The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn (40 page)

Or perhaps, had negotiations gone differently with the Butlers, I might be mistress of the Ormond estates and
mother to a bevy of Irishmen. But instead of all those opportunities I took the eye of a king, and from that moment my path was forged.

I do not regret it, not really. I repent of my behaviour to Mary and Catherine
, but only because Elizabeth is now in a similar precarious position. I pray that my actions will not reflect ill upon her, and I pray her step-mother will be kind, whoever she may be.

Ah
, Henry. At first you were just the king, a light entertainment; I had not realised you would come to want me in earnest. I had not foreseen you would overturn the country, bring down the Church, and fall foul of the Pope just for the honour of bedding me.

Perhaps I should have been a light skirt like Mary and freely given you my body, thus ensuring life after Henry. Had I done so I might now be living, fat and happy
, in the countryside as she is. I can never know and there is no use in dwelling on the might-have-been. I can only hope I have left some good behind me, and that my work for reform is not undone by my successor.

Surely he will not marry Jane Seymour, the pale
-faced ninny who loves the Roman Church? That cannot be. Henry will tire of her in the month. 

Henry. He runs like a loop in my mind. I wish we could say goodbye. I wonder how he is, if he misses and grieves for me, or if he has cast me out of his mind as well as his life. No news reaches me in my prison. All I can do is hope he is not too unhappy.

Tomorrow
—oh no, it is today—I am to die, and I have sought God’s forgiveness for all my wrongs, all my small sins, and I pray He is ready to receive me into His arms. It has been a good life, if a little short. I pray that the world treats Elizabeth better.

I dress in my best, most regal clothes.
A gown of silver grey damask and a cloak of ermine fur. My hair is tucked beneath a gabled hood, not my usual style but a fine one nonetheless.

After praying a while longer, conscious of each task being for the last time, I pick up my prayer book and rosary and wait for Mr Kingston to arrive.

He is long in coming. My women grow restless and I feel nauseous from nerves and lack of food. There had seemed little point in taking dinner. At noon, long past the hour I had expected to die, Mr Kingston opens the door.

“Mr Kingston, there you are. You are a little
late, I had thought to be dead long before noon.”

“Your Grace, I am sorry. There has been some delay.”

“So I understand, Mr Kingston.”

White-faced, with shame in his eyes, he stutters his reply. “I am afraid we will have to postpone it, until dawn tomorrow
…”

“Tomorrow?”
The word drops like a stone into a well.

The thought of another night like the last is unbearable. I want it over now. I am ready to die now. I cannot go through it all again! But I do not protest too much. I put down my prayer book and disguise my disappointment with macabre humour.

“I had hoped it might be over soon. Not that I desire death, but I am prepared, and have made my peace with God. It will be such a swift and sudden thing for I have but a little neck, and just think, when I am gone the people will refer to me as Anne Lackhead …”

My laughter is loud, too loud, but a glance at the horror-stricken faces of my companions sobers me. It will not do to break down now. It would not be fair on them.

I fumble again for inner calm and when I turn back to Mr Kingston, it is with a peaceful smile. “So, I shall see you on the morrow. God send you rest, Mr Kingston.”

And
so I am given one more night, a night I neither desire nor relish. I pray again, for so long that I am sure God must be tired of me. Once again, I work my way through a long list, asking His blessing on all my loved ones, on the king, and on Elizabeth too. I ask forgiveness of my sins and failures, and beg that He takes me quickly into Paradise where I might be with George again.

When dawn arrives, my women dress me in the
cold grey light. I take a little breakfast and prepare once more to make my end. 

This time, I pray God it will be so.

At eight of the clock Mr Kingston returns, and tells me the time has come and I must make myself ready. But I am already prepared, I have been for days.

Dressed in the same clothes as the day before, I collect my prayer book and follow Mr Kingston on my final walk. We leave the Queen’s
Lodging, pass the Great Hall, through Cole Harbour Gate and along the side of the White Tower. On the green a black-draped scaffold looms, like a monster in the corner of a bedchamber. My steps falter but someone places a hand upon my back, urging me forward.

At the bottom of the scaffold steps
, I hesitate. These steps lead me to my death, and my feet refuse to begin the ascent of their own accord. Mr Kingston, seeing my predicament, offers me his hand and I cling to it, trying not to let my terror show.

I raise one foot.

And then another, until somehow I am at the top. I look across the people gathered, men who stand bareheaded in the May morning. I begin to speak but a crowd of ravens set up a rumpus on the battlement, making a mockery of the solemnity of the moment. I wait for them to quieten.

My mouth is dry, my tongue thick and arid
, but I know I must address the crowd, as is the custom. I must speak well of the king. I must ignore the truth of his actions and lie for the sake of those I leave behind.

Above the Tower
, the ravens continue to screech their mirth, while those men who have come to see me punished wait in silence, only the occasional shouted remark breaking the peace.

I am to die now and my last words must be kind ones. I force my mind to happy times, a place where the grass was tall and the meadows full of flowers.

Mary.

George.

… and Tom.

A time before Henry.

I raise my head and smile. It is a simple thing to perjure myself to ensure that my family go unmolested. The
Boleyns must not be punished any further. I clear my throat and raise my hands.

Hands that no longer tremble.

