The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn

by Arnopp, Judith

  “For God’s sake, Henry.” I slump against his legs, my fine silk skirts spread across the floor. “What will happen now?”

  ***

  At my invitation, Mary comes to see me at the palace. At first she is sulky and refuses to look me in the eye, but ignoring her reticence I place a kiss upon her chilly cheek and show her a basket of kittens. “Choose one,” I say, “whichever you like.” I can see she wants to refuse but in the end, seduced by their soft eyes and tiny tails, she reaches out and picks up a tabby.

  I lead her to a seat at the window where, with her cat tucked beneath her arm, we look unspeaking across the gardens. Courtiers are taking the air, their heads together in gossip. “I wonder who they are talking about today,” I say, in an attempt to fill the silence.

  She immediately bridles. “I have done nothing to cause fresh scandal.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting you had.” I look at her pinched face, the brittle glistening of her eyes betraying how close her tears are to the surface. “Mary, can’t we be friends, as we used to be?”

  She looks down at her linked fingers, shrugs her narrow shoulders, but makes no reply.

  “None of this is your fault, Mary, I know that, but neither is it mine. I am your sister and want to help you in your widowhood. It must be so hard for you.”

  Her head jerks up, her face working as she fights to contain all the bitterness that has been building up inside her for so long. “You have no idea how hard. My income has been severed, Will’s annuities stopped, and Father will not even speak to me. I want to go home to Hever but he will have none of it …” She stops, her throat working as she fights for self-control. “I am at my wit’s end, Anne. I know not where to turn.”

  I reach for her hand. “Did you think I would not help you? I have spoken to Father already, and when I received no encouragement there I took the matter to the king.”

  The colour drains slowly from her cheeks. I know Mary well enough to realise that she would spurn help from him if she could. For a moment a mulish expression clouds her face, but then it passes as she reconciles herself to the inevitable. “And what did he say?”

  I inwardly quail at revealing Henry’s decision, for I know she will not like it. I straighten my back, tame my demeanour and say, as casually as I can manage, “The king desires that the wardship of little Henry should pass to me.”

  Her head snaps up, her eyes wide, her face pale, lips parted. “To you? But I … I … that will give you control of him, you will have all the revenues from his lands. How will that help me?”

  I get up, smooth my skirts and reach for a jug of wine on the table, but I do not pour. I put the jug down again, turn back to look at her. “You will have peace of mind, knowing your son will be properly cared for, that his future will be in the hands of the king. Once Henry and I are wed …”

  “Anne!” She jumps up, thrusts her face toward me, her whole body atremble. “Surely you don’t still believe he will ever marry you. How long has he been promising that now? Don’t you yet realise it is just a ruse to get you to his bed? He is nothing if not persistent.”

  I want to yell back that he’d not needed much persistence to land her in his net, but I have sworn not to argue with her. The divorce is certainly lagging more than either Henry or I had believed possible. To the king’s fury Campeggio has adjourned the court for the summer, and our wait continues. Pushing the thought away, I close my eyes against Mary’s fury and remind myself that I am the king’s beloved. I take a deep breath and dive back into the fray.

  “I am also determined to persuade the king to assign an annuity of one hundred pounds to you. This will ensure that you and Catherine are not penniless. Henry has not agreed to do so just yet but he has promised to speak to Father about allowing you to return to Hever.”

  Mary slumps suddenly into her chair, the kitten floundering on her lap. “They don’t want me there.”

  I sit close beside her, our skirts overlapping, the fine quality of my cloth overshadowing the shiny worn nap of hers. “If the king demands it, they will have no choice.” My words are as gentle as I can make them. I remind myself how hard it must be for Mary, her fall from the king’s favourite to a penniless nobody difficult enough without having to see me, her younger, plainer sister, take her place.

  Were I in her place I wouldn’t relish returning to Hever. It is a household of women; a hostile mother, a witless grandmother, and a four-year-old child. What allure can that have for Mary, who has tasted the delights of court, both here and in France? But it will be better than starving.

