The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn (34 page)

Henry sighs. “You know how he loved to bark at the cage birds? Well, he jumped up, barking
, on to the sill and … and well, the window was open … and he fell … he broke his neck …”

“Fell?
Oh, my dear God.” Tears are pouring from my eyes, my heart breaking. “And I didn’t even notice he was missing, I thought he was out with the grooms or something. Oh Henry, the poor little fellow …” I am in his arms, his chest soft beneath my cheek. He rocks me to and fro like a child, like a baby. My tears fall, absorbed into the priceless material of his doublet.

“Poor
Purkoy … poor, poor Purkoy.”

As my almoner John Skip’s voice echoes about the vaulted ceiling, the listening congregation sit in stunned silence. I risk a glimpse of Henry beside me, his hands on his knees, his lips compressed into a slash. The shocked stillness rings in the air, and then feet begin to shuffle, a cacophony of coughs, a murmur of voices. Henry stands up and I follow his example. Without taking my elbow in his usual manner, he stomps along the aisle and through the high-arched doors.

I follow after, afraid now of my bold action. I see George, he tries to smile
, but I have no time to linger. I throw him a look of worried exasperation and hurry after the king.

As I follow Henry into his apartments
, his attendants scurry out, and straight away he turns and points an accusing finger. “You are behind this.”

There is little point in arguing, I have no defence
, but I stand my ground, and raise my chin. “Someone has to try to stop him. Cromwell is at fault here, not me.”

“But you cannot have him compared to
Hamon, the evil wicked minister who deceived his king and oppressed the Jews.”

I purse my lips, trying to stop my chin from wobbling and betraying my fear. I take a step forward.

“Henry, this thing is getting out of hand. Yes, some of the monasteries are corrupt and we need to take action, but we cannot condemn all monks on the actions of a few! We should seek to redirect them, not punish them. We must use the monies from the monasteries to educate, to change the way we worship. By stuffing their treasures in your coffers you make yourself look like an anti-Christ. King Ahasuerus at least was deceived by his minister but you, Henry, you are aware of Cromwell’s intentions and seem to be in full support.”

“Anti-Christ!” he bellows, his face purple with rage. “You forget yourself, Madam, you are not Esther. You are
a nobody raised by my hand. I can just as easily strike you down again.”

The threat hovers in the air between us
. We stare at each other, his blue eyes open wide, his mouth narrowed. When he shouts, his cheeks wobble; he has put on weight since his accident, now that he can no longer hunt from dawn ‘til dusk.

“I thought you wanted to be loved by the people. What happened to the noble prince you dreamed of becoming? Have you forgotten all that? Al
l ready? Must greed steal away every inch of your goodness? You are not the king I fell I love with.”

I turn away from him, shaking my head, hating the argument but determined not to be cowed by him. He continues to bombard me with accusations

“And what was all that nonsense about Solomon and his many wives and concubines? Was that supposed to make me see the error of my ways? If you must scold me about my dalliances then do so in private, not in public, and certainly not in chapel! I will take to my bed whoever pleases me, and you, Madam, have no say in the matter.”

I
shake my head. A tear drops upon my cheek but I dash it away. He stands before the window, obliterating the light, his spine rigid, his head erect. I know I will not reach him, he might as well be lost to me, and all I can think to do is run away.

I run to find George.

He is waiting in my chambers and when I enter, he springs from his chair. “Anne. That was a stupid risk to take. What were you thinking?”

Even George is against me in this.

“I had to try to make him see sense. Sometimes Henry needs someone to hold up a mirror and show him his reflection is flawed.”

George relieves me of my prayer book, takes away my wrap, playing the part of a lady-in-waiting. “I sent the women away,” he says, apologetically. “I thought you’d not mind.”

I nod, only half noticing how cosy he has made the room in my absence. I sit down and ease off my shoes, kick them onto the floor before the hearth. Holding my toes to the flames, I wriggle them and rotate my ankles. The smile I manage to muster dies before it is half born, and my mouth trembles. These damned tears. Why don’t they stop? I feel I’ve been crying forever.

“What about Cromwell?” George squat
s at my knee, his hands about mine, our fingers entwined in my lap. “Your distrust of him is out in the open now.”

I lay my head on the back of my chair. “It is a relief. I dislike deception. I would rather see my enemy clearly than have him hide behind a friendly face. And it is good for once to be compared to Esther rather than Salome. It makes a happy change.”

“Cromwell is an unpleasant enemy.”

“I have Cranmer on my side. He should counteract the underhand dealings of the draper’s boy.”

He laughs quietly, straightens up, letting his fingers trail across my face.

“Have I made a huge mistake, George?”

He looks uncertain. “I hope not but next time, tell me your plans before you take action, especially if they are as wild as this one. You know I will always guide you well.”

I grab for his hand again, hold it to my cheek. “I know. You are the only one I can trust now.” After a pause, I blink up at him through my tears. “I expect he is with her now. I have driven him into her arms.”

The court talks of nothing else. I am now officially in opposition to Cromwell’s reforms. I stand for neither Rome, nor for total monastic censure. It is an uneasy position to be in. Conversation ceases at my approach, even my most trusted women cannot help but gossip behind their hands. At least they have stopped speculating about Henry and Jane. And at least they know my support is for reform, not suppression. At least it must be plain, even to my deadliest enemies, that I am for the king and what is good for the future of England.

Henry doesn’t stay angry with me for long
, but he vents his wrath on poor Skip, and then Dr Latimer, who preaches a similar reprimand a few days later. I soon realise that our row meant very little, it was just another marital spat. They seem to be increasing lately.

But everybody has them.

