Timeless Falcon 1

by Phillipa Vincent-Connolly

  “You are wilful and ungrateful, George!”

  “No, Father, I’m not! All I want is the prerogative to choose my own bride.”

  “Now, George, you know this is not how our world works. The King has already agreed to your betrothal.” Thomas strokes his beard, as if searching for the right words to turn his son to his way of thinking. “The King has gone to a great deal of trouble – even supporting Lord Morley with Jane’s dowry.”

  To me, it feels as if Thomas hopes that mentioning the king enough times will persuade George to see sense.

  He lifts a rolled-up scroll, which bears a large red seal and ribbons. “The King has signed the agreement with Lord Morley. All we need do is sign this document together, and all will be settled.” He tries to hand the document to George. “The King loves you – we all love you and have your best wishes at heart.”

  George grimaces, then turns on his heel and storms out of the room, barging past Anne and me.

  “George, come back here!” Thomas Boleyn is not a happy man. I feel sorry for George, and my heart breaks for him as he pushes passed me, and I watch him disappear towards the kitchen.

  “George!” Sir Thomas strides out of the room but stops in his tracks when he sees us, the scroll still in his hand.

  “Anne, I need to speak with you.”

  Anne winces. “Now, Father?”

  “Yes. Mistress Wickers, go and help Lady Boleyn with the supper. We will join you shortly.”

  I dip a curtsey as he guides his daughter into the room and shuts the door behind me. I cannot leave. I am here to bear witness so I cannot resist listening in on this conversation, too.

  “We need to talk about Henry Percy,” Thomas says, his voice now hoarse.

  “Do we, Father?” Anne asks, so innocently I have to bite back a smile.

  “I understand why you wanted the Northumberland marriage and why you tried to arrange it.” A silence ensues. He is probably taking another gulp of wine.

  “I was doing my best for this family,” Anne says.

  “But, daughter, as you know, a marriage of a senior noble is a matter for the state, something only the King can decide.”

  “But, Father, no one else knows about this – apart from you, Mistress Wickers, and Cardinal Wolsey.” I chuckle at that because we both know there were many other people in Wolsey’s chambers that day.

  “Daughter, how can you be so foolish to believe such a thing? What were you thinking?” Thomas knows how gossip spreads at court.

  “As I said, I was doing what I thought best for our family, and for me.”

  “You should have left such a delicate matter of your marriage to me. Now the whole Court knows of your disgrace.” That must be a lie. Surely not everyone knows about her pre-contract with Harry Percy. Or maybe they do.

  “The Butler proposal fell through – what was I to do?”

  “You should have spoken with me first.”

  “I would have, but the Countess of Salisbury and the Queen tried to support me in this matter.”

  “I know. I heard about that from the Cardinal.”

  “Father, I was not trying to embarrass you, I promise.” Her voice wavers. Don’t cry, for goodness sake, stay strong.

  “I hope your reputation is not ruined.” There is a short silence. “You have not consummated the relationship with Percy, have you?”

  “No! I would never lie with anyone other than the man who would be my husband.”

  “At least your mother has taught you some pride.” He sighs, and I can imagine the relief on his face at Anne’s reply.

  “Any scandal would have destroyed your prospects. Mary is fortunate that she is a married woman. I never approved of her becoming the King’s mistress, and I have failed her as a father because of it, but at least the child she carries can be passed off as William Carey’s, even if it is not.”

  “I know,” Anne says. “I have seen how Mary is treated. I will never be a mistress to anyone – you have my word.”

  There is a long silence. Hopefully because Thomas is embracing and forgiving his daughter.

  “Then let this be an end to the matter.”

  Later, supper is fraught with painful silences, uncivil discourse, and wary looks. Mary and William spend most of the evening in the bed-chamber, while Elizabeth and Thomas are deep in conversation in the parlour. George is sulking in the library, probably having discourse with the wolfhound, or has his nose stuck in the latest book from France. I did debate whether I should go and console him, but I feel I would be adding to his hurt and creating more problems – something I’d rather avoid.

