Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (41 page)

Within a few days of my surgery, I had improved so much and that I was able to give the hospital staff the names and contact details of friends - and of Daniel. I was overwhelmed by the huge outpouring of love, thoughtfulness and generosity from those very same friends who visited me in a steady stream, surrounding me with flowers, cards, their love and prayers for my recovery. Oh, and so often I was told just how fortunate I was to be alive! Yet, they were all blissfully unaware of the two secrets that I harboured close to my breast.

The first was my unbelievable sojourn into Anne’s world. I still couldn’t decide if I would tell anyone about it; I could not bear the thought that on hearing such a fantastical story, my friends would dismiss it as the ramblings of a sick brain, and indeed, who would blame them for coming to such a conclusion? Even I had moments when I questioned whether it had all been real. Yet, all that I had known seemed more real to me than the world in which I then found myself. And whilst on some days, I thought I must surely be going mad, I knew in my heart that what I had experienced was not a figment of my imagination.

My second secret was that my surgeon had sat down on the side of my bed three days after the operation. By then, I was well enough to listen and respond to his words. He gently told me that the aneurysm which had caused the bleeding into my brain had been repaired and was unlikely to cause any further problems. However, the brain scan had revealed that there was another one of similar size, unfortunately this time buried much deeper in the brain tissue. There was no way that it could safely be reached surgically. I remember the sadness in his eyes, as he gently broke the news that there was a significant chance that this, in turn, may also ultimately rupture, and because of its location, there might be no way of stemming the bleeding. There was a significant risk that I may die as a result. I suppose I should have been shocked, grief stricken, even. But I was not. I was left with only a sense of guilt for the ease with which I had abandoned any concern or ties to my modern day life; for it is true to say that at that time, I felt that my life was already bereft without Anne and Henry.

I had lain for hours at a time in my clean, starched hospital bed simply staring at the ceiling, lost in a world which was way beyond the imagining of those who surrounded me. When I was somewhat better and cajoled to walk about, I would sit staring out of the window of my private room. So many times in those few weeks, I closed my eyes and desperately tried to transport myself from my modern day life. I willed myself to catch hold of the wings of time, so that I could be swept back to my love; back to the life which had become my own. Of course, it was a fruitless quarry, and I could do little to hide the cavernous blackness that engulfed and weighed down heavily on me. Indeed, sometimes it was so oppressive that often I found it difficult to breathe, struggling to hold the space long enough for my grief to unravel itself.

As much as I tried, my melancholia could not be entirely concealed. Consequently, I was referred to a psychiatrist, who rather predictably diagnosed that I was depressed, erroneously attributing it to my sudden illness and the doctor’s dire warnings for my future health. But in truth, I cared very little for my own health. In those early days, I was single-minded in my thinking, and nothing, simply nothing, mattered to me except getting back to Henry, my Tudor family and friends.

I admit that I was strangely obsessed by this more extraordinary life. I remember wishing that the hospital staff would leave me alone with my memories. So, it was at that moment that I decided to put up a facade of normality—the perfect patient, optimistic and responsible. This deception suited my purpose, for as my strength grew, I increasingly yearned to return to Hever. I thought that if there was anywhere that I might cross back into my old life, then surely it would be there.

Chapter Two

Greenwich, London

July 10, 2007

Two weeks later, I was well enough to be discharged from hospital. In my final debrief from my consultant, I was given strict instructions to rest and take it easy for the next few weeks; something, I confess, I had little intention of doing. Mr. Harris made it clear to me that as a result of the bleeding and the surgery to stem it, I might experience complications such as seizures, or future intracranial bleeding. I knew what to look out for and when to ask for help. So, armed with my outpatient appointment for four weeks hence, I was busy packing my few, personal belongings when my dear friend, Kate appeared in the doorway of my hospital room.

‘Anyone need a taxi!’ she exclaimed. I smiled warmly when I saw my friend standing in the doorway; her thick, dark brown hair swept back off her face by her Dior sunglasses. She looked effortlessly chic and casual in a crisp, white blouse and slim fitting jeans. I mused that Kate always looked immaculate, no matter what the occasion, and I often looked on with friendly envy at her perfectly groomed nails, flawless skin and radiant complexion. With just three months age difference between us, Kate had been a friend ever since we both found ourselves working in the same high pressured, ruthless environment some ten years earlier. She was a pragmatic, kind-hearted woman with a razor sharp, incisive wit and from the very earliest days, we recognised each other as kindred spirits.

I suspect that our friendship was forged by the need for us both to take refuge in what we then perceived to be the only other sane person in the office. I suspect that the camaraderie that subsequently flourished started as a safety valve, allowing us to release pressure when faced with the mindless autocracy and egotistical behaviour of those who led the company for which we worked, and who frankly should have known better. Ten years on, our friendship was substantial, its deep roots providing a solid foundation that no doubt would last a lifetime; it was a lifetime that in the end, I see with irony, was to be much shorter than I ever anticipated.

With a beaming smile, Kate threw open her arms and came towards me, scooping me up in an embrace that spoke of her pure joy and relief to see her friend finally well enough to be going home. I hugged her generously in return, for although my heart ached with grief, I was beginning to learn to conceal it well and indeed, there was a sense of gladness about the idea of finally escaping the clinical austerity of my small hospital room.

