Timeless Falcon 1

by Phillipa Vincent-Connolly

  “I sympathise with you,” I continue, “as I believe in a personal faith with God and that we are saved by grace alone. I also believe that it is acceptable before God when two or three evangelicals gather in his name, He hears their prayers.”

  Anne’s composure grows calmer as she rests against me, shoulder to shoulder. “Then we are of the same mind, Mistress Elizabeth, are we not?”

  “You need not fear, Anne, I am your faithful servant.”

  She smiles, showing her understanding as she hands me her personal copy of a Book of Hours, the calf-skin pages of which, to my astonishment, look fresh and feel crisp, the illuminations so vibrant. It takes my breath away as I turn each page, trying to read the devotions and examine the illustrations, which are perfect with the gold leaf and inks so intertwined.

  “This Book of Hours,” she explains, “was made in Bruges in around 1450, and was a present from my father. He handed it down to me from his family.”

  I turn to the page that bears the inscription Le Temps Viendra – the time will come – and Anne’s signature, Je Anne Boleyn, which is written beneath a miniature of the Last Judgement. There is also a drawing of an astrolabe in dark ink.

  “This,” she says, pointing, “symbolises time.”

  I trace my finger over the black ink, which is as pitch as night. My hands tremble as I realise that this priceless object is in my possession – a book historians would go crazy over. I hand it back, not wanting to damage it.

  “Please read it anytime you should wish, and take great nourishment from it, as I do.”

  “Thank you. Can you please explain to me why you have written Le Temps Viendra in your prayer book?”

  She smiles, and replies almost prophetically, “I know that one day, God has something special in mind for me. I have always believed it so, which is why I have such faith. God will not fail me, and I will not falter. My time will come, and God will grant me his grace to do his bidding.”

  “You impress me, Mistress, and I will pray daily that God grants you your heart’s desires, as you are faithful to him.”

  She places the book beside her on the seat, leans into me, grasping my hands in hers. “Oh, dearest Beth, I know you understand me! We are kindred spirits, you and me. We shall be friends forever.”

  During these hours of travelling by litter, we discuss many topics. We talk of Thomas Wyatt, with whom Anne spends a lot of time, and George, who she insists is infatuated with me. Our conversation goes on to discuss etiquette at court and what is expected of us when we are in the company of the king or queen.

  After some time, we leave the countryside behind and approach the streets of London. I’m excited but also shocked. The streets are crowded and stink of stale food and human waste. The noise outside the litter is an intrusive cacophony as we drown in a babble of voices, with traders packing up their wares and rowdy drunkards spilling from tightly packed alehouses, hanging around in the doorways, trying to pick up whores ready for the approaching dusk.

  Looking up, I notice something rather odd. A clear sky. Yes, there are clouds, but no chemtrails. London’s sky is usually full of them, not to mention the planes attached. I must remind myself that we are not in modern-day England, but a Renaissance, Tudor land, where everything is so beautiful, yet alien, like the blue, London sky.

  Candles flicker in the cloudy windows of merchants and tailors, who sit cross-legged in their establishments as they work under the strain of bad light, showing their talent and wares. The cobbled and muddy lanes are filled with a different kind of pollution. Not car fumes, but the stench of excrement and urine thrown from upstairs windows. There is also the unmistakable pong of perspiring bodies crushing around the last of the market stalls, looking for a bargain. I chuckle to myself, thinking of the hustle and bustle of modern Oxford Street and the throngs of people there on a Saturday afternoon, which is not so different from what I’m viewing at present, apart from the veil of time that separates the fashions, stock on sale, and the politics of capitalism. Oxford Street, during this time, is called Oxford Road, and it leads to Tyburn, where most traitors die a public death, either by burning or hanging. I’m hoping and praying that our litter won’t make its way past such a notorious site, where bodies are left hanging and in cages until they rot.