  The sun has sunk low in the sky, leaving it tinged with pinks, purples, and golds. Agnes has made a fire in the bed-chamber earlier in the evening, and I savour the warmth from its dying embers. She helps me undress and prepare for bed. The atmosphere was so thick with discontent that Anne has already tucked herself in early. When I climb in, she barely says a word, except goodnight. With her shoulders hunched and tense, I don’t cuddle into her for warmth as I have so often done. Instead, I grip the edge of the mattress and cry silently into my pillow, until, eventually, I drift off to sleep.

  Eleven

  New Year’s Day – Lady Day, March 1524

  “Why did we not visit Allington with your parents and George?” I ask Anne.

  “I declined the invitation because I have no desire to see Thomas Wyatt, and you need to avoid my brother.”

  “Do I?” She stares at me and says nothing. Her words prick at my conscience, and it hurts. “You pretend to be ill, but your mother will see through it. She was rather put out that we didn’t join them.”

  The Boleyns have been away a few days and return here to Hever on the early evening of New Year’s Day. There is much excitement in the house, for New Year’s Day in Tudor England is the day gifts are exchanged. We are called into the parlour, a private retiring room with Tudor panelling and stone fireplace, where Lady Boleyn sits before the hearth.

  As I enter this private space, the early moonlight refracts silvery hues onto the wooden floors at the opposite side of the room, and warmth and light radiates from the small hearth, making this room feel almost cosy. Mary has come downstairs from a guest room, where she has been curled up in bed with William, exchanging their own gifts and idle chatter. William smiles at me, as he follows Mary into the room, his tall, thin frame barely visible in the glow of the fire.

  “Mistress Wickers, how are you?” he asks politely, plumping a cushion up for Mary to lean against as she sits down. Carey is a handsome fellow, with a narrow face and dark brown eyes. His clothes are plain but made from quality fabrics. He helps Mary settle into a chair and rests his hand on her shoulder as she watches the festivities. There is clearly a fondness between them, despite any rift the king may have created.

  I perch on the edge of a settle and watch Anne embrace her mother. Thomas stands in front of the fire, warming his legs. George lies on the floor, resting against some large cushions, avoiding eye contact with Anne – his foolish pride tying him to a game of pretence. Every so often, I catch him sneaking a peek in my direction, and when our eyes meet, his mouth turns up in a wry smile. His parents are oblivious to the charade, but Anne scowls when she catches us exchanging glances.

  “Children, as is the tradition for this time of year, we have gifts for you,” Lady Boleyn says, handing me a beautifully presented parcel wrapped in gorgeous crimson and gold paper. I didn’t think about buying gifts for them and I blush with embarrassment and gratitude, not expecting a gift, guilty that I haven’t returned the gesture.

  “My Lady, you are most kind.” She must notice the rosy hue of my cheeks as she pats my shoulder.

  “It is nothing, Beth,” Thomas says, his smile broad and genuine. “You are a wonderful companion for Anne and have shown great love and loyalty to us all.”

&nbs
p; Anne takes her turn and stands before her mother, her gaze on the floor.

  “These items…”—her mother hands her a parcel wrapped in yellow and gold paper, with a blue ribbon tied about it— “were ordered some time ago for you, my darling. We had intended to save them to give you upon your marriage, and give this to you as a gift to remember your heritage, but as your nuptials have yet to come about, we have changed our minds.” She looks about the room at all of us. “We want you all to have these particular gifts now.”

  Anne blinks fiercely as her eyes brim with tears, but she accepts her parcel and begins to unwrap it. I am just as excited as I sit next to Mary, and she watches me loosen the ribbon on my gift and pull open the crimson paper. My package contains a bolt of fabric – the softest velvet – of the most unusual colour of midnight-blue, which will contrast perfectly with my skin tone. Beneath the navy velvet is a bolt of deep yellow, almost gold, satin and tissue. Holding it up, I can’t contain my delight. “What a fabulous gown this will make!” I get up, nearly dropping the bolt of fabric, and wrap my arms around Lady Boleyn, thanking her for her excellent choice of present. I tentatively give Thomas a quick peck on the cheek, and his smile broadens in response.

