The Kiss
of the
Concubine
Judith Arnopp
For Sally, with love
Copyright © JudithArnopp2013
First Edition
The author has asserted their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
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Cover photo: Andrey Kiselev | Dreamstime.com
Edited by Cas Peace
The Kiss
of
The Concubine
28th January 1547 – Whitehall Palace
It is almost midnight and January has Whitehall Palace clenched in its wintery fist. The gardens are rimed with frost, the casements glazed with ice. Like a shadow, I wait alone by the window in the silver-blue moonlight, my eye fixed on the bed.
The room is crowded, yet nobody speaks.
I tread softly among them. The flickering torchlight illuminates a sheen of anticipation on their faces, the rank odour of their uncertainty rising in a suffocating fug. Few can remember the time that went before, and both friend and foe balance upon the cusp of change, and tremble at the terror of the unknown.
I move through the heavily perfumed air, brush aside jewelled velvet sleeves. At the high-canopied bed I sink to my knees and observe his face for a long moment. He is changed. This is not the man I used to know.
They have propped him on pillows, the vast belly mountainous beneath the counterpane, and the yellow skin of mortality’s mask is drawn tightly across his cheeks. There is not much time and before death can wipe his memory clean, I speak suddenly into his ear, a whisper meant only for him. “Henry!”
The king’s eyes fly open and his eyeballs swivel from side to side, his disintegrating ego peering as if through the slits in a mummer’s mask.
He knows me, and understands why I have come.
He whimpers like a frightened child and Anthony Denny steps forward and leans over the bed. “Your Majesty, Archbishop Cranmer has been summoned; he cannot be long now.”
Henry’s fat fingers tremble as he grips the coverlet, his pale lips coated with thick spittle as he tries to speak. I move closer, my face almost touching his, and the last rancid dregs of his breath engulf me. “They think you fear death, Henry. But you fear me more, don’t you, my Lord?”
“Anne?”
The sound is unintelligible, both a denial and a greeting, but it tells me what I need to know. He recognises and fears my presence. Those assembled begin to mutter that the king is raving, talking with shadows.
I sink into the mattress beside him and curl my body around his bulk. “How many times did we share this bed, Henry?” His breathing is laboured now and sweat drips from his brow, the stench of his fear exceeded only by that of his festering thigh. I tighten my grip upon him. “Did you ever love me, Henry? Oh, I know that you lusted but that isn’t the same. Do you remember how you burned for me, right to the end?”
I reach out to run my fingertip along his cheek and he leaps in fright, like a great fish floundering on a line, caught in a net of his own devising. One brave attendant steps forward to mop the king’s brow as I continue to tease.
“Poor Henry. Are you afraid even now of your own sins? To win me you broke from Rome, although in your heart you never wanted to. Even the destruction of a thousand years of worship was a small price to pay to have me in your bed, wasn’t it?”
Henry sucks in air and forgets to breathe again. A physician hurries forward, pushes the attendant aside and with great daring, lifts the king’s right eyelid. Henry jerks his head away and the doctor snatches back his hand as if it has been scalded.
Even now they are fearful of him. Although the king can no longer so much as raise his head from his pillow, they still cower. How long will it take for them to forget their fear?
Mumbling apologies, the physician bows and backs away to take his place with the others. As they watch and wait a little longer, the sound of mumbled prayer increases. “Not long now, Henry,” I whisper like a lover. “It is almost over.”
A door opens. Cold air rushes into the stifling chamber and Archbishop Cranmer enters, stamping his feet to dislodge the snow from his boots. He hands his outer clothes to a servant before pushing through the crowd to approach the bed, his Bible tucked beneath his arm.
I playfully poke the end of Henry’s nose. “Time to confess your sins, my husband.” Cranmer takes the king’s hand, his long slim fingers contrasting with the short swollen digits of his monarch. As he begins to mutter the last rites, I put my mouth close to Henry’s ear to taunt him. “Tell the truth, Hal. Own up to all the lies you told; how you murdered and how you cheated. Go on ….”
But King Henry has lost the power of speech, and cannot make a full confession. Gasping for one more breath he clings tightly to Cranmer’s hand, and I know there is not long to wait before he is mine again. A single tear trickles from the corner of his eye to be lost upon his pillow.
“It’s time, Henry,” I whisper. “And I am here, waiting. For a few short years I showed you Paradise and now, perhaps, I can do so again. Unless, of course, I choose to show you Hell.”
Part One
Daughter
1521 – Hever, Kent
England seems small after the glories of the French court, and my father’s house cramped and inconvenient. I am horribly bored kicking my heels in the country, and long for company. Mother is distracted, Father wears a face like a thundercloud, and neither of them pays my arrival home as much heed as I would like. There is no one save George, who is home for a few days.
My brother is always glad to listen to me and pretends to delight in the stories of my adventures overseas. “You do look fine, Anne,” he says, admiring my fine French-styled clothes. I have grown used to admiration and whereas once I would have blushed and dismissed his words, I am far too elegant to let my discomposure show now I am older. George takes my arm and leads me inside, the interior of the hall suddenly dark after the brilliance of the day. “Have you heard about Mary?” he whispers.