  For the first few days, Anne tells me, we are to stay at the Palace of Richmond. She has been assigned a tailor from the Wardrobe of Robes, a Master John Skutt and his apprentice, Paul Cotton, to prepare gowns at twenty-eight pounds each, ready for our debut. Contrary to popular belief, the people of the sixteenth century are more civilised than I’d been led to believe. Anne says she will teach me how to mix rosewater for bathing, and she tells me her mother has packed and prepared potions for our use. So, these noblewomen behave like any modern woman would do – why am I so surprised?

  Luckily, I had my make-up bag in my holdall when I passed through the portal, and I’ve brought it with me so we can stay as fresh as possible with some modern toiletries. As we near the end of our journey, I spray myself with my floral-scented perfume. Anne scrutinises everything I do, fascinated as I explain how she can use my moisturiser on her skin, a touch of mascara on her eyelashes, and a dusting of blusher to her cheeks to enhance her olive-toned complexion – not such an easy task with the litter rocking as it does. She seems most impressed by my bottle of perfume, snatching it from me and spraying it on her décolleté.

  Then she rubs a dab of toothpaste onto her front teeth, and I giggle, watching her enjoy the tingle of the paste on the tip of her tongue. She tells me that she usually uses soot, which she rubs on her teeth with a small linen cloth. But from the delight on her face, I can tell that she thinks the toothpaste is much more effective. I couldn’t bear to use soot and, it appears, neither can Anne now that she has experienced the sensation of a smidgen of borrowed toothpaste. There’s no harm in encouraging her to enhance her beauty with modern toiletries. I am merely aiding her cause to become the most celebrated woman at Henry’s Court. I pack everything away as the litter comes to a halt on the gravel, and my heart flutters as we sit in the shadow of such a prestigious palace.

  I’m excited about meeting the king. I look about for anyone important, but the page who greets us informs us that the king and his courtiers are due to arrive at Richmond in the next day or two, so my efforts to catch sight of him about the place are in vain. Anne and I have been thrown into the stillness before the mayhem, which, thankfully, gives us time to prepare ourselves.

  What I’m finding so fascinating is having the opportunity to visit the old palace of Richmond, of which there are few records. To see it in its prime is an honour. It’s an architectural wonder – a vast collection of passageways, gardens, closets, and private chambers, which Anne and I are bound to get lost in. I hope some kind gentlewoman of the queen’s household will be gracious enough to eventually show us where we need to be. As our belongings are unloaded, and Agnes follows Anne and me to our apartment, my mind drifts back to Hever, university, and home. Now I’m here, just outside central London, there’s absolutely no chance of me getting back to see my family or friends, or to complete my studies. I haven’t forgotten my acquaintances and loved ones, but it’s hard to stay focused on my dilemma when faced with this alternate reality – this supreme wonder of Tudor England.

  Five

  Early Spring 1522

  Anne and Agnes have very kindly filled me in on how things run here. To say it is a complex society would be an understatement. Henry’s court is something of a nomadic one, always on the move, travelling from one palace to another every three months or so. The royal couple’s entourage consists of many courtiers, who are companions to them, playing cards, hawking, jousting, wrestling, fencing, and playing tennis with the king, just as the women sew with the queen, or read to her, maybe learn music or dance, and continuously serve her needs. I’m shocked to learn this can mean up to two hundred women, and ev
en more, men, joining their Majesties at court at any one time.

  Anne’s first post at the English court will be with the Royal Wardrobe. Thanks to her father’s position, and his closeness to Henry VIII, she is to become one of Katharine of Aragon’s ladies-in-waiting. We will be joining the court as companions to the queen, thrown into a mix of one thousand noblemen who serve Henry in the broader court. Anne has warned me that we will belong to a heady melting pot of politics, intrigue, and theatre – a formal, serious, religious, and dangerous institution, enhanced by parties and enjoyment, involving throngs of courtiers, mostly young people of a similar age to Anne and me, who have too much time on their hands, which, she says, has the court awash with sexual tension and wanton desire.

