The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn (13 page)

“Anne.” He takes my hands again, pulls me closer. “There would be no shame in being my mistress, my sole mistress. It would be an honour …”

“No. I’ve told you. I will be no man’s mistress, not even yours. Not if you were king of the world.”

“We could still be married, when the time is right. Once I am rid of Catherine, there is no other who will do for me, but Anne, I am burning. I am a man, in the full flush of manhood. I am not made for abstinence.”

I snatch my hand away. “Divorce her, then! Force their hand. Stop pussyfooting around Wolsey and demand that he gets a result. He is your servant, isn’t he?”

His mouth opens and closes like a fish as he searches for a reply. I forestall him.

“They are playing with you, Henry, can’t you see that?
Campeggio is taking his time on purpose, shilly-shallying. He is afraid to say ‘no’ to you, and afraid to say ‘yes’ to the Pope. And as for Wolsey, well, he has no love for me and would sooner see you wed to the barren, toothless mare you are presently keeping in your stable. He would rather see you childless than happy, Henry. Force his hand. Make them act in our favour and I will be in your bed sooner than that.”

I snap my fingers.

For a long moment we stare at each other, my breast rising and falling with the passion of my words. Henry is white-faced, his cheeks drooping, his mouth defeated. At this moment, the picture he presents is not that of a renaissance prince but rather a small child, refused his sweetmeats.

If the king’s visit to Hever serves to reignite my desire for him and increase my frustration, it also brings about a change. My days of pining at Hever are done and Henry orders me to return to court. Before I agree, I demand certain conditions.

I tell him I want my own suite of rooms, the finest in the palace, and I want them close to his. I want the running of my own household, and I want my place in his court acknowledged, not as his mistress but as his future queen.

And to my surprise, I get it.

I hear him coming long before he arrives. I am in my apartments with my women, our heads bent over our sewing while in the corner a lutenist plays for our delectation. I hear a muffled thump and my head jerks up. The doors are thrown open, guards snap to attention, courtiers fall like harvested wheat at his approach. I stay where I am, waiting for him to come to me, and when he finally bursts into my chambers he is roaring and blustering like a lion.

He has returned from the Blackfriars sooner than expected. At a nod from me, my women put down their needlework and bow silently from the room, leaving the king and
I alone. Henry paces the floor, his cap pushed back on his head, his cloak billowing behind him.

“What is it, Henry?” I move toward him but he makes a sharp, violent movement and I flinch away. Henry is famous for his rages but I have never yet seen him
this angry, so furiously out of control. He snatches off his hat and throws it onto the floor, where the jewels shimmer like fallen stars.

“That blasted woman!”

I exhale as silently as I can, relieved it is not me who has displeased him this time. I move forward again, gently persistent. “Which woman, Henry? Come and sit down, tell me all about it.”

But he is not ready to relax. His anger is so great it cannot be contained, cannot be soothed so readily. I turn away, pour him a cup of wine,
hold it out to him. He almost snatches it from my hand and tips it down his throat as if it is a foul tasting medicine. While he drags his sleeve across his wet lips, I refill the cup and hand it back to him.

Once he has quaffed the second draught, he looks at me for the first time, his eyes almost desperate. I let him see my empathy.
“Which woman, Henry?” I softly repeat.

He removes the lute from a chair and lowers himself onto the seat. “Catherine,” he snaps, as if I hadn’t guessed. “She has shamed me in front of everyone. Her words will already be travelling around the world like a dirty secret. I spoke of her to the court in the gentlest of terms, outlining my doubts, my guilt that I have been living in sin, against God’s teachings. I had them all in the palm of my hand, but then it was her turn and she refused to be judged. ‘I am the Queen of England
…’” he mocks in Catherine’s thick Spanish accent, “‘and, as such, this court is not fit to judge me.’”

“What? Surely the court didn’t listen to her.”

He looks up at me, his brow wrinkled.

“Oh, yes, they listened. She has been well-advised.” He rubs his face, the jewels on his fingers winking in mockery of our quest for happiness. His lips form a snarl. “And when I discover just who it is that offers her such advice, they will swing from the highest gallows.”

Catherine’s ally has to be Eustace Chapuys, the Spanish Ambassador who is so often in her company, but I have other suspicions too. There are those about court who will risk even the king’s wrath to be rid of me.

“What does Wolsey say, and
Campeggio?”

“What do they ever say? They prevaricate and dissemble.
Not one of them dares look me in the eye. Anne, Anne …” He reaches out, grasps my wrists, pulling until I am on my knees before him. “Who can I trust, Anne? Why can they not see what is best for their king, best for England?”

I do not answer him for my thoughts are still with Catherine who
, I now see more plainly than ever, is a dangerous enemy. The purpose of the legatine court is to listen to the testimonies of both the king and Catherine so that they can come to a just decision … a decision that Henry has made quite clear to Wolsey is to be in his favour.

I make an angry noise at the back of my throat. “Just who does that woman think she is? What else did she say?”

“Very little. After pleading with me that she was my true-wed wife, and accusing me of treating her badly, she got up and left the court.”

“
You can’t just leave the court!”

“You can if you think you are the queen. They called her back. ‘Catherine of England, come into court,’ but she refused to come. To have her dragged back, kicking and screaming, would have only worked in her favour. She is martyring herself, wanting to be seen as the wronged woman. She begs to be allowed to appeal directly to Rome.”

“For God’s sake, Henry.” I slump against his legs, my fine silk skirts spread across the floor. “What will happen now?”

