The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn (38 page)

It is a gilded cage
. I have warmth and food, and a soft bed to sleep in, but it is a prison nonetheless. The days seem to drag by and I am beside myself with worry not knowing what is happening in the wider world. The men accused with me could die for crimes they did not commit, and I have learned that Richard Page and Francis Bryan have been arrested, and Tom Wyatt, my oldest friend, has been locked away too. Poor Tom, punished for nothing more than wishing for the moon.

My friends and family will be in torment
over my well-being, yet I am not allowed so much as to send a letter to comfort them. Worst of all there is no news of Elizabeth, no news of George or my parents, and nothing from Mary.

The one hope I have is that Henry will come to his senses and put an end to it soon. He will miss me, long for me and demand my release, the reprieve of his friends, and all will be as it was before.

Henry is my one hope but now, after so long in limbo, that hope is dwindling too. All I have are endless hours of waiting and fretting, and in those long dark hours doubt breeds new fears … and horrors.

They cannot kill me, can they? I am a queen, and innocent of the charges.
Yet too vividly do I remember all the others Henry has loved. Thomas More and Bishop Fisher … Wolsey … and if Henry could stand by and watch those great men destroyed …

The trembling begins again
. I fall to my knees, clutch at my rosary, and beg God for his mercy.

The King’s Hall is crowded, hot. A babble of voices falls silent when I enter and am ushered toward a raised chair in the centre of the room. A great stand has been erected for spectators, those who are eager to see me fall. At first I do not see their faces, but slowly they loom from the confusion. Men I know, men who once professed to be my friends, are now gathered here to witness my collapse.

R
anged along another wall are those come forth to judge me. As I guessed, Henry is not present, but my uncle of Norfolk is here in his place, beneath the canopy of estate, acting as Lord High Steward, a fancy name for an executioner.

He will not look at me but keeps his eyes on the parchment before him, dips his quill before busily scratching away, scoring thick black marks on the page. I wonder what he writes, if he has to battle hard with his conscience to so completely become my enemy.

Close by is Charles Brandon. I could almost laugh. Cromwell could not have chosen more wisely from my enemies as to select that man, who has hated me since the moment of our first meeting. I will have no honesty from that quarter.

Seated beside Brandon are Montague and Henry
Courteney, both supporters of Mary the bastard, and enemies both to me and my daughter. A sudden shudder of fear for Elizabeth consumes me. What will they do with her once I am imprisoned? How can I bear never to see her again?

  I swallow my fear and examine the men who are sent to try me. This will not be an honest trial, the jury is made up of my enemies and those
who love the king and seek only to please him. There will be no justice here today.

And then, huddled at one end of the bench, I see Percy … Henry Percy, my first real suitor. He has aged and is hunched inside clothes that seem too big for him, and his nose is red as if he has a heavy cold. My eyes rest on him for a long time but he cannot look at me and is clearly distressed. Poor Percy is being tested, forced to prove once more that there was never a pre-contract between us, that his feelings for me are long forgotten. If he is wise he will comply with their demands and condemn me, for a life of regret is preferable to imprisonment, or death. 

I silently forgive him, and pray that he might have the strength to survive the trials of the day. My throat closes in grief and I am forced to concentrate on staying calm. The armour of arrogance that served me so well when I was queen does me good service once again. Outwardly I am composed. I am glad of my black and white velvet finery, my brazen hat feather. I lift my chin, look down my nose, and inwardly gird myself for battle. Although I am almost certain I cannot win.

As the crimes against me are read out, a ripple of horror echoes around the court
. So shocking are the accusations that I struggle to keep calm. I clench my hands together and remain firm although every eye in the house is upon me, judging me before I am heard, condemning me a whore.

My cheeks burn as I am accused of fornication with many of my friends, namely Henry Norris, Francis Weston, William  Brereton, Mark
Smeaton and, most horrible of all … George.

My stomach lurches and turns, I clench my fists as blood thunders in my ears, tears sting my eyes. It is the greatest crime of all, condemning me not merely as a whore but almost as an anti-Christ. Shame, shame that I should not feel, burns me
; my mouth is arid, my tongue swollen, my throat closed with unshed grief.

But I do not weep.

I will not let them see me crumble.

I sit still and listen to their foul words and wonder at the mind that conjured such lies against me, against my friends.

Cromwell.

I look at him; polite, quiet, a dark shadow of a man who now holds us all in the palm of his hand; the hand that wields the axe. The old adage that it is the quiet ones that need the most watching is true. He has been an enemy all along, using stealth and devilish means to undermine me.

In happier times when George showed me the rudiments of chess, he warned me that I must remain composed. When the queen is threatened, only cool calculation can free her, and the courage to withstand the battle. So now, as Cromwell the pawn dares to endanger his queen, I gather all my wits and prepare for the fray.

I pray that George, when his time comes, realises th
is too, but I fear his anger will be uncontainable and he will give vent to his rage, and in red hot indignation will heap scorn upon our accusers. We must both tread carefully. Right may be on our side but that does not mean we will emerge unscathed, not when the man driving the opposition is a man like Cromwell.

The voice drones on, informing the jury that I co-habited with many men, plotted to poison Catherine and Mary, pledged to marry Norris after the
king’s death. I can scarcely believe my ears.

“On 6th October at the palace of Westminster… and on various other days before and after, by sweet words, kissings, touchings, and other illicit means … she did procure and incite … Henry Norris … a gentleman of the Privy Chamber of our Lord the King, to violate and carnally know her, by reason whereof the same Henry Norris on 12th October … violated, stained and carnally knew her …”

I try to shut out the words, think of other things but his voice intrudes
. “… tempted her brother with her tongue in the said George’s mouth and the said George’s tongue in hers”.

How can anyone think up such atrocities? How can anyone believe them? But they do, I can see it in their open mouths, their averted eyes, their sorrowfully wagging beards. I am a whore of the lowest denomination and therefore I must be punished.

It takes some time before I become aware that I am being addressed directly, and the time has come for me to answer the charges. I draw in a deep breath, cock my head to one side, making the feather in my hat jiggle
, and try to smile. To my surprise my voice sounds normal, there is not a quaver, or a misspoken word.

“I am not guilty, My Lord, of any of the charges you lay before me.”

He continues as if I have not spoken, and the woman in the tale he spins is not myself but some horrible parody of me; an insatiable jade who is shameless in her pursuit of sexual gratification; a woman who laughs at Henry, who does not love him as I do; a woman who secretly mocks his manhood and compares him unfavourably to her lovers.

They infer that George is Elizabeth’s father, an idea so abhorrent that I cannot answer it. Sir Richard Pollard waves a letter. “You cannot deny that you wrote to your brother informing him of your pregnancy,” he yells.

Of course I wrote to George, why wouldn’t I? He was as eager for me to give the king an heir as I! That doesn’t make him the father; it makes him the king’s good servant ... as we all have been.

“Do you deny that you, together with your accomplices, laughed at the king, mocked his manner of dress, his poetry?”

What can I say? He is right, George and I did laugh at the king, but not in a cruel way. Henry’s attire is sometimes outlandish, and his poetry shallow and lacking, but that does not mean we do not love him. Surely affectionate teasing of one’s husband is not punishable by death, not even in Henry’s court.

“I love the king,” I hear myself saying, “
and have never been false to him.”

“The confessions here from Norris, Weston, Brereton and
Smeaton state otherwise.”

They have accused me? How is this possible? Their faces swim before me, loyal, brave men, devoted to their wives, to their king
, and to me, their queen.

“Then they
lie, Sir.”

“Do you deny you gave Weston money?”

I raise my chin a fraction higher and regard him along the length of my nose—a considerable length George would have said, that any shrew would be proud of.

“I have given many young men money, Sir, should they be in need of it. I am queen, after all, and have plenty. It is part of a queen’s duty to be a benefactress to the needy.”

It seems hours have passed before a brief interval is called. They shuffle papers and a page brings me a cup of wine. I smile my thanks, and beneath the eyes of the assembled, I take a sip, encouraged by the glimpse of sympathy in the young boy’s eyes.

When they proceed to read out the witness statements I almost weaken, I almost weep. Lady
Wingfield, as I suspected, Lady Worcester, and Lady Kingston too have spoken out against me. Even my sister-in-law, Jane, George’s own wife, has confirmed that George and I are often alone, often intimate. I wonder if she knew what she was saying, if she realised they would twist her words into something so foul.

I decide to believe her innocent, foolishly tricked into saying more than was wise. I wonder where she is now. I have not seen her since my arrest. I hope she thrives without us, once my brother and I are disgraced. Once we are gone.

As I listen to the legion crimes I am accused of, I begin to lose hope of imprisonment or annulment. I begin to fear that I will have to die.

I am yet very young.

They put their heads together, voices murmuring, hands gesticulating, the occasional paper floating to the floor. A pigeon, trapped in the roof space, flaps his wings, sends down a scattering of feathers. Then they turn, my uncle asks for their verdict, and one by one, they give it.

The Earl of Surrey stands
up, his face flushed dark red, his eyes bloodshot. “Guilty,” he says, and as he quickly takes his seat again, my heart sets up a loud, steady thump.

“Guilty
.” Brandon resumes his place.

“Guilty.” The voices go on, each one condemning me, ending my hopes, exterminating my dreams. And then it is Percy’s turn. He shuffles forward, sweating visibly now, his hair plastered to his head. I remember running my fingers through his curls, trying to tempt him to kiss me.
Poor Percy. He was as out of his depth then as he is today. Perhaps I am as they say, perhaps I am …

“Guilty ...” he groans, almost falling. The page runs forward to help him back to his seat. I had not expected that, although perhaps it is plain he has not the heart to stand up to Cromwell and his ilk.

Norfolk is speaking again, his words a morass of buzzing, “… in committing treason … the law of the realm is this
… deserved death … burnt here within the Tower … head smitten off … king’s pleasure …”

The words rush upon me, fade away again as I struggle to remain upright. I am clinging on to sanity. It is all I can do not to fall to my knees and scream a curse upon the evil day that brought me to this.
Instead, I hear myself speaking, murmuring my regret that innocent men are to die because of me. It is almost as if they are condemning someone else, and this whole trial is something I am not part of.

I
remain dry eyed when they bring forth my crown upon a cushion. They rest it on my lap and bid me place my hands upon it, only to take it from me again, publically divesting me of my role.

I am no longer the queen.

I am merely a traitor.

Felon.

Once I was so happy in these rooms, so sure
that my future with Henry held only sunshine. Yet today, although a fire roars in the hearth, I am cold, my bones are aching, my head pounding, and food turns to ashes in my mouth.

Will they burn me
, I wonder, or will I follow my brother to the scaffold? There was once a prophecy that a queen of England would burn—I used to joke that it would probably be me. But it was just a jest, I never thought it would come to pass, not really.

The women creep around me, casting curious glances, watching and waiting for me to break, to fall into madness so that they can carry tales into the wider world. But I am done with screaming. There is nothing left to do but wait and pray, pray for a swift end. There is no use in wishing for a reprieve.