  She has explained that, as a form of entertainment and promotion, entanglements are the way to be elevated at court and in politics. Some see courtly love as a safety device, preventing this critical mass from exploding. The fictions of courtly love are based on the same ideal, which disposes men to attend the king: service. The courtier is supposed to sublimate his relations with the women of the court by choosing a mistress and serving her faithfully and exclusively. He forms part of her circle, wooing her with poems, songs, and gifts, and if she is gracious enough to recognise the link, he might wear her favour and joust in her honour. Though he might have a wife at home, that is a separate life. In return, the suitor must look for one thing only – a platonic friendship.

  A woman might, in fact, be older than her lover, and she would then act as his patron and launch him into court society. Courtly love is essential psychologically, meeting the need for emotional ties. I’m not sure I fully understand – maybe it’s my twenty-first-century outlook – but Anne assures me that it works well enough to regulate gender relations at an acceptable level, especially in this hotbed of potential promiscuity.

  Courtly love is a game where Henry plays the leading courtly lover and, at present, Anne’s sister is his object of desire. Competition for this role is intense, and Bessie Blount, although considered a great beauty, has now been replaced, having recently given the king an illegitimate son, named Henry Fitzroy. For Henry VIII, having mistresses is expected, but not an everyday event within his court, as it is with the French one – so if Mary is in such a position, it is something of a surprise. Queen Katharine, I am told, gracefully turns a blind eye, pretending that the king only has eyes for her.

  My first taste of the Tudor court is to assist Anne as she, amongst other women, will entertain Spanish ambassadors at the Cardinal’s house of York Place. When we arrive, the residence is crowded – faces aglow with a thousand burning candles, their smoky fumes making my throat tight and dry. As we are shown to a curtained area, the intoxicating smell, the heat, and the flickering light entrances me, transporting me back to a childhood memory, back in the twentieth century, of my grandmother snuffing out flames in her dinner-table candelabra, and of me following behind and dipping my fingertips into the warm candle wax, annoying my poor grandmother as I’d squish it between my fingers and accidentally let the remnants drip onto her carpet. Luckily, she knew how to remove the evidence with brown paper and a hot iron. Since then, I’ve never touched a candle, but I’m always mesmerised by the intensity of their warm glow.

  My mind snaps back to the present. I giggle with Anne at the confused conversations of the players around us, which amuse us as we join them. We are squashed in the middle of a bustling crush of bodies as they prepare for their parts in the masque. The leaping shadows of wall torches become our audience, and the corridors and rooms ooze fevered excitement.

  Lady Anne dresses in the curtained side-chamber with some of the other women, stepping into her satin and damask gown of white cloth with Milan-point lace and gold thread. Even after several weeks in Tudor England, I am still easily astounded and astonished by the beauty and extravagance of the clothing and style around me. The name of Anne’s character is embroidered on a silk caul of Venetian gold, and on a Milanese bonnet, encrusted with jewels, which will adorn her head.

  “Mistress Anne, are these masque characters related to the Comedia del Arte characters?” I ask, securing this magnificent cap onto her plaited, dark-chestnut hair.

  “No, Beth, I do not think so.” She shakes her head lightly, turning to face me, her hands pressing against the edges of the bonnet. “The cap feels secure.” She smiles, straightening the silk caul across her torso, looking delighted with herself. “You take advice easily.” She smooths down the caul, then looks around at the other players, as if comparing her appearance to theirs. “It will not take you long to feel part of life here at Court. I know I have more experience than you, but we can learn together.”

  This pleases me. Though I haven’t forgotten the life, I’ve left behind, being a fast learner allows me to excel at taking on the etiquette of dressing as a Tudor woman and the behaviour expected by this society.

  Mary is at the other side of the chamber, being fussed over by a young, brown-haired girl, who seems eager to please. Anne notices me watching them and, as if she has read my mind, leans closer.

  “Mary is the same as she ever was. If she is in a liaison with the King, it will not change her.”

