The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn (6 page)

“Since Madam Carey is indisposed, perhaps your other daughter will accompany me. Anne, isn’t it?”

I leap to my feet, the blood rushing from my head as I open and close my mouth in confusion. I manage to mumble something, aware of the silent stab of Mary’s outrage as the king holds out his arm. I smile, slide my fingers into the bend of his elbow, rest my palm on his fine slashed sleeves and allow him to escort me into the garden.

He is so tall that I feel like a child again, my head bobbing below his shoulder as we pass into the pleasance. The sun has blessed us today and still shines high in the sky, the clouds staying away as if unwilling to mar the monarch’s pleasures. 

“So, Mistress, when are you returning to court?”

I don’t know how to reply. I was dragged from Greenwich at the behest of Cardinal Wolsey
, and I have no doubt he will not be sorry should I never return.

“That is in my father’s hands, Your Majesty. I await his pleasure.”

Henry bends over and exclaims at an early rose bud, drawing my attention to the deep pink hue just peeking from its wrapping of green. “Summer is not long away, Mistress. That is good to see. I will speak to Thomas and tell him his daughter is missed. He will have you back in no time. I can’t think how you amuse yourself all day, buried here in the country.”

I wonder if he has such concerns for Mary who is likewise rusticated but, of course, I would never dare ask it. I pluck a leaf from the honeysuckle and begin to shred it. “Oh, I like to walk when the weather is fine and when it is not, I read. My father has a fine collection of books.”

“Books? A little thing like you enjoys reading books? That is a thing I would not credit.”

“Yes, Your Majesty, my brother George brings me things to read too, mostly so that he has someone with whom to share his wisdom of theology. I take great delight if I can best him at an argument.”

King Henry bellows with laughter, his entire frame shaking with mirth. Then, when he has sobered a little, he wipes a tear from his eye and pats my hand.

“Oh
, Mistress Anne, I had not expected that. I can well imagine your brother’s discomfort at being beaten by a girl.” Laughter is still rumbling around his frame, a dimple winking in his cheek. “I imagined your chatter would be of sleeves and buckles, and here we are on the brink of intellect.” He turns and looks down at me, keeping hold of my hand. “I like you, Mistress Anne, and I believe you will amuse the queen too. I will instruct your father to bring you back to court just as soon as he can.”

I bob a curtsey
. He tucks my hand once more into his elbow and proceeds to conduct me around my own garden, pointing out primroses and a clump of Lent lilies beneath the hedge. As we turn a corner and duck beneath an arbour that will soon be smothered with roses, a movement from above draws my eye. I see my sister reaching out to slam her casement, and hear the tinkle of shattered glass fall to the gravel below.

I am glad to be back at court, and after my long, lonely time at Hever the queen’s household seems less dull now. I welcome the other women’s chatter as we wile away our days, sewing quietly or strolling in the gardens. The summer is just a memory now, although a few late flowers still struggle bravely against the encroaching season.

The gardeners are kept busy gathering up the leaves, the smoke from the bonfires drifting on the chilly breeze. Mary, after leaving her daughter in Hertfordshire, is back
at court and in the king’s favour once again. I find myself curious about them. I know that Mary is besotted with the king, but I am unsure if the feeling is reciprocated.

I watch from beneath my lashes and note how Mary seems to come alive when the king comes into the queen’s apartments. She straightens her spine, her cheeks redden and her eyes brighten
, but he gives no sign that he so much as knows my sister’s name. But after dark, when she is summoned to his privy chamber, she gladly follows his messenger along the dim corridors to be with him. I am aghast that after the neglect he has so recently shown her, she can find it in herself to be so forgiving.

“What has changed?” I whisper to George when we are alone. “He would barely look at her a few months ago.”

George thrusts a hot poker into a jug, making the ale hiss and bubble. He pours it out and hands me a cup. “The king is not alone. Some men are squeamish, prudish even, when it comes to sleeping with mothers, and although he craves a son, I think he draws the line at co-habiting with a woman who still bears the marks of maternity.”

