The Concubine

  Anne pulled herself up against the bed head.

  “Who else saw, Margaret?”

  “No one. I’m certain. You were so quick and so clever.” But it mattered so little—except to Anne’s peace of mind—who had seen and who had not. Everyone knew that the King was in hot pursuit of Jane Seymour, and she so indiscreet, or so stupid, or so powerless to control him, that the sight of him kissing her in a corner or holding her on his knee, could surprise no one, except Anne. Anne, until this morning, had been in ignorance, the center of a conspiracy of silence which stemmed from various causes. Malice, because a good many people derived pleasure from seeing her made a fool of; affection, which sought to spare her any knowledge of what might be unimportant and transient; fear of the King’s anger, for though Henry had on several occasions been careless before others he had, so far, acted discreetly before Anne.

  This morning, however, he had been caught. Anne and a party of about a dozen, most of them carrying some musical instrument, had been making their way to a pleasant, shaded spot, enclosed by a quick-thorn hedge and furnished with stone seats. One path ran in on the side nearest the palace, another immediately opposite. Anne and Margaret had been walking ahead, had reached the opening in the hedge and seen Henry, with Jane Seymour on his knee, on one of the seats. Anne had stopped abruptly and cried out and then seemed to fall backward, so that all those following were thrown into a momentary confusion. She had clutched Margaret’s arm and said, “I twisted my ankle.” Mark Smeaton had thrust his lute into someone’s hand and run forward and lifted her and carried her to the seat which had emptied as though by a wave of a magician’s wand.

  Just for a second she had thought of how often she and Harry Percy had used this very spot for a trysting place, and occasionally been obliged to retire just as hastily. Then she had forgotten the past in consideration of the present and the future. She was glad that she had feigned a slight accident, it excused the shivering, the incoherence, all the symptoms of shock.

  “Jane Rochfort,” she now said, “she was immediately behind me. If she saw, half London knows by now.”

  Would it, Margaret wondered wretchedly, be the truer kindness to admit that half London knew already? It was very difficult. Anne’s friends had all said—It’s nothing; he’s forty-four and at about that age most men fall in love for a little while with some young pretty face. It’ll pass. Why worry her?

  And she thought, Why should I be the one to tell her? And how would she take it? Explode into terrible rage? Freeze into silence? Or laugh? She realized, with a faint shock of surprise, that close as she was to Anne, and fond as she was, she really knew her hardly at all.

  “Is it?” Anne asked. “Known by everyone? Was I the only person surprised, just now?”

  Margaret glanced at Emma.

  “Never mind Emma,” Anne said. “I expect she knows.”

  Emma’s hard-featured face turned an ugly brickred which after a second deepened. The first flush was caused by an unaccountable feeling of guilt, the second by anger at herself for feeling guilty. She had known all along and had been one of those most eager and active in concealing the truth from Anne, one of those who prayed earnestly that this latest fancy of the King’s might wear itself out, with no harm done. She had never doubted that once Anne knew she would fly into a rage; and the sorry truth was that Anne was now in no position to give way to her temper and quarrel with the King. If she did anything might happen.

  Emma had come very near to falling out with the baker and his group who had taken the new rumor without any dismay, saying that Jane Seymour and her family were on the Lutheran side of the fence and that Jane, if she stayed in favor, would be another prop to the cause.

  “What she gains the Queen will lose,” Emma had declared, “and Mistress Seymour couldn’t help much even if she would, which I doubt. She’s got no wits. You have to be subtle to have any influence!” She knew, she’d been very subtle herself and one of the things that Anne had done to help the Protestant cause had been the direct result of Emma’s subtlety. For it was Emma who had persuaded Anne to read the New Testament in English; and so, when some merchants were in trouble for bringing English Testaments into the country from Antwerp and were threatened with expulsion and the confiscation of their goods, Anne had been sympathetic. She had also been able to say that she herself had read the Testament and she was no heretic.

