The Concubine (9 page)

She remembered standing in the embrasure of the window at Greenwich, listening to Lady Cuddington’s quiet, deadly voice and longing for power, power to destroy them all. And she remembered standing in the cold, smoke-filled room at Blickling and feeling the uprush of—not power exactly, but its crazy sister thing, the ill-wish magic of the otherwise helpless. And now this!

“If you’ll have me,” Henry said, awed again because she seemed so unmoved.

“How long would it take?”

“In Rome the wheels, however well-oiled, move slowly. If I remember rightly it took Rome fourteen months to decide that the marriage between Arthur and Catherine was no marriage. With Wolsey at work, Clement might do his part in a year. Wolsey will throw his heart into this; he’s always been against the Empire and for the French, and he’ll think that once I am free he can marry me off to some French princess. He’ll get a sad shock when he knows the truth, but it will be too late then.”

The small hand that he was fondling suddenly turned so cold that the chill ran up his arm and set the hairs on end. They had sat here too long, he thought, all compunction. He was warm enough, even sweating slightly, but she was vulnerable to cold being so small, so delicate. He could link his two hands about her waist, span her neck with one, and the hand he held was as fragile as a flower.

“We should go in,” he said, “unless you would sit closer and let me warm you.”

She shook her head. She could not at that moment have stood steady on her feet. Silly childish games, Emma had said. But she herself had sensed the possibility of real damage to be done by the channeling of virulent hatred; and she had pricked the laurel and buried it. And nothing simple or straightforward had resulted; Wolsey hadn’t fallen from his horse, or been stricken with sickness, or suffered any of the things one thought of as bad luck; the vengeance was to be far more subtle, something—her mind hesitated and then drove on—something that Satan might well have contrived. The great Cardinal, working away to set his master free to make the French marriage he had always wanted for him, and then having the sad shock of discovering that all his efforts had been directed at making a Queen of Anne Boleyn!

For a moment she had a terrifying glimpse of the dark currents that move hidden behind all the busy little lives of men; and she would have crossed herself, had not Henry taken her other hand as well and said,

“You still give me no answer.”

She said carefully, “If it could be so arranged, openly, lawfully. Why then, of course I…But the Queen! What of her?”

“Catherine is a woman of great piety; whatever the Pope decreed she would not question. She will see herself as my fellow-victim of a Papal error, and be equally anxious to put things right. I shall provide for her, and for Mary, royally. Catherine is not my wife, and I love you. I shall regard her as my sister.”

And that, for him, settled the matter. He felt as though he had won a great victory, and careless of her dress, moved closer and took her into his arms, and clasped and kissed her as he had been longing to do for a year. The kisses were different from Harry Percy’s youthful, ardent ones, but for a moment they reminded her of him and something in her shrank, affronted. Then, under the searching, hungry mouth and hands her flesh stirred and she’d learned another of the sorrier lessons of growing up—that it was possible to respond to another’s need, regardless of your own. She kissed him, and he grew bold.

“A year is all too long,” he murmured against her neck. “We could be happy now. Let me come to you tonight, sweetheart.”

She stiffened and drew away. Just like a yokel and his wench, she thought, lying among the haycocks. I’ll marry you after harvest Nan, Peg, Polly, but let me have my way tonight. So women were seduced and bastards begotten. And perhaps the whole story, Wolsey, Catherine, the Pope, had been fabrication, a net woven to snare her.

“No,” she said, “not tonight, nor any other night until we are married. I am your true, loyal subject and it pains me to refuse you anything, but this I must.”

He was disappointed, but not wholly displeased. She was unique amongst women, and for her he could wait a year. All that part of him that was romantic and took pleasure in song and story, in pageantry and the outward form of chivalry rose to the surface. He’d serve his apprenticeship, as Jacob had served for Rachel, but—God be merciful—not seven years! This was a challenge, and he would meet it nobly; he’d be patient, considerate, undemanding.