“Good Christian people, I am come hither to die, for according to the law and by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it. I am come hither to accuse no man, nor to speak anything of that whereof I am accused and condemned to die, but I pray God save the king and send him long to reign over you, for a gentler nor a more merciful prince was there never: and to me he was ever a good, a
gentle and sovereign lord. And if any person will meddle of my cause, I require them to judge the best. And thus I take my leave of the world and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me. O Lord have mercy on me, to God I commend my soul.”

The masked man stands like an effigy. I turn toward him and hold out a small bag of coin that he accepts, bows his gratitude, keeping his face averted. Then I grasp my women’s hands to bid them goodbye and, even though they are Cromwell’s spies and have no love for me, they are overcome. Their fingers tremble, their faces are wet with tears as they cling to me and bid me farewell.

“Come,” I command for one last time. “You must be strong.”

“It is time to kneel.” Mr Kingston interrupts our leave taking and I pass my prayer book to Lady Lee, my beads to my aunt. Someone helps me down. I tuck my skirts modestly about my ankles to ensure that in the moment of death, I am not shamed. Then, amid much weeping, my cap is removed. As the blindfold is tied their nervous fingers snag my hair, but I do not scold them, my last words on Earth shall not be a reprimand.

My suffering is over at last, and I trust that
Heaven’s gate stands ajar. George, wait for me, George, I call silently, hoping that he has not yet passed into Paradise without me.

To my surprise I am no longer afraid
, and with one last prayer for my sweet Elizabeth, I begin to pray aloud. The crowd holds their breath while silence screams like a blade around us; even the ravens have ceased their cackle in honour of my end.

“To Jesus Christ I commend my soul. Lord
Jesu’ receive my …”

The falling blade is like the sighing of the sea.

***

Everything stops
—sound, vision, sensation—but I am aware of everything. I can see back through time to a world where men barely scratched a living from the earth. And I see forward, a hundred thousand years into the future, to a time where royalty is disempowered, to a time when religion is crumbling and only war remains.

War and misery.

But I can still see the present, and realise that this year, 1536, is but a tiny speck in the vastness of forever. From a great height I see my women scrabbling to cover the bundle of bloody rags that was my body, the grisly sphere that was my head.

As they bear their burdens away
, Cromwell turns his back, rubbing his hands on his gown as if to rid them of my blood. My uncle of Norfolk and Fitzroi follow him, the king’s son snivelling with a cold. And Master Kingston, my jailer, who at the very last became my friend, bids Fitzroi hasten home to bed. Then he turns his sad eyes to his wife, my enemy, Cromwell’s spy, and together they pass into the darkness of the keep where, high up in a Tower cell, Tom Wyatt stares blankly into a damp, dark corner.

Life goes on.

Even when we no longer wish it to.

Then my vision shifts and I am in the garden at Lambeth
, where Cranmer sits upon a bench, weeping amid the early roses, torn petals scattered at his feet. In a rush of gratitude I reach out to make my farewell, but before I can comfort him, the setting changes again.

I am at Hatfield with Elizabeth.
She has not yet been told of my passing and she is laughing, defying her nurses, her face alight with stubborn mischief. She is the king’s daughter in temperament as well as appearance.

I see
Hever, where Grandmother huddles before a lazy fire. She is still dribbling, still ruled by her noxious little dog, Merlin. She will not comprehend what they have done to me, unlike my poor mother who sobs unrestrainedly in her chamber.

Where is Mary? I search through the mist that separates me from the living and find her at last,
praying on her own in a chapel. To my surprise, she is praying for me, and for our brother, George. Poor Mary, left alone, disgraced by those who had thought themselves disgraced by her.

And then, suddenly, I am with you, Henry, speeding along beside your horse as you gallop to Wolf Hall to be with Jane. Filled with a jealous anger greater than any I ever knew in life, I remain at your side as you ride, whispering curses in your ear, denying you happiness, ill-wishing your unborn children.

And I have been with you every day since, my husband. I have seen you change from a prince to a monster. I’ve witnessed every cruelty, every sin, seen each small betrayal, each moment of joy, watched every discarded wife falter and fall.

And I’ve wept for every one of them.

What were you running from
, Henry? All your life you’ve been afraid; afraid of failure, afraid of discovery, afraid of the Devil catching up with you. Well, now that time is here. And I have lingered just to see it.

I uncurl my legs and slide from the bed. His breath is scarcely audible now, and soon the rattle will begin, denoting the end.

The bitter end.

Cranmer clutches his master’s hand, praying for his soul, knowing what will come, and fearing it.

The court holds its breath.

The rattling in the king’s throat falters, and then stops …
tension mounts, his breath begins again but I can wait no longer and reach out from the darkness to take back what is mine.

The story of Anne Boleyn has been written many times, in many different ways
, but I have tried to relate in it a way that Anne might prefer it to be told.

Of all the women in history
, Anne Boleyn has to be among the most vilified. Almost from the moment of her death, her attributes were suppressed and her faults exaggerated. Her story, written largely by her enemies, brands her a whore, a witch, an adulteress, and a traitor, and many modern day novelists have followed that path, even embellished the lurid details to make her worse. But despite their best efforts

there
is nothing in the existing record to suggest any of these things were true.

The damning evidence used at her trial can now be disregarded, and historians have proved that on many of the dates and times when she was alleged to have been with lovers, she was in fact elsewhere
; on one occasion recovering from giving birth to Elizabeth. The accusation of incest is unlikely to be true—incest, like witchcraft, was a tag used to demonise a person’s character, particularly women, and like many other people, I chose to dismiss it. What I have done is provide a fictional spark to explain how rumours of this nature can quickly burst into flame.