Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (45 page)

I was not alone when I visited the castle that day. It may have been midweek, but it was also mid-August and at the height of the summer vacation period. Schools were on holiday and great swathes of families and foreign visitor’s flocked to enjoy this most wonderful piece of English history. I crossed the castle drawbridge, weaving my way between boisterous children and frazzled parents. Like Anne, I was an intuitive soul, who drew much from the energy that vibrated from people and the walls of any building. However, I felt myself begin to panic. The great cacophony of noise, of people jostling to see all the great treasures of the castle, at first made it difficult for me to tune in to the more subtle energies that whispered my name.

So yes, I was assaulted by the images of Henry arriving at Hever on that very first day; instead of the busy crowd, I saw only the vivid colours of heraldry, heard the sound of horses’ hooves upon the cobblestones, the clinking of stirrups, the chatter and laughter of men who accompanied the King on his journey. But, it was only my memory that painted these pictures; pictures that were as wispy and ghostlike as the people who had long since passed over to a different world. I felt the impregnable barrier that I usually sensed separating my two lives; and I was immediately sure that whatever had paved the way for me to travel across time before would not be found at Hever that day. I suspect, that deep down, I was disappointed, but I was also stoically determined to enjoy whatever the castle could offer me by way of quiet comfort.

With Hever so busy, I had to queue patiently around the edge of the courtyard before I could enter through what was still the main entrance of the family home. As I finally stepped into the cool interior, I was flooded with the most glorious feeling of finally being home, and I could have cried with joy. Although I was surrounded by people shuffling their way through the Entrance Hall towards the rooms in the west of the castle, when I closed my eyes, I almost expected to be met by pretty Bess, bobbing a curtsey, ready to take my riding gloves from me and tell me the whereabouts of my mother, busy in her duties as chatelaine. Somehow, I did manage to get beyond the crowded hubbub of the present and feel the old energy of the Boleyns—my very own family—touching my heart and whispering their words of welcome in my ear.

As on my fateful visit to Hever just six weeks earlier, I had followed the crowd into the modern day Inner Hall. Of course, I saw what so many others did not; how the castle had been remodelled by the Astors and just how different it was to the home that I so recently called my own. I was not ungrateful, for the family had rescued Hever from decay. However, I was not misled by the very elaborate hallway, which I once thought original to the house. In Anne’s time, it served as the castle’s kitchen; it amused me that it had become so elegantly adorned, displaying some of the castle’s most valuable paintings. This time, I found myself first in front of the portrait of my sister, Mary. I think that I stood there for the longest time. Through her frozen and enigmatic smile, a montage of happy memories ignited in my mind, and filled me with a yearning to see her again. Without thinking, I did what I had done a hundred times or more in Anne’s shoes; I simply reached out the index finger of my hand to touch her face, as if I might feel the very warmth of her skin. Suddenly a voice piped up,

‘Excuse me Madame; please do not touch the paintings!’ I spun about to see a guide shaking her finger and frowning with disapproval in my direction. I quickly came back to my senses and shrugged my shoulders, apologising silently as I mouthed,

‘Sorry!’ through the crowd, several of whom turned to look in my direction, some no doubt ‘tut-tutting’ at my transgression. I found it ironic that they were unknowingly guarding the castle from the one woman who had undoubtedly put Hever on the map. I wondered what they would say to me if they only knew the truth, knew just what secrets I held close to my breast. I walked over to the far side of the fireplace to where Anne’s picture was hung, positioned so that it allowed her to gaze toward her sister for eternity. Suddenly though, my line of sight was caught by the life-size picture of Henry, hung upon the far wall.

The portrait was of someone visibly older and more obese than the Henry I had known. Of course, I had seen this famous image painted in 1542 many times; Henry stood squarely on, supported by his bejewelled staff and almost defying the onlooker to meet his eyes. Yet, somehow on that day, for the first time, I could see into the painting and to the man I had come to know so well. I felt the pain in Henry’s bloated, diseased body, and knew how deeply it had sickened his mind. But what most struck me is how little light there was in his eyes. There was so much anger there it almost made me want to turn away. I knew in that moment that Henry had seen too much of the darkness in men’s hearts—including his own—and it had poisoned him to the core, eroding his vitality by degree; so, that by the time this picture had been painted, he was surely and gradually letting go of life.

