Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn

by Morris, Sarah A.

  Beyond all probability, I was experiencing with my flesh and blood the very life of Anne Boleyn. I had met the King of England, been so close to him that I had smelt the musky warmth of his skin as he held me in his arms. He had asked me to marry him and to be the Queen of England, and I had experienced the thrill of it. Of course, there was fear. Yet, part of me longed to stay; Anne’s life was intoxicating and I was already becoming addicted, feverishly craving to know more, to allow her to consume me and to lose myself in her being.

  I stayed there for some time, my thoughts lingering on the seemingly dusty memories of my modern day life. When I opened my eyes again, all remained unchanged about me. I looked down at my hands folded in my lap. After the extravagance of the previous evening, I had chosen to wear a plain, yet flattering gown of black taffeta. I wore virtually no jewels except a gold ring, which I toyed with absent-mindedly, and a string of pearls about my neck from which hung a gold crucifix.

  When I looked up, Bess was standing in the doorway.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mistress Anne. Sir Thomas asked me to come and find you. The jeweller from Maidstone has arrived as you requested.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I replied. The maid turned and disappeared from view, leaving me to make my way downstairs. Finally, at the foot of the grand staircase, I stood opposite the castle’s main entrance. The 21st century Entrance Hall—where I had first been taken ill on the previous day—did not exist. In its place were the original kitchen, larder and buttery. I noticed that the portraits of Anne Boleyn and her sister, Mary, were nowhere to be seen. I surmised that the iconic paintings hung in the modern day castle had not yet been commissioned by the family, as the Boleyns had yet to reach the pinnacle of their power and fame.

  From my right, voices were coming from within the Great Hall. I heard my father, Sir Thomas, talking with another man. When I entered the room, I saw them both standing on the dais, next to the top table; as I entered, they looked up at me. The jeweller made a respectful bow, and my father gestured for me to join them.

  ‘Anne, Master Silas has brought a selection of his finest jewellery for us to look at today.’ As he spoke, he gestured with his hand to a series of fine jewels laid out on a soft, velvet, black cloth. ‘I hope you will find something here of your liking, Madame,’ Master Silas said in a soft and gentle voice.

  However, his words were lost on me, as one particular jewel immediately drew my attention. Perhaps I gasped, although it must have been inaudible, as neither my father, nor the jeweller, appeared to notice my astonishment. For there on the table, calling to me, was a jewel that I recognised. Hesitantly, almost as if it might burn me, I reached out and picked it up, bringing it closer to my face so that I may take in its intricate detail. I was holding a small gold ship containing within it a solitary damsel. The gold work around the ship suggested that it was being tossed in the stormy sea; hanging down from the underside of the ship was a flawless diamond.

  I remembered reading about this jewel from a letter written to Anne in Henry’s own handwriting; one of those letters that survived in the Vatican archives. The letter thanked Anne for this very gift. I also recalled the symbolism contained in such a piece; the type of encoded message much beloved by people who lived in this age. The ship was a sign of protection, guarding the solitary maid within from the stormy seas that surrounded her; the diamond a symbol of endurance and everlasting love. This jewel would not only be a token of Anne’s love, but would symbolise to Henry her surrender into his hands; the commitment of her body and soul to him.

  Without looking at either my father or Master Silas, I said in the quietest voice,

  ‘This is the one, father.’ With that, I placed the jewel on the table, curtsied respectfully to the two men, and turned to leave the room. I paused briefly, turning to look at my father. The two men looked nonplussed. They were clearly bewildered that I chose so quickly and with such cursory attention to the other precious gifts laid before me.

  ‘I will write the King a letter to accompany this token of my esteem and affection.’ I hesitated for a moment, as if trying to find the words to explain how this gift would not only touch Henry’s heart but would become indelibly marked in the annals of history; an echo of this moment in time. Of course, it was impossible to explain this to these people who knew nothing of the future. So with some resignation, I smiled, turned, and left the room.

  Later that afternoon, I sat alone in the library to write the letter. It was always a warm and welcoming room, and if I could be anywhere now, I would choose to hide there, amongst familiar friends. Since childhood, I have always adored books and learning, finding libraries to be profoundly restful places; the reassuring voices of our ancestors, speaking from the pages of its many books, holding me as if I was a foetus suspended in a silent and protective womb.

  Before sitting down to compose the words that I wished to write to the King, I took my time to peruse the shelves; the heavy and musky scent from the many leather bound volumes filled my nostrils. Most of the volumes spoke of history, geography, and of course politics and religion. Every now and then I paused, and with my thumb and forefinger, gently extracted a volume, flicking through the thick parchment, and sometimes vellum, that lay within.

  Of course, this was the early 16th century and the printing press had not long been invented. This explained why many of the volumes were handwritten, and some of the religious texts exquisitely adorned with hand-drawn illustrations etched in vivid and beautiful colours. I guessed that many of the books had been written in the 12th and 13th century, when the castle was originally built, and I suspected that much of the information stored there would be subsequently lost in the sands of time. I vowed to spend as much time as I could in my father’s library, before my fate would eventually draw me away from Hever and onwards towards London.

