Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (26 page)

‘The time will come, Anne, the time will come. Be patient.’ Suddenly, I felt compelled to write, so I picked up the quill on the seat next to me and began to doodle. Underneath the picture, I wrote
Le Temps Viendra, Je Anne Boleyn
. Then I drew a picture of what I knew to be an astrolabe, a device for measuring time, which I had seen many times in the King’s private collection of scientific instruments. I sat back watching the ink dry. Anne’s writing was neat and precise. I stared hard at the page, overwhelmed as I began to realise the significance of what I had just written. To my amazement, I recalled that I had seen this writing before.

This declaration, written in Anne’s own Book of Hours, would be one of the few examples of Anne’s handwriting that would endure into the 21st century, giving us a rare insight into a private moment of reflection. I remember standing in front of the glass cabinet at Hever Castle in the 21st century and being drawn to those few poignant words which I felt said so much about Anne’s story. I realised that this book must remain, for safekeeping, at Hever Castle.

I dared not take it with me back to court, where Anne’s enemies might have the opportunity to destroy it. Setting my quill aside, I got up and walked over to one of the cabinets containing my father’s valuable collection of books and slipped this little book between two large volumes, where I hoped it would remain safe. I paused for a moment, running my finger down its spine for one last time, wondering if the next time that I saw this book, which had meant so much to me, would be in the 21st century.

Chapter Thirteen

Hever Castle

December 24, 1527

As Christmas approached, my mother busied herself making the necessary preparations. I could not understand why we were doing so, when there would only be the two of us and my father’s mother, Lady Margaret Butler, to celebrate. Elizabeth Boleyn involved me in many of the duties expected of a noble woman running her own household at Christmastime. I tried to throw myself into my tasks, but with my father and my brother, George at court for the festive season, and dearly missing the man I loved, I found myself regularly dragging my metaphorical heels. So much so, that on one morning after visiting the kitchens to discuss with the head cook what food should be prepared over the festive season, I found myself complaining to my mother about the futility of our efforts. My mother was quick to reply,

‘Dear child, we do not know what guests we may receive over the Christmas period. What would it look like if we were not prepared and had nothing appropriate to offer our visitors?’

‘We have been home for over a month and have yet to have any visitors.’ I said plaintively. ‘Who would come by in such weather?’

‘That is beside the point.’ My mother retorted emphatically. ‘It is our duty to be ready and to run a goodly household—whether your father is here or not.’ If nothing else, I always knew that my mother had a strong sense of duty, a character trait not well valued in the 21st century, but of immense importance in Anne’s world. I conceded defeat and said nothing more, although, I did not believe for a moment that any likely visitors would be hardy enough to brave the fierce winter chill.

However, much to my delight and surprise, I was proven wrong. On Christmas Eve morning, we received an unexpected visit from Margaret Wyatt; Thomas Wyatt’s elder sibling. I first met Margaret, or Margery as her family and close friends called her, earlier in the summer, when we had visited the Wyatt family home at Allington Castle. I enjoyed her company on that sunny afternoon; and I sensed from the ease of her relationship with me, that she and Anne were probably long-time friends. However, at the time, I did not fully appreciate how Margery would be a pillar of strength to me—and to Anne—in the months and years to come. Already a dear friend, she would become someone I would cherish as if she were my own sister.

After offering Margery something to eat and drink and a warm fire to thaw the chill from her travel, my mother tactfully withdrew, leaving the two of us alone. Elizabeth Boleyn clearly appreciated the long-standing and intimate friendship that existed between her daughter and Margery, and that we would value some time alone to catch up together. I guessed that being neighbours, the Boleyn and the Wyatt children had often spent many a happy hour together during their childhood, forging lifelong friendships and alliances. As I sat opposite Margery in the parlour at Hever, watching her warming her hands around a steaming cup of posset, I became aware that I felt relaxed and completely myself in her company. Whilst my friends at court—Nan, Joan and Mary—were entirely beloved to me, Margery’s presence brought a different type of energy; one that was more grounded, practical and in some ways, maternal. I was soon to find out why.

