Timeless Falcon 1

by Phillipa Vincent-Connolly

  Anne whispered to me, that the king though known for his ways, had never openly practised the art of courtly love, and Anne assured me he had never so blatantly flaunted any mistress at court before now. Apparently, it was so out of character for him to proclaim to the world in such an unconventional manner that he was pursuing a lady of the court, that many of his courtiers whispered behind their hands throughout the afternoon’s proceedings. Anne found the situation fascinating, especially as she already had an idea that her sister Mary was the object of such attentions.

  Regardless, the queen, ever the professional, ignored the salacious murmurings around her, and cheered when the crowd did, as we all did. Then afterwards, she presented gifts graciously when the winners came up to claim what was due to them. How she managed to lovingly smile at the king is beyond me. Katharine wore her hurt, but masked her disappointment with smiles, and applauded the loudest when her husband had unseated most of his opponents. I suppose they had to let him win, it was their duty. Anne and I watched the queen closely, because we realised, and could see that she was still probably mortified with the way in which Henry was behaving. Anne had already told me that the court considers the game of courtly love as nothing but harmless fun, but we both know that such games are often a cover for something more dangerous. We also know, as must the queen, that there are numerous women within her household, who would be only too willing to give themselves without hesitation to such a charismatic, handsome, irresistible, athletic, and powerful monarch as Henry.

  Besides the joust, there have been feasts, dances and festivities. Today, is Shrove Tuesday – to mark the beginning of Lent. Sadly, there is not a plate filled with any pancakes in sight, that tradition is yet to come. However, the Great Hall has now been cleared in readiness for Cardinal Wolsey to honour the Spanish Ambassador, Mendoza, who, on behalf of the Emperor, is visiting court to discuss his suit for the future marriage to Princess Mary, who is, still a young child.

  Master Cornish and his group of actors or choristers are putting on a production of a play called Chateau Vert. I have read accounts of this event so many times, but to be here, witnessing it in person, is unbelievable. I watch Mary and Anne, as they stand together with the other female courtiers, and follow them all to where other players are now preparing their outfits, behind a heavy curtain. These players must be dressing themselves, ready to play the eight feminine virtues. I thought it wise not to participate, to give Anne and Mary all the limelight.

  As the evening masque begins, I observe, trying to keep in the shadows to avoid eye contact with anyone, as I walk past everyone, especially Wolsey. He intrigues me. He does not simply walk into the hall but, instead, creates a spectacle by his procession, full of pomp and finery, with dignitaries and courtiers swarming around him – a massive performance for the benefit of the onlookers. Men bow and doff their caps as fanfares announce his presence, and women curtsey, lowering their eyes as he passes.

  Anne points out George Cavendish, as squint through the gap in the curtain. Cavendish bows and scrapes to Wolsey with gusto, which, with all the added ceremony, makes the Cardinal look like Europe’s greatest statesman. His face is kind, and he stands straight and splendid rather than stout and portly. He is a renowned man of culture, as grand as any of his counterparts I can ever imagine in Rome. His household has pulled out all the stops today to create an exquisite display, fit for any noble prince. In this setting, the Cardinal appears like an alternative king – influential, suave, authoritative, worldly-wise, ostentatious, and affluent.

  The hall at York Place is packed to overflow, and I wish the palace had air conditioning as I stand here, stifled in my velvet gown and voluminous skirts. Standing with the rest of the female players Anne and me hide behind the curtain, glancing around, reading the sashes of some of the women taking part in the great masque: there is the king’s sister, Mary, the Dowager Queen of France, who represents Beauty; Gertrude Blount is Honour, while Mary is Kindness, and Jane Parker, the young woman I’d seen fussing over Mary earlier, is Constancy.

  “Jane Parker is infatuated with George,” Anne says, cutting her eyes towards her.

  I know Jane will later become George’s wife, and as I watch her adjust the caul attached to her costume, a surprising spark of jealous anger flashes across my heart. I focus on the names to ensure this unexpected flutter doesn’t make it to my eyes. All the names surreptitiously match the wearer, and Anne is to play Perseverance, which, in the future, will sum up who she is.

  I feel safe from prying male eyes, standing inside this inner sanctum, and I see Mary finishing her preparations, as are the other women of the masque. They are all dressed identically and are as overexcited as I am as they push past me to peek from behind the heavy fall of brocade that screens us from the assembly.

