The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn (16 page)

I might have been happier.

I wonder if Henry feels the same. His quest of me has blown his cosy world asunder. His wife and daughter are estranged from him, half the court murmur against him, and even his friends are turning their backs. And now the Pope threatens to sever all ties with Rome.

Henry is a pious man, a devout Christian. It is not so many years since he earned himself the title ‘Defender of the Faith’ for his treatise on the defence of the seven sacraments. But the days when Henry was young and brimming with youthful ideology have passed. These days he barely listens to anyone as he single-mindedly pursues his own ends.

I pick at my finger, tear a strip from the side of my nail, making it sore. As I pop it into my mouth Henry sits down, his hands on his knees, his eyes on the floor. Then he gets up again and begins to pace about the room. It seems a long while before Cromwell is announced.

Cromwell’s advice has been sought m
ore and more of late. He is an astute man, putting the desires of the king before everything else, even his own wishes. We are affected by his presence, his cool detached manner, as soon as he enters the room. As always, he is clutching a sheaf of papers. He bows to the king and then graciously inclines his head to me, not as reverently as he will when I am queen, but low enough. I give him a brittle smile before his dark-lashed eyes swivel from my face to the king and back again. “How can I be of service, Your Majesty?”

Henry thrusts the balled
up letter into Cromwell’s chest. He takes it, slowly smoothes out the creases, and begins to read. “Ahh,” he says. “It is as I expected.”

Henry sits again and fixes the secretary with his eye. “If you expected this then I assume you have already concocted a remedy.”

Cromwell smiles slowly and inclines his head again. “Indeed, Your Majesty, I have a remedy of sorts … although I am not sure you will find it completely pleasing.”

Henry gestures him to continue, the jewels on his fingers flashing in the firelight. “Go on, go on, don’t hedge, man. I don’t bite.”

I raise my eyebrows at this but Cromwell doesn’t flinch. He places his papers on the table and takes a seat, presses the tips of his ink-stained fingers together. “Your Grace, I have discussed the remedy with my colleagues and, with one or two exceptions, we all agree that it may be possible ... or even necessary, for you to dispense with the services of Rome altogether and become sole protector and supreme head of the Church in England … and its clergy.”

Henry straightens up, narrows his eyes. I can almost see his brain assimilating the information and envisioning making it so. “As a sort of Pope, you mean?
Head of the state and the church?”

“Yes,
Your Majesty.”

“I would no longer
need to consult Rome on any matter ecclesiastical?”

“No,
Your Majesty.”

“And the revenues from the churches, that would no longer go to Rome?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

Henry looks across the room to me, a gleam in his eye, a half smile playing on his lips. “That would be a blow, to
both Pope Clement and Spain. I can be free of Catherine, free of the Pope, and free to marry as I see fit and get myself an heir. Can this really be done, Cromwell?”

Cromwell inclines his head
, and as the full implications of what this might mean filters through his mind, Henry slaps his thigh in satisfaction. He holds out his arms. “Come here, Sweetheart. Cromwell, my man, sort this out for us and you shall be richer than a Jew. Go now, don’t make me sorry.”

As the secretary bows from the room
, Henry nuzzles into my neck, his tongue sending shivers of delight along my spine. For the rest of the afternoon he is my Henry again, our enemies are all but vanquished and all the old passions are rekindled.

L
ess than a month later, the deed is all but done. Henry declares himself Head of the English Church and clergy, although it takes every inch of Cromwell’s acumen to do so, and even then he has to concede to their reservations by adding the codicil ‘as far as the law of Christ allows.”

Although Henry and I are happy, Cromwell is happy
, and my father and George are ecstatic, not everyone is as delighted as we. There are some courtiers who oppose the move, and even more who oppose our marriage.

Suffolk, as I had guessed, speaks out against me
, as does my aunt, the Duchess of Norfolk. More, I suspect, to spite her unfaithful husband than me. Bishop Fisher dissents, of course, as does Henry’s oldest and heretofore mentor, Thomas More.

I fear Henry’s heart will break at the defection of
‘Dear Tom’, as the King calls him. I hold the king’s hand as he weeps, and try to help him steel himself to accept More’s resignation as Chancellor and look about for a replacement, more sympathetic to our needs.

As word of our plans spread
s, discord breaks out in the streets. We begin to hear tales of a lunatic nun, whom the common people refer to as the Nun of Kent. She defames me in the streets, declaring from the town cross that should Henry marry me, he will die shortly after and that his place in Hell is already marked.

She has long been a thorn in our flesh, speaking out against reform, renouncing
Lutherism and naming me a whore and a disciple of Satan. I would have her hanged, but Henry, although he will not admit it, is afraid. In some parts of the country she is more popular than the king himself, and he is reluctant to stir up rebellion.

To take my mind off it
, I turn my attention to renovating York Place. Soon my chambers are heaped with fabric and hangings as I select the best for our new home. I send for tapestries from Florence, glass from Venice, and as the pile of sumptuous trappings grows, so does the bill from the drapers.

Mary and I are engaged in the vital decision of what colour draperies I should choose for the bedchamber when Henry arrives. I am not expecting him and as I scramble to my feet, a swathe of priceless silk slithers to the floor. “Henry!” I hurry toward him, rise on my toes to kiss his whiskery cheek
, while Mary stays where she is sorting through a pile of samples. By rights she should rise and greet her king in the proper manner, but neither Henry nor I reprimand her.

He leads me into the antechamber and holds out a roll of parchment. “What is it?” I ask, unsure if it be good tidings or bad.

“Open it and see.” He is smiling, so guessing the news is not bad, I break the seal and unroll the missive, begin to scan the contents. As I read, the colour rises in my cheeks, the heat builds up in my face, and my ears begin to ring. “Henry!” I gasp, and look up at him, a hand to my throbbing heart.

