The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn (26 page)

“Is that his name?”

Francis pulls a face. “I haven’t named him. I am hoping I won’t have to keep him.”

“There he is!” George swoops down and holds aloft a bundle of white fur. “You can see he isn’t exactly a dog suited to the likes of a hero of the lists.”

I reach out a hand, feeling the lick of a tiny, hot tongue. A pair of big brown eyes look up at me.

“Oh, the sweet thing!”
I take him from George, who immediately proceeds to brush his own doublet.

“I see what you mean about the hair,” he laughs.

The dog scrabbles at my bosom, longing to reach my face with his long lapping tongue.

“He is as eager to kiss you as the rest of us.” Francis laughs. “I think you should do me the honour of keeping him, Your Grace, he is clearly made for you.”

“Can I, Francis? Can I have him?” I am quite smitten, my cheeks wet with slobber, the jewels on my bodice already snagged and covered in hair.

“It would be my pleasure to present you with such a gift, my dear cousin.” Francis bends over my hand, his relief clear to see. “I am sure Lady Lisle will understand when I explain that the Queen’s Grace was so enamoured of him
that I couldn’t refuse.”

Urien growls when I enter the chamber with my new pet. “Stop it,” I say. “Don’t be nasty, it is your new companion.” I hold the puppy close, let them sniff each other, and Urien, being the soft fellow that he is, is soon won over. By supper time they are fast friends, and I have no qualms about leaving them alone with the servants when I descend to the hall for supper.

“What have you
named him?” Henry asks when I introduce him to the puppy.

“Well, you see how he puts his head on one side like that, as if he is asking a question.”

Henry nods, and obligingly the dog cocks his head, looks at us questioningly. “Well, I thought I’d call him Pourquoi, you know, the French word for ‘why.’”

Henry throws back his head and laughs. “That is perfect,
my love, quite perfect. You couldn’t call him anything else.”

For a moment
, when I tell Henry of my desire to visit Hever, he looks as if he has been stung by a wasp. “But what about the tournament,” he cries, “and the pageant?”

“Oh Henry, there are so many pageants and jousts. It won’t hurt me to miss one.”

We have already had to postpone a trip to the French court because of my condition. He lowers his chin, pouts and looks at me through his eyebrows. “I suppose you would like me to come with you.”

“No, no. You stay and enjoy the fun. All I shall do is
sit in the sun and gossip with my mother. It is what our prince and I need just now, there is no need for you to be inconvenienced.”

He rises from his chair and pulls me to my feet. “Won’t you miss me?”

I poke the end of his nose, pull his beard playfully. “Of course, but it is only for a week or so. Then, when I get home, there will be but a month or two before the confinement.”

He turns me in his arms, so my back is toward him. I lean against him
and he rests his chin on my head, letting his hands slide down to caress my belly. “And then we will meet this little man,” he murmurs. I cover his hands with my own, give his fingers a squeeze and don’t let him know I have heard the rumours. My brother makes sure of that.

Of course I am acutely jealous
, but George says it is natural for a man to seek solace from another when his wife is so close to confinement. “Look upon it as doing you a service,” he says. “You wouldn’t want the king’s demands in bed to undermine the health of your prince.”

My eyelids are pricking
. I look down, shaking my head, and a tear drops onto my lap, followed by another. George’s hand is instantly on my shoulder. “Anne, don’t worry. Our cousin will ensure that Henry’s eye does not stray too far. Once you are able to facilitate his needs she will hand him back, as good as new.”

My chest feels
as if it will burst open. My chin wobbles, my mouth turning upside down. “But I see them, George, inside my head. Horrible visions of them together …”

“Hush, hush
.” He draws me close, comforts me as only he can. “It is Madge, our little cousin, no enemy. She does not want him for herself, her affections lay elsewhere. You should thank me for putting her in the king’s way once his eye began to wander.”

It is true; George acted in my best interests. As soon as my pregnancy was advanced enough for Henry to begin to fidget and cast his eye upon the daughter of our enemy, he dangled our cousin like a carrot beneath the royal nose. “Look upon her
as a wet nurse, caring for your husband until you are fit to see to his needs yourself.”

George, being a man, doesn’t understand the pain of handing one’s child into the arms of another woman. He doesn’t realise it is equally as difficult when it’s your husband. But there is nothing to be done,
so I square my shoulders and try not to think about it. Yet still the images creep up on me unawares; in the dead of night or in the middle of the afternoon, it makes no difference. I see them in disgusting clarity and in my mind’s eye Henry loves her, far more than he has ever loved me.

So to get myself away from it and to prevent another dreadful row with Henry, I
come back to Hever. And if not for the fact that the servants fall on their noses every time they see me, it would seem that I have never been away.

There is something relaxing about the lack of formality. It is nice to put on a plain gown and tie up my hair beneath an ordinary cap. I am in the garden, Urien and Pourquoi investigating the array of aromas beneath the hedges as I stroll along the path. The summer sun winks through the trees, warming my face as I spy a stray weed unnoticed by the gardener. Acting on a sudden impulse, I kneel on the grass, reach out and dig my fingers into the soil, grasp it tightly and tug it out. It comes away easily, the tap root sliding from the well-tilled earth. Then, hidden beneath the lavender, I spy a seedling of rosebay willowherb that will spoil the look of the border if left to grow wild. It comes up easily, and soon I have a small pile of wilting weeds on the grass beside me. It is sometime later when the dogs set up a commotion and, raising a hand to shield my eyes from the sun, I look up to see who they are greeting with such enthusiasm. My visitor, after fighting himself free of eager paws and tongues, whips off his hat and makes a bow.

“Tom!” I try to get up, but the size of my belly hinders me. Tom stoops down and offers me his hand, hauls me to my feet. I stumble, hang onto his sleeve and laugh up at him. “I am not very nimble at the moment.”

