The Concubine (22 page)

And when he thought of marriage he had again that deadly awareness of expectation being lacking. Getting old? Nothing to look forward to, except decrepitude and death. Oh, nonsense, nonsense…A healthy man at forty-one was in his prime!

He left her kindly. It was no fault of hers; she’d been sweet, loving, perfect—if what you wanted was just a woman in a bed. And if that phrase kept recurring to him he’d go frantic, begin to shout and smash things! Nine years, nine years out of the best part of a man’s life, and the whole order of things overturned…

Within half an hour he had another, even more comforting idea to offer himself; something he’d eaten at supper had disagreed with him and provoked a bilious humor which, as everyone knew, made its victim see everything askew. Otherwise there was something wrong with Norris, ordinarily such a gay, good companion. Tonight he looked gloomy, was short of speech, and when they sat down to play chess, he played a vicious game, as though something had upset him, too; as though he were a prey to a bilious humor.

“Did
you
eat soused mackerel at supper?” Henry asked abruptly, leaning back in his chair after Norris had made one of his spitefully triumphant moves.

“I did, Your Grace. Why do you ask?”

“Because I did. And it lies heavy. It makes a tasty dish—but have you ever seen mackerel freshly caught?”

“Not that I remember.”

“It’s like no other fish; its skin is like a snake’s, and it isn’t flat, like other fish…and as I say it lies heavy. You feel it, too?”

“Maybe.”

I’m eaten up with envy, Harry Norris thought, but if he sees and puts it down to something I’ve eaten, I should thank God. He is my King; I must not think of him as a gross, lecherous swine who having attained the very height of man’s desire on this earth, can come away and discuss the processes of his digestion. If I think in that fashion, he thought, beating his fingers on his knees, I shall end like my grandmother, raving mad…How could I know? I’m a man solemnly betrothed, my future lay fair and clear; but I fell in love, as any man subjected to her company must do. But she belongs to him and tonight he took possession, and, God forgive him, comes back here to talk about mackerel and what it does to his belly! Let it swell till it bursts!

And then Norris remembered the countless times when Henry had been kind, understanding, amusing, admirable, worshipful. It was indeed typical of him at this moment to attribute his attendant’s awkward mood to indigestion, when he was, in fact, suffering from a futile attempt to get drunk.

“Your move, your Grace,” Norris said, in something of his normal manner.

“Is it so? Is it so, Harry? I’m afraid my mind isn’t wholly on this business tonight. There! Move now, if you can.”

She lay where he had left her; and when she lay in her grave she would not be colder, or more alone. She felt no disappointment, having expected nothing; she’d known, ever since her forced parting from Harry Percy, that from this part of life enchantment had gone forever. And she knew that tonight she had only shared an experience common to most women—since only in the rarest cases were they allowed to marry the man they loved. But without love it was a cold and lonely business; the close intimacy only emphasized separateness.

She had an impulse to turn her face into the pillow and cry—but that would be to give way to self-pity, which in her situation would be absurdity, since everything she had done had been done deliberately and with open eyes. Every word, every gesture, every smile almost, directed to the one end. She deserved to be called, as she so often was, “calculating and ambitious.” But it was impossible at this moment not to think how different everything would have been, had she and Harry Percy been allowed to marry.

A waste of time, even to think about!

Think that the deed was done now; the result still to come, to be watched for, waited for, prayed for. Let her be pregnant and Henry would speed up the final arrangements for his divorce, and make her Queen.

She thought again—
My child will be King of England.

E
MMA ARNETT SAID IN HER
firm yet unassuming way,

“My lady should have a respite now. There is ample time.”

The ladies thankfully relinquished their little tasks; they had a certain amount of titivating to do upon their own toilettes, and refreshments would be welcome, too. Emma edged herself close to Anne’s cousin the Lady Mary Howard and murmured, “It is my lady’s worst day of the month, most unfortunately.”

Ever since Anne had come back to Court in the summer of 1527, Emma had taken pains to convey to somebody, month by month, by hint or direct statement, that Anne was not pregnant. Enemies naturally spread evil rumors; twice it had actually been said that she had been brought to bed. Such tales did no harm in places where Anne could be seen, but there was the rest of the world to think of, so every month Emma was careful to make it possible for someone to say, “Her own woman told me…”

As soon as they were alone, Emma said, “Lie flat on the bed, now. What upset you? Isn’t this a great day?”

Anne unclenched her teeth—it was the clenched teeth, the gripped hands, and the gray pallor that had warned Emma—and said,

“I don’t know! Nobody knows. That’s the curse of it. I doubt if the King himself knows what he is doing, or why. It came over me as they fastened my petticoat. I should be robing for my wedding, not this, this empty senseless business…I’m frightened, Emma; I’ve lost all courage. I believe that now, after all, he intends to shuffle me off with a title and a thousand pounds a year.” Her voice rose shrilly.

“Do you want them,” Emma nodded toward the outer door, “to hear what you fear?”

