Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (13 page)

When I was not with my mother, I occupied much of my time in the library, voraciously devouring book after book in a quest to understand as much as I could about the world that had seemed so strange to me at first, and yet was becoming my home. In the first couple of weeks, I had spent a good deal of time thinking of my other life. But as each day went by, I became more indelibly ingrained into the fabric of my 16th century life. In Anne’s body I had never felt more alive, or more vibrant. And what was more was that in a short period of time, I had adapted admirably to playing the part of Anne Boleyn. Yes, back then, I still sensed myself as entirely distinct from her; the molecules of our lives inexplicably, but temporarily, woven together by a bizarre turn of events, although this would change in time and I would soon begin to lose the sense of my own separate identity.

On occasion, my mother gently enquired about my intentions to return to court. She knew of my pledge to the King, and that he eagerly awaited my return. I confess that part of me longed for it—to see Henry again. I was also full of anticipation at the thought of tasting the real-life Tudor Court for myself. Yet, I sensed that in my departure from Hever, Anne would be leaving the last of her youth and innocence behind. I was so utterly entranced by every nuance of life in our little country home that for some time I resisted the impulse to rush forward on to London. Of course, I was also acutely aware of the many dangers that lay ahead for Anne, and I found myself wanting to save her from her fate.

On that July morning, I awoke slowly. All night a fierce thunderstorm had raged around the castle, lighting up the sky in a magnificent display of nature’s omnipotence. Thunder had rolled around our little valley and kept me awake well into the early hours of the morning, and so I had slept later than I was accustomed. Even before I opened my eyes though, I knew the rain had ceased. The breeze that was coming through my little window had been cleansed by nature’s purge, and was sweet and fresh. I stretched languidly in my bed, before my eyes finally flickered open.

Momentarily I gasped, automatically recoiling and pulling the crisp linen sheets about me; for there was a man I did not know standing squarely at the foot of my bed. He was grinning at me broadly. Standing at probably 5 feet 10 inches, he was of average build, with broad shoulders and a narrow, slim waist. The gentleman in question was holding a black velvet cap scrunched up in his right hand, which had left his dark brown, wavy locks uncovered and attractively tousled. There was no doubt that this man had a handsome face; strong sideburns accentuated chiseled cheek bones and an angular jaw, and like many young men I had encountered so far, he had grown a neatly trimmed beard and moustache, as seemed to be the fashion. I admired his rich attire, fashioned from fabrics of grey damask, velvet and silk, all of which were contrasted against the frill of his white, linen shirt. But what most caught my attention was the light in his eyes; it was the light of a kindred spirit. This could only be Anne’s brother, George.

‘Dear sister, have you missed me?’ He held his arms open as if to firmly announce his presence, just in case I had failed to notice it. ‘For I have missed you! Although,’ he paused for a moment, ‘I have to admit that things have become somewhat interesting at court these days!’ I knew that he was referring to the King’s intentions towards me. George strode round the side of the bed and sat on the edge of it beside me; his left leg was bent up, resting atop of the feather mattress. For a moment, I was surprised, as he reached over and gently stroked my hair. It was an intimate gesture, full of deep and sincere brotherly love for his elder sister. Yet suddenly aware of the future danger that this intimacy would bring to George and Anne, I found myself flinching. I suspect it would have been imperceptible to anybody but Anne’s dearly beloved brother, who withdrew his hand and looked at me quizzically.

‘Are you feeling well, sister? You look somehow . . . not quite yourself.’ I nearly laughed out loud—never was a greater truth told! I quickly gathered my composure. Reciprocating the tenderness of his smile with my own, I pushed the sheets back and drew my legs beneath me, kneeling on the bed next to him.

‘Of course, dear brother. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting you. You took me by surprise.’ Wanting to change the subject, I added, ‘So pray, tell me, how is the King’s Grace? And what developments at court?’