He is like a benign uncle, his mouth stretched into a smile, his cheeks as flushed as mine. “I thought it would please you.”

“Please me? Why, it’s, it’s … oh Henry!”

Throwing decorum away
, I fling my arms about his neck, kissing him over and over. For a while he flounders, trying to capture my lips as they fly about his face, until finally he seizes my head, clamps it still and kisses me properly, his mouth fastened over mine and his passion as uncontainable as it has ever been. 

I have won him back, I think
, with a huge surge of relief. I had feared that all was lost but he wants me still. We stumble backwards onto a settle, almost overbalancing it, my skirts tumbling, my legs bared to the knee. As we grapple together like a child wrestling a beast, I laugh as loudly as he. He is a bear of a man, there is nothing I can do to control him, but I don’t want to, not really. But then I remember our prince, and how vital it is that he be born within wedlock. I reluctantly seek to put an end to the tussle.

“My Lord,” I cry, “is this how you would treat a marchioness?”

After a moment Henry sits up, and I hastily straighten my garments, catch my breath, and tuck my hair back beneath my cap. He looks at me sideways as I adjust my garters. “It pleases you then, to be Marchioness of Pembroke?”

My smile is like the sunshine. “It does indeed,
my love. It does indeed.”

Henry and I are alone. Ostensibly, he is listening to the new piece I have been practicing on my lute but in reality he is plucking his bottom lip, deep in thought. I hate it when this mood takes him. He retreats so far into himself that I have no clue to his feelings, I am not party to his problems. When he sighs for the hundredth time, I cease mid-tune and put my instrument down. “What is bothering you, Henry?”

“Hmmm?”
He looks up, dragging himself back from wherever he has been. “What did you say, my dear?”

“I asked what it is that troubl
es you.”

“Have you spoken to George today?”

“George? No, I had a glimpse of him this morning but he was waylaid by his wife. Since I had no wish to be involved in another of their marital disputes, I beat a hasty retreat.”

The king smiles, and sighs again. “There is more trouble, I fear.”

There is always trouble. Catherine is behind it all, I have no doubt about that. She is always harping on about her penury and tribulation, although she is housed in luxury with more than three hundred retainers and no less than fifty ladies in waiting, not bad for a woman who is no longer queen.

I feel my features harden as I think of her
, and it takes some effort to shake away the tension and present Henry with a calm, gentle face. I fail miserably and when my words tumble from my mouth, my voice is full of bitterness and frustration.

“And what does Catherine want from us now,
my love? A liveried servant to exercise her dog?”

He looks up
, surprised at my venom. “No,” he says, “it isn’t Catherine, not this time.”

“Then what is it, Henry?”

He shifts in his seat, turns his eye upon me, his gaze so penetrating that I can feel my colour begin to rise.

“Your dealings with young Percy … how far did t
hey go?”

I open and close my mouth, my cheeks flushing deeper. “I don’t know what you mean, My Lord. It went nowhere at all. The
cardinal saw to that.”

“Oh come, Anne. There must be more to it than that. Were you not in love? Did you not meet in secret, hold hands? Did he never kiss you?”

I stand up, afraid now. Unsure of where he is leading me, unsure what answer he requires, but certain he must never know the truth. “Our meetings were brief. He kissed my hands and my cheek, but no more than that. I was an honest maid. Does Your Majesty think I would refuse the bed of my king yet succumb to the fumblings of an untried boy?” 

It is only a little lie, there was very little more to it really, but Henry’s jealousy is sometimes out of control and I am not prepared to risk losing him now. He stares at me for a long moment, his
slitted eyes darting about my face, looking for lies, searching for deceit.

“So there was no contract?”

“No! Nothing more than the pretensions of a pair of silly children. Wolsey was right to intervene; it was nothing more than folly.”

Henry seems to relax a little.

“Why do you ask, Henry? What has brought this on?”

I hold out my hand and he takes it, pulls me closer
, and I perch on the arm of his chair.

“Percy’s wife is seeking a divorce. She claims
that a pre-contract with you before witnesses makes their marriage illegal.”

Dread creeps like a spider up my spine but I try not to shiver. “And what does Percy say?”

“We shall find out very soon. I have summoned him to appear before me. Let us hope his story is the same as yours.”

Henry looks at me from the corner of his eye, judging my reaction. I keep my expression bland as I have learnt it is best to do. I toss my head and smile at him
, for all the world as if my belly is not churning with fear.

“Well then, there will be no problem. Mary Talbot is clutching at straws, seek
ing any way to be free of him.”

Outwardly, I am calm, pretending indifference, hoping with all my heart that Percy will have the sense to lie. Any hint of a pre-contract between us will put an end to my marriage with the king, and Henry’s wrath will be terrible, for both of us. Percy cannot be unaware of the
danger in which we both stand, or so I hope, but as I recall, he was never the sharpest blade in the king’s armoury.

“Let us hope so, Madam. His arrival is expected any time now,
and then we shall know the truth of the matter.”

“Then, I shall make myself scarce …”

“No. No, Anne. You are to stay here and receive him with me. I would watch his reaction. I will know from his demeanour if he dissembles, just as I will from yours.”

And so I stand at the king’s right hand, and wait for Percy to be shown into our presence. I have no idea how it will feel to be face to face with my old love again. I try to remember what he looked like, what it was I felt for him, but it evades me. All I remember is my banging heart, my throbbing pulse and the secrecy, the excitement and the sense of danger our dalliance evoked. It was never real. Poor Percy was nothing but an outlet for my youthful longings, and I hope with all my heart that what he felt for me was equally as fabricated.