Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (8 page)

Finally, I was alone. So many questions that I had brushed aside since I had awoken in the Long Gallery tumbled back through my mind. I leant forward bringing my knees up to my chest, hugging them, and enjoying, just for one moment, the warmth of the water melting away the tension in my aching muscles. I rested my chin on my knees and began to sort through my thoughts. The first question on my mind was, ‘how on earth did I find myself in the 16th century and how would I get back?’ If this wasn’t a dream—and it seemed increasingly unlikely that it wasn’t—then how had I entered this reality? No one had noticed any change in Anne. So was I Anne, or was Anne me? I mean, did we share the same soul? I knew that in the 21st century, quantum physicists believed that parallel universes most likely existed. In such a paradigm, all possibilities and realities were taking place simultaneously. In other words, was it possible that I was actually in both dimensions at the same time?

Another more disturbing thought followed. Did I want to go back? The truth was that despite my professional success, my personal life had been less than a triumph. Some five years before, I had met and fallen in love with a man who, inconveniently, happened to be married with a young daughter. We were soul mates, Daniel and I. Unfortunately, the heady excitement of those early days soon faded into despair as we both realised that he was unable to break up his family. However, from our suffering, a deeper and stronger love emerged that endured despite the enormously trying circumstances. The relationship with his wife, like Henry’s with Katherine, was cordial; no more than brotherly affection. Yet that did not make our time apart any easier, and although I got on with my life, I died inside living without him. We promised ourselves to each other—in time—when his daughter was more independent. But he was a devoted father, and I knew our love was tearing his sense of loyalties apart.

The irony and parallel with Anne’s situation did not fail to pass me by unnoticed. But suddenly I had found myself living her life. It was almost as if I could escape into a fantasy and forget unhappy endings, whilst allowing Daniel to go back to his family. Yes, it is true; during those early days, I rather ridiculously believed that I could single-handedly change the course of history; that Anne would live happily ever after.

Deep in thought, I watched the reflection of myself in the water. A small knock at my bedroom door abruptly broke my daydream. I looked up as it creaked open slowly, and Elizabeth Boleyn entered the room alone.

‘May I come in child?’ her voice was soft and filled with tenderness. I immediately relaxed. This was my mother, and I sensed Anne loved her dearly. My intuition told me that there was a close and intimate bond between them, and I felt safe.

‘Of course, mother,’ was my immediate reply. Elizabeth Boleyn came over and knelt, just as Bess had done only a few minutes before. She too began washing my neck and back. At last, with my mother close by my side, I was able to see her face in detail.

Elizabeth Boleyn had clearly been a very handsome woman in her younger years. About the same age as her husband, some of her youth and beauty had faded. However, in her maturity, Anne’s mother had retained her striking looks and possessed considerable elegance and grace. Indeed, I saw immediately where Anne had got her famed allure and poise. Unlike Anne though, Elizabeth’s face was more round than oval; her cheeks were somewhat full but she had the same flawless, olive-skinned complexion set against dark hair as her daughter. I could not help but notice the dark mole high on her left cheek bone, as it drew one’s attention to her beautiful eyes, which were large, round and hazel-green, not to mention full of concern and love for her daughter.

Like her husband, Anne’s mother was clothed in a rich fabric of black damask, which contrasted with her kirtle of light, grey satin. Although her bodice had been cut squarely, she modestly wore a very fine, white linen partlet that was secured about her neck by a small button. However, the greatest display of both her wealth and piety was the gold girdle belt that was clipped about her waist, and from which was hung a small book. Knowing the religious convictions of the time, I assumed this to be Lady Elizabeth’s Book of Hours. My intuition told me that Elizabeth Boleyn was a proud woman of a quiet and steely disposition; a woman who was fiercely protective of her children. For a few moments we stayed there in silence together, enjoying the sense of closeness between us. It was my mother who broke the silence first.

