Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (2 page)

So, there I was, indulging my love of Tudor history once more. Six months earlier, I had come across a web site dedicated to all things ‘Anne Boleyn,’ and there in front of me was an offer I could not refuse. It was an ‘Anne Boleyn Connoisseur’s Weekend’; a chance to follow in the footsteps of Anne from her childhood home of Hever Castle to Hampton Court, and ultimately a visit to the Tower of London for the anniversary of her death. Even more enticing was the closure of Hever Castle for one morning, just for our party, so that we could explore it at our leisure. A famous author, who had written much on the subject, was due to give a talk about the life of Anne Boleyn. To complete this perfect day, there was to be an actress who had played Anne in film, and who would be there wearing her costume to further indulge us. I booked it straight away, whilst keeping my intended trip particularly vague with friends and family.

The weeks quickly flew by and during one of the hottest weeks of the year, I found myself driving up to Hever Castle. Not unreasonably, I imagined that after the vacation was over, I would simply return to my life and take up its many familiar threads. How could I ever have known then that nothing was further from the truth; that I was about to be catapulted head-first into an adventure that was far beyond my wildest imagining.

It was a beautiful, and unusually hot, May day as our eager group made its way across the wooden drawbridge of Hever Castle and into the welcome shade of the small inner courtyard that lay beyond. Emerging from beneath the castle’s gatehouse onto the uneven cobblestones underfoot, my gaze was drawn skyward to a perfect blue sky. Swifts circled round above our heads, swooping and diving; endlessly singing their songs in a joyful celebration of life. I had been in this place several times before; twice as a child on happy family outings with my grandparents, who had raised me since I was five years old, and again as an adult, visiting a couple of times under my own steam. It was hard to keep away and I found myself drawn back, time and time again, by that lovely little house buried deep in the Kent countryside, with all its ghostly voices and hidden secrets.

I knew that the 12th century castle had been renovated by Thomas Boleyn shortly after inheriting it following the death of his father, William, in 1505. Thomas was both an accomplished linguist and valued diplomat, who served at the court of King Henry VIII. I often imagined that he must have found the new family home at Hever a more convenient residence than Blickling Hall in Norfolk, since it lay almost directly between London and the Port of Dover.

Hever is a fairy-tale castle, a miniature and far more homely version of the imposing, defensive castles of the earlier Norman era. Turreted and adorned with many beautiful, red brick Tudor chimneys, it is surrounded by a double moat; sculpted rose gardens and a wooded parkland. The castle’s partially ivy covered walls embrace the life story of a time that changed England’s history, and I have never failed to swell with pride thinking about the English woman who had grown up there as a child, before making her momentous debut onto the dangerous and glittering stage of the Tudor court.

As I made my way into the centre of the courtyard, I looked up at the many small and delicate windows that made up the inner façade of the building. Glancing up and to my right, I also noticed that one of those windows on the first floor had been propped open, no doubt to keep the rooms within aired in the growing heat of the late morning. I couldn’t help but imagine Anne looking excitedly down into the courtyard at the King, as he swept across the drawbridge in a flurry of colour and pageantry on one of his impromptu visits.

‘Now, listen everybody!’ My attention snapped back from my reverie. I strained my neck from the back of the crowd to see our group leader, a blonde haired woman called Miranda, gesturing for everyone to gather round. ‘We have the privilege today of having our own private tour of the castle by the Head Steward of Hever. He will be showing us some really special items associated with Anne Boleyn; rest assured there will be plenty of time to see everything and ask lots of questions. If you would follow me, we will start our tour in the Entrance Hall.’ With that, Miranda swept out of the afternoon sunlight and into the darkness of the entrance to the castle, leaving us all to file in dutifully behind her. I stepped back, allowing all but a shy and petite blond, about my age, to go through before me. Finally, I too stepped inside and out of the burgeoning heat.

The Inner Hall, which by the standards of most castles was in fact rather delicately proportioned, was one of my favourite parts of the castle. Despite its 20th century renovations by the extraordinarily wealthy Astor family, the intricately carved, wooden-panelled hallway, just to the right of the main entrance, was always warm and welcoming. What I most loved about that part of the castle were the portraits of some of the most notable figures in Tudor history: Henry VII, Henry VIII, Edward VI and, of course, the sisters, Mary and Anne Boleyn. I gradually eased my way around the outside of the group which, being almost twenty-five strong, filled the modestly sized room. Anne’s portrait was the one painting above all that I wanted to reacquaint myself with.

