The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn Read Online Free PDF Page B

pain thereof, the grief, and all the rest … .”
     
    Poor Tom, he is nothing if not faithful. How can I not be touched by such lines? His face as he reads betrays his sincerity.
    At court it is fashionable to love in vain . All the young men strut about the palace with their hearts on their sleeves, weeping and wailing over some married woman or another. But Tom, I fear, is different. He has made the mistake of loving sincerely … albeit in vain.
    His voice trails off and he folds his verse, tucks it back inside his doublet. “Of course, it still needs something . I may rework it ….”
    “It’s lovely, Tom, but you are your own worst fool. You are not free to love ...” I get up and begin to walk away, but he grabs my wrist.
    “Anne … one kiss and I will be silent. You used to let me kiss you, when we were children.”
    I look at my feet, smile ruefully. “You never kissed me, Tom. That was Mary.”
    “Well, it was you I wanted to kiss. I’ve never wanted anything so much …”
    “Try telling that to your wife.”
    I have known Thomas Wyatt since childhood. His family seat is but a little way from Hever and they were regular callers in the summer season. He is part of my childhood, part of me, but I cannot love him. Kissing him would be like kissing George. He is too familiar, too close; almost kin.
    He is very near now, my forehead level with his jaw. He puts a finger beneath my chin, forces me to look at him. “You are so fair,” he whispers , and I open my eyes wide.
    “No, I am not. No one has ever called me fair. You are mistaking me again for Mary.”
    “Well, Mary may be fairer but what you have, Anne, shadows her like the sun outshines a torch. The king can keep Mary; it is you that I want.”
    It is not easy to rebuff the poetry of his words , but I have to for both our sakes. He has a wife and I, well, I have my virtue and intend to keep it. Since the disaster of loving Harry Percy, I am done with men.
    “Just one, Anne, please? Call it payment for the verse.”
    I consider for a while. I like Tom and hate to be the cause of such hurt. His pursuit of me has been long and as yet, unrewarded.
    “Just one little one, then. On the cheek.”
    I close my eyes and tilt my face. After a moment I sense him coming closer, his head shadowing the glare of the sun. I am swamped with the scent of apples and summertime.
    His lips are warm on my skin, he leaves a gossamer touch on my mouth, a kiss so gentle that I relax, enjoying the chaste sensation of his salute. Perhaps I am wrong, it is pleasant to be kissed by Tom after all. Then suddenly, he pulls me closer, driving the breath from my lungs, our bodies tight, his mouth swamping mine as he injects all his passion into me as if he fears it will be his one and only chance.
    When he finally lets me go , I stagger, almost fall, and while I gasp for breath and equilibrium, he spins away from me and goes leaping and bounding down the hill toward the house, like a thief who has successfully made off with the crown jewels.
    “God bless you, Anne Boleyn,” he calls over his shoulder, his jubilance dissipating in the wind. Inwardly I am laughing, refusing to acknowledge the sudden passion that sent the blood surging through my veins as it hasn’t done since I was sent down from court.
    “You are a rogue and a devil, Thomas Wyatt,” I call after him. But as I make the slow journey home his kiss stays with me, and it lingers in my mind for many a day.
    When I arrive back at the house , Mother and the servants are all in a scurry and no one notices my muddy skirts and flushed face. Mary’s pains have started early and she has been borne to her chamber to await the birth.
    In the parlour , William Carey paces the floor until Father, who has little patience with such things, suggests they have the horses saddled and go out on the chase. Once the household women are left alone, we all begin to relax a little, except Mary whose screams echo all around the house and