George is looking pensively into the flames, his eyes brooding, his mouth downturned. He looks as if he hasn’t had sufficient sleep.
“And how are things with you and Jane?”
My words startle him from his reverie, and I do not fail to notice the dislike that instantly curls his upper lip at the mention of his wife. He fidgets, shrugs his shoulders. “I cannot like her, Anne.”
He had not ‘liked’ her when they were betrothed, but I had hoped marriage might bring a softening. I sigh and reach out to put my cup on the table.
“What is it about the Boleyns? I wish one of us were happily wed. Mary is no more content than you are, and she treats poor Will Carey like a lapdog. And as for me, well, I sometimes wonder if I will ever marry.”
George is fumbling with the poker again, and still on his knees shuffles toward me, gropes for my hand. “Of course you will, Anne. You will make the gladdest bride of all.”
“Will I?”
“Of course you will, Father will see to it. Is it so hard to remain a maid for a little longer?”
My face is burning but there is no one else to whom I can speak so freely. “Of course it is, George. Everyone around me is indulging in some liaison, legitimate or otherwise. I crave affection and … sometimes I feel like some ugly old maid whom nobody desires enough to marry. Wyatt is my only serious suitor, and he is already wed!”
“That’s ridiculous. They all want you. It’s just that they know they can’t have you.”
Before I can stop it a little sob erupts from my throat, surprising even myself. George, still on his knees, grips my hands tighter. “Anne, Anne, my silly Anne. Don’t you know how … how … brilliant you are? Give it time. You have lots of time before you. Be patient.”
He buries his head in my skirts, his breath warming my lap. I look down at his dark, close clipped hair, a glimpse of scalp beneath. With a deep sigh I lay my hand upon it, promising myself that I will wait. George is right, I am young yet and marriage will come when I least expect it.
***
Before the year is out, Mary confides that she is once more with child. When her condition can be hidden no longer, she is packed off home. While she kisses George and I goodbye, Will Carey waits to assist her into a carriage “Take care, Mary,” I say, trying not to notice the tear that escapes her control to trickle down her cheek. “Just think how lovely it will be to see baby Catherine again.”
She tries to smile, her mouth quivering as George secures a fur about her knees. Will leaves a brotherly kiss on my cheek. “Take care of her, Will,” I murmur, “she may carry your heir this time.”
He flushes scarlet, and wary of giving himself away, does not meet my eye. I watch him mount his horse, gather the reins and prepare to ride off. None of us, not even Mary, can be sure if the child is her husband’s or the king’s, but this time I pray for Will’s sake that the child will not be branded with the ruddy complexion of the Tudors.
As they drive away, Mary leans from the window, waving while her husband rides stony-faced beside the carriage. As the dust of the road settles around us, I lay a hand on George’s arm and he leads me inside.
It is quiet and rather lonely without Mary. Although I am surrounded by women, there are none whom I can call a real friend. The next day, I trail in the queen’s footsteps as we promenade around the garden. If I feel a pang on passing the arbour where Percy and I first kissed, I do not dwell on it but keep my eyes turned firmly away. I might lack a sweetheart, but I realise now that the feelings I once had for Percy were nothing more than calf-love; a practice for the real thing. All the same, I long to be kissed again.
When will I have a real sweetheart?
Tom Wyatt’s laughing face swims like a naughty secret in my mind. There is always Tom, of course, who remains as devoted as ever, but I cannot forget his wife. Although she is kept far away from court, she represents an unbreakable barrier. No matter how sweet his poetry, or how ardent his kisses, I will allow myself to be no man’s concubine.
And there is the proposed match with James Butler, but I don’t believe that will ever come to anything, not the way he and Father are wrangling over who should have the Ormond estate. Father and I want a man who is free to love me. I dream of a handsome knight with a song on his lips and a glint in his eye. Sometimes after supper, as we listen to the songs of the minstrels, I sigh for love but I have to acknowledge, love does not seem to be sighing for want of me.
