The Other Boleyn Girl - Philippa Gregory

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little curtsey.

      ‘This is just the start for us,’ he reminded me. ‘You’ve got to have him and hold him, remember.’

      I flinched a little from the words of the wedding mass. ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I don’t forget.’

      ‘Has he done anything yet?’

      I glanced towards the great hall where the king and the queen were taking their place. The trumpeters were in position to announce the arrival of the procession of servers from the kitchen.

      ‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘Just eyes and words.’

      ‘And you reply?’

      ‘With smiles.’ I did not tell my father that I was half-delirious with pleasure at being courted by the most powerful man in the kingdom. It was not hard to follow my sister’s advice and smile and smile at him. It was not hard to blush and feel that I wanted to run away and at the same time wanted to draw closer.

      My father nodded. ‘Good enough. You may go to your place.’

      I curtsied again and hurried into the hall just ahead of the servers. The queen looked at me a little sharply, as if she might reprimand me, but then she glanced sideways and caught sight of her husband’s face. His expression was fixed, his gaze locked onto me, as I made my way up the hall and took my place among the ladies in waiting. It was an odd expression, intent, as if for a moment he could see nothing and hear nothing, as if the whole of the great hall had melted away for him and all he could see was me in my blue gown with my blue hood and my fair hair smoothed away off my face, and a smile trembling on my lips as I felt his desire. The queen took in the heat of his look, pressed her lips together, smiled her thin smile, and looked away.

      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 towards 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, towards him. His gaze never left my face as he put his hand out too, palm to palm towards 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 moustache 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 sceptically. ‘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 windowseat. ‘Oh God. Yes. I didn’t realise 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?

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