Read Online The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn by Judith Arnopp - Free Book Online
Authors: Judith Arnopp
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king’s enjoyment. I turn to speak to George as a serving girl passes with a tray of refreshments. George grabs her elbow and relieves her of a cup , and although she is far beneath him in status, she smirks and simpers beneath his smouldering appraisal. I scowl at him but my displeasure goes unnoticed when a clarion of trumpets announces a royal arrival.
Everyone sinks to the floor in a back breaking bow. My skirts pool around me as I crouch down to honour the queen passing among us to take her place on the dais. The women fuss around her, arranging her skirts, fetching a low stool for her feet . Once she is settled, she flicks her hand, freeing us to resume our conversation. Beside me, my cousin Margery is flirting with George, as she does with any man under the age of fifty. George leans on a carved screen, his eyes fixed on her generous bosom, and proceeds to see how far he can lead her before she remembers they are close cousins. We are of the Howard line and as such are related to everyone. There are too many cousins at court, our tangled bloodlines often tripping the unwary.
I clutch a cup of wine and let my eyes play across the company, noting who wears a new gown and who is playing cuckold to whom. Of course, the gossip is all of the king’s secret matter , but none dare speak of it here. In the presence of the royal couple we all pretend ignorance; it is just another of the king’s games but this time none of us are certain of the rules, not even Henry.
Another clarion announces the arrival of the king, and all except the queen sink to our knees again. He pauses at the door and I turn my head slightly that I might watch him enter, full of bonhomie, a beam slashed across his ruddy face, his arm thrown around the neck of Henry Norris. As he moves on I lower my eyes again, bow my head, the back of my neck aching as I watch the royal feet approach. To my surprise they falter before me and I find myself staring with some confusion at the king’s square-toed shoes. They are made of the softest kid and are encrusted with pearls. Eventually, realising he is waiting, I lift my head, my cheeks hot with embarrassment.
The king and Norris are smiling down upon me . Blushing like a fool, I keep my chin tucked to my chest as graciously as I know how. The king clears his throat and shuffles his feet until I look up at him. He doesn’t quite meet my eye as he utters my name, his voice loud in the silent room. “Mistress Anne,” he says, and I am forced to reply.
“ Your Majesty.” I curtsey again, try to get closer to the floor, but I am as low as I can go. My bodice is digging deep into my flesh but I keep my eyes on his feet and sigh a great sigh of relief when, eventually, he passes on.
We all stand. My heart is thumping in my chest and I know my cheeks are scarlet. A murmur surges around the room. Everyone is staring at me. Whispering, insinuating, and speculating. I feel hot breath on my neck and realise, with no little relief, that George is standing close behind me.
“Well, well, Sister,” he whispers. “Acknowledged by the king before the court. Whatever next?”
Across the room my father is standing in the shadows , conversing with my uncle, Norfolk. He raises his cup and smiles, as if I have done something favourable, while close beside him, Henry’s sister, Mary, and her husband, Charles Brandon, do not hide their dislike.
Cold floods through my body, followed by an internal heat ; sweat breaks out on my brow. My father and uncle will make me replace Mary if they can. I clench my fists, trying to resist the urge to run from the room, but before I can move, there is a flurry of activity at the dais.
Catherine and her ladies are on the move and as they sweep past in a flotilla of disapproval the music dwindles away, the conversation ceases abruptly and everyone drops hastily to their knees again. Taken unawares, I do not have time to respond, and the queen passes me by without acknowledgement. I look
Everyone sinks to the floor in a back breaking bow. My skirts pool around me as I crouch down to honour the queen passing among us to take her place on the dais. The women fuss around her, arranging her skirts, fetching a low stool for her feet . Once she is settled, she flicks her hand, freeing us to resume our conversation. Beside me, my cousin Margery is flirting with George, as she does with any man under the age of fifty. George leans on a carved screen, his eyes fixed on her generous bosom, and proceeds to see how far he can lead her before she remembers they are close cousins. We are of the Howard line and as such are related to everyone. There are too many cousins at court, our tangled bloodlines often tripping the unwary.
I clutch a cup of wine and let my eyes play across the company, noting who wears a new gown and who is playing cuckold to whom. Of course, the gossip is all of the king’s secret matter , but none dare speak of it here. In the presence of the royal couple we all pretend ignorance; it is just another of the king’s games but this time none of us are certain of the rules, not even Henry.
Another clarion announces the arrival of the king, and all except the queen sink to our knees again. He pauses at the door and I turn my head slightly that I might watch him enter, full of bonhomie, a beam slashed across his ruddy face, his arm thrown around the neck of Henry Norris. As he moves on I lower my eyes again, bow my head, the back of my neck aching as I watch the royal feet approach. To my surprise they falter before me and I find myself staring with some confusion at the king’s square-toed shoes. They are made of the softest kid and are encrusted with pearls. Eventually, realising he is waiting, I lift my head, my cheeks hot with embarrassment.
The king and Norris are smiling down upon me . Blushing like a fool, I keep my chin tucked to my chest as graciously as I know how. The king clears his throat and shuffles his feet until I look up at him. He doesn’t quite meet my eye as he utters my name, his voice loud in the silent room. “Mistress Anne,” he says, and I am forced to reply.
“ Your Majesty.” I curtsey again, try to get closer to the floor, but I am as low as I can go. My bodice is digging deep into my flesh but I keep my eyes on his feet and sigh a great sigh of relief when, eventually, he passes on.
We all stand. My heart is thumping in my chest and I know my cheeks are scarlet. A murmur surges around the room. Everyone is staring at me. Whispering, insinuating, and speculating. I feel hot breath on my neck and realise, with no little relief, that George is standing close behind me.
“Well, well, Sister,” he whispers. “Acknowledged by the king before the court. Whatever next?”
Across the room my father is standing in the shadows , conversing with my uncle, Norfolk. He raises his cup and smiles, as if I have done something favourable, while close beside him, Henry’s sister, Mary, and her husband, Charles Brandon, do not hide their dislike.
Cold floods through my body, followed by an internal heat ; sweat breaks out on my brow. My father and uncle will make me replace Mary if they can. I clench my fists, trying to resist the urge to run from the room, but before I can move, there is a flurry of activity at the dais.
Catherine and her ladies are on the move and as they sweep past in a flotilla of disapproval the music dwindles away, the conversation ceases abruptly and everyone drops hastily to their knees again. Taken unawares, I do not have time to respond, and the queen passes me by without acknowledgement. I look
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