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

obligingly sprinkle what is left of the wafer I’d been nibbling onto the grass. Unafraid, he hops down, pecks at one or two pieces, looks up at us again before deciding we are harmless and finishing his meal.
    “I am so bored, George. How will I ever pass my days until Henry sees fit to call me back to court?”
    “There was a time you hardly had your nose out of a book. Don’t you have anything to read?”
    “Nothing I’ve not read before. I’ve tried re-reading Father’s books but I can settle to nothing. I am as restless as … as a –”
    “A bitch on heat?”
    “George!” I punch his arm playfully but do not take umbrage. It is hard to be offended when his words are so near the truth.
    I miss Henry more than I had ever dreamed possible. It is weeks since I saw him last, and distance and the debilitation of the Sweat makes our romance seem like a lingering dream. “He writes to me often but I wish he would visit. I have a need to see him … in the flesh.”
    “He will come,” says George, “just as soon as he is sure all risk of contagion has passed. You know what he is like when it comes to sickness.”
    I know only too well how Henry fears illness. He has shown me his stillroom, where he likes to concoct remedies and unguents. And should any of his household suffer a cold, he likes to minister to them himself, ordering them to keep to their chambers until the malady has passed.
    When Henry does come he is full of concern, raining kisses on my face and on my hands. “You are thinner,” he says. “Are you eating properly? Did you get the stag I sent you?”
    He doesn’t wait for my answer but continues to speak, holding tight to my hand as he greets my father and brother and nods reservedly to my mother.
    We walk ceremoniously about the gardens, my hand on the king’s sleeve while Father talks expansively of his plans for improvements to the house. Henry places his hot hand over mine, tracing my fingers, every so often giving me a little squeeze to show he is glad I am there. It is some time before we are alone. He pretends he wants me to show him the fish ponds and politely extricates himself from my family’s company, bearing me off toward the meadow.
    As soon as we are out of sight of the house he stops and draws me into his arms, swamping me with the scent of rosewater and underlying horse sweat. My smile is wide when I pull away a little and look up into his face. There, in his eyes, I see all the love and concern I had feared he had forgotten.
    “Anne,” he says, pulling off my peaked cap to let my hair fall loose. He buries his hands in it, his fingers digging into my skull, his lips hot and searching on mine. A sensation erupts deep in my belly like a scattering of red hot cinders. My breath grows short, the hammering of my heart loud in my ears. When his mouth slides from mine and I feel his tongue lick like a flame along my neck, his hands sliding down my bodice, I grow dizzy with desire, remembering just in time to be chaste and a little frightened. I pull away and drop my head, willing my lustful blood to cool. “Henry, My Lord, please.”
    With a hand to my mouth I pretend to be overcome by his demands , and he is instantly contrite. “Anne, forgive me. I could not help …”
    “No matter,” I say with what I hope is great compassion. “I understand.” Then I shake myself, smile into his eyes and lead him to a fallen bough. “Let us sit here and enjoy the view to the house while you tell me how the divorce is going. When can I come back to court?”
    He rubs his kerchief across his face, the bough creaks and bends beneath his great weight as he settles beside me. “Before too long, Sweetheart. Cardinal Campeggio is on his way from Rome but he is an old man and, so Wolsey tells me, suffers from the gout which forces him to make more stops than are desirable. We must concentrate on the future, on our marriage and the sons we will have.”
    “Sometimes I dream of the son we