The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn (14 page)

“That dark
-haired man who follows Wolsey around, as soft-footed as a sloth?”

“That’s the fellow, yes.
The draper’s son. He isn’t as callow as he first appears; you should nurture his good will, Anne. He could help us in our cause.”

“Perhaps.”
I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve while George turns his attention to Mary.

“You have a cat, Mary. How are you? I’ve not seen you in a while,” he asks, for
all the world as if he has a care for her affairs. “And how are the little ones?”

She does not deign to answer but picks up our former conversation. “Which cause do you refer to, George?
The reform of the Church, or our sister’s entrapment of the king?”

“Entrapment?
That is a harsh word for it, Mary. I suppose, were he our friend, the fellow could help with both. I know he is a reformer but were he to champion Anne as future queen, I can think of no one better placed to influence the cardinal.”

I fidget in my seat, drawing George’s attention. “What is it, Anne?”

“Oh, nothing. It is just that I have been trying not to think of it, the divorce, the Pope, the cardinals. I want it to be all over and done with so that the king and I can get down to the business of breeding our prince.”

“I am sorry to have brought it up again.”

“It is never very far from my mind. I keep trying to find ways of distracting myself. I need a worthy cause to fight for. All I ever seem to do is rage in vain against Catherine and the Pope, and all the while I have to battle to keep Henry’s affection within the bounds of decency.”

I cast a guilty look in Mary’s direction but she is tempting the kitten from beneath the table and appears to be paying me no mind.

“What did you make of that book I gave you?”

“Tyndale? Oh, he is a wise man, expresses himself so well that even the most catholic of men would come round to his point of view.”

“Did you show it to the king?”

“Good
Lord, no. He wouldn’t like it at all. He found me with a copy of Luther’s On the Bondage of the Will and swore it was blasphemous. I had to lie to him and pretend I had found it lying around, picked it up out of idle curiosity. I don’t think he would like Tyndale any better, especially since he is against the divorce.”

George casts a quick glance at Mary
, who is still engaged with the kitten. He leans forward, his arms resting on his knees. “I was thinking of the section where he speaks out against popes, and advocates that kings should answer to no one but God.”

“Oh but, I mean … the Pope is indispensable
…”

“Is he?” My voice trails off as George shuffles even closer. I lean toward him, our heads almost touching. “Just imagine, Anne.
If Henry were head of the Church and not the Pope ... what then? What difference would that make to him, and to you?”

I sit back, a frown upon my brow as I try to imagine the world that George’s words are painting. No Pope, just Henry standing
betwix God and the English people. No Pope, no Roman Church to lord it over us. Henry is a great king, but with the Pope out of the way he would be … I gasp and sit up straight, my eyes boring into George’s.

“Do you see, Anne? Do you see what I am saying?”

I nod slowly, my stomach churning, my head reeling as if I am balanced on the edge of a great chasm. Can I risk his anger and persuade the king to read Tyndale’s book? Henry hates the man, swears his words are blasphemy, but now I wonder if he can be brought to see how Tyndale’s beliefs can serve him, serve us both. Can I get the king to change his mind?

It is as if the door keeping Henry and I apart has opened just a chink, and a blinding light is shining on the other side, tempting us forward. I grip my brother’s hand and he lifts our entwined fingers to his mouth, covers my knuckles with kisses. “You can do this, Anne,” he whispers. “If anyone can, it is you.”

The royal barge cuts through dark green water, the expert oarsman making scarcely a ripple on the surface of the river. It is the perfect autumn day. I lie back on cushions, screened from the public gaze by curtains, while around me my friends are gathered and a little way off, a fellow with merry brown eyes strums a lute. We are on our way to Greenwich and I am inwardly burning with excitement. Beside me, reclining at the feet of our cousin, Madge Shelton, I know George is burning too.

