Timeless Falcon 1

by Phillipa Vincent-Connolly

  George grins as I come out of the chamber. “You look adequate, I suppose.”

  Agnes frowns at him and scurries back into the rooms as the servants arrive with the rest of my trunks.

  “George, you always know exactly what to say to make a lady feel good about herself.”

  “Sorry, my lady. I promise I will be on my best behaviour.”

  I roll my eyes, straighten my back, and lift my chin, remembering who I am representing. He escorts me through the galleries and rooms, which are bright and welcoming. Rich tapestries adorn the walls, and the decoration is spectacular, if not a bit gaudy. Fine walnut furniture graces all the chambers as we pass their open doors, and Turkish carpets cover the rush-matted floors. George leads me up the stairs of the donjon to the door of the queen’s apartments, where he gives my name to the usher, who then announces me.

  “You will do well,” he whispers, backing away. My breath is shaky as I watch him disappear down the stairs. Now, suddenly, I am on my own.

  My heart is in my mouth as I enter this hallowed room, hoping the queen will be as pleasant and welcoming as she has been previously. Butterflies fill my stomach as I approach her majesty. I don’t feel so confident here without Anne. Panic surges and I fear my senses will be overwhelmed, but as Queen Katharine looks up from her sewing, my fears disappear at the warmth in her smile.

  “Welcome, Mistress Elizabeth,” she says, extending her hand to be kissed. The rooms are dark, with oak-panelled walls decorated with grandiose friezes, and painted leatherwork embellishing the ceilings. The heady fumes of burning beeswax candles mixed with incense fills the room – probably to blame for Katharine’s ladies-in-waiting standing there in an obedient stupor.

  The queen is dressed in rich damask, the colour of midnight, with a black velvet bonnet in the style of her favourite gable shape – a traditional English style, which she has long since adopted and made her own. Her face looks worn, but her expression is cheerfulness itself, and I catch a hint of her greying chestnut hair peaking from under her hood.

  As I rise from my curtsey, I feel a little out of place because all the maids and ladies are dressed in a similar style to Katharine, and I wonder if the queen will object to me wearing gowns made in the French style – gowns which Anne has given me. She looks me up and down but as the paragon of grace that she is, she says nothing before turning to the Countess of Salisbury.

  “You remember Mistress Wickers, the Mistress Anne Boleyn’s companion?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” The Countess looks at me and half-smiles. “You are a delightful young woman, but your manners are so foreign to me.” She blinks and remains silent, as if waiting for the queen to agree with her.

  “Mistress Elizabeth,”—the queen gives me her full attention—“you will soon fall back into the routine of Court. It is a great pity that your mistress and friend could not accompany you, but I have no doubt that Wolsey will relent on Mistress Anne’s banishment once William Carey’s child has been delivered.”

  “I expect so, and hope so, Your Majesty.”

  The queen nods, then crosses her hands. “Mistress Parker,” she calls to the other side of the chamber, “make friends with Mistress Wickers. She will need to be chaperoned.”

  My heart races when Jane Parker scurries across the rush-covered floor to greet me. As she approaches, I wonder if she is this strange and dangerous woman history has painted. Maybe I’m being unfair to her. She’s a young woman of about nineteen, with mousy-brown hair and light-blue eyes. Her gown is a natural ‘sheep’ colour that blends well with her fair skin tone. As far as I recall, she has not been here for too long and is yet to learn of the rewards, pleasures, and dangers of a public life in court. She blinks at me, then smiles demurely.

  “Mistress Wickers, I am Jane Parker. I believe you are the ward of my future father-in-law, Sir Thomas Boleyn?”

  “Not his ward, Mistress Parker – rather, a companion to his younger daughter, Anne.” I force a smile.

  “I see.” She nods once. “We are around the same age, I think?”

  “I am a couple of years older.”

  “I was born in Norfolk, and am the daughter of Lord Morley. It is he who has made the match for me with George. He wishes me to marry into the Boleyn family.” From the way I have seen her obsess over George – watch over his every move and fawn over him – I wonder if it is she who has forced her father to make the match.