  “I wonder if anyone will invite me to dance with them once the masque is performed,” Jane Parker shrieks from over her shoulder. “This evening is going to be incredibly splendid!” She’s bursting with nervous delight, as are all the female players, thrilled with the excitement of taking part. They have never seen stage props like it. The atmosphere is electric, full of expectation, enhanced by the sound of the musicians warming their instruments up.

  The makeshift fortification has been wheeled in and takes up most of the hall. It stands proud, like a small medieval playground of three towers, from which hang three banners. One has three broken hearts, with the second displaying a lady’s hand holding a man’s heart, and the third portraying a lady’s hand turning a man’s heart. The wooden and plaster life-size model of the castle is how I imagine the fortification at the Field of the Cloth of Gold to have looked, but obviously on a much grander scale. The magnificent structure of the little chateau is painted red, yellow, green, and gold, and is adorned and decorated with leaves, flowers, hearts, and motifs, with its battlements shining as the whole set becomes brightly lit by flaming torches on branches. The natural light from the flames is so much softer than the theatrical lighting used in twenty-first-century re-enactments, and Tudor plays. The atmosphere of this authentic experience is nothing less than remarkable.

  “Jane, all the ladies, once unmasked, will not be without a dance partner,” Gertrude Blount declares, hardly containing her excitement as she shuffles next to Jane. “I hope George Boleyn will ask me!” Gertrude says.

  “No,” Jane giggles. “He will ask me first!” She glares at Gertrude. “Do you not think Chateau Vert looks like a smaller, pretend version of Windsor Castle?” Gertrude nods. Everyone is on tenterhooks. The fluttering in my stomach heightens as all the players wait in anticipation for the event to unfold.

  My insides quiver as I help draw back the draped curtain so the Dowager Queen, Mary Tudor, the king’s sister, can lead out the Captive Virtues. My mouth is dry as I watch them walk by to their allotted positions, where they’ll wait to be rescued by the king and his retinue. The task of guarding the female Virtues – stopping them from being recovered – is awarded to the contrary feminine Vices, but really, they are young chorister boys, dressed all in black. Boys being dressed as women, for the purposes of a masque and acting these parts does not surprise me, but the fact that some of them appear to be homosexual from the way they behave, and move, does. The rest of the participants in the hall, and those not taking part in the masque, jostle each other from the side-lines to get a closer look at the spectacle. I join them, elbowing past several in the excitement of observing the celebrations.

  The masked Vices wait for the music to stop so their boss, Master Cornish can introduce the pageant to the ambassadors. The group bow to the ambassadors, then turn to pose in the silence, looking directly at the Captive Virtues, of whom Anne, Mary Carey, Mary, Duchess of Suffolk, and Jane Parker are a part of, waiting to win them from their captors. The male Virtues represent Amorousness, Nobleness, Youth, Attendance, Loyalty, Pleasure, Love, Gentleness, and Liberty. The trumpets sound as Anne and the other ladies adjust ma
sks and gather their skirts, with the Duchess of Suffolk standing in front, ready to lead the dancers. I’m a tad lightheaded at the prospect of witnessing at first-hand and for the first time such a prestigious event. What a profound privilege it is to be standing where I am.

  At this end of the hall stands the vast canopy of estate, and the musicians conceal themselves in the minstrels’ gallery above our heads as they finish playing Saltarello, followed by Branie des la Guerre, bringing the drama to its formal introduction. What I find fascinating is that amongst the musicians stands a trumpeter, but this trumpeter is black – a blackamore. He stands proudly, in full court livery, looking down on all who are gathered.

  “Who is he?” I ask the woman standing next to me.

  “The blackamore?” Her eyes follow my upwards gaze. “The trumpeter is John Blanke. Have you not seen a man of colour before?”

  “Many a time,” I reply as I look out into the crowd, who are beginning to take their places in the masque. “Who is the King portraying?” I ask, pretending I don’t know, as I watch Anne take her place in the battlements of Chateau Vert.

  The female courtier beside me places her mouth close to my ear. “You cannot miss the King. Look, see him over there?” She points to the tallest man in the room, even though he is in disguise. I am speechless, seeing straight away who Henry is, as he waits to enter the fray.