  Emma had reminded her circle of this, and also of how Anne had intervened on behalf of Hugh Latimer when he was in danger of being prosecuted for heresy; she hadn’t merely saved him, she had had him appointed as her chaplain and given a bishopric. For these reasons, and no others, Emma wished Anne to remain the unchallenged influence in the King’s life; and she had prayed that he might tire of that pudding-faced little doll before Anne knew anything about it. But here, once again, there had been no direct answer to prayer. And now, here she was, feeling guilty of disloyalty for not speaking out, and angry at herself for feeling guilty, because speaking out might have increased the damage.

  She was at this point fully entitled to say, “I don’t know what Your Grace is talking of, exactly.” And she said it.

  Anne said, “Jane Seymour. You knew. And you, too, Margaret! You could have spared me this morning’s humiliation.” Margaret’s eyes filled.

  “I have wondered…But it’s nothing, really. It’s just a…a temporary infatuation. We all hoped it would pass over without your knowing.”

  Anne swung her feet to the floor, pushed her bare foot into her shoe and folding her arms about herself began the rapid pacing and turning that Emma knew so well.

  “I’ve no doubt that Catherine’s friends said that to her!” She spoke with quiet bitterness; and then, on a rising note, cried,

  “But the cases are not comparable! He is my husband, he never was Catherine’s. We were troth-plighted and had exchanged rings before ever I came back to Court. And even then I never shamed her publicly, enemy as she was to me.”

  “There’s no likeness at all, Your Grace,” Emma said. “You were always to be Queen. This is just a romp. His Grace is forty-four and men about that age often go foolish over some silly young girl.”

  “Young? She’s as old as I am. We were in France together. And I’m not so sure about her being silly. I’d say sly. Still whatever her age and nature, she may be about to take my place. And if so, I’d like to know!”

  Margaret Lee cried, “Oh, Anne, that is ridiculous. How could she? You are Queen; you were properly married and crowned. You’re taking this altogether too seriously.”

  “I know the King. If he wants to put me away, he’ll find a way to do it.” She made one of her rapid turns. “And I’d go,” she cried. “I’ve failed. Wishing and willing and hoping and praying got me nothing but a girl, so I’ve failed, just as Catherine failed. But I shan’t sit about demanding to be called Queen. If he thinks he can get a son by Jane Seymour—and a splendid prince that would be!—he’s welcome to try, I shall tell him so this very day.”

  Margaret Lee said, with great earnestness, “Anne, you are Queen, and it is not for me to advise my Queen; but you are my dearly loved cousin, too. To her I say that to take that attitude would be to throw him into Jane’s arms. You must act as though nothing had happened, and be charming to him, and join the rest of us in hoping and praying that he’ll tire of her, quickly.”

  “With everybody laughing at me and pitying me behind my back; and my enemies gloating; and Henry thinking that I’m too blind or stupid to notice. I suppose he has been thinking so. I’ll undeceive him!”

  The shock tremor had now merged into the tremor of fury; even her voice was shaking. Her face had grown small and sharp and shrewish, her great eyes shone black, and jet-hard. Emma said,

  “Your Grace, I’m going to give you a dose. It was a shock, and you’re upset. But you must not do anything hasty, or go on tearing yourself to pieces in this way.”

  “Emma’s right,” Margaret said. “Take a dose and lie down—I’
ll sit and fan you. You’ll see presently that it means nothing; it happens in almost every marriage, sooner or later.” She was hurt by Anne’s ravaged look and added, impulsively, “That damned, pudding-faced little humbug! I could kill her!”

  Suddenly, rather shockingly, Anne laughed.

  “Oh no, my dear. Not you. I should do that! I’m supposed to be the one so expert with poison. I’m such a clever poisoner that Catherine prevented my marriage for years, her daughter refuses to acknowledge me and sends me rude messages when I try to befriend her and calls my daughter The Bastard. I’ve dealt so cleverly with them, I’m well-equipped to deal with Mistress Seymour.”

  “Here,” Emma said, holding out the dose.

  Anne took it and said, “This is the only poison I know!”

  “This, Your Grace? It’s absolutely harmless. Would I bring you anything…?”

  “Of course not, Emma. That was a poor joke—like my reputation as a poisoner.”

