The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn (28 page)

“Perhaps it is too soon,” I whisper into his beard, stroking his forlorn cheeks. “Maybe we are just too tired.”

Maybe he is tired of me. But I do not speak the fear aloud as I continue to stroke and soothe him until his body relaxes and his head sinks upon my shoulder. When he begins to drool and his snores reassure me that he is asleep, I am not disappointed, just greatly relieved that the embarrassing fiasco is over … for now.

“George!” When my brother appears suddenly in the great hall after so long away, I forget I am queen and almost run across the floor to launch myself into his arms. His breath is warm on my neck, his laughter soft in my ear as he swings me around. By the time he places me back on the ground, we are both breathless. I hang onto his arm and lead him toward Henry, who slaps him on the back, almost as delighted as I.

“How was the crossing? The wind got up last night
, didn’t it?”

“I’ve known worse, Your Grace, and I was so eager to reach home I would have swum across the
Channel.”

Henry laughs, the courtiers titter
ing in agreement. “If you hadn’t come soon I think the queen would have swum across to find you.” The laughter grows louder. It doesn’t do to ignore the king’s jokes, no matter how poor they are. I smile, still clutching George’s sleeve, his hand warm on mine.

“What did Francis say about the match? Did he agree?”

George’s face falls a little, and he glances about the room to see who is near. “I would discuss that matter in private, if Your Grace will allow.” He makes a short bow and Henry, sensing disappointment, grows solemn.

“Come,” he says. “Let us retire so we can speak freely.”

The private chamber is dark and warm, the bright fire and gleaming torches reflecting in the black diamonds of the windows. Henry and George take their places about the table, but I move a little a way off to stand before the hearth.

“So, what did our friend the French ambassador say?” Henry leans back in his chair and clasps his hands over his belly while George glances at me and pulls a face.

“Erm … he was not helpful, I am afraid. He declines your offer of Elizabeth in Mary’s place and prefers to keep to the original proposal. He offers Elizabeth his third son …”

“What? Francis said that?” I rush forward and George puts up his hands in self-defence.

“I am only the messenger, Anne, but I gather the ambassador passes on his master’s wishes.”

“But Francis is my friend!” My hands are shaking, my knees trembling from outrage. “How could he do this?”

“Shh.” Henry reaches out for me, takes my hand and pulls me to his side. “There are no friends in politics, Sweetheart, you know that.”

His pinched nostrils betray that his annoyance is only just contained
, but he is not as hurt, not as offended by the snub as I am. George turns his back and begins to pour wine into three vessels. He hands a cup to Henry first and then passes one to me. I shake my head, and he places it carefully on the table in the ring of the candle’s light.

“We can only assume that since he prefers to negotiate for Mary’s hand, he sees her claim to the throne as the greater. This makes him our enemy.”

Henry waggles my arm. “Not necessarily, Sweetheart, perhaps he prefers to negotiate for a grown woman rather than an infant.”

“A bastard!”
I almost spit the word, immediately regretting it when hurt spreads across Henry’s face like a stain.

“But Mary is my ‘bastard,’ don’t forget.”

His voice is quiet as he withdraws his hand and pretends to pick at a loose thread on his sleeve. I know I have made a mistake, but sometimes it is impossible to keep everything inside. Sometimes I have to speak out and I want to scream truths, no matter how painful or distasteful they are.

Having just one daughter terrifies me. How can one weak girl stand against a world so hostile to women? Married to France, Elizabeth would have powerful allies, strong defences against Spain
, who is our enemy. If the Dauphin weds Mary it will strengthen her claim, reinforce her cause. 

We cannot let that happen.

I can only hope that the furore in France just now will keep their king’s mind on more pressing matters. Across the Channel, the church reforms are not going smoothly and every week we hear reports of burnings and mutilations, and rumours reach us that the country is on the brink of disarray. King Francis will have his hands full. I hope he will forget about Mary.

Not that the situation is much better here in England. There is a new Pope in Rome, one in whom we had placed much confidence, but he has s
hattered all our hopes by upholding Catherine’s claim and declaring our marriage illegal. That snub is so great that Henry, not troubling to disguise his anger, goes wild with fury and sends for Cromwell.

A light cough tells us of his arrival and we turn as one. Simply the presence of Master Cromwell has a calming effect. He enquires politely as to our health, suggests that I sit down on the most comfortable chair. His eyes linger a little too long on my waist and I know he is already surmising if I am yet with child. Henry, sitting opposite me at the hearth, clears his throat, puts a hand on each knee and leans forward, launching into a tirade against the Pope.

“And what is to be done about it, Cromwell, my friend? You tell me that.”

And of course, Thomas Cromwell, who is as wily as he is willing, has the answer we require.  As a result
, Henry is now Supreme Head of the Church in England and, in addition to that, Cromwell hurries a law through Parliament making non-recognition of that fact treason. The penalty for denying Henry his title as Supreme Leader of the Church in England is now death. It has all happened so quickly and the resolution to our predicament, one that has confounded everyone for years, is simple to Cromwell. With one sweep he dispenses with Rome and with Catherine, but of course, we know that even now there will be consequences, and those who refuse to accept it.

I move to stand at the window, kneel on the seat and look up at the black night skies. The clouds pass across the moon, a sudden gust of wind sends arid leaves fluttering to the ground
, and I am suddenly cold.

My skin retracts, the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand on end, and the voices of the men shrink to a murmur as I wrap my arms about my body and shudder at what I fear is to come.

