The Kiss
of
The Concubine
Judith Arnopp
28th January 1547 – Whitehall Palace
It is almost midnight and January has Whitehall Palace clenched in its wintery fist. The gardens are rimed with frost, the casements glazed with ice. Like a shadow, I wait alone by the window in the silver-blue moonlight, my eye fixed on the bed.
The room is crowded, yet nobody speaks.
I tread softly among them. The flickering torchlight illuminates a sheen of anticipation on their faces, the rank odour of their uncertainty rising in a suffocating fug. Few can remember the time that went before, and both friend and foe balance upon the cusp of change, and tremble at the terror of the unknown.
I move through the heavily perfumed air, brush aside jewelled velvet sleeves. At the high-canopied bed I sink to my knees and observe his face for a long moment. He is changed. This is not the man I used to know.
They have propped him on pillows, the vast belly mountainous beneath the counterpane, and the yellow skin of mortality’s mask is drawn tightly across his cheeks. There is not much time and before death can wipe his memory clean, I speak suddenly into his ear, a whisper meant only for him. “Henry!”
The king’s eyes fly open and his eyeballs swivel from side to side, his disintegrating ego peering as if through the slits in a mummer’s mask.
He knows me, and understands why I have come.
He whimpers like a frightened child and Anthony Denny steps forward and leans over the bed. “Your Majesty, Archbishop Cranmer has been summoned; he cannot be long now.”
Henry’s fat fingers tremble as he grips the coverlet, his pale lips coated with thick spittle as he tries to speak. I move closer, my face almost touching his, and the last rancid dregs of his breath engulf me. “They think you fear death, Henry. But you fear me more, don’t you, my Lord?”
“Anne?”
The sound is unintelligible, both a denial and a greeting, but it tells me what I need to know. He recognises and fears my presence. Those assembled begin to mutter that the king is raving, talking with shadows.
I sink into the mattress beside him and curl my body around his bulk. “How many times did we share this bed, Henry?” His breathing is laboured now and sweat drips from his brow, the stench of his fear exceeded only by that of his festering thigh. I tighten my grip upon him. “Did you ever love me, Henry? Oh, I know that you lusted but that isn’t the same. Do you remember how you burned for me, right to the end?”
I reach out to run my fingertip along his cheek and he leaps in fright, like a great fish floundering on a line, caught in a net of his own devising. One brave attendant steps forward to mop the king’s brow as I continue to tease.
“Poor Henry. Are you afraid even now of your own sins? To win me you broke from Rome, although in your heart you never wanted to. Even the destruction of a thousand years of worship was a small price to pay to have me in your bed, wasn’t it?”
Henry sucks in air and forgets to breathe again. A physician hurries forward, pushes the attendant aside and with great daring, lifts the king’s right eyelid. Henry jerks his head away and the doctor snatches back his hand as if it has been scalded.
Even now they are fearful of him. Although the king can no longer so much as raise his head from his pillow, they still cower. How long will it take for them to forget their fear?
Mumbling apologies, the physician bows and backs away to take his place with the others. As they watch and wait a little longer, the sound of mumbled prayer increases. “Not long now, Henry,” I whisper like a lover. “It is almost over.”
A door opens. Cold air rushes into the stifling chamber and Archbishop Cranmer enters, stamping his feet to dislodge the snow from his boots. He hands his outer clothes to a servant before pushing through the crowd to approach the bed, his Bible tucked beneath his arm.
I playfully poke the end of Henry’s nose. “Time to confess your sins, my husband.” Cranmer takes the king’s hand, his long slim fingers contrasting with the short swollen digits of his monarch. As he begins to mutter the last rites, I put my mouth close to Henry’s ear to taunt him. “Tell the truth, Hal. Own up to all the lies you told; how you murdered and how you cheated. Go on ….”
But King Henry has lost the power of speech, and cannot make a full confession. Gasping for one more breath he clings tightly to Cranmer’s hand, and I know there is not long to wait before he is mine again. A single tear trickles from the corner of his eye to be lost upon his pillow.
