‘I’d like to introduce you all to Tom Fletcher, Head Steward here at Hever and . . .’ perhaps rather rudely, I tuned out Miranda’s introduction to our rather portly guide, as I found myself at last standing in front of the portrait of Anne herself.
‘So I’m here again,’ I said silently in my head. ‘What is your hold over me, Anne Boleyn?’ Anne looked back out at me, enigmatic and enthralling as ever. She seemed amused that she could keep me in her sphere of influence for so long and so effortlessly. I smiled back. I could not help myself; so few pictures of Anne survived the culling of the Boleyn faction in 1536 that I always felt privileged to see her face, even if it was a later copy of a lost original. ‘So let us go on another journey together. Do with me as you will.’
I was about to turn my attention back to the group, when suddenly, pain exploded in my head; it felt like nothing short of being hit on the back of a head by a hammer. It was intense and I had never experienced such blinding agony before in my life. I found myself swaying forward, stopping myself from falling only by seizing onto the arm of a nearby antique chair that was positioned against the wall near the portrait. Nausea surged its way up from the pit of my stomach. I gripped on to the chair, as the room began to move under my feet and heat ripped through my body. It was all I could do to remain upright and fight the growing tightness in my throat.
‘Now, if you look over here, you will see a painting of . . .’ the sound of Tom’s voice droned in and out of my consciousness, as I focused on not throwing up over the castle’s valuable antique furniture and making a complete spectacle of myself within the first ten minutes of our tour.
‘Excuse me . . .’ I whispered urgently to young man standing next to me, as I started to weave my way back round the edge of the group, toward the door, where I noticed a second guide standing alone by the main entrance. Reaching her, I said. ‘Sorry to bother you but I am feeling a little unwell. It must be the heat. I’m wondering if there are any toilets nearby . . . if I could just splash some cool water over my face . . .’
‘Oh dear, you do look a little peaky!’ The guide, whose name badge gave her away to be ‘Helen’ gently took hold of my elbow and kindly allowed me the opportunity of leaning against her to steady myself. Thankfully, the room had stopped swimming, but I was still unsure as to whether I could hold the contents of my stomach. ‘There’s a bathroom on the next floor. Why don’t you let me show you the way? It’s just along here.’
Walking by Helen’s side, we made our way as quickly as I was able along the corridor leading away from the Inner Hall, through the ornately decorated Library and Morning Room, before finally stopping at a narrow spiral stone staircase. ‘If you go up here and straight through the next room, you will find Mick, who is another one of our guides. He is on duty in the Long Gallery. He will be able to direct you from there. Sorry it’s such a long way, my dear.’ Helen lightly touched my shoulder and cocked her head to one side as she enquired, ‘Will you be alright on your own? I shouldn’t really leave these downstairs rooms unattended.’ I smiled at the warmth of her concern, but I realised that I really was feeling just a little better. The pain had eased off a shade and at least the room was still.
‘I’ll be fine. I am feeling much better.’ I laughed dismissively. ‘It is nothing really; I just get a bit funny in crowds. I’ll be fine.’ With that reassurance, I watched Helen turn and scuttle back toward the Entrance Hall. Turning to face the staircase, I then made my way upwards, occasionally stopping to take a breath and steady my still queasy stomach. I knew where I was heading. I had been this way before. The small room, reputedly Anne Boleyn’s bedroom, lay just a few turns of the staircase above me.
Perhaps it was the exertion of climbing, but I must have been about half way up the narrow stairs, when my head started to throb again. I paused, leaning against the cool stone, feeling its rough surface against my cheek, which felt ablaze with heat. What on earth was the matter with me? Suddenly, I heard the sound of laughter from the room above me. I craned my neck to see round the next turn, rubbing the sides of my temple in the hope of easing the pain. ‘Who on earth could that be? I thought the castle was closed,’ I wondered to myself. I was sure that I had left our entire party well behind, engrossed in every word of our guide. ‘Oh well,’ I thought, ‘perhaps it’s just a couple of the castle’s staff sharing a friendly joke on a day when they knew there are few visitors.’ The laughter faded as I continued to feel my way upwards, slowly, one step at a time.
