Timeless Falcon 1

by Phillipa Vincent-Connolly

  “I knew I should have braided your hair for you this morning!” she says, tutting and smiling at me. She looks out across the meadow and back towards the castle. We can just about make out the gardener as he tends the rose bushes, pruning to make way for their spring and summer growth. The sight of the castle in its period perfection pulls at my heartstrings, knowing how it will be ground down into almost ruins before Lord Astor saves it. It all looks so postcard-perfect from our viewpoint: no commercialism, no cars, no tarmac, and no tourists!

  “I wonder when Father will be home.” Her comment snaps me back to the moment.

  “Soon, your mother said. I know you are worried about how he will be with you.” She hasn’t seen him since her return home.

  At the bottom of the meadow, a chestnut courser canters in our direction, but I can’t make out who its rider is. The man is almost upon us when his horse grinds to a sharp halt, whipping clouds of snow around us, making us squeal in fear. To my surprise, it’s George, who we weren’t expecting home so soon.

  Anne gasps, holding her hand to her décolleté. “What are you doing here? You scared us half to death!”

  “I thought you were at Court,” I say, delighted to see him.

  “I was. I asked Father if I could take my leave of him – I have some news to relay to Mother.”

  “What news?” Anne asks. “Is there news of Henry Percy?”

  “No, Anne.” He dismounts and leads his horse back down the meadow towards the stables. Anne clambers through the snow after him.

  “Go inside,” he says, waving towards the castle. “I will be with you both presently.” He doesn’t look happy. In fact, he seems decidedly miserable.

  “What could be wrong with him?”

  “I do not know,” Anne says. “But whatever it is, it cannot be good news.” She tucks long wisps of hair back under the hood of her cape. We make it back inside and run up to her bedroom, leaving wet drag marks on the stairs from our sodden hems. Agnes helps us change out of our damp gowns and wet stockings, and it feels so good to don fresh, dry clothes. While Anne is changing, I sit before the fire, my eyes closed, stretching my toes out towards the flames flickering in the grate. By the time we enter the parlour, George is stood in front of the hearth, and Lady Boleyn is sat in a chair, leaning against a cushion. Her stern expression tells me this is a serious conversation we are barging in on.

  “Sit,” she says, motioning to us as we curtsey. I rest back on the cushioned settle, with Anne next to me.

  “Firstly,” George says, looking at Anne, “Father has told me to tell you that you must not be so ashamed of your disgrace. He is not unsympathetic, and I am to tell you that time will heal the wounds you have suffered of late. He understands you trying to make the match, but because you’d not taken your petition of marriage to Wolsey first, the pre-contract with Percy and you could never be allowed.”

  Anne rises to her feet. “But, George, you don’t know how devious Wolsey can be!” She sighs. “He made up the pre-existing contract between Mary Talbot and Henry Percy to dissuade me from pursuing the matter. I am certain off it. I have heard of no ceremony taking place.”

  “Anne, you knew about the pre-existing contract with Mary Talbot, long before your audience with Wolsey! There is nothing Father can do to stop that marriage, if and when it happens. In any case, he will find you a man to make a good match yet, so forget about Harry Percy. That is all I can say on the matter.”

  “Anne, sit down,” Lady Boleyn urges, a hint of frustration in her voice. “What other news do you have, George?” Now George looks uncomfortable. I notice a muscle in his jaw twitch.

  “You will never believe it.” He swings around to look at the door, probably to check he is not overheard, then apprehensively turns back to us. “It must be a secret for now, between us four.” A grim expression wafts over his face, and he glances at me as if waiting to see my reaction to what he is about to say.

  “Well, what is it?” Lady Boleyn asks. “What could be so bad? Spit it out!”

  George coughs into his hand, then takes a deep breath, his hand on his heart. “Father told me a few days ago that I am to be married. It has just been finalised, and he is going to tell you, Mother, when he returns home.”

  My heart plummets like a stone in deep water, and I grab Anne’s hand at my side. She squeezes it back, probably realising the devastation this news will cause me. Heat surges to my face, and beads of perspiration form on my forehead and the back of my neck. My mouth is dry as I wait for him to say her name.

  “Who is the young lady?” Lady Boleyn asks, unaware of how cutting his answer will be to me.

  “Mistress Jane Parker. Lord Morley’s daughter.”

  “She is a pretty young woman,” his mother says, “and her father is educated.”

  George’s obvious discomfort lifts some of the darkness from my heart.

  “Surely Father is not serious about this match. Mother?” Anne looks from her mother to her brother, then back again. “When we were at Court, Jane could not stop looking at him. It’s embarrassing.” She brushes her skirts, her anger evident. “Father could choose someone far more suitable, surely?”

  Lady Boleyn frowns. “He has settled matters with Lord Morley, and he informed me by letter how the negotiations into the arrangement were going. Your Father is delighted by the match. After all, Lord Morley is cousin to the King.” She folds her hands in her lap and gives Anne that look we’re all familiar with. Then she stiffens in her seat. “Now, George, what could possibly be wrong with you marrying Jane Parker?”

  George groans. “Father has told you already?”