  “Mary, try to be thankful. Henry doesn’t have to help you. It is the king’s way of ensuring that you and your children enjoy a financially secure future. You will be taken care –”

  “I will be safely out of sight, you mean. You are stealing my son, and Henry is paying me and his daughter to stay out of his way, as if I am some guilty secret.”

  “That is not true at all, and it is ungrateful of you to say so.”

  Her tears are falling now, splashing down her cheeks, dripping from the end of her nose. Disgusted, I thrust a kerchief into her hand and look away while I wait for her to pull herself together, although in truth, I long to give into the desire to deliver her a long overdue slap. Why is it so hard for her to accept help?

  A sudden shower of summer rain rattles against the windows, and the people in the garden hurry toward the hall. As she calms, Mary’s sobs subside into shudders. Miserably, she mops her wet face with my kerchief.

  “You must try to make the best of things, Mary, for little Catherine’s sake. With a small income of your own and your children independent, who knows, you may yet make a good second marriage.”

  She glares at me, her wet lashes parted like stars, the tip of her nose red and moist. “Nobody will marry me now, Anne, you know that. I am soiled goods, and everybody knows it.”

  I open my mouth to answer but at that moment the door bursts open and George enters, throwing his damp jerkin over the back of a chair.

  “Sisters!” he cries, coming swiftly toward me, leaning over me to kiss my cheek, his hand squeezing my waist. “How are you, Anne? And Mary …” He bends over her hand. “Still snivelling, I see.”

  I frown and shake my head at him, silently warning him to not to begin teasing her. He picks up a cushion and sinks into the opposite chair. “It has started to rain.” He shakes his wet hair to demonstrate, scattering drops that spatter Mary’s gown. “The king was with me, but Wolsey called him away.”

  The very name makes me shrivel inside. “Wolsey,” I spit contemptuously, “that toad. I wonder what poison he is whispering into Henry’s ear now.”

  George puts his feet up on a stool, crosses his ankles and tucks his fists beneath his armpits to warm them. “I had some speech with that fellow of his, Cromwell. I had no idea he was for Church reform.”

  “That dark-haired man who follows Wolsey around, as soft-footed as a sloth?”

  “That’s the fellow, yes. The draper’s son. He isn’t as callow as he first appears; you should nurture his good will, Anne. He could help us in our cause.”

  “Perhaps.” I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve while George turns his attention to Mary.

  “You have a cat, Mary. How are you? I’ve not seen you in a while,” he asks, for all the world as if he has a care for her affairs. “And how are the little ones?”

  She does not deign to answer but picks up our former conversation. “Which cause do you refer to, George? The reform of the Church, or our sister’s entrapment of the king?”

  “Entrapment? That is a harsh word for it, Mary. I suppose, were he our friend, the fellow could help with both. I know he is a reformer but were he to champion Anne as future queen, I can think of no one better placed to influence the cardinal.”

  I fidget in my seat, drawing George’s attention. “What is it, Anne?”

  “Oh, nothing. It is just that I have been trying not to think of it, the divorce, the Pope, the
cardinals. I want it to be all over and done with so that the king and I can get down to the business of breeding our prince.”

  “I am sorry to have brought it up again.”

  “It is never very far from my mind. I keep trying to find ways of distracting myself. I need a worthy cause to fight for. All I ever seem to do is rage in vain against Catherine and the Pope, and all the while I have to battle to keep Henry’s affection within the bounds of decency.”

  I cast a guilty look in Mary’s direction but she is tempting the kitten from beneath the table and appears to be paying me no mind.

  “What did you make of that book I gave you?”

  “Tyndale? Oh, he is a wise man, expresses himself so well that even the most catholic of men would come round to his point of view.”

  “Did you show it to the king?”

  “Good Lord, no. He wouldn’t like it at all. He found me with a copy of Luther’s On the Bondage of the Will and swore it was blasphemous. I had to lie to him and pretend I had found it lying around, picked it up out of idle curiosity. I don’t think he would like Tyndale any better, especially since he is against the divorce.”

