The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn by Judith Arnopp Page B
Authors: Judith Arnopp
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the fallen body that is sprawled in the dust. The horse runs free, reins trailing, tossing his head, snorting. He comes to a halt at the end of the field and begins to crop the grass, shaking his head, harness jingling.
When the crowd parts I see that the man bested is my cousin, Francis Bryan. He is not moving. With great care they remove his helmet and expose his bloody face to the air. We watch in silence as he is borne away on a stretcher and then take our places again, instantly forgetting him and ready to applaud the next contestants. It is an everyday occurrence, something to enhance the tension of the lists.
As they prepare to mount up, gossip trickles back to the royal stand that Francis is badly injured and likely to lose an eye. He is a rogue who has a way with the ladies. “I do hope his looks aren’t spoiled,” a voice beside me murmurs. I turn to Margery, another cousin, and pull a rueful smile.
The babble of chatter rises and falls again when the king appears, the brief hush followed by a great cheer. I raise my kerchief, wave it in the air until the crowds part and I see King Henry before me. A little frisson of excitement passes over my body, leaving me chilled although my cheeks are burning.
He is dressed all in splendour, his helm thrown back . He wears a smile as wide as the ocean, and emblazoned on his chest are the words Declare I Dare Not. As speculation licks like flame through the stand, I know not where to look. It is as close to a declaration as he has come, and although I am innocent in the matter, I glance guiltily at the queen.
Catherine is staring stony-faced across the tiltyard while all around us people whisper behind their hands. Despising their gossiping tongues , I can feel my face growing even hotter. Emulating the queen, I lift my chin and pretend I do not care.
Henry rides up close to the stand and throws up his visor, his eyes flashing blue in the sunshine. I keep my face as non-expressive as the queen’s, and imagine nothing is amiss. Why should anyone, let alone Queen Catherine, believe that his brazen declaration is for me?
“Wish me luck, ladies ,” he calls. Obediently we all clap, flutter our kerchiefs and titter behind our hands. He is like a big baby, craving the adoration of everyone around him, but he is the king, how can we not adore him?
I watch him manoeuvre his caparisoned destrier into position, taking his stand at the tilt barrier. Loving and hating him at the same time, I watch our prince of chivalry hoist a lance the size of a young tree beneath his arm and prepare to ride against his foe.
Charles Brandon, similarly equipped at the opposite end of the yard, holds his horse in check until the signal to ride is given. Then they are away, the company holds their breath, and the huge pounding hooves pummel the ground. I can feel their echo in my heart.
Time seems to slow. I watch in a kind of delighted horror. Henry is covered head to toe in white armour ; he could be anyone but I know it is he and he is in danger, just as he is every time he takes the field. As they come together and the clash is imminent, I cover my eyes and pray, whispering beneath my breath for him to triumph. I do not look up again until my ears are beset by a tremendous roar and the crowd erupts into celebration. All around me the ladies are clapping, smiling and laughing in relief … all except the queen who just looks tired … and rather bored at her husband’s playacting.
Afterwards, although we are all tired out by a day spent outdoors we assemble in the great hall , waiting for the evening entertainments to begin. Giant shadows cast by the mammoth fire joust on the walls, dipping and dancing with those cast by the torches. The hubbub of voices and unsuppressed excitement lifts my spirits, the high-pitched tinkling laughter of the women echoed by the deeper rumble of the men.
Up in the gallery the minstrels are making discord, tuning their instruments in readiness for the
When the crowd parts I see that the man bested is my cousin, Francis Bryan. He is not moving. With great care they remove his helmet and expose his bloody face to the air. We watch in silence as he is borne away on a stretcher and then take our places again, instantly forgetting him and ready to applaud the next contestants. It is an everyday occurrence, something to enhance the tension of the lists.
As they prepare to mount up, gossip trickles back to the royal stand that Francis is badly injured and likely to lose an eye. He is a rogue who has a way with the ladies. “I do hope his looks aren’t spoiled,” a voice beside me murmurs. I turn to Margery, another cousin, and pull a rueful smile.
The babble of chatter rises and falls again when the king appears, the brief hush followed by a great cheer. I raise my kerchief, wave it in the air until the crowds part and I see King Henry before me. A little frisson of excitement passes over my body, leaving me chilled although my cheeks are burning.
He is dressed all in splendour, his helm thrown back . He wears a smile as wide as the ocean, and emblazoned on his chest are the words Declare I Dare Not. As speculation licks like flame through the stand, I know not where to look. It is as close to a declaration as he has come, and although I am innocent in the matter, I glance guiltily at the queen.
Catherine is staring stony-faced across the tiltyard while all around us people whisper behind their hands. Despising their gossiping tongues , I can feel my face growing even hotter. Emulating the queen, I lift my chin and pretend I do not care.
Henry rides up close to the stand and throws up his visor, his eyes flashing blue in the sunshine. I keep my face as non-expressive as the queen’s, and imagine nothing is amiss. Why should anyone, let alone Queen Catherine, believe that his brazen declaration is for me?
“Wish me luck, ladies ,” he calls. Obediently we all clap, flutter our kerchiefs and titter behind our hands. He is like a big baby, craving the adoration of everyone around him, but he is the king, how can we not adore him?
I watch him manoeuvre his caparisoned destrier into position, taking his stand at the tilt barrier. Loving and hating him at the same time, I watch our prince of chivalry hoist a lance the size of a young tree beneath his arm and prepare to ride against his foe.
Charles Brandon, similarly equipped at the opposite end of the yard, holds his horse in check until the signal to ride is given. Then they are away, the company holds their breath, and the huge pounding hooves pummel the ground. I can feel their echo in my heart.
Time seems to slow. I watch in a kind of delighted horror. Henry is covered head to toe in white armour ; he could be anyone but I know it is he and he is in danger, just as he is every time he takes the field. As they come together and the clash is imminent, I cover my eyes and pray, whispering beneath my breath for him to triumph. I do not look up again until my ears are beset by a tremendous roar and the crowd erupts into celebration. All around me the ladies are clapping, smiling and laughing in relief … all except the queen who just looks tired … and rather bored at her husband’s playacting.
Afterwards, although we are all tired out by a day spent outdoors we assemble in the great hall , waiting for the evening entertainments to begin. Giant shadows cast by the mammoth fire joust on the walls, dipping and dancing with those cast by the torches. The hubbub of voices and unsuppressed excitement lifts my spirits, the high-pitched tinkling laughter of the women echoed by the deeper rumble of the men.
Up in the gallery the minstrels are making discord, tuning their instruments in readiness for the