It had saddened me, and after a time, I had torn myself away to continue my gentle exploration of the other rooms of the house, lingering in those chambers which we had used most as a family. I rested silently, tucked away by a side wall in the Great Hall for maybe ten minutes or more, trying to recapture the night that I danced in Henry’s arms for the first time, replaying every detail over and over in my mind. Yet, no ghostly voices called to me as I mounted the stone vice-staircase that led up to the first floor, nor did I smell the tantalising scent of rosewater perfume that had been Anne’s own.

However, when I emerged into the room that had once formed the lion’s share of the solar—the main, first-floor family room—I stopped. In the 21st century it was aptly named ‘The Book of Hours’ room. But I was not initially drawn by the object which had given the room its name. Instead, I was frozen to the spot, as I saw my mother, Elizabeth Boleyn, sitting in front of the lighted fire, working her embroidery diligently, as I had seen her do so many times before.

‘Please look up . . .’ I whispered, for I longed to see her face again. Of course, it was all in my imagination, and so Elizabeth did as I commanded and lifted her face. Smiling she said,

‘Come child, sit with me and talk awhile.’ It was as we had done on many evenings during my self-imposed exile to Hever; times that I now treasure as the picture of happy innocence, before I—Anne—was dragged into all that was black in the world, before the earth had opened up beneath my feet and swallowed me whole. I must have smiled back at her apparition, a gesture misunderstood by a guide standing beyond, close to the window, for she greeted me warmly,

‘Good morning.’

‘Oh, good morning!’ I said, as I smiled in return, before moving awkwardly on, drawn this time by a book displayed in a glass case over to my left. Thankfully, a large group of tourists had just left the room. It was perfect for my reunion with an object which nearly 500 years earlier had been so dearly treasured. I wasn’t surprised that it was there—I knew of its existence and that it was a prized possession of the castle, and unlike the painting downstairs, this time I was allowed to touch the glass casing that protected Anne’s fragile Book of Hours.

It was open at the page where I once scrawled the most poignant of words;
Le Temps Viendra, Je Anne Boleyn
. I did not know that day in the castle’s 16th century library why I was suddenly moved to write those words, but it was Anne who had guided my hand to write the message that would speak to me alone. The time had indeed come for me to see this book again, and I suddenly realised that I had written those words as proof to myself that I had been Anne Boleyn in another lifetime. I ran my hand across the smooth, cold glass, imagining that I was again able to turn its illuminated vellum pages. It is funny how sometimes an object speaks to you of its owner; and as I stood there before that little book; one which I had read diligently, nearly every day as Anne, I felt her energy singing sweetly from its pages, filling me with the most exquisite memories of sunny hours cosseted in my father’s library, hidden away from the intrigues of court. I longed to hold it again, but of course, it would have been a fool’s errand to even try and explain why I should be allowed. How frustrating it had been back then to know what I knew, and yet never be able to disclose my secrets to the world. They will indeed be secrets that I, as Anne, will take to the shallow grave that shortly awaits me on the far side of the Tower precinct.

However, on that day, I was all too aware of more people beginning to fill the room behind me, and so, I reluctantly moved on. For the time being, I finally felt ready to say goodbye to the chamber in which my mother and I had spent so much of our time together at Hever. Yet, one more surprise lay in store for me. As I was making my way toward the exit, I noticed an enormous tapestry covering the entire left hand wall; in the centre was a woman who was vaguely familiar to me. In Anne’s world, I had seen many portraits of her although, due to her pride and disdain for Anne, we had sadly never met in person—it was Mary Tudor, Henry’s younger, and much beloved, sister. It was immediately apparent that the tapestry depicted the marriage of the Princess to Louis XII of France in 1514. It was a powerful dynastic image, and the two central figures of Louis and Mary, who were exchanging rings, commanded the scene and drew one’s eye away from those courtiers surrounding the royal couple. However, I looked right past them to the figure of a woman, set back in the upper right hand corner; it was a figure which left me transfixed. With growing excitement, I stepped back to get a better perspective on the picture portrayed.