“It’s time, Henry,” I whisper. “And I am here, waiting. For a few short years I showed you Paradise and now, perhaps, I can do so again. Unless, of course, I choose to show you Hell.”
15221 - Hever, Kent
England seems small after the
glories of the French court, and my father’s house cramped and inconvenient. I
am horribly bored kicking my heels in the country, and long for company. Mother
is distracted, Father wears a face like a thundercloud, and neither of them
pays my arrival home as much heed as I would like. There is no one save George,
who is home for a few days.
My brother is always glad to
listen to me and pretends to delight in the stories of my adventures overseas.
“You do look fine, Anne,” he says, admiring my fine French-styled clothes. I
have grown used to admiration and whereas once I would have blushed and
dismissed his words, I am far too elegant to let my discomposure show now I am
older. George takes my arm and leads me inside, the interior of the hall
suddenly dark after the brilliance of the day. “Have you heard about Mary?” he
whispers.
My sister, Mary, has ever had the
knack of stealing the attention from me, and is the centre of things once more.
She almost brought disgrace on us by sharing the bed of the French king, but Father
has recently managed to marry her off respectably to William Carey. We all
imagined that now she was safely wed to a good man, she would settle down to
provide Will with a string of infants. But although my parents have not spoken
to me of it, I have lately learned that Mary is now enjoying a passionate
‘flirtation’ with King Henry. My sister, it seems, accumulates kings as one
might collect butterflies, or compliments.
After supper, George and I closet
ourselves in a small chamber where I poke the slumbering fire back to life.
“You can’t blame the king for fancying her, she is so pretty. Not cursed with
my long nose and bony chin.”
George laughs and stretches his
feet toward the flames. “If I didn’t know you better, Anne, I’d think you were
fishing for compliments when you know very well that what you lack in looks,
you make up for with wit.”
He is right; my face does lack Mary’s
softness. Her expression is meek, just as men prefer. To make it worse, she
boasts a nature twice as soft as mine. Although I tell myself I’d rather have
brains than looks, I don’t want to hear confirmation of my lack of beauty, even
if it is only from the lips of my brother. I throw a cushion at his head, but
he catches it deftly and laughs at me.
“Poor Anne,” he teases, “is it a sweetheart
you are lacking? Don’t worry, sister, soon there will be courtiers aplenty
fighting for your favour.”
I try to stop the hot blood from
burning my cheeks. “I don’t need a sweetheart. Father is arranging my marriage
as we speak, as well you know.”
I am intended for James Butler,
the heir of the Ormond estates, but his father and mine spend overmuch time
quibbling over details, protracting the arrangement and leaving me in limbo.
Although I have never set eyes on James, I am content with the match. He is
young and rich enough to make a good husband, and I have heard no ill stories
of him. I trust my father to choose well for me.
George leans forward and offers
me a handful of nuts. I pop two into my cheek, continuing to speak with my
mouth full. “Can you imagine Mary in the arms of the king? I am surprised she
can think of a thing to say.”
“He won’t care what she says as
long as it’s yes.” George laughs, his eyes glinting in the firelight. He
watches me, aware that he has planted unmaidenly pictures in my mind. I have
heard that my brother has a way with women, and I can believe the tales. He is
good looking, dark like myself but with Mary’s features; a goodly combination
for a man.
Both Mary and George, it seems,
are irresistible to the opposite sex, while I myself have not yet been tempted
by any, despite the licentiousness of the French court. Perhaps my reluctance
shows; perhaps there is something about me that promises rejection. Whatever
the reason, I have never been tempted or even yet kissed; perhaps if I had been,
I would have a little more understanding of my sister.
If I were indelicate enough to
imagine Mary in a dalliance with any man, I could not visualise her ever
refusing. She isn’t the sort to say no. And by that I do not mean that she is
in any way cheap, only that her gentleness makes her wary of hurting a fellow’s
feelings.
“Anyway,” George continues, “as I
said, you can’t blame a man for trying, not when the prize is so full of sweet
promise.” Trying to ignore George’s crude inferences, I force my thoughts
toward Mary’s husband.
“My sympathies are with poor
William. How hard it must be for him to be made so publically a cuckold. What
must he be feeling? They’ve only been married a few months.”
“Well, be fair, Anne. He isn’t the first man
to be so used and besides, we don’t even know if the king has so honoured Mary.
She might well fend him off and cling to her reputation yet. Although, on the
other hand, a romp with the king might be good for all of us. The Carey purse
isn’t a long one, and Henry usually looks after his concubines and pays well
for a maid’s honour.”
George cannot have forgotten that
Mary’s honour was lost some time ago at the French court, but I don’t remind
him. Instead, my mind drifts back to the king.
I glimpsed him once or twice when
I was a young girl, and have never forgotten his overwhelming presence. I
cannot imagine ever having the wherewithal to resist such a man. The king does
not look like a man who has ever been denied anything. Poor Mary, I’d not be in
her shoes, not for all the jewels in the world.
George cracks another walnut in
his palms and begins to separate the flesh from the shell. “We will be better
able to assess the situation in a week or two when I accompany you to court.
You will find it very different to life in France.”
“So I’ve been told. I really need
new gowns, but Father says his purse will not stretch to it and I am to make do
with what I have.” I pout and look up at George through my lashes, but if I was
expecting sympathy, I am sore disappointed. Instead, he gives a shout of
laughter that wakes the dog from his slumber. The old hound lifts his head and
thumps his tail on the floor.
“Anne! You have more sleeves and
headdresses than all of the queen’s ladies put together. Believe me, you will
not look ill-turned out beside even Queen Catherine herself.”
He is right and I find myself
cheered. I sit up straighter and stretch out my toes, admiring the jewels upon
my slippers. “And there will be none with gowns cut in the French mode. I might
not be the prettiest of the queen’s ladies, but I can probably manage to be the
most stylish.”
“That’s it, Anne, my girl.
Astonish both king and court with your style and wit, and perhaps the gossips
will leave Mary alone for a space.”
22nd March 1522 - York Place
The Cardinal’s house is crowded.
I am drowning in a babble of voices, a thousand candles burning, a crush of
bodies, the leaping shadows of the torches on the walls. As Mary helps me into
a white satin gown and fastens on my headdress, I am in a fever of
excitement.
To my relief, her liaison with
the king hasn’t altered her; She is still my gentle elder sister, overseeing my
arrival at court, ensuring I am happily settled.
Tonight there is to be a pageant
to honour the Emperor Charles of Spain, who is visiting court to discuss his
future marriage to Princess Mary who is, as yet, but a child. There have been
jousts and feasts and today, to mark the beginning of Lent, we are putting on a
production of Chateau Vert. Mary and I, together with the other court ladies,
are to play the eight feminine virtues. The king’s sister, Princess Mary, is to
represent Beauty, while my sister is Kindness, and Jane Parker, my brother’s
betrothed, is Constancy. I am to play Perseverance.
From behind the slits of my mask,
I can see the other girls. They are all dressed identically and are as
brim-full of excitement as I. They peek from behind the heavy fall of brocade
that screens us from the assembly.
“Chateau Vert is enormous!”
shrieks Jane over her shoulder, “it looks like a real castle.” The other girls
jostle her aside to get a closer look, and I follow them, elbowing past the
Countess of Devonshire who is playing Honour.
At one end of the hall stands a
glittering castle, all painted green, adorned with red roses, the battlements
shining with green foil, the whole thing brightly lit by flaming torches.
The musicians are concealed behind
the wooden walls, and the other girls and I, playing the feminine virtues, will
soon be taking our places in the towers. Defending us along the battlements
will be the contrary feminine vices; Danger, Disdain, Jealousy, Unkindness,
Scorn, Sharp tongue, and Aloofness. Eight little boys, choristers from Wolsey’s
household, will play these vices.