“If I’m right, what does it matter? They’ll be the first to say that my sister Mary did better—she got a husband!”

She put her face in her hands for a moment and sat, shuddering.

Emma regarded her without pity, but with genuine concern. The woman had now—had for a long time—two sets of standards by which everything must be judged; her own inborn, ingrained sense of what was decent; and what was expedient for the Protestant cause. To a great extent they overlapped, and where they did not, she was now satisfied to be governed by opinions of her Milk Street friends. Anne’s admission of Henry to her bed before marriage had offended both codes; it certainly wasn’t decent; it might be inexpedient. But the battle was not yet lost, and what small thing Emma Arnett could do to bring about victory would surely be done.

She tried with words.

“I know nothing of great matters,” she said, “but to me it looks as though what His Grace is doing is good sense. He wants to take you with him when he goes to visit the French King and he wants you to have a high rank of your own.”

“I know. I know.” Anne jumped up, and hugging her arms around herself, began to pace up and down the room. She was already wearing the long inner robe of crimson velvet, trimmed with ermine, and as she made her swift turns the train of it swung and lashed like the tail of an angry cat. “So he says. But he knows his world well enough to know that it makes no difference. Twenty titles and fifty thousand pounds a year couldn’t alter my status. All this day’s work will ensure is that I shall take precedence of other men’s mistresses; for no respectable woman will come to the meeting.”

Her words, her voice, her movement about the room, were all indicative to Emma of a dreaded mood about to break. The Lady would work, patiently and painstakingly, toward her chosen aim, and then appear to give way to an impulse to destroy, to undo all she had done. She was capable, in another moment, of saying that she didn’t want a patent of nobility, didn’t want to be Marchioness of Pembroke, wanted to go back home and be left alone. She’d say that once too often—that was Emma’s fear, especially now, at this very touchy time.

She said, “I’m going to give you a little dose; just enough to steady you, my lady. The King is doing you an honor today and you
must
be calm and smiling. It’s the waiting,” she said soothingly, as she found and poured the poppy syrup, “but there’re ruts in every road, my lady. Holding on is what counts, in the end. Drink that. And if you don’t feel like lying down, I’ll start on your hair so there’s nothing to do when
they
come back.”

Anne said, “You’re very kind, Emma. I don’t know what I should do without you.”

The remark evoked no compunction in Emma Arnett’s breast. For one thing it was justified, few ladies anywhere had such devoted, watchful, cunning, tireless service as she gave Anne. And the motive behind it was a worthy one; shared by every Protestant in England; to keep Anne in favor; to see Anne made Queen; to see her produce a son. At all costs, for their purpose, the Princess Mary must be kept from the throne. She was a Papist. Henry was Papist, too, but a disgruntled one; in his threats and roarings and calling himself Head of the Church, there was
hope
. Under Mary there would be no hope at all; if the Pope said all women were to shave their heads, Mary would be the first to shave hers.

That was a natural thought to enter the head of a woman busy with her mistress’s hair. It was long and black and glossy and seemed to have a life of its own; it curved under the brush, and then, as she threaded the strings of pearls through it, it clung to her fingers. Beautiful hair.

“You mustn’t give way now,” Emma said. “Things often aren’t as bad as they look.” In the glass her eyes met Anne’s and wrinkled in their rare smile. “I learned that when I was no more than seven. My mother sent me to take some eggs and butter to an old woman who’d ordered them. She was well-to-do and scared of thieves, so she kept three great dogs and they were loosed at sunset. On my way I fell in with some other children, going birds’ nesting, and I went off with them; so when I got to the old dame’s house it was nearly dark and the dogs were loose. Before I got my hand on the gate they were leaping up on the other side, savage as wolves. I was scared. But I knew my mother was counting on the eight pence, and we might get no more orders. So I picked up a bit of branch and went in as though I was ready to clout them all, left and right. They knew my mind was set and kept well away. I got myself a name for being brave; but really I wasn’t so much brave as desperate.”

Glance met glance in the glass again.

“It was a good parable,” Anne said, “thank you. And for the dose.”

In the Presence Chamber Henry, gorgeously clad, seated himself in the chair of state. The two Dukes, the whole Privy Council, three ambassadors, most of the peers and all the courtiers ranged themselves on either side, forming a great half-circle. Trumpets sounded and Garter-King-At-Arms entered, carrying the parchments upon which were written the patents; and after him came the Lady Mary Howard carrying the sartorial symbols, the richly furred mantle and the golden coronet.

The scene was set.

Anne’s was not the only mind to entertain a suspicion as to the King’s motives in according her an honor never yet conferred upon a woman. Several in the company imagined that what they were about to witness marked the zenith of Anne Boleyn’s career. If Henry intended to make her Queen, why bother with this halfway stage? Even the people who took this view were puzzled, because if this were a gesture of dismissal it was also an admission that she had been his mistress; and that the King, and the Lady and all those nearest to them had always stoutly denied. It was unlike Henry to make so clumsy a move.