‘Your father has told me about what the King has said,’ Lady Boleyn’s voice was quiet and understated, and yet I detected her anxiety. ‘Anne, if truth be known child, I’m afraid for you. Our King is a mighty Prince and a generous sovereign Lord, but he is also a man of fickle mood. I am proud of you, truly, but I cannot get it out of my mind; if Henry can put aside his first wife of over twenty years, a Spanish princess with the noblest connections throughout Europe, what might he do if . . .’ Her voice trailed off, unable to put words to her fears. She could not know it, but of course I understood her concerns entirely. Indeed, I shared them. Yet, I did not know a way out the situation that I found myself in. The best I could do in that moment was to try and assuage her fears. I shifted in the water, turning more fully to face her square on. Taking her small hands in my own, I squeezed them tightly and looked deep into her eyes.

‘Dearest mother, I understand your concerns, the thing is . . .’ I searched around for the right words to say, ‘I know that this is my destiny. For some reason I am meant to be Henry’s wife and Queen of England.’ I continued by appealing to her deep religious convictions. ‘God has brought me to this, you know that don’t you?’ I looked earnestly and deeply into those gentle, hazel-green eyes, punctuating each word with a slight squeeze of her hands in mine. ‘It is God’s will that I accept Henry’s offer—and you taught me that above all else, I must accept the will of God, and love the will of God, as my own.’ I only guessed that this had been the case from the prayer book at her side. ‘Now mother, let us be glad of these many blessings. I’m going to need all your love and support in the years to come. Do not forsake me now.’ With the end of my speech, my mother reached up with her hands and gently cupped my face within them. She smiled, tears welling up in her eyes.

‘Yes, you are right, of course you are right.’ My mother raised herself up to her feet, her hand lingering on my cheek for just a moment. ‘I shall send the maids up to make you ready for this evening,’ she said. Walking to the door and opening it, Lady Boleyn turned to look at me one last time. Pausing briefly, she smiled bravely, before leaving and closing the door behind her.

By the time I entered the Great Hall, most of the dinner guests had already arrived and a cacophony of sounds filled the smoky air. The room had a high vaulted ceiling. I imagined when the castle was first built, the ceiling was open to the outside, allowing smoke from the small central fireplace to escape through the roof. With later renovations, the ceiling had been closed off and the room was dominated by a huge stone fireplace, carved into an iconic Tudor arch and set into the far wall. As the evening was so balmy, no fire had been lit. However, the room was aglow with the flicker of dozens of candles which cast gentle, dancing shadows around the chamber, bathing the castle’s guests in a subdued yellow and orange light.

I had seen this room before, when I last visited the castle in my other lifetime. I admired its grand proportions, yet it managed to maintain an intimate and cosy atmosphere. However, unlike the appearance of the much aggrandized 21st century room, there was no oak paneling to be seen. Instead, a series of tapestries highlighted the white, lime-washed stone walls. I admired those tapestries afresh; the arras I had seen in my modern life were faded and somewhat past their best. However, the ones hung on the walls that day were alive with vibrant colours of red, blue, violet and green, set against shimmering silver thread work. The largest of the set was hung behind the dais at the high end of the chamber; whilst along the walls were a number of large, oak chests displaying the best of the family’s plate.

When I visited the castle in my modern life, I had always reflected wistfully how lonely this room appeared. I had imagined Sir Thomas, his wife, their children and perhaps some local gentry and neighbours talking and laughing about the latest gossip at court. But that night left nothing to the imagination. The room was full. A buzz of excited chatter filled the air, punctuated every so often by an outburst of raucous laughter.

Laid in a horseshoe shape around the centre of the room were three long trestle-tables dressed with white linen cloths. Over forty people filled the room; many were already seated, whilst some stood around chatting nonchalantly with their friends. Weaving in and out of the courtiers were some rather harassed looking servants, each bearing flagons of ale, goblets of wine, as well as ewers and basins so that diners could wash their hands before eating. Somehow managing to rise above the general hubbub of noise was the most beautiful and melodic Tudor lute music. It floated down from the minstrel’s gallery above my head as if it were being played by angels in heaven.

