Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (18 page)

I enjoyed this time to myself—most often reading, writing poetry, sometimes I even found myself effortlessly setting these poems to music. On many occasions, having completed a piece of work, I would set it down in front of me and find myself more than a little awed by Anne’s considerable talent. This talent, of course, paid homage to probably the finest Renaissance education available to a young lady of the day; a privilege that Anne’s parents ensured had been made available to her, particularly as a result of her time spent in the sophisticated Hapsburg and French courts. In those moments of quiet reflection, I felt deeply saddened that all these works would eventually be lost to time, and that my own generation would never truly understand her gift, nor hear the thoughts that moved her heart.

On days when the weather was fine, I was often summoned by the King whilst I was still abed, to join him and his hunting party for the day. On such days, I felt the exhilarated by the knowledge that Henry and I would run free together, with only a small handful of the King’s most trusted friends and advisers to accompany us. Furthermore, many of those men were beginning to show themselves as my friends and supporters. On such a day, we would take breakfast then leave the palace after Matins, the first Mass of the day. Sometimes, I rode behind Henry on his own mount using a black velvet pillion saddle, with my arms wrapped tightly around his waist; I adored pressing my cheek against his back as we rode along. I remember the smell of him, which I always found entirely agreeable. When I asked him what the scent was, Henry confided that he mixed his own of musk, ambergris, sugar and rosewater. This signature scent, mixed with the warmth of Henry’s skin, always stirred within me a deep and primitive passion and a longing to make love to him. When this happened, Henry would often tease me. He knew that I was a sensual being and that the scent of him aroused me. As we rode along, and out of earshot of the others, he would speak to me over his shoulder and tell me how the pressure of my body against his was making him hard. Then we would giggle a lot, like two lovesick teenagers. That’s how it was then, in those early days; a carefree and joyous romance, so full of hope.

I look out of my prison window and close my eyes briefly; I remember what it was like to be so close to him, but that was long ago, another lifetime
.

Returning mid-afternoon or sometime after dark, caked in filth and splattered with mud, I would bathe and rest before dressing exquisitely for dinner; for here I could shine without being watched by reproachful eyes. With the gifts that Henry showered on me daily, there was always something new to wear, and I constantly experimented with my appearance. Much to my amusement, it was noted by one courtier that Anne was ‘always changing something in her appearance daily’, which was seen by Anne’s contemporaries as a natural flair for elegance and dress. In truth, I think much of this was my early ignorance of the ‘proper’ way to wear a sleeve, or a hood, or a piece of jewellery. I would often make suggestions to Bess, who with a raised eyebrow would obediently follow my somewhat unusual instructions, so that my ‘mistakes’ and naïveté were, in fact, seen as genius and copied by a whole court!

In the evening, most of Katherine’s ladies dined with the Queen alone. I thought that Henry would take dinner with Katherine. However, in his own words to me, he had long since given up her ‘bed and board’ and with my return to court, he jealously guarded the time that we were able to spend together. Therefore, most evenings, I was invited by the King to dine with him in his privy chambers. For the sake of propriety, we never dined alone. Most often the King’s dinner guests would number six or seven, including my Uncle Norfolk, the Duke of Suffolk, my father, brother and the Marquis of Exeter. Occasionally, my mother would join us. However, I knew she felt uncomfortable in the King’s presence and preferred most often to keep to her own chambers. In such instances, either my sister-in law, Jane, or one of my friends would act as chaperone.

With the inclement weather, there was much pent-up energy, not only in the King but also in the young gentlemen at court. So on most evenings, after we dined and tables cleared away, the King and the rest of our little party would join the wider court in the King’s Presence Chamber, where we would gather for music and dancing, laughter and storytelling, as we whiled away those summer evenings. I adored dancing with the King; despite his growing bulk, he was still nimble and agile in those days, yet strong; a charismatic King who dominated the court with his sheer magnetic personality. He could not take his eyes from me, or in truth, I from him. I was his Venus; his night and day, his north and south, and whilst the court orbited the King, Henry’s sun was Anne Boleyn.

I tried hard to keep my sense of self, the ordinary 21st century Anne; yet basking in the glow of Henry’s love and passion for me, I confess that with every passing day, my reality was becoming my dream, and my dream was becoming my reality. For many at court, I was still a curiosity, the King’s latest pastime. The great lords of the Privy Chamber, such as Suffolk and Exeter tolerated my presence well enough, yet I sensed that they paid me little real attention. In their minds, Henry’s interest would wane soon enough, as it always did. Of course, their mistake was to assume that I had already slept the King and sacrificed my virginity for an hour of glory and triumph. Like most people in those early days, these great men profoundly underestimated the strength and character of the woman that was Anne Boleyn.

Chapter Nine

The Palace of Beaulieu

August 18, 1527

On that Sunday afternoon, I returned from the Queen’s Privy Chambers to find my father in the company of the Dukes of Suffolk and Norfolk, two of the leading nobles in the land. They were all seated around the large walnut dining table in the centre of our apartment’s main reception room. As I entered, the conversation stopped, and all three men turned to look at me. My father spoke first.

‘Anne, we have been waiting for you.’ I curtsied briefly as courtesy dictated, but said nothing and waited for my father to continue. ‘Come and sit with us, Anne,’ he said pointing to an empty chair next to him. I was immensely curious, but a little disturbed, by the gathering of this unholy trio that did not make for natural bedfellows. I was seated opposite the two Dukes; smoothing out my skirts, and turning to look quizzically at my father, I indicated that I was ready to listen. However, it was not my father who spoke next, but the man sitting directly opposite me, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk.

