The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn (22 page)

I am panting slightly when I turn the corner.

Henry jumps away from her like a boy caught with his hand in the pantry. She sinks to her knees, her face almost in the rushes, and I am consumed with murderous hatred. I want to kick her, send her bouncing down the stairwell. My heart is thumping, the sound of it thudding in my ears, unbalancing me. For a moment I hover on the brink of consciousness.

“Anne
…” Henry steps forward, reaches for me, but I tear my hand from his grasp.

“How dare you?” I scream, when at last I find my voice. “How dare you?”

The white-faced woman doesn’t get up, her hands are clenched together and I can see her veil trembling. “Get out,” I hiss at her, “before I have you whipped.”

As she skitters down the stair, I turn my rage back to my husband, my lips taught, eyes narrowed. At this moment I hate him, more than I have ever hated anyone. How dare he do this? The whole court will be laughing, making a mock of me, laying odds on how long it will be before he has her in his bed.

“Anne …” he repeats, but his tone is less contrite now. Struggling to assert himself he scrabbles for control. My whole body is trembling with rage. I thrust my face toward him, give him the full force of my fury.

“There is no room for three in this marriage, Henry,” I say, making it quite clear that I mean what I say. For a long moment we glare
at each other, neither of us willing to be the first to back down.

Somehow he is tarnished by his lack of faith. His blue eyes are less bright, his face slack, his self-assertion dented, but I know him too well. I can sense his fear but I know it is not for me, it is for his child, his prince, upon whom the continuity of his dynasty pivots.

I wonder if I mean anything at all.

He clears his throat, looks at me with distaste as he begins to bluster. “You would do well, Madam, to remember your place and learn to behave as your betters have done before you.”

“Turn the other cheek, like Catherine, you mean?” I want to claw his face, gouge out his eyes, but some small part of me remembers my child, and I will not have him harmed. Besides, Henry is not just any man. He is the king and therefore unassailable.

Henry looks down his nose, as only a Tudor can. “I have raised you high but I can cast you down again, like that
…” He clicks his fingers, the sound quivering in the outraged air.

There is no love in him, no remorse,
no pity. His deception makes me worthless. I have never felt so low, so abused. I wonder how far it has gone, how long I have been sharing his affections unknown. I should have guessed that my matronly state would never hold his interest. I have lost him, and soon I must leave him and be shut away, closed off from the male world while I wait to bring forth England’s heir.

Until I am churched I will be forbidden to leave my chambers
. For the first time, I wonder how Henry will amuse himself while I am risking my very life for the Tudor cause.

The Chapel Royal is hushed, only the sound of Lord Burgh, My Lord Chamberlain’s prayer keeps me focused. Already I have the urge to clamber up from my knees and hasten to Henry, beg him to take me with him, back to our chambers, back to his hearth. But I am queen now; I can no longer give in to childish anxieties. I lift my chin, close my eyes, and pray for the strength to vanquish fear.

Afterwards, in my great chamber, they stand me beneath a canopy, bring me spiced wine
, and the Lord Chamberlain leads us all in another prayer, asking God to send me a good hour. It is a prayer that I join in most devoutly, for the safe delivery of our prince is paramount.

Then the men in our company depart. As Henry kisses me, George bends over my hand, bids me farewell
. The Lord Chamberlain bows low, his nose almost on my slippers. I am in a sort of daze. The heavy doors close and I am contained within a feminine world where there are no courtly games, no George to extinguish my doubts, and no Henry to convince me of his love. The walls are oppressive. I want to shrug it all off, escape into the country where I can breathe again. But with Henry’s son big within me, all I can hope is that the child comes soon.

Something wakes me. I stare at the canopy for a long time, wondering what is wrong. It is not quite light yet, the gentle tic-tic of my women’s breathing is the only sound in the gloom. I long to throw open the casements and lean over the sill to fill my lungs with fresh night air. But there are rules even a queen must follow.

I fidget my legs, kick back the counterpane
, and throw a pillow onto the floor. My throat is parched and I contemplate waking Nan to fetch me a drink, but I am so tired of their gentle company, I cannot bear to hear any more platitudes. Swinging my legs from the mattress, I lean over and grasp the handle of the jug and fill a cup. The wine is tepid and does not refresh me. I put the drink down again.

My belly juts forward like the prow of a ship
. Placing both hands upon it, I stroke it lovingly. Come on, little prince, I urge silently. We are eager to meet you. But he makes no response.

Fumbling with my foot for my slippers, I creep to the window and draw back the hanging just a little bit. The grey striped dawn promises a fine day ahead. I lay my head on the mullion and reflect that soon
, no doubt, Henry will be riding out with the hunt. I picture him galloping across the heath in the sunshine, his eye on the game, his blood coursing through his veins, his mind empty of me.

I sigh deeply.

“Are you all right, Your Majesty? Oh, come away from the window, the night air is full of danger.”

I turn toward the voice and as I do so, I feel a little pop in some unspecified area of my anatomy. Warm fluid gushes down my legs, making me gasp and clamp a hand against my womb. We both look down at the spreading puddle on the floor. A slow smile blossoms on Nan’s face.

“Let’s get you back into bed, Your Majesty, and I will send for the midwife.”

At first I congratulate myself that the pain is not so very bad
, and I am relieved I will not have to resort to screaming. A brazier is lit and they burn ambergris, musk, and civet, fragrant herbs thought to soothe and aid me in my travail. Before they bring me some light refreshment, they settle me back into bed, and Mary, still in her nightgown, runs to fetch a cooler jug of wine.

“It won’t be long now,” she says as she pours it out and hands me the cup. She perches on the edge of my bed. “Your son will be here before you know it.”

