The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn (2 page)

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, embroidered 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.

I find myself flung over his shoulder, the jewels on his doublet cutting through the thin stuff of my gown. As he runs away with me
, the breath is forced from my lungs. My headdress slips and I grab for it as he bears me from the castle, his great hot hand gripping my upper thigh.

I am dragged from his shoulder, my hair cascading about my face as I slide down the
king’s body. He is very close, his breath in my face, his heart beating frantically against my own. I tilt my head to look up at him and for a long moment he returns my stare before deftly removing my mask. His eyes widen; eyes that are as brilliant as the summer sky.

“You are not …
.”

“Mary? No, Your Grace, I am not. I am Anne; Anne Boleyn.”

With my hand still held fast between his fingers, he hesitates before bowing slightly. I sink to my knees before him.

After a long pause he raises me to my feet, opens his mouth to speak. “I am pleased to meet you, Mistress Anne
.” Transfixed by his face, it is some seconds before I can tear my eyes from him and turn them to where Mary still waits within her tower. The fight is diminishing around her, all are vanquished. She has removed her mask, her hurt and disappointment plain for all to see. She is no longer smiling.

I shake myself; free myself from the snare of Henry’s eyes. “You must return to the battle, Sir Loyal Heart
. A fair maiden still awaits you.”

After a moment
, in which his blue eyes bore into mine, he bows sharply and, with a brave battle cry, turns once more into the fray.

As the battle continues
, I watch him for a moment before giving myself a mental shake and turning away toward the hall where the spectators are gathered. But before I am halfway across the room, my step is halted. “Mistress Anne?”

Harry Percy makes a leg before me and asks if I will join him in the dance. I curtsey
, and with my fingers balanced on his palm, allow him to lead me to the floor.

The minstrels strike up a tune and the king, partnered now by Princess Mary, joins the dance. As we begin to move to the music
, I cast a sideways glance at my partner.

Harry, his face flushed scarlet, returns my smile before darting his eyes away again. I have, of course, spoken with him before. He is part of the Cardinal’s household and often accompanies him to court. More often than not, while the Cardinal is closeted with the king, Percy comes to the queen’s apartments to pass the time with her ladies.

He does not speak much or push himself forward at all, but hovers in the background, listening and smiling and flushing every time our eyes meet, as they do … often.

I do not underestimate how much courage it has taken for him to invite me to dance.

“So, how did you like our pageant, My Lord?”

“I liked it very well, Mistress,” he stammers, as we promenade before the dance forces us apart.

Now and then, the serpentine steps lead us toward other partners; I touch other hands, exchange pleasantries with other men. But all the while, I am aware of Percy watching me. The knowledge makes me lift my chin a little higher, my feet become lighter, and I toss my head with more spirit. When at last we are drawn together again, and he engulfs my hand in his palm, my pulse races and my smile becomes a little too welcoming.

When the music slides to an end, he makes his bow
. I notice tiny spirals of curls at the nape of his neck. My tummy gives a little leap when he rises and fixes me with a look that is a little less nervous now.

“Can I get you a cup of wine, Mistress?”

My answering smile is as wanton as Mary’s.

Later, when the court revellers are settling to sleep, George and I share a nightcap. Something about the ill-lit chamber urges us to keep our heads close together as we speak in whispers before the hearth. At first we merely gossip, revisiting the uproarious pageant, exchanging notes on who was flirting with whom. After a while, George sobers. “You would do well, Sister, to remember that your hand is pledged elsewhere.”

His words force my head up. For a moment
, our eyes lock together while I decide whether to be frank or to feign innocence.

“You mean Percy, I suppose. He is just a young man playing the game of love ...
as our betters do.”

“The game is dangerous, Anne. You don’t want your name bandied about …
like Mary’s. It won’t do to have you both linked to easy virtue. Think what Father will say if you jeopardise the match with Ormond.”

“Oh
, George.” I tuck my feet beneath me on the settle. “I did but dance with him and share a cup of wine.”

It is not easy to lie so blatantly. I concentrate on the way the firelight is playing upon his hair and try not to think of Percy.

“You like him, I can tell. Never before have I seen your cheeks blush beneath a fellow’s gaze. He is betrothed, you know. Has been since childhood.”

“Everyone knows that. I don’t know why you are making such a fuss. It was nothing.”

I lower my face to my cup, close my eyes to remember again the softness of Harry Percy’s hand brushing mine, the fine cut of his leg, the way the Adam’s apple bobs in his throat when he laughs. I have no idea why I am deceiving George, who is party to all my secrets. Perhaps the silent pledge that passed between Harry Percy and me is not for sharing. I want to hug the knowledge to myself and run it over and over in my mind. The king is forgotten and I can barely wait for the next day, when Harry Percy is bound to call at the queen’s apartments. But I have not fooled George and slyly he probes my motives further.

“Of course,” he continues, “should his betrothal with Mary Talbot be broken, he would be as fine a match as you could ask for …
but I fear such an arrangement will never be revoked.”

Percy is the son of the Earl of Northumberland
, and will one day come into a vast inheritance. A prize indeed were he to ask for my hand, but I know – we both know – that such a thing is impossible for such bonds cannot be broken. And our cause is doubly hopeless since we are both promised elsewhere.

Nevertheless, George’s words grate on my senses; I do not wish to hear that our suit is hopeless. For the first time I am made aware of how little control I have over my own destiny. I don’t want to hear it. I untangle my legs and place my cup on a small table. “I am going to my bed. Where is Mary? Have you seen her?”

“She entertains the king, no doubt.” He gets up and leaves a kiss on my forehead, places a finger beneath my chin and forces me to look into his eyes. “Tread carefully, Sister.”

Impatiently, I shrug off his hand and march across the room
. I throw open the door, almost colliding with Jane Parker on the threshold. “Oh,” she says, “there you are, Anne. I thought you were never coming to bed.”

She peers past me to where George is quaffing the last of his wine. He makes a knee to his betrothed and she flushes and bobs a knee in reply. While her head is lowered George blows me a mocking kiss, making me long for something to throw at him.

I turn on my heel. Grabbing Jane’s wrist, I whirl her along the corridor to the chamber we share with Madge Shelton and Margery Horsman. The girls are in various stages of making ready for bed and when I suddenly throw open the door they look up, their faces opening like flowers in surprise. I cross the room swiftly and turn suddenly, the draught from my skirts making the candles dip and dance.

“Anne?” Jane is inquisitive. She follows me to my bed, perches on the mattress and watches as I try to quell the internal storm. In the end, her unspoken questions breach my defences and I burst out, “I could wish that George did not know me so well. Am I a book to be read, or a cypher to be broken? Sometimes, as much as I love him, I wish he would pay more mind to his own affairs.”

She says nothing but she doesn’t have to. It is fast becoming obvious that George is less than satisfied with his own betrothal, and does all in his power to avoid Jane’s company. But she is resolute. She slides from the bed and begins to remove my cap. “Don’t worry, Anne. George will have enough to occupy him once we are wed. I will fill his house with children, and he will lack both the time and the energy to pry into your affairs.”