‘Anne, Anne, come quickly. . . .’ I stopped abruptly, leaning my head to the side, straining against the pounding in my skull in order to hear the muffled voice more clearly. ‘Was someone calling me?’ The voice of a woman was definitely up ahead. ‘How strange! Another Anne?’ Surely, it couldn’t be me they were calling. Nobody knew me there.
Despite my queasiness, I pressed forward, my curiosity definitely piqued. I finally reached the top of the staircase and stepped into the small, rather odd shaped room at the top, recognising it immediately as Anne Boleyn’s bedroom. Much to my surprise there was no-one there. I rubbed my face with my hand in an effort to think more clearly, as if I could erase the increasing heaviness in my head by doing so. I thought that I must have got it wrong, or perhaps whoever it was had moved on from the room toward the Long Gallery.
I stopped for a moment in the doorway and looked about the tiny, yet cosy room. Light shone in through the mullioned window that ran along one short wall. I could see the Astor Wing (a complex of mock Tudor houses built in about 1908 to accommodate Lord Astor’s guests) stretching out below, on the far side of the moat. As enchanting as this room was, I had to confess, I was always a little dismissive of the myth that this tiny space could ever have belonged to Anne Boleyn. I couldn’t even imagine getting a reasonable sized bed in there, let alone the belongings of a queen-in-waiting! Perhaps it had been her nursery, or her bedroom as a small child. I shrugged. No matter. This was not the time for philosophical and historical debate. I realised that I had begun to feel hot again and more than a little nauseous. Anne would have to wait; I needed the powder room quickly!
Wincing at the pain throbbing again in my skull, I made a move to walk forward from the doorway. Again, I found myself halting; a sweet and fragrant perfume filled the air; it smelt of roses and seemed to surround me from nowhere. I looked around; there were no flowers in the room and the windows were all shut; so it couldn’t possibly be fragrance coming up from the rose gardens below. I shook my head as if to clear it, and then rather rapidly wished I hadn’t as pain shot through my temples once more.
My mind turned to finding Mick, and with determination I moved forward through the room into the Long Gallery. To my dismay, it was empty, with no sign of my promised guide. ‘Damn it!’ I muttered to myself. A treasure hunt for the washroom in a castle with God knows how many rooms, and no idea which way I was going. With as much haste as I could muster, I made my way along the one hundred-foot Long Gallery. Ordinarily, I should have been enthralled by its molded plaster ceiling, oak panelling; enchanted by the shafts of afternoon sunlight coming through the many recessed windows and falling as dappled light on the well-worn oak floor. On that day, however, I was feeling far too ill to fully appreciate its charms. As I walked its length, I noticed the room was currently home to a number of exhibits and waxwork figures of Henry and his six wives. It was eerie. I had only ever been there in the tourist season and usually had to weave my way through the throngs of visitors. But that day it was very different. Rather disconcertingly, I found myself alone with only ghosts for company. Mick was still nowhere in sight; nor was the person whose voice I had heard laughing and calling my name.
As I reached the end of the gallery, the room began to move again, as another wave of nausea swept its way up to grip my throat. I was in imminent danger of passing out, I felt sure of it. Without giving it a second thought, I staggered over to the raised recess on my right and slumped unceremoniously onto the window seat that looked out across
the moat below. I could no longer open my eyes, as when I did, the room spun so much that it added almost unbearably to my desire to throw up. I was suddenly incredibly hot, and tore at the jacket I was wearing in order to free myself of it. Sweat rolled down my forehead. Thankfully, one of the windows next to where I seated myself was open, allowing a gentle breeze to cool my brow. I felt alone and scared. What was the matter with me? ‘Oh Lord!’ I muttered, agitated and restless. The room began to move in and out of focus, as I fought to remain conscious, and then blackness came—and my life changed forever.
Part Two
Chapter One
Hever Castle,
May 31, 1527
‘Anne, Anne, come, come quickly, he’s nearly here!’ I heard the woman’s excited voice at a distance at first, vague and unclear. But it sounded familiar. I toyed distractedly with the words but seemed unable or disinclined to respond. ‘Anne, wake up! Wake up!’ Suddenly the voice came into clear focus, almost upon me; I was startled awake, brought to consciousness as someone grabbed, and then shook, my arm. ‘Anne, what is the matter with you? Do you hear me? He is nearly here!’
