Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (5 page)

Yet, finally, I knew that I was ready; I was prepared to meet the King. For some reason, I was sure of what needed to happen next. I swung round to face Mary.

‘Sister,’ I found myself saying, as if I had been doing so all of my life! ‘Help me get out to the rose garden. I need the King to come to me. Allow me time to slip outside, and then return to the King with the news that I am taking the air in the garden, unaware of His Grace’s arrival; that he will find me there.’ Mary nodded her understanding..

Ushering the maids from the room, I allowed her to lead the way. Deftly, and with much swishing of our skirts, we glided down the corridor and main staircase. All the time, Mary moved quietly ahead of me, ensuring the way was clear. The most difficult bit had been skirting past the entrance to the Great Hall, where many men from the King’s party had already gathered. I did not yet know the castle well enough, but later I would realise that Sir Thomas had already guided his honoured guest through to the family’s private parlour, which lay beyond the far end of the Hall. Finally, Mary and I emerged on a small bridge that led out from the back of the castle. My sister smiled again, that warm and loving smile. Touching my arm gently, she said, ‘Good Luck, Anne!’ and turned to go.

‘Mary!’ She stopped and turned to look at me once more. ‘Mary, what is the date today?’ She made a puzzled expression, confused as to the relevance of this to the moment in hand; but I had to know. It would make all the difference.

‘Why it’s May 31st of course!’

‘Yes, of course.’ What I said next sounded crazy, I know but I had to ask, ‘. . . and the year?’

‘The year! Are you forgetting yourself again, sister?’

I shrugged, laughing it off as just random confusion in the stress of the moment. When I continued to look at my sister hopefully, she relented, as if agreeing to play my game.

‘Very well, if you insist, it’s May 31st, 1527. Your birthday! Is that not why the King has come?’

Anne’s twenty-sixth birthday; I could not believe my ears, and yet I knew that I must hide my shock and excitement; so I smiled back at Mary and said,

‘Of course, just a little anxious, that’s all.’ I was only half lying. To my relief, Mary was shaking her head, laughing to herself. She turned, picked up the hem of her skirts and hurried back into the castle.

I was alone. The sun was high in the sky and cast short shadows, causing the light to dance across the surface of the moat below where I was standing. Emerging from behind the castle, I hurried across the solid wooden bridge that appeared to connect this part of the building to the forest and the rich hunting ground which no doubt lay beyond. No-one seemed to be about. I guessed that everybody was being kept busy inside, feeding and watering the King and his entourage. I imagined Anne’s father, my father, taking personal care of the King himself; perhaps discussing latest court politics, or perhaps he was casting about wondering where his younger daughter might be. I imagined Mary arriving in the King’s presence with a deep curtsey, explaining that I was taking air in the garden, and I wondered how long it would be before Henry would come to find me. I hesitated for a moment, looking about me, trying to establish the direction that I should take. It was not difficult though, for not far beyond the moat, lying to the East of the castle, appeared to be the formal gardens. Gathering up my shimmering skirts, I moved as quickly as I could along a stone path, down three short steps and finally through an arch that had been cut into a mature yew hedge.

Emerging on the other side, I found myself exactly where I had hoped to be, in the castle’s rose garden. It was late May and the garden was a riot of colour; the fragrance so heavy and sweet that it almost stopped me in my tracks. I imagined one could happily find a quiet corner and bask in the sun whilst getting drunk on the fragrance of those roses. The Tudor garden itself was laid out symmetrically as I expected. In the centre, the tinkling of cascading water coming from the stone fountain was the only sound which broke the peaceful tranquility. Set back a little from the main castle, the sound of life thrown into turmoil by the King’s unexpected visit faded into the background. I moved forward, deeper into the rose garden and closer to the fountain, where the water flowed into a large, round pond, its sides raised up in carved stone. I had not been there, in Anne’s world, for more than half an hour and yet, as Anne Boleyn, I was about to meet the King of England; an absolute monarch who was deeply and passionately in love with Anne—with me.