February 1526
The king no longer comes to the queen’s bed. The ladies of her privy chamber report that she prays constantly, begging for a child, for her husband to come to her, for her courses to begin again, but we all know that none of this will ever happen. Even a queen cannot turn back time, and to Henry, who is by several years Catherine’s junior, she is an old woman, a dried husk who has no chance of proving fruitful.
“The king says the marriage is cursed,” George whispers to me when we are alone. “Yesterday he was quoting Leviticus, saying God wills him to be childless because he married his brother’s widow.”
In her youth, Catherine was indeed wed to Henry’s brother, Arthur, who, had he lived, would have been king in Henry’s stead.
“But, George,” I say. “Their marriage has been blessed many times. The queen has borne him many children; it is not her fault they did not live. And what about the Princess Mary? Isn’t she living proof of God’s blessing on the marriage?”
George smiles, folds his arms across his chest, looks at me sideways. “Mary is a nine year old girl and doesn’t suit the king’s purpose. He wants out of his marriage before it is too late for him to beget a son, but he is very tightly stitched into it. Before they married, Catherine vowed before God that she was a maid and the Pope gave them a dispensation. The marriage is valid, there is nothing the king can do about that. Wolsey is beside himself.”
“I don’t care about the cardinal but … poor Catherine … how dreadful it must be for her.”
Daily, I have seen and wondered at the queen’s proud, white face, her reddened eyes, and had put it down to the megrims of her age. Now I see perhaps there may be more to it. George interrupts my thoughts.
“I don’t think the king has told her that he seeks an annulment ….”
“Maybe not, but perhaps she has heard of it. She weeps and prays constantly and has scarcely looked at me … not since ….”
“Not since our gracious majesty has been seen so often in your company.” George finishes for me, a wicked gleam in his eye.
“Our company, you mean.”
It is true, the Boleyns are in high favour of late and the king has been spending much time with us. Yet it is not just me he favours, he honours all of us with his attention. In June last year Father was made Viscount Rochford, and George, after having manors and lands heaped upon him, is now a gentleman of the privy chamber and hopes to rise further.
Henry enjoys our company. We are young and fun-loving, and while devoted to God and the church, not overly pious. Delighted that my brother’s sporting talent does not stretch to besting his sovereign, he and his closest friends play tennis and bowls with George daily. As for myself, if I encounter him in the garden and he offers me his arm, I walk with him and make him laugh. He seems to enjoy my wit, my intellect, and often shoots a remark to me at a gathering. Yet he is in no way seeking me for his mistress. I would know if he were. Wouldn’t I?
“You are ridiculous, George.”
“Oh, yea, I know that, but in this instance I believe I am right. I have seen the king smitten with one sister, and have no doubt that having done with Mary, he now transfers his allegiance to the other.”
That is disgusting. I get up and walk to the window, look across the garden where dusk lies like a muffler around the castle. I cast my mind back to my encounters with the king. I close my eyes, remember the last time I was with him; his soft laughter, the light hot touch of his hand on mine. I hear him say my name again, “Anne,” caressing the word as if it w
ere a prayer. I wonder what it would be like to be kissed by a man like King Henry.
I snap open my eyes, the blood rushing to my cheeks, and turn back toward the fire. George is watching me over the rim of his wine cup. “Well, Anne, am I right? Has the king been wooing you all along without you even noticing?”
He leans forward, his eyes mocking, his tone teasing. I shake myself, draw my wits together and take a deep breath before taking a stool opposite him at the hearth.
“And what if he has? Many times you have heard me swear that I will not be like Mary. I will be no man’s mistress, not even the king’s.”
***
At Shrovetide there is a great joust, and all the court are present to enjoy the celebrations. The lists are a dangerous playground, and the queen and those about her watch in fascinated terror. The ladies cover their eyes as the massive horses gallop forward, a great clash of wood on metal and a cry of dismay. We all rise as one, the better to see the fallen body that is sprawled in the dust. The horse runs free, reins trailing, tossing his head, snorting. He comes to a halt at the end of the field and begins to crop the grass, shaking his head, harness jingling.
