Read Online The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn by Judith Arnopp - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Judith Arnopp
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wit and a host of ready answers runs tripping from my tongue but now, in the privacy of his closet, I am quite dumb? “You make a fine partner in the dance, Anne. I don’t know when I have enjoyed it quite so much. You are so light of foot.”
“Your Grace is kind.” I keep my eyes lowered, too terrified to look at him.
“And are you kind, Mistress Anne?” His tone is low, as if he fears my answer. The inference of his words brings my chin up, our eyes meeting for the first time since I entered his private chamber.
“I-I hope so, Your Majesty.” I am stuttering like a fool. I usually despise those who hesitate over their words.
“When we are alone , you may call me Henry.”
He puts down his cup and picks up my hand, examining it, turning it this way and that, looking at my nails, the shape of my fingers. “Such pretty hands,” he murmurs, lifting it to his lips.
At the touch of his lips I give a little gasp. Just as smartly as one of the royal Fools, my heart turns a somersault.
I cannot snatch my hand away.
I cannot move.
I am ruled by the red-hot emotion of the moment. He is the king. I cannot stop him. He pushes back my sleeve, his lips working their way along my arm, coming to a stop at my inner elbow. I feel his tongue on the place where my heart’s blood runs closest to the surface , and I swallowing deeply, tilt back my head and close my eyes.
“It is lonely to be a king.” He sounds like a little boy and I straighten my head and look down at him, seeing him differently. Bareheaded in the light of the fire, without his sumptuous tunic to remind me who he is, he is a little less terrifying, a little less king-like. I let out a long breath, unaware before now that I was holding it.
“I can be a friend to you, Your Majesty. I can dance with you, comfort you when you need me. I can warm your days but, Your Majesty, I can never warm your nights. Although the honour you do me is very great, I am not like my sister Mary, and can be no man’s mistress …”
He looks up, his hair dishevelled, his eyes belying my words. “Not even mine?”
“Not even yours.”
I withdraw my hand.
“Not even one kiss?” he says, unknowingly echoing the words of Thomas Wyatt.
He stands before me, as tall as a young oak tree , and there is nothing I can do to stop it. The kiss is inevitable.
A moment’s hesitation before I am swamped in his arms ; lost in the deep, wide chasm of his embrace. His mouth is hot, his tongue searching and desperate, his hands roaming over my body, pulling me deeper into him, awakening all the longings that I have fought so hard for so long. The hard nub of his codpiece is digging into my belly and I am foundering in a wild oceanic storm. I don’t want it to stop.
I never want him to stop.
Part two
Mistress
Late Summer 1527
I plead sickness and beg permission from the queen to escape home to Hever. She is glad to be rid of me and I am grateful for the fresh air, the tranquillity of the countryside in which to breathe properly and, hopefully, clear my head. If I stay at court I will be lost, and I do not want to go the way of my sister. All my life I have dreamed of a husband and a home, a litter of small children – I have no wish to be any man’s property but my husband’s, and I would go to him a maid, not sullied by the whims of the king.
My mother has no patience with me. She harangues me for my niceties. “You cannot refuse a king,” she says, “not if you care one jot about your family. Think what it would mean for us, and for George. Think what it would mean for your children …”
I lose my temper. “And what would it do for my children? What has he ever done for Mary’s? Neither she nor Will know who their children should call ‘Father.’ It is madness. I intend to enter my marriage as a maid and neither you, nor Father, nor the king will prevent that.”
Her face retreats into puckered resentful lines as she begins to shred her kerchief in her lap.
“Your Grace is kind.” I keep my eyes lowered, too terrified to look at him.
“And are you kind, Mistress Anne?” His tone is low, as if he fears my answer. The inference of his words brings my chin up, our eyes meeting for the first time since I entered his private chamber.
“I-I hope so, Your Majesty.” I am stuttering like a fool. I usually despise those who hesitate over their words.
“When we are alone , you may call me Henry.”
He puts down his cup and picks up my hand, examining it, turning it this way and that, looking at my nails, the shape of my fingers. “Such pretty hands,” he murmurs, lifting it to his lips.
At the touch of his lips I give a little gasp. Just as smartly as one of the royal Fools, my heart turns a somersault.
I cannot snatch my hand away.
I cannot move.
I am ruled by the red-hot emotion of the moment. He is the king. I cannot stop him. He pushes back my sleeve, his lips working their way along my arm, coming to a stop at my inner elbow. I feel his tongue on the place where my heart’s blood runs closest to the surface , and I swallowing deeply, tilt back my head and close my eyes.
“It is lonely to be a king.” He sounds like a little boy and I straighten my head and look down at him, seeing him differently. Bareheaded in the light of the fire, without his sumptuous tunic to remind me who he is, he is a little less terrifying, a little less king-like. I let out a long breath, unaware before now that I was holding it.
“I can be a friend to you, Your Majesty. I can dance with you, comfort you when you need me. I can warm your days but, Your Majesty, I can never warm your nights. Although the honour you do me is very great, I am not like my sister Mary, and can be no man’s mistress …”
He looks up, his hair dishevelled, his eyes belying my words. “Not even mine?”
“Not even yours.”
I withdraw my hand.
“Not even one kiss?” he says, unknowingly echoing the words of Thomas Wyatt.
He stands before me, as tall as a young oak tree , and there is nothing I can do to stop it. The kiss is inevitable.
A moment’s hesitation before I am swamped in his arms ; lost in the deep, wide chasm of his embrace. His mouth is hot, his tongue searching and desperate, his hands roaming over my body, pulling me deeper into him, awakening all the longings that I have fought so hard for so long. The hard nub of his codpiece is digging into my belly and I am foundering in a wild oceanic storm. I don’t want it to stop.
I never want him to stop.
Part two
Mistress
Late Summer 1527
I plead sickness and beg permission from the queen to escape home to Hever. She is glad to be rid of me and I am grateful for the fresh air, the tranquillity of the countryside in which to breathe properly and, hopefully, clear my head. If I stay at court I will be lost, and I do not want to go the way of my sister. All my life I have dreamed of a husband and a home, a litter of small children – I have no wish to be any man’s property but my husband’s, and I would go to him a maid, not sullied by the whims of the king.
My mother has no patience with me. She harangues me for my niceties. “You cannot refuse a king,” she says, “not if you care one jot about your family. Think what it would mean for us, and for George. Think what it would mean for your children …”
I lose my temper. “And what would it do for my children? What has he ever done for Mary’s? Neither she nor Will know who their children should call ‘Father.’ It is madness. I intend to enter my marriage as a maid and neither you, nor Father, nor the king will prevent that.”
Her face retreats into puckered resentful lines as she begins to shred her kerchief in her lap.
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