  And a witch! The words slipped into her mind; and she remembered that night at Blickling when she had felt the upsurge of power; and the next day when she had viciously pricked the laurel leaf and with a vehemently worded ill-wish, buried it. Childish nonsense. Wolsey certainly had come to no good end; but he’d lived for seven years after that leaf had rotted. Too slow. Too slow for Jane Seymour! Also, and she came to this realization slowly and with some surprise, the sheer hatred was missing. She was angry with Jane, even more angry with Henry, but she was no longer capable of the concentrated hatred that would strike its target dead if it had its say. It, like one form of love, was a thing of youth, lost as the years gathered.

  “Sit down, now,” Margaret said, “give Emma’s dose a chance to soothe you.”

  It had already begun. The hurt was a little less raw; and out of all that Emma and Margaret had said, her mind was selecting the grains of comfort, saying temporary infatuation, saying forty-four and foolish, saying it will pass…

  As her mind eased her body relaxed until at last she was lying on the bed. Margaret produced a fan, and its movement, the regular touch of the stirred air and the slight sound of its passage had an almost hypnotic effect. Presently she said drowsily,

  “A son, that’s all he wants now. And I can’t see why. Women can’t ride in tourneys, but there are plenty of knights to be hired. What is so wrong in being a woman?”

  Margaret thought—If I don’t answer her she’ll talk herself to sleep.

  “Elizabeth, if she were brought up to be, could be Queen…Catherine’s mother was, and a good one, they say. And in Norfolk they still remember a Queen…the last person to stand out when the Romans came. Her name was Bo…something…” Her voice seemed to trail away; and then with a final effort at clarity she said, “Not Lady Bo. I don’t mean her. She’d never stand out against…anything.”

  Still moving the fan, lest the cessation should disturb, Margaret Lee looked down at the face of her cousin where all the marks of strain and tension were smoothing themselves away. She thought to herself that Anne, in the last few words, had answered her own question. Lady Bo would never stand out against anything because she would always do exactly what her husband told her to do. And that was why women couldn’t be Queens in their own right; to ensure the succession the woman must be married, and then, naturally, the husband had ascendancy.

  No. The cure for this whole situation was for Anne to bear a son. She must have a good rest, rise refreshed and restored, make herself look beautiful and be charming to Henry. He’d been so nearly caught this morning, thought Margaret Lee, who combined a fundamental sweet innocence of character with a good deal of worldly wisdom, that he would be more than ordinarily anxious to be amiable.

  Somehow, between us, we’ll put that Seymour’s little snub nose out of joint, she thought.

  Henry had enjoyed his supper, giving way yet again to the temptation to eat too much. Now that he was once more in love he was trying, somewhat halfheartedly, to reduce his bulk, thinking that it aged him. He could usually find some good excuse for eating well today and sparingly tomorrow, and his excuse on this evening was that he was feeling cheerful because it seemed that he had, after all, escaped in time that morning. At intervals all through the day the thought had recurred that Anne must have seen; and though he did not care much and had his answer ready—not a defense, an answer; he meant to tell her flatly that she must learn to bear what Catherine had borne from her—it was preferable this way. He had no liking for scenes; and he had a great liking for the little extra flavor which secrecy gave to his love affair. It made him feel like a boy again. He had been pleased when she came to supper, especially finely dressed in amber silk, banded with black velvet, and in a mood which was not merely amiable, but positively gay. He blessed the little unevenness in the path which had made her turn her ankle, even while he inquired kindly about the extent of the injury.

  The music during and after supper pleased him, too. Mark Smeaton was certainly a most gifted fellow, and the choir boys whom he had selected to sing, had sung several of Henry’s own songs, some of which he had written as a young man, in love with Catherine, some from a later period when he was in love with Anne. Hearing them now, when both the loves that had inspired them were dead as burned-out candles, caused him no regrets, no remorse, no grief over the mutability of all things human. Listening he thought that they were good songs, and it was a pity that of late he had had so little time to give to such pleasant ploys. He must make a song for Jane, something very subtle…mentioning Spring, because that was the year’s youth and she was young, mentioning perhaps apple-blossom, because her skin was so like it, pink and white. When he thought of subtlety he remembered how while he loved Catherine, he had ridden in the lists as “Sir Loyal Heart”; and then, when he transferred his affections he had changed his motto to “Declare I Dare Not.” And again he felt nothing, except the pride in his subtlety. He was in love again, and his old loves were of no more importance than last year’s roses to a fresh-flowering bush.

