The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn (3 page)

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.

I stifle a yawn and surreptitiously stretch my limbs. We have been sewing for hours, making garments for the poor while the queen works on an embroidered shirt for her husband. My eyes are tired, my brain screaming with boredom. It is as dull as ditch water in the queen’s apartments. Where I had expected lively court entertainment
, I instead find only stifling piety. She prays more often than she eats, although God doesn’t show any sign of hearing. Queen Catherine’s constant prayers for a child have so far only brought her Mary, a useless, fox-faced girl instead of the son and heir the king craves.

I watch her furrowed face as she pleads with God to bless her barren womb. She might do better to get up off her knees, lighten her expression
, and make some attempt to lure the king back into her bed. Why would any man want a woman who behaves more like his mother than his wife? The king might blame her for not providing him with an heir, but that doesn’t mean he is prepared to forego the charms of my sister for the queen’s chilly embrace. She should fight for him. I would if I were queen.

It is a pity Mary’s womb is not as unreceptive as Catherine’s
, for already my sister’s belly swells with a royal bastard, although none acknowledge it as such. Poor Will Carey is paid well to play surrogate parent to the king’s baseborn child but everyone, even the queen, knows the truth of it.

Each time Mary places a kerchief to her mouth and turns a little green
, Queen Catherine casts an envious eye on her. Poor Mary. She is loath to leave the king, but at the same time longs for his permission to retire from court to await the birth. He is not yet tired of her but she knows that once her condition is plain for all to see, he will drop her like a glowing coal.

Meanwhile, in the queen’s airless apartment, we bow our heads over our sewing and try not to notice the sunshine flooding through the window. Catherine sighs again, drops the embroidered sleeve she is working into her lap, and closes her eyes. Above her nose
, two lines deepen, and her mouth droops. It is hard to reconcile this woman with the tales of the young Spanish princess who travelled to England to marry Prince Arthur – Henry’s long-dead brother. In those tales she was a golden-haired beauty, winning the heart of king, prince and commoner alike. Now she is faded, worn out with fruitless confinements. She opens her eyes and sees me watching her. I slowly turn my eyes back to the seam I am sewing.

“Shall we take a turn about the gardens?”

Six white faces open in delight at the queen’s suggestion. The women turn toward her, nodding and chattering in relief. While Jane runs to fetch the queen’s wrap, Mary and I begin to tidy away the threads that are scattered across the table.

Queen Catherine’s pace is maddeningly slow as we follow her from the privy apartments, through the outer chambers,
and along the corridors toward the garden door. When we step outside, I close my eyes and turn my face up to the sun, inhale the glorious air like a felon released from chains.

We have been only a few moments in the garden when a footstep falls beside me
. Before I look up, I know it is Percy. “I must see you, Anne. I’ve been loitering all day and don’t have much longer ….”

I glance at the queen’s back as she turns along another path, her ladies following like baby ducks. Percy grabs my wrists and drags me into an arbour. “We must be quick …
.”

I had expected by his urgency to be swept into his arms but, cautious as always, he merely lifts my hand
and kisses my fingers so gently I can scarce feel his breath on them. I know there must be more to a liaison than this. We have been meeting secretly for weeks now, but I am no closer to being kissed.

I step closer, our upper bodie
s almost touching, and look up at him, silently begging for his kiss. I am desperate to be kissed, to know the strength of his arms. I am trembling within, my limbs weak with longing, but he steps a little back so that I want to scream with frustration.

“Anne, I wish I could make you
my wife.”

This is more like it. This is what I long to hear. My mouth widens with delight.

“And what is to stop you?”

He slumps onto a grassy seat, keeping mastery over my hand. His head is lowered and I see again the neat cluster of curls at the nape of his neck. I long to throw off this polite restraint and twirl them in my fingers, kiss them, and let my fingers stray beneath the collar of his doublet. He looks up, spoiling my imaginings.

“Everything is against it. My father. The Talbots. Your betrothal to Ormond. Love plays a small part in such a comedy.”

Suddenly I wish he were older, strong enough to throw off the restraints upon us. One day he will be powerful enough to stand up to everyone, apart from the
king. If he were already made Earl, there would be few who could gainsay us.

“If you truly loved me …
.”

He puts his finger against my lips, stopping my words
, and I resist the urge to bite the tip of it.

“Don’t ever say that, Anne. It isn’t for lack of
love, it is lack of power … or lack of backbone, if you will.”

“If we stood together we could thwart them
, and if we pledged ourselves before witnesses, our betrothal would be binding.”

I see him hesitate. He wants to believe me. I clasp two of his fingers, rigid in my palm, in an attempt to imbue him with some of my own self-belief.

“Would it? Even before my father and the cardinal? I am not so sure.” He stands up again, unwittingly pulling me with him.

“Be sure, Percy
,” I murmur. I push a little closer, crossing the invisible barrier, my small breasts tight against his chest. I can feel his rapid breath in my face, and with great daring I rise on my toes and let my lips touch his.

“Anne.” At last, I am in his
arms, his mouth is on mine, the abrasion of his cheek, the strength of his hands, and the heavenly man-smell of him. I am drowning in him.

But, too soon he lets me go, drops his eyes and his arms, leaving my senses swimming. “I – I beg forgiveness, Anne …
.”

Now it is my turn to stop his words. I shake my head, find
ing it hard to speak.