Like a mother hen, Miranda continued her clucking, ushering us all inside and ensuring everyone was within earshot before she started speaking again.

‘I’d like to introduce you all to Tom Fletcher, Head Steward here at Hever and . . .’ perhaps rather rudely, I tuned out Miranda’s introduction to our rather portly guide, as I found myself at last standing in front of the portrait of Anne herself.

‘So I’m here again,’ I said silently in my head. ‘What is your hold over me, Anne Boleyn?’ Anne looked back out at me, enigmatic and enthralling as ever. She seemed amused that she could keep me in her sphere of influence for so long and so effortlessly. I smiled back. I could not help myself; so few pictures of Anne survived the culling of the Boleyn faction in 1536 that I always felt privileged to see her face, even if it was a later copy of a lost original. ‘So let us go on another journey together. Do with me as you will.’

I was about to turn my attention back to the group, when suddenly, pain exploded in my head; it felt like nothing short of being hit on the back of a head by a hammer. It was intense and I had never experienced such blinding agony before in my life. I found myself swaying forward, stopping myself from falling only by seizing onto the arm of a nearby antique chair that was positioned against the wall near the portrait. Nausea surged its way up from the pit of my stomach. I gripped on to the chair, as the room began to move under my feet and heat ripped through my body. It was all I could do to remain upright and fight the growing tightness in my throat.

‘Now, if you look over here, you will see a painting of . . .’ the sound of Tom’s voice droned in and out of my consciousness, as I focused on not throwing up over the castle’s valuable antique furniture and making a complete spectacle of myself within the first ten minutes of our tour.

‘Excuse me . . .’ I whispered urgently to young man standing next to me, as I started to weave my way back round the edge of the group, toward the door, where I noticed a second guide standing alone by the main entrance. Reaching her, I said. ‘Sorry to bother you but I am feeling a little unwell. It must be the heat. I’m wondering if there are any toilets nearby . . . if I could just splash some cool water over my face . . .’

‘Oh dear, you do look a little peaky!’ The guide, whose name badge gave her away to be ‘Helen’ gently took hold of my elbow and kindly allowed me the opportunity of leaning against her to steady myself. Thankfully, the room had stopped swimming, but I was still unsure as to whether I could hold the contents of my stomach. ‘There’s a bathroom on the next floor. Why don’t you let me show you the way? It’s just along here.’

Walking by Helen’s side, we made our way as quickly as I was able along the corridor leading away from the Inner Hall, through the ornately decorated Library and Morning Room, before finally stopping at a narrow spiral stone staircase. ‘If you go up here and straight through the next room, you will find Mick, who is another one of our guides. He is on duty in the Long Gallery. He will be able to direct you from there. Sorry it’s such a long way, my dear.’ Helen lightly touched my shoulder and cocked her head to one side as she enquired, ‘Will you be alright on your own? I shouldn’t really leave these downstairs rooms unattended.’ I smiled at the warmth of her concern, but I realised that I really was feeling just a little better. The pain had eased off a shade and at least the room was still.

‘I’ll be fine. I am feeling much better.’ I laughed dismissively. ‘It is nothing really; I just get a bit funny in crowds. I’ll be fine.’ With that reassurance, I watched Helen turn and scuttle back toward the Entrance Hall. Turning to face the staircase, I then made my way upwards, occasionally stopping to take a breath and steady my still queasy stomach. I knew where I was heading. I had been this way before. The small room, reputedly Anne Boleyn’s bedroom, lay just a few turns of the staircase above me.