  George casts a quick glance at Mary, who is still engaged with the kitten. He leans forward, his arms resting on his knees. “I was thinking of the section where he speaks out against popes, and advocates that kings should answer to no one but God.”

  “Oh but, I mean … the Pope is indispensable …”

  “Is he?” My voice trails off as George shuffles even closer. I lean toward him, our heads almost touching. “Just imagine, Anne. If Henry were head of the Church and not the Pope ... what then? What difference would that make to him, and to you?”

  I sit back, a frown upon my brow as I try to imagine the world that George’s words are painting. No Pope, just Henry standing betwix God and the English people. No Pope, no Roman Church to lord it over us. Henry is a great king, but with the Pope out of the way he would be … I gasp and sit up straight, my eyes boring into George’s.

  “Do you see, Anne? Do you see what I am saying?”

  I nod slowly, my stomach churning, my head reeling as if I am balanced on the edge of a great chasm. Can I risk his anger and persuade the king to read Tyndale’s book? Henry hates the man, swears his words are blasphemy, but now I wonder if he can be brought to see how Tyndale’s beliefs can serve him, serve us both. Can I get the king to change his mind?

  It is as if the door keeping Henry and I apart has opened just a chink, and a blinding light is shining on the other side, tempting us forward. I grip my brother’s hand and he lifts our entwined fingers to his mouth, covers my knuckles with kisses. “You can do this, Anne,” he whispers. “If anyone can, it is you.”

  September 1529 –Greenwich

  The royal barge cuts through dark green water, the expert oarsman making scarcely a ripple on the surface of the river. It is the perfect autumn day. I lie back on cushions, screened from the public gaze by curtains, while around me my friends are gathered and a little way off, a fellow with merry brown eyes strums a lute. We are on our way to Greenwich and I am inwardly burning with excitement. Beside me, reclining at the feet of our cousin, Madge Shelton, I know George is burning too.

  His wife, Jane, sits a little way off, scowling at their blatant flirtation. I should kick George, make him sit up and behave, but today I am too excited. The thing for which my brother and I have striven is finally coming to pass. The cardinal is to be arrested and charged with Praemunire. For the first time, Henry has decided to take action to stop Wolsey in his crusade against us.

  I raise my eyes to the calm, pretty face of Nan Gainsford, a newcomer to my household. I discovered shortly after her arrival, that we both share a zeal for reform that made us instant friends. It was Nan who let my copy of Tyndale fall into the hands of her betrothed, George Zouche, and as we had guessed he would, he carried it straight to Wolsey. The cardinal, eager to denounce my household as a breeding ground for heresy, lost no time in showing it to the king. Closing my eyes, I lie back on my cushions, and as the smooth green water carries me onward I recall the encounter that followed.

  “I was intrigued, Henry,” I pleaded, “for I’ve been told his wisdom and had to read it for myself. Are you not also curious?” Clutching the banned book to my bosom, I maintained his gaze for a few moments, opening my eyes wide. Then I held out the book. “Read it yourself, My Lord. Be your own judge, do not let others determine what you shall or shall not read. You are the king, and you should be the one to decide what is heresy and what is not. Why should anyone dictate to you?”

  His nostrils flared, his eyes narrowed, but he slowly reached out and took the book from me. He turned away, loosening the catch and opening the cover. For some time the only sound was the crackling flames in the grate and the soft hush of turning pages.

  I watched him from the corner of my eye. It was the first time I dared to lure him toward reform; before this, I kept my opinions of religion to myself. As he became further engrossed in Tyndale’s words, his breathing slowed, became audible. He settled more comfortably into his seat, turning the pages with his jewelled fingers while I waited, poised on the edge of a stool, my hands twisted in my lap, barely daring to breathe.

  When he finally looked up from the page, he was pensive. He made as if to speak to me but hesitated, bowed over my hand, took his leave of me and disappeared from the chamber with Tyndale’s book clasped tightly beneath his arm. I waited in my apartments, biting my nails as to the outcome of the revelation.

