Read Online The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn by Judith Arnopp - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Judith Arnopp
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across to Henry who is seated on his throne, looking at me standing alone with the royal court spread at my feet in a carpet of stolen obeisance.
He gets up and comes toward me. I do not move but my heart is banging like a drum. As he draws near I sink into a curtsey, but before I am half way down, he seizes my elbow and stops me. “Mistress Anne,” he says. “You cannot spend half your life on your knees. I am come to ask you to accompany me in the dance.”
He makes an elegant knee, holds out his arm, and what else can I do? I can hardly refuse. The jewels on his sleeve are sharp beneath my cold fingers as I follow him onto the floor where they are forming for the first dance.
Although I have spoken to and walked with the king many times, there is something different about dancing with him in public; the implied passion of the storytelling feels too intimate for safety. He seems bigger now. He dwarfs me and if I look straight ahead I can see nothing but a breadth of jewel-encrusted doublet. And so I keep my head turned a little to the right to where, beyond the dance floor, the company are putting their heads together, whispering behind their hands. They think I am his mistress . The shame swamps me but I lift my chin higher, swallow the dread, and pretending to be unconcerned, I paste on a smile and concentrate on the steps.
Henry’s body is anointed with rosewater, his breath tinged with spiced wine. He plays the part of a pivot in the wheel I tread around him, my fingers quivering in his palm.
Each time I chance to raise my eyes they are met by his laughing blue ones, his small mouth is a slash of red in his happy flushed face. Even were he not my king he would be handsome, and I am overwhelmed by such public notice. More to the point, the pressure of his fingers and the light touch of his hand on my waist, is affecting my feet which I must not allow to falter as we follow the prescribed movements of the dance.
Everyone in the hall is watching us, speaking in whispers, nodding knowingly as they witness another Boleyn girl fall beneath he r monarch’s unassailable charm. I smile brazenly as if I do not care but, indeed, my knees are trembling and my mouth is quite dry. When the dance brings us so near we almost touch, I glance up at him again and find that he is looking down at me, our faces close, our breath mingling, his lips almost kissing. My breath falters, my eyelids begin to flutter.
But the music takes him from me and for a time he is forced away from me to weave among other women. I ignore my partner to watch him laughing and flirting with others before, his face growing serious, the steps lead him back to me and I am lost again.
Everyone is wilting from the heat and exhaustion of the dancing . Servants have begun to clear away the remnant of the feast, when a page approaches and whispers in my ear. With great stealth I am ushered along dim-lit corridors, through chamber after chamber, deeper into the king’s private world where I have never been before.
He is not alone and I wait with banging heart while his companions, Henry Norris, Charles Brandon, and others melt away into an outer chamber. Among them I spy Will Carey who, as he closes the door, shoots me a look of compassion before leaving me with the king. For the first time , the king and I are completely alone and I am bereft of words, my wits fled. My lips are dry, my breath unstable in my throat. Feigning nonchalance, I go boldly forward to meet him.
He has thrown off his doublet and the light of the fire play s on his snow-white shirt sleeves. When he looks up and sees me, his smile is gentle, his soft ruddy hair glowing in the candlelight.
“Anne,” he says, rising from his chair and drawing me closer to the warmth. I am so nervous that my palms are perspiring , but he tucks my hand into his elbow. “Come, take a cup of wine with me.”
I don’t know what to say. How is it that when I meet with the king in public , I am full of
He gets up and comes toward me. I do not move but my heart is banging like a drum. As he draws near I sink into a curtsey, but before I am half way down, he seizes my elbow and stops me. “Mistress Anne,” he says. “You cannot spend half your life on your knees. I am come to ask you to accompany me in the dance.”
He makes an elegant knee, holds out his arm, and what else can I do? I can hardly refuse. The jewels on his sleeve are sharp beneath my cold fingers as I follow him onto the floor where they are forming for the first dance.
Although I have spoken to and walked with the king many times, there is something different about dancing with him in public; the implied passion of the storytelling feels too intimate for safety. He seems bigger now. He dwarfs me and if I look straight ahead I can see nothing but a breadth of jewel-encrusted doublet. And so I keep my head turned a little to the right to where, beyond the dance floor, the company are putting their heads together, whispering behind their hands. They think I am his mistress . The shame swamps me but I lift my chin higher, swallow the dread, and pretending to be unconcerned, I paste on a smile and concentrate on the steps.
Henry’s body is anointed with rosewater, his breath tinged with spiced wine. He plays the part of a pivot in the wheel I tread around him, my fingers quivering in his palm.
Each time I chance to raise my eyes they are met by his laughing blue ones, his small mouth is a slash of red in his happy flushed face. Even were he not my king he would be handsome, and I am overwhelmed by such public notice. More to the point, the pressure of his fingers and the light touch of his hand on my waist, is affecting my feet which I must not allow to falter as we follow the prescribed movements of the dance.
Everyone in the hall is watching us, speaking in whispers, nodding knowingly as they witness another Boleyn girl fall beneath he r monarch’s unassailable charm. I smile brazenly as if I do not care but, indeed, my knees are trembling and my mouth is quite dry. When the dance brings us so near we almost touch, I glance up at him again and find that he is looking down at me, our faces close, our breath mingling, his lips almost kissing. My breath falters, my eyelids begin to flutter.
But the music takes him from me and for a time he is forced away from me to weave among other women. I ignore my partner to watch him laughing and flirting with others before, his face growing serious, the steps lead him back to me and I am lost again.
Everyone is wilting from the heat and exhaustion of the dancing . Servants have begun to clear away the remnant of the feast, when a page approaches and whispers in my ear. With great stealth I am ushered along dim-lit corridors, through chamber after chamber, deeper into the king’s private world where I have never been before.
He is not alone and I wait with banging heart while his companions, Henry Norris, Charles Brandon, and others melt away into an outer chamber. Among them I spy Will Carey who, as he closes the door, shoots me a look of compassion before leaving me with the king. For the first time , the king and I are completely alone and I am bereft of words, my wits fled. My lips are dry, my breath unstable in my throat. Feigning nonchalance, I go boldly forward to meet him.
He has thrown off his doublet and the light of the fire play s on his snow-white shirt sleeves. When he looks up and sees me, his smile is gentle, his soft ruddy hair glowing in the candlelight.
“Anne,” he says, rising from his chair and drawing me closer to the warmth. I am so nervous that my palms are perspiring , but he tucks my hand into his elbow. “Come, take a cup of wine with me.”
I don’t know what to say. How is it that when I meet with the king in public , I am full of
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