Perhaps it was the exertion of climbing, but I must have been about half way up the narrow stairs, when my head started to throb again. I paused, leaning against the cool stone, feeling its rough surface against my cheek, which felt ablaze with heat. What on earth was the matter with me? Suddenly, I heard the sound of laughter from the room above me. I craned my neck to see round the next turn, rubbing the sides of my temple in the hope of easing the pain. ‘Who on earth could that be? I thought the castle was closed,’ I wondered to myself. I was sure that I had left our entire party well behind, engrossed in every word of our guide. ‘Oh well,’ I thought, ‘perhaps it’s just a couple of the castle’s staff sharing a friendly joke on a day when they knew there are few visitors.’ The laughter faded as I continued to feel my way upwards, slowly, one step at a time.

‘Anne, Anne, come quickly. . . .’ I stopped abruptly, leaning my head to the side, straining against the pounding in my skull in order to hear the muffled voice more clearly. ‘Was someone calling me?’ The voice of a woman was definitely up ahead. ‘How strange! Another Anne?’ Surely, it couldn’t be me they were calling. Nobody knew me there.

Despite my queasiness, I pressed forward, my curiosity definitely piqued. I finally reached the top of the staircase and stepped into the small, rather odd shaped room at the top, recognising it immediately as Anne Boleyn’s bedroom. Much to my surprise there was no-one there. I rubbed my face with my hand in an effort to think more clearly, as if I could erase the increasing heaviness in my head by doing so. I thought that I must have got it wrong, or perhaps whoever it was had moved on from the room toward the Long Gallery.

I stopped for a moment in the doorway and looked about the tiny, yet cosy room. Light shone in through the mullioned window that ran along one short wall. I could see the Astor Wing (a complex of mock Tudor houses built in about 1908 to accommodate Lord Astor’s guests) stretching out below, on the far side of the moat. As enchanting as this room was, I had to confess, I was always a little dismissive of the myth that this tiny space could ever have belonged to Anne Boleyn. I couldn’t even imagine getting a reasonable sized bed in there, let alone the belongings of a queen-in-waiting! Perhaps it had been her nursery, or her bedroom as a small child. I shrugged. No matter. This was not the time for philosophical and historical debate. I realised that I had begun to feel hot again and more than a little nauseous. Anne would have to wait; I needed the powder room quickly!

Wincing at the pain throbbing again in my skull, I made a move to walk forward from the doorway. Again, I found myself halting; a sweet and fragrant perfume filled the air; it smelt of roses and seemed to surround me from nowhere. I looked around; there were no flowers in the room and the windows were all shut; so it couldn’t possibly be fragrance coming up from the rose gardens below. I shook my head as if to clear it, and then rather rapidly wished I hadn’t as pain shot through my temples once more.

My mind turned to finding Mick, and with determination I moved forward through the room into the Long Gallery. To my dismay, it was empty, with no sign of my promised guide. ‘Damn it!’ I muttered to myself. A treasure hunt for the washroom in a castle with God knows how many rooms, and no idea which way I was going. With as much haste as I could muster, I made my way along the one hundred-foot Long Gallery. Ordinarily, I should have been enthralled by its molded plaster ceiling, oak panelling; enchanted by the shafts of afternoon sunlight coming through the many recessed windows and falling as dappled light on the well-worn oak floor. On that day, however, I was feeling far too ill to fully appreciate its charms. As I walked its length, I noticed the room was currently home to a number of exhibits and waxwork figures of Henry and his six wives. It was eerie. I had only ever been there in the tourist season and usually had to weave my way through the throngs of visitors. But that day it was very different. Rather disconcertingly, I found myself alone with only ghosts for company. Mick was still nowhere in sight; nor was the person whose voice I had heard laughing and calling my name.

As I reached the end of the gallery, the room began to move again, as another wave of nausea swept its way up to grip my throat. I was in imminent danger of passing out, I felt sure of it. Without giving it a second thought, I staggered over to the raised recess on my right and slumped unceremoniously onto the window seat that looked out across the moat below. I could no longer open my eyes, as when I did, the room spun so much that it added almost unbearably to my desire to throw up. I was suddenly incredibly hot, and tore at the jacket I was wearing in order to free myself of it. Sweat rolled down my forehead. Thankfully, one of the windows next to where I seated myself was open, allowing a gentle breeze to cool my brow. I felt alone and scared. What was the matter with me? ‘Oh Lord!’ I muttered, agitated and restless. The room began to move in and out of focus, as I fought to remain conscious, and then blackness came—and my life changed forever.