  The king is more than six-feet two-inches in height and towers over all his court, able to command attention without effort. He’s a virtuous-looking prince. He looks better than he’s shown to be in his portraits – and a beautiful figure of a man, with a round, gentle face – good-looking, with bright blue eyes. I can now see why the Venetian Ambassador praises him so highly, saying his face is like that of a pretty woman, though his fiery red hair and broad chest show him to be a fierce specimen of a man, and his well-turned leg is not easily disguised, with his silk tights clinging to the definite curve of his calf; nothing dissuades him from enjoying imitation games. The women about me, knowing I am new to the court, instruct me on how I must act when the king finally reveals his identity. One of the women nudges closer to me as she stands in the crowd, and she whispers, “Mistress Wickers, you must act surprised when the king shows himself to the crowd during the unmasking, it is a requirement.”

  “Very well. I understand.” I reply, as silence falls within the Great Hall of York Place as the Master of Choristers of the Chapel Royal, now as Ardent Desire, the genius who has devised the court revel steps forward to address the gathered crowd.

  “It gives me great pleasure to introduce to the Spanish Ambassadors, Her Majesty, Queen Katharine, and His Grace, Cardinal Wolsey, our pageant, Chateau Vert!”

  Dressed in dark crimson satin, embroidered with burning flames of gold, on which his name is emblazoned, Master Cornish steps closer to the wooden castle, opens his arms, and looks towards the battlements, where Anne, Mary, and the women are waiting, poised for the masque to begin.

  “Lady Scorn and Lady Disdain,” he cries, “I beg you to surrender your prisoners and come down to me – otherwise we will breach your defences.”

  We all giggle, as ‘ladies’ Scorn and Distain, who are actually two of the young, male choristers, sneer at the gathered onlookers. They make me laugh as they look like young homosexuals playing at drag.

  “No knight will ever breach our defences!” they squeal. Everyone, realising its double entendre, breaks into raucous laughter at this remark.

  “Then ladies,” Master Cornish snarls, “you give us no choice,” Ardent Desire’s voice rattles the rafters, “we must make siege of your beautiful castle, forcing it down around your ears. You will be at our mercy!”

  As the lords charge forward from the far end of the hall, the Virtues try to retreat, but pandemonium ensues as the lords rush the walls to cries of invented alarm, while great explosions of gunfire resonate. The Virtues jump into the revels of discord, defending the castle with passion and energy, laughing and shaking with excitement, their heads thrown back in hysteria at the drama. But Mary Carey looks distraught in the mayhem, lost, standing solitary and silent. Perhaps she is hoping Henry will come for her before anyone else. She likes to be dramatic, it’s her way of gaining attention. Meanwhile, the court is in an uproar, and Cardinal Wolsey’s rotund face screws up with laughter as Mendoza, the Spanish Ambassador, looks on. Even the queen enjoys the masque, laughing and clapping while she sits on her throne under the Canopy of Estate, surrounded by the rest of her ladies-in-waiting. She looks like she is in better spirits than when she observed the jousts. Perhaps her mood has improved because of the proposed Spanish marriage of her daughter, which will reinforce and further the alliance with her family.

  The actors charge around the hall as the king’s men, splendid in caps of gold cloth and capes of blue satin, hurl dates, rotten apples, and other fruits at the castle’s defences. The chorister boys, like Jealousy, Distain and Scorn, who holding Mary, Duchess of Sussex, Mary Carey, Jane Parker, Anne and others captive, return the hail of fruits, sweetmeats, and comfits with rosewater, aiming at the besiegers and filling the hall with a great flourish of projectiles. I’ve read of this night so many times in the historical records, but to see this in real-time, as it happens, astonishes me. Butterflies erupt in my stomach, filling me with nervous excitement I haven’t experienced before.

  The scene is like one of comedy and torture; some involved just stand there laughing, like me, while many of the women scream at the top of their lungs, running in different directions. Some of the young choristers, with their costumes all dishevelled, slip and slide, almost falling on their backsides because of the rosewater covering the floor. Mr Cornish is red-faced, exasperated, and visibly sweating. His reputation is at stake as the crowd becomes uncontrollable, the masque now in ruins. His face is flushed with anger, yet there is nothing he can do but surrender to a hail of missiles. He waves his arms and shouts towards Anne as she leans over the battlements, screaming encouragement at the men coming to her rescue. Then, a monster of a man, who cannot be mistaken for anyone but the king, chases Disdain, Scorn and Jealousy out of his way, scaring them half to death, stopping them from continuing their brutal attack against George and Sir Antony Denny. The Duke of Suffolk pulls both George and Sir Antony from the battlements, who fall to the floor in a heap of laughter, after which, Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, and His Majesty, breach the inner wall. A triumphant cheer erupts from the crowd about me, and the spectators see Brandon, making off with one of the Virtues by the arm. I can’t work out who the lucky woman is, because it is not his wife.