By that time, I had spent a good deal of time in the Duke’s company, as we had dined together and hunted on many occasions with the King. As I listened to him, I had a chance to sit back and appraise this rather imposing character. Charles Brandon was then probably in his mid-forties. Like most people who know anything of the Tudor era, I knew a good deal about Charles Brandon. Raised from relatively humble origins, he was placed as a boy to be one of Henry’s childhood companions. From that time, there had grown a deep and lasting friendship between the two men; indeed, Charles would be one of the few pre-eminent noblemen and courtiers of Henry’s court who would live to die a natural death and still be in the good graces of the King. I remembered, too, how this had all nearly come to a very sticky end when he married, without the King’s permission, Henry’s younger, and by all accounts, very beautiful sister, who had just become the Dowager Queen of France. It was only on the intervention of Cardinal Wolsey—and also I suspected Henry’s long and deep affection for his sister—that the couple survived Henry’s wrath. For a period of time, they lived in quiet estate in the countryside and had to pay enormous fines to the King on account of their serious transgression. Yet, Henry forgave him, and Charles held one of the few Dukedoms in the land, as well as many key positions as part of the King’s household and government.

The Duke of Suffolk would marry four times in all, and I suspected had taken many mistresses in his time. In my modern life, I knew such men, and so his rakish charm was familiar to me. For Charles Brandon was a charmer, there was no doubt about that. I had often seen ladies swoon in his presence, despite the fact that he was married to the King’s sister. When he spoke, I had to admit, it was easy to lose yourself in his voice which was smooth and velvety; always unruffled, he was a man who could deliver the deadliest of messages as if they were words of love.

Charles was also unnervingly like the King; tall, well built with broad shoulders. Like Henry, he had a widening girth, although his height meant that he too carried it well. In fact in many ways, the Duke was all the more imposing for it. Unlike Henry though, Charles Brandon had dark brown hair, which was beginning to be flecked through with grey. It was cut short, with his moustache and beard trimmed close to his face and chin. I was struck by the Duke’s strong facial features; his nose long, although somewhat broad and slightly flattened across the bridge; his eyes were large, dark brown and framed by long, dark and generous eyelashes. However, despite his advancing age, his unlined complexion made Charles Brandon look younger than his years.

In the time that I had spent with His Grace, I was surprised to find that I enjoyed his company. Perhaps it was the Duke’s chameleon like ability to be anything that the King needed of him, but he seemed to enjoy my company in return. I sensed that there was even a mutual, but unspoken, respect between us; we were like stags circling one another, each one recognising the other’s steely resolve, eyeing up the strength of the competition, neither one prepared to underestimate their opponent. However, despite our mutual regard, a subtle undercurrent of tension always flowed within our relationship, even during those early days; I could never forget the fact that one day this man would plot against Anne. Finally, Charles spoke.

‘Mistress Anne, your father, uncle and I have been discussing a rather sensitive matter relating to the Lord Cardinal.’

‘Wolsey?’ I said quizzically.

‘Yes, His Grace, Cardinal Wolsey. As you well know, it was he who was responsible for your father losing two important positions in the King’s household some years ago. It is also common knowledge that it was Wolsey who intervened in your betrothal to Lord Henry Percy. I understand that this caused you much grievance.’ From my reading of history, I was well aware of how Anne’s earlier romance to Henry Percy had been crushed as a direct result of the Cardinal’s interference. Many had speculated that this was on the orders of Henry himself, having already set his own eyes upon Anne Boleyn. However, the messenger had been Wolsey, and it was Wolsey who bore the brunt of Anne’s anger. It was also well recorded in the annals of time that as a result of this tussle with the King’s first minister, Anne had made it clear that if it were ever in her power to seek retribution upon the Cardinal, she would most gladly do so. With this in mind, I replied,

‘You are correct, Your Grace.’ Although each day I felt more comfortable in that world and more attuned with Anne, I intuitively sensed that this was a dangerous conversation. So I held back, preferring to listen. In my silence, My Lord Suffolk forged on,

‘Wolsey is naught but a butcher’s son who has risen way beyond his station. His pomposity and grandeur is irksome.’ I couldn’t help but see the irony in just how far the Duke of Suffolk had risen above his own relatively modest beginnings. Uncharacteristically though, Anne held her tongue and I allowed the Duke to continue. ‘Your father has become aware that some of the Cardinal’s, shall we say . . . financial affairs, suggest that he is lining his own pockets when he should be filling up the King’s coffers. We,’ Suffolk indicated to my father and uncle, ‘believe that there may be an opportunity to be rid of the Cardinal once and for all.’ There was silence and then my uncle Norfolk continued.

‘However, perhaps the time is not yet quite right. The Cardinal still holds considerable sway with the King’s Grace and we must not act prematurely. There is much at stake. It is clear to all of us here that you, Anne, are ever closer to the King’s person. He listens to you more and more and we have no doubt that in time, of all of us here, you will be the best placed to turn the King’s mind against him.’

I remained still in my chair, looking steadfastly between each of the gentlemen who were seated around me. I understood clearly enough what they were asking of me; they wished to use me as their instrument to destroy the hated Wolsey. In that moment, I realised that Anne Boleyn had just crossed another threshold. She went from being an insignificant pastime of the King, to an ever more influential figure in the deadly game of court faction. I saw again, even from my own father, that my wishes, desires and emotions, were irrelevant. All that mattered to these noblemen was the strength of my relationship to the King, and how they might leverage it for their own good. Deep within me, I sensed Anne’s resentment of the Cardinal, and it would have been foolish of me to reject the support of those powerful men; yet I wished to play a more measured game.