The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn (30 page)

The whole court is gossiping about how much in love we are. Jane says that bets are being placed on how soon it will be before I am fat with child. She sighs when she tells me this
, and since I am in love and want everyone else to be, I reach out in sympathy.

“Jane, are you still at odds with George? Is there anything to be done?”

She jerks her shoulders, avoiding my eye. “It’s too late for that. He prefers to take his pleasure elsewhere, and even should he bother to try to warm my bed, I’d have none of it.”

“But a child, Jane.
A child would make things so much better, even if you and George …”

“Pardon me, Madam,” she says, snatching away her hand, “but do you think I don’t know that? Do you not think I spend every waking hour longing for a child? But how can I get one when my husband prefers to sleep with hearth wenches?”

She is not easy to like, and very difficult to help, but I can see her pain. “I am sorry, truly, Jane. Shall I speak to George, see if I can persuade him to make an effort?”

She sighs, looks at the ceiling and then at the floor. “Your Majesty, how would you feel if your husband had to be ‘told’ to sleep with you? Would you then be filled with lust for him, or would you want to crown him with your chamber pot?”

I have a sudden vision of George with the contents of the night stool streaming over his shoulders. It would be his just deserts. If the situation were not so tragic, I would laugh. I see her point entirely but, knowing George as I do, I see his also.

He craves soft loving arms, not the sharp acid tongue Jane has developed. What a shame their marriage got off to such a bad start, I can see no hope for it now.

Turning back to the mirror I grow quiet, pensive as Jane brushes the knots from my hair. She is gentle and I have always liked the way she teases the tangles instead of dragging at them as some do. I reach out and give her hand a squeeze. Our eyes meet in the looking-glass and I see her pain and self-pity, mixed with a little self-loathing.

We reluctantly leave Sudeley and move on across the Severn Valley to stop at Thornbury Castle, but our loving mood continues and the court, infected by our happiness, is gay. Even the rain relents a little and allows the sun to peek through the clouds. We all tumble outside into the gardens, glad of the respite from the weather.

My ladies and I have spread our skirts and are sitting on the grass listening to a minstrel’s tale
, when news reaches us of plague in Bristol Town. Henry’s brows draw together. “We must rethink our journey,” he says at once. “We cannot risk contagion.”

In the end, the town fathers come to pay their homage to us at
Thornbury, and they come bearing gifts. Livestock and victuals for Henry’s table, and to me they present a parcel-gilt cup and cover which is filled with coin; a hundred marks in all.

The austere old men line up before me, sombre and reserved, but when I beam upon them, enthusing over their gifts, their hostility seems to dissolve, falling under my loving spell, blushing and stroking their
grey beards in delight. At last, I am learning how to reach out to people. How I wish that everyone was so easily won.

All summer I have been looking forward to the next stop on our travels
, for we are to visit the home of an old and dear friend, Nicholas Poyntz. For once I need have no fear that our hosts are hiding disloyalty to us, for the people of Acton Court leave us in no doubt as to where their loyalties lie.

The approach to the manor is lined with waving cottars, the bailey bedecked with flags
, and at the top of the steps to the great hall, Nicholas and his household wait to greet us. As we ride in, the cheers are deafening. Henry and I smile widely, and so do the rest of our party.

It is only a year or so since Nicholas
Poyntz lost his wife, but the loss doesn’t seem to have affected him greatly. He skims down the steps, sweeps an elegant bow, and as soon as I am dismounted, takes my hand and anoints my wrist with a respectful kiss.

“Nicholas,” I say, looking down at his dark curly head. “How are you? It has been a long time.”

“Indeed it has, Your Grace, too long.” He turns next to greet Henry, bowing low to welcome him to his home. Nicholas is more my friend than Henry’s. He is a long term supporter of the reform, and George and I have known him for a number of years. He is intelligent, handsome, and sincere, and I hope Henry will come to love him as we do.

