The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn (21 page)

The litter in which I travel is swathed in white cloth
-of-gold, the palfreys that draw it clothed in white damask. Over my head a canopy of gold flutters and snaps in the breeze, and behind me six of my ladies follow, my brother’s wife among them, each one in a crimson velvet gown.

Mary is further back, with our aunts and cousins and other women of rank. Along the crowd-lined route the streets are alive with pageants and music, so many
I cannot look at them all, and all the while the fickle crowd cries out a blessing. As we pass beneath a gilded triumphal arch bearing the entwined initials H and A, the words ring out again. “God save Your Grace!”

Although by the time we reach Westminster Hall I am almost dropping with fatigue, I am led by the hand to the high dais where my health is drunk with hippocras before I am allowed to retire. I am exhausted, my body aching, my mind so alive with images of the day that even when my head is on my pillow and the shutters are fastened across the windows, I cannot rest. I lie awake
, watching the flickering shadows of the night’s candle on the walls and relive the day over and over in my mind.

The stone floor where I lie prostrate is cold, the child in my womb squirming beneath me, kicking at my bladder, making me want to pee. How George will laugh to learn that the most important moment of my life so far is spent longing for the close-stool.

Above me on the high altar
, Cranmer prays, calling down God’s blessing upon my reign. Forgetting to beg for my own salvation, I pray instead that he will make haste so that I can get up from the floor. My cheek is pressed to the icy stone and all I can see are his feet and the skirts of his robes, specks of dust and dirt from the procession still clinging to the hem. His voice drones on, the congregation murmuring a response where required.

The rise and fall of his voice is making me drowsy and I close my eyes, my mind slipping away. I think of George far away in France
, and know he will be thinking of me, cursing the fact he cannot be here. Henry is here in the abbey, watching the proceedings from behind a screen, and I know how proud he will be, how emotional to be at last making me his queen. Yet at the same time his beady eye will be vigilant for any dissention in the congregation. In a few moments I will be his queen, and there will be nothing any of them can do about it; not Catherine, nor Bishop Fisher, nor Thomas More, not even the Pope in Rome, for God has put me here.

At last
, Cranmer’s voice calls for my praise to be sung and the notes of the choir fill the vast space of the abbey. As I am assisted to my feet for the anointing, he murmurs the blessing, marks the sign of the cross upon me before leading me, slowly and reverently, to St Edward’s chair.

I am tired, my limbs numb from the cold floor
, but I try not to stumble. Any mishap will be seen by my enemies as an ill-omen, and it is imperative that I tread carefully. Yet as we move on I step on my skirts and almost falter, but I hang on tight to Cranmer’s arm. He pauses and allows me to regain my balance before moving on and I flash him a grateful smile. Then, with my spine threatening to snap in two, I lower myself thankfully into the seat upon which somebody has thoughtfully placed a cushion.

Now I can look about me, at the vaulted ceiling, the towering windows,
heraldic flags swaying high above our heads. I see the abbey crammed with the noblest in the land, from Earls and Dukes to knights of the garter. They have all assembled to see me crowned and do me honour. I can ask for little more.

When Cranmer lifts the crown of St Edward high above my head, the congregation draw in their breath, slowly exhaling as he places the diadem on my brow. Then
, with great solemnity, he offers me the sceptre and the orb, and I take them from him. In a sort of daze I look about the hall, the heaviness of the crown forcing me to keep my chin high and still. I look down on the gathering, upon those who love me and those who don’t. I see triumph in the eyes of my father and mother, a kind of affectionate awe in the eyes of my sister, but only shadows in the eyes of Jane.

And then the
Te Deum begins as my vision skims across the faces of those with little cause to love me. My joy begins to falter, but the voices of the choir soar so high that shivers of ice rush up and down my spine. My eyes prickle with unshed tears and I am comforted.

I am Henry’s wife, Queen of England, and only death can take that from me.

“Henry, what is it?” As soon as I enter his chamber I know something is wrong, for he has dismissed his attendants and the fire is sulky in the grate. I hurry to his side, kneel at his feet and press his cold fingers to my face. He looks up, his cheeks grey and drooping, and offers me a letter.

Rising ungainly to my feet
, I carry it to the window where there is still just enough light to read by. My eyes scan the page and see from the thick rushed scrawl that the letter is from Westhorpe Hall, the home of Suffolk and his wife. ‘It is with a heavy heart …’ I skip the first few lines.

‘
…She was sicker than we realised, Your Grace, and on my return from the coronation I discovered her life to have all but dwindled away. Although we did all we could, by the third day she was gone and there was nothing left to do but weep.’

My heart thumps loud and heavy, regret twisting my innards. I glance up at Henry
, who remains seated by the fire. I had thought her to be dissembling. I had accused her of pretending sickness to avoid doing me honour as queen. It seems I was wrong. Clasping the letter to my bosom, I take a step closer to him.

“I am so sorry, Henry.”

When he doesn’t reply, I move closer still and put the crumpled missive on the table beside him. “The fire is dying, my love. I shall call a servant …”

“No.”

“No? But it is growing chilly.” 

He sighs, tugs at his lower lip. “I want to be alone, to think, to remember …”

“You want me to go?”

“No, no, stay but
be quiet with me, that is all I ask.”

“Very well, but the fire needs tending to
; you know I must keep warm for the sake of our prince.”

I kneel at the
hearth, poke the embers back to life and toss on a few small logs. “That should last a while.” I light a taper and move around the room, igniting the candles. Yellow warmth floods slowly up the walls, deepening the shadows, blackening the night sky outside the window. “There, that is better.”

Henry blinks at me, his eyes s
hrunken and reddened, and I realise he has been weeping. “Oh Henry,” I whisper and, moving closer, I draw his head to rest against my belly. “I am so sorry, my love, so sorry.”

