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

shall have, Henry. I imagine him as a tiny babe, a cap of red hair like yours, and I see him older too, dressed like a little man, forceful and strong like his father.” I do not confide in Henry that I also see him years from now, taking his place on the English throne. Sprung from the loins of a Boleyn, he will be the best, most powerful king the world has ever seen. It is a happy dream and one that I cling to as I drift unhappily in the limbo that is my present.
    “A happy dream indeed, and one that is too long in coming to pass.” Henry shifts uncomfortably on the branch, his thigh pressed against mine. He takes off his hat and mops his head with his kerchief. “Are you not too hot, Anne?” he asks, and with a short laugh I shake my head.
    “Since I was ill it is all I can do to keep warm. I crave the sunshine for it is so much warmer outside than indoors.”
    My eyes follow his as he examines my hands, the tracery of veins beneath the skin, the bones of my wrist standing out. I have never been plump and the sickness has left me thinner than ever. He turns his gaze back to my face. “You must put some meat on your bones; a plump woman is healthier, more fertile so they tell me than a thin one.”
    A pulse of fear beats in my throat. I swallow it and feign nonchalance. “Don’t worry, My Lord. I am eating like a horse at the moment and my strength grows from day to day. By the time I return to court I will be as fat as a cook.”
    His big laugh fills the sky, sending up a crowd of rooks from their roost. “Don’t overdo it, Sweetheart. I want you plump, not portly. If I wanted to bed a pig I’d look in the royal pigsty.”
    Our laughter merges, trickles away until we are solemn again. We stare at one another for a long time. “Can you stay the night, Henry?”
    He flushes, hesitates, shakes his head. “Nay, Sweetheart. Think what the court gossips would say about that.”
    “Oh, I didn’t mean that we should …”
    His hand covers mine again, drawing me closer. “I know what you meant,” he says, and I lay my head against his padded coat. For a long time we sit in silence, watching the light change as the day dwindles into dusk.
September 1528
    It has been a wet month, and cooped up indoors all day my temper is short, my patience frayed. I have just summoned Jenny to tease the parlour fire back into life and she kneels at the hearth, vigorously poking the embers, looking for a glimpse of flame. Grandmother snores in her chair, her cap askew, her mouth open, a trickle of drool on her chin. Emitting another gusty sigh, I get up and begin to pace the floor, one moment looking from the window, the next sifting through some sheaves of paper on the table.
    I pick up a poem written for me years ago by Tom Wyatt. On the day he presented it I made light of the honour, teasing him that it didn’t scan . Now, the gentle words, so full of honesty, make me smile sadly, longing for those happier times.
    I let the paper drop from my fingers and it floats gently to the floor, coming to rest on the rush matting that flanks the hearth. Jenny picks it up, scrambles to her feet and places it on the table. “Can I get you anything, Mistress Anne?”
    “What? No, no, thank you, Jenny. I am just bored with being indoors for so long.”
    “I expect it will clear up later, like it did yesterday. Then you can walk in the gardens.”
    “Perhaps.”
    Jenny has no idea how dull it is at Hever compared with the goings-on at court. She can have no concept of how much I miss the king, how I worry that I will be replaced in his affections. Greenwich is full of girls clamouring for the honour of a romp in the royal bed and it is imperative I am there at his side, keeping his eyes and his hands away from them.
    Buried here in the countryside I am starved of news. I know that Campeggio has not yet arrived at court, and Henry seethes as much as I with frustration at his tardiness. A snail could have travelled faster from Rome, and it