Yes, it was! I was sure of it. There, fifth along from the right hand side, was the figure of Anne. She was unmistakable to me; I looked at her face in the mirror so many times before! I almost laughed out loud, for whilst no known contemporary portrait of Anne existed in the 21st century, there she was, a dark-haired, young woman in her first flush of youth. She was clearly leaning forward and gesturing with her left hand, all the time effortlessly holding the attention of two richly attired men, who were no doubt part of the English delegation in France. The image was full of vibrancy and movement—just like the woman I had come to know. Trying to get the best view of the tapestry, I found myself once again close to the guide who had greeted me with a warm smile when I first entered the chamber. Lost in my own thoughts, I was slightly taken aback when she spoke to me once again, this time, clearly reading my mind.

‘It is such a romantic tapestry don’t you think?’ Her name badge identified her as ‘Chloe.’ She smiled at me as she spoke. I was amused that whilst historians cast about, here and there, looking for the face of this most enigmatic of Queens in contemporary 16th century portraiture, she had all the time been smiling down upon us from this magnificent tapestry hung within her own home. I looked back at the arras, cocking my head, as I replied,

‘It is indeed a beautiful piece of art but tell me,’ I could not resist but tease her good-naturedly, ‘do you not think that Anne herself must be in the portrait?’ I watched the eyebrows of my guide rise, as she nodded her head thoughtfully and replied,

‘Such things have indeed been postulated but unfortunately, we simply do not know.’ I know it was wicked of me to say what I said next, but I simply could not depart from the castle that day without leaving behind a clue to the life that I had known. So, I broke into the broadest of smiles declaring,

‘I think you will find that if you look carefully, you’ll see that she is there, telling you in every which way that she can, even in her gesture that, ‘Here I am, Anne Boleyn.’ I did not wait to hear the guide’s reply; just watched her face crumple into delicate confusion as I turned to walk away, casting only the most enigmatic of smiles over my shoulder as I finally left the room, and Chloe, behind.

Time slipped through my fingers quickly enough, and before long, I emerged back into the intimate confines of the castle’s courtyard at the foot of its 13th century gatehouse. I had spent some time in the Long Gallery, hovering as close as I was able to the recessed bay window at its far end, the place where I had first found myself transported into my heroine’s body. The alcove was roped off, and the busyness of the chamber precluded me from seating myself in exactly the same spot where I had first lost consciousness. But I knew that it did not matter; for I felt well and strong and that if, by some miracle, I was in fact to find myself in the 16th century again, it would not be from this place.

Thus, I was content to make my way back across the drawbridge, spending some time in the rose garden, which had been much remodelled, but was just as beautiful as when I had last seen it. I didn’t care for the distant gardens reclaimed by the Astors, for they had nothing to do with Anne. Instead, I ate a packed lunch that I brought with me in a small rucksack on the lawns overlooking the castle, before finally making my way slowly back uphill toward the modern day village of Hever. Glancing at my watch, I knew that I had perhaps half an hour before Daniel returned to collect me. There was just one more place which called out to me, and which I knew I must visit before the day was through.

St Peter’s Church lay to the south-west of the castle, just outside its modern day perimeter. Founded upon an original Norman church, the late 14th century building was one which, as Mistress Anne, I knew intimately. Perhaps because of the castle’s modest size, there had been no family chapel within its walls, and thus I often rode out a quarter of a mile to the parish church of St Peter to worship with other members of my family. As I approached it on that fine summer’s afternoon, I admired its modest simplicity and the beauty of the local sandstone, gleaming in the brilliant sunshine.

Like most English Parish churches, St Peter’s stood serenely as a peaceful, silent witness to centuries of English history. And whilst the pretty churchyard was perhaps more manicured than I had last seen it, bedecked with foliage of rhododendron bushes and ancient yew trees, the building itself was virtually exactly as I remembered, including the dominant west tower and it’s fine, slender spire that pointed towards the heavens.