Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (4 page)

Yet my thoughts were interrupted by the servant girl, who turned her attention to me and asked,

‘Mistress Anne, which dress shall I fetch for you?’ The young girl, whose blonde hair was caught up in a white linen cap, looked at me expectantly. For a moment, everything seemed to hang in the air, as if time were standing still. My first thought was that I had no idea! Then, before I had a chance to dwell on this any further, I realised that I was speaking boldly and decisively. This was to be the first of many times in the days and months ahead that words would tumble forth without my understanding of whence they came. Every time this would happen, it seemed as though I was being guided from beyond my understanding by Anne herself. It was from these experiences that gradually over time, I would also come to know more of the real Anne Boleyn. I would begin to see the world through her eyes, feel her passions, her fears, her hopes. I would understand more and more intimately her character, the events that would shape and define her, and her actions which would leave her essence indelibly marked on the pages of European history.

In that moment, for the first time since I had opened my eyes in this unbelievable world, I felt strangely calm and self-assured. I did not quite understand why. After all, I found myself in a strange place; it seemed also that I had arrived in different time! I was somehow in the body of Anne Boleyn, whose story and fate I knew well from my history books. The King was waiting for me downstairs; I should have been terrified. I knew what Henry was, and would be capable of, in the years to come. Yet, nevertheless, I felt a surge of courage well up from within me. I knew exactly what I must do. For the first time, I took control. Letting go of Mary’s hand, I turned toward Bess.

‘Bess, bring me my yellow, silk gown and white silk hood – the one with the black velvet veil.’

‘Very good, Madame’, with that, Bess gave a slight curtsey and then disappeared through a nearby door. I turned to my sister.

‘Mary, help me. I need to see my jewels. There must be something that the King has given me that is suitable to wear.’ Mary smiled, brimming with excitement.

‘Yes, of course. Let’s look!’ She pushed open the door and I found myself in a bedroom that I assumed must be my own. A large intricately carved tester bed dominated the room. It was hung with heavily embroidered curtains worked mainly with red, green and silver silk thread, spun in the design of intertwined rose bowers. Crisp, white linen sheets made up the bed, which was piled with soft-looking pillows, and across which an animal fur had been thrown. As I scanned the room, aside from the imposing bed, the fireplace caught my eye. A finely carved, wooden panel was mounted above a simple stone-carved surround. Clearly visible on the panel was another heraldic device; an inverted chevron which divided a shield into three sections, each one contained what looked like a bull’s head. I knew this to be the Boleyn family crest. More pictures were hung around the walls of that modest, yet spacious enough, room. Half melted candles were positioned here and there. I breathed in deeply; the air was heavily scented with beeswax, despite the open window.

Mary was delving deep into a large oak cupboard. With a flourish, she pulled out an ornately carved ivory casket, which was mounted with silver bands and hinges; these in turn were embellished with lions and
fleur-delis
on a background of translucent blue enamel. It was an exquisite object, the many intricate carvings depicting scenes, I would later learn, from the life of Saint Eustace. Moving over to a dressing table by the window, Mary placed it carefully down, before handing me a finely crafted golden key; in itself, it was a rare and beautiful thing. The key fitted easily, turning smoothly in the lock. With a great deal of excitement, for I had no idea what treasures might lie inside, I opened the lid.

Laid out in the box was an array of necklaces, brooches and rings; a glittering feast of precious and semi-precious stones set in gold. In my modern day life, it was beyond my wildest dreams to think that I might one day hold one of Anne’s personal jewels. At that moment though, I realised that an entire casket full lay before me. I was speechless, yet I was drawn immediately to a brooch which displayed clusters of diamonds, studded with pearls and woven into a lover’s knot. I felt sure that this had been a gift from the King. However, I turned to Mary and tentatively enquired,

‘And this . . . do you think . . . ?’ I had not even gotten the words out before Mary gushed,

‘Oh Anne, you are so clever! This is the brooch he gave to you at Easter, isn’t it?’ I remained silent and smiled, concealing my ignorance. However, my silence was enough to encourage her to continue. ‘Yes, that’s right. I remember now. He sent it to you after he visited you here at Hever. It was a gift, to apologise for upsetting you, wasn’t it?’