During her visits over the next few weeks, I would learn about Margery’s life and family circumstances. Margery was a little over ten years older than Anne, and the eldest of the Wyatt children. My 21st century sensibilities left me shocked to find out that she had been married at fifteen to John Rogers of Warwickshire. The marriage was a happy one and much to their delight, two years later, Margery gave birth to their first child, also called John. Her second son, William born in 1509, tragically died at the age of five. Although she rarely spoke about William, I soon understood that the 16th century mind was more accepting of the inevitability of death; when she did speak of him, her deep sadness was rooted in a pragmatic and stoic understanding of God’s will. Four more children followed by the time that I met her; Edward, by then sixteen, Eleanor, thirteen, William, twelve and her youngest, Joan, aged eleven.

As my friend settled in front of the fire, I had a chance to take in her appearance. Margery was a striking looking woman. Like her brother, Thomas Wyatt, she was slim and above average height, being a little taller than Anne. With fairly sharp facial features, including a long, pointed nose and slightly pointed chin, high cheek bones and piercing blue eyes, Margery could look quite formidable when her face was set in concentration, anger or anxiety, but when she smiled, my friend radiated an incredible warmth and kindness. On that Christmas Eve, Margery was dressed elegantly in an English gown of deep reddish-brown wool, lined with velvet, which gave it extra warmth against the fiercely cold winter; underneath her outer gown, she wore a pretty orange damask kirtle. I would soon learn that Margery had as much love as Anne for fine clothes, and the latest fashions. Indeed, I appreciated how the colours in her dress beautifully complemented Margery’s auburn hair, which she parted in the middle beneath her French hood. Amongst my friend’s best features was her long and slender neck, which on that day was adorned with a gold chain, whilst an amber brooch was pinned to the front of her tightly laced kirtle.

Margery continued talking, whilst I admired her appearance, but my attention was drawn back to the conversation when I heard her say,

‘. . . My husband has not been so well of late, complaining of pains in his abdomen. I hope he will soon be well again.’ She paused briefly, concern furrowing her brow, before she continued, ‘Since he had some business to attend to, and on account of his ill-health, he decided to remain at home, in Warwickshire. Kind and gentle man that he is, he insisted that I visit my parents over the festive season as planned . . . but with the weather being so bad, I think we may find ourselves here little longer than we first anticipated!’ Margery smiled conspiratorially, then added under her breath, ‘However, that is all the better for us, is it not, Anne? Perhaps you and your mother could come and stay with us at Allington for a few days? That would be so wonderful!’ I suddenly felt guilty that I had not been paying attention to my friend’s story, but I then gave myself over to her entirely, nodding and saying that I would like that very much.

We chatted pleasantly about her family and her parents for some time, before the conversation turned to the inevitable; the King’s ever more ardent pursuit of Mistress Anne.

‘My father tells me that the court is abuzz with rumours of the King’s love for you. I hear say that some are even predicting that he means to set aside Queen Katherine and to make you his wife.’ Margery spoke softly, with no trace of judgement towards me. Such directness made it even more clear to me that a great deal of intimacy existed between these two women. Although I bore no ill will to my friend, I realised that I felt weary of the necessity to constantly explain myself and the situation I found myself in with Henry. My friend must have picked up my reluctance to speak and added quickly, ‘Oh I’m sorry, Anne. It is not my place to pry, please forgive me but . . .’ I reached over and touched Margery’s arm.

‘No, no, no. . . . It is not that. I’m not offended by your question it’s just that . . . Well . . . Ah Margery! I cannot tell you how wonderful it is to be the centre of Henry’s world. He has this incredible, captivating personality that lures you in, and to be loved by him is to feel like being worshipped as a goddess—it is a sweet nectar indeed! Yet it is not always so easy . . . there are many. . . . . .

‘who would wish that you simply disappear . . . who would vilify you and call you a whore?’ My friend interrupted brusquely. ‘Am I right?’ Silently and dolefully I nodded, a little taken aback by her directness. Like a true friend, Margery’s mouth was set hard in anger on my behalf. ‘I’ve no doubt that first amongst these is Katherine herself?’