***

At my invitation, Mary comes to see me at the palace. At first she is sulky and refuses to look me in the eye, but ignoring her reticence I place a kiss upon her chilly cheek and show her a basket of kittens. “Choose one,” I say, “whichever you like.” I can see she wants to refuse but in the end, seduced by their soft eyes and tiny tails, she reaches out and picks up a tabby.

I lead her to a seat at the window where, with her cat tucked beneath her arm, we look unspeaking across the gardens. Courtiers are taking the air, their heads together in gossip. “I wonder who they are talking about today,” I say, in an attempt to fill the silence.

She immediately bridles. “I have done nothing to cause fresh scandal.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you had.” I look at her pinched face, the brittle glistening of her eyes betraying how close her tears are to the surface. “Mary, can’t we be friends, as we used to be?”

She looks down at her linked fingers, shrugs her narrow shoulders, but makes no reply.

“None of this is your fault, Mary, I know that, but neither is it mine. I am your sister and want to help you in your widowhood. It must be so hard for you.”

Her head jerks up, her face working as she fights to contain all the bitterness that has been building up inside her for so long. “You have no idea how hard. My income has been severed, Will’s annuities stopped, and Father will not even speak to me. I want to go home to Hever but he will have none of it …” She stops, her throat working as she fights for self-control. “I am at my wit’s end, Anne. I know not where to turn.”

I reach for her hand. “Did you think I would not help you? I have spoken to Father already, and when I received no encouragement there I took the matter to the king.”

The colour drains slowly from her cheeks. I know Mary well enough to realise that she would spurn help from him if she could. For a moment a mulish expression clouds her face, but then it passes as she reconciles herself to the inevitable. “And what did he say?”

I
inwardly quail at revealing Henry’s decision, for I know she will not like it. I straighten my back, tame my demeanour and say, as casually as I can manage, “The king desires that the wardship of little Henry should pass to me.”

Her head snaps up, her eyes wide, her face pale, lips parted.
“To you? But I … I … that will give you control of him, you will have all the revenues from his lands. How will that help me?”

I get up, smooth my skirts and reach for a jug of wine on the table
, but I do not pour. I put the jug down again, turn back to look at her. “You will have peace of mind, knowing your son will be properly cared for, that his future will be in the hands of the king. Once Henry and I are wed …”

“Anne!” She jumps up, thrusts her face toward me, her whole body atremble. “Surely you don’t still believe he will ever marry you
. How long has he been promising that now? Don’t you yet realise it is just a ruse to get you to his bed? He is nothing if not persistent.”

I want to yell back that he’d not needed much persistence to land her in his net, but I have sworn not to argue with her. The divorce is certainly lagging more than either Henry or I had believed possible. To the king’s fury
Campeggio has adjourned the court for the summer, and our wait continues. Pushing the thought away, I close my eyes against Mary’s fury and remind myself that I am the king’s beloved. I take a deep breath and dive back into the fray.

“I am also determined to persuade the king to assign an annuity
of one hundred pounds to you. This will ensure that you and Catherine are not penniless. Henry has not agreed to do so just yet but he has promised to speak to Father about allowing you to return to Hever.”

Mary slumps suddenly into her chair, the kitten floundering on her lap. “They don’t want me there.”

I sit close beside her, our skirts overlapping, the fine quality of my cloth overshadowing the shiny worn nap of hers. “If the king demands it, they will have no choice.” My words are as gentle as I can make them. I remind myself how hard it must be for Mary, her fall from the king’s favourite to a penniless nobody difficult enough without having to see me, her younger, plainer sister, take her place.

Were I in her place I wouldn’t relish returning to
Hever. It is a household of women; a hostile mother, a witless grandmother, and a four-year-old child. What allure can that have for Mary, who has tasted the delights of court, both here and in France? But it will be better than starving.

“Mary, try to be thankful. Henry doesn’t have to help you. It is the king’s way of ensuring that you and your children enjoy a financially secure future. You will be taken care
–”

“I will be safely out of sight, you mean. You are stealing my son, and Henry is paying me and his daughter to stay out of his way, as if I am some guilty secret.”

“That is not true at all, and it is ungrateful of you to say so.”

Her tears are falling now, splashing down her cheeks, dripping from the end of her nose. Disgusted, I thrust a kerchief into her hand and look away while I wait for her to pull herself together, although in truth, I long to give into the desire to deliver her a long overdue slap. Why is it so hard for her to accept help?

A sudden shower of summer rain rattles against the windows, and the people in the garden hurry toward the hall. As she calms, Mary’s sobs subside into shudders. Miserably, she mops her wet face with my kerchief.

“You must try to make the best of things, Mary, for little Catherine’s sake. With a small income of your own and your children independent, who knows, you may yet make a good second marriage.”

She glares at me, her wet lashes parted like stars, the tip of her nose red and moist. “Nobody will marry me now, Anne, you know that. I am soiled goods, and everybody knows it.”

I open my mouth to answer but at that moment the door bursts open and George enters, throwing his damp jerkin over the back of a chair.

“Sisters!” he cries, coming swiftly toward me, leaning over me to kiss my cheek, his hand squeezing my waist. “How are you, Anne? And Mary …” He bends over her hand. “Still snivelling, I see.”

I frown and shake my head at him, silently warning him to not to begin teasing her. He picks up a cushion and sinks into the opposite chair. “It has started to rain.” He shakes his wet hair to demonstrate, scattering drops that spatter Mary’s gown. “The
king was with me, but Wolsey called him away.”

The very name makes me shrivel inside. “Wolsey,” I spit contemptuously, “that toad. I wonder what poison he is whispering into Henry’s ear now.”

George puts his feet up on a stool, crosses his ankles and tucks his fists beneath his armpits to warm them. “I had some speech with that fellow of his, Cromwell. I had no idea he was for Church reform.”