  Two large windows allowed the light to stream into the room and illuminate the large, oak desk that was placed at its centre. I sat down in front of it. Looking at the blank piece of parchment before me, I took the quill in my hand. Poised above the parchment, I paused; this was to be the first letter that I would write to Henry, the letter in which I would avow to him my maidenhead and my life. Yet, how to write to a King? For a moment, my mind was blank, and then, as if I were taking dictation from Anne herself, I began to write easily and in fluent French; the words pouring forth from my quill:

  Sire,

  It belongs only to the august mind of a great King, to whom Nature has given a heart full of generosity towards the sex, to honour with such extraordinary devotion and commitment a simple maid such as myself. In truth, your Majesty, I do not know what I have done to deserve the inexhaustible treasury of your Majesty’s bounty. I am clear amazed that you should offer your heart and body and soul to a girl such as Anne Boleyn. Yet I give thanks to God for howsoever great may be the bounties I have received, and the great honour that you seek to bestow upon me, it cannot compare with the joy that I feel in being loved by a King whom I adore, and to whom I now pledge to sacrifice my own heart.

  As an assurance of my obedience to you in all matters and as a small token of the constancy of my love for your Majesty, I have sent to you a gift which I know will touch your Majesty’s heart in its understanding.

  Assuring you by my own lips (which I shall do yet again on the first opportunity) that I am, Your Majesty’s very obliged and very obedient servant, without any reserve,

  Anne Boleyn.

  I put down the quill and stared at the letter, reading it over and over. The words had surged through me, and yet I struggled to comprehend what I was experiencing. However, the deed was done. Leaving the library, I gave the letter to my father’s personal secretary, who sealed it and assured me of its delivery. As I made my way back to my bedroom, I was aware that I had just put quill to parchment and written indelibly on the pages of history.

  Chapter Five

  Allington Castle,

  June 2, 1527

  At breakfast the following
morning, my father announced that he was due to return to London that very day. There was much that needed to be done on the Privy Council, and he wished to oversee the furthering of our family interests. Clearly, he was always a man with his eye on opportunity, and had sent a messenger to the Duke of Norfolk, my mother’s brother, indicating that events were moving apace, but that he dare not commit these to any letter. He requested that they meet without delay, and sought to do so at the earliest opportunity. Perhaps I looked anxious, for my mother reached over and gently laid her hand on mine. I was learning quickly that Elizabeth Boleyn was a profoundly reassuring presence in Anne’s life; when she was around me, her warm and generous smile and sparkling eyes allowed me to breathe more easily.

  ‘Anne, your sister and I are travelling out yet again today. We have a need to visit Sir Henry and Lady Wyatt at Allington Castle. You have been cooped up here for days child. Methinks it will do you good to get out and see some of our dear friends.’

  I remembered immediately that Allington Castle was the home of the Wyatt family, being situated about ten miles from Hever. I suspected that my mother was unaware of Anne’s relationship with Thomas Wyatt, for she would hardly be likely to expose her daughter to any further rumours and gossip given the King’s undoubted and serious interest in her. I also knew that Thomas had been married, but that the union was not a happy one. I remembered that at some point, he and his wife had separated on the grounds of adultery. However, I could not remember when, and I could not help but wonder whether this had anything to do with Anne. Yet on that day, I was curious, and as I looked into my mother’s face, I felt that she desired the company of her youngest daughter almost as much as I desired her reassuring presence.

  ‘Of course, I would like that very much, mother.’ I smiled and gently squeezed her hand.

  A little more than an hour later, accompanied by four of our liveried servants, I found myself watching Hever Castle disappear into the distance as we made our way along the track in a horse-drawn litter. As the miles stretched ahead of us, we settled in, progressing slowly through the country lanes. All around us, the bushes and trees were bedecked with spring blossom, and I realised that I’d never felt more alive. I leaned against the side of the litter, my cheek propped against my hand, as I drank in every detail of the lanes, dwellings, fields and people as they slipped slowly by. Gazing out, I was vaguely aware of the chatter between my mother and sister. Much of this I allowed to drift past my conscious attention. However, occasionally tidbits of gossip aroused my interest.

  There was much talk of my brother, George, who was preoccupied with family business, and who remained at court during the King’s visit. I was well aware that perhaps of everyone within the Boleyn family, it was George who shared the closest relationship with Anne; it was one that, in time, I would come to understand and cherish. Many times over the previous few days, I wondered as to the whereabouts of my brother, but of course, I dared not ask. I had to admit, with George’s charismatic and colourful reputation as a witty raconteur, I was eager to meet him; although I wondered somewhat nervously whether he may be the one to notice an unusual change in his sister. I dismissed the thought instantly. Why should he suspect anything? It was hardly credible even to me, a woman from the future, as to what was happening to me; of what was happening to Anne.

  As my mother spoke of him, it was clear that she despaired of his difficult relationship with his wife, Jane Boleyn, soon to be Lady Rochford; for I knew that with the King’s pledge of marriage, further rewards and recognition would soon be bestowed upon the Boleyn family. It was clear from the chatter, that George’s eye was too easily distracted from his marriage bed. Yet, I also sensed that while Mary’s reputation suffered for her indiscretions, George’s rather unfairly, remained intact.

  The journey was painfully slow. By the time we arrived at Allington Castle, I was a little nauseous from the constant rocking and occasional jolting which occurred when one of our horses stumbled. Delighted to finally be at the end of our journey, I leaned forward, my hands grasping the edge of the litter. The imposing grandeur of the Wyatt’s fortified family seat was magnificent indeed. I reckoned that Allington Castle was at least three to four times the size of our little home at Hever. Made of grey stone, the medieval building was rectangular in shape. It comprised of a defensive curtain wall connected at each corner by a series of semicircular towers, each facing outwards onto the moat.

  We crossed over the ancient drawbridge and passed under the castle’s imposing barbican. Glancing upwards, I saw the portcullis tucked away above me and wondered if it had ever been used in defence. Perhaps it had, but on that pleasant summer’s day, all was well. The clattering of hooves on the cobblestones briefly reverberated around the enclosed space beneