Are you mad? Why should I do that? I will lose what little status I have managed to gain in your court. You mean to reinstate Catherine, don’t you? Wolsey has persuaded you!”

“No, no. Don’t be foolish. Wolsey thinks …”

“I don’t care what Wolsey thinks,” I sob, “and you … you should care what I think, not some fat old priest.”

Henry is shocked. He looks about him as if he fears
Heavenly forces will strike me dead. His lips narrow, he tucks his chin into his neck, his blue eyes piercing and severe. He clears his throat. “I invited the cardinal to speak his mind. He is my chief advisor and as such is at liberty to do so. Anne, what he says makes a lot of sense. He says it will not sit well with the Pope or the cardinals if I am seen to be estranged from Catherine. He says I must at least be seen to be doing my best to be a faithful spouse.”

“So you are going back to Catherine! I can’t believe you would do this to me …
after all I have given up for you!”

“I am not going back to her. I am just putting distance between you and I, for the sake of our future, and it breaks my heart to do so.”

He does indeed look distraught. There are two straight lines above the bridge of his nose which I have learned only become visible at times of great stress.

“How long for?
Won’t I see you at all?”

He crosses the room and takes my hands in his. “Not for long, Anne. I couldn’t bear it if it were long.
As soon as the annulment comes through I shall summon you back to my side – as my betrothed.”

That sounds a little better and I draw some comfort from his reluctance to be parted from me. “I couldn’t bear to be away from you for long.”

He is delighted by my admission and lifts my hands to his mouth. His lips are hot on my fingers, sending snakes of desire through my belly, feelings that I must hide lest he think me wanton.

***

I am awoken early, George’s wife pulling urgently at my bedcovers. “Anne, wake up. Alys is sick.”

I sit up, blink blearily about the chamber. The casement is open and I remember waking in the night, finding the room starved of air, and throwing it open. I recall leaning on the sill, inhaling the scent of roses from the moonlit garden. Now the blue-black dark is replaced by bright sunshine, the birds are singing
, and a fat bumblebee is beating his head against the window.

“Anne, did you hear what I said?”

I blink at her stupidly, shake my head to chase away sleep. “No, Jane. I am sorry. What did you say?”

She is still in her nightgown, her hair tied in loose braids, a robe thrown across her shoulders.
“Alys. You recall she retired to her bed early with a headache? Well, now she shivers and sweats and calls out in delirium.”

Now Jane has my attention. Fear runs like icy water across my body. “Is it the Sweat?”

“We fear so.”

I slide from the mattress, thrust my feet into slippers, tie on my wrap. “Where is George? Perhaps it is as well we are leaving for
Hever today. Has the king been told?”

Jane is pulling on her stockings, thrusting her hair beneath a cap. She looks up at me. “The king has already gone, Anne. He and the queen left as soon as the news was abroad.”

“Without saying goodb –”

Her look of triumph cuts short my sentence. I swallow my sudden jealousy as the picture of Henry hurrying his wife to safety sends a twist of grief deep into my bowels. He protects Catherine from contagion and leaves me to cope as best I can
, because I am nothing but his concubine.

The sweating sickness is a dreadful thing; striking suddenly and leaving its victims dead in just one night.
Few survive it. Henry, who lives in fear of infection, always flees at the merest suggestion of an outbreak. I am not surprised he has gone, but I am surprised he has abandoned me. I must look to my own safety.

“Go and find George,” I say. “Tell him to order the horses made ready. We must leave as soon as possible.”

For once, she doesn’t argue. The door slams behind her and I hear her feet scurrying along the passage. Her obedience is indicative of her own fear. She would usually argue that she is not my servant but my sister-in-law, and demand that I summon a page.

As my things are gathered together I try not to think of Catherine’s triumph. She will feel she has won him back and that I have lost. I know that none of her household will be sorry to see me parted from the king. Those about court who have gravitated to my side will be left in limbo, afraid to speak out in my defence and reluctant to sneak back to Catherine’s faction.

Faction.
What a word that is. I had never dreamed it would come to it, but Henry’s court has divided in two. Those loyal to Catherine and her particularly mundane method of worship shun me whenever they can, and I resent their temporary return to prominence. Those who prefer my more liberal approach to life and Christianity will now be left out in the cold.

But only until I return.
Wolsey must convince the legate to find in the king’s favour, and Catherine can go to a nunnery where she can pray in peace for the rest of her days. Then, and only then, can I finally take my place as Henry’s queen. It is what the king deserves. It is what I deserve and I will have it, if I can only escape this contagion.