Fighting the grogginess in my head, I realised that the voice that I was hearing was the same one that I had heard on the staircase shortly before I passed out. It took me some time to focus. At first, all I knew was that the searing pain, the nausea, and the heat in my body had disappeared. ‘Thank God for that,’ I thought to myself. I must have passed out, but clearly I was OK. I was still in one piece; someone had even come to find me. My party must have missed me after all. Perhaps Helen had been worried when I did not return. Yet, when I finally managed to open my eyes, I could not quite believe what I was seeing.
I was still in the Long Gallery, although I couldn’t see along its full length, as I was hidden away in the same recess that I had taken refuge in at the far end of the room. However, I was increasingly aware that what I could see in front of me looked somehow, strangely different. The ceiling was heavily stuccoed with foliage, whilst the plain walls were decorated with various gilt framed oil paintings, all painted on board; I shook my head slightly in disbelief; I was sure that before I passed out, the walls had been clad in fine oak panelling. Each painting was a portrait of either a dignified looking man or woman, dressed in ornate medieval or Tudor dress; none of them was familiar to me. The light still fell in pools across the floor, but surely I could not have been unconscious for so long that someone had changed everything.
It was then that I became aware of the young woman kneeling at my feet; the person whose voice I had heard emerging from the blackness, and who had brought me back to consciousness with her forceful shaking of my arm. I looked at her, shifting my gaze downward to meet her soft hazel-brown eyes. I was transfixed by the light that played in those eyes and the look of affection which she clearly bore me. I stared at her, not quite believing what I saw for, before me, was a woman dressed in an elegant Tudor gown. With a tight fitting bodice and voluptuous skirts, the gown was made of the deepest russet red velvet, the embroidered edge of the linen smock beneath clearly visible above the low-cut, square neckline, whilst satin finished the full sleeves that were turned back, and which tumbled to the ground around where she knelt. Her skin was radiant and glowed in the warmth of the day, whilst her most striking facial features were her long, straight nose and cupid-like, rosy-red lips.
About her neck were strung two strands of gold chain from which was suspended a delicate golden cross. In turn, a single pearl-drop hung down from the cross to just above a brooch of ornate gold; it had been worked into the shape of a rose and attached to the front of her bodice. I could not help but notice how that bodice gripped her curves, forcing her breasts to rise and fall visibly above the neck-line. She certainly seemed to be out of breath from the exertion of running to find me. I nearly laughed aloud. I could not believe that members of my party were dressing up already, and in my own drama, I was missing all the fun!
Suddenly, the young woman, whose expectant face was fixed on my own, squeezed my hand. For a moment, I beheld those delicate hands, admiring her long elegant fingers, which were bejewelled with several glittering rings.
‘Anne, are you well? You must have dozed off up here.’ I did not speak, for I couldn’t speak; my mind was still racing, unable to make any sense of what I was seeing, she pressed on. ‘But listen, the King is coming. His messenger came ahead to warn our father. He must be nearly here by now. Are you coming? You know he has come for you, my beautiful, intelligent sister. You must make ready.’ The English rose shook my hand in some exasperation, before she added with great urgency, ‘If you make haste, there will still be time to change into your new French gown; the King will not be able to take his eyes off you!’
My ‘new French gown’ . . . ‘the King,’ coming here, to see me? What on earth was she talking about? I did not recognise this woman from our party, but I assumed the organisors must have gone to considerable trouble to stage this spectacle. I was impressed and about to say so, but something in the woman’s earnest gaze held me back. I felt something stir inside of me—a knowing, an understanding of something far beyond my conscious awareness. I felt inexplicably drawn to this woman, who was holding my hand so tightly. I must have smiled, for she impulsively leaned forward and kissed me gently on the cheek, wide-eyed excitement radiating from her face. Suddenly, she rose to her feet and turned to look toward the door. As she did so, I too heard what had caught her attention. Shouts echoed from within the castle; they seemed to be coming from the direction of the inner courtyard. Then, growing louder and more thunderous with every second, there came the sound of horses’ hooves clattering over the drawbridge and onto the cobbled stones.