His wife, Jane, sits a little way off
, scowling at their blatant flirtation. I should kick George, make him sit up and behave, but today I am too excited. The thing for which my brother and I have striven is finally coming to pass. The cardinal is to be arrested and charged with Praemunire. For the first time, Henry has decided to take action to stop Wolsey in his crusade against us.

I raise my eyes
to the calm, pretty face of Nan Gainsford, a newcomer to my household. I discovered shortly after her arrival, that we both share a zeal for reform that made us instant friends. It was Nan who let my copy of Tyndale fall into the hands of her betrothed, George Zouche, and as we had guessed he would, he carried it straight to Wolsey. The cardinal, eager to denounce my household as a breeding ground for heresy, lost no time in showing it to the king. Closing my eyes, I lie back on my cushions, and as the smooth green water carries me onward I recall the encounter that followed.

“I was intrigued, Henry,” I pleaded, “for I’ve been told his wisdom and had to read it for myself. Are you not also curious?” Clutching the banned book to my bosom, I maintained his gaze for a few moments, opening my eyes wide. Then I held out the book. “Read it yourself, My Lord. Be your own judge, do not let others determine what you shall or shall not read. You are the king, and you should be the one to decide what is heresy and what is not. Why should anyone dictate to you?”

His nostrils flare
d, his eyes narrowed, but he slowly reached out and took the book from me. He turned away, loosening the catch and opening the cover. For some time the only sound was the crackling flames in the grate and the soft hush of turning pages.

I watch
ed him from the corner of my eye. It was the first time I dared to lure him toward reform; before this, I kept my opinions of religion to myself. As he became further engrossed in Tyndale’s words, his breathing slowed, became audible. He settled more comfortably into his seat, turning the pages with his jewelled fingers while I waited, poised on the edge of a stool, my hands twisted in my lap, barely daring to breathe.

When
he finally looked up from the page, he was pensive. He made as if to speak to me but hesitated, bowed over my hand, took his leave of me and disappeared from the chamber with Tyndale’s book clasped tightly beneath his arm. I waited in my apartments, biting my nails as to the outcome of the revelation.

It
was a big risk, the book could either sway Henry to our cause or turn him fully against it. But slowly, over the next days and weeks, Henry’s arguments become tinged with Tyndale’s philosophies. When the Pope retracts his permission for the divorce to be tried in England, Henry’s rage is peppered with questions like: Why should the Pope hold sway over the English people? Shouldn’t a man’s conscience be between himself and God alone? What right has Rome over the governing of England?

Hiding the gleam of triumph in my eye, I allow the king to believe he has worked it all out for himself. And now, within just a few weeks of planting the first seeds of reform into his mind
, Henry has struck the first blow against Wolsey and the power of Rome.

Cardinal Wolsey was a rich man. Now, stripped of his offices, he retires to York while Henry appropriates his property. Among them is York Place, the house where Henry first laid eyes on me all those years ago, when we both played a part in the Chateau Vert. That fateful day when he mistook me for Mary and hefted me over his shoulder and ran away with me seems so long ago now. Had anyone told me then that Henry and I would be planning to build a house together, I would have laughed in their face. Then, I was a silly untried girl, but now, just a few years later, I am soon to be queen.

How strange is fate?

One afternoon in late October
, Henry and I, closely chaperoned by my mother who now rarely leaves my side, go upriver to examine the house and see what use we can make of it. It is to be a pleasant, informal jaunt with only a handful of attendants. We have left royal pomp and ceremony behind us at Greenwich.

As soon as we climb the river steps and pass through the garden and look upon the house in its river setting, I realise that it is perfect. It owns a prime position on the Thames, offering easy access to Greenwich and Richmond, yet
is still close to Henry’s favourite hunting country. The friendly façade welcomes me. It is like coming home.

Every one of Henry’s palaces shows evidence of Catherine
. Her initials are everywhere, entwined with Henry’s; her heavy Spanish influence in the furnishings, the cushions and hangings fashioned by her own hands. I have a hankering for our own palace, a place where I can make my own mark, and have my own emblem emblazoned on the walls, the hangings of my own choosing.