There were others who took the directly opposite view and thought that this elevation presaged marriage in the near future; the King, by this means, would avoid having it said that he had married a commoner.

There were a few who simply took the King’s word for it that he wished to honor the woman he loved.

And now, here she was, walking between the Countess of Rutland and the Countess of Sussex, and followed by a bevy of ladies. And her worst enemy could not deny that she looked not merely noble, but royal. Catherine at her most stately Spanish appearance, Elizabeth, Henry’s mother, at her Yorkish best—which some old men remembered—had never surpassed the calm, the air of being set apart, of being made of some more precious substance than mere human flesh which Emma’s dose, combined with Anne’s own dignity, now presented.

With perfect timing, she made, as she approached Henry, three curtsies, and when she reached him, she knelt. Garter handed the patent to Henry, who passed it to his secretary who began to read it in the formal half-chant customary on such occasions. When he reached the “mantle” he paused long enough to allow the King to take the garment from the Lady Mary Howard and place it on Anne’s shoulders; he paused again at the mention of the gold circlet, and the King took it and placed it on the shining, jeweled hair. The formal phrases rolled on and only those hearers with sharp ears and quick wits noted one significant omission. The title was hers in her own right, and would pass to her son. Ordinarily in such patents the words “lawfully begotten” were here included; in this case they were left out. Surely that was a clear indication that the King had changed his mind about marrying her, or doubted his power ever to do so with sufficient show of legality to make any child of their union fully legitimate.

Those who had been in contact with the King during the past few weeks had noticed a change in him. His temper had always been a little hasty; but his capacity to be pleased had been just as easily wakened. And on his visits to country manors he’d always been very tolerant of discomforts and shortcomings and delightedly conscious of any effort made to please or entertain him. This year a sourer mood had prevailed; more easily angered, less easily pleased. An endearing quality of boyishness, which he had carried with him into middle age, had vanished, so that in both looks and demeanor he seemed suddenly to have aged, and as though he himself were aware of this, he had taken a perverse, almost savage delight in doing things that wore down younger men. A sudden change of plan which meant another twenty miles riding at the end of a long day in the saddle; unnecessarily early starts; dinners missed altogether, to be made up for by gargantuan suppers—“I don’t know what’s wrong with you young people; I can eat you all under the table.” To some observers his behavior was consistent with his being upon the point of making a break with Anne.

It was therefore in an atmosphere of curiosity and speculation, of hopeful hostility, or of frustrated hope, that Anne rose to her feet, the only peeress in her own right in England, and in formal phrases thanked the King for the honor he had done her, and retired.

Sir Thomas Wyatt, watching, remembered the lively, plain-faced little cousin with whom he had played in the gardens at Blickling and at Hever, a girl whose rather hoydenish ways had often earned her a rebuke from the strict French governess; he remembered, too, the charming sprightly girl who had come back from France and joined Catherine’s ladies; a girl ill-provided for, always making up for the scantiness of her wardrobe by some ingenious innovation, so stylish that it was immediately copied. Well, she was properly provided for now. But it was somehow sad to see something so lively, so almost wild, tamed and put into a collar, even if it were jeweled. On the other hand, what would you? he asked himself. Would you rather see her married, a mother four times over, growing stout, raking the stillroom shelves with an anxious or complacent eye? And remember, you yourself grow no younger, Wyatt. He wished suddenly that he might die young. Poets should die young…

Henry watched the new Marchioness retire and felt satisfaction mingled with a faint self-righteousness. He had just done the proper thing, and in a few minutes he would do another, when he would corner the French Ambassador and talk to him sternly about the arrangements to be made to receive Anne in France and the honors to be paid to her. He thought complacently of the presents he had made her to mark the occasion of her elevation, some exquisite miniatures painted by Holbein, in jeweled frames, to be worn as broaches and lockets, and a complete set of tableware, all in gold or silver or silver gilt. The latter alone had cost him over a thousand pounds.

He would have denied angrily—and honestly—that everything that he had done for her since that sultry night at Hampton Court was merely an attempt to rear a wall between himself and a truth too intolerable to be faced. He did not suspect that he was behaving like a man with some grave disease who imagines that by behaving like a sound man, by ignoring every symptom, above all by keeping his own secret, he can
become
sound again.

He was, in fact, so busy concealing from himself the fact that he was disappointed in her, that now and again, he forgot that he was; and as soon as she had left the Presence Chamber, honored as no woman had ever been honored before, he began to think, What next? And during his serious talk with the French Ambassador, he had a brilliant inspiration.

He was, as Anne had told Emma, worldly-wise; and he knew that the King of France, unfaithful husband as he was, would not bring his Queen to meet the King of England’s mistress; so he forestalled that possible snub by saying, “I have no wish to meet the Queen of France; in my present circumstance I would as soon see the Devil as a lady in Spanish dress.”

A lady in Spanish dress
; that made him think of Catherine; and of his wish to give Anne yet another proof of love and respect…