Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (14 page)

‘Titan has been looking forward to seeing you, Mistress.’ I smiled back. I had found out the name of my horse. He had been a joy to ride during the hunt, and I found myself eagerly anticipating the journey ahead. I had been relieved to learn that we would make the journey to Beaulieu on horseback; the sway of the horse and the fresh, open-air suited me much better than the restricted confines of a litter.

The journey took us five full days. In order to reach Beaulieu, which was near Chelmsford in Essex, we were obliged to pass through the City of London. Quite contrary to my modern day life, London was the only place where there was a bridge that would allow us to cross the River Thames. And so, we made our way toward the capital, arriving on its outskirts some two days later. I had been so looking forward to my first sight of Tudor London and I was not disappointed. It was truly a marvellous sight to behold!

My first impression was of its skyline, pricked often by twisted, red-brick, Tudor chimneys. Buildings such as Westminster Abbey and another cathedral that I assumed to be the old, Gothic St Paul’s, dominated the panorama and dwarfed the many houses nestled around them. Entering the suburbs, the fields of the open countryside began to melt away; I admired up close the many timber-framed, wattle and daub dwellings of the everyday London merchants set against the grander, brick-built residences of the city’s affluent aristocratic classes.

It was the oddest thing to see the city that I had been brought up in devoid of cars. The noise of the engine was replaced by the clattering of hooves on the cobblestones, the shouting of traders selling their wares, and the occasional shout or laughter emanating from the local alehouse. In short, the predominant noise was not of machines but of people. It made a wonderfully refreshing change.

Compared to the countryside to which I had become accustomed, London was abuzz with life. Elegantly dressed noblemen and well-to-do merchants with their horses, fine clothes and jewels stood out in breathtaking contrast to the coarse and plain appearance of the city’s poor. Our party must have seemed more regal than most, for many people, wealthy and poor alike, stepped aside allowing us to make our way easily through the narrow and crowded byways; often bowing their heads or doffing their caps as we made to pass by. Riding along the urban streets, I was struck by how tightly packed the houses were. Only the largest and grandest of houses occupied a generous plot with elegant, private gardens that could be seen stretching down to the Thames.

We rested overnight at Norfolk House. This was the Howard family’s London residence, sitting on the south bank of the Thames, close to Lambeth Palace. In 21st century London, Norfolk House had long since been destroyed. However, the pretty Tudor facade of Lambeth Palace was one of the few 16th century buildings that had survived the passage of nearly 500 years. I passed it many times in my modern day life; it always looked so quaint, a palace dwarfed by the modern buildings that had gradually encroached upon it with time. Yet, in Anne’s day, it assumed its true grandeur as the London residence of Archbishop of Canterbury, the Premier Prelate in the land. Next to the Howard residence, it was one of the grandest and most notable buildings on the south bank of the river.

Of course, my mother was the sister of the Duke of Norfolk, and as part of the family, we were immediately made welcome. We were to rest there overnight before continuing our journey the following day. However, I admit that I was relieved that we did not meet the Duke himself; that was to come. Along with other notable members of Henry’s court, including my father, Thomas Howard had already left London, accompanying the King on his summer progress.

So, ravenous from the journey and exhausted by the plentiful fresh air, we dined well and slept soundly that night. The next morning, we were woken by the sound of the bells of St Paul’s ringing out across the city. I was bursting with apprehension and excitement; in Anne’s shoes, I was on the brink of my first taste of the glittering spectacle, and the deadly ruthlessness, of Henry’s court.

We were up bright and early, ready to recommence our journey. I made my way from our lodgings through the Grand Entrance Hall to meet my mother and brother, who were ahead of me and already in the courtyard beyond. Suddenly, a small child appeared from one of the nearby rooms; approximately five or six years of age, and of slight frame with auburn hair, she was running furiously away from another, older child, who was close behind in hot pursuit. So engrossed was she in the chase that she entirely failed to see me, colliding full force into my billowing skirts before I could step aside. The girl fell backwards onto the floor with a bump, and I immediately knelt down to help lift to her feet; thankfully, she seemed unharmed. For several seconds she stood there, studying me intently and clearly wondering who I was. There we remained for a few fleeting moments, before her governess appeared from one of the nearby passageways.

‘Katherine Howard, you are always up to mischief! I do so wish you would be more careful! Now apologise to Mistress Anne and let us be on our way.’ For several seconds that seemed to stretch into an eternity, the two of us, a small child and a grown woman, were held in a crucible of shared destiny. I could not take my eyes from this child’s face, so full of life and wonderment was it. She was my little cousin, Katherine Howard, who I assumed must have been visiting from Horsham in Norfolk, as my reading had told me. Against all probability, at sixteen years old, this girl would follow Anne to become Queen of England as the fated fifth wife of Henry VIII. I was so shocked at this encounter that I could hardly breathe. However, innocent of such things, Katherine quickly broke the spell. She curtsied deferentially and said,

‘Forgive me, my lady. I did not mean to be so clumsy.’ With that she curtsied a second time, before racing off to join her governess who led the girls back into the depths of the house.