My sister, Mary, has ever had the knack of stealing the attention from me, and is the centre of things once more. She almost brought disgrace on us by sharing the bed of the French king, but Father has recently managed to marry her off respectably to William Carey. We all imagined that now she was safely wed to a good man, she would settle down to provide Will with a string of infants. But although my parents have not spoken to me of it, I have lately learned that Mary is now enjoying a passionate ‘flirtation’ with King Henry. My sister, it seems, accumulates kings as one might collect butterflies, or compliments.
After supper, George and I closet ourselves in a small chamber where I poke the slumbering fire back to life. “You can’t blame the king for fancying her, she is so pretty. Not cursed with my long nose and bony chin.”
George laughs and stretches his feet toward the flames. “If I didn’t know you better, Anne, I’d think you were fishing for compliments when you know very well that what you lack in looks, you make up for with wit.”
He is right; my face does lack Mary’s softness. Her expression is meek, just as men prefer. To make it worse, she boasts a nature twice as soft as mine. Alt
hough I tell myself I’d rather have brains than looks, I don’t want to hear confirmation of my lack of beauty, even if it is only from the lips of my brother. I throw a cushion at his head, but he catches it deftly and laughs at me.
“Poor Anne,” he teases, “is it a sweetheart you are lacking? Don’t worry, sister, soon there will be courtiers aplenty fighting for your favour.”
I try to stop the hot blood from burning my cheeks. “I don’t need a sweetheart. Father is arranging my marriage as we speak, as well you know.”
I am intended for James Butler, the heir of the Ormond estates, but his father and mine spend overmuch time quibbling over details, protracting the arrangement and leaving me in limbo. Although I have never set eyes on James, I am content with the match. He is young and rich enough to make a good husband, and I have heard no ill stories of him. I trust my father to choose well for me.
George leans forward and offers me a handful of nuts. I pop two into my cheek, continuing to speak with my mouth full. “Can you imagine Mary in the arms of the king? I am surprised she can think of a thing to say.”
“He won’t care what she says as long as it’s yes.” George laughs, his eyes glinting in the firelight. He watches me, aware that he has planted unmaidenly pictures in my mind. I have heard that my brother has a way with women, and I can believe the tales. He is good looking, dark like myself but with Mary’s features; a goodly combination for a man.
Both Mary and George, it seems, are irresistible to the opposite sex, while I myself have not yet been tempted by any, despite the licentiousness of the French court. Perhaps my reluctance shows; perhaps there is something about me that promises rejection. Whatever the reason, I have never been tempted or even yet kissed; perhaps if I had been, I would have a little more understanding of my sister.
If I were indelicate enough to imagine Mary in a dalliance with any man, I could not visualise her ever refusing. She isn’t the sort to say no. And by that I do not mean that she is in any way cheap, only that her gentleness makes her wary of hurting a fellow’s feelings.
“Anyway,” George continues, “as I said, you can’t blame a man for trying, not when the prize is so full of sweet promise.” Trying to ignore George’s crude inferences, I force my thoughts toward Mary’s husband.
“My sympathies are with poor William. How hard it must be for him to be made so publically a cuckold. What must he be feeling? They’ve only been married a few months.”
“Well, be fair, Anne. He isn’t the first man to be so used and besides, we don’t even know if the king has so honoured Mary. She might well fend him off and cling to her reputation yet. Although, on the other hand, a romp with the king might be good for all of us. The Carey purse isn’t a long one, and Henry usually looks after his concubines and pays well for a maid’s honour.”
George cannot have forgotten that Mary’s honour was lost some time ago at the French court, but I don’t remind him. Instead, my mind drifts back to the king.
I glimpsed him once or twice when I was a young girl, and have never forgotten his overwhelming presence. I cannot imagine ever having the wherewithal to resist such a man. The king does not look like a man who has ever been denied anything. Poor Mary, I’d not be in her shoes, not for all the jewels in the world.
George cracks another walnut in his palms and begins to separate the flesh from the shell. “We will be better able to assess the situation in a week or two when I accompany you to court. You will find it very different to life in France.”
“So I’ve been told. I really need new gowns, but Father says his purse will not stretch to it and I am to make do with what I have.” I pout and look up at George through my lashes, but if I was expecting sympathy, I am sore disappointed. Instead, he gives a shout of laughter that wakes the dog from his slumber. The old hound lifts his head and thumps his tail on the floor.
“Anne! You have more sleeves and headdresses than all of the queen’s ladies put together. Believe me, you will not look ill-turned out beside even Queen Catherine herself.”
He is right and I find myself cheered. I sit up straighter and stretch out my toes, admiring the jewels upon my slippers. “And there will be none with gowns cut in the French mode. I might not be the prettiest of the queen’s ladies, but I can probably manage to be the most stylish.”
“That’s it, Anne, my girl. Astonish both king and court with your style and wit, and perhaps the gossips will leave Mary alone for a space.”
