Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (42 page)

Once Kate helped me unpack and said her final goodbyes, I was left alone in my apartment with the privacy that I had craved for so long. There was no question in my mind about what I wanted to do next; I made straight for my bookshelves and the quite extensive library of Tudor reference books that I very proudly possessed. During my time in Anne’s world there had been so many intriguing characters that I had met and events that I had witnessed; some of which I could remember precious little about from my own reading of history. I contemplated the fact that I had no idea if my adventure was over, whether I would ever see the 16th century again. However, if I was to do so, I was determined to be ready, to know all that I could about the pivotal characters in Anne’ story. I was determined to take the opportunity to fill in all the gaps in my knowledge, for my curiosity was by then, insatiable, boarding on obsessive. It was also the closest that I was able to come to touching the life that had been my own, a life I had shared with the remarkable woman who daily haunted my dreams.

An unloved pile of letters that had been collected by my friends during my stay in hospital had been placed on the table in my kitchen, awaiting my attention. These, and an inbox full of e-mails, had all gone untouched. Before I knew it, I found myself kneeling in front of an array of history books, which I hoped would contain answers to so many of my burning questions. I ran my fingertips across shiny spines, aesthetically so much less pleasing than the vellum bound books which, as Anne Boleyn, I had begun to establish in my own little, private collection of religious and devotional works. Yet one book of all of those in front of me caught my eye and drew me to lift it from the shelf. I turned it over several times in my hands. It was a rather meticulous and chunky biography of Anne’s life, and I knew that this was the place where I would begin to find my answers.

I made my way to a rather well-worn, and much loved, leather armchair that was bathed in warm, afternoon sunlight. It was my favourite reading chair and I passed many happy hours there, transported to other worlds by the stories in which I happily lost myself. I sank into its familiar embrace, and opening the book I began to devour it, page by page. There is no doubt that I was thirsty for its knowledge, paying attention to so many of the little details that in previous times would have faded into the background as trifles of little significance. In other cases, where the details had vanished in the sands of time, I would find myself filling them in. As I followed familiar events and moved through the palaces I had come to know intimately, I recreated them all vividly in the theatre of my mind; the sight of flickering shadows cast by torchlight in darkened corridors, the sweet smell of the beeswax candles lighting my apartments, the warmth of Henry’s skin pressed against my own.

Naturally, I found myself drawn to the part of Anne’s story which I had so recently witnessed; the outbreak of sweating sickness in London. From there, I soon became completely subsumed in events as they unfurled, one after the other. Each character had become such a vivid part of my life that I watched as they emerged from the mists of time to greet me once more. I read of how their stories unfolded, each playing their part in shaping and defining Anne’s fate. But these were no longer just names recorded on paper, but living, breathing beings whom I could reach out and touch across the centuries that had then separated us. I heard the sound of their voices, smelt the scent of their skin, knew how they walked and the secrets of their hearts; secrets that had long since been dispersed by the wind. I remembered well the warm smiles of my friends, or the ever present danger spoken of silently in the accusatory stares of my sworn enemies.

With each name, I felt a rising swell of emotion that defined each relationship; feelings of love, loyalty, fierce protection, resentment or anger. Before long, I had entirely lost track of the time, as I was washed downstream in the relentless current of events that hurtled through Anne’s life. So much so, that when Daniel rang my doorbell some time later, I was completely startled to find that three hours had evaporated in an instant. Hurriedly, putting away my books, for I did not yet feel ready to share my incredible story with anyone, I made my way back down the corridor. Taking the door off the latch, I opened it to find my love standing in front of me.

I could not help it; each time I saw him, my heart filled with joy. Instantly, I became exquisitely aware of his presence; Henry was the only other man able to stir my senses in the same heady and intoxicating way. Not for the first time, would I feel that in some unfathomable way, Daniel and I had met before; that this drama we were playing out was all too familiar, However, I admit that at that time, I still thought this to be a matter of pure co-incidence. It would only be later, when I returned to Anne’s world for the second time that I would find out the real truth behind our relationship. Shaking away these troubling thoughts, I stepped aside to usher Daniel in; and once within the privacy of my own little sunlit hallway, he set down the leather briefcase he carried and scooped me up in a loving embrace.

We kissed tenderly, my love stroking my hair, searching my face as if he had just found something dear and precious which he feared he might lose. When I was in Henry’s arms, I wondered so very often how I would feel if I were to ever find myself in Daniel’s embrace again. I was afraid that my love for him would have dissolved in my passion for the King. The reality of the situation was very different and I found myself entirely confused. I yearned to see Henry again; he had undoubtedly drawn me in to his lair and I seem bound by an inexplicable force that held Anne—and me—firmly in its seductive embrace. Yet, all my most profound emotions for Daniel were evidently intact, for I melted into his arms with the same glorious relief I had always known.

‘How long do we have?’ I asked him, burying my head against his chest; it was a place I always felt safe and could hide from the brutal reality of our predicament. To some people the question may have appeared strange, but to Daniel and me, whose story depended constantly upon precious moments of stolen time, it was entirely normal, and he knew exactly what I meant.

‘A couple of hours. I need to leave around four o’clock to pick up Jemima from school.’ I felt my stomach tighten, as it always did when he spoke of his family. I tried so very hard to be gracious. For I knew, in truth, that his daughter meant the world to him. I loved Daniel with every fibre of my being, but I had no desire to be the
provocateur
that would turn his relationship with his daughter upside down. Perhaps like anybody who falls hopelessly in love, we never planned for it to be this way—or for it to be so utterly destructive.

