The Other Boleyn Girl Read online

  He came to her rooms that evening. “Shall we have some music?” he asked her.

  “Yes, Mistress Carey can sing for us,” she said pleasantly, gesturing me forward.

  “Her sister Anne has the sweeter voice,” the king countermanded. Anne threw me a swift triumphant glance.

  “Will you sing us one of your French songs, Miss Anne?” the king asked.

  Anne swept one of her graceful curtsies. “Your Majesty has only to command,” she said, the hint of the French accent strong in her voice.

  The queen watched this exchange. I could see that she was wondering if the king’s fancy was moving to another Boleyn girl. But he had outwitted her. Anne sat on a stool in the middle of the room, her lute on her lap, her voice sweet—as he said, sweeter than mine. The queen sat in her usual chair, with padded embroidered arms and a cushioned back which she never leaned against. The king did not take the matching chair beside hers, he strolled over to me and took Anne’s vacated space, and glanced at the sewing in my hands.

  “Very fine work,” he remarked.

  “Shirts for the poor,” I said. “The queen is good to the poor.”

  “Indeed,” he said. “How quickly your needle goes in and out, I should make such a knot of it. How tiny and deft your fingers are.”

  His head was bent toward my hands, I found I was looking at the base of his neck and thinking that I should like to touch the thick curling hair.

  “Your hands must be half the size of mine,” he said idly. “Stretch them out and show me.”

  I stabbed the needle into the shirts for the poor people and stretched out my hand to show him, palm up, toward him. His gaze never left my face as he put his hand out too, palm to palm toward mine yet not touching. I could feel the warmth of his hand against my hand, but I could not take my eyes from his face. His mustache curled a little around his lips, I wondered if the hair would be soft, like my husband’s dark sparse curls, or wiry like spun gold. It looked as if it might be strong and scratchy, his kiss might buff my face to redness, everyone would know we had been kissing. Beneath the little curls of hair his lips were sensual, I could not take my eyes from them, I could not help but think about the touch of them, the taste of them.

  Slowly, he brought his hand closer to mine, like dancers closing in a pavane. The heel of his hand touched the heel of mine and I felt the touch like a bite. I jumped a little and I saw his lips curve as he saw that his touch was a shock to me. My cool palm and fingers extended along his, my fingers stopping short of his at the top joints. I felt the sensation of his warm skin, a callus on one finger from archery, the hard palms of a man who rides and plays tennis and hunts and can hold a lance and a sword all the day. I dragged my gaze from his lips and took in his whole face, the bright alertness of his gaze focused on me like a sun through a burning glass, the desire which radiated from him like heat.

  “Your skin is so soft.” His voice was as low as a whisper. “And your hands are tiny, as I thought.”

  The excuse of measuring the span of our fingers had long been exhausted, but we remained still, palm to palm, eyes on each other’s face. Then slowly, irresistibly, his hand cupped around mine and he held it, gently but firmly within his own.

  Anne finished one song and started another, without a change of key, without a break in her voice, keeping the spell of the moment.

  It was the queen who interrupted. “Your Majesty is disturbing Mistress Carey,” she said, with a little laugh as if the sight of her husband handfast with another woman, twenty-three years her junior, was amusing. “Your friend William will not thank you for making his wife idle. She has promised to hem these shirts for the nuns at Whitchurch nunnery and they are not half done.”

  He let me go and turned his head to his wife. “William will forgive me,” he said carelessly.

  “I am going to have a game of cards,” the queen said. “Will you play with me, husband?”

  For a moment I thought she had done it, drawn him away from me by his long-established affection. But as he rose to his feet to do as she wanted, he glanced back and saw me looking up at him. There was almost no calculation in my look—almost none. I was nothing more than a young woman gazing up at a man, with desire in her eyes.

  “I shall have Mistress Carey as my partner. Shall you send for George and have another Boleyn for your partner? We could have a matched pair.”

  “Jane Parker can play with me,” the queen said coolly.

  “You did that very well,” Anne said that night. She was seated by the fire in our bedroom, brushing her long dark hair, her head tipped to the side so that it fell like a scented waterfall over her shoulder. “The bit with the hands was very good. What were you doing?”

  “He was measuring his hand span against mine,” I said. I finished the plait of my fair hair and pulled my nightcap on my head and tied the white ribbon. “When our hands touched I felt…”

  “What?”

  “It was like my skin was on fire,” I whispered. “Really. Like his touch could burn me.”

  Anne looked at me skeptically. “What d’you mean?”

  The words spilled out of my mouth. “I want him to touch me. I am absolutely dying for him to touch me. I want his kiss.”

  Anne was incredulous. “You desire him?”

  I wrapped my arms around myself and sank onto the stone window seat. “Oh God. Yes. I didn’t realize this was where I was going. Oh yes. Oh yes.”

  She grimaced, her mouth pulled down. “You’d better not let Father and Mother hear that,” she warned. “They’ve ordered you to play a clever game, not moon around like a lovesick girl at twilight.”

  “But don’t you think he wants me?”

  “Oh, for the moment, yes. But next week? Next year?”

  There was a tap on our bedroom door and George put his head around it. “Can I come in?”

  “All right,” Anne said ungraciously. “But you can’t stay long. We’re going to bed.”

  “I am too,” he said. “I’ve been drinking with Father. I am going to bed and tomorrow, when I am sober, I shall arise early and hang myself.”

  I hardly heard him, I was staring out of the window and thinking of the touch of Henry’s hand against my own.

  “Why?” Anne asked.

  “My wedding is to be next year. Envy me, why don’t you?”

  “Everyone gets married but me,” Anne said irritably. “The Ormondes have fallen through and they have nothing else for me. Do they want me to be a nun?”

  “Not a bad choice,” George said. “D’you think they’d take me?”

  “In a nunnery?” I caught the sense of the talk and turned around to laugh at him. “A fine abbess you’d make.”

  “Better than most,” George said cheerfully. He went to sit on a stool, missed his seat and thudded down on the stone floor.

  “You’re drunk,” I accused.

  “Aye. And sour with it.”

  “There’s something about my future wife that strikes me as very odd,” George said. “Something a little…” he searched for the word. “Rancid.”

  “Nonsense,” Anne said. “She’s got an excellent dowry and good connections, she’s favorite of the queen and her father is respected and rich. Why worry?”

  “Because she’s got a mouth like a rabbit snare, and eyes that are hot and cold at the same time.”

  Anne laughed. “Poet.”

  “I know what George means,” I said. “She’s passionate and somehow secretive.”

  “Just discreet,” Anne said.

  George shook his head. “Hot and cold at once. All the humors muddled up together. I shall live a dog’s life with her.”

  “Oh marry her and bed her and send her to the country,” Anne said impatiently. “You’re a man, you can do what you like.”

  He looked more cheerful at that. “I could push her down to Hever,” he said.

  “Or Rochford Hall. And the king’s bound to give you a new estate on your marriage.”

  Geo