Chapter Two

The Rose Garden
,

May 31, 1527

‘1527, 1527 . . . think now, think. What was happening to Anne and Henry, to England in 1527,’ I murmured to myself. Time was short. Henry, I was sure, would not dally when Mary delivered my message. The more I could remember, the better prepared I would be. I was both terrified and excited. Pacing up and down near the fountain, I racked my brains in an attempt to make use of all the time I had spent reading about Anne’s life.

‘So, in 1527, Anne and Henry’s romance was well under way.’ I knew from the letter that Mary recounted in my bedroom that the ‘affair’ had been at least one year under way. ‘Henry has already offered Anne the position of
Maitresse en Titre
,’ I continued speaking to myself, feverishly recalling every fragment of memory that would come to mind. I also knew from my history books that Anne vehemently rejected this offer. Offended, she had protested her honour, which she declared would be given only to her future husband. Was she already consciously playing hard to get? I thought so. Anne was no fool. She had seen her sister used and discarded, married off to a younger son with no titles.

By that stage, Anne’s earlier love of Lord Henry Percy, the future Earl of Northumberland, had been quashed without sentiment by Cardinal Wolsey, possibly on Henry’s orders. Anne knew by then that at the very least she was worthy of being a Countess through an advantageous marriage; a mistress she would not be, and frankly, I did not blame her. I knew from painful, personal experience that it was a fool’s game. However, there was something else about 1527 that I couldn’t quite recall, something significant for Henry and Anne.

‘Now what is it . . . ?’ I was muttering this to myself when a man’s voice from behind made me start.

‘Anne, sweetheart, you are talking to yourself again!’

I was deep in thought, my eyes cast down and my back turned toward the entrance to the rose garden. Without knowing it, the King had crept up on me much sooner than I had anticipated. Forcing myself to breathe deeply and remain calm, I slowly turned my head to look at him. Not three metres away from where I was standing was Henry VIII, King of England. Of course, it could have been nobody else. Not only had I seen this man’s face staring down defiantly at me from so many Holbein portraits, but in truth, this
could
be nobody else. This man radiated majesty.

I have never experienced such an overwhelming and magnetic energy emanating from one human being. He was a giant, a truly magnificent sight; utterly resplendent that day in the fine fabrics I had seen him in earlier. He still wore his riding boots; feet slightly askance, his right hand resting lightly on the hilt of his dagger. His hands were covered in a myriad of rings, fat with diamonds, rubies and other precious stones. Gradually, as my eyes moved upwards, I took in every inch of the man standing before me. His girth was not that of a slim young man. However, nor was he the bloated, obese King I knew he was to become toward the end of his life. As my gaze reached his shoulders, my eyes must have widened involuntarily, for they were probably near twice the size of my own slight frame and sporting the same gold collar that I spotted earlier from the first floor window of the castle. What I had not truly appreciated from that distance was how ornately and intricately the gold had been worked into a ‘barley-twist’ design that was in turn studded with variously coloured precious gems, including huge rubies and diamonds. I had never seen such wealth worn by one person.

Finally, my line of sight alighted upon Henry’s face. It was large and round, although beneath his reddish-brown beard, there was a strong, square jaw line. His complexion was flushed around his cheeks, which were full; his eyes, being small, bright blue and piercing. I understood well how they might be able to fix a person during one of his legendary rages and leave them wishing they were somewhere else indeed! Yet right there, in that rose garden at Hever, I saw none of this ferocity. Henry’s small mouth was spread into a huge, warm smile. He was chuckling at catching me out talking to myself; I felt sure of that—it amused him.

