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

get you nowhere. And suppose the king did decide to call? All he would find is you with your hair like a hayrick and your nose as red the queen’s ruby. Look, sit up, dry your eyes, and take a drink. Why not get dressed? There is no need for this … this sloth.”
    I had hoped to spur her into action, but I fear I make things worse, for Mary opens her mouth, tears spout from her eyes again, and she dives beneath her pillow. Exchanging glances with the nursemaid, I raise my eyes to Heaven and stand up. “I will come back tomorrow. Hopefully you will be recovered by then.”
    W ith Mary’s megrim taking up most of Mother’s time, I am left alone to wander the gardens and meadow. Sometimes of an afternoon I climb the hill and linger beneath the trees at the summit, remembering Tom Wyatt and that kiss. He hasn’t been back for more and the memory of our sudden passion is fading, just as my thoughts of Percy have dwindled.
    Henry Percy is married now. Safely ensconced on his Northumbrian holdings where no doubt he forgets about me , too. I put a hand to my brow for from my vantage point on the hilltop, I spy a horseman riding toward the house. Squinting, I recognise Father’s man, Ned Baines, and guess he brings messages for Mother.
    I do not shorten my walk to greet him, for the news he brings will not concern me. Instead, I lift my skirts a little and tiptoe through emerging spring grass with the sun on my back. The only thing missing is good company. If George were here, the silence would be filled with his talk of politics and theology. He is very learned and has never hidden his knowledge from his sisters. Although with Mary it goes in one ear and out the other, I hoard the information so that I can bring it out one day and use his arguments against him. Of all the things and people I miss while rusticated here at Hever, it is George I miss the most.
    Suddenly full of restless energy, I begin to skip downhill, startling a huddle of sheep that look up from their grazing and scuttle off en-masse to the far side of the meadow.
    When I reach the bottom, I tightly grasp the orchard gate, breathless. My cap is crooked and my veil stained with lichen. It takes a little time for my breath to steady and then I straighten my cap, smooth down my skirts and wipe the worst of the mud from my shoes before hurrying through the garden toward the house.
    “Anne, there you are. Where have you been?” Mother doesn’t wait for a reply but thrusts a pile of linen into my arms. “Take that upstairs, all the servants are busy. Your father has sent word that he arrives tomorrow in the company of the king.”
    “The king?” My jaw drops. “But we are not prepared to receive the king.”
    “You don’t have to tell me that, Daughter. Now, take those things to your Father’s chamber and then find Jenny, she must assist the other maids to change the draperies in the parlour.”
    As I climb the stairs in a daze of disbelief, the parlour door opens and four male servants emerge bearing Grandmother aloft in her chair. Sparing nobody’s blushes, she gives vent to her indignation at their chosen method of transport. “Am I a sack of coal or a bushel of apples to be carted around so? Put me down, you hedge-born foot-lickers, or I will have you whipped.”
    One red-faced boy pulls a comical face at me as they pass and I stifle a laugh, ducking my head into the pile of fragrant linen before scurrying about my business.
    Jenny is chasing dust from beneath Father’s bed, the casements are thrown open and the hearth is being hastily swept. “Mother is looking for you, Jenny,” I say, and she turns a red, perspiring face toward me.
    “What news, Mistress Anne! The king coming here? Your sister is beside herself and demanding that all her best gowns are made ready.” She doesn’t add, ‘as if there isn’t enough to do.’ She doesn’t need to.
    As she runs downstairs to answer my mother’s summons , I slip into Mary’s chamber. Catherine