  “The Boleyns are an up-and-coming family,” I say.

  “And well-educated,” she adds. “Not to mention that both Mary and George are good-looking.” She blushes.

  “You don’t think Anne attractive?”

  There is a pause before she answers. “Anne is truly wondrous!” I can’t believe that she’s actually gushing. “Not beautiful like her sister, but she is clever, witty, and intelligent.” This startles me – not what I was expecting to hear at all. I thought she would hate Anne but, no, she gives me a totally different interpretation of their relationship which, on Jane’s part, appears to be one of great admiration.

  A short while later, we sit at the far end of the long walnut table in the Great Hall at Greenwich Palace. I admire the tapestries with their imposing murals, and the tall, ornate oriel window that affords stunning views over the river. So much to take in. I marvel at the brightly painted yellow ceiling, noticing the eves-droppers carved into the hammer beams. What conversations have they been privy to?

  Jane nudges me but I pretend to ignore the courtiers nearby. George is amongst them and she stares way too long to be appropriate. One of the young men notices and wanders over to us.

  “Ladies.” He bows, doffing his cap. “Who might you be?” Tall and bearded, his eyes sparkle as he takes us in. He’s certainly good-looking, and knows it.

  “Master Wyatt, you jest with me,” Jane says, her hand at her neck. “You know who I am. You are friends with my brother, Henry Parker.”

  “I was teasing you, Jane,” he says, laying his lute on the table. “It’s your friend I do not know.”

  “Mistress Wickers, I would like you to meet Thomas Wyatt – musician, poet, and friend of the Boleyns.” She smiles. I offer Thomas my hand and he gestures for me to remain seated.

  “Master Wyatt, I have heard much about you from the lady Anne.”

  “Only good things, I hope?”

  “Yes, sir – your families have been good friends for many a year.”

  “It is true, I have known the lady Anne for a long time.” He chuckles.

  “Ah, yes, but how well?” a man of around the same age pipes up from behind him. The group stifle their laughter. Jane blushes.

  “My mistress and friend would not like to be talked about like so,” I say, letting him know by my tone that I’m not impressed. “It is not her fault she has been banished from Court.”

  “Ah, I heard about that.” Wyatt gathers himself. “All because of that Percy fellow. And now he, too, is banished to Northumberland. Pity that.” More laughter follows his blatant sarcasm.

  “Tom, I wish you would not discuss my sister’s private matters so,” George says, his annoyance evident that Thomas would make such a delicate matter public.

  “No doubt your sister will be back at Court to tease us all before long, eh, George?” He winks at the group of courtiers behind him. “While we are waiting, I have composed a poem for her.”

  Jane continues to stare at George, but he won’t meet her gaze, which makes him look on me all the more.

  “Another poem?” he asks, and the men laugh.

  “There’s a surprise,” Sir Francis Bryan says. He appears rakish, which is why his nickname around court is the Vicar of Hell. Tom Wyatt looks diffidently at them, pulls out a small piece of vellum from his doublet, and clears his throat.

  “This one is different. Special, I tell you.” He looks at me as I take a sip of wine, probably
hoping he will impress me enough that I will write back to Anne and confide in her all he has written.

  “Come on then, Tom, let’s hear it.”

  “It’s called Forget Not Yet.” His voice has a musical tone, and it isn’t surprising that many of the ladies of court are attracted to him. Some may consider him favourably if he shows any interest in them, possibly even go to bed with him, but as he is a married man, I know Anne will never entertain him. She told me she liked him, but not in that way. George told me before how Tom is a good friend of the family – friends since childhood, and neighbours in Kent. Also, he shared that Anne was a confidant of Margaret, Tom’s sister. I, of course, was already aware of this, but could not let on that I knew of Tom through my studies. Anne would never waste her time on him, no matter how charming he is. She confided in me that whenever she was in his company, she rejected all his overtures, and there’s no reason why she wouldn’t continue to do so on her return to court. Tom, however, is persistent. As he reads out his poem, it’s obvious who he has written it for. He probably wants me to hear it, knowing I am a friend of Anne’s and that I would likely write to Anne to let her know that Thomas Wyatt still pines for her.

