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

gravel. Our footsteps make a soft crunching sound, my skirts swishing along behind. As we walk he talks of his past; tales of his mother, the gentle queen of York, and the strict regime imposed upon him by his father, the first Henry Tudor.
    I picture my Henry as a boy, round-faced and flushed from play, inwardly rebelling against too much time in the schoolroom and not enough in the tiltyard. “He would not let me joust ,” Henry exclaims in remembered outrage. “He wanted me in the schoolroom where there was no danger of me outshining my brother.”
    “Prince Arthur? What was he like?” I accept his offering of a daisy and tuck it into my bosom.
    “According to my father and our tutor, Arthur was the perfect prince. I am a poor substitute.”
    I can see the old sibling rivalry still bites deep. Henry’s brow is lowered, his mouth tight as he continues. “But I could always best him on horseback, or in the dance. It’s a shame Father can’t see me now, that would make him eat his words. Never, in all my youth, did I hear a single word of praise from his lips …”
    “But I am sure your mother was different?”
    “Oh yes. She was as different from my father as chalk is from cheese. She had an inbred kindness … empathy. Although I tried to hide it , she always knew when I was hurting. She would appear at my side, take my hand in hers and suddenly, the world would be less bleak. She never said it but I knew she preferred me to Arthur. I am like Edward, you know, her father, and Arthur was just like the king … my father, I mean. After my brother died, quickly followed by Mother, I was left alone with him, the old king. He wanted Kate for himself, you know, but I got …”
    “Kate?” For a moment I do not know who he means , but as the colour rushes into his cheeks and he begins to bluster an explanation, I realise that he means Queen Catherine, the woman from whom he longs to be free. For a moment he had forgotten the rancour he feels for her, had forgotten the queen is now old. By remembering the old days he recalls her as she was; young again, young and pretty, and apparently fertile. I draw my hand away and walk on without him, surprised by the injury his words have inflicted.
    “Anne.” He catches up with me, snatches at my hand. “I wanted to talk to you about Catherine.”
    “What about her?” I cannot inject any warmth into my voice and I keep my eyes on the flowers behind him.
    “You know I seek a divorce?”
    I nod, still refusing to look at him.
    “I never visit her now, especially at night, and have not done so for a long time.”
    Feeling the warmth in my cheeks, I shrug my shoulders, as if it is of no moment to me.
    “Anne.” He draws me into the arbour and sits down, pulls me beside him, our knees touching, hands clasped. If I didn’t know any better I would think he was ready to propose. “If you will be my mistress, I swear to forsake all others. You would be my official mistress, I would give you honours, make you wealthy in your own right.”
    I snatch away my hand, wounded beyond measure by the inference. “Like a court official, Your Majesty? Would I have apartments next to Wolsey’s? Where his sign would read ‘The King’s Lackey’, would there be one above my door with the words ‘The King’s Whore – Keep Out’?”
    “Anne!” He is astounded for no one has ever dared speak to him like this before , but I am trembling with rage.
    “Just what do you think I am, Henry? How can you claim to love me when you hurt me so very much?”
    Tears wash down my face. I fumble for my kerchief and see that it has mud on it where I wiped my dirty fingers this morning. To my relief, he hands me his own. It is edged with the finest lace and I recognise the embroidery as Queen Catherine’s own. I put it to my nose and blow hard, filling it with snot. Then I turn to him.
    “Henry, if I am not good enough to be your wife, and it is not meet that I become your mistress, then I fear we