The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn Read online

  I find myself flung over his shoulder, the jewels on his doublet cutting through the thin stuff of my gown. As he runs away with me, the breath is forced from my lungs. My headdress slips and I grab for it as he bears me from the castle, his great hot hand gripping my upper thigh.

  I am dragged from his shoulder, my hair cascading about my face as I slide down the king’s body. He is very close, his breath in my face, his heart beating frantically against my own. I tilt my head to look up at him and for a long moment he returns my stare before deftly removing my mask. His eyes widen; eyes that are as brilliant as the summer sky.

  “You are not ….”

  “Mary? No, Your Grace, I am not. I am Anne; Anne Boleyn.”

  With my hand still held fast between his fingers, he hesitates before bowing slightly. I sink to my knees before him.

  After a long pause he raises me to my feet, opens his mouth to speak. “I am pleased to meet you, Mistress Anne.” Transfixed by his face, it is some seconds before I can tear my eyes from him and turn them to where Mary still waits within her tower. The fight is diminishing around her, all are vanquished. She has removed her mask, her hurt and disappointment plain for all to see. She is no longer smiling.

  I shake myself; free myself from the snare of Henry’s eyes. “You must return to the battle, Sir Loyal Heart. A fair maiden still awaits you.”

  After a moment, in which his blue eyes bore into mine, he bows sharply and, with a brave battle cry, turns once more into the fray.

  As the battle continues, I watch him for a moment before giving myself a mental shake and turning away toward the hall where the spectators are gathered. But before I am halfway across the room, my step is halted. “Mistress Anne?”

  Harry Percy makes a leg before me and asks if I will join him in the dance. I curtsey, and with my fingers balanced on his palm, allow him to lead me to the floor.

  The minstrels strike up a tune and the king, partnered now by Princess Mary, joins the dance. As we begin to move to the music, I cast a sideways glance at my partner.

  Harry, his face flushed scarlet, returns my smile before darting his eyes away again. I have, of course, spoken with him before. He is part of the Cardinal’s household and often accompanies him to court. More often than not, while the Cardinal is closeted with the king, Percy comes to the queen’s apartments to pass the time with her ladies.

  He does not speak much or push himself forward at all, but hovers in the background, listening and smiling and flushing every time our eyes meet, as they do … often.

  I do not underestimate how much courage it has taken for him to invite me to dance.

  “So, how did you like our pageant, My Lord?”

  “I liked it very well, Mistress,” he stammers, as we promenade before the dance forces us apart.

  Now and then, the serpentine steps lead us toward other partners; I touch other hands, exchange pleasantries with other men. But all the while, I am aware of Percy watching me. The knowledge makes me lift my chin a little higher, my feet become lighter, and I toss my head with more spirit. When at last we are drawn together again, and he engulfs my hand in his palm, my pulse races and my smile becomes a little too welcoming.

  When the music slides to an end, he makes his bow. I notice tiny spirals of curls at the nape of his neck. My tummy gives a little leap when he rises and fixes me with a look that is a little less nervous now.

  “Can I get you a cup of wine, Mistress?”

  My answering smile is as wanton as Mary’s.

  Later, when the court revellers are settling to sleep, George and I share a nightcap. Something about the ill-lit chamber urges us to keep our heads close together as we speak in whispers before the hearth. At first we merely gossip, revisiting the uproarious pageant, exchanging notes on who was flirting with whom. After a while, George sobers. “You would do well, Sister, to remember that your hand is pledged elsewhere.”

  His words force my head up. For a moment, our eyes lock together while I decide whether to be frank or to feign innocence.

  “You mean Percy, I suppose. He is just a young man playing the game of love ... as our betters do.”

  “The game is dangerous, Anne. You don’t want your name bandied about … like Mary’s. It won’t do to have you both linked to easy virtue. Think what Father will say if you jeopardise the match with Ormond.”

  “Oh, George.” I tuck my feet beneath me on the settle. “I did but dance with him and share a cup of wine.”

  It is not easy to lie so blatantly. I concentrate on the way the firelight is playing upon his hair and try not to think of Percy.

  “You like him, I can tell. Never before have I seen your cheeks blush beneath a fellow’s gaze. He is betrothed, you know. Has been since childhood.”

  “Everyone knows that. I don’t know why you are making such a fuss. It was nothing.”

  I lower my face to my cup, close my eyes to remember again the softness of Harry Percy’s hand brushing mine, the fine cut of his leg, the way the Adam’s apple bobs in his throat when he laughs. I have no idea why I am deceiving George, who is party to all my secrets. Perhaps the silent pledge that passed between Harry Percy and me is not for sharing. I want to hug the knowledge to myself and run it over and over in my mind. The king is forgotten and I can barely wait for the next day, when Harry Percy is bound to call at the queen’s apartments. But I have not fooled George and slyly he probes my motives further.

  “Of course,” he continues, “should his betrothal with Mary Talbot be broken, he would be as fine a match as you could ask for … but I fear such an arrangement will never be revoked.”

  Percy is the son of the Earl of Northumberland, and will one day come into a vast inheritance. A prize indeed were he to ask for my hand, but I know – we both know – that such a thing is impossible for such bonds cannot be broken. And our cause is doubly hopeless since we are both promised elsewhere.

  Nevertheless, George’s words grate on my senses; I do not wish to hear that our suit is hopeless. For the first time I am made aware of how little control I have over my own destiny. I don’t want to hear it. I untangle my legs and place my cup on a small table. “I am going to my bed. Where is Mary? Have you seen her?”

  “She entertains the king, no doubt.” He gets up and leaves a kiss on my forehead, places a finger beneath my chin and forces me to look into his eyes. “Tread carefully, Sister.”

  Impatiently, I shrug off his hand and march across the room. I throw open the door, almost colliding with Jane Parker on the threshold. “Oh,” she says, “there you are, Anne. I thought you were never coming to bed.”

  She peers past me to where George is quaffing the last of his wine. He makes a knee to his betrothed and she flushes and bobs a knee in reply. While her head is lowered George blows me a mocking kiss, making me long for something to throw at him.

  I turn on my heel. Grabbing Jane’s wrist, I whirl her along the corridor to the chamber we share with Madge Shelton and Margery Horsman. The girls are in various stages of making ready for bed and when I suddenly throw open the door they look up, their faces opening like flowers in surprise. I cross the room swiftly and turn suddenly, the draught from my skirts making the candles dip and dance.

  “Anne?” Jane is inquisitive. She follows me to my bed, perches on the mattress and watches as I try to quell the internal storm. In the end, her unspoken questions breach my defences and I burst out, “I could wish that George did not know me so well. Am I a book to be read, or a cypher to be broken? Sometimes, as much as I love him, I wish he would pay more mind to his own affairs.”

  She says nothing but she doesn’t have to. It is fast becoming obvious that George is less than satisfied with his own betrothal, and does all in his power to avoid Jane’s company. But she is resolute. She slides from the bed and begins to remove my cap. “Don’t worry, Anne. George will have enough to occupy him once we are wed. I will fill his house with children, and he will lack both the time and the energy to pry into y
our affairs.”

  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.

  September 1523

  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 bodies 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, finding 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 recollect
ion 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.