22nd March 1522 – York Place
The Cardinal’s house is crowded. I am drowning in a babble of voices, a thousand candles burning, a crush of bodies, the leaping shadows of the torches on the walls. As Mary helps me into a white satin gown and fastens on my headdress, I am in a fever of excitement.
To my relief, her liaison with the king hasn’t altered her;. She is still my gentle elder sister, overseeing my arrival at court, ensuring I am happily settled.
Tonight there is to be a pageant to honour the Emperor Charles of Spain, who is visiting court to discuss his future marriage to Princess Mary who is, as yet, but a child. There have been jousts and feasts and today, to mark the beginning of Lent, we are putting on a production of Chateau Vert. Mary and I, together with the other court ladies, are to play the eight feminine virtues. The king’s sister, Princess Mary, is to represent Beauty, while my sister is Kindness, and Jane Parker, my brother’s betrothed, is Constancy. I am to play Perseverance.
From behind the slits of my mask, I can see the other girls. They are all dressed identically and are as brim-full of excitement as I. They peek from behind the heavy fall of brocade that screens us from the assembly.
“Chateau Vert is enormous!” shrieks Jane over her shoulder, “it looks like a real castle.” The other girls jostle her aside to get a closer look, and I follow them, elbowing past the Countess of Devonshire who is playing Honour.
At one end of the hall stands a glittering castle, all painted green, adorned with red roses, the battlements shining with green foil, the whole thing brightly lit by flaming torches.
The musicians are concealed behind the wooden walls, and the other girls and I, playing the feminine virtues, will soon be taking our places in the towers. Defending us along the battlements will be the contrary feminine vices; Danger, Disdain, Jealousy, Unkindness, Scorn, Sharp tongue, and Aloofness. Eight little boys, choristers from Wolsey’s household, will play these vices.
To gain our hearts, the eight male Virtues, led they say by the king himself, must break a way through the Vices to win Fair Maiden’s heart. The men will represent Amorousness, Nobleness, Youth, Attendance, Loyalty, Pleasure, Gentleness and Liberty.
“I wonder which the king will play?” Mary breathes in my ear, her face close to mine as we peek through the arras. I turn to look at her, my eyes level with her chin, and see a pulse beating at the base of her throat. She licks her lips, a blush upon her cheek.
“Sir Loyal Heart?” I quip, but then, feeling remorse for my teasing, I add, “I’m sure we will know soon enough, there is no disguising the king, after all.”
Henry is more than six feet tall and towers over all his court. His fiery red hair, broad chest and well-turned leg cannot be disguised, although that doesn’t deter him from such games of pretence. I have been instructed that we must all be surprised when he reveals himself at the unmasking.
The Countess claps her hands and we all scramble to finish dressing. “Tie on your mask,” I cry to Mary who, realising she has mislaid it, upsets a pile of silk wraps in a fever of searching. With fumbling fingers I help her tie it over her eyes then, giggling and gossiping, we take a secret back passage into the hall and conceal ourselves within the wooden castle tower.
Silence falls within the hall. I can hear Mary’s rapid breathing as the pageant spokesman steps forward to address the gathered company. It is William Cornish who, as Master of Choristers in the Chapel Royal, thinks up all these splendid pageants for the amusement of his king. Clad all in crimson satin, embro
idered with burning flames of gold, Master Cornish opens his arms and looks toward the battlements where we are waiting.
“Ladies,” he cries. “I am Ardent Desire and I beg you to surrender yourselves and come down to me.”
We titter and hide behind our hands as two of the chorister boys, playing Scorn and Disdain, sneer a derisive and rather rude refusal.
“Then,” Ardent Desire’s voice rattles the rafters, “we must take your chateau by storm and force you down.”
A great burst of cannonfire sounds from outside, and the women scream in pretended terror. Mary jumps into my arms, laughing and shaking with excitement, her head thrown back, her long white neck exposed. The court is in uproar and even the severe features of the Emperor are screwed up with laughter; beside him even the queen is smiling, for once.
The men come charging into the hall. The king’s gentlemen, splendid in blue velvet and cloth of gold, hurl oranges and dates at our defences. As the hail of missiles falls, amid roars of laughter, I grab a handful of sweetmeats and launch them at the encroaching foe.
I recognise George despite his mask. He has one leg hooked over the battlements, his cap is lost, and Unkindness is bashing him with a cushion. The other men are in a similar predicament as Feminine Virtue puts up a sturdy fight. Dodging a hail of oranges, I lean over the battlements and scream encouragement.
Then, a giant of a man who can only be the king, chases Jealousy and Scorn from their position and breaches the inner wall. At this a triumphant cheer erupts from the spectators, and I see Charles Brandon making off with Princess Mary over his shoulder. She clings to his doublet, her mouth wide with delighted terror. By rights Sir Loyal Heart, played by the king, should rescue Beauty first, but instead he heads for my sister. King Henry, whom we must not recognise, scrambles up the wooden wall, roaring like a bear, and lunges for her as she scurries away. Not noticing his mistake, his hand fastens like a vice about my wrist and he gives a grunt of satisfaction. I try to pull back but he is too strong for me, his determination not to be refused.
The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn Page 1
