The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn (17 page)

A sound outside the apartment alerts us that our conversation is at an end. Marching feet, a thump on the door and the guards snap to attention
; Percy’s arrival is announced. The man who used to make my heart race stands just inside the door, twisting his cap in his hands. When Henry beckons him closer, he shuffles forward and makes his bow, first to Henry and then to myself, as if I am already queen.

As he straightens up he glances at me, whipping his eye quickly away before I can acknowledge him, and thereafter concentrates on the face of his king. Although he is the Earl of Northumberland and one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, he looks pale, but whether this is due to illness or the impending wrath of his monarch I do not know.

How puny he is, I think, how very feeble. His father, the great Earl, must have been sore disappointed in his son. He continues to twist his cap, the fine velvet will be ruined, the teardrop pearls loosened and lost if he carries on. I notice how bony and white his fingers are. He has bitten his fingernails to the quick and I remember, with a sudden shudder, those fingers tangling in my hair, his palms cupping my breasts, and those trembling blue lips biting and sucking at my throat. I swallow and turn away, disgusted at the laxity of my younger self. It takes a great deal of determination to thrust the picture away and remember who I am. I am Anne Boleyn, and soon to be Henry’s queen. I take a deep breath and try to still the fear in my gut.

Percy’s voice has not changed at all. He clears his throat, swallows
, and in shaking, high-pitched tones denounces his wife as a liar and a scold.

“Our marriage has not been a happy one, Your Majesty,” he says. “From our first day she has made it her mission in life to make me miserable. I will be as happy as she to see an end to it
, but I will not let her lies slander a good woman’s character, nor impinge on Your Grace’s future happiness. There was no contract between the Lady Anne and myself. We shared a few dances and a walk in the gardens; that is all.”

That is well said, Percy
, I think, looking on him with new, approving eyes. He is sweating. I can see it popping from his forehead, trickling down the side of his neck, dampening his collar. Beside me Henry leans forward, his mean mouth tight and threatening.

“You swear that to your king and, should the need arise, will you swear it before the court?”

Percy stands tall, no longer shaking so much, his chin firmer, his eyes curiously bright as, for both our sakes, he calmly perjures himself.

“Before God,
Your Grace.”

Silence in the room, apart from a fly banging
its head repeatedly against the mullioned window. I am abruptly aware of how very hot it is in this stuffy chamber, and I wish I could push the walls and the ceiling away and feel the sun on my face and the wind in my hair.

I long for the meadows of
Hever, the days of my youth. After so many years, Percy’s presence reminds me of all those times of pleasure and laughter, and I realise I am growing old in the king’s company. When I first came to his notice, I was little more than a girl. I was in demand, courted by many and flirting with any, yet all these years later, although laden down with jewels and property, I am still a maid. Still not wed, still not a mother.

I am up with the lark on the morning I am to be crowned Marchioness. The early September sun streams through the casement, the light flashing and flicking upon the surface of my bath like bright water nymphs. One of my women brings a jug and trickles warm fluid through my hair, the steam rising and infusing the air with the scent of roses.

W
armed by braziers, the room is busy with my attendants. Mary, who perches nearby watching the proceedings, quirks her brow. “Quite a ceremony,” she sniffs as she tests the nap of my new velvet gown between finger and thumb. “I hope you will not forget us once you are of the nobility.”

“As if I could ever climb so high as to forget you and George,” I say, squeezing a sponge along my arm, watching the trickling water glisten. “I intend to raise you both as high as I can. We will find you a handsome nobleman of your own, Mary. How would you like that?”

Her pretty cheeks flush but she shrugs her shoulders, doesn’t meet my eye. She slides from the bed and moves to the window, leaning across the sill to inhale the freshness of the morning. Windsor is one of Henry’s favourite palaces and each summer, to avoid the pestilence that season can bring, the court adjourns to the leafier pleasures offered by the castle. With a prime hunting ground on his doorstep, Henry mounts up most days and rides from dawn to dusk, coming home tired and famished. But not today. 

Today is special
, for it marks my ascendency to the nobility. My new title of Marchioness of Pembroke will not only offer me new property and vast wealth, but also marks another step on my passage from commoner to queen.

I have never been more popular with my family. Their gifts come flooding in
; some from my closest kin, but many from cousins and second-cousins I have not spoken to in an age, most of them by way of angling for preferment. Of all the gifts, the one presented to me by William Brereton is my favourite. It is a puppy, an Italian greyhound who I’ve named Urien, from the tales of Arthur. He is a timid little thing who, when he cannot seek the warmth of my skirts, hugs the hearth in search of comfort. He is chewing on a jewelled slipper that was part of a gift presented to me that morning by the French ambassador. The whole chamber is piled with sumptuous frivolities.

In a spurt of generosity I make a gift of some of their offerings to Mary. “I have so much,” I say, “and you have so little.” But instead of gratitude
, a look of irritation flashes across her face. She tries to hide it but it is too late, I have seen it, and some of my euphoria dwindles. “I want us to be friends, Mary, that is all.”

She stands up, the hoods and bracelets she has been holding falling to the floor. “You don’t have to buy me, Anne. I am your sister. If you want my advice, I would concentrate on winning the love of those about court who would do you harm.” She sighs, puts a hand to her forehead, her brow wearily furrowed. “I must make ready for the ceremony,” she says, her voice dull but still vaguely irritated. “I will come back once I am dressed.”

“I thought you wanted to borrow a hood …?” I call after her, but she is gone. I shrug my shoulders, not sure what I have done now to upset her. She is so prickly, and the more I try to regain our former friendship the further she slips from me. Deciding to speak to Henry at the first opportunity and get her a good husband, I let the matter slip from my mind.

