“You must return to the little Chateau, and the battle, as it is not yet over. You need to save Mary, Your Majesty. The honour of your beautiful mistress is still at stake. You have left her all alone.” Her voice is strong yet alluring.
“Ah, yes. But first, Mistress Anne, please accept this small gift.” He smiles. “As an appreciation of your beauty.” Henry’s gaze lingers as he pulls a token from his doublet and thrusts it into her hand. He suddenly turns, retreating from her and, with a loud cry, turns once more into the melee of the evening, where, eventually, he finds Mary waiting for him. The King’s Pavan rings out its melody from the minstrels’ gallery as the drama continues. I watch as the king bows to Mary, and she returns his salute with a timid curtsey. To my surprise, he strokes her cheek, and she smiles. I continue to scrutinise them as he whispers something in her ear, which makes her blush. Henry then takes her hand, leading her towards the dance. Anne is standing, rooted to the spot, unable to move. Giving myself a mental shake, realising I have just witnessed Henry’s first proper encounter with Anne, and his pursuit of Mary as an invitation as mistress. I watch spellbound as Anne turns the etuis in her fingers, before she pins the small whistle, with its decorative case used for needles, toilet articles, and the like, to her gown. The little jewel is exquisite.
I stand next to her, where the spectators are gathered. In the fracas, I hope the queen hasn’t observed the exchange between her husband and my friend. When Anne and the other ladies are led by the hand onto the dancefloor, I notice Katharine watching intently. As the dancers take up positions, all curtsey to their partners and move to the music, I hang back, as if glued to the edge of the dancefloor and cast a sideways glance at George, his face chiselled in the candlelight. He’s standing with two other men. They are all laughing at some joke, their faces flushed with wine. One of the men, I don’t know who he is, spies me looking at them from the corner of his eye, nods in acknowledgement, then nudges George, who returns my smile, teasing me as his gaze takes in my breasts, raised high beneath my bodice, and makes a leg as he bows in my direction, then walks towards me.
“Mistress Elizabeth, may I have this dance?”
I swallow and nod, then spy Anne being guided in and out on the periphery of the dance, and as she passes me, she smiles and nods, showing her approval to my dance partner. I curtsey and take George’s hand, my fingers balanced on his palm. The minstrels strike up their rendition of Joan Ambrosio Dalza’s Pavana Alla Venetiana, and the king, partnered now by a much-brighter looking Mary Carey, joins the dance. I focus on the couple, fascinated by the spectacle they create. The costumes, coiffured ladies, and the music, jab at my doubts and my ability to blend in. I hope my re-enacting skills will hold up to the real thing. Anne has schooled me as best she can, but now that I’m amongst this crowd, I’m scared my inexperience will betray me.
There are so many unfamiliar faces and, as we pass them in the dance, George explains who many of these strangers are. The king and Mary weave their way in and out of the other dancers, bowing, turning, leaping, and the happiness is restored to her face as she glides around the hall with Henry. The king is the centre of attention, as he is easily the tallest among all the dancers, and the most recognisable.
George leads me out onto the floor, and I rest my palm over his warm knuckles as he guides my steps. It’s clear that he’s enjoying this, and he pushes himself close whenever he gets the opportunity. I continue smiling, blushing every time our eyes meet, as they often do. It must have taken him no courage at all to ask me to dance with him, as he reinforces my view that he is capable of being a terrible flirt. From the corner of my eye, I spy Jane Parker glaring daggers at me, as if I’ve stolen her man. He laughs when he sees her watching us.
“You should ask Jane Parker to dance with you – she seems to like you.”
“Does she? I had not noticed.” He smiles, ignoring his obsessed spectator as we glide passed her.
“Do you not like her?”
“She is fair enough, but not as beautiful as you.”
My heart races at this remark and my face, neck, and ears feel so hot, I’m sure everyone in the hall will notice. “So, how did you enjoy the pageant?” I ask, shifting the subject in a safer direction.
“I liked it very well.” He beams, aware of my embarrassment as we promenade before the dance forces us apart. Now and then, the serpentine steps lead us towards other partners, allowing me to touch other hands and exchange pleasantries with other men. I feel self-conscious when some look at me as if they are trying to imagine me naked – I certainly didn’t expect the English court to be so licentious! Anne seems the most confident of all the women present and she smiles graciously as she dances with a nobleman of high rank. Her gaze meets mine when we cross the dancefloor.
“You are a credit to me,” she says, laughing as we almost rub shoulders. The dark-haired man she dances with gives me a sideways glance and a nod, to acknowledge me, but his gaze is fixed on Anne – she has more grace than me and is more experienced at the steps, but all the while I am aware of George watching me, leading me through the dance.
Anne glides back and forth across the room, her head high, her feet light as air as her partner, with a galliard, gathers her into the entertainment. I toss my head with more spirit as George lifts me with ease into the air during the dance. I doubt my ability to carry this off. Perhaps I’m trying too hard to match Anne’s moves. Her presence fills the room with admiration at her acquired French ways. I hear people commenting from the periphery of the dance on her graceful ability. A few courtiers debate on whether she is indeed English, as women comment on her gown and manners. They must know she is one of the Boleyn girls. From the centre of the dance, I sense the king watching her. I’m not sure if she notices, but if she does, it doesn’t show.