  It was a big risk, the book could either sway Henry to our cause or turn him fully against it. But slowly, over the next days and weeks, Henry’s arguments become tinged with Tyndale’s philosophies. When the Pope retracts his permission for the divorce to be tried in England, Henry’s rage is peppered with questions like: Why should the Pope hold sway over the English people? Shouldn’t a man’s conscience be between himself and God alone? What right has Rome over the governing of England?

  Hiding the gleam of triumph in my eye, I allow the king to believe he has worked it all out for himself. And now, within just a few weeks of planting the first seeds of reform into his mind, Henry has struck the first blow against Wolsey and the power of Rome.

  Cardinal Wolsey was a rich man. Now, stripped of his offices, he retires to York while Henry appropriates his property. Among them is York Place, the house where Henry first laid eyes on me all those years ago, when we both played a part in the Chateau Vert. That fateful day when he mistook me for Mary and hefted me over his shoulder and ran away with me seems so long ago now. Had anyone told me then that Henry and I would be planning to build a house together, I would have laughed in their face. Then, I was a silly untried girl, but now, just a few years later, I am soon to be queen.

  How strange is fate?

  One afternoon in late October, Henry and I, closely chaperoned by my mother who now rarely leaves my side, go upriver to examine the house and see what use we can make of it. It is to be a pleasant, informal jaunt with only a handful of attendants. We have left royal pomp and ceremony behind us at Greenwich.

  As soon as we climb the river steps and pass through the garden and look upon the house in its river setting, I realise that it is perfect. It owns a prime position on the Thames, offering easy access to Greenwich and Richmond, yet is still close to Henry’s favourite hunting country. The friendly façade welcomes me. It is like coming home.

  Every one of Henry’s palaces shows evidence of Catherine. Her initials are everywhere, entwined with Henry’s; her heavy Spanish influence in the furnishings, the cushions and hangings fashioned by her own hands. I have a hankering for our own palace, a place where I can make my own mark, and have my own emblem emblazoned on the walls, the hangings of my own choosing.

  We spend a pleasant afternoon strolling arm in arm through the rooms, our footsteps echoing in the empty house as we note the richness of the fabrics, the fine carvings and finials.

  “We can hold court here,
without Catherine,” I say, disengaging Henry’s arm and beginning to investigate each cupboard, nook and cranny.

  “It isn’t big enough, my sweet,” he replies in his most indulgent tone and, turning to face him, I place my hands on my hips and let the enthusiasm blaze in my eye.

  “We will make it big enough. You are the king, you can do anything. We can add private apartments and wine cellars, extend the kitchens and build a great hall big enough to house half of Europe.”

  “Only half?” He is laughing at me but I don’t mind. Now that we no longer have to rely on Wolsey’s bumbling over the divorce, I know that my time is near. Catherine is on her way out and I will soon be queen. I spin around happily.

  “Just think, Henry. Our son will be born here, and all our children. These halls will ring with the sound of their laughter.”

  “Anne.” He crosses the room in three strides, takes my hands in his, his eyes awash with hope. “Do you really believe so?”

  “Oh yes, My Lord. I know so. I can feel it in my bones.”

  “In that case, my love, we will turn it into a shining white palace fit to house King Arthur himself!”

  The gap left by Wolsey in the administration of the realm is quickly filled by my adherents. My father, soon to be made the Earl of Wiltshire, becomes Lord Privy Seal, and Uncle Thomas is made Lord Treasurer. Together with Suffolk, who despite having no love for me shares a dislike of cardinals, they step into Wolsey’s red shoes and do battle to obtain the king’s desires.

  With the cardinal fallen, they take the opportunity to whip up a frenzy for Church reform while I whisper into the king’s ear that, just as Wolsey was not his superior but his subject, so the Pope is no friend to England. As we had wished, Henry launches an attack against the clergy, forbidding them from keeping taverns, prohibiting them from gambling, hunting and whoring. He passes a law against plurality of office, ensuring that each parish has a permanent cleric in residence. Henry has learnt that, as a divinely elected king, the Pope holds no sway over his decisions. From now on, England’s king will be ruled by no one lower than God himself.