Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (10 page)

I felt Henry’s erection pressing hard against the small of my back. I wondered if he was so consumed with passion that he might take me there and then, but he seemed to be content to hold me in a silent embrace. I was surprised by his tenderness as he gathered me up in his arms, and I feared that I may just melt away in ecstasy. Although nearly lost in this desire, a small voice kept warning me of the dangers that I faced ahead. Before I could stop myself, I spoke out loud. I did not face Henry, for I feared I could not look him in the eye and speak of my deepest fear. Instead, I spoke out into the night in hushed whispers, knowing full well that he would hear all.

‘Henry . . . Henry I am deeply humbled that you should think to raise me so high in the estate of your sovereign lady wife, to become the Queen of England, but what . . . what if we cannot have sons; what if I can’t give you a son!’ Henry continued to caress my body, covering me with delicate kisses. His lips alighted on my ear and he whispered into it almost imperceptibly,

‘My love, you are the world to me. You have lit a fire in my heart that can never be extinguished. Our love is pure and goodly in the sight of God, of that I am sure. We will be blessed with many children—and with sons. Has your mother not born male children? No Anne, there is nothing for us to fear. England will have to melt into the ocean before I stop loving you.’

I so wanted to believe those words! That this man was in love with me, whether he be the King of England or no; that he would never desert me; that he would always be there to protect me from the wolves at court. I yielded again to his embrace and kisses, allowing them to chase my fearful thoughts away into the recesses of my mind. There we must have stayed, perhaps for an hour or more. It was a rare moment alone as we rested peacefully in each other’s arms, enfolded by our shared dream.

Chapter Four

Hever Castle
,

June 1, 1527

I was awoken the next morning by another flurry of excitement. The King was already breaking his fast with my parents and asked me to join them. After breakfast, Henry took me aside and told me that he was to return to London that very morning. There was urgency in his voice. He wished to consult again with his councillors and enquire if they had made any progress regarding the annulment of his marriage to Katherine. He took both my small hands within his, and holding them tightly, searched my face earnestly, begging me not to tarry long at Hever, but shortly to join him in London.

I must admit that I was afraid. The peaceful tranquility of Hever suddenly seemed to be my refuge in a precarious and unforgiving world. I think that I must have nodded meekly and given the King enough assurance of my intentions to return, for he smiled at me and kissed my forehead. Finally, he let go of my hands and swept off to make preparations for the journey ahead.

It was with the same riot of colour and commotion that the King’s party finally departed a little after nine o’clock in the morning. Along with my mother, father and my sister, Mary, we wished the King God’s speed and good health, waiting in the little courtyard at Hever until the clouds of dust from the horses’ hooves had finally settled, and all sounds had melted back into the usual silence of our rural idyll. As we all turned to go back inside the castle, I found myself gently taking hold of my father’s arm. Suddenly, I was gripped by a desire to send after the King a token of my love and commitment. I was sure that I needed my father’s help. He turned to look at me, his face inquisitive as he waited for me to speak.

‘Father, in the light of the great honour that the King has shown towards your daughter, I feel that,’ I searched for the right words, ‘I should send the King a gift, some token of my love for him.’

‘Anne, your judgement in this matter has been impeccable.’ I winced imperceptibly. I saw clearly that for Anne this was, by then, also an affair of the heart. Yet for her father it had become an affair of state. ‘I will arrange for our jeweller to visit us this afternoon, so that you may choose an appropriate token of your . . . love.’ He patted my hand, then turned and left me alone with my thoughts.

Shortly after, my mother and sister left the castle, riding out to visit one of our close neighbours. My father disappeared into the Great Hall, I assumed to deal with the pile of parchment carried in behind him by one of our servants. I found myself relieved to be left alone, at least for some short time. With the departure of the King’s entourage, the castle lay quietly in a peaceful repose.

In the brief period that I had been there, I had learned much about that beautiful building. Yet, there was still much to be discovered, and I found myself wandering through corridors and rooms filled with the same wonderment and curiosity as that of a child exploring its environment for the first time. I was not content merely to drink in the treasures that surrounded me with my eyes alone. I needed to touch almost everything I saw; I ran the tips of my fingers across the smooth and highly polished oak furniture, touched woollen and silk tapestries, lingered over rough, gilt-framed portraits and traced the curves of the carved stone fireplaces.

However, more than anywhere else, I was drawn back to the place where I had entered my new life, the Long Gallery. When Mary had woken me from my unconscious state, I had been disoriented and hardly able to take in its beauty. Built to allow the family to take exercise in inclement weather, that sunny, June day meant that the Gallery was deserted, with the exception of a solitary maid, who was busy polishing the oak floor at the far end of the chamber. I was as quiet as a mouse when I entered the room. Yet, the rustling of my taffeta skirts caught her attention, for she looked up and rising immediately, bobbed a curtsey and then left the room.

Once alone, I walked straight over to the window that was set back into one of the recesses off the main Gallery; it was the same one that I had taken refuge in just the previous day. As before, a window was propped open, although I could not detect any breeze, so still was the air. I sat down on the window seat, the stone ledge strewn with red velvet cushions. Leaning back against the glass, I closed my eyes. I could not help but feel guilty. I knew that I should want to get back to my real life, to my work, to my friends—and to Daniel. Yet all my life, I had longed for an impossible moment like this; a moment in which I might be able to see the face of a woman whom I had admired for so long.