“So I see.”

I look down at my muddy hands
and slap them together, sending out a shower of dirt. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh,” he slaps his hat against his thigh
, “I often ride over and see how things are … remember the old days.”

His words evoke the memory of four children, two boys and two girls, running in and out
of the flower beds, tumbling in the meadows, playing hide-and-go-seek in the grain store.

“Those were happy times,” I say, my face beginning to ache from smiling so widely.

“And now you have children of your own. How is Princess Elizabeth?”

He listens attentively, feigning interest
, as I launch into a lengthy description of my daughter’s virtues. “She is so clever, so forward. She toddles to meet me when I visit and can already say a few words. If her brother is half as bright, he will be a king to be reckoned with.”

Of course, I see Tom from time to time at court. He has a prominent place in the household and is often around on the king’s business, taking part in pageants and state functions. But when we meet there, by some unspoken agreement we are reserved, detached. Here at
Hever it is as if the years have been torn aside like a curtain, and the sunshine of our youth is smiling down upon us.

“Will you walk with me?” He shows no sign of mischief so I lay my hand on his arm and he assists me slowly around the garden. We speak of ordinary things
. He makes no mention of his former love for me and we are at ease; old friends sharing a precious afternoon. He laughs a lot, and even when he is serious there is a twinkle in his eye, a quirk to the side of his mouth where his laughter always begins.

Before he takes his leave, he tucks my hand beneath his, close to his heart. “Are you happy, Anne?” 

I close my eyes, turn my face to the sun and nod. “Yes, very happy. And I will be happier still when my prince is born.”

He raises my fingers to his mouth, presses his lips against them. “You know I am yours to command. I will serve you, even in the face of the king’s wrath.”

And then he is gone, springing into the saddle, clamping his hat firmly onto his head before gathering the reins and cantering away. As I call to the dogs and turn back toward the hall, I realise that perhaps Tom does still care for me, after all.

It is dark inside and I do not notice Grandmother until she speaks. “Was that the king I saw you with?”

I leap at the sound of her voice and with a hand to my breast to still my banging heart, I move closer so that she might hear my reply.

“No, Grandmother. It was Tom, Tom Wyatt.”

She shows me her gums, the creases on her face moving and settling into new lines. “Little Tom Wyatt? Here all alone? Does his mother know he is out unaccompanied?”

It would be funny were it not so tragic. My smile is sad. “Grandmother, Tom is past thirty now!  His mother is long dead.” 

“Eh?” She squints as if it will help her to hear
, but I do not repeat myself, there is no point. Let her stay in her strange world that has no regard for the present. The past is a happy place, let her live it.

Poor Grandmother, I think, her life is almost over now and all her pleasures pas
t. I can just recall how she was when I was young. A proud upright woman, mother to ten and given to interfering in her children’s lives long after they were grown. She has been a widow now for thirty years, each year growing older, slipping slowly and steadily closer to infirmity, her mind as dishevelled as the bottom of a chicken coop. It will not be long before we lay her in her grave … I shake off the thought, thrust it aside. Even though it has long been expected, it will be a hard day for us when it comes.

“Here, look at this
,” she says, crooking a wizened finger. “Merlin has a canker; he needs a physic.”

I
reluctantly bend over the dog, the noxious fumes of Grandmother’s skirts making me blench. She runs her fingers through his coat, parting the wiry hair to display a livid looking boil, or a rat bite.

“Give him to me,” I say, “I will take him to the stables and get a groom to look at him.”

She parts with him as reluctantly as I hand Elizabeth to Lady Bryan. He is an obnoxious little beast but it will not do to let the creature sicken and die. He is Grandmother’s only remaining friend, and the only member of the household who does not mind the stench of pee and cabbage that seems to cling to her.

Mother is distracted, as if she doesn’t know what to do with me. She is no longer comfortable having me home; it is one thing to entertain a daughter, a queen is another matter altogether. She is tense, awkward and nervous. In the end, when she continues to put on airs for my benefit, I can bear it no longer.

“Mother!
I came home for some respite from royal etiquette. Just let it rest and come and sit with me, bear me company. Come; pick up your sewing.”

She perches on the edge of a chair, lowers her head over a row of tiny stitches while I fasten an edging of swansdown to a tiny linen bonnet. For a while the afternoon ticks on
, and we work in companionable silence.

From time to time I look up at her bowed head, the light shining upon her lined brow, cheeks that are beginning to droop. They say she was very beautiful as a girl, rather like Mary in looks. It has been my eternal regret that I resemble Grandmother. I have heard stories of how Mother danced with Henry when he was still the Prince of Wales, how their beauty and grace caused quite a stir.

“What was Henry like as a boy, Mother?”

She jumps a little, looks up from her work, a flush
pinkening her cheeks. She shrugs, inserts her needle and fumbles for the point at the back of the cloth.

“Oh, you know.
Handsome and gallant, very athletic and always with a song on his lips.”

“I suppose all the women were in love with him – young and old.”

She puts down her work, tips her head to one side.

“Oh yes. Court ladies are always in love with the Prince of Wales, whatever he looks like, but with Henry there was a genuine reason for fancying him.”

“It’s a mercy he doesn’t resemble his father,” I say. Not that I ever met the old king, for he was dead long before I was old enough to come to court. His portrait shows a closed, private man, the hooded eyes hiding secrets, plotting mischief. Of course, I could be influenced by Henry’s aversion to him. He has never said anything good about his father, apart from once when he commended his father for ending the war between York and Lancaster. Although he is a Tudor and proud of it, I know Henry sees himself as more of York than Lancaster, and looks beyond his penny-pinching father to the grandeur of his grandfather, Edward IV.