When the music ends, George makes a bow. My stomach gives a leap when he rises and fixes me with a predatory look. Tiny beads of perspiration glimmer on his brow, probably from lifting me during the dance.
“For a novice, Mistress Wickers, you dance very well.”
“I think it is more a case of having an experienced partner.” I smile, though I’m sure it’s more of a smirk. “George, please call me Beth. I think you know me better than to be so formal?”
“Indeed, Beth.” His gaze remains direct. “You know how to flatter a man. Has Anne also trained you in the ways of courtly love?”
“No, most definitely not.” I try to think of something else to say. “I am on my best behaviour.” My face flushes with the weight of his attentions. “I forgot to ask if you retrieved your cap.” I laugh, wondering why all the other men’s caps were on their heads, yet George’s has been misplaced.
“No, I am afraid it was lost in the confusion.” He chuckles. “Did you not see me trying to rescue Sir Anthony Denny while all those missiles were exchanged?”
I nod. “I did see some confusion.”
He grins. “I’ll wager you were laughing.”
“I couldn’t help it – everyone was laughing. You were deep in the action, trying to rescue a gentleman who had half of his body hooked over the castle wall!”
“I was determined to save Denny, but had to give up because I was being pulled into the fray – that’s when I lost my cap.”
“I wanted to help, but was frozen to the spot.”
“That is an excuse. You watched me being hit! You allowed Ladies Scorn and Disdain to steal my cap.”
“I was some distance away. What could I do?” I giggle. “Did you suffer any bruising at their hands?
“I have not checked.” He sighs. “You allowed those young boys dressed as women to mock me. What an indignity. Some friend you are!”
“I’m sorry.”
“You must have seen that choir boy bash me over my head.” He looks somewhat despondent.
“Yes, I did notice him waving your cap violently above his head.”
George’s doublet is stained with the juice of missiles. I pull a handkerchief from my silk purse and try to wipe some of it away. He stares at what I’m doing.
“Since when did you care what I look like?”
“Since you are covered in the stains of assault weapons used against you!”
“I did not think you would notice, Beth!” His eyes lock with mine for what seems like forever, and I have to look away in case my feelings might betray me. I push the dirty handkerchief back into the small purse attached to the sash of my gown. “I think Master Cornish owes me a new cap!” He laughs.
George pats my shoulder. “Can I get you a cup of wine, Mistress?” He wipes sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. I hope my answering smile is almost as beguiling as Anne’s as he leads me to the refreshments and hands me a Venetian glass goblet full of red wine. He chuckles as he watches me take slow sips.
“Are you not wanting it to go to your head?” His eyebrows wiggle. Every time he insinuates something about me, it infuriates and thrills me in equal measure. I need to remind myself who I am. I need to calm down.
“I can control myself.” I snort, with a burst of short, dismissive laughter.
He smiles at me. His eyes are bright and glossy as he applauds the dancers, now the masque and dancing have finished. I put my glass down on the table behind me and follow his example. We clap as Henry leads Queen Katharine to a chamber appointed for her by Wolsey, where she will host a lavish feast for the visiting Spanish ambassadors. If she is suspicious that her husband might have a new mistress, it doesn’t show, and Henry hasn’t betrayed himself, even though he has danced with most of the ladies of the court. There are only two ladies who have not taken his hand this evening – Mistress Anne Boleyn and me.
Six
Late Evening, 4th March 1522 – Richmond Palace
The small fire in the grate provides welcome heat and light as I sit here with Anne. Everyone who has returned from York Place is settling to sleep after the busy evening. The other maids-of-honour have already retired to the dormitory, and it’s nice to have some quiet time on our own.
I want to go home, but I can’t lose sight of how things are developing for Anne. She’s my reason for being here – I’m convinced of it. But there’s nothing I can do to help her without changing history, and I certainly don’t want to do that. Do I?
Something about the ill-lit chamber urges me to wrap my dressing gown tighter. It’s not just the cold. Tucking my feet up beneath me brings a bit of needed comfort. Mum always does it. Mum. God, I can’t believe it’s been so long since I’ve seen her. She must be in a terrible state, not knowing what’s become of me.
The twenty-first century tugs at my heart, creating a dull ache in the pit of my stomach, because I need to return, even though I’m enjoying my experience in this Tudor world. Tonight’s entertainment was majestic, but I can’t possibly stay for much longer.
I stretch my arms out towards the fire, which crackles and spits, hoping to catch the warmth the flickering flames give off. The rubies on my cypher ring twinkle, reflecting those same flames. I sigh and tuck a cushion into the small of my back as I relax into the settle.