“Don’t be sorry, Harry. If you can, come back to court this evening. Look for my brother. I will be with him.”

Then I turn and run from him, skimming along the gravel path to catch up with the queen and her ladies. I meekly take my place beside Mary, who looks at me askance. “Straighten your cap, Sister, and try to drive that flush from your cheek or Her Majesty will notice.”

I clasp my hands, tuck them up my hanging sleeves, lower my head and meekly follow my queen.

***

I should be in bed but I am alone in an anti-chamber, the sounds of the revel far off. A fire burns in the grate. I hold out my hands to warm them and wonder for the thousandth time when he will come. Footsteps in the corridor make me raise my head, still my breath, listening … but they pass on, male voices fading into silence. I return to my vigil, letting my mind relive those few short moments in the garden this afternoon.

Each time I recall his touch, the heady passion of his welcome declaration, my tummy flips and delicious sensations swamp my limbs. I close my eyes, swaying on my feet as I prolong those feelings, reliving them in my mind again and again. I am so engrossed in the recollection that when at last the door opens and George and Percy join me in the ill-lit room, I am taken by surprise.

From the corner of my eyes, I see George make a graceful knee to me. My eyes are on Harry. He is dressed in blue, embellished with silver thread, his eyes full of the enormity of what lies ahead. An enormity that has turned the brave hero of my imaginings into a fawn afraid of the sound of hounds baying in the wood behind him.

By rights he should approach me
, but he hesitates for so long that I am forced to cross the room, offer him my hand. His lips are cold and when he rises, I lead him toward the flames to warm himself.

After a few moments
of polite conversation, George, seeing that his presence is unheeded, makes himself scarce although I know he will not go far. I lower my chin, keeping my eye on Percy as I pour and offer him a cup of wine. Our fingers brush as he takes it and places it untasted on the table. “Anne … today in the garden. I shouldn’t have ….”

“Then, why are you here, My Lord?”

He doesn’t notice the teasing laughter in my eyes.

“Why am I here?” His face is white with tension, his lips drawn up and his eyes full of uncertainty that I long to soothe. I reach for him and let my hand travel up his shoulder, as if I am a draper testing the fine nap of his doublet. I part my lips, moisten them with my tongue.

“I wish you would kiss me again.”

He doesn’t need a second asking and once more I am swamped in his embrace. Just like the last time, my senses whirl, just as I remember it, stealing my breath, making my heart race. This time, with no queen to hinder our passion, we linger a little longer, exploring new territory. His lips stray from my mouth to my neck, his hands wandering to my bodice. This must be how Mary feels when she is with the
king. For the first time, I begin to understand her wanton ways and wonder if perhaps I am made of the same stuff.

He pushes me a little away, his face slack, his eyes dark, and begins to fumble at my lacing. It takes all my willpower to stop him.
“No, Harry, no. We cannot go further. Not until we are wed.”

He groans and turns away, runs a hand through his hair. “But if we consummate our love, our bond will be harder to break.”

I step away, smooth my hair and adjust my bodice. “If you take me before we are joined, I jeopardise my soul. If you want me, Harry Percy, you must first confront your father and the cardinal. I will fight them with you, but I intend to enter marriage as a maid. Do you give me your pledge, as a gentleman?”

“Oh, you know I do. You know I do.” He tries to take me in his arms again but I hold back, unsure if I can trust myself. Although it kills me to do so, I keep him at arm’s length, allowing him one chaste kiss on the cheek before turning back to our wine
, which is warming by the hearth.

When the door swings open and George enters with a wide, devilish smile, Harry flushes like a girl. “So
….” George pours himself a glass and saunters across to join us. “I am soon to call you brother.” He raises his cup. “Welcome to the family.”

While Percy looks anxiously on, George tosses back his wine and slumps onto a chair, his legs sprawling toward the flames. “All you have to do now is convince your father of your suit …
and, of course, the king.”

***

Two days later
, I am sent on an errand for the queen. Not quite by accident, I encounter Harry en-route. He lures me into a niche below the stairs where the light of the torches does not quite reach. His lips, when they graze the corner of my mouth, cause the now-familiar stirring, but I clasp his hands and push him from me. I have no wish to be caught like some harlot in the shadows.

“I had not thought to see you here today.”

“No, and I had not thought to be here. The cardinal has some unexpected business with the king, and I am not complaining.”

“Nor me, My Lord.”

He towers over me, his look menacing. On allowing him to sample my lips, I have unleashed a kind of monster. I gasp as he clamps a hand upon my rump, but I grab his wrist none too gently. “Have done, Percy,” I hiss. “Now is not the time.” I try to disentangle myself from his grasp. There is a kind of madness in him, an insatiable desire to possess me. If circumstances were different I would relish it. For now, however, I must keep this lion caged.

“No, Harry, please, don’t …
.”

“You would do well to listen to her,
boy.” A quiet, controlled voice demolishes our conversation and Percy lets me go so quickly that I almost fall. We both turn, guilt staining our faces as the cardinal bears down upon us.

“Henry Percy. Mistress Anne.” His small eyes dart from Harry to me, and back again. “You will come with me, now.
The pair of you.”

As if drawn on invisible strings
, we follow after him. I hurry forward, try to slow his pace. “My Lord Cardinal, the queen is expecting me in her chambers.”