I am puzzled. “What marks, George? Does a woman who has borne a child wear some hidden badge denoting her condition? I don’t understand.”

He laughs and flushes a little at my directness. “There are minor signs on her body and, well, … other small things. But what I really meant was that Henry would not find any allure in a woman who smells of wet linen and is still leeching milk. He is delicate – fastidious even. Now that Mary has left baby Catherine at home, the king is able to see her in a new light.”

“If it were me
, I’d not be able to forgive him. As soon as her condition began to show he turned as cold as stone and was sniffing around other women, making no effort to hide the fact. And when he came to Hever, he paid her no mind at all!”

George wipes froth from his top lip and examines his sleeve for dampness. “I can imagine. If you were Mary, you’d call Henry to heel and make him do as he is told,
king or not.”

He is laughing at me. I make a face at my brother for being so rude and turn my attention to my own ale. George shifts to a more comfortable position, tilts his head back in his chair.

“What do you make of the king’s decision to make Fitzroi his heir?”

“What do I make of it? You’d do better to ask what the queen makes of it.”

Henry Fitzroi is the king’s illegitimate son. At just six years old, the boy has been showered with titles and honours. Now, given the royal titles of Duke of Richmond and Somerset, and the offices of High Lord Admiral and Warden-General of the Marches, it looks very much as if Henry’s intention is for his bastard son to rule in the place of his legitimate daughter, Mary.

I hardly know what I think
, but both the queen and my sister Mary are inwardly furious that he is making such a show of the child they delight to call ‘Bessie Blount’s Bastard.’

Of course, no matter what traditions they may keep in Spain, the Princess Mary cannot rule in England. When she is married
, it will be to a foreign prince who will take precedence over her. The English would never tolerate a foreigner ruling over them. All the same, it must hurt Queen Catherine to see her own legitimate daughter passed over in favour of a bastard, especially when she has lost so many beloved sons. But I can see Henry’s point.

The lack of a legitimate son, or even a younger brother, to inherit his throne, could mean the end of his dynasty. What else can he do? The Tudor dynasty was begun such a little time ago, putting an end to years of civil war. Henry will move Heaven and Earth to keep the Plantagenet heirs away from the throne and to do that he needs a lusty male heir
. Yet his hopes of begetting one in wedlock are fading fast.

Although nobody voices it, we all know there is little hope that Catherine will now produce another child. The queen is growing elderly, her body thickening and stiffening, her youth draining into the cup of time
. Although Henry is discreet, and the queen turns a blind eye to his many mistresses, that doesn’t mean she isn’t silently suffering. I don’t know how she stands it, but like many things, marriage is a mystery to me.

George is looking pensively into the flames, his eyes brooding,
his mouth downturned. He looks as if he hasn’t had sufficient sleep.

“And how are things with you and Jane?”

My words startle him from his reverie, and I do not fail to notice the dislike that instantly curls his upper lip at the mention of his wife. He fidgets, shrugs his shoulders. “I cannot like her, Anne.”

He had not ‘liked’ her when they were betrothed
, but I had hoped marriage might bring a softening. I sigh and reach out to put my cup on the table.

“What is it about the
Boleyns? I wish one of us were happily wed. Mary is no more content than you are, and she treats poor Will Carey like a lapdog. And as for me, well, I sometimes wonder if I will ever marry.”

George is fumbling with the poker again
, and still on his knees shuffles toward me, gropes for my hand. “Of course you will, Anne. You will make the gladdest bride of all.”

“Will I?”

“Of course you will, Father will see to it. Is it so hard to remain a maid for a little longer?”

My face is burning but there is no one else to whom I can speak so freely. “Of course it is, George. Everyone around me is indulging in some liaison, legitimate or otherwise. I crave affection and … sometimes I feel like some ugly old maid whom nobody desires enough to marry. Wyatt is my only serious suitor
, and he is already wed!”

