The Other Boleyn Girl Read online

  “I should go too,” I said. “William will be waiting.”

  “You stay,” Anne said peremptorily.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” I said obediently.

  She gave me a hard, warning look.

  “Shall I send the Seymour thing from the court?” she asked George. “I won’t have her simpering around the king all day. It makes me furious.”

  “Leave her alone,” George recommended. “When he is well again he’ll want something a little more fiery. But stop pulling at him. He was angry with you tonight and you ran toward it.”

  “I can’t stand him so pitiful,” she said. “He didn’t die, did he? Why should he be in such misery for nothing?”

  “He’s afraid. And he’s not a young man any more.”

  “If she simpers at him once again I’ll slap her face,” Anne said. “You can warn her from me, Mary. If I catch her looking at him with that Mother of God smile on her face I’ll slap it off her.”

  I slithered from the bed. “I’ll say something to her. Perhaps not quite that. Can I go now, Anne? I’m weary.”

  “Oh all right,” she said irritably. “You’ll stay with me, won’t you, George?”

  “Your wife will talk,” I warned him. “Already she says that you’re always here.”

  I thought that Anne would shrug it off but she and George exchanged a swift look, and George rose to his feet to go.

  “Do I have to be always alone?” Anne demanded. “Walk alone, pray alone, bed alone?”

  George hesitated at the bleak appeal.

  “Yes,” I said stoutly. “You chose to be queen. I warned you it wouldn’t bring you joy.”

  In the morning Jane Seymour and I found ourselves side by side on the way to Mass. We walked past the king’s open door and saw him seated at his table, his injured leg propped before him on a chair, a clerk beside him reading out letters and putting them before him for signature. As Jane went by his door she slowed down and smiled at him, and he paused and watched her, the pen in his hand, the ink drying on the nib.

  Jane and I kneeled side by side in the queen’s chapel and listened to the Mass celebrated before the altar of the church below us.

  “Jane,” I said quietly.

  She opened her eyes, she had been far away in prayer.

  “Yes, Mary? Forgive me, I was praying.”

  “If you go on flirting with the king with those sickly little smiles, one of us Boleyns is going to scratch your eyes out.”

  Anne adopted the habit of walking beside the river, up to the bowling green, through the yew tree allée, past the tennis courts and back to the palace every day during her pregnancy. I always walked with her and George was always at her side. Most of her ladies came too, and some of the king’s gentlemen, since the king was not hunting in the afternoons. George and Sir Francis Weston would walk either side of Anne and make her laugh and take her arm and help her when we went up the steps to the bowling green, and any of our particular circle, Henry Norris, or Sir Thomas Wyatt, or William would walk with me.

  One day Anne was weary and cut the walk short. We reentered the palace with her on George’s arm and me a few paces behind her walking with Henry Norris. The guards threw open the doors of her apartments as we came toward them and thus framed a tableau of Jane Seymour leaping from the king’s lap and him trying to jump to his feet, brush down his coat, and look nonchalant, but as he was still lame from his fall, he staggered and looked foolish. Anne went in like a whirlwind.

  “Get out, slut,” she said sharply to Jane Seymour. Jane dropped a curtsy and scuttled from the room. George tried to sweep Anne through to her inner rooms, but she rounded on the king.

  “What were you doing with that thing on your lap? Is she some sort of poultice?”

  “We were talking…” he said awkwardly.

  “Does she whisper so low she has to have her tongue in your ear?”

  “I was…it was…”

  “I know what it was!” Anne shouted at him. “Your whole court knows what it was. We all had the privilege of seeing what it was. A man who says he is too tired to go out for a walk, sprawled at his ease, with some clever little ninny sneaking into his lap.”

  “Anne—” he said. Everyone but Anne heard the warning note in his tone.

  “I won’t tolerate it. She’s to leave court!” she snapped.

  “The Seymours are loyal friends to the crown and our good servants,” he said pompously. “They stay.”

  “She is no better than a whore in a bath house,” Anne raged at him. “And she is no friend to me. I won’t have her among my ladies.”

  “She is a gentle pure young woman and—”

  “Pure? What was she doing in your lap? Saying her prayers?”

  “That’s enough!” he said with a rumble of anger. “She stays among your ladies. Her family stays at court. You overreach yourself, madam.”

  “I do not!” Anne swore. “I have the say of who attends me. I am queen and these are my rooms. I won’t have a woman here I don’t like.”

  “You will have the attendants I choose for you,” he insisted. “I am the king.”

  “You will not order me,” she said breathlessly, her hand to her heart.

  “Anne,” I said. “Be calm.” She did not even hear me.

  “I order everyone,” he said. “You will do as I bid you for I am your husband and your king.”

  “I’ll be damned if I do!” she screamed, and turned on her heel and fled to her privy chamber. She opened the door and shouted at him from the threshold. “You don’t master me, Henry!”

  But he could not run after her. That was her fatal mistake. If he had been able to run after her then he could have caught her and they could have tumbled into bed together as they had done so many times before. But his leg hurt him and she was young and taunting and instead of being aroused he was baited. He resented her youth and her beauty, he no longer reveled in it.

  “It is you who are the whore, not her!” he shouted. “Don’t think I have forgotten what you will do to get into a king’s lap. Jane Seymour will never know half the tricks you used on me, madam! French tricks! Whore’s tricks! They no longer enchant me; but I don’t forget them.”

  There was a shocked gasp from the court and George and I exchanged one look of total horror. Anne’s door slammed shut and the king turned to his court and George and I met his fulminating glare with the blankness of absolute terror.

  He pulled himself to his feet. He said: “Arm.” Sir John Seymour thrust George aside, and the king leaned on him and went slowly to his own rooms, his gentlemen following him. I watched him go and found that I was swallowing painfully with a dry throat.

  George’s wife Jane Parker was at my side. “What tricks did she used to do?”

  I had a sudden vivid recollection of coaching her to use her hair, her mouth, her hands on him. George and I had taught her everything that we knew, drawn from George’s time in the bath houses of Europe with French whores, Spanish madams, and English sluts, and everything that I knew from wedding and bedding one man and seducing another. We had taken Anne and trained her to do the things that Henry liked, the things all men like, things expressly forbidden by the church. We had taught her to strip naked before him, to raise her shift an inch at a time to show him her privates, we had taught her to lick his cock from the base to the tip with long languorous touches. We had taught her the words he liked and the pictures he wanted in his head. We had given her the skills of a whore and now she was reproached for it. I met George’s eyes and I knew he had the same memory.

  “Oh Lord save us, Jane,” he said wearily. “Don’t you know that when the king is angry he’ll say anything? Nothing, is what she did. Nothing more than a kiss and a caress. The sort of thing that any husband and wife do in their balmy days.” He paused, and corrected himself. “We didn’t, of course; not you and me. But then you’re not really a very kissable woman, are you?”

  She turned away for a moment as if he had pinched he