The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn by Judith Arnopp Page A

wed to Henry’s brother, Arthur, who, had he lived, would have been king in Henry’s stead.
    “But, George,” I say. “Their marriage has been blessed many times. The queen has borne him many children; it is not her fault they did not live. And what about the Princess Mary? Isn’t she living proof of God’s blessing on the marriage?”
    George smiles, folds his arms across his chest, looks at me sideways. “Mary is a nine year old girl and doesn’t suit the king’s purpose. He wants out of his marriage before it is too late for him to beget a son, but he is very tightly stitched into it. Before they married, Catherine vowed before God that she was a maid and the Pope gave them a dispensation. The marriage is valid, there is nothing the king can do about that. Wolsey is beside himself.”
    “I don’t care about the cardinal but … poor Catherine … how dreadful it must be for her.”
    Daily, I have seen and wondered at the queen’s proud, white face, her reddened eyes , and had put it down to the megrims of her age. Now I see perhaps there may be more to it. George interrupts my thoughts.
    “I don’t think the king has told her that he seeks an annulment … .”
    “Maybe not , but perhaps she has heard of it. She weeps and prays constantly and has scarcely looked at me … not since ….”
    “Not since our gracious majesty has been seen so often in your company.” George finishes for me, a wicked gleam in his eye.
    “Our company, you mean.”
    It is true, the Boleyns are in high favour of late and the king has been spending much time with us. Yet it is not just me he favours, he honours all of us with his attention. In June last year Father was made Viscount Rochford, and George, after having manors and lands heaped upon him, is now a gentleman of the privy chamber and hopes to rise further.
    Henry enjoys our company. We are young and fun-loving , and while devoted to God and the church, not overly pious. Delighted that my brother’s sporting talent does not stretch to besting his sovereign, he and his closest friends play tennis and bowls with George daily. As for myself, if I encounter him in the garden and he offers me his arm, I walk with him and make him laugh. He seems to enjoy my wit, my intellect, and often shoots a remark to me at a gathering. Yet he is in no way seeking me for his mistress. I would know if he were. Wouldn’t I?
    “You are ridiculous, George.”
    “Oh, yea, I know that, but in this instance I believe I am right. I have seen the king smitten with one sister, and have no doubt that having done with Mary, he now transfers his allegiance to the other.”
    That is disgusting. I get up and walk to the window, look across the garden where dusk lies like a muffler around the castle. I cast my mind back to my encounters with the king. I close my eyes, remember the last time I was with him; his soft laughter, the light hot touch of his hand on mine. I hear him say my name again, “Anne,” caressing the word as if it were a prayer. I wonder what it would be like to be kissed by a man like King Henry.
    I snap open my eyes, the blood rushing to my cheeks, and turn back toward the fire. George is watching me over the rim of his wine cup. “Well, Anne, am I right? Has the king been wooing you all along without you even noticing?”
    He leans forward, his eyes mocking, his tone teasing. I shake myself, draw my wits together and take a deep breath before taking a stool opposite him at the hearth.
    “And what if he has? Many times you have heard me swear that I will not be like Mary. I will be no man’s mistress, not even the king’s.”
    ***
    At Shrovetide there is a great joust, and all the court are present to enjoy the celebrations. The lists are a dangerous playground, and the queen and those about her watch in fascinated terror. The ladies cover their eyes as the massive horses gallop forward, a great clash of wood on metal and a cry of dismay. We all rise as one, the better to see