To gain our hearts, the eight
male Virtues, led they say by the king himself, must break a way through the
Vices to win Fair Maiden’s heart. The men will represent Amorousness,
Nobleness, Youth, Attendance, Loyalty, Pleasure, Gentleness and Liberty.
“I wonder which the king will
play?” Mary breathes in my ear, her face close to mine as we peek through the
arras. I turn to look at her, my eyes level with her chin, and see a pulse
beating at the base of her throat. She licks her lips, a blush upon her cheek.
“Sir Loyal Heart?” I quip, but
then, feeling remorse for my teasing, I add, “I’m sure we will know soon
enough, there is no disguising the king, after all.”
Henry is more than six feet tall
and towers over all his court. His fiery red hair, broad chest and well-turned
leg cannot be disguised, although that doesn’t deter him from such games of
pretence. I have been instructed that we must all be surprised when he reveals
himself at the unmasking.
The Countess claps her hands and
we all scramble to finish dressing. “Tie on your mask,” I cry to Mary who,
realising she has mislaid it, upsets a pile of silk wraps in a fever of
searching. With fumbling fingers I help her tie it over her eyes then, giggling
and gossiping, we take a secret back passage into the hall and conceal
ourselves within the wooden castle tower.
Silence falls within the hall. I
can hear Mary’s rapid breathing as the pageant spokesman steps forward to
address the gathered company. It is William Cornish who, as Master of
Choristers in the Chapel Royal, thinks up all these splendid pageants for the
amusement of his king. Clad all in crimson satin, embroidered with burning
flames of gold, Master Cornish opens his arms and looks toward the battlements
where we are waiting.
“Ladies,” he cries. “I am Ardent
Desire and I beg you to surrender yourselves and come down to me.”
We titter and hide behind our
hands as two of the chorister boys, playing Scorn and Disdain, sneer a derisive
and rather rude refusal.
“Then,” Ardent Desire’s voice
rattles the rafters, “we must take your chateau by storm and force you down.”
A great burst of cannon fire
sounds from outside, and the women scream in pretended terror. Mary jumps into
my arms, laughing and shaking with excitement, her head thrown back, her long
white neck exposed. The court is in uproar and even the severe features of the
Emperor are screwed up with laughter; beside him even the queen is smiling, for
once.
The men come charging into the
hall. The king’s gentlemen, splendid in blue velvet and cloth of gold, hurl
oranges and dates at our defences. As the hail of missiles falls, amid roars of
laughter, I grab a handful of sweetmeats and launch them at the encroaching
foe.
I recognise George despite his
mask. He has one leg hooked over the battlements, his cap is lost, and
Unkindness is bashing him with a cushion. The other men are in a similar
predicament as Feminine Virtue puts up a sturdy fight. Dodging a hail of
oranges, I lean over the battlements and scream encouragement.
Then, a giant of a man, who can
only be the king, chases Jealousy and Scorn from their position and breaches
the inner wall. At this a triumphant cheer erupts from the spectators, and I
see Charles Brandon making off with Princess Mary over his shoulder. She clings
to his doublet, her mouth wide with delighted terror. By rights Sir Loyal
Heart, played by the king, should rescue Beauty first, but instead he heads for
my sister. King Henry, whom we must not recognise, scrambles up the wooden
wall, roaring like a bear, and lunges for her as she scurries away. Not
noticing his mistake, his hand fastens like a vice about my wrist and he gives
a grunt of satisfaction. I try to pull back but he is too strong for me, his
determination not to be refused.
I find myself flung over his
shoulder, the jewels on his doublet cutting through the thin stuff of my gown.
As he runs away with me, the breath is forced from my lungs. My headdress slips
and I grab for it as he bears me from the castle, his great hot hand gripping
my upper thigh.