  “Ah, it is nothing,” he says. “You can ask the Master of Wardrobe of the Robes to measure you for a gown, which you shall design yourself.”

  This cloth must have cost the earth. And did I hear him mention court and me in the same breath? Could we be going back to court?

  Anne heard him, too, because her gaze darts to me, giving me one of her knowing looks. She strokes the velvet as she holds the my bolt of fabric against my décolleté. “This colour will be wonderful on you!” Then Anne opens her smaller package to discover a brown leather box covered in Italian gold-leaf scrollwork. With great care, she lifts the lid. Inside, nestled on a bed of black satin, is a magnificent collar of large, radiant pearls, and from this circlet hangs a gleaming and polished gold “B”, so beautifully crafted. Dangling from the lower loop of the “B” are three pear-shaped pearls, striking for their size and high lustre. As if that isn’t enough, attached to the circlet is a long strand of equally captivating pearls, which are meant to be draped over Anne’s collarbone and tucked into the bodice of a gown. I’m not sure if it’s real gold, but it certainly looks it. I cannot believe what I see and blink at the realisation that, here, Anne holds the famous strand of pearls and cypher necklace that she will make so renowned.

  Thomas hands George a package wrapped in paper. “This is for you, dear son.”

  “Thank you, Father.” He wastes no time unwrapping the present and pulling out some leatherwork, which decorates and holds a small dagger with an embossed and gilded hilt. “This is beautiful!” He turns the dagger and tugs it out of its sheath, then runs his finger down the edge of the blade. “It is sharp!” He laughs. “Thank you both.” He gets to his feet, embraces his mother and kisses her cheek, then turns to his father and gives him a firm hug. Thomas is somewhat surprised with this sudden show of appreciation.

  “Your turn, Mary.” Lady Boleyn passes her eldest daughter a prettily wrapped parcel, tied with red ribbon.

  “Thank you, Mother.” Mary beams, tugging at the ribbon and pulling open the paper to reveal a pile of linen baby gowns, with exquisite blackwork embroidery. William peers over her shoulder at the bundle of linens now resting in her lap.

  “Thank you, Lady Boleyn,” he says. “They will be most useful.”

  “I embroidered those myself!” Lady Boleyn smiles.

  “Mother, all these gifts are remarkable. My necklace is gorgeous, and certainly much too costly.”

  “I wanted you all to have something I know you would each cherish. Something you might all use every day.” She looks on proudly at all her children. “I wanted you to have your necklace, and to wear those pearls in good health and fortune, darling Anne.”

  “It is beautiful, Anne,” I say, tracing my fingers over the metalwork of the “B”, gobsmacked at the item I’m touching. Lady Boleyn notes my amazement at the necklace and reiterates how beautiful the cloth is by comparison. She doesn’t realise that I delight in the jewellery because of its provenance, not because of its worth.

  “Beth, a gown made in those colours will flatter your flaxen hair, and everyone will take notice of the extraordinarily beautiful young woman you are.” Elizabeth Boleyn looks delighted with the colour of the fabric she had chosen for me.

  “I am most grateful, Lady Boleyn.” I don’t let on that I noticed George smirking at his mother’s comment. I help secure the pearls about Anne’s slender neck, and she sits the “B” flat against her chest, before resting the pearls in the right position and tucking the excess of the strand beneath the neckline of her gown.

  “Goodness, sister,” George says, “you will need to look after that!”

  “I will.” Anne cradles the empty necklace box in her hand.

  “Anne, it looks wonderful on you – treasure it, and remember your father and me always by it.” Lady Boleyn radiates with pride. “Let us hope that perhaps, someday, you will be blessed by having a beautiful, accomplished daughter who will wear this pretty necklace, proud of her Boleyn heritage.”

  As I stare at the larger pearls on the necklace, I think of the possibility of her daughter, Elizabeth I, wearing them. It breaks my heart realising that someday it will be broken to pieces, transformed from its present state, and several of the larger pearls will adorn my current queen’s crown – the State crown. I want to blurt out what I know, but I pull myself back, needing to hold my tongue and my nerve.