We take horse across the countryside toward
Hever. It has been a dry summer so far and the fields are parched, the roads thick with dust that rises in great choking clouds, stinging our eyes, coating our clothes, laying like a mask across my face. To avoid it, I spur my mount forward so that I am at the head of the party. George, enjoying the chase, joins me, hallooing as he raises his whip and tries to take the lead.

My skirts billow in the breeze
and my hat bounces on my head but I lean further forward, feeling my horse’s mane flick against my chin. Laughing aloud I risk a glance at my brother, whose face stretches in a grimace of exhilaration, his laughter lost in the wind. He brings down his whip again and his mount surges forward, forcing me to dig in my heels harder. Behind us, Jane bumps along unsteadily, her cries for us to slow down ignored. She will be unforgiving later, and George will suffer.

We pause on the rise to look down upon the rooftops of
Hever, and the gardens laid out like fine embroidered handkerchiefs. The chimneys are smoking, the windows glinting in welcome. As we reach the meadow the sheep raise their heads, ruminating slowly, their big eyes blinking. Exchanging glances, George and I dig in our heels and our horses take flight again as we hare through the grass, scattering sheep and raising dust.

By the time I have washed the grime of the road from my face and hands and changed into a fresh gown, I realise I am exhausted. I long to sink into the mattress and lose myself in sleep
, but a meal is waiting, a reunion with family and traditions of old. We sit around the old table just as we did as children, and I try not to mind Grandmother slurping at her soup. Despite the exertions of the ride, I have little appetite. I toy with my food and try to concentrate on the conversation. Mother is speaking, suggesting that she should come with me on my return to court. “I think you are in need of a proper chaperone now, Anne.”

A
comic picture flits through my mind of her valiantly defending me from the hot advances of the king.

R
umours about her have circulated for years, linking her name with Henry’s in their youth. She was and still is a good-looking woman, but Henry swears there was nothing between them beyond a few dances. I choose to believe him; it is hard enough to imagine Mary in his bed, let alone my mother. Poor Henry, what is it with him and the Boleyn women? I wonder what he makes of Grandmother.

T
he whole situation suddenly strikes me as ridiculous and a bubble of laughter escapes me, making everyone look up from their dinner.

“What is so funny?” George
asks, his eyebrow quirked, ready to share the joke.

“Nothing, nothing at all.”
I look into my bowl where slices of carrot swim like fishes, the candlelight dancing like sunshine on the surface of a lake.

“Are you all right?”

I drop my spoon, splashing soup over my bodice.

“Yes, yes. I am fine, just a little headachy after the ride.”

George leans toward me. “Anne, are you sure? You look hot, and your hands are trembling.”

He is right. I clench them together for a moment before trying to pick up my spoon again. It is heavy, as heavy as lead. I drop it again and slump back in my chair. “Perhaps, George, I am not myself after all. Could you help me to my bed? I do feel suddenly so very tired.”

I stand up, my chair falling backwards, and sway on my feet, grabbing for the table. Everyone leaps from their places. George’s hand is instantly beneath my elbow, and Mother calls for a servant to stoke the fire in my chamber. Father stands anxiously at the door, dabbing his mouth with a napkin, his face white, his own hands shaking like one palsied while my brother ushers me from the room. Only Grandmother remains at table. Unaware of the drama around her, she stoically spoons up her soup, slurping like one of Father’s hounds.

I
suddenly feel very tall, as if my head is several yards from my feet and my knees do not belong to me at all. Although my head feels light, my neck is not strong enough to hold it up. Just as the room is about to tip over my head, George whisks me into his arms. He takes the stairs two at a time, yelling as he goes for someone to summon a doctor.

Rivers of ice run through my veins and I cannot control my shaking limbs, not even when they tuck
warm bricks beneath the blankets. I am so very, very cold, and I know I will never be warm again.

I throw back the blankets, my mind teeming with demons, the people around me made monstrous by my imaginings. “Henry,” I cry
, and grasp his hand tightly when he comes to me. “Henry, don’t let them hurt me.”

“No, hush,” he replies in George’s voice, and I remember Henry is far away, cowering
from the fever with his accursed wife.

For an instan
t I recall I am at Hever and I am ill, and then I plunge once more into the nightmare. Thin spiteful fiends are torturing me, they prod me, pull me. They tie a metal helmet about my skull, a helmet that seems to grow ever smaller, shrinking, pinching my brain, my head pincered in a huge claw – excruciating pain. 

Someone places a damp cloth upon my brow, I smell lavender and marigold and I am in the garden with Henry again, his big laugh filling my ears, his hand warm on my arm.

“She is hotter than ever.”

The cloth is
removed, another applied. I toss and turn like a lost soul at sea, my bed heaving and lurching beneath me.

“She will never be queen,” someone sneers, “she is just a whore, like her sister
…”