  “Of course. I received the letter this very morning.”

  I knew something was up with that letter.

  “Mother, you said nothing to me!” Anne says.

  Her mother sniffs. “Jane Parker will be a fine match.”

  “She is passable, but I don’t fancy the girl.” George tugs at his cuff, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, accidentally nudging Griffin, who yelps at being disturbed. “Sorry, boy.” He bends and ruffles the dog’s ears. Then he straightens, his eyes wide. “I will speak with Father about this matter when he gets home. I cannot marry Jane Parker!”

  “Why ever not?” Lady Boleyn asks. She doesn’t look happy. “It is your father’s greatest wish – we want grandchildren by you – a Boleyn heir for this estate.”

  “That may not happen with Jane, Mother. I am in love with someone else!” He bites his bottom lip, and it’s the first time I’ve seen him so anxious. Hearing him declare himself out loud makes my heart skip, and my face flushes so hot it burns the back of my eyes. Could he mean me? The way he glances at me gives the game away, and I hope his mother hasn’t noticed. I have no choice but to break from Anne’s tight grasp. My heart thuds, like my feet on the floorboards, as I race up the stairs, lifting my skirts so I can get back to Anne’s bed-chamber as fast as possible. Raised voices filter up from the parlour, and Mrs Orchard scurries to the landing.

  “What is all the commotion about, child?”

  “It’s George, Mrs Orchard, he’s betrothed to be married!”

  Seeing the state of my tear-streaked face, she must realise my feelings for him as she puts a reassuring arm about my shoulder.

  “Mistress, you must dry your tears. Do not let Sir Thomas come home and see you in such a state – he’s already told George he cannot have you.”

  I look back at her in disbelief. Thomas Boleyn knows George loves me? George has told his father he wants me. If Thomas knew that my income from my student loans, savings, and inheritance left by my nan was over twenty thousand pounds a year, he might change his mind! But he can’t know, ever. This is a disaster. I’ve entirely ruined history now. I have got to get back home to my family. At least I know who I am there.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt out through my tears
. I break free of her embrace and rush into Anne’s rooms, through into the antechamber to the tapestry. As I try to pull the thick drapes back to get to the door, someone reaches to stop me.

  George. I know his touch so well.

  “Forgive me,” he says, holding my shoulders and turning me to face him. “I did not want you to find out like this.” He can see the silvery traces of my tears. Ashamed, and remembering the professor’s warning, I bury my face in the warmth of his doublet. Trembling as fear grips me, I realise that I have nearly revealed who I am to him. One more second and I might have been back through the portal. What if he had followed me? My goodness, I can’t believe I’ve nearly given myself away through my childish emotions. I know this isn’t going to end well. My heart thumps as I try to backtrack.

  “I’m sorry, George. I can’t stay here anymore, not now. The news of your betrothal was such a surprise.” I say this knowing full well his announcement was inevitable. How could I have forgotten? I pretend shock to him, but my emotions are real. I knew the news of his engagement would break eventually – I’ve just been living in my own dream world, hoping history might run differently, maybe to suit my hopes and needs. How stupid I am. As he lifts my chin and looks down at me with those dark amber eyes, I am rooted to the spot. To my surprise, he moves in closer and brushes my cheek with his lips.

  “I’m sorry, my love.” His heart thuds through his doublet as he presses me against the tapestry hangings, and I’m helpless as his lips linger over mine, his eyes full of desire.

  “Let me kiss you, just this once,” he whispers, tucking a stray blond curl behind my ear, “before I become a married man.” He doesn’t wait for an answer. Before I know it, the air is being forced from my lungs as he presses against me and kisses me fully on the mouth. There’s no point resisting. His attentions stir such feelings for him that when he breaks his kiss from mine, I gasp for breath and equilibrium. From the crooked smile on his face, he seems to have enjoyed the chaste sensation as he attempts a more persistent and lingering kiss this time, pulling me to him, his hand brushing up my neck, holding my head to gain leverage, making it easier for him to part my lips with his tongue, kissing me harder, deeper, with growing passion. I wrap my arm around his neck and run my free hand through his hair, allowing myself to become immersed in the moment. He presses against me, pinning me to the drapes, his free hand in the small of my back, pulling me up against him. Our embrace is so intense, I don’t notice anyone enter the room until we both hear a loud ‘cough’.

  To our mutual embarrassment, Anne stands before us looking somewhat stunned. George breaks our embrace, his face flushed, his eyes fluttering.

  “What is this?” she asks, her hands now on her hips.

  “Sister, you know how I feel about Beth.”

  “Yes, I do. Is that not even more reason now to stay away from her?” She looks angry. I thought she didn’t mind that George had taken a fancy to me. I shrink back behind him to hide my embarrassment.

  “Anne, I just wanted this one moment, nothing more.”

  “I know how you care for one another – it’s been obvious since the first day you met – but if Father hears of this incident, he will banish Beth from Hever and from Court, and that cannot be allowed to happen.” She hands me her linen handkerchief. “You had best wipe your eyes. Better yet, clean your face.”

  I nod and walk through to her bedroom, where I splash my face with water from her nightstand. She comes and stares out the window, with George beside her. They look out into the gardens, the silence lingering.