We spend a pleasant afternoon strolling arm in arm through the rooms, our footsteps echoing in the empty house as we note the richness of the fabrics, the fine carvings and finials.

“We can hold court here, without Catherine,” I say, disengaging Henry’s arm and beginning to investigate each cupboard, nook and cranny.

“It isn’t big enough, my sweet,” he replies in his most indulgent tone and, turning to face him, I place my hands on my hips and let the enthusiasm blaze in my eye.

“We will make it big enough. You are the king, you can do anything. We can add private apartments and wine cellars, extend the kitchens and build a great hall big enough to house half of Europe.”

“Only half?”
He is laughing at me but I don’t mind. Now that we no longer have to rely on Wolsey’s bumbling over the divorce, I know that my time is near. Catherine is on her way out and I will soon be queen. I spin around happily.

“Just think, Henry. Our son will be born here
, and all our children. These halls will ring with the sound of their laughter.”

“Anne.” He crosses the room in three strides, takes my hands in his, his eyes awash with hope. “Do you really believe so?”

“Oh yes, My Lord. I know so. I can feel it in my bones.”

“In that case,
my love, we will turn it into a shining white palace fit to house King Arthur himself!”

The gap left by Wolsey in the administration of the realm is quickly filled by my adherents. My father, soon to be made the Earl of Wiltshire, becomes Lord Privy Seal, and Uncle Thomas is made Lord Treasurer. Together with Suffolk, who despite having no love for me shares a dislike of cardinals, they step into Wolsey’s red shoes and do battle to obtain the king’s desires.

With the cardinal fallen
, they take the opportunity to whip up a frenzy for Church reform while I whisper into the king’s ear that, just as Wolsey was not his superior but his subject, so the Pope is no friend to England. As we had wished, Henry launches an attack against the clergy, forbidding them from keeping taverns, prohibiting them from gambling, hunting and whoring. He passes a law against plurality of office, ensuring that each parish has a permanent cleric in residence. Henry has learnt that, as a divinely elected king, the Pope holds no sway over his decisions. From now on, England’s king will be ruled by no one lower than God himself.

At this time, two other men step from the shadows of obscurity. One is a man whose soft tread and sharp ears quickly prove invaluable
, both to my cause and to that of Church reform.

Thomas Cromwell is a discreet, unassuming man. He listens quietly to counsel and then, without seeming to do so, demolishes a presented proposal and replaces it with one of his own. His face is long, his methods are subtle, and his desire for reform cold-blooded. I do not like Master Thomas Cromwell, his origins are far too evident
, but he is clever, and soon becomes indispensable. Unlike many at Henry’s court, he treats me as if I am already his queen.

The other fellow, another Thomas, this one by the name of Cranmer, is altogether more likeable than Cromwell. He is a clergyman, keen for reform, and
is already the Boleyn family chaplain. Henry is impressed when he meets him and shortly afterwards raises him up, sends him on diplomatic business overseas in the company of my father as part of his diplomatic entourage.

The stage is set, I am acknowledged by all who are wise enough, as Henry’s future queen. My family’s fortune is in ascendance and I am happy …
all but for one thing.

*
**

Henry orders Mother to wait in the outer chamber. She cannot argue with the king
, but she frowns a silent warning as I pass blithely into his inner sanctum. The room is softly lit; the glow of candlelight reflecting from the mirrors, the firelight dancing seductively on the walls. A table is laden with a sumptuous repast.

With a flick of his hand he dismisses his page. The boy bows and backs away, leaving Henry to serve me himself. Leaning close, he bubbles wine into my cup, his now familiar fragrance filling my head. With a great sigh, he puts down the jug, runs a finger along my face
. In response, I tilt my head toward him, trapping his warm hand against my neck.