But for the moment he felt the need for some gesture, something to put a seal upon this evening, and, casting about in his mind, he found it. He bent forward and kissed her gently, and then stood up and taking her hands, pulled her to her feet.

“You are a maid,” he said solemnly, “and I regard myself as a bachelor. Let us plight our troth. I swear by Almighty God that as soon as I am free in the eyes of the world, as I am now in my own, I will take you for my wife.”

This, following immediately upon her latest rebuff, made that fleeting suspicion seem unworthy; she wondered, for the first time, how she would have felt toward him had she not met Harry Percy first, had she not been Mary’s sister.

“You must answer me,” he said.

“I promise that when you are free, I will marry you.” His spirits soared suddenly and he said, boisterously, “Now we must exchange rings.”

He pulled at the emerald which had taken the place of the ruby upon his little finger and slid it on to the third finger of her left hand. It was so large that only by bending her finger quickly was she able to prevent it sliding off again.

“Had it fallen, it would have boded us no good.”

“I’ll wear it on my biggest finger, the middle one of my right hand.” She moved it. “That will save explanations, too.”

“I never thought of it,” he said. “That is how it is, Anne. When I am with you, I feel that we are alone in the world.”

She believed it; he looked at her with the eyes, spoke to her with the voice, kissed her with the mouth of love. She thought for a moment, drearily, of all the people in the world who were in love with people who did not return that love. Mary loved Henry, Henry loved Anne, Anne loved Harry Percy. Were there any happy lovers, anywhere? Harry and I could have been, she thought fiercely; that was where we were different, and that is why we couldn’t be left alone.

“You must give me your ring,” Henry said, prompting her again.

She took off the little silver and amber thing that she had bought for herself, in Paris, liking the color.

“It’s a poor exchange,” she said.

“Of all my jewels, the most precious. Dearer to me than any in my crown.” He kissed it and pushed it on to his little finger where it stuck at the second joint.

“I’ll have it made bigger tomorrow. There, now we are properly plighted. You are my dear betrothed.”

He remembered then that this time he had come down to Hever determined to make her his mistress. But it was better this way. She was altogether too rare, too wonderful to rank with his lights-o’-love. She was Queen of his heart, and for her there was but one fitting place.

“I shall go back to London tomorrow and set Wolsey to work. Handled vigorously this business should take no more than a year.”

It was to drag on for twelve.

Harry Norris, except on his rare off-duty times, slept in the King’s chamber. It was a custom left over from the old troubled days when a King was not safe in his bed. At each day’s end, Norris, with the remote, impersonal look of a priest at a ritual, pushed his sword twice under the bed, opened every press or closet in the room, said, “All is well, your Grace, and I wish you a good night,” and then went to his own bed which was always placed between that of the King and the door.

He was a man of the world and he had never imagined that Henry had come to Hever for his health, or to enjoy the scenery or the company of Sir Thomas and his lady. He was far too discreet to mention the matter to anyone, but he had little wagers with himself about how long Mistress Anne would hold out. This, he thought, would be the crucial visit; the King and the lady had quarreled last time and the King had ridden off in a rage; this time they would make up and the siege would be over. But the King had gone glumly to bed on the first night of the visit, and glumly on the second, and Harry began to wonder: if the first flush of reconciliation didn’t move her, what would?

On this, the third night, the King came to bed in a jubilant mood; all through his disrobing and preparing for bed he was making jokes, slapping shoulders and humming tunes. Norris drew his own conclusion and was astonished to find that as the King’s spirits soared his own declined.

It was inevitable, wasn’t it? It was a wonder the girl had resisted so long. Nobody to support her. A father who would sell his own mother to Turks to gain a smile from the King; a stepmother, an amiable little nobody.

But it was a pity. It was a shame.