‘He’s here! Anne, we don’t have much time. We must go!’ With that, the young woman grabbed my hand once more and pulled me to my feet. To my relief, my legs, which I recalled had felt so unsteady before I had collapsed, were now strong again and bearing me forward effortlessly, hurried along by my unknown companion. In my confusion, I was hardly able to say a word, let alone resist the insistent tugs which kept up our momentum. Before I knew it, we had left the Long Gallery, gone down a short flight of stairs and through two further rooms; each one as beautifully adorned as the Gallery itself; portraits, heavy oak furniture, all elaborately carved, even plates of silver and the odd item of what seemed to be gold. However, as we reached the end of the second room, I came to an abrupt halt. This caused the young woman to yelp in pain as, still holding my hand, I jarred hard against her. I had found myself staring into an old mirror hanging on a wall. The mirror was not as flawless as I was used to, so the image was somewhat distorted, but I saw enough to take my breath away. I was transfixed for a second time.
Next to my companion stood a striking young woman of slim build and a little taller than the woman next to her but, nevertheless, of average height. Her face—no—my face, was oval, perfectly proportioned with a darker, more olive-like complexion than the English rose that I had studied so intently in the Long Gallery. Like the English rose though, there was a similar long and straight nose and beautiful full lips. I was struck by how flawless her/my skin was. She had a long, slender neck, her breast creating a gentle swell beneath what I would come to know as a kirtle. The eyes were deep and dark, framed by slender, arching eyebrows. I felt that it would be easy to get lost in the depths of those eyes that were both searching and captivating all at the same time. Unlike the stranger next to her, this woman wore no hood but merely a coif, which gathered up an abundance of glossy, dark chestnut hair.
I finally allowed the reality to wash over me, that I was this other woman. I gasped almost inaudibly, for about that slender neck was an unmistakable mark of my true identity. Set against a gold chain, was a double strand of pearls from which hung the unmistakable gold ‘B’ that I had seen in so many portraits before. Could it be possible? I turned briefly to look at my companion, reassuring myself of her presence and that this indeed was real. Hesitantly, I turned ba
ck to gaze once more at my reflection—her reflection. I was looking at the face of Anne Boleyn.
‘Come on!’ she said. Clearly exasperated from my dalliance, the young woman dragged me away from the mirror and down a corridor that I recognised as ‘the Staircase Gallery;’ a gallery which was added by Thomas Boleyn after the family moved to Hever Castle in 1506. Thomas had turned what had been a slightly outdated early Tudor manor into a bright, warm and fashionable house of its day. The corridor was about three metres wide, clad again in oak panelling. It wrapped itself round the three sides of the building; each inner wall being set with many windows, all of which faced out onto the courtyard. I noticed how the sparkling windowpanes were carved up into small diamonds by the crisscrossing of the lead piping set within them; whilst multi-coloured patches of light were thrown on the floor and walls by the occasional colourful, heraldic design, which had been painted onto them at regular intervals.
Much to the annoyance of my companion, I stubbornly halted once more, this time drawn to the open window which I had spied just less than an hour ago—or was it 500 years into the future—from the courtyard below. I moved slowly toward the window pane, coming to rest each hand lightly on either side of its leaden frame. I hardly dared see the sight that unfolded beneath me, as I slowly leaned forward to peer out of the opened window.
In the riot of colour and chaos, I remained unobserved. The noise of chatter, of horses’ hooves striking the cobbled stone and the clinking of metal stirrups, reverberated through the confined space below. Servants rushed around taking sweating horses from lavishly dressed men who were in the process of dismounting their rides. One youngish lad wove his way through the mêlée, delivering flagons of what must have been ale to those who had already dismounted and were dusting off their fine clothing from their apparently long and strenuous ride. I watched the men throw back their heads, downing the liquid voraciously in between their talking and laughing with one another; clearly they were in high spirits. Elevated high above the crowd, my attention was drawn next to a banner of vibrant red, the background to three golden lions with blue claws and tongues which were emblazoned proudly across it. I noticed how the gold thread caught the light, causing the flag to glisten in the sun; it was the Royal Arms of England.
Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn Page 2