Daniel and I met casually through work, almost six years earlier. At the time, he was another consultant at the firm in which I was employed. In those early days, our paths rarely crossed. However, what I noticed in retrospect was that when they did, there was delightful ease in our relationship. It is difficult to put my finger on it now, and in truth, I thought very little of it at the time, but I think that I always had a sense of being profoundly safe when Daniel was near me. Despite this, we did not seek each other out, as I suspect is true of many relationships. In the end, it had been an unplanned, brief encounter which triggered an explosion of desire that took both of us by surprise.

By chance, we found ourselves thrust together on a course which was to last for four days. Neither of us knew any of other of the attendees, and so that evening, we found ourselves drinking alone in the hotel bar. It was a good opportunity to get to know each other better, perhaps even forge a friendship, a new ally at work. In retrospect, I think it was probably my fault that it started, although my intention was innocent enough. With a glass of perfectly chilled champagne inside me, I was feeling mischievous and flirtatious; like Anne, I knew well how to excite a man’s interest and passion, and I felt playful beyond words. I was aware of my coquettish behaviour, which perhaps in times gone by would have been considered part of the innocent game of courtly love. Yet, just as Anne’s mastery of the art would eventually provide her enemies with the ammunition to bring her down, so my innocent flirtation unknowingly ignited the spark which would blow both our previously innocent worlds apart.

By the time we left the course, just four short days later, the stage for our own drama had been well and truly set. I guess that we had both enjoyed feeling desired and revelled in playing with our new-found sense of being fully alive. Just as with Henry, the attention was addictive. But like most addictions in the beginning, we carelessly felt that we could end it whenever we pleased. Over the next few weeks, however, we fell hopelessly in love with one another and at a frightening speed. It never really occurred to us that the potent mix of sexual chemistry that was developing would be too strong for us to control. Our primitive biology was mixing a truly intoxicating elixir of lust and passion that eventually drove us into each other’s arms. Perhaps I should have felt guilty, but largely I did not. The beauty of the love which subsequently grew from the fertile earth between us was too radiant, pure and joyful for it to be sullied by feelings of remorse.

In the many intimate moments that subsequently stretched before us, Daniel explained to me that whilst deeply fond of his wife, he probably had never truly loved her. Theirs had long ago become one of brotherly and sisterly affection; an ever increasingly practical arrangement, centred on the needs and duty towards their infant daughter. Daniel was no cad; he had never strayed before. I think that his thirst for love, affection and intimacy paved the way for him to fall willingly into our relationship.

The pattern is so clear for me to see in retrospect. To Daniel, I was the same exotic, sensual and stimulating creature that Anne had been to Henry. In truth, I made Daniel feel alive again after years of being buried in the colourless frigidity of his wife. I see now, how he too craved the same exhilaration, to feel the full force of life throbbing through his veins. Time was one thing that Henry could never control; yet Anne had turned back the clock for him, reinvigorating his lusty youth. Anne Boleyn would ever be a complex, magnetic, provocative being who engaged the alpha male in Henry deeply and without reserve. Like Henry and Anne, Daniel and I soon realised that we, too, were soul mates. He often lamented the fact that we had not met years earlier, before he was married. I shared his regret, yet I knew that if we had, we would have not been ready for each other and probably would have passed like ships in the night.

But it was true that Daniel and I were undoubtedly enthralled by each other; there was a perfect fit between our bodies, as if we had been carved from the same stone, two halves of a whole, one waiting to find the other. We longed to be together, just as Henry and Anne had over six, long, frustrating years in their relationship. But Daniel’s sense of duty to his daughter would keep him locked in a marriage that no longer nourished or sustained him. I knew the reason why; he was petrified that by ending his relationship with Rose, Jemima would feel abandoned and be destroyed by what he considered to be an act of selfishness.

For myself, I felt utterly torn; I admired his fierce loyalty and commitment to the choices that he had made in his life before we met. At other times, I wanted to scream at him; I was so angry with Daniel, and with the world, for driving this wedge between us. Sometimes, I loved him and hated him in equal measure and would often heap further suffering upon myself, despising my selfishness, whilst also simmering with fury for his lack of courage to end his marriage. Indeed, during my sojourn in Anne’s world, I had already begun to taste, with sickening familiarity, the same bitter mix of frustration and contempt for Henry as I had with Daniel; her pain was so often my own, as I watched the King vacillate endlessly and fail to take decisive action to rid himself of Katherine.

Our love had been fiercely intense and passionate, in a way that I suspect some people never experience in a lifetime. However, the momentum of our relationship at that point was demanding more of us; it was urging us evermore toward a deeper and more meaningful commitment. We had fallen in love and by then, we needed to ground it in a more substantial way. I was ready, Daniel was not. But a storm was brewing; one that I entirely failed to see coming. Six months into our relationship everything changed, and I foolishly refused to accept its significance. I didn’t know, nor would never have believed, what happened next.

I think that it was round this time that Daniel began to realise that to continue headlong in our relationship would inevitably destroy the security that he had so carefully constructed around his daughter. The inner turmoil of his conflicting values and desires were slowly but surely tearing him apart. No matter how much he loved me, it was increasingly difficult for him to look at himself in the mirror with any sense of integrity; and this had scared me; but naïvely, I felt that our love would see us through.