It was his eyes above all else that I remember most during that first meeting, for they were alive with love and unrequited passion. In that moment, I knew that I meant the world to Henry, and that he would turn his kingdom upside down to have me as his own. I also understood how unjustly Anne had been condemned for causing all that would later happen—the break from Rome and the Reformation. Of course, she had her part to play. Anne was never to be anyone’s puppet. However, Henry’s attentions and desires had fixed on Anne at some point, and she could no more deny her physical appeal than Henry could his majesty. And with Henry’s desires becoming clear, most of all to himself, with his power and charisma, nothing in the world would be able to stop him from ultimately having his way.

Perhaps another woman might have fallen into a deep and gracious curtsey at the sight of her King, but I stood tall. I was acutely aware of how gracefully and regally Anne carried her own body. With my chin held high, I could not help but smile defiantly at my suitor. However, I found myself gracefully inclining my head and in a strong, yet alluring voice, Anne spoke through me,

‘Your Grace is most welcome back at Hever. It is indeed an honour for us that you should visit us again, and so soon.’ Then—and I could not believe my own audacity—I cocked my head to the side playfully and said, ‘Perhaps Your Grace left something precious behind after your last visit?’

Henry roared with laughter!

‘Anne you are a tease and a minx and I have never met another woman like you!’ I was surprised by the lightness of the King’s voice; his frame left you expecting a deeper, more resonant tone. He moved in closer to me, holding my gaze intently. Taking my fine and dainty hand in his, he lifted it up and brushed my fingers with his lips. Without allowing my hand to fall, he spoke, this time earnestly, ‘Anne, mine own sweetheart, it is true. I did forget something and I have come to put it right.’

‘I asked you to be my mistress and I see now you were right. If I truly honoured you then I could not ask you to give your maidenhead to me; for I am not your husband.’ He let go of my hand and I found myself automatically clasping both of them together in front of my stomach that was fluttering with nervous excitement. I had no idea where this was going, but Henry continued as he paced up and down next to me. All the while, I remained still, allowing him to talk. ‘I have taken much council and looked into these matters deeply myself . . . into my own conscience, you understand.’ He paused, turning to look at me momentarily, waiting for my acknowledgement, which I duly provided with a slight smile and nod of my head. ‘I see now that my marriage to Katherine is unclean and therefore invalid in the eyes of God. I took my brother’s wife in good faith but as you well know, we have no sons. Anne, I have reflected much on the words in Leviticus and I see now that in taking my brother’s wife I have sinned against God. For my conscience sake, I cannot remain in this marriage.’ I pressed forward slightly turning to face him again.

‘What are you saying, Henry?’ I dared to use the King’s Christian name; but such familiarity seemed accepted between the couple as Henry did not flinch. Instead, he motioned for me to walk alongside him, placing his arm about my shoulder. The King was so close to me that I could smell his musky maleness; I also felt small but deeply protected in his arms.

‘Anne, I have decided to press forward with an annulment of my marriage to Katherine. I have already instructed some of my councillors to make discreet enquiries as to how
We
should best proceed. I intend to petition the Pope to release us both from this sin.’

‘Oh,’ I said feebly. A knot had been forming deep in my stomach, as I sensed what was coming next. Henry cut through my thoughts,

‘Sweetheart, I have a mind to take a new wife, for England needs a male heir.’ He paused. ‘I love you Anne and I would like
you
to be my wife. I want you to be my queen.’

I stopped dead. Clutching onto Henry’s hand, my legs almost gave way and I just managed to prevent myself sinking to the ground. I had known intuitively what Henry was about to ask me, but there I was, hearing it for myself, experiencing the moment of Anne’s first triumph; the moment in which they would agree to marry. I was overwhelmed by the sense that it was in this moment that Anne’s destiny had been decided, the beginning of the path that would set her on the throne of England and ultimately facing a swordsman from Calais. Perhaps I had the chance at that moment to save her life, to say ‘no’ to the King and marry elsewhere. But ‘elsewhere’ was not Anne. She was a character destined to take centre stage at whatever cost. Yet for Anne’s sake, I tried so hard to say ‘no’ to Henry, to run from the garden and from my fate. But fate was already drawing me forward and the words of refusal would not come.