“That’s ridiculous. They all want you. It’s just that they know they can’t have you.”

Before I can stop it a little sob erupts from my throat, surprising even myself. George, still on his knees, grips my hands tighter. “Anne, Anne, my silly Anne. Don’t you know how … how … brilliant you are? Give it time. You have lots of time before you. Be patient.”

He buries his head in my skirts, his breath warming my lap
. I look down at his dark, close clipped hair, a glimpse of scalp beneath. With a deep sigh I lay my hand upon it, promising myself that I will wait. George is right, I am young yet and marriage will come when I least expect it.

***

Before the year is out, Mary confides that she is once more with child. When her condition can be hidden no longer, she is packed off home. While she kisses George and I goodbye, Will Carey waits to assist her into a carriage “Take care, Mary,” I say, trying not to notice the tear that escapes her control to trickle down her cheek. “Just think how lovely it will be to see baby Catherine again.”

She tries to smile, her mouth quivering as George secures a fur about her knees. Will leaves a brotherly kiss on my cheek. “Take care of her, Will,” I murmur, “she may carry your heir this time.”

He flushes scarlet, and wary of giving himself away, does not meet my eye. I watch him mount his horse, gather the reins and prepare to ride off.  None of us, not even Mary, can be sure if the child is her husband’s or the king’s, but this time I pray for Will’s sake that the child will not be branded with the ruddy complexion of the Tudors.

As they drive away, Mary leans from the window
, waving while her husband rides stony-faced beside the carriage. As the dust of the road settles around us, I lay a hand on George’s arm and he leads me inside.

It is quiet and rather lonely without Mary. Although I am surrounded by women, there are none whom I can call a real friend. The next day
, I trail in the queen’s footsteps as we promenade around the garden. If I feel a pang on passing the arbour where Percy and I first kissed, I do not dwell on it but keep my eyes turned firmly away. I might lack a sweetheart, but I realise now that the feelings I once had for Percy were nothing more than calf-love; a practice for the real thing. All the same, I long to be kissed again.

When will I have a real sweetheart?

Tom Wyatt’s laughing face swims like a naughty secret in my mind. There is always Tom, of course, who remains as devoted as ever, but I cannot forget his wife. Although she is kept far away from court, she represents an unbreakable barrier. No matter how sweet his poetry, or how ardent his kisses, I will allow myself to be no man’s concubine.

And there is the proposed match with James Butler, but I don’t believe that will ever come to anything, not the way he and Father are wrangling over who should have the Ormond estate. Father and I want a man who is free to love me. I dream of a handsome knight with a song on his lips and a glint in his eye. Sometimes after supper
, as we listen to the songs of the minstrels, I sigh for love but I have to acknowledge, love does not seem to be sighing for want of me.

The king no longer comes to the queen’s bed. The ladies of her privy chamber report that she prays constantly, begging for a child, for her husband to come to her, for her courses to begin again, but we all know that none of this will ever happen. Even a queen cannot turn back time, and to Henry, who is by several years Catherine’s junior, she is an old woman, a dried husk who has no chance of proving fruitful.

“The
king says the marriage is cursed,” George whispers to me when we are alone. “Yesterday he was quoting Leviticus, saying God wills him to be childless because he married his brother’s widow.”

In her youth
, Catherine was indeed wed to Henry’s brother, Arthur, who, had he lived, would have been king in Henry’s stead.

“But, George,” I say. “Their marriage has been blessed many times. The queen has borne him many children; it is not her fault they did not live.
And what about the Princess Mary? Isn’t she living proof of God’s blessing on the marriage?”

George smiles, folds his arms across his chest, looks at me sideways. “Mary is a nine year old girl and doesn’t suit the
king’s purpose. He wants out of his marriage before it is too late for him to beget a son, but he is very tightly stitched into it. Before they married, Catherine vowed before God that she was a maid and the Pope gave them a dispensation. The marriage is valid, there is nothing the king can do about that. Wolsey is beside himself.”