All I can think about is how I must get back to my own life soon. How can continuing with this situation lead to a positive outcome? On the one hand, the predictable claw of history is reaching across time to Anne. I feel it, like a black shadow creeping around our ankles, yet I’m compelled to help her. She deserves a happy ending, rather than the established one history will hand her, but I can do nothing against what is an inevitable conclusion.
I’m trapped between the indeterminate reality that I can’t change her fate, though I dearly want to, and putting my poor family through so much confusion, worry, and anguish. Yet what can I do if I can’t get the bloody portal to open, or even get to it?
My hands tremble as I imagine the possibility of being able to manifest a future more magnificent than could be conceived for my dear friend Anne. Thing is, I can’t risk sharing my thoughts and fears with her for obvious reasons.
The prospect of never being able to return to my normal life and family evokes frustration and anxiety. Are they devastated at my unexplained absence? How are my poor parents coping? Is Rob directing a nationwide campaign to find me? What about my professor? Does he know what’s happened? Might he be able to open the portal the way I did?
Movement next to me brings a halt to my thoughts. Anne looks relaxed, snuggled into the settle, lounging here next to me with a bit of a mysterious look in her eyes.
“You look pleased with yourself, Mistress Anne. Anything you’d like to share?”
She leans closer, brushing her hair from her eyes, then glances about, as if she’s got a secret to divulge.
“I hope Mary does not think I outshined her tonight.” Our heads are close as she speaks in whispers before the dwindling hearth fire. She smiles, looking me directly in the eye. “Well?”
“Why would she think that? She was the centre of attention and danced with the King, not you. Are you worried you have offended her somehow?”
“Yes. I know how sensitive my sister is. I did not look for the King’s attentions when he singled me out, rescuing me during the pageant.” She rests her hands in her lap and stares into the fire. “I may not have been a partner to the King, but all eyes were on me. Did you not see?”
“Of course – everyone noticed. The crowd were watching the King’s reaction to you.” I hope she will divulge how his attention made her feel. She glances at me, and the corners of her mouth turn up into a little smile.
“I did enjoy being under his gaze, if only for a moment. It was a pleasure to be the focus of the King’s admiration. But…”—her smile broadens—“I felt almost as favoured when I yielded my hand in the dance, with one who will bear the title of Earl.”
I stifle a yawn as I remember the events of the evening. “Yes, I think I recall that. An earl, no less, but what will he expect for such attentions?”
“As a woman, I am not expected to give sexual favours, just the impression, a hint of possibility, and the lover who offers service to me is then allowed to threaten to possess me.”
“Aren’t you afraid the impression might be taken literally?”
“It depends on how you manage such attention. Marguerite of Austria advised us to keep men at a distance, to treat their advances with a light touch.”
However dismissive her remarks, I realise that after tonight, Henry Percy may be in her sights. This wasn’t what she had initially intended. What about James Butler? Has she forgotten him already?
“Henry Percy, the heir to the earldom of Northumberland, is a similar age to us,” she declares.
I already know Percy is connected to Wolsey. George had pointed him out to me, explaining who he was. He also told me Wolsey thinks little of Percy’s abilities as a nobleman and is waiting to be disappointed by him. From what George has observed, Henry Percy is a muddle-headed lightweight, full of emotion, unreliable, and not of sound judgement. In some circles at court, he’s called an unthrift waster. I need to put Anne off him so she has no need to bear a grudge in the future – that kind of feeling will only lead to trouble.
On the other hand, perhaps it’s best I just keep my mouth shut and let fate take its course. This is the big question I’m always wrestling with – what to do?
Anne lifts her chin. “Henry Percy may be the match for me.”
“You would do well, Mistress Anne, to remember that your hand is pledged elsewhere.” My words might force her to consider my warning. Our eyes lock while I decide whether to be frank, or to feign innocence. The direct approach is probably better, as I know she appreciates the characteristic, similar as it is to hers.
“Percy is just a young man playing the game of love... as our betters do.” I take a quick look around to ensure we’re alone. “The game is dangerous, Anne. Yo
u do not want your name thrown about…like Mary’s. It will not do to have you both linked to easy virtue. Think what your father will say if you jeopardise the match with Ormond.”
“I am certain the match with James Butler will fall through.” She frowns. “Father has not said a word about the betrothal in weeks. Besides, I believe Henry Percy is a man of his word – an honest man – his adoration is so fervent that I feel I cannot escape it.” She smiles broadly, clasping her hands against her chest. “I could fall in love with such a man.”
“Anne, how can you tell that after one evening of dancing?” She glares at me, her disapproval evident, but I carry on regardless. “Saying you could love Henry Percy, when you are promised to another, is dangerous!” I keep my voice low, trying to show my concern without chiding her. “In any case, it is rumoured that Percy has mountains of debt, even for a nobleman.” I’m not her conscience, but she needs to understand what she may be getting into.
“Understand, in the wilds of Northumberland, you will not be able to wear fine silks. Instead, you will be lumbered with home-spun gowns, sewn by your own hand. All your accomplishments will be wasted, for you will have no one to entertain. If you elope with Henry Percy, you will spend your time skinning rabbits for the pot, stewing in juices of your own making.”
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