“How were the roads, Your Majesty?” Nicholas asks. “I was thinking of you only last evening and wondering if the recent heavy weather has made them impassable.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Henry replies, still a little wary as his eye slides about the bailey, taking in his surroundings. With great deference, Nicholas ushers us through the band of happy retainers who have come to greet us and into the hall, where Henry stands tall, assessing the wealth  and opulence, little realising that Nicholas has probably bankrupted himself for the sake of our comfort.

“How lovely, Nicholas,” I murmur when Henry makes no comment. Nicholas holds out his arm and with my hand on his sleeve, leads us through his house. I feel very much at home already. The renovations have been thorough, a whole new wing built just to accommodate our visit, and the rooms
are designed to open into each other, in the way of a royal palace. Each chamber is brightly lit, draped with the finest tapestries and wall paintings, and in each hearth burns a fire large enough to roast an ox.

A
suite of rooms are provided for Henry and I, each one more lavishly furnished than the last, and I am pleased to see a garderobe discreetly situated in each chamber. I look about me, unable to hide my grateful smile. “I shall be very comfortable here, Nicholas,” I say with feeling, and in his answering smile I see a mixture of relief and gratitude.

When Henry and I are alone, I sit on the window seat and begin to draw off my gloves. “What did you think of Nicholas, Henry? Do you think you will make a friend of him?”

I have the desire that Nicholas should have a knighthood, status, a place at court. The king moves toward me, pulls a chair close and eases into it. We are both a little stiff from the saddle; riding in the rain is never comfortable. The leather chafes, the water finds a way beneath all but the most voluminous coverings, and my limbs are aching and sore. Of course, Henry hunts almost every day and is more used to it than I, but even he is weary.

“Hmm, I liked him well enough, and he certainly seemed to
admire you.”

From the corner of my eye I cannot be sure if he is teasing or not. I decide to be dismissive. “Oh, I have known him forever, since I was a girl in France.”

“He seems enamoured of you, also.”

“Not enamoured, Henry. Nicholas is playing the attentive
host, that is all. I hope you are not going to be jealous and silly, it will spoil everything.”

“Not unless you give me cause.”

I slide from the seat, lean forward to kiss the end of his nose, tug his beard. I know he hates it when I tease him, but it is the only way to treat such foolishness. “I love you, Henry Tudor,” I whisper. “Not the king, the man. The man I share my bed with every night, the man I stayed a maid for until I was far too old to be so. There is no other man for me.”

He pulls me onto his lap
and lays his head on my shoulder, his damp hair further wetting my gown. A hand creeps up my bodice to tamper with my breast. We remain so for some time, watching the changing light outside the window. I listen to his breathing, regular and slow, and soon my eyes begin to droop. When dusk falls and the chamberer comes to light the torches, he disturbs our slumber.

I sit up and our cheeks, which have welded together as we dozed, tear apart. I put up a hand as we untangle our bodies
, and see the red imprint of my face on his. As I rise from his lap, I look down in dismay at our fine velvet clothes, which are stiffening as the mud dries upon them.

That evening
, the music is loud and merry. George makes us all laugh, playing the fool on the dance floor and spoiling the composure of his partner, Joan. We clap our hands, tap our feet, and Henry, unable to resist the lure of the melody, holds out his palm and demands that I partner him.

Soon we are all dancing, skirts swaying, feet stomping. We laugh, spinning, as we desperately strive to keep time with the musicians. I don’t just dance with Henry. I partner every man in the room
; George and Norris, and Nicholas more than once, growing quite rosy with exertion.

The other ladies dance as well
—even Jane who, pink-cheeked from the wine and the activity, manages to look quite pretty. George deigns to lead her about the floor for a while, although he soon hands her on to Nicholas and partners Madge instead. He is never with the same partner for long, one after the other my ladies pass through his hands, subject to his teasing, his flirting.