Within two days he is back in my bed, his sulks forgotten in our quest to make another prince. There is nothing lacking in our marriage bed now, and he makes love to me with as much skill as I could ask for. We have been together long enough to know exactly what is pleasing, and what is not. Henry is easily bought and as soon as I begin to feel secure in his love again, I begin to quietly campaign for John Skip’s return to favour.

For championing my cause
, the poor man has been hauled before the council on charges of slandering the King’s Highness, his councillors, his lords and nobles, and his whole Parliament. I work on Henry subtly so he is scarcely aware of my wiles. If a queen cannot support her friends, she is no queen indeed.

As soon as we enter the chamber, George and I fall back against the door, convulsing with laughter. The ladies gathered at the hearth look up, surprised to see us holding our middles, tears streaming down our faces.

George recovers first. He goes deeper into the room, among my attendants, wiping his tears. “Oh, you should have seen his face, Jane.” For once he is civil to his wife
; he places a hand on her shoulder and I see her flush, and glance longingly up at him.

“Who?”
She glances eagerly from her husband to me and back again.

“
Chapuys. I don’t know when I have seen a fellow so ill at ease. He would not have looked more uncomfortable if he’d been tricked into shaking hands with Satan.”

I join them, bounce onto cushions, my heart light. Nan scurries forward with a tray of refreshments and takes my gloves and wrap, puts my prayer book on the table. “What has happened?” she asks. “I’ve never seen you laugh so much.”

“Chapuys was finally forced to acknowledge Anne. For years, ever since she came to court, he has shunned her and managed to avoid a meeting.”

I interrupt
George, eager to give my side.

“His refusal to acknowledge me has always angered Henry
. I suggested to him that there might be a way to force his hand, if Chapuys could be persuaded to attend Mass with George.”

“And while
Mass was being offered the king, with Anne in tow, suddenly emerged from the royal pew on his way to the altar to accept the blessing.”

I interject again.

“We came face to face in front of everybody and after just a little hesitation, he bowed and offered me two candles to burn on the altar.”

It is a great triumph, my ladies exclaim
, and clap their hands at our victory, but they do not see the funny side, having not been witness to his dismayed face, the sweat that popped out on his forehead. It was as good as a play.

As ambassador of Spain,
Chapuys’ acknowledgement amounts to acceptance from the Emperor. He is now wedged tightly between the disapproval of his Spanish master and the displeasure of the English king. It pleases me greatly to see him so discomforted. The affair has made me very happy. Not the acceptance of a greasy-haired foreigner, but the fact that Henry puts enough store by me to think that Spain’s acknowledgment of his queen is worth his notice.

My courses are late but I dare not tell the king lest I be mistaken. I do not think he can bear another disappointment. The whispers about court are not comforting. The gossips say that Henry is tired of me, convinced I cannot bear a healthy child. They say he means to put me aside and marry Jane, although how he can put aside his legal wife is beyond my comprehension.

  George swears it is nothing but gossip, for Henry has said nothing of it to him, and they play tennis together every day. The rumours make it hard for me not to run to him and declare I am with child. To prevent myself I have to sit on my hands, mentally tie myself into my seat. I have to be certain. There is no point in telling him until I am sure.

I will wait just a couple more weeks.

To amuse myself I fill my chambers with music and dancing, surround myself with the gayest of companions. When the weather permits we go outside, lounge around the gardens and inhale the scent of the spring blossom. Elizabeth has been brought to court for the Easter celebration, and slumbers with her nurse in the shade of a tree.

I sit nearby so that I can hear her when she wakes. Cautious of dislodging what I hope has taken root in my womb, I rest as much as I can. Although it is hard, I do not dance. I sit with Urien beside me and watch, taking my pleasure in the joys of others.

Mark
Smeaton, making cat’s eyes at us all, strums his lute, the younger ladies leaping and skipping to the music. The gentlemen vie for their sweethearts’ hands, Norris and Weston still compete for my cousin’s smiles. Tom Wyatt and Bryan are there with William Brereton, and George is never far from me. He alone knows the secret I may be carrying and is watchful of me, making sure I do not tire.

The only one missing is Henry, still involved with the council about the matters from Spain. I refuse to imagine he may have
crept off to be alone with Jane; I just wish he was here and look for him by the minute. My eye is ever straying to the gate, watching for the glimmer of his jewelled cap, listening for the softness of his tread, the bluff sound of his laughter.

S
eeing my discomfort, George holds out his hand. “Dance with me,” he says but I shake my head, frown at him.

“I have sworn not to. Exercise might trigger another misfortune.”

“It isn’t as if it’s a galliard. Come, I will be gentle,” he says, persistently grasping my wrist and hauling me to my feet. With a laugh I give in, and we join the others forming up on the greensward. My fingers rest on his palm, our opposite hands behind our backs. Ahead of us, Madge giggles so hard that her breasts jiggle, her face flushed and warm. Everyone is smiling, the sun is shining. It is a good day.

Halfway through the dance demands that we change partners
, and I clasp hands briefly with Norris. As we promenade toward the fountain I look at him sideways, surreptitiously noting his elegant poise.

“Why do you dally with my cousin, Sir Norris? Why do you not just confound everyone and ask outright for her hand?”

He coughs and blusters, a flush growing on his cheek, but he makes no proper answer.

“I hope you are not looking for a dead man’s shoes.”

He is not interested in me at all and I meant it as a joke, but he snatches back his hand.

“Never,
Your Grace, for then I should wish my head were off.”

“Don’t be foolish, Norris. I was speaking in jest.” But he is discomforted and will not look at me, his jaw stubbornly set. Then the dance steps lead me to Brereton
, with whom I have never danced before. As he bows to me, my mind is still with Norris. I bite my lip, realising I should never have joked so with a gentle man like him. By speaking so directly I have turned the game of courtly love on its head, and I have shocked him. He is not George, he does not understand my wit.