  “Forget not yet the tried intent

  Of such a truth as I have meant;

  My great travail so gladly spent, Forget not yet.

  Forget not yet the great assays,

  The cruel wrong, the scornful ways;

  The painful patience in denials,

  Forget not yet.

  Forget not then thine own approved,

  That which so long hath thee so loved,

  Whose steadfast faith yet never moved;

  Forget not this.”

  The small group of men around the end of the table applaud, crying ‘bravo!’, but Tom is looking to me for my reaction.

  “What did you think of it, Mistress?”

  “I liked it very well – but do you think Mistress Anne would be rather put out to be the subject of your poetry?”

  “I rather hope she will enjoy being the centre of my attentions.”

  “Tom,” George says, patting him on the shoulder, “my sister is not for the taking, nor the sport, for she will never go with a married man.”

  “You can’t blame me for trying.” He sniffs, folding the parchment, then stuffs it back into his doublet.

  George chuckles. “I admire your persistence, Tom.” He stares at me and my face grows hot. Jane notices, much to her chagrin.

  “George does not talk to me!” she moans, brushing her skirts.

  “You know how men can be when they are with their friends.” I smile to reassure her. “They forgo affection to their betrothed in public.”

  “Why?” Her face is red, and she looks like she is about to burst into tears.

  “They have a reputation to uphold.” I rub her arm. “To show affection to you might be seen as a weakness.”

  “Yes, but I have seen the way he looks at you.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “He looks at you as if you are his betrothed.”

  “Come, Jane, you are mistaken – we are just friends.” I look back over at George, who is still talking to Tom Wyatt and Francis Bryan. They seem engrossed in conversation and do not notice as Jane gets up, her arm outstretched towards me.

  “Come on, Mistress Elizabeth, I do not want to listen to anymore trifles. You have a gown fitting with Master Skutt and Master Cotton.” With that, she defiantly grabs my hand and takes me towards a part of the palace I’ve not been to before.

  She knocks before we enter the tailors’ workrooms at the back of the palace. I see Agnes has already delivered the bolts of midnight-blue velvet fabric and the yellow-gold satin tissue Lady Boleyn gave me as a present for New Year. They sit on the work bench.

  “These are beautiful satins and velvets,” the tailor says, stroking the bolts of cloth. “My name is Master Cotton. I am Master Skutt’s apprentice.” He’s a tall, lanky man, with broad shoulders, dark hair, and an extremely long beard for his age. His dark-brown eyes are mysterious and brooding, yet he has a soft-spoken manner. “We have copied the kirtle you sent to us for fit and have made a pattern in buckram of both the kirtle and an overgown.”

  “Already, Master Cotton?”

  “Please call me Paul.” He smiles, leading me over to two mannequins, which I presume are dressed with my toiles. An older man, shorter and stouter, turns to me from another bench, shears in hand.

  “Mistress Wickers, we have been expecting you.” He lays down the shears and looks me up and down. “I see you are dressed in the French mode.” He frowns. “We shall need to change that.”

  “This is a gown Mistress Anne Boleyn gave me, sir.”

  “Well, that explains it,” he says, his eyes lighting up with his smile. “I am the Master tailor here. My name is John Skutt,”

  “Are these your permanent rooms?”

  “No, we trade in the city, but when we are called to Court to fulfil any requirements of the King or Court, we come here.” He walks over to the mannequins and instructs Master Cotton to take the patterns – toiles, as I’d call them in modern terms – from their display in order to fit them on me.

  “Take your maid servant with you, behind that curtain there, then we can pin you into the pattern to see the fit.” Jane grunts, not happy to be called my maid but follows me behind the curtain, anyway, as Master Cotton hands the patterns through to her. Once I have stripped down to my shift, she helps me into the heavy buckram kirtle and I step out into the middle of the room, where the tailor and his assistant are waiting.

