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

and answer him quietly. “He rode over with some strawberries in July.”
    “Ha! I knew it. The sly fox. Did he try to make love to you?”
    “He may have , but I assure you, he made no headway.”
    This last is a falsehood. I had allowed him one kiss, more to test if it had the same effect upon me as Henry’s than anything else. It was pleasant, lingering and sensuous, but there was none of the thrilling, alarming sensations I had felt with the king. Poor Tom, I’d give so much to make a man like him happy.
    I am in limbo, a strange phantom-like existence that has no direction, no goals. I know not where I am going, or how I am going to get there , but I am waiting for something. I tell myself that when it happens, I will know. The moment it arrives I will recognise the end of limbo and the beginning of my life.
    And then, quite suddenly, the moment does arrive . The next time I raise my head and look out across the gardens, I see Henry riding along the road toward me.
     
    Attended only by Brandon and Norris, the king’s horse clatters into the bailey. Oblivious to the confusion that his unannounced arrival has inflicted upon our house, he tosses the reins to a groom and jumps from the saddle. I sink to my knees at his approach, feeling the warmth of his hand like a blessing on my head.
    “None of that, none of that.” He raises me up, smiles into my eyes, and my heart soars like a falcon.
    “You are well, Your Majesty?”
    “I am now.” He beams about the courtyard as we pass through it, and doesn’t notice the household falling like skittles as their king passes so unexpectedly among them.
    “My father is from home, as you know, and I fear you find us in much disarray.”
    “No matter, no matter. A jug of ale is all I require, and then you can show me those roses of yours again. Did you get my letters?”
    “Every one of them, Your Majesty.”
    “Enough of that, Anne. What happened to ‘Henry?’ Call me Henry.”
    “Very well … Henry.” I feel a laugh fermenting; soon it will erupt, burst from my throat in a fountain of joy. I usher him into the parlour and summon refreshment. Shortly afterwards a red-faced girl arrives , and with trembling hands places a tray on the table. She curtsies clumsily and at a jerk of my head hurries from the room. I begin to pour but stop when Henry steps up behind me, slides his hands around my waist, his breath warm on my neck. “Now we are alone, sweetheart …”
    I spin away from him, laughing. “But we are not alone, My Lord.” I indicate Grandmother who is, as usual, asleep at the fireside . Henry raises his eyebrows, a comical furrow on his brow.
    “Who in God’s name is that?”
    “My Grandmother. I trust a deaf, half-blind crone is chaperone enough.”
    “Will we wake her?”
    “I doubt an earthquake would do that.”
    “Then come here, and kiss your king.”
    “I thought you said I should think of you as Henry.”
    I dip my face to my cup, taste sweet wine, looking at his over the rim as I do so. When I do not move , he comes closer. “Fie, you are a troublesome wench.” He takes my cup, puts it on the table with a bang, and draws me into his body.
    Today, after his ride, the sweet scent of his perfume is overlaid with horse and sweat, a male tang that torments my senses. I lay my head on his chest, his doublet as soft as a kitten on my cheek. “Oh Henry …” I sigh, closing my eyes and enjoying the solidity of him.
    “Did you miss me?”
    I make no answer but nod my head while we sway tranquilly back and forth, half-embracing, half-dancing. “Then, will you not kiss me? I have waited so long.”
    Keeping my eyes closed I raise my face to his, sense his closeness, his breath on my cheek as, very softly, his lips touch mine.
     
    Even if I am entertaining the king of England in my workaday gown, at least the gardens at Hever are looking their best. He leads me along the paths where the scent of roses fills the air, and daisies sprawl across the