‘Boy, am I happy to see you! I can’t tell you what a relief it is to be finally getting out of here; I have been so bored!’ I cried out, throwing my hands up in mock despair. However, this was only a half truth. The mindless monotony of hospital life had suited me to a degree, allowing me to sink into an effortless rhythm that required little active engagement on my part. I confess that I indulged myself entirely in my lost life. Perhaps I was somewhat reckless in doing so; perhaps I should have turned my back on my secret adventure and thrown myself head first into whatever life I had left in the present. But I did not; my Tudor life had become my preoccupation.

Kate waited until I finished my packing, and I had put away the last lonely remnants of my institutionalised life. Perched casually on the edge of my bed, I was aware that she had cocked her head to the side; a small furrow appearing in her brow. Eventually, Kate tentatively broached a subject that she knew was not an easy one for me.

‘Have you heard from Daniel?’ I paused for a moment. Without looking up, I continued with my task and replied nonchalantly,

‘He’s been in on a few occasions, when he could.’ I noticed immediately the ever-present need to justify his actions, or more often, the lack of them. Probably for the thousandth time in our relationship, I pushed away the reality of our situation; like Henry, Daniel was married to another woman. Togeth er they had a child, a little girl called Jemima, who was the ever present wedge dividing us. I put the last of the things in my case and reached round to zip up the weekend bag that went everywhere with me when I travelled. I paused again momentarily, before turning to look at my friend. ‘He’s coming over this afternoon. I think Rose is away with work, and Jemima is at school.’

‘And what did he say about . . . that?’ Kate gestured toward me, nodding meaningfully towards my scalp which, of course, was now shaven across one side of my skull and which sported a frightful scar beneath the crisp white bandages. Of course, I knew she was not referring to any reaction that Daniel might have toward my physical appearance, that would heal in time; rather that she wondered whether the prospect of losing me might have brought his painful dilemma into sharp focus and catalysed a shift in the stalemate that had been going on for five, long years. Oh yes, if anyone knew how Anne felt about the waiting game, it was me.

I shrugged my shoulders, shaking my head almost imperceptibly, as I tried to make sense—first and foremost to myself—of the terrible mess that we seemed to have entangled ourselves within. Oftentimes, I longed to talk to my friends of my relationship with the man that had captured my heart so completely, of the tearing, searing and desolate pain of being unable to be with the person that you love. Yet many of my friends did not even know about our illicit relationship because I feared their harsh judgement. It is not that I lied to them, rather just artfully dodged any conversation which touched on matters of love. It was true though, no matter which way you looked at it, there was no escaping the fact that I had become a master of deception and was not proud of it. However, I was grateful for the easy acceptance of my friends who did know of the situation in which I had become embroiled. Yet, I soon understood that with the exception of Kate, who had personal experience with a similar situation before we were friends, it was impossible for people to comprehend the exquisite torture of prolonged separation; particularly when the person who chose to prolong that separation was your lover. I finally answered my friend, who was waiting patiently for my reply.

‘Oh, you know Daniel, always a pragmatist . . . just like you!’ I smiled at Kate, picking up a light sweater that lay folded at the end of my bed. Slipping it over my head, I adjusted the sleeves, taking a moment to pause before going on, ‘In truth, I think it shook him badly . . . and I don’t actually remember much of his first visit.’ I circled my hand in the air as if trying to pluck my fragile memories from beyond my conscious awareness. ‘I vaguely remember him here and I think there were tears in his eyes. He was telling me he loved me, over and over; that I was the best thing that has happened to him since the birth of his daughter.’ I looked down at my bag still resting on top of my bed. I found myself mindlessly playing with the leather handle, running my finger up and down its smooth form, lost in the rather foggy recollection of seeing Daniel again for the first time.

I remember that I’d opened my eyes and for a split second there was something familiar about the face; it reminded me of Henry and I thought that I was home. Then the details of Daniel’s facial features came into focus, and I recalled my present predicament. He was stroking my brow with his thumb; his face was close to mine, and I could see that his eyes were glistening with emotion. A single tear spilled over and chased its way down his cheek. I remember little else, except that to see him ache for me in that way was like drinking from crystalline waters after walking in the desert of my aloneness for so long. In my confusion, I toyed with the rather obvious notion that I deserved to be shown so much more love than Daniel seemed capable of. I realised why Henry’s adoration had been such an intoxicating elixir to someone who for so long had received only crumbs of affection from my lover’s table. Even the memory of it now hurts. Not the fact that the man that I loved was so cruel and thoughtless, but that I had ever allowed anyone to abuse me with so little regard for my own self-respect. It is so easy to see it all now in stark and painful clarity; but back then I would have endured a thousand cuts before I even considered casting him aside. Suddenly, Kate spoke again,

‘You think he might finally do something?’ I realised that this was as much a statement as a question. In between my daydreams of Henry, my family and friends and the beautiful Tudor palaces that I had come to know as my home, I must confess that I asked myself this question on numerous occasions. Perhaps it all happened for a reason far beyond my knowing? Perhaps this would finally wake Daniel up to his own impotence? At this stage, foolishly, I did not seriously consider the possibility that I was lost hopelessly in my own fantasy of happy-ever-afters; that in time, it would be me who would wake up to my own folly.

Whilst in the 16th century, Anne had recovered from the sweating sickness and her destiny was continuing to roll inexorably forward toward her fate; in my world, without my knowing, I had also begun on the path which would take me relentlessly toward my own unhappy ending. With little else to say, Kate picked up my bag and linking her arm about mine, I left my hospital room for the final time. I headed out back into my modern day life, grieving and disoriented and with no idea about how I was going to come to terms with what had happened to me.