I am dragged from his shoulder,
my hair cascading about my face as I slide down the king’s body. He is very
close, his breath in my face, his heart beating frantically against my own. I
tilt my head to look up at him and for a long moment he returns my stare before
deftly removing my mask. His eyes widen; eyes that are as brilliant as the
summer sky.
“You are not ….”
“Mary? No, Your Grace, I am not.
I am Anne; Anne Boleyn.”
With my hand still held fast
between his fingers, he hesitates before bowing slightly. I sink to my knees
before him.
After a long pause he raises me
to my feet, opens his mouth to speak. “I am pleased to meet you, Mistress Anne.”
Transfixed by his face, it is some seconds before I can tear my eyes from him
and turn them to where Mary still waits within her tower. The fight is
diminishing around her, all are vanquished. She has removed her mask, her hurt and
disappointment plain for all to see. She is no longer smiling.
I shake myself; free myself from
the snare of Henry’s eyes. “You must return to the battle, Sir Loyal Heart. A
fair maiden still awaits you.”
After a moment, in which his blue
eyes bore into mine, he bows sharply and, with a brave battle cry, turns once
more into the fray.
As the battle continues, I watch
him for a moment before giving myself a mental shake and turning away toward
the hall where the spectators are gathered. But before I am halfway across the
room, my step is halted. “Mistress Anne?”
Harry Percy makes a leg before me
and asks if I will join him in the dance. I curtsey, and with my fingers
balanced on his palm, allow him to lead me to the floor.
The minstrels strike up a tune
and the king, partnered now by Princess Mary, joins the dance. As we begin to
move to the music, I cast a sideways glance at my partner.
Harry, his face flushed scarlet,
returns my smile before darting his eyes away again. I have, of course, spoken
with him before. He is part of the Cardinal’s household and often accompanies
him to court. More often than not, while the Cardinal is closeted with the
king, Percy comes to the queen’s apartments to pass the time with her ladies.
He does not speak much or push
himself forward at all, but hovers in the background, listening and smiling and
flushing every time our eyes meet, as they do … often.
I do not underestimate how much
courage it has taken for him to invite me to dance.
“So, how did you like our
pageant, My Lord?”
“I liked it very well, Mistress,”
he stammers, as we promenade before the dance forces us apart.
Now and then, the serpentine
steps lead us toward other partners; I touch other hands, exchange pleasantries
with other men. But all the while, I am aware of Percy watching me. The
knowledge makes me lift my chin a little higher, my feet become lighter, and I
toss my head with more spirit. When at last we are drawn together again, and he
engulfs my hand in his palm, my pulse races and my smile becomes a little too
welcoming.
When the music slides to an end,
he makes his bow. I notice tiny spirals of curls at the nape of his neck. My
tummy gives a little leap when he rises and fixes me with a look that is a
little less nervous now.
“Can I get you a cup of wine,
Mistress?”
My answering smile is as wanton
as Mary’s.
Later, when the court revellers
are settling to sleep, George and I share a nightcap. Something about the
ill-lit chamber urges us to keep our heads close together as we speak in
whispers before the hearth. At first we merely gossip, revisiting the
uproarious pageant, exchanging notes on who was flirting with whom. After a
while, George sobers. “You would do well, Sister, to remember that your hand is
pledged elsewhere.”
His words force my head up. For a
moment, our eyes lock together while I decide whether to be frank or to feign
innocence.
“You mean Percy, I suppose. He is
just a young man playing the game of love ... as our betters do.”
“The game is dangerous, Anne. You
don’t want your name bandied about … like Mary’s. It won’t do to have you both
linked to easy virtue. Think what Father will say if you jeopardise the match
with Ormond.”
“Oh, George.” I tuck my feet
beneath me on the settle. “I did but dance with him and share a cup of wine.”
It is not easy to lie so
blatantly. I concentrate on the way the firelight is playing upon his hair and
try not to think of Percy.
