The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn (25 page)

Anger burns through me. I feel I am on fire. I want to slap her, cast her out of my life and let her starve on the streets. “No! You are wrong. You cannot make your own decisions. You are the sister of the queen of England, and look at you … a drab, a trull. The shame of it, Mary! How am I supposed to find you a decent husband now?”

She juts her face toward me, the sinews on her neck tightening, her mouth squared and ugly,
spittle forming at the corners of her lips. “You don’t have to. I don’t need your assistance at all, and I have no wish for a loveless marriage. I have a husband already.”

“What?”

In the silence that follows, George gets up from the bed and helps me to a chair, lowers me into the seat. “Remember your condition,” he whispers, “no upsets, no violence.”

He hands me a cup of wine and I gulp it, cough when it goes down the wrong way
. Tears spring to my eyes, although I am not sure if it is from the wine or the situation.

If Mary has married against the express wishes of the king
, things could go very ill for her. Henry and I have already entered negotiations for her marriage; we aimed high and were quite sure of our mark, no easy thing when the intended bride is soiled goods. George stands at my shoulder; I grasp his hand very tightly and blink at Mary through my tears. “What did you say?”

It is her turn to slump on the bed, her blooming breasts rest
ing snugly on the bulge of her belly. Now that she is sitting, I realise she is further gone than I thought. She no longer seems so glowingly healthy; her eyes are shadowed by fear, her hands trembling slightly. Oh Mary, I think, why can you not keep out of trouble?

“I said
, I have a husband already.”

I swallow bile as the hope that she
was lying dwindles away. “Who—” I croak, handing the cup back to George. “Who is he?”

She tosses her head, her former bravado waver
ing. Drawing herself together, she looks me in the eye, her voice challenging as she enunciates the name clearly so that there should be no mistake. “William Stafford.”

“Good God!” George knocks over the cup, wine spread
ing like blood across the damask table cloth. “Stafford? Couldn’t you have done better than that?”

“George.” I shake my head, warning him to be silent, and cover my face with my hands. Stafford is of the knightly classes, the soldier I saw in her company at the garrison at Calais. I should have seen this coming
but I have been so engrossed in my own affairs, so involved with Elizabeth and Henry and the forthcoming child that I forgot to worry what my sister was up to.

I groan inwardly, knowing the scandal will be huge. Henry will be furious. Father will disown her all over again. In all her life Mary has never made one good decision. She has lurched from disgrace to disaster and each time she lands in the muck, filth splashes up to mire the skirts of our
whole family.

“Oh Mary,” I manage finally, but I can’t look at her. I have never been so disappointed in anyone in my life.

“Why are you so worried? William loves me, and I him. Is that so hard for you to understand? Just because you shunned love to marry a king doesn’t mean the rest of us cannot find happiness unless couched upon a bed of jewels and power.”

Is that what she thinks? That I have no love for Henry? Does she really believe I
could have tolerated all the delay and self-denial if I had no love for him? She doesn’t know me at all.

I wonder if anyone really does.

“The scandal will be too great, Mary,” I say sadly. “You will be sent away from court, denied the company of your family, and all because you could not do the thing properly.”

“You would never have let me marry him.” She is on her feet now, hollering like a fishwife. “You would have insisted I be wed to some ageing lord with a long purse and a grotesque belly. I had to do it this way, don’t you see? I had to take my life into my own hands before you ruined it!”

She is weeping as George escorts her from the room, but I cannot look at her. I cannot forgive her. Tomorrow, when Henry and Father find out, there will be Hell to pay, and Henry does not forgive lightly. I fear my sister is lost to me for good.

I am amusing myself with Henry’s cage birds where they hang in the window of our chambers. They accept my offerings of crumbs and regard me with bright beady eyes, hoping for more. One, braver than the rest, pecks at the bars. “You are a pretty fellow,” I say, reaching for more food. Then a light cough behind me makes me jump so violently that there is little use in trying to hide it. I turn around. “Master Cromwell, you startled me.”

Unruffled, h
e bows low, his eyes cool, a slight smile playing upon his lips. “Did Your Majesty not summon me to attend her when the king’s business was concluded?”

“Yes, yes I did. I just did not hear you enter.”

I look around the chamber for Urien, who is hiding beneath the table. When I call him he ignores me, his tail like a whip on the floor. Cromwell comes to stand beside me at the window, from which I have been admiring the ordered symmetry of the garden.

“I think your mind was far away.”

“Yes, it was. I was thinking of my mother and wondering whether a visit to Hever soon would do me good.”

“I am sure it would. You need rest and relaxation, for the sake of our little prince.”

“Yes.”

His eyes flick to my stomach, and my hand flies instinctively to the bulge of my womb. Cromwell’s smile settles more comfortably into the contours of his face. Master Cromwell is as careful with his expressions as he is with his purse
, and one can never quite tell what he is thinking. I move from the window and cross the room to where a table is laid out with papers and bills. Master Cromwell follows, his books clasped beneath his arm. I locate a sheaf of paper. “My sister’s child, my ward Henry Carey, is approaching ten now.”

His brow furrows and he runs an eye over the lines of script as I continue. “I want to engage a tutor and he has to be the very best. I wondered, what is your opinion of Nicholas Bourbon?”

Of course, I know his opinion very well and although he betrays no emotion, I know he must be delighted. Bourbon, known for his Evangelical leanings, is a great friend of Cromwell and has recently been released from prison at our instigation. He is presently installed in the home of Henry’s friend and physician, Dr Butts.