  Anne gratefully embraces her father, and he returns her gesture with a tender kiss on the forehead. The love within this family is so evident, and I am delighted to be present in their home at such a time. I can’t deny that it is extra-pleasant to feel the warmth of George’s surreptitious glances, too.

  A few weeks later, Anne is summoned to the parlour, where we find Sir Thomas reposing in his great chair by the fire. He directs Agnes to light a few candles around the room to dispel the gloom from the descending dusk, then he turns to Anne and me. She looks pensive sitting on the settle, and I wonder what Thomas wants with us. Moments later, George appears and stands behind us, my back tensing when he rests his hands behind me on the settle. Lady Boleyn is in the kitchen preparing supper with Mrs Orchard and the other servants.

  “Sir, would you like me to bring you some wine?” Agnes asks.

  Sir Thomas nods. “The red burgundy will do just fine.” Agnes scurries away, closing the door behind her.

  A bit of an awkward silence ensues, which leads me to worry even more. What has happened to have Anne’s father act this way?

  “Daughter, there is something you should know,” he says, but goes no further as Agnes returns. She sets a jug of French wine on a small table beside him, then leaves. “I prefer you to hear this from my li—” He sits back when Agnes returns with four glasses, tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair as she sets the them on the table.

  “Should you like me to pour the wine, sir?” she asks.

  “No, that will be all, Agnes,” he replies, both hands tapping now. She gives a short curtsey and leaves. “Right, where was I?” He strokes his beard.

  “What is it, Father?” Anne asks, clearly frustrated at his delay in coming to the point. I shift in my seat as George steps forward to stand beside me, his expression giving nothing away.

  “I shall come straight to the point,” Sir Thomas says.

  Anne clears her throat. “I wish you would!”

  “Well, I had a letter from Wolsey today.” Anne’s face is a picture – whatever colour had been in her cheeks has now gone. “It seems Henry Percy is married. The wedding took place days ago at Alnwick Castle, Northumberland.” Anne is biting her lip.

  “Don’t cry, Anne,” I blurt out. “I cannot bear it.”

  She tries to smile thr
ough her pain. “Father, how am I to endure this?”

  “It will get easier as time passes.” Thomas Boleyn’s eyes soften as he endeavours to ease his daughter’s turmoil. “All has been done for the best.”

  This doesn’t seem to placate Anne, who visibly bristles. “I appreciate you telling me, Father.” She takes a sharp breath through her nose, and I feel a ‘but’ coming. “I am glad I have heard this from you, rather than anyone else, but I still think Wolsey is to blame for this debacle, and mark my words, Father, he will pay.” She gets up to go, but George catches her elbow.

  “Sister, sit down.” He pats her shoulder. She sits, and we all look to Thomas Boleyn.

  “Now that Mary is coming closer to her time, you will assist your mother when your sister goes into labour. William is happiest with her here at home. Greenwich is not suitable for a woman in her condition.” His mouth half-curls in a smile. “You are better off here, supporting your family at such an important time.”

  “Yes, Father,” Anne says in a muted reply.

  “William is neither blind nor deaf to know that the child may be the King’s,” George adds. “Mary is uncertain of the child’s parentage, but to save William’s feelings, we will not be discussing it around him. It would not be fair.”

  Thomas Boleyn nods, continuing to caress his beard. “Master Carey is looking forward to the birth of his child, and his feelings should be spared. Is that understood?” His tone is brusque.

  “Yes, Father,” Anne answers.

  “William loves Mary,” George says. “I know this is a terrible burden to bear for the family, but the King has sent only a few gifts for Mary since he found out about her pregnancy, and we must not take it for granted that he might recognise the child.”

  “I understand,” Anne responds, while I just sit there nodding along.

  George is obviously happy with our acquiescence. “We are all hoping that as Mary becomes absorbed with caring for her child, she will forget the King and focus on her husband.”