Oh God! I thought; Anne’s famous sharp tongue. What could I have said, I wondered; what had passed between Henry and me? However, I didn’t have to guess for long as my sister eagerly went on,

‘I recall how cross you were when he asked you to be his mistress!’ Clearly, she found it amusing that her sister could admonish the King and that Henry would take it so meekly, as an abashed child. ‘I saw you in the garden with him from my bedroom window. I knew not what you were discussing at the time, but I could just make out through the open window his letter crumpled in your hand, and your fiery chastisement of his disregard for your honour. Even from a distance, I could see the anger flash in your eyes! Henry must have been taken aback by your reaction. I think he was
scared
, you know!’ She emphasised the ‘scared’ for effect then went on, ‘Scared that in your anger, you were going to walk away from him, banish him from your company forever! Just think Anne, the King of England scared of my sister. You really do have the courage of a lion. All those wily and ruthless Dukes, Earls and Lords tremble when Henry raises his voice, but not my sister. Oh no, Anne the Lion! The tamer of Kings!’ Mary began to swirl round the room, throwing her arms open wide as she spoke.

‘And I remember what he said in that letter.’ With her head cocked to the side and with a mischievous grin, she mimicked the King. ‘My dearest sweetheart, I beg you to tell me of your whole mind as to the love between the two of us. I must know! For over a year now, I have been stricken by the dart of love, yet unsure as to how well you doth love me.’ She clasped her hands to her heart feigning the striking of the dart into her breast and continued, ‘I beg you to let me know your true feelings for me; whether your love is an ordinary one, as any subject for a King, or do you love me singularly, which indeed is an uncommon love.’ Mary was clearly in full flow and had virtually memorised the letter. I wondered if I still had it in my possession. ‘I beseech you to give me your entire answer, your true and everlasting servant, Henry R.’

With the end of her speech came a deep bow, as if to emphasise her mockery of the King’s subservience to Anne in the name of true love. Whilst remaining unmoved, she looked up at me. There was a moment’s silence between us, and then Mary burst out laughing; I couldn’t help but join her. It was a blessed relief to give vent to the whirlwind of emotions that had been building up within me.

Too soon, our laughter subsided. Mary was standing close to me. We had been holding onto each other, clasping each other’s arms as we shared our girlish joke. I found myself looking into those gentle, brown eyes. For all her reputation as an ‘infamous whore,’ I saw great tenderness and innocence in those eyes, and I knew that her desire to love and be loved had been cruelly exploited by the powerful men in her life. In my arms, she felt like a vulnerable child, and for a moment, I was angry at the reputation that history had served her. I wanted to protect her. Not for the first time would I want to rewrite the pages of history, and it would take me to the very end of the story to surrender this futile quest. Yet, there was something I needed to know from her. Gently wiping away a tear of laughter that moistened her flushed cheeks, I looked into her eyes, searching for the truth.

‘Mary, tell me. Do you resent me and my relationship with Henry? It must be so difficult for you after . . .’ I trailed off. It seemed indiscreet to be so candid. Mary smiled feebly and sighed,

‘Anne, when Henry tired of me, I cannot deny it, I was heart- broken. He is . . .’ she paused, searching for the right word, ‘. . . so very charismatic, and so surprisingly vulnerable at times . . . when we were alone of course.’ She added the last part quickly, as if to excuse a perceived weakness. She then continued,

‘He is like no man you or I will ever meet; it is so easy to be enamoured with his intensity, to lay yourself open, to give your heart to him. I was so deeply involved, I forgot myself. I even forgot sometimes that he was the King of England. When we were together, we were just Henry and Mary. I loved him but I should never have forgotten who he was . . . and is.’ She paused, clearly reflecting deeply on the most intimate of times they must have shared together. ‘Henry is the fire and we are like creatures mesmerised by its light and heat.’ Mary stared passed me, as if lost in a deep maze of her own thoughts and feelings. Then abruptly, she seemed to come back into the present, remembering once more my presence. ‘Oh, I’m sorry! Of course, he loves you in a way he never did with me. He is besotted with you. Everybody at court will soon know it, if they don’t already. Everything will be different . . . just . . .’ again, Mary hesitated, this time unsure whether to say her next words, ‘Just be careful, Anne. Henry is a man of deep passion and shallow pride. Don’t lose sight of the shore and get swept away in his changing moods.’ Mary must have seen something of anxiety registering in my face, for she changed tone suddenly. Leaning over and kissing me on the cheek, she took my hands firmly in hers and smiling, said, ‘Oh look. Don’t take any notice of me. After all what do I know! You’re the clever one in this family. Everything will be fine, you’ll see!’