Betraying no pleasure
, Cromwell smoothes the papers and replaces them on the pile. His hands are square and strong, the clipped nails and clean, pale skin belying his early life as a tradesman and soldier. I have always found this man intriguing and slightly repellent. Maybe it is his deference, his economy with words, or the conviction I have that he is concealing something. I am certain that if I spent each day of the next twenty years in his company, he would remain a stranger at the end of it.

“I think he would do very well, Your Grace. He is a known reformer and will ensure young Henry’s mind is not filled with too much popish nonsense. The future of reform lies with our young people, and Bourbon is a fine linguist and popular with his peers … he will provide an all-round education.”

“I have always found him most pleasant. As you know, my nephew is presently at Syon in the company of Henry Norris’ son and Nicholas Hervey’s boy. I think Bourbon’s rhetoric will counterbalance the nuns’ teachings a little.”

He closes his eyes, inclines his head in agreement. “You have discussed this with his mother?”

I jerk my head toward him, surprised he should mention her. Mary has left the court and Henry refuses to allow her back. She has crossed and burned her bridges now, and no amount of shoring them up will bring her back to us.

“It is no concern of hers; you know that, Master Cromwell. My sister is dead to us.”

My words trail away. I can scarce believe I am saying them, for I miss Mary more than I had ever imagined. Somehow, with George away so often on the king’s business, she had managed to fill a gap in my life. Now, the family member most often in my company is Jane, and her sour face is sometimes enough to curdle milk.

Cromwell watch
es me. He puts down his books and turns toward me, pressing the tips of his fingers together, making a cathedral of his hands. “Madam, may I speak freely?”

I am surprised. Unless asked for it, Cromwell usually keeps his own counsel. My curiosity piqued, I nod and lower myself into a chair.

“Your Majesty, I suspect that it is the king who is most displeased with your sister’s behaviour. Her actions have not only offended his sense of propriety, but deprived the king of a beneficial arrangement. You, I suspect, loving her as you do, would show leniency … after a suitable period of punishment, of course.”

I nod again. My throat
constricts with unexpected grief, and I have the inexplicable desire to lay my head in my hands and give way to tears. It is the child making me mawkish. I swallow, blink away emotion and turn away so he cannot see my sudden weakness.

“She has behaved dreadfully, but I would forgive her … eventually
. Henry says she is not to return to court … not ever.”

He is silent for a while, watching as I try to school my face and calm my agitated hands. Apart from anything else
, I would like Mary with me at the birth. My child and the one she is carrying will be of an age, they could be raised together, cousins at court, had her choice of husband not ruined everything.

Cromwell gropes beneath his gown. “Your Majesty, I
received a letter.”

“From Mary?”

A pause
. The logs settle in the grate, a puff of smoke drifts into the room.

“It is not meant for your eyes.”

I hold out my hand and after a moment, several sheets of parchment crackle between my fingers. I scan the pages, reading quickly the first time, and more slowly the second.

“Well, a strange letter indeed
…”

“Why strange?”

“One minute she pleads for you to intervene with Henry and I, and our parents, inferring that she and Stafford are destitute and that she is desperate to return to court. Yet the next moment she insults me. Listen to this bit. ‘I had rather beg my bread with him than to be the greatest Queen christened.’ It seems a strange way of engaging my sympathy.”

He holds out his hand and I pass the letter back to him. “She did not intend you to see it, Your Majesty. In her words I read desperation, bravado, and a sense of exile.”

I am cross, mulling over her letter, irritated and unsettled by her passion. I cast an eye over Cromwell. He is still standing, his shoulders hunched, his face turned toward the hearth where a small summer fire burns. He looks inscrutable, unapproachable—reptilian, in many ways. Mary must be desperate indeed to turn to Cromwell, and yet … many women of my acquaintance speak well of him. Perhaps it is our relative positions that makes him so reserved with me.

“What do you think I should do?”

He turns his head slowly, raises his brows, eyes opening wide, the creases in his forehead deepening. He splays his hands.

“Help her, Your Majesty.”

“Help her? Against the king’s will?”

He smiles, a slight twinkle gleaming in the dark depths of his eyes.

“I suggest you use your, erm … charm to persuade His Majesty that perhaps she is deserving of a little help. In the meantime, perhaps Your Majesty would permit me, personally, to send her a little aid, out of my own pocket?”

My jaw drops. “Why would you do that?”

He shrugs. “She is the sister of my queen and she is not a bad woman, just rash and a little, shall we say, too eager to please.”

I place both hands on my belly
and stare into the lick of flame in the hearth. I remember Mary’s tinkling laugh, the fall of her fair hair, the forgiving warmth of her embrace.

“Very well,” I hear myself saying. “You may send her alms and I will speak to Henry, but not until I am sure he is ready to hear it.”

I enter the hall,
Urien at my heels, and immediately spot George speaking with our cousin, Francis Bryan. Both men turn and make a knee to me
,
and I cannot help but note that Francis’
s handsome smile is unblemished by the loss of his eye. The jewelled eye patch adds a reckless charm to his previously smooth good looks. But beside George, of course, he is nothing. My brother is laughing.

“Anne,” he says, “our cousin has been saddled with an unwanted gift.”

“Look at my doublet.” Francis lifts his arms to indicate the liberal spread of white hair that clings to it.

“Have you been grooming your horse in your court clo
thes, Cousin?” I laugh, knowing that is far from likely. He puts his head close to mine and lowers his tone.

“Lady Lisle has given me a dog, Your Grace
, and as much as I adore them, this one is not the type I would choose.”

“A dog?
Where is it?”

Francis and George search the floor. “He was here just now. “Dog …
doggy, where are you?”