As we promenade through a corridor of dancers, Norris whispers something daring in my ear and I burst out laughing again, quickly drawing Henry’s eye. I try to contain it but the joke is too great and too rude to be shared. I clench my lips together
, trying not to laugh, and with my hand in his, Norris and I weave in and out of the other dancers. He is light of foot, his eye twinkles and I respond because I am happy, because I am a queen dancing with my courtiers. 

We are all quite drunk, both with the wine and the warm heady night, and when George moves in to claim his turn with
me, Norris pretends to refuse to hand me over. “You shan’t have her,” he cries, in mock heroism. “I am not done with her yet.”

And my idiot brother, drunker than the rest of us, lowers his head
and charges like an angry bull. He knocks Norris sideways and grabs my hand. While Norris scrabbles to rise from the floor, amid shouts of laughter, George spins me round, hoists me over his shoulder, his hand clutching my thigh, and runs with me from the room. I shriek as he charges along the dimly-lit corridor, jolted and laughing all the way. I kick my legs, calling for help, but the sounds of the revel die away as he bursts into a side chamber and lets me slide to the floor.

It is dark within, a seldom used room that is musty with little traffic. There
are no torches, no fire; just the darkness, and George and I. I lie back against the door, breathless, my laughter lingering, my bosom jerking. As my giggles subside and my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness, I can just make out the shadows of his face, the gleam of moonlight on his forehead. He sobers, reaching out to run a finger along my cheek, his thumb lingering on my wet lips.

My smile fades.

“Ah Anne,” he whispers, as if I am not there to hear him. “If only you were not my sister, not my queen.”

The joke is over. I don’t feel like laughing now. I can hear the pain in his voice, the deep hurt of his words. He is drunk, I tell myself. He will remember none of this in the morning.

And neither must I.

The rest of the progress passes in a haze of merriment as we stop briefly at Little Sodbury, Baynton, and a little longer at the Seymour seat at Wulfhall. By mid-September we are in Winchester, where our revel comes to an abrupt halt as bad news reaches us. Once more, it is from Rome.

To my husband’s fury
, Pope Paul denounces us again, depriving Henry of his royal dignity and his right to the kingdom, and urging France to uphold this Papal brief. The Pope’s influence is vast and we are used to obeying him. Our choices are clear; we can either do as he says, separate and let Henry take Catherine back as his queen, or we can hide in a corner, besmirched by Papal disapproval, or we can be audacious and show the world once and for all that the Pope’s words are meaningless in England. We have our own Head of the Church in England, and Henry is both Pope and King rolled into one. I urge Henry to strike out, stand firm against Rome’s bullying.

Due to the recent treasonous activities of some church members
, there are bishoprics to appoint. It is our duty to elect new men to the posts and we intend to fill those posts with our friends, our supporters.

In a belligerent mood, on the nineteenth day of September, we hold a grand religious ceremony in which Cranmer consecrates three bishops: Bishop Foxe of Hereford
, Bishop Latimer of Worcester, and Bishop Hisley of Rochester. In a show of defiance against the Pope, Henry and I, clothed in our best, attend the ceremony and bite our thumbs at Rome.

Afterwards, the council scrambles to please us, tearing out their hair to come up with ways to legally counter the Pope’s actions. It is Gardiner, so wily with his pen,
who composes a writ defending the Supremacy, finding words in the Scriptures to uphold it; words that simultaneously attack papal authority.

“No man,” says the Bishop, “is
bounden to perform an unlawful oath,” and with these words he frees both the king and all Englishmen from the oaths once sworn to the Roman Church in good faith.

I should be happy,
yet I am troubled. Something in the wording of the document bothers me. I frown at the spidery handwriting for a long time before taking the matter to George.

He is sitting alone in the dark, a jug of ale at his side, and he claims to have a headache. I light a candle, take my place beside him and show him the paper. He takes it from me and showing no sign of remembering his indiscretion at Acton Court, frowns at the script. I thrust the memory from my own mind.