Reaching inside a leather pouch clipped onto his belt, my brother withdrew a letter. I saw immediately a heavy wax seal bearing the same coat of arms that I had seen on the Royal Standard. My brother held it out to me and with a wry smile he spoke,

‘The King has commanded me to deliver this letter unto you. He is much perplexed by your continued absence at court.’ He chuckled before going on, ‘in fact, it would not be an untruth to say that he pines for you, sweet sister. I have never seen such puppy-dog eyes when he mentions your name! Fancy, the King of England enslaved by the chains of passion to my sister.’ However, I was not really listening. I took the letter and turned it over in my hand, feeling the rough texture of the parchment under my fingers. For a moment, I paused and ran my fingertip around the Great Seal before slipping my finger beneath the fold and pulling the wax apart. I sat back on my heels.

In reply to my own composition, I saw immediately that the letter was written in French and in Henry’s own hand.

My mistress and friend
,

Since I parted with you and you delivered to me that most beautiful gift (for which again I thank you right cordially) I have heard nought more from you. I have been advised by your father that you will not come to court, neither with my lady your mother, nor by any other way. If this report be true, I cannot enough marvel at it, seeing that I am well assured I have never since that time committed fault. Reassuring you now above all else that I have spoken with Katherine of the great weight that my conscience bears pertaining to our unholy union and thus hoping you to be of great surety as regards my intentions toward you
.

Praying you also that if ever before I have in any way done you offence, that you will give me your generous absolution. As God be my witness, yet again I henceforth pledge my heart to you alone, greatly desirous that so my body could be as well, as God can bring to pass if it pleases him, whom I entreat once each day for the accomplishment thereof, trusting that at length my prayer will be heard and wishing the time brief. Good lady, I beg you as a humble servant to come forth from Hever and join me forthwith at our Palace of Beaulieu, where we shall rest until the middle of August
.

Written with the hand of that secretary who in heart, body and will is your loyal and most insured servant

H.aultre
ne cherse R
.

My brother flopped backwards on the bed; one knee raised high, his arms extended above his head. He looked at me.

‘So, what does it say? No, don’t tell me.’ Then in playful imitation of a lovesick king, he went on, ‘I can’t live without you, have pity on me, I beg you to return to court. . . .’ He circled his hand languidly around in the air indicating ‘and so forth.’

‘George, don’t make fun of me!’ I was not much concerned with his teasing. I paused for a moment savouring this incredible moment, holding a love letter from the King of England in my very hands! Then I said, ‘Henry says that he has told Katherine of his intentions to annul their marriage. Pray tell, how has she taken the news?’ Remaining reclining on my bed, my brother replied,

‘As you would expect; full of pious self-righteousness. I heard tell that the King and Queen had a furious argument. Mark my words, that woman is imperious—not to mention corpulent! No wonder the King wants rid of the old hag!’

I swiped at George with the letter playfully, admonishing him for his disrespect,

‘George! That is St. Katherine you’re talking about!’ I knew that I should not be so mean, but I was suddenly gripped by an irritation towards the woman. I sensed that even in those early days of Henry and Anne’s romance, there was little love lost between them. ‘And no doubt she blames it all on me?’ I cocked my head to the side, quizzically.

George lifted himself up, supporting himself on one hand, whilst resting the other on his bent knee.

‘Of course,’ he said casting his eyes downwards, searching for the right words. Finally, he said, ‘Anne, I think you should hear it from me rather than from some tittle-tattle at court. She is . . . has . . . called you . . .’

‘A whore?’ Of course, I knew full well of Katherine’s opinion of Anne Boleyn, the ‘scandal of Christendom.’ George flinched. It clearly both hurt and angered at him to hear the honour of his favourite sister so defamed. ‘Think nought of it, my brother. We must seek to rise above such malicious slander.’ At this, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and still with the letter in my hand, made my way to the cabinet and the casket that lay within. I took the box out, whilst my brother spoke again.