When the crowd parts I see that the man bested is my cousin, Francis Bryan. He is not moving. With great care they remove his helmet and expose his bloody face to the air. We watch in silence as he is borne away on a stretcher and then take our places again, instantly forgetting him and ready to applaud the next contestants. It is an everyday occurrence, something to enhance the tension of the lists.
As they prepare to mount up, gossip trickles back to the royal stand that Francis is badly injured and likely to lose an eye. He is a rogue who has a way with the ladies. “I do hope his looks aren’t spoiled,” a voice beside me murmurs. I turn to Margery, another cousin, and pull a rueful smile.
The babble of chatter rises and falls again when the king appears, the brief hush followed by a great cheer. I raise my kerchief, wave it in the air until the crowds part and I see King Henry before me. A little frisson of excitement passes over my body, leaving me chilled although my cheeks are burning.
He is dressed all in splendour, his helm thrown back. He wears a smile as wide as the ocean, and emblazoned on his chest are the words Declare I Dare Not. As speculation licks like flame through the stand, I know not where to look. It is as close to a declaration as he has come, and although I am innocent in the matter, I glance guiltily at the queen.
Catherine is staring stony-faced across the tiltyard while all around us people whisper behind their hands. Despising their gossiping tongues, I can feel my face growing even hotter. Emulating the queen, I lift my chin and pretend I do not care.
Henry rides up close to the stand and throws up his visor, his eyes flashing blue in the sunshine. I keep my face as non-expressive as the queen’s, and imagine nothing is amiss. Why should anyone, let alone Queen Catherine, believe that his brazen declaration is for me?
“Wish me luck, ladies,” he calls. Obediently we all clap, flutter our kerchiefs and titter behind our hands. He is like a big baby, craving the adoration of everyone around him, but he is the king, how can we not adore him?
I watch him manoeuvre his caparisoned destrier into position, taking his stand at the tilt barrier. Loving and hating him at the same time, I watch our prince of chivalry hoist a lance the size of a young tree beneath his arm and prepare to ride against his foe.
Charles Brandon, similarly equipped at the opposite end of the yard, holds his horse in check until the signal to ride is given. Then they are away, the company holds their breath, and the huge pounding hooves pummel the ground. I can feel their echo in my heart.
Time seems to slow. I watch in a kind of delighted horror. Henry is covered head to toe in white armour; he could be anyone but I know it is he and he is in danger, just as he is every time he takes the field. As they come together and the clash is imminent, I cover my eyes and pray, whispering beneath my breath for him to triumph. I do not look up again until my ears are beset by a tremendous roar and the crowd erupts into celebration. All around me the ladies are clapping, smiling and laughing in relief … all except the queen who just looks tired … and rather bored at her husband’s playacting.
Afterwards, although we are all tired out by a day spent outdoors we assemble in the great hall, waiting for the evening entertainments to begin. Giant shadows cast by the mammoth fire joust on the walls, dipping and dancing with those cast by the torches. The hubbub of voices and unsuppressed excitement lifts my spirits, the high-pitched tinkling laughter of the women echoed by the deeper rumble of the men.
Up in the gallery the minstrels are making discord, tuning their instruments in readiness for the king’s enjoyment. I turn to speak to George as a serving girl passes with a tray of refreshments. George grabs her elbow and relieves her of a cup, and although she is far beneath him in status, she smirks and simpers beneath his smouldering appraisal. I scowl at him but my displeasure goes unnoticed when a clarion of trumpets announces a royal arrival.
Everyone sinks to the floor in a back breaking bow. My skirts pool around me as I crouch down to honour the queen passing among us to take her place on the dais. The women fuss around her, arranging her skirts, fetching a low stool for her feet. Once she is settled, she flicks her hand, freeing us to resume our conversation. Beside me, my cousin Margery is flirting with George, as she does with any man under the age of fifty. George leans on a carved screen, his eyes fixed on her generous bosom, and proceeds to see how far he can lead her before she remembers they are close cousins. We are of the Howard line and as such are related to everyone. There are too many cousins at court, our tangled bloodlines often tripping the unwary.