At that moment, the door was pushed open and, with a rustle of skirts, two maids appeared in the room. The first I recognised as Bess, carrying a vibrant yellow gown made of silk, falling in voluminous folds over her outstretched arms. The second was slightly older and similarly dressed, although a little more solid in girth. I suspected she had a family of her own and her girth was due to having endured repeated pregnancies. Her demeanour was warm and motherly, and I immediately valued her grounded energy. Without further ado, the two women set about unlacing my outer garments.

They worked quietly and swiftly, deeply attentive to their task. Having been undressed down to my undergarments—which I eyed more than a little curiously—the older of the two maids, whose name I did not yet know, motioned for me to step into my kirtle and then the full skirt of my new dress. The style of the bodice and the full sleeves that Anne would make so fashionable at the English court were soon slipped about my slight frame, then laced and pinned into place, swiftly and without fuss.

As both maids knelt to straighten the hem of my skirt, ensuring that it fell gracefully around my feet, my sister stepped forward. I caught myself realising that already she was no longer just Mary Boleyn. She already touched my heart, and I was beginning to understand what it was to have a sister, something I had sadly never known in my 21st century life. Mary helped brush and plait up my hair; this was then covered by a white coif, before affixing into place a white, silk French hood, which had been beautifully studded across the upper and lower billaments with pearls.

Reaching round my neck, she adjusted my Boleyn necklace, which I had chosen by my silence to keep about my neck. I realised that already it felt like a talisman that gave me strength, reminding me of who I was. As she worked, Bess held up a small, handled mirror; for only the second time that day, I caught sight of my reflection and saw a fierce determination in the unfamiliar, yet hypnotic, eyes that stared back at me. I remained still, as Mary moved round to my front and attached the lover’s knot brooch to the centre of my bodice. I would soon learn that this style of gown appeared to be Anne’s favourite. That was not surprising to me, even then; it is how she appeared in all of the few known portraits of her, and I could see why.

How graceful was her long swanlike neck! How alluring were her well sculpted shoulders and how enticing her raised, small, but perfectly formed breasts! As I stood there, I recalled one of Henry’s love letters to Anne, now in the Vatican library; it was the one in which Henry had spoken of kissing Anne’s breasts—her ‘dugs’—and I wondered if I would feel the King’s lips brush across my soft skin that day. To my surprise, I felt a frisson of sexual energy surge through my body. The growing warmth spreading between my legs told me that Anne desired this man—of that I had just become acutely aware.

Returning to the present moment, I stood still as I peered into the mirror, biting gently on my lips to flush them red. I had never been afraid of any man; no matter whether that man was a King or no. I knew full well how to make him swell with desire. If there was such a thing as reincarnation, that we carry forth our personalities into the next lifetime, then on this score there was no doubt that the blood of Anne Boleyn was flowing through my 21st century veins.

Mary moved over to the dressing table and picked up a delicate glass bottle containing a colourless liquid. Coming towards me, she took off the stopper, tipping it upside down in order to drop a small quantity of the liquid on the tip of her finger. She then touched her finger lightly across either side of my neck; it was perfume. Suddenly, the scent of rosewater—the same scent I detected when I had first entered Anne Boleyn’s bedroom—filled my nostrils. Oh Lord! I then realised fully, just how in those minutes before I finally lost consciousness in the Long Gallery, I had already begun the process of crossing over into another time, a parallel universe. Somehow, in those moments, the rigidly defined boundaries that separated dimensions of time and space had begun to dissolve; the voices that I heard, and the scent of rosewater perfume, had been the first tell-tale signs that part of my consciousness had already transported itself into a different paradigm. I could not even begin to fathom what was happening to me.