Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (3 page)

Part Two

Chapter One

Hever Castle
,

May 31, 1527

‘Anne, Anne, come, come quickly, he’s nearly here!’ I heard the woman’s excited voice at a distance at first, vague and unclear. But it sounded familiar. I toyed distractedly with the words but seemed unable or disinclined to respond. ‘Anne, wake up! Wake up!’ Suddenly the voice came into clear focus, almost upon me; I was startled awake, brought to consciousness as someone grabbed, and then shook, my arm. ‘Anne, what is the matter with you? Do you hear me? He is nearly here!’

Fighting the grogginess in my head, I realised that the voice that I was hearing was the same one that I had heard on the staircase shortly before I passed out. It took me some time to focus. At first, all I knew was that the searing pain, the nausea, and the heat in my body had disappeared. ‘Thank God for that,’ I thought to myself. I must have passed out, but clearly I was OK. I was still in one piece; someone had even come to find me. My party must have missed me after all. Perhaps Helen had been worried when I did not return. Yet, when I finally managed to open my eyes, I could not quite believe what I was seeing.

I was still in the Long Gallery, although I couldn’t see along its full length, as I was hidden away in the same recess that I had taken refuge in at the far end of the room. However, I was increasingly aware that what I could see in front of me looked somehow, strangely different. The ceiling was heavily stuccoed with foliage, whilst the plain walls were decorated with various gilt framed oil paintings, all painted on board; I shook my head slightly in disbelief; I was sure that before I passed out, the walls had been clad in fine oak panelling. Each painting was a portrait of either a dignified looking man or woman, dressed in ornate medieval or Tudor dress; none of them was familiar to me. The light still fell in pools across the floor, but surely I could not have been unconscious for so long that someone had changed everything.

It was then that I became aware of the young woman kneeling at my feet; the person whose voice I had heard emerging from the blackness, and who had brought me back to consciousness with her forceful shaking of my arm. I looked at her, shifting my gaze downward to meet her soft hazel-brown eyes. I was transfixed by the light that played in those eyes and the look of affection which she clearly bore me. I stared at her, not quite believing what I saw for, before me, was a woman dressed in an elegant Tudor gown. With a tight fitting bodice and voluptuous skirts, the gown was made of the deepest russet red velvet, the embroidered edge of the linen smock beneath clearly visible above the low-cut, square neckline, whilst satin finished the full sleeves that were turned back, and which tumbled to the ground around where she knelt. Her skin was radiant and glowed in the warmth of the day, whilst her most striking facial features were her long, straight nose and cupid-like, rosy-red lips.

About her neck were strung two strands of gold chain from which was suspended a delicate golden cross. In turn, a single pearl-drop hung down from the cross to just above a brooch of ornate gold; it had been worked into the shape of a rose and attached to the front of her bodice. I could not help but notice how that bodice gripped her curves, forcing her breasts to rise and fall visibly above the neck-line. She certainly seemed to be out of breath from the exertion of running to find me. I nearly laughed aloud. I could not believe that members of my party were dressing up already, and in my own drama, I was missing all the fun!

Suddenly, the young woman, whose expectant face was fixed on my own, squeezed my hand. For a moment, I beheld those delicate hands, admiring her long elegant fingers, which were bejewelled with several glittering rings.

‘Anne, are you well? You must have dozed off up here.’ I did not speak, for I couldn’t speak; my mind was still racing, unable to make any sense of what I was seeing, she pressed on. ‘But listen, the King is coming. His messenger came ahead to warn our father. He must be nearly here by now. Are you coming? You know he has come for you, my beautiful, intelligent sister. You must make ready.’ The English rose shook my hand in some exasperation, before she added with great urgency, ‘If you make haste, there will still be time to change into your new French gown; the King will not be able to take his eyes off you!’

