Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (25 page)

I argued that the winter would soon be over, and the new round of diplomatic negotiations would begin. Henry could move forward with a clean conscience that he had treated his Queen with all due deference, even though his mind was sorely troubled regarding the validity of their marriage. Furthermore, there would be no ammunition for the Imperial ambassador, Mendoza, to use against the King, with his master, The Holy Roman Emperor, and Katherine’s nephew, Charles V. As we walked along, Henry brooded silently, considering my argument for some time, before he nodded his head and agreed that this was indeed the way to proceed. The next five days were a blur. My mother organised our travel arrangements and made ready with the packing of our clothes and belongings.

My father and brother were to remain at court, celebrating Christmas with the King, as was expected of all his nobles. It was to be a quiet Christmas indeed at Hever. Yet in many ways, I was already looking forward to the peace, solitude and the chance to gather my thoughts on what had been a most extraordinary three months. There was only one task for me to complete before I left Greenwich. I spoke individually to Nan, Mary and Joan and asked them if they would care to leave the Queen’s service and become the first three members of Anne Boleyn’s household. In truth, I was a little unsure as to how they might react. However, each one lit up in radiant expectation and delight that we would become the centre of a young and energetic influence at court and of course, each was overjoyed at the prospect of escaping the stifling boredom of Katherine’s Privy Chambers. Yet, I knew that the adventure would have to wait, as I explained that, upon pain of death, they must say nothing of their appointments until I returned to court in the spring. Accompanied with much groaning and rolling of the eyes, I also explained that until that time, they must remain in Katherine’s service as if nothing had changed.

On the day of our departure, I was summoned by the King to his private chambers to say goodbye. We embraced tenderly, clutching onto each other as if we could not bear to be parted, even for a moment, let alone several months. Henry stroked my face and kissed my forehead; he told me over and over that he loved and desired me above all others and that I should remain of stout heart and good cheer until we could be reunited once more. He begged me to write often, so that he should continue to know that I was well, and to be assured of the constancy of my heart and mind. With solemn agreement to do so, we kissed passionately one more time before I curtsied, turned and walked out of the room. I could not bear to look back for the sorrow of parting had already taken shape like a heavy stone in my heart.

I thought on all these things as I looked across the litter at my mother, who was travelling with me. Despite the fact that she too was well wrapped in opulent furs, she looked tired and drawn. It had been a bitterly cold and uncomfortable journey. My mother was sitting back, her eyes closed and her brow furrowed, which made me concerned that she was suffering and perhaps in pain. I reached across and gently laid my gloved hand on her knee.

‘Mother, you look unwell. Are you all right? I had never seen Elizabeth Boleyn in anything but the most robust of health. Anne’s mother opened her eyes, smiled and said,

‘I am fine, my child. Do not worry. My advancing years make these journeys a little more arduous than they once were, but it is nothing that a warm fire and a cup of posset will not cure.’ At that moment, our little litter drew up adjacent to the drawbridge of the castle. The small courtyard within made it impossible for us to enter without alighting and making the last few yards of our journey on foot.

My mother stepped out of the litter first. As I descended, a snowflake fell upon my face. By the time I had crossed the drawbridge and entered the courtyard, it began to snow more heavily. I looked up towards the sky; enchanted by the myriad of snowflakes as they swirled and danced their way to the ground. The first snow of the winter had finally arrived. I clutched my fur-lined cloak about me, before hurrying inside to melt my frozen hands and feet in front of the warm fire.

My mother and I soon settled back into the everyday routine of daily life; of running the castle as any competent gentlewoman was expected to do. The snowfall which began on the day of our arrival continued intermittently over the next week or so, leaving the Kentish countryside almost two feet deep in pristine, virgin snow. The icy temperatures meant that none of it melted, and the surface of the little moat around our castle was soon frozen solid.

Our servants kept the fires well lit and for the most part, my mother and I stayed at home; amusing ourselves with taking exercise in the Long Gallery, reading, playing cards, doing embroidery and speculating a great deal about the goings-on at court. Because of the inclement weather, we received no letters either from our father, or from the King. Nor was I able to send any letters to Henry, although I mused that it would do him no harm to miss me.

Much to my amusement, I noticed that I had lost my 21st century addiction to busyness, and the need to be always on the go; I had become content with the unhurried pace of 16th century living. Anne and I shared a love of nature and fresh air, and it was only on the very harshest of wintry days, when blizzards whipped the snow in great swirls around the castle, that I kept entirely indoors. On most days though, I would wrap myself up and go walking, drinking in the crisp, clean air and the exquisite beauty and silence that comes only when the countryside is enfolded in a deep blanket of snow.

As before, I was also drawn back to the castle’s library. My love of books and my thirst for knowledge caused me to pass many hours in its pleasant company. At court, I had heard many of Anne’s contemporaries refer to, or read from, the novel, ‘
Roman de la Rose’
; a medieval poem of French origin, whose purpose was both to entertain and teach about the art of love. I wanted to learn more about the thinking that shaped the 16th century mind on matters of love; so after some searching, I found a beautifully illustrated manuscript tucked away in the cupboards of the library. Anne’s fluency in French meant that I had no trouble in devouring it; delighting in the romance of the story and in unpicking its many hidden allegorical meanings.

However, on that particular day, I set aside this manuscript and turned to my Book of Hours, which had become my constant companion. I was turning it over and over in my hands, deep in thought and reflecting on recent events. Since returning from court, I had spent more time in my mother’s company than I had done since before we had left for Beaulieu in early August. The two of us often passed the evening together, sitting by the light of the fire. I would read passages out loud from religious texts, whilst my mother worked her embroidery.