I immediately noticed the King. He was already seated at the head of one of the trestle-tables, which had been positioned across the high end of the chamber. Henry was deep in conversation with my father, Sir Thomas. Beyond Sir Thomas, on his right hand side, my mother was engaged by a rather gruff looking elderly gentleman. For an awful moment, I was unsure what I should do next. However, before I had any chance to think further on it, one of our servants came up to my side. Inclining his head in a polite bow, he opened his arm gesturing for me to follow him towards a vacant seat at the left hand side of the King. As I made my way toward it, I saw many heads turn in my direction and I wondered what they were thinking. I was dressed in a sumptuous gown of the deepest scarlet satin. I knew this only enhanced the striking appearance of Anne’s dark hair and olive complexion. Embroidery of gold thread trimmed the square-cut neck line, whilst about my neck, and lying upon the gentle swell of my breasts, I wore a parure of pearls and rubies. I assumed that such a beautiful piece of jewellery had clearly been a gift from the King. To compliment it, matching billaments adorned my French hood, whilst a girdle ending in a gold pomander was clipped about my tiny waist. I wondered, were those that watched me simply appreciating the elegance of my attire, or, had I already seen jealousy alight in their eyes?

As I approached the King, Henry turned his attention towards me. I saw enormous pride and desire in his eyes as he took in my beauty.

‘Anne! At last you have joined us; we have been missing your company entirely.’ He nodded his head respectfully and indicated for me to sit by his side. ‘Your father and I were just talking about your return to court; methinks it has been far too long, my love.’

‘Yes, Your Grace. I understand how time drags by only too well when we are without something that is dear to us.’ I found myself speaking brazenly once more. ‘But, it is . . . difficult, Sire.’

‘How so, my love?’ Henry bit into some candied fruit he had plucked from a platter in front of us, as he listened intently.

‘It is not easy . . . Katherine
knows
and she hates me for it.’ I spoke earnestly, ‘I have given my heart into Your Grace’s hands and there is nothing more that I desire in this world than to be by your side. But sometimes, I find her loathing too difficult to bear. I am just a woman with none of Your Grace’s power or greatness.’ This did not resonate with my modern sensibility, but nevertheless the words poured forth with true sincerity. I sensed Anne was speaking through me—and with passion—about something that she clearly had to endure. ‘It is sometimes easier for me to be here, where I do not have to bear her scorn and yet . . . I can always treasure Your Grace’s memory close to my heart.’

I watched Henry, searching his face for his reaction. To my surprise, I found that he seemed a little abashed. Perhaps he had not even realised how uncomfortable it must have been for Anne as it became increasingly evident to everyone—including the Queen—that Henry’s ardour and passion was growing day by day, and that his ‘infatuation’ was no mere passing affair.

‘Sweetheart, I do not wish you to feel like this. We will see what can be arranged.’ I wasn’t quite sure what ‘arranged’ meant, but I knew that I would have to be content for the time being. Without saying anything else on the matter, Henry motioned to a steward, who stood close by, to come forward with the wine. This was duly poured into a silver goblet and handed to the King. Engaged in this activity, he did not notice my eyes fix my father’s. Sir Thomas raised his eyebrows in an appreciative gesture of my forthright stance, raising his cup of wine to toast my good health as he did so.

The King was in merry spirits all evening, talking openly with both me and my father, and other senior courtiers. I was amazed at the endless array of dishes presented to us; mostly meats, a stuffed pig, pheasants and, of course, venison. Initially, as we began to eat, I was a little perplexed at the absence of any forks. However, I soon observed from those about me, that eating with one’s fingers was
de rigueur
, using the knife only to cut away at the meat and silver spoons to take any liquid food.