A little later while my ladies are lacing me into my petticoat, George pokes his head around the door, his demeanour as different from Mary’s as chalk is from cheese. “Can I come in?” he says, and without waiting for confirmation he makes his way across the room, picking his way through dropped linen and abandoned sleeves. He places a protracted kiss on my cheek, inhaling deeply as if I am a buttercup. “
Mmm,” he says, “you smell heavenly.”

“Thank you.” I hold out my right arm while my woman fixes on a sleeve. “What are you hiding behind your back, George? Is it a present?”

He winks gaily at one of my servants and she giggles, smiling shyly back at him. We are all merry today but I flick my hand, bidding her get on with the task of picking up the clothes from the floor. Despite my silent reprimand, from time to time she cannot help casting an eye in his direction to see if he is still watching. But George has forgotten her.

He perches on the edge of my bed, holds out his hand and opens his fingers. “Of course, anything I give you will be overshadowed by the jewels that Henry brings, but I thought you might like it.”

Moving forward, wearing only one crimson sleeve, my hair as yet loose, my bodice not properly laced, I lean over his outstretched hand. “Oh George,” I say. “It is exquisite. I love it.”

“You are just saying that.” He watches as the girl bends over to gather an armful of shoes and when she rises again, he smiles appreciatively. I can never fathom my brother’s intrigue with the lower classes. To give him credit, although I know his relationship with Jane
remains cool, his name has never been linked in scandal to anyone. I begin to wonder if his wife wears a long face because he prefers to spend his nights curled up with a hearth wench, or vice versa.

“You are silly, George. Of course I love it, but you know I cannot wear it today. I must please the king and wear the jewels he has sent me.”

“I know. I am sorry I cannot afford to give you gems fit for a marchioness.” He gets up, kisses my neck where it meets my shoulder and I duck my chin to my collarbone.

“
Don’t, it tickles,” I laugh, pushing him away. “I shall wear your jewel tomorrow. I may even wear it when I accompany the king to France. I may wear it on the day I am introduced to King Francis himself.”

I hold the single drop pearl to my throat and turn my head this way and that, admir
ing myself in the looking-glass.

“If you do that it will be all around Europe that Henry is a miser and keeps his future queen in penury.”

“I am hardly in rags!” I wave my arm about the chamber indicating the furs, the velvets and fine silk. “I have more finery than the king himself. He has demanded that Catherine hand over the royal jewels … and look, George, look at the robes I am to wear this afternoon.”

I summon Nan
, who hurries forward to hang the ermine-trimmed robe about my shoulders. My hair is loose, falling to my waist like a dark silken shroud. I raise my chin, assume a haughty demeanour and look at George from the corner of my eye. I expect to find him laughing or mocking, but instead his face has grown sombre, his eyes dark and kindling. “Oh Anne,” he whispers, “my little sister. You have climbed so high.” He comes closer, lifts my fingers to his lips. “I am so proud; it almost makes me want to weep.”

Our heads are close together
. He leans his forehead on mine and I raise my eyes, but he is so near his face is blurred. “God bless you, Anne,” he whispers, and the kiss he leaves upon my forehead is as soft as summer rain.

Henry, enthroned in splendour, seems like a stranger. As I am led toward him amid a great clarion of trumpets, he keeps his expression neutral. All around me the courtiers jostle for a better view, the crush and the atmosphere is heavy with the solemnity of the moment. In raising me to the nobility, no one can doubt the sincerity of his intention to marry me, and realising that I am soon to be queen in deed, they are all come to do me honour. And soon they will all be vying for the privilege of seeing me crowned queen. 

They are all here, or at least, those that matter. Now that I am to be the highest peeress in the land
, many noses are out of joint. Henry’s stubborn mule of a sister has stayed away, feigning illness, but her husband, Suffolk, has reluctantly agreed to attend. My father is there with my uncle of Norfolk, his eagle eye darting about the hall, no doubt marking all who are absent, including his own wife, my aunt Elizabeth, who continues to obstinately champion Catherine’s cause. But I do not care. I am winning the battle, while the old queen shivers in her draughty exile. I, the new queen, am in ascendancy and no one can stop me.

We approach the throne and the trumpets cease
. I curtsey low before the king and then kneel upon the steps as the hall falls silent, waiting for Bishop Gardiner to read out the patent, conferring upon me and all my offspring the title of Marchioness of Pembroke.

As
Marchioness in my own right, no one can take it away from me. Even after my death, those rights will pass to my sons and to their sons, forever more.

Henry comes forward and as he draws close I recognise the gentleness, the warm affection in his eyes
, and also the hint of a tear. I bow my head, look down past the jutting royal codpiece to his well-turned calves and jewelled square-toed shoes. He places the coronet very lightly on my head, letting his hands run softly down my hair as I rise to stand before him. He briefly clasps my shoulders, and without moving my head, I raise my eyes to his and discover a smile quirking the side of his mouth as he drapes the crimson mantle about me. He is so close I can detect the aroma of rosewater, the underlying musky scent of his body.

In his grandeur he looks all powerful, invincible
, and I am suddenly full of wonder that I have this man’s love. This man, who is almost a god, has seen fit to endow me, a nobody from Kent, with his heart and his hand in marriage. I close my eyes, trembling with emotion, and thank God for it. I thank God not just for Henry the king, but for Henry the man too, and I silently swear to be a good wife, a noble queen and, just as soon as I am blessed with Henry’s son, I will be a mother fit to rival the Virgin Mary herself.

“Did you see Tom Wyatt today?”

Mary and I are walking along the
chemin de rond
– the walkway behind the battlements. We can see for miles across the choppy waters of the Channel, and it is strange to think that England lies somewhere across those waters. All the people we have left behind are there, continuing their lives. I spend some time considering the implications of Mary’s question before deciding she is too guileless to mean anything by it.