  Her voice is so low, I have to strain to catch each word. “Is that a good thing?” I ask. From what I can see, she puts on no airs or graces and, if you didn’t know, you wouldn’t think Henry had his eye on her to be his new mistress. Apart from the Boleyn family slowly being raised to noble ranks – which will be an expected consequence of such a relationship, yet an unacceptable outcome from Thomas Boleyn’s point of view – Mary asks the king for nothing. Moreover, Thomas Boleyn knows his accomplishments as a diplomat aid the Boleyn family’s rise at court. Mary is still Anne’s gentle sister and supports us, overseeing our arrival at court, ensuring we are happily settled and have everything we need.

  “She believed your story, did she not? My sister will always be sweet-natured to all. You, nor my family, have nothing to worry about where Mary and the King are concerned.”

  “You seem very sure of that.” Admittedly, like the rest of her family in the last few weeks, Mary has welcomed me into her confidence. I have seen for myself just how beautiful she is, inside and out. I realise why the king has his heart set on her, hoping she will be his next mistress – Mary’s star is ascending, and fast.

  4th March 1522 – York Place

  I see Cardinal Archbishop Thomas Wolsey looking on as preparations continue for the elaborate entertainment to be performed this evening. It is going to be an extravaganza, as is the case with much of what happens here. A couple of days earlier, Anne and I sat alongside the queen in the royal stand above the tiltyard, with the colours and ribbons of combatants and spectators waving as we avidly watched Henry Tudor ride into the lists, bowing in his saddle to Her Majesty Queen Katharine, and acknowledging and admiring the applause of the assembled crowd. Anne watched open mouthed, as he reined his mount, a beautiful stallion, the likes I have never seen before, and turned to enter the joust. We all saw the motto – Elle mon Coeur a Navera – She has wounded my Heart – on cloth-of-silver comparisons, which included a picture of a wounded heart embroidered on the trappings of his horse. No one spoke aloud, instead, the people watching, whispered behind their hands. The spectators seemed surprised. Many visibly gasped. I was not sure how I should react.

  Of all the crowd gathered, it was Queen Katharine who looked the more surprised, shocked even, seemingly paralysed for a moment, probably wondering what on earth she had done to upset her husband. I watched uncomfortably as she sat there trying to regain her composure, wiping her brow with a linen kerchief, trying to focus on the contest. I was sat close enough to discern she was watching through what appeared to be, tear-filled eyes. To me, she seemed proud, not the kind of woman who would show her emotions in public. It was in this moment that I realised that all these people I had read so much about, were real human beings, with the
ability to feel, and be touched by genuine emotions, such emotions that can never really be evoked from any document in any historical archive. Perhaps she realised that Henry’s display must have been meant for someone else, possibly Mary Carey, Anne’s sister, who hasn’t confided with either of us, exactly what has happened between her and the king. As we looked about the crowd, Anne and I are were in an excellent position to notice the reactions of others. However, even Anne was uncertain of the meaning of the silver comparsions. The queen looked visibly shaken, and Maria de Salinas, maid-of-honour and friend, discreetly leaned in to ask her if she felt unwell.

  Anne whispered to me that, according to other ladies-in-waiting, Katharine was not used to Henry being indiscreet. We had no confirmation from Mary that the regalia was directed at her. However, as soon as we noticed Mary who was sat further down the stands from us, beside her husband, we could see she was flustered. Her face was flushed, and her gaze fixed on the banner flapping in the breeze in front of her, we realised then, that the motto was aimed at her. When Mary had noticed the comparisons, her body appeared frozen to the spot, as King Henry trotted passed, stared directly at her, and tried to meet her gaze. William leaned in close to his wife, his face grew puce as Mary sat motionless in her seat. I noticed that William must have growled something insulting in her ear, while he rang his hands in his lap, because Mary visibly squirmed. How she managed not to snap back at him, and stayed so composed, I have no idea. For the rest of the tournament, she had sat biting her lip.