‘So what happens now?’

‘ ‘Now?’ I turned to look at him. ‘Now, sweet brother, I come to court. I have tarried here long enough. No doubt Katherine will do all she can to deviate the King from his chosen path, and we must ensure that she’s not successful.’ It was one of those moments in which I felt Anne take control and speak through me. As I placed the letter from Henry safely inside the casket, I sensed a cold and steely resolve take a hold of me. Katherine had had her chance with Henry, and Anne was not about to give her another one.

‘Now, George, leave me to dress. I will come and join you and mother shortly, and then we can make our plans.’ George pulled himself up from the bed. As he passed, he kissed me lightly on the cheek, and then withdrew from the room, leaving me to contemplate the many wonders and intrigues that lay ahead.

Chapter Seven

Journey to Beaulieu

July 22, 1527

Our plans were made for the journey to Beaulieu. Our arrival was imminent, so we sent a messenger on ahead to warn the King, who was in the midst of his summer progress, and was shortly due to arrive at the palace himself. On the morning of our departure, I took refuge in the library one last time. Whilst waiting for our horses to be made ready, I made myself comfortable reclining in one of the window seats that looked out across the moat towards the fields and woodland beyond. Thankfully, it was a fine day for travelling; bright and clear with a cool breeze. On this occasion, for my reading material, I selected a small and ancient leather-bound Book of Hours, which I was now thumbing through carefully. One could only be in awe of the immaculate handwritten prose and astonishingly beautiful illuminations which brought the words to life. It was an exquisite piece of artwork that I often admired during my visits there. Strange in some ways, as this was such a little book and there were so many more impressive volumes that I could have chosen. Yet somehow, this book kept calling my name. Whilst pondering this, I heard the door creak open and my mother entered.

‘I thought I would find you here, child. These books will be lonely without you.’ She made her way across the room and I could see she was curious as to what I was holding in my hand. I spoke before she had a chance to ask.

‘It is a Book of Hours, mother. I find something familiar and comfortable within its pages,’ I explained, although I knew it was not necessary to do so. My mother looked over my shoulder; the lightness of expression that comes from seeing an old friend lit up her face.

‘Ah! That book belonged to my mother.’ I could tell immediately that, echoing Anne’s relationship with her own mother, theirs had been a close one, full of love and affection. I imagined that it was unusual in a time that was not known for such tender and expressive love to be shared between a parent and child. I suspected in that moment, I understood a little more of how Elizabeth Boleyn had managed to create such a close relationship with her own children.

‘Why do you not make use of it yourself?’ I asked puzzled.

‘Your father gave me a Book of Hours shortly after our marriage. I think I put it aside then, and in truth, I had forgotten all about it.’ She smiled down at me, studying my face for a short time, before she spoke again. ‘But since it speaks to you directly daughter, then I heartily give it to you. Wherever you go, may its constancy remind you not only of God’s love for you, but of your mother’s love, which knows no bounds.’ Suddenly, I felt tears sting at the back of my eyes, for I could not remember the love of my own mother. Immediately, it became the most treasured of gifts and something that I swore would always remain at my side. I stood up, holding my arms out; my mother fell into them and we embraced. When we finally pulled apart, she spoke again. ‘The horses are ready now, child.’ She took hold of my shoulders firmly in both hands. ‘It is time for us to leave.’

Arm in arm, we left the room, bidding farewell to those servants who were to remain behind to look after the castle, and who lined up by the front door to wish us Godspeed. In the courtyard, three horses had already been prepared and my brother, already mounted on his fine rouncy, awaited our arrival. I could see that we were to be accompanied by a small retinue of servants and several carts, all precariously laden with various trunks containing our clothes and most precious belongings. A stable boy held the reins of my horse. With great satisfaction, I noted it was the same chestnut gelding that I had ridden with the King during the day of the hunt. As I approached, the boy smiled at me and spoke with pride,