  He was pleased to see Anne happy and gay, because presently he must take her to bed and go through the flavorless business of trying to beget an heir for England. After this talk with Norfolk he had set himself a limit; the end of this year, 1535. A man had only one life. If she wasn’t pregnant by Christmas he would know that God had given a sign that this marriage was wrong, too…

  He thought how marvelous it would be if she could be pregnant by the end of August. That was the beginning of the grease season, which took its name from the fat which the deer carried after the full feeding of summer. It lasted until October, and that was the time of his country visits. If only, he thought, Anne could be pregnant and queasy and bound to stay in London while he rode out…Wolf Hall in Wiltshire, the home of the Seymours, could be one of his stopping places. Jane could be there…Once again anticipation, the drug upon which, waiting for Anne, he had lived so long that he had become an addict, and of which, since late summer three years ago, he had been deprived, tingled along his veins.

  He looked sidelong at Anne. He no longer thought her beautiful. That, like the indefinable joy that she had seemed to promise, had been a delusion, part of the unaccountable spell that had wasted so much of his life and cost so dearly; but she was comely and she was a woman, and tonight he felt potent. Tonight, God willing, he would get a son…

  And at last they were alone.

  She had taken all the advice offered by Margaret and Emma. Margaret’s so incongruously sophisticated, Emma’s so downright and bucolic. Emma’s final word had been, “Your Grace above all things needs a son and nobody has ever thought of another way to get one.”

  Margaret had said, “If Anthony’s eye ever wandered, I’d try to catch it back. I’d darken my lids and redden my lips and…”

  “End by feeling like a painted harlot whom nobody cared to hire! It’s useless, Margaret. If a man loves you, he loves you, and you could go barefoot, in a dirty shift, and still be beautiful to him. When it’s over, it’s over. Whate
ver I do won’t make me, to Henry, look as comely as Jane Seymour.”

  Margaret said sagely, “He’s vain. All men are, but he is vainer than most. I always thought that one reason why he never forced Catherine to renounce her claims—and he could, you know, he could have starved her into submission had he been so minded—was because deep in his heart he was flattered by her determination not to let him go. If you put up a fight…”

  “There’s some truth in what you say,” Anne said, and sat down before her glass.

  And all the advice, she realized, had been good, sound, based on centuries of female experience; for here he was; and the sight of him, standing there, so big and smug and confident, a husband about to exercise his conjugal rights, fired something inside her, unexpected, unplanned, insane.

  “Keep away from me,” she said, “I’m not your hireling. If you feel amorous go find the little bitch who sat on your knee this morning and give England another bastard!”

  He said, in a rather helpless way, “So you saw.”

  “I saw. So now everybody knows. You seem to find maids-of honor irresistible! Or is this another quirk of your conscience?”

  Stung by that taunt he found it easy to make the remark which he had planned, but he said it more unkindly, saying “your betters” instead of “Catherine.”

  “Put up with it,” she threw back at him. “I have no intention of putting up with the kind of thing that happened this morning. I shall leave Court! Catherine is my better, in patience, if nothing else. But I shan’t follow her example and hang on until I’m ordered away from Court. You can find some excuse to get rid of me, as you got rid of Catherine, and marry your pudding-faced charmer.”

  Nothing could have suited him better; but the Duke of Norfolk had quietly closed both doors that offered a possibility of escape. And it wouldn’t do to let Anne go, a deeply wronged and very angry woman, anxious to blacken Jane’s name at every opportunity. That would make him look so light-minded and frivolous—which God knew he was not—wasn’t he here at this moment with the express intention of doing his duty and trying to get a son? Moreover Anne’s going would leave him in the exact position which he had occupied so uncomfortably for so many years, poised between a wife he couldn’t use and a sweetheart he couldn’t marry. And ill-minded people would say that the place was littered with his castoff wives.