My ‘new French gown’ . . . ‘the King,’ coming here, to see me? What on earth was she talking about? I did not recognise this woman from our party, but I assumed the organisors must have gone to considerable trouble to stage this spectacle. I was impressed and about to say so, but something in the woman’s earnest gaze held me back. I felt something stir inside of me—a knowing, an understanding of something far beyond my conscious awareness. I felt inexplicably drawn to this woman, who was holding my hand so tightly. I must have smiled, for she impulsively leaned forward and kissed me gently on the cheek, wide-eyed excitement radiating from her face. Suddenly, she rose to her feet and turned to look toward the door. As she did so, I too heard what had caught her attention. Shouts echoed from within the castle; they seemed to be coming from the direction of the inner courtyard. Then, growing louder and more thunderous with every second, there came the sound of horses’ hooves clattering over the drawbridge and onto the cobbled stones.

‘He’s here! Anne, we don’t have much time. We must go!’ With that, the young woman grabbed my hand once more and pulled me to my feet. To my relief, my legs, which I recalled had felt so unsteady before I had collapsed, were now strong again and bearing me forward effortlessly, hurried along by my unknown companion. In my confusion, I was hardly able to say a word, let alone resist the insistent tugs which kept up our momentum. Before I knew it, we had left the Long Gallery, gone down a short flight of stairs and through two further rooms; each one as beautifully adorned as the Gallery itself; portraits, heavy oak furniture, all elaborately carved, even plates of silver and the odd item of what seemed to be gold. However, as we reached the end of the second room, I came to an abrupt halt. This caused the young woman to yelp in pain as, still holding my hand, I jarred hard against her. I had found myself staring into an old mirror hanging on a wall. The mirror was not as flawless as I was used to, so the image was somewhat distorted, but I saw enough to take my breath away. I was transfixed for a second time.

Next to my companion stood a striking young woman of slim build and a little taller than the woman next to her but, nevertheless, of average height. Her face—no—my face, was oval, perfectly proportioned with a darker, more olive-like complexion than the English rose that I had studied so intently in the Long Gallery. Like the English rose though, there was a similar long and straight nose and beautiful full lips. I was struck by how flawless her/my skin was. She had a long, slender neck, her breast creating a gentle swell beneath what I would come to know as a kirtle. The eyes were deep and dark, framed by slender, arching eyebrows. I felt that it would be easy to get lost in the depths of those eyes that were both searching and captivating all at the same time. Unlike the stranger next to her, this woman wore no hood but merely a coif, which gathered up an abundance of glossy, dark chestnut hair.

I finally allowed the reality to wash over me, that I
was
this other woman. I gasped almost inaudibly, for about that slender neck was an unmistakable mark of my true identity. Set against a gold chain, was a double strand of pearls from which hung the unmistakable gold ‘B’ that I had seen in so many portraits before. Could it be possible? I turned briefly to look at my companion, reassuring myself of her presence and that this indeed was real. Hesitantly, I turned back to gaze once more at my reflection—her reflection. I was looking at the face of Anne Boleyn.

‘Come on!’ she said. Clearly exasperated from my dalliance, the young woman dragged me away from the mirror and down a corridor that I recognised as ‘the Staircase Gallery;’ a gallery which was added by Thomas Boleyn after the family moved to Hever Castle in 1506. Thomas had turned what had been a slightly outdated early Tudor manor into a bright, warm and fashionable house of its day. The corridor was about three metres wide, clad again in oak panelling. It wrapped itself round the three sides of the building; each inner wall being set with many windows, all of which faced out onto the courtyard. I noticed how the sparkling windowpanes were carved up into small diamonds by the crisscrossing of the lead piping set within them; whilst multi-coloured patches of light were thrown on the floor and walls by the occasional colourful, heraldic design, which had been painted onto them at regular intervals.

Much to the annoyance of my companion, I stubbornly halted once more, this time drawn to the open window which I had spied just less than an hour ago—or was it 500 years into the future—from the courtyard below. I moved slowly toward the window pane, coming to rest each hand lightly on either side of its leaden frame. I hardly dared see the sight that unfolded beneath me, as I slowly leaned forward to peer out of the opened window.