  They bustle around me, pins in their mouths, pinching seams together where there is gaping, marking how high the neckline should be with a piece of chalk, then standing back and inspecting their handiwork.

  “What say you, Master Cotton?” Skutt taps his bottom lip with his forefinger.

  “I think the neckline needs a slight raising,” he replies, both eyebrows arched, “then the gown will sit better over her bosom.”

  Heat fills my cheeks as I stand before them.

  “Yes, Paul, the gown must be new-bodied. You are right to suggest altering the neckline. It is our quest to get the lady’s clothes to fit close and smooth.” He folds his arms and nods. “And no cleavage!”

  Paul smirks. “We did not have this trouble of gaping necklines with the larger ladies like Lady Guildford and Mistress Seymour when they first arrived.” I hold my tongue as they discuss my body as if I’m not here.

  “A lady’s attributes must be softly rounded in such a close-fitting dress,” the master tailor replies, which has heat rushing to my cheeks again.

  “Turn around, Mistress Wickers.”

  I do as I’m told. Master Skutt is on his knees, tugging at the pattern’s train.

  Master Cotton puts his rough hand on my shoulder, a bevy of pins protruding from his mouth. “Master Skutt, do you think the train needs to be longer?” I try not to laugh at his garbled words. He leans around to me. “Would you like a longer train, Mistress?”

  “I put myself in your hands, gentlemen. Whatever you think would suit.” More tugging ensues, with pinching and pinning of the thick unbleached linen as the pattern of the gown is put over the top of the kirtle.

  “See,” Master Cotton says, as his senior pins the bodice’s neckline just under the neckline of the kirtle, “raising the neckline was the perfect move.” He beams, admiring my gently swelling cleavage. “You have taught me well, sir.”

  “That I have.” Skutt leans back and admires their work, then walks around me, looking me up and down, inspecting the pinning with an eagle eye. “I think that is all we need, Mistress Wickers. Will you trust me with the cloth you have given us?” He rubs his hands together and glances at Master Cotton.

  “Yes, sir. I am very happy.” I look over my shoulder a
t the masses of buckram laid out behind me, which circles me in a beautiful train.

  Greenwich Palace - 10th March 1524

  As Jane and I follow the queen’s entourage, all she can do is witter on about George. We have become friends, of sorts. She’s petite, with mousy-brown hair, green eyes, and pale skin. At times she can be chatty, is always observant, but is prone to gossip. The fabric of her clothes are plain, usually dark colours in wool or damask, and her jewels are simple. Her air can be haughty when she has an opinion to voice, which I put down to being a follower of the old faith and a staunch supporter of Queen Katharine. Her main topics of conversation are the queen, other courtiers’ wrongdoings, and George Boleyn. It’s usually George this, George that – I wish she would shut up about him.

  As we tiptoe across the gravel, towards the tiltyard, I look back at the towering donjon that houses the royal apartments. The palace is spectacular – I have to pinch myself at times to believe I’m here – and my mood plummets when I consider that all this splendour will be turned to rubble and lost to history.

  “The King was born here,” Jane says as she walks beside me. It is a welcome change for her to discuss someone other than George, although I can’t blame the girl – all the time she’s looking to see where he is sat, he’s with Thomas Wyatt, Francis Bryan, and William Compton. The men are laughing together, waiting to see who will be advanced because of their deeds in the tournament.

  “Why is George not taking part today?” she asks me.

  “I really don’t know.”

  “He would make such a chivalrous knight,” she says. “I would like him to wear my favours one day.” She’s pained that she hasn’t been given the opportunity to see her betrothed in a suit of shining armour. I understand where she’s coming from – I’d like to see George in some armour, too. We take our places in the royal stand, a bench along from the queen, who sits with her closest ladies-in-waiting admiring the men as they come out on their chargers.

  A hush descends and all we can hear is the rattling of armour and the thudding of hooves in the thick mud as the men who are to take part in the joust are introduced. Jane and I are thrilled to be soaking in the atmosphere of the tournament, but I am heartbroken that Anne cannot be here to enjoy it.