So many people
have been put to death. Why can they not accept it? Why can they not just sign? First it is the Carthusian monks, seven in all; among them Newdigate, Exmew, Middlemore … A few weeks since they were merely names on a slip of paper, but now they are felons, traitors, martyrs to their fallacious cause.

The people mutter against us, picking up the cry of Elizabeth Barton, a traitorous nun whom Cromwell hung last year. She railed against us, decrying our marriage, denouncing our heir, and she named Henry as King Mouldwarp from ancient prophecy
, whose miserable reign was destined to divide and bring down the kingdom.

She is dead now but as fast as Cromwell rids us of one rebel another appears
, and among these latest foes is one of Henry’s former friends.

Sebastian
Newdigate is, or was, a former privy councillor. He was wise enough to sign the act of supremacy, but now refuses to acknowledge Henry as Head of the Church. Henry, sick to the stomach at the betrayal of his friend, visits him in Marshalsea prison, and later at the Tower to beg him to reconsider.

He refuses.

What else can we do?

There cannot be one rule for one man, and one for another.

Treason is treason.

There is nothing to be done.

Henry simmer
s with suppressed rage. He wants to be the beloved of his people; his whole life has been dedicated to nurturing his image as a golden renaissance prince. Instead, he is hated; we are both hated. He is Mouldwarp, and I have become Salome.

How did this happen?

Instead of the threat of capital punishment encouraging people to sign, it seems to strengthen their resolve to defy us, but we cannot back down. Next it is Fisher, a man whom Henry loved and looked up to in his youth for his wisdom and learning. A friend of Erasmus and More, Fisher is a good man … but misguided all the same. From the early days he has despised me, and despised reform, seeing in it the certain destruction of the Holy Church in Rome.

Why are these wise men so blind?

We don’t want to destroy the Church.

We want to make it better, fairer, more accessible. But I never thought so many people would have to die.

Henry is sitting by the window, his head in his hands
. When he hears me enter, he looks up, his face bleak. “Anne …”

Encouraged by his welcome I move forward and perch on his knee, the attendants melt
ing away into the darkness. I lean against him, tug his beard playfully, trying to cheer him, but he stills my hand and says in a small voice, “Cromwell was here, Anne. He says that More must die. There is no option …” His words break on a sob, and I slide from his knee to the floor and lay my head in his lap.

“Why don’t you see him, Henry? Speak to him. He may listen to you, he loves you so much.”

He pulls off my veil and his hand falls lightly on my hair. “Does he?”

I look up at him. “Of course he does. It is only his intractable religion and his affection for Catherine that mak
es him act against you.”

Both More and Fisher have proved immovable when it comes to Catherine. When in my company
, they are coldly polite but hostile. Or perhaps I should say they were hostile.

I keep forgetting that Bishop Fisher is dead and
More is shortly to follow.

Soon, we will leave all this horror behind us and embark upon a summer progress. I have persuaded Henry to travel west, that we may inspect the reforms Cromwell has implemented there. We embark from Windsor, through Reading and onto Oxfordshire, and then to one of my favourite Gloucestershire houses, Sudeley Castle. We then plan to travel down through Wiltshire and Hampshire, to South Hampton, calling at Winchester on the way and, after a short stay in Portsmouth, journey back toward London. This should give Henry ample time to recover from recent upsets, and Cromwell, who plans to split his time between riding with us and continuing his investigations into the lesser monasteries, can bear the brunt of the responsibility.

Cromwell has temporarily become the power in the land, the hand that wields the knife to trim the diseased shoots from the
Church. There is so much waste, so much corruption in these monastic institutions. I had never expected it to be so bad, but some of the stories that come to our ears make me weep indeed. Stories of corruption, immorality—and to think that these … these people, supposedly devout and pious monks and nuns, seek to conceal their nefarious deeds beneath holy robes. Henry and I are determined to root them out, sort the good from the bad, the wheat from the chaff, and close down those foundations that are no better than houses of ill-repute.

*
**

“I will wear the purple, Jane.” Purple is the colour of royalty and power and I wish to look my best as I face the public,
and ride through the country over which I am queen. I will show them I am no Salome. I will smile upon them, throw them purses of silver to help them feed their children and pay their taxes. After this progress they will no longer speak of me as Anne the whore. I will become Anne the Benefactor.

Just as Jane lays the gown on the bed and I slip from my shift, the door opens and George enters. As I snatch up a sheet to conceal my nakedness, Jane squeals and throws a cushion at him, which he catches skilfully and slides into a chair.

“It’s all right. I won’t look,” he says, screwing his eyes tight and grinning inanely.

The cool fresh linen slides over my arms
, and Jane, who is fuming inwardly, begins to tie it at the neck. The other Jane, the Seymour girl, brings a selection of shoes and hats and I pick my favourites.

“You can pack the others. The men will be here
shortly to take the boxes to the carts.” She bobs a curtsey and scurries off to do my bidding. “Are you ready, George? The king wishes to leave promptly.”

As
I lean over to pick up a slipper, the neck of my shift gapes wide. George flushes and tears his eyes from the fleeting glimpse of my breasts. When I straighten up, his wife begins to lace me into my bodice, pushing my bosom high, squeezing my waist tight. Then the sleeves are tied in place, the contrasting colours of my undergarments drawn through the slashes. As she works, Jane’s eyes are averted, her jaw clenched. I can tell she is angry. She always is when George is with me.

When my girdle chain is fastened
, I pick up my pomander. “I will join the king now. You two follow on after.”

As I sweep from the room and the doors close behind me, the monotone of Jane’s nagging follows me along the passage. I wonder how George bears it.