  By tradition, because of rank, Sir Loyal Heart, or Love, played by the king, should rescue Mary, his sister, first, but no, William Compton liberates her before him, and the Duke of Suffolk looks shocked that someone else has managed to liberate his wife. I watch as the king then races for who he thinks is Mary Boleyn. I watch open mouthed, as a similar scene that was played out in the television series, The Tudors, comes to life before my very eyes. I can’t believe what I’m seeing as the king scrambles up the wooden facade, his dagger in hand, the ouches from his doublet scraping the paint on the decorated castle wall, and roars like a lion after his kill. It is a job well done. Henry is still athletic; otherwise, his weight might have brought the walls toppling around him. He lunges for who he thinks is Mary, but Mary is stood looking confused as she watches him grab Anne’s hand, pulling her to him, grunting with satisfaction. Anne tries to draw back, but he is too strong for her. Henry Tudor seems determined not to be ignored, despite his disguise.

  Mary looks as if she will burst into tears, her face turning puce as she watches the king fling her younger sister about his shoulder, the satin of her gown tangling as he dashes with his cargo away from the inner battlements. Surely Mary wouldn’t intervene, as she watches her sister struggling for breath, and I wince as Anne bounces hard in the king’s vice-like hold. Her Milanese bonnet falls, and I lift my skirts, ru
nning to make a grab for it, hoping not to collide with the king, whose great hand is now gripping Anne’s buttocks to stop her slipping from his grasp. He drags her, now dishevelled, from his shoulder, but fails to hold her, and she slides down his body to the floor, inadvertently pulling him down with her. Probably not what he’d intended at all.

  He’s now kneeling with her, his face flushed as he catches his breath, their brows almost touch. They both look flustered. He bows his head, as if to capture the moment better, then looks up at her, as Anne gets to her feet, and, for a second, connects, before she defiantly removes her mask. His eyes widen, his gaze transfixed.

  “I am sorry. I…think I have made a mistake.” He grunts, shifts back, and gets to his feet. “You are not who I thought you were.”

  “Perhaps you mistook me for Mary Carey, Your Grace. As you can see, Your Majesty, I am not her, I am her sister. I am Anne. Anne Boleyn.”

  Henry looks ruffled, Anne however, doesn’t. The king turns his head, probably glancing around to see where Mary might be. He’d obviously grabbed the nearest woman to him in the confusion, not considering Anne’s dark looks and sallow skin, which are in great contrast to her sister. With not a little embarrassment, he realises his hand is still held fast around her waist. He removes it quickly, hesitates, then bows, before scrutinising her in a way a man should not look at a woman. I watch as Anne sinks in a curtsey before him. After a long pause, he raises her to her feet.

  “I am pleased to meet you again, Mistress Boleyn.” He smiles. “I think it is some time since I saw you last, in France.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Mesmerised, it is some moments before she can tear her eyes from him and turn them to where she thinks she last saw her sister. But Mary is gone. I turn and look back towards the far end of the hall, where I spot her. She has removed her mask, and her face is flushed, so much so that her forlorn look betrays her feelings, her hurt and disappointment at being side-lined, plain for all to see. The drama has diminished around her. She doesn’t appear to like not being the centre of attention, now that all focus is on Anne, and the king. She looks as if she is about to burst into floods of tears. In a corner of the opposite end of the hall, I catch a glimpse of Thomas Boleyn, on the fringes of the crowd, in conversation with a tall, thin, important-looking man with dark hair and piercing, beady eyes. Thomas looks apprehensive, he nods in my direction, as he stares over at us and his shoulders curl forward as he fiddles with the collar of his shirt. Anne glances over at her father, but she is still in the snare of Henry’s gaze, gracefully and defiantly standing before him, she now looks directly at him, her chin high. She inclines her head, a boldness in her eyes.