And I am indeed sorry. I try to imagine how it must feel to lose a sibling. In my youth I lost two brothers
, but they were infants, not yet grown into people, they were not companions in my nursery. If it were George or Mary, I would be broken. I cannot begin to imagine how I would feel.

A sibling shares so much, sprung from the same womb, the same nursery, nursed at the same breast, taught to speak at the same knee. Siblings are each part of the other
, and losing one is like severing a part of oneself. “Tell me about her, Henry. I never really knew her, although I was part of her household when she went to France to wed the old king.”

He shifts beneath my hands, turns his face into my velvet skirt, his breath hot against my loins. Then he sits up and pulls me down to lounge awkwardly against him. The babe shifts, pressing against my ribs
, but I do not move away, sensing Henry’s need is greater than my own comfort.

“I remember the day she was born …”

Henry’s voice is hoarse in the dim light as he recalls his infancy playing with Mary and Margaret at Richmond. “She was always a brave child, getting into trouble, earning us all a scolding. She was the baby and everybody’s darling.”

“I know she was beautiful
…”

“It was said in her youth that nature never formed anything so beautiful …”

“Yes.” To be honest I had always considered Mary’s good looks to be spoiled by a proud and haughty expression, but since she never liked me, perhaps she kept that visage strictly for me.

“She was so cross when I insisted she marry the old king of France.” He gives a little chuckle in remembrance and I am comforted that, as I had suspected, talking of her is leavening his grief a little. “She told me once that she led him such a merry dance his poor heart gave out sooner than it should have. She was a minx …”

I risk a giggle, and his hand tightens on mine, his rings digging into my flesh.

“And then, once she was widow
ed, she wed a man of her own choice, without your leave.” I laugh through my words but he sobers, releasing his grip.

“Yes.
And my best friend too. By God, I was angry with them. I shouldn’t have been. I should have realised how they felt but how could I, when I’d not yet known you and what love can make a man do?”

We both fall silent, remembering our own battle, the obstacles we have overcome. The logs in the grate shift and settle, the embers glowing red in the growing darkness. I stretch my limbs. “Shall we go to our bed,
my love?”

It is hours later, in the deepest darkness of the night
, that I become aware that Henry is sobbing again. I turn to him and put my arm across his chest. “Shh, do not weep, Henry, do not weep.”

His grip on my arm is like a vice and his voice s
ounds ghastly. “They are all dying, Anne, my parents, my friends, my sisters. Soon I will be the only one left. The last Tudor. I must have a son, Anne. You must give me a prince.”

“Hush, My Lord, I will do. In just a few more weeks you will have your son, I swear it.”

As the time for my confinement approaches
, I summon my household ladies and present them with a book of prayers. They are lovely little objects, the enamelled gold cover containing a wealth of devotional wisdom. Each lady sinks to her knees as I place the book in her hands and bid her be good and virtuous and, above all, pious in my service. “While it is good that we should be joyous and embrace life’s delights, do not indulge in idle pleasures. Modesty is paramount. I will not tolerate unchaste behaviour in my household, so look to your prayers and embrace Christ’s Gospel.”

They stare back
, glassy-eyed. Already I know whom I can trust, and whom I need to watch. “On the common table in my chambers you will find a copy of the English Bible. You are free to read from it each day ... as I shall.”

The ladies form into groups, murmuring their pleasure and stroking the sumptuous covers of the books. I smile and settle myself in a chair, summoning a girl to bring a drink.

I do not let anyone know quite how exhausted I feel. My unborn son is sapping my energy, my ankles are swollen and I feel listless, especially in the summer heat. Henry suggests that we cancel the summer progress and stay at Greenwich instead, and I embrace the idea of giving birth in the palace where Henry himself was born. Today, I gratefully suck in the air that trickles through the open windows, knowing that soon I shall be confined within my chamber, shut away from the world, away from Henry, to await the birth of my son.

I close my eyes, lay my head against the back of the chair
, and imagine holding him in my arms. His tiny fingers clenching mine; his little mouth; his closed eyes. I can picture it quite clearly and cannot help but smile. Once I have given Henry his heir, the people’s attitude will change toward me. The mother to the Prince of Wales will be greeted with glee. Henry is already planning the celebrations that will be held throughout the land. A time of great joy awaits not just Henry and I, but all of England.

It is almost time for me to go. The chambers are hung in readiness with arras of gold and silver
, and thick carpets have been placed upon the floor. I will be sealed in, the light dimmed, the air carefully controlled, just one window left ajar to let in a little fresh air. The high-canopied bed is hung with drapery, and the Royal Jewel house all but stripped of its finest cups and bowls and crucifixes. All has been prepared, but I don’t want to go.

I am plagued with unbidden memories of Mary screaming as she battled to bring little Catherine into the world. She was young then
, and I am old to be a mother for the first time. As the day fast approaches I spend more and more time on my knees, praying for my own safety and that of my son.

Over the next few weeks my peace of mind evaporates. There is something about being captive in this swollen body that makes me afraid, vulnerable. I detest being at a disadvantage, I cling to Henry, pine when he is gone, and look anxiously for his return.

I have been sitting here waiting long enough. I get to my feet, signal to my ladies to remain where they are
, and go in search of him. I pass through chamber after chamber, guards snap to attention, doors are thrown open at my approach.

He is nowhere.

Panic begins to rise. I feel I am in a waking dream where, try as I might, I cannot get home. I pass along a little used corridor, up a sweeping stair and freeze, stand motionless, when I hear his muffled laugh. I know that sound. Many times have I heard that low, amused chuckle. A chuckle that speaks of desire … and of lust.