People who gossiped about these visits to Hever declared themselves puzzled to know what the King saw in Anne Boleyn. North knew. Those great dark eyes, so bright, so fascinatingly set with the little tilt at the outer corners, the clear line from cheek to chin, the mouth that changed shape so easily, the wealth of black hair that seemed too heavy to be carried upon that slender neck; the low, velvety voice, the grace that touched every movement. Not pretty, people said; and it was true; she was beautiful. But apart from that, she had something other than beauty, something that would have made itself felt if you dropped a sack over her head. She was made to be cherished, and that was precisely what she would not be now: the King took these little passing fancies, but fundamentally, Norris thought, he was devoted to Catherine. When he rode in the lists he had for his title “Sir Loyal Heart,” and by and large that was true. Considering his looks, his position, his boundless opportunities, he’d been singularly faithful. And that was right, of course; very admirable. But it was hard on the women he pursued and charmed and then abruptly abandoned. Mary Boleyn, Anne’s sister, had almost died of grief, it was said, and she was a light-minded, easygoing creature, very different from…

How do you know? he asked himself.

And it was none of his business; the King’s pleasure was; and Kings, like other men, asked the impossible—that their lecheries should be secret; they tasted better so. Norris should busy himself, not with pitying a girl many women would envy, but with thinking up some good reason for making himself scarce, so that the King could go to his rendezvous thinking himself unobserved.

He performed his senseless ritual and said,

“All is well, your Grace, and I wish you a good night. I should like to ask leave to absent myself for a while.”

“Ha!” Henry said, “I thought you were very thoughtful. Did you
promise
? Because if so, run along. One must never disappoint a lady. But you’ve chosen an inconvenient time. I’ve had two bad nights and I feel like sleeping, and I want to start out for London early. So I warn you, if you come blundering in and wake me, I shall be displeased.”

Taken aback, Harry Norris said, “In that case, Your Grace, I’ll…I’ll let it go. It was only a…a tentative arrangement.”

“They’re never any good, Harry, believe me. Hop into bed. And for the love of God, don’t lie on your back and snore. Last night I had to get out and throw you on to your side and I stubbed my toe in the dark. If I weren’t the soul of good nature I should have given you a buffet. Tonight I will. Good night.”

He settled into the pillow and fastened his right hand around the little finger of his left where the poor little amber ring had stuck. His mind had the same clean, comfortable feeling that his body knew after a bath and change of linen. Tonight he had taken a great decision, of all the decisions that life had demanded of him, the most important. He was glad, glad in the last recesses of his heart and mind, that Anne had resisted his attempts to seduce her. That would have been a bad start to the new life which he planned. He was glad that his conscience had troubled him, and that he had mentioned the matter to Wolsey before he had had any serious intentions concerning Anne. When he’d talked to Wolsey he’d been thinking of the succession, and away at the back of his mind, unconnected, had been his—well, in his own bed a man could be honest—his lust for a maid-of-honor who had caught his eye. Now the two had come together; he’d be done with his old, cursed marriage, and he’d marry his little love, and she would give him sons. God was rewarding him, he thought, for his fidelity to Church and Pope. He’d lived in sin and time after time God had called his attention to the fact; he’d taken heed. And from now on everything would work for his good. He gave a great sigh of contentment and fell asleep.

Harry Norris thought—It’s over. She didn’t give in, and he’s taken his defeat like the stout fellow that he is. She’ll probably marry some gentleman of Kent who’ll never get over his sense of being favored and will coddle her as he would an orange tree. And that is how it should be. I wish him joy, though I envy him. We shan’t, I think, be coming to Hever any more, and maybe that is just as well, I might, all too easily, fall in love with her myself.

Anne knew that Emma missed nothing. The emerald ring was easily explained, just another of the King’s gifts. But the absence of the amber one might rouse curiosity.

She said, “In the garden this evening the King had a cramp in his leg. He said he was subject to it and I told him he should always carry a piece of amber about him. He’d never heard of that remedy. But it is old and tried. You’ve heard of amber as a cure for cramp?”