“You like him, I can tell. Never
before have I seen your cheeks blush beneath a fellow’s gaze. He is betrothed,
you know. Has been since childhood.”
“Everyone knows that. I don’t
know why you are making such a fuss. It was nothing.”
I lower my face to my cup, close
my eyes to remember again the softness of Harry Percy’s hand brushing mine, the
fine cut of his leg, the way the Adam’s apple bobs in his throat when he
laughs. I have no idea why I am deceiving George, who is party to all my
secrets. Perhaps the silent pledge that passed between Harry Percy and me is
not for sharing. I want to hug the knowledge to myself and run it over and over
in my mind. The king is forgotten and I can barely wait for the next day, when
Harry Percy is bound to call at the queen’s apartments. But I have not fooled
George and slyly he probes my motives further.
“Of course,” he continues,
“should his betrothal with Mary Talbot be broken, he would be as fine a match
as you could ask for … but I fear such an arrangement will never be revoked.”
Percy is the son of the Earl of
Northumberland, and will one day come into a vast inheritance. A prize indeed were
he to ask for my hand, but I know – we both know – that such a thing is
impossible for such bonds cannot be broken. And our cause is doubly hopeless
since we are both promised elsewhere.
Nevertheless, George’s words
grate on my senses; I do not wish to hear that our suit is hopeless. For the
first time I am made aware of how little control I have over my own destiny. I
don’t want to hear it. I untangle my legs and place my cup on a small table. “I
am going to my bed. Where is Mary? Have you seen her?”
“She entertains the king, no
doubt.” He gets up and leaves a kiss on my forehead, places a finger beneath my
chin and forces me to look into his eyes. “Tread carefully, Sister.”
Impatiently, I shrug off his hand
and march across the room. I throw open the door, almost colliding with Jane
Parker on the threshold. “Oh,” she says, “there you are, Anne. I thought you
were never coming to bed.”
She peers past me to where George
is quaffing the last of his wine. He makes a knee to his betrothed and she
flushes and bobs a knee in reply. While her head is lowered George blows me a
mocking kiss, making me long for something to throw at him.
I turn on my heel. Grabbing
Jane’s wrist, I whirl her along the corridor to the chamber we share with Madge
Shelton and Margery Horsman. The girls are in various stages of making ready
for bed and when I suddenly throw open the door they look up, their faces
opening like flowers in surprise. I cross the room swiftly and turn suddenly,
the draught from my skirts making the candles dip and dance.
“Anne?” Jane is inquisitive. She
follows me to my bed, perches on the mattress and watches as I try to quell the
internal storm. In the end, her unspoken questions breach my defences and I
burst out, “I could wish that George did not know me so well. Am I a book to be
read, or a cypher to be broken? Sometimes, as much as I love him, I wish he
would pay more mind to his own affairs.”
She says nothing but she doesn’t
have to. It is fast becoming obvious that George is less than satisfied with
his own betrothal, and does all in his power to avoid Jane’s company. But she
is resolute. She slides from the bed and begins to remove my cap. “Don’t worry,
Anne. George will have enough to occupy him once we are wed. I will fill his
house with children, and he will lack both the time and the energy to pry into
your affairs.”
She pauses and picks up a brush,
begins to smooth the tangles from my hair. “I saw Tom Wyatt watching you dance
with Percy. You will have those two fighting like a pair of mastiffs if you are
not careful.”
“Cocks on the midden, more like,”
I quip, shrugging off her inference.
We laugh, but at the root of it,
she comes close to the mark. Since I arrived at court, and for the first time
in my life, I find myself with more suitors than I can handle.
Tom Wyatt is a gentleman and a
poet, whom I have known since childhood. Despite his handsome face, he moves me
little. Not like Harry.
When I am with Harry Percy, the blood runs
faster in my veins and my very soul seems to tremble with delight. It is not
something I have felt before … unless I count those fleeting moments I spent
today in the presence of the king.
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