  “Forgive my behaviour, sister, but I cannot say it was nothing.”

  “Brother, you should know better.” She squeezes his shoulder. “You are betrothed now. It may end up being a year before your wedding is set, but you are a grown man and should behave as such. You have responsibilities.” She softens, her compassion shining through her eyes. “I only repeat to you what Father would say.”

  “I know.” With that, he bows and walks away, yet lingers in the doorway. He watches me press the dry linen cloth against my face as I try to pull myself together.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’ve never encouraged you.”

  A half-smile of regret forms across his lips before he turns and leaves. Anne shuts the bed-chamber door, and I turn to grab her hand.

  “What am I to do, Anne?” In response, she huffs under her breath. The problem is, my feelings are written all over my face. “I can’t help myself where George is concerned.”

  She lifts her chin. Her blood is up. “Well, Beth, you are going to have to curb your lusts for my brother and he for you, for Father expects the marriage to the Parker girl to go ahead, and he will not be best pleased if you scupper it.” She pulls herself from my grasp. This is the first time she has chastised me. Shame, guilt, and not a little remorse combines to wrench my heart. I push back the urge to cry so she won’t see how utterly distraught I am. When she opens the door, I see George is still in the passageway. Has he been listening to our conversation? I hope not.

  As I stroke the crumpled handkerchief across my cheeks, I wish I’d had the ring instead of running for the portal. I would have been out of this situation sooner, and not had the bittersweet joy of George’s passionate attempt at seducing me. I must get home. Where is that bloody ring?

  Anne is out of sight, talking to George in the hallway, probably persuading him to go back down to the parlour. As she does so, I realise this is my opportunity to escape this mess, so my existence here won’t cause any more problems. I make another attempt at searching for the ring, to no avail. Blasted thing! I run over and pull back the drapes that hide the door in the antechamber. I’m amazed that it opens, and my skin tingles all over at the thought that this is it, my chance to escape has finally arrived. As I walk through, I wonder whether it’s wise for me to ever return to Hever again.

  Ten

  Present Day

  The fact that the ring is lost yet the door to the portal has worked, confuses me. Maybe the door reacts to my emotional state, but in a different way to the ring. Or perhaps it’s my overwhelming need to return to my time. Whatever the reason, as the bookcase bangs closed behind me, I’m glad, for once, of familiar office smells, the smooth feel of plastic and metal, and crisp white paper, as well as the chatter beyond the office door.

  This time, I have nothing to change into, because my bag of modern clothes has disappeared. I stand amongst the books, the whirring computer, and piles of unmarked student dissertations, not knowing what to do. The stale smell of cigarette butts from the ashtray on the professor’s desk permeates the room. I grab my car keys from his desk drawer and stare at the portrait of Anne Boleyn on the wall. Tears threaten again, and I blink them away, swallowing down the surge of disappointment at how things have turned out. Should I ever go back to her? Maybe I should just leave her and George to their fates.

  My heart aches as I step out into the throng of students. I keep my head down, their collective glare boring into my back. Some whisper between themselves, commenting on me being dressed in my Tudor finery. A few laugh. My cheeks burn at the indignation of it all, and I up my pace to get away. As I pass the monitor, which acts as a noticeboard, I glance up at the screen and see the date. It’s the day after my date with Rob. I’m shocked that hardly any time has passed. It really is difficult to grasp. I rush towards the exit doors, my focus on the car park and my escape, but I step on the hem of my dress and almost topple over. Damn!

  “Beth, is that you?” I look back, mortified to see Rob staring at me, his face a picture of confusion. He looks me up and down. “Why are you wearing that?”

  Tears prick the back of my eyes, and I swallow hard to hold them back. “I can’t say,” I splutter. I can’t reveal where I’ve been, so I’m going to have to lie, fast. There has to be a credible reason for being dressed this way. “I…I’ve joined the local re-enactment society.”


  He stares at me, and I can see he doesn’t believe me.

  “What are you talking about?” he says, his frown as deep as one can get. “There is no re-enactment society attached to the university.”

  “There is,” I shoot back. “I needed a…costume-student friend of mine to check the fit of my dress.”

  He shakes his head, obviously puzzled. Now I’m looking like a fool.

  “Beth, there is no way the university has a re-enactment group.” He tilts his head to one side. “Besides, if there had been, don’t you think we would have both joined it during freshers’ week for a laugh?”

  Great! Now he’s making fun of me. I scowl back at him, furious that he’s choosing to mock me.

  He grabs my hand and leads me towards the car park. “Where’s your car?” I point to where I last parked and he takes the keys from my other hand.

  “I don’t know what’s going on,”—he runs his hand through his hair—“but I’m driving you home.” He unlocks the passenger door and, as I struggle in, pushes the excess train and hem of my skirts into the foot-well. The door slams as a tear escapes and runs down my cheek. I wipe it away, so he doesn’t see.

  He gets in, starts the engine, and snaps the gearstick into first, setting off at quite a pace with the engine revving. Within half an hour, we stop outside my front door. In that time, I haven’t said a word.