In the riot of colour and chaos, I remained unobserved. The noise of chatter, of horses’ hooves striking the cobbled stone and the clinking of metal stirrups, reverberated through the confined space below. Servants rushed around taking sweating horses from lavishly dressed men who were in the process of dismounting their rides. One youngish lad wove his way through the mêlée, delivering flagons of what must have been ale to those who had already dismounted and were dusting off their fine clothing from their apparently long and strenuous ride. I watched the men throw back their heads, downing the liquid voraciously in between their talking and laughing with one another; clearly they were in high spirits. Elevated high above the crowd, my attention was drawn next to a banner of vibrant red, the background to three golden lions with blue claws and tongues which were emblazoned proudly across it. I noticed how the gold thread caught the light, causing the flag to glisten in the sun; it was the Royal Arms of England.

My gaze then fell upon a larger than life figure clothed in rich fabrics and wearing soft leather riding boots that were adorned with golden spurs. A gold-linked collar hung around the man’s shoulders, whilst a silken sash was tied about his waist, from which was hung a sheathed dagger, its handle made of intricately worked silver. Everything about this man declared his exalted status and wealth. I longed to see his face. However, the man’s broad back remained frustratingly turned toward me, with his head and face obscured by a bejewelled velvet cap, the rim edged with soft, white feathers that danced lightly in the gentle afternoon breeze.

As he exchanged words with another man, who had been standing close by him, a second figure emerged from the main entrance—the one I passed through not too long ago. He was a tall but slim man, elegantly dressed, who greeted his visitor with one arm extended in a sweeping open gesture, whilst the other was folded in front of him as he made a deep and courteous bow. I was unable to hear his words above the general hubbub below, but from his actions, I took this man to be the head of the household. I would later find out that this was indeed Thomas Boleyn, Anne’s father.

I was riveted, but before I had a chance to see any more, I was pulled away from the window and on down the corridor past a huge oak sideboard covered in silver plate. Keeping hold of my hand, the woman swirled around and started speaking to someone who was clearly following us. However, I was transfixed by the face of my English rose. It began to dawn on me that if indeed I was in the body of Anne Boleyn, then the woman who had awoken me in the Long Gallery must surely be Anne’s sister, Mary; everything about her dress and her easy familiarity with me told me it was so.

‘Bess, can you come and assist me? Mistress Anne needs to be made ready . . . and quickly!’ My English rose kept moving, stepping backwards as she spoke to Bess, whilst steering me toward a large, dark, oak door that had been left slightly ajar. I glanced behind me, looking over my shoulder to see Bess for myself. I was met by the figure of a young woman dressed rather plainly and clearly still in her first flush of youth. She was scurrying after us, her arms laden with linen. Clearly, she too was giddy with excitement at the King’s visit.

In a deep Kentish country accent the maid, and I felt quite certain by her dress that she was a maid, replied.

‘Yes, Mistress Mary.’ With her words, the identity of my companion was confirmed. This pretty, young woman was indeed Mary, Anne’s elder sister. She was beautiful, and I could see why the King had taken her to his bed. Of course, I knew of their affair from history books. With the King clearly here to visit Anne, I assumed that it was, by then, over. Yet, I detected no hint of jealously in her manner toward me. I could not help but marvel at her behaviour, and wondered if I would be so generous if I were in her place. At the same time, my mind was frantically trying to remember when this dalliance between the King and Mary Boleyn had ended. I thought that if I could just bring this to mind, I might have an idea of the year that I was in, and of more immediate importance, where Anne was in her relationship to Henry.

I suppose looking back, I am surprised I did not start laughing at the absurdity of it all. Yet, for some reason, I did not. I seemed stuck there, despite myself, and if the truth be known, beneath the fear was excitement. All my life, since I had fallen for Anne’s charms, I, perhaps like every other lover of history, had dreamed of what it would be like if just for a short while, I could be transported back in time. To be able to see the people whose drama I knew in intimate detail; to speak with them, to ask them about their lives and fill in the gaps left frustratingly blank through documents long lost or destroyed; to know for myself the truth about the people whose reputations had been shaped after their deaths by the personal and political agendas of their contemporaries.