Her voice trembles with excitement and as she speaks I am aware of a tightening sensation in my back, the top of my thighs, my loins aching and grating. Since I have been experiencing such things from the moment my waters were breached I expect it to ease off soon, but this time it grows stronger, tightening until I can scarcely breathe. When I am certain my spine is about to snap in two, I thrust the cup at Mary and gasp, bringing up my knees as sweat beads my forehead.

Mary nods to the midwife
, who takes her place and asks permission to lift my shift and feel my belly. Then to my horror she anoints her hands with goose grease and asks me to part my thighs. I glance at Mary, who moves forward and offers me her hand. While the midwife makes her examination, I cling to Mary as if she were a rock in a stormy sea. “It’s all right, Anne. Don’t worry. All will be well.”

The midwife withdraws her fingers, pulls down my clothes
, and smiles. “He’ll be along anytime now. Just a few more minutes and you’ll be pushing him into the world.”

There is nothing ceremonious about this ritual. After the pageantry of my coronation, the grand ceremony of my confinement, I had half expected my child would come forth miraculously, sparing me the pain and the indignity that other women suffer. I am a queen
, after all.

But if I thought the initial pain was bad
, when the actual birthing begins I am helpless, tossed in a sea of misery. How did Mary stand this? Mary, who faints if she scratches her finger with a needle? Somewhere in the midst of my travail, a new respect for my sister is born.

“Come on, Anne,” she says. “If I can do it
, so can you. Think of Henry, and concentrate on how happy he will be when you present his son to him.”

She gives no sign of resentment that the birth of her own son went unremarked by his father. She kneels by the bed, her hand my only
hope, and I focus on her eyes, breathe when she tells me to, and pant when she orders it. My body is tortured, every muscle an agony of torment, until I think I can bear it no more.

Each respite is welcome and in between the pains and the pushing, I flop back against the pillow and wish I were somewhere else, sure that this birth will be the end of me. It will pass, I tell myself
, and I have to believe it. This will not last, not forever. I breathe deeply, cast my thoughts on other things but, just as I am imagining dining alone with Henry, or riding to the chase with George, or dancing in a pageant, the agony returns, slicing through my happy daydreams and lurching me back to reality.

Little by little
, I can feel the bulge in my nethers begin to move. With each pain I groan like a heifer, strain with each sinew of my body, and focus my mind on expelling the obstruction from my womb.

Nan brings a flannel, dabs my forehead with cool, cool water. I stick out my tongue to try to moisten my mouth
, but before they can fetch me a drink, the pain takes me again.

I am stretching, tearing, my mouth open, and my voice hoarse with yelling. My women cluster around the bed, each one trying to find a way to ease me; make an end to it. And then the midwife grips my upper arm. “Get up,” she says.
“Squat like a milkmaid.”

W
ith clumsy movement, I am hauled to my feet and helped into position. Immediately, the pain abates a little, the pressure off my spine. Something shifts inside. When I push again, I feel a jolt and his head pulsing between my legs.

The midwife forages beneath my petticoat. “That’s it, push again,” she yells, glancing up at me
. Her face is red, her brow as sweat-drenched as mine, and there is blood on her veil.

I grit my teeth, hang on to Mary’s hand, throw back my head and push long and hard, screeching as I do so. For long moments I hold my breath and strain to bring forth my child. And quite suddenly, in a great rush of limbs and liquid, my son slips from my body and into the midwife’s waiting arms.

For a few moments I lie back, gasping on my dishevelled pillows, not really believing what I have done. My body is exhausted but my mind is alive with triumphant joy. Then the midwife takes the child, hands it to my women, and continues to fuss around my petticoats, prodding at my belly. I crane my neck, watching the women rub my son’s limbs and swathe him in linen. In the end I can bear the suspense no more.

“Bring him to me
,” I demand. Mary turns with him in her arms, hesitates. “Come on, I want to see him,” I say, and she takes a step forward, stops again.

“Anne …”

Only then do I notice that the expression on her face does not match mine; she is not sharing my joy. My body floods with horror. “What? What is wrong with him?”

I know he lives. I felt his lusty kick, heard his angry cries. I pull myself upright and bat away the midwife’s probing hands. “Give him to me now.”

Mary comes near, stoops over and places my boy very gently in my arms. I look down at his pale red hair, his snub of a nose, his hungry sucking lips and, with a great surge of triumph, I lay him on the bed and cast off his cloth to take a proper look at him.

The child is perfect. He is bawling in protest at the rough treatment he has received
, and it is plain to see he has strong kicking legs, large grasping hands, and a rage as ripe as his father’s.

There is just one thing wrong with him. Our precious little Tudor prince, upon whom all our hopes are pinned …
is a girl.

In a daze I sit propped upon my pillows, my child in my arms … my daughter in my arms. Henry, when he hears the news, will be devastated. I had pictured my husband brushing aside the protestations of my ladies and entering the birthing chamber to greet his son for the first time. I close my eyes, imagining how it should have been. Henry adoring me, kissing me as together we look down upon our hallowed prince. 

Now it will all be different.

I try to imagine his reaction. He might be raging. He might be cold and bitter. The one emotion I am certain he will not be feeling is delight.

I have let him down.

For seven long years he wooed me. He put away his wife, turned from his friends, and offended his Pope, all in the faith that I, Anne Boleyn, would provide him with the son he craves. Instead, I have produced a daughter. She is a beautiful girl whose Tudor origins are clearly etched in every outraged inch of her, but she is a useless girl nonetheless.

How our enemies will laugh. I can imagine the Emperor and
Chapuys sniggering behind their hands. In my mind’s eye I can see Catherine and Mary crashing to their knees to thank God for the curse he has laid upon us. Even Henry’s sister, Mary, will no doubt be laughing in Heaven … if that is where she is. Oh, how I wish George was here to advise me, he would know what to do.