On one such evening, I had the opportunity to delve more deeply into Anne’s interest in Lutheranism, as it was then called by her contemporaries. Sitting down with my mother after supper as usual, Elizabeth Boleyn reached over and handed me a book that I had not seen before. As I opened it, I immediately recognised that it was different from the usual books that I had so far been privy to; instead of being a hand-written, illuminated manuscript in French or Latin, this book was printed in English. Before I could speak, my mother spoke for me.

‘It is Master Tyndale’s version of the New Testament. Our contact, Master Locke in Antwerp, sent it through for your father whilst we were away at court.’ Elizabeth Boleyn sat back in her chair and nonchalantly picked up her embroidery, as if it were of no significance that she had just handed me a book which I knew was banned in England. I flicked through its pages, awed that I was holding in my very hands an original copy of the first English translation of the New Testament. Part of me felt anxious that I had in my possession a text which could have me declared a heretic and burned at the stake. However, along with fear, I was also excited by the freedom that this book represented; a powerful break from the stifling domination of the clergy and the perceived malpractices of the Holy Roman Church.

I sensed that Anne was becoming more comfortable with this new learning and, for the first time, I felt her growing passion for the reformed faith well up within me.

I ran my hands over the smooth leather cover of the book, wondering who Master Locke was. I knew both from my understanding of history, and listening to court gossip, that Antwerp was a free city surrounded by the Holy Roman Empire, and as such it was a centre for English exiles, who were also evangelical reformers, such as William Tyndale. I rightly assumed that Master Locke must be an intermediary, smuggling such texts into England from the continent. I also mused on how the family could have developed such networks and contacts, when my mother answered my silent question yet again.

‘Sending you to France in the service of Mary Tudor was the making of you, child. Your father and I did the best we could for you here, at Hever, but you have a sharp eye and a keen wit and you learned well the tongue and the manners of the French court.’ My mother, busily working embroidery onto a fine linen shirt whilst she spoke, paused and looked up at me as she went on, ‘Not to mention the many learned and godly men that you had the good grace to meet; although, your father played a large role in that.’

Elizabeth Boleyn returned to her embroidery. As she continued, I listened attentively, gaining valuable information about Anne’s early life.

‘I believe now what you told me, on the day the King proposed to you, that God has indeed chosen you to bring the light to England; you have the King’s ear; you alone will be able to open his eyes to the corruption of the Church.’ Then almost speaking to herself, she added, ‘Your time in France made you into a desirable young woman, fit for the attentions of the King, and for the purpose of doing God’s work.’ After a short silence, she added, ‘It is just unfortunate that your sister has neither your intelligence, nor your discretion.’ I heard the coldness in my mother’s voice as she touched on the subject of my sister. I felt the need to defend Mary, who had showed me nothing but kindness and generosity.

‘Mother, Mary is a kind and loving creature with a warm heart. I do not believe the worst of her.’ I said earnestly.

‘That may be so Anne, but the plain and simple truth is that her behaviour at the French court with King Francis was shameful!’ Putting her embroidery down, my mother went on, speaking emphatically, becoming ever angrier, ‘I even heard tell that the French King referred to Mary as his ‘English mare’ as he had ridden her so often! Then not content to squander her own name and ours across the courts of Europe, she falls straight into the King’s bed when she arrives back in England! For shame! Her behaviour has been inexcusable for a good Christian woman.’ My mother was in full stride and not to be interrupted. ‘That girl is morally corrupt and sometimes . . . I am ashamed that she’s my daughter’ She paused for a moment before going on, ‘and look where it has got her! Your sister should look to you for good sense and moral guidance for Lord knows your father and I seem to have failed miserably as far as she is concerned.’

I said no more about it, as I could see it was a sensitive subject. Whilst I had some sympathy for my mother, who was deeply religious and socially aware—after all, she had been brought up in a fiercely proud and aristocratic family—I also felt irritated on Mary’s behalf. She was being harshly judged, particularly since her adulterous affair with the King had benefitted the family. However, I held my tongue. I sensed that Anne loved her mother deeply. I was also becoming very attached to Elizabeth Boleyn, the only mother I had ever really known.

As I sat in the window seat of the library, looking out over the moat and the gardens beyond, I reflected on all that I had learnt during that evening, and sighed. My thoughts suddenly turned to the King, and I wondered what he was doing, whether he was missing me in the same way that I longed for his presence and the warmth of his embrace. I also realised that I missed dreadfully the thrill of court life; the hunting, the music, the dancing; not to mention my friends.

The ridiculous thing is that I knew where the story was going; that Henry and Anne would be married. But it was only Christmas, 1527 and they had nearly five years to wait! I knew all about the art of waiting. Daniel and I had been in a relationship for five years, and we too never seemed any closer to our dream of being together. History told us that Anne would get her man, although it will ultimately cost her her life. The question was, when I returned to my modern day life, would I also get mine and would there be a penalty to pay? As I opened the book resting in my lap, there was the picture of ‘The Last Judgement.’ I was suddenly and inexplicably agitated, and I sensed Anne’s feelings of frustration well up within me. By then, I had become adept at differentiating her emotions from my own. When she was ‘speaking’ through me, I always felt somewhat detached, as if an observer. In those moments, I was aware of thoughts, emotions and passions arising from a separate consciousness to my own. To calm Anne down, I whispered under my breath,