I clutch a cup of wine and let my eyes play across the company, noting who wears a new gown and who is playing cuckold to whom. Of course, the gossip is all of the king’s secret matter, but none dare speak of it here. In the presence of the royal couple we all pretend ignorance; it is just another of the king’s games but this time none of us are certain of the rules, not even Henry.
Another clarion announces the arrival of the king, and all except the queen sink to our knees again. He pauses at the door and I turn my head slightly that I might watch him enter, full of bonhomie, a beam slashed across his ruddy face, his arm thrown around the neck of Henry Norris. As he moves on I lower my eyes again, bow my head, the back of my neck aching as I watch the royal feet approach. To my surprise they falter before me and I find myself staring with some confusion at the king’s square-toed shoes. They are made of the softest kid and are encrusted with pearls. Eventually, realising he is waiting, I lift my head, my cheeks hot with embarrassment.
The king and Norris are smiling down upon me. Blushing like a fool, I keep my chin tucked to my chest as graciously as I know how. The king clears his throat and shuffles his feet until I look up at him. He doesn’t quite meet my eye as he utters my name, his voice loud in the silent room. “Mistress Anne,” he says, and I am forced to reply.
“Your Majesty.” I curtsey again, try to get closer to the floor, but I am as low as I can go. My bodice is digging deep into my flesh but I keep my eyes on his feet and sigh a great sigh of relief when, eventually, he passes on.
We all stand. My heart is thumping in my chest and I know my cheeks are scarlet. A murmur surges around the room. Everyone is staring at me. Whispering, insinuating, and speculating. I feel hot breath on my neck and realise, with no little relief, that George is standing close behind me.
“Well, well, Sister,” he whispers. “Acknowledged by the king before the court. Whatever next?”
Across the room my father is standing in the shadows, conversing with my uncle, Norfolk. He raises his cup and smiles, as if I have done something favourable, while close beside him, Henry’s sister, Mary, and her husband, Charles Brandon, do not hide their dislike.
Cold floods through my body, followed by an internal heat; sweat breaks out on my brow. My father and uncle will make me replace Mary if they can. I
clench my fists, trying to resist the urge to run from the room, but before I can move, there is a flurry of activity at the dais.
Catherine and her ladies are on the move and as they sweep past in a flotilla of disapproval the music dwindles away, the conversation ceases abruptly and everyone drops hastily to their knees again. Taken unawares, I do not have time to respond, and the queen passes me by without acknowledgement. I look across to Henry who is seated on his throne, looking at me standing alone with the royal court spread at my feet in a carpet of stolen obeisance.
He gets up and comes toward me. I do not move but my heart is banging like a drum. As he draws near I sink into a curtsey, but before I am half way down, he seizes my elbow and stops me. “Mistress Anne,” he says. “You cannot spend half your life on your knees. I am come to ask you to accompany me in the dance.”
He makes an elegant knee, holds out his arm, and what else can I do? I can hardly refuse. The jewels on his sleeve are sharp beneath my cold fingers as I follow him onto the floor where they are forming for the first dance.
Although I have spoken to and walked with the king many times, there is something different about dancing with him in public; the implied passion of the storytelling feels too intimate for safety. He seems bigger now. He dwarfs me and if I look straight ahead I can see nothing but a breadth of jewel-encrusted doublet. And so I keep my head turned a little to the right to where, beyond the dance floor, the company are putting their heads together, whispering behind their hands. They think I am his mistress. The shame swamps me but I lift my chin higher, swallow the dread, and pretending to be unconcerned, I paste on a smile and concentrate on the steps.
Henry’s body is anointed with rosewater, his breath tinged with spiced wine. He plays the part of a pivot in the wheel I tread around him, my fingers quivering in his palm.
The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn Page 5