Beyond all probability, I was experiencing with my flesh and blood the very life of Anne Boleyn. I had met the King of England, been so close to him that I had smelt the musky warmth of his skin as he held me in his arms. He had asked me to marry him and to be the Queen of England, and I had experienced the thrill of it. Of course, there was fear. Yet, part of me longed to stay; Anne’s life was intoxicating and I was already becoming addicted, feverishly craving to know more, to allow her to consume me and to lose myself in her being.

I stayed there for some time, my thoughts lingering on the seemingly dusty memories of my modern day life. When I opened my eyes again, all remained unchanged about me. I looked down at my hands folded in my lap. After the extravagance of the previous evening, I had chosen to wear a plain, yet flattering gown of black taffeta. I wore virtually no jewels except a gold ring, which I toyed with absent-mindedly, and a string of pearls about my neck from which hung a gold crucifix.

When I looked up, Bess was standing in the doorway.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Mistress Anne. Sir Thomas asked me to come and find you. The jeweller from Maidstone has arrived as you requested.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied. The maid turned and disappeared from view, leaving me to make my way downstairs. Finally, at the foot of the grand staircase, I stood opposite the castle’s main entrance. The 21st century Entrance Hall—where I had first been taken ill on the previous day—did not exist. In its place were the original kitchen, larder and buttery. I noticed that the portraits of Anne Boleyn and her sister, Mary, were nowhere to be seen. I surmised that the iconic paintings hung in the modern day castle had not yet been commissioned by the family, as the Boleyns had yet to reach the pinnacle of their power and fame.

From my right, voices were coming from within the Great Hall. I heard my father, Sir Thomas, talking with another man. When I entered the room, I saw them both standing on the dais, next to the top table; as I entered, they looked up at me. The jeweller made a respectful bow, and my father gestured for me to join them.

‘Anne, Master Silas has brought a selection of his finest jewellery for us to look at today.’ As he spoke, he gestured with his hand to a series of fine jewels laid out on a soft, velvet, black cloth. ‘I hope you will find something here of your liking, Madame,’ Master Silas said in a soft and gentle voice.

However, his words were lost on me, as one particular jewel immediately drew my attention. Perhaps I gasped, although it must have been inaudible, as neither my father, nor the jeweller, appeared to notice my astonishment. For there on the table, calling to me, was a jewel that I recognised. Hesitantly, almost as if it might burn me, I reached out and picked it up, bringing it closer to my face so that I may take in its intricate detail. I was holding a small gold ship containing within it a solitary damsel. The gold work around the ship suggested that it was being tossed in the stormy sea; hanging down from the underside of the ship was a flawless diamond.

I remembered reading about this jewel from a letter written to Anne in Henry’s own handwriting; one of those letters that survived in the Vatican archives. The letter thanked Anne for this very gift. I also recalled the symbolism contained in such a piece; the type of encoded message much beloved by people who lived in this age. The ship was a sign of protection, guarding the solitary maid within from the stormy seas that surrounded her; the diamond a symbol of endurance and everlasting love. This jewel would not only be a token of Anne’s love, but would symbolise to Henry her surrender into his hands; the commitment of her body and soul to him.

Without looking at either my father or Master Silas, I said in the quietest voice,

‘This is the one, father.’ With that, I placed the jewel on the table, curtsied respectfully to the two men, and turned to leave the room. I paused briefly, turning to look at my father. The two men looked nonplussed. They were clearly bewildered that I chose so quickly and with such cursory attention to the other precious gifts laid before me.

‘I will write the King a letter to accompany this token of my esteem and affection.’ I hesitated for a moment, as if trying to find the words to explain how this gift would not only touch Henry’s heart but would become indelibly marked in the annals of history; an echo of this moment in time. Of course, it was impossible to explain this to these people who knew nothing of the future. So with some resignation, I smiled, turned, and left the room.

Later that afternoon, I sat alone in the library to write the letter. It was always a warm and welcoming room, and if I could be anywhere now, I would choose to hide there, amongst familiar friends. Since childhood, I have always adored books and learning, finding libraries to be profoundly restful places; the reassuring voices of our ancestors, speaking from the pages of its many books, holding me as if I was a foetus suspended in a silent and protective womb.

Before sitting down to compose the words that I wished to write to the King, I took my time to peruse the shelves; the heavy and musky scent from the many leather bound volumes filled my nostrils. Most of the volumes spoke of history, geography, and of course politics and religion. Every now and then I paused, and with my thumb and forefinger, gently extracted a volume, flicking through the thick parchment, and sometimes vellum, that lay within.

Of course, this was the early 16th century and the printing press had not long been invented. This explained why many of the volumes were handwritten, and some of the religious texts exquisitely adorned with hand-drawn illustrations etched in vivid and beautiful colours. I guessed that many of the books had been written in the 12th and 13th century, when the castle was originally built, and I suspected that much of the information stored there would be subsequently lost in the sands of time. I vowed to spend as much time as I could in my father’s library, before my fate would eventually draw me away from Hever and onwards towards London.

Two large windows allowed the light to stream into the room and illuminate the large, oak desk that was placed at its centre. I sat down in front of it. Looking at the blank piece of parchment before me, I took the quill in my hand. Poised above the parchment, I paused; this was to be the first letter that I would write to Henry, the letter in which I would avow to him my maidenhead and my life. Yet, how to write to a King? For a moment, my mind was blank, and then, as if I were taking dictation from Anne herself, I began to write easily and in fluent French; the words pouring forth from my quill:

Sire
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