On our journey across the City of London, I was struck by how the houses gave way unexpectedly to green open spaces. At one point, we rode along the track that wrapped itself around the northern edge of the Tower of London. In my 21st century life, this building was surrounded by large and elegant Georgian facades and modern office blocks. Busy roads swept by its outer walls, leaving the Tower to cling on to the embankment of the Thames for dear life. Yet in the 16th century, the Tower of London dominated this part of the city. It was surrounded by a sweeping expanse of space which I assumed to be Tower Green; the place where common traitors were beheaded. Beyond the Green, and surrounding the Tower, was a modest smattering of ordinary dwellings.

I looked up at the fortress, remembering my many visits there in my modern life. I recalled how unsettling I found the place; thinking oftentimes of Anne and the men who had been imprisoned with her at the Tower in May, 1536. I suddenly felt icy cold in the summer heat, as a wave of dread washed over me. No matter how hard I tried, I could not shake from my mind that if fate was to take its course, then in less than ten years, Anne’s bones would eventually lie in the cold earth beneath the paving stones of the chapel of St Peter ad Vincula, the tiny chapel within the Tower walls. I must have looked temporarily unwell, as my brother enquired after my health and reassured me that we would soon reach the open air of the countryside beyond.

It took another two days of riding to penetrate deeply into the county of Essex. On the third day, we found ourselves approaching the Palace of Beaulieu. Listening to the conversations between my mother and brother, I learned with interest that my father had sold the palace to Henry in 1516. I wondered, at the time, if Anne herself had visited there as a child before her departure to the continent; an experience that would transform the very fabric of her personality and carve out her destiny as Queen of England.

Lost in these thoughts, I suddenly had a flash of an image that seemed like a memory, and yet it was not familiar to me; a montage of blurred and hazy pictures filled my mind. I seemed to be seeing through the eyes of a small child. I was perhaps seven or eight and playing with another child of similar age. We were laughing gaily as we dipped our hands into the water of a fountain. The fountain itself was carved from marble, sculpted into figurines of small cherub-like angels, dancing at the feet of a partially-clad Grecian woman. Within moments, the images had gone. It felt strange; as if the pictures were not my own, and yet I had seen those things through my own eyes. However, as we turned into the long, tree-lined driveway that led up to the palace, I quickly forgot the incident; I was in awe of the building that lay before me.

The long drive up to the Palace of Beaulieu was lined on each side with a double row of mature oak trees. In the open parkland beyond, herds of deer grazed contentedly. Only as we passed, did they cease their grazing, and with numerous eyes upon us, attentively watch our steady progress until they were assured that we were no threat to their safety. At the end of the driveway, we were met by a huge red-brick Gatehouse; two enormous octagonal towers, bejewelled with fine mullioned windows, stood guard on either side of the Gateway itself.

As I was to find out, Beaulieu was certainly not the most magnificent, nor the grandest of Henry’s palaces; but it did have a gentle charm with pleasant airy rooms, fine views across the idyllic Essex countryside, and tranquil, formal gardens. Like most Tudor palaces, the most elegant and prestigious rooms were built around a large inner courtyard; the finest of which were reserved for the King and Queen’s State and Privy Apartments.

As we drew up outside the main entrance, Sir Thomas emerged from within the palace to welcome us. Greeting us with kisses, he wasted no time in showing us the way to our lodgings. As we walked along, my father took me by the arm, my mother and brother falling back discreetly so that we were able to talk more intimately. My father wasted no time in getting straight to the point.

‘The King is eager to see you and is delighted that you have come again to court. He has asked that as soon as you are settled, you should visit him in his Privy Chamber. As often as possible your mother, brother or I will be present to act as your chaperone.’ Almost as an aside he went on, ‘The King has made his intentions clear, that for the sake of your reputation, you should not be seen to be alone in privy company with His Grace.’ We ambled along through a multitude of corridors; I listened intently. I could not help but be aware of how matters that were so close to my own heart were being decided by men behind closed doors, and without my involvement. This did not sit comfortably with my modern day persona; a young woman who was so independent and in control of her life. My father continued, ‘As you know, the King has spoken with Katherine of his intentions to annul his marriage to her just as soon as he is able to secure a dispensation from the Pope. In truth, many learned men see that the case is not straightforward. Yet, His Majesty anticipates that by Christmas at the very latest, the two of you will be openly betrothed.’ I nodded silently, deeply skeptical—and yet for some reason ridiculously hopeful—that this could be achieved. He hesitated to tell me the next thing on his mind. ‘His Grace has asked that I raise a rather delicate subject with you.’ I stopped abruptly, dropping my father’s arm as I turned squarely to look him in the face. An ominous cloud was gathering, and I felt suddenly apprehensive at what he was about to say. Taking a deep breath, my father explained, ‘His Majesty has asked that you continue in the service of Queen Katherine, he . . .’

‘What! Surely this cannot be!’ I interrupted him before he could go on. I was furious with my father, and with Henry, for bringing me back into a situation in which Anne had clearly had her fill. ‘Does His Majesty have any idea how impossible . . . how difficult . . . how utterly demeaning it is for me to be washing the feet of a woman who loathes me and wishes me dead!’ Anne had emerged to take charge again, as emotions and words poured forth in a passionate torrent of anger. ‘Did he not listen to me when I explained this to him?’ I said this almost to myself, as I paced back and forth in front of my father in a clear state of agitation.