‘Of course.’ I said quietly.

‘And I suspect that the only way for the King to have you at court with propriety is with you as a maid of honour to Katherine?’ Margery knew only too well that without the Queen, there would be no ladies at court; for to be in the service of the Queen was the only socially acceptable position for a gentlewoman in a world dominated by men.

The closeness of our friendship allowed me to speak plainly, so I told Margery of Henry’s promise to remove me from the Queen’s service and to set up my own household when I returned to court.

‘Then it is true, Anne. The King does intend to make you his wife?’ I believe that even Margery was shocked by the unprecedented prospect of the situation. However, she spoke softly, almost in a whisper and without any sense of condemnation towards me.

‘It is true but you must not speak of this to anybody, not yet anyway. The King is looking to Rome for an annulment of his marriage. Yet the Pope is reluctant to provide it.’ I began to explain the many twists and turns in this strange story, of the politics that were beginning to emerge, when Margery interrupted me. Well educated and well-versed in the ways of the Tudor court, it was clear that even then, she knew well the difficulties that lay ahead.

‘Well, I’m not surprised the Pope is reluctant since he is virtually the prisoner of Katherine’s nephew, Charles V, is he not?’ Margery’s question was rhetorical and she added, ‘He can hardly upset the Holy Roman Emperor. And it would not surprise me if Katherine isn’t already scheming behind her husband’s back. As you well know, my father was a long time in the service of the late King Henry VII. He is well acquainted with Katherine from her early days at court and often speaks of her stubborn pride. I fear she will not go quietly.’

‘Oh Margery, that woman is insufferable! If it weren’t for my friends, Mary Norris, Nan Gainsford and Joan Champernowe, I sometimes think I might go mad!’ Margery looked at me in silence for a short while. I could see her taking in all the ramifications of these new developments, and yet when she spoke again it was not of Henry or Katherine’s well-being, but of my own.

‘Anne, I beg you to be careful. The Queen has powerful connections both within the court and on the continent. When she realises that you are not like Henry’s other mistresses and that his heart is set on making you his wife and his Queen, Katherine will do everything within her power to retain what many see as her rightful position. What is more, you are sympathetic to those who are dissatisfied with the corruption of the clerics within the Church. There will be many who will fear what your rising influence with the King will mean for those conservatives who cherish the old ways of Catholicism.’ I remained silent, digesting my friend’s words and as I did so, I looked deeply into the glowing embers of the fire. It was Margery who spoke again first. ‘When do you plan to return to court?’

‘I cannot say, but I think it will not be until the spring. There was much gossip about the King’s intentions towards me at court following the celebrations for his Majesty’s investiture. We thought that my absence would give an opportunity for the gossip to abate, at least a little.’ I paused, before a wry smile passed across my lips and I continued, ‘the King, of course, had misgivings about the validity of his marriage long before he knew me.’ I added truthfully, ‘Henry has told me this on many occasions.’ I laughed out loud, throwing my head back as I savoured the irony of the situation. ‘Of course, nobody sees that. All they see is Mistress Anne . . .’ by then, I was beginning again to feel somewhat irritated by the injustice of it all, as I had done so many times before. I could hear the frustration creep into my voice as I said emphatically and sarcastically, ‘Mistress Anne Boleyn—the infamous whore!’

‘Most of that motley group at court would do well to look to their own marriages first before they start pointing the finger at anybody else!’ I was so very grateful for Margery’s unconditional support. ‘Just look at the Duke of Norfolk and the shameful way he treats his own wife! But you know the reality of it, Anne? It does not matter who you really are, or what is the truth of the situation; people barely look further than the end of their own noses, and most of the time they don’t even want to know the truth because they see too much of themselves in it! Katherine will be seen as the helpless victim—and you . . . you will be the heartless usurper.’

‘I know! I know!’ I said in a raised voice, my palms turned upwards and outstretched, emphasising my frustration, before I let them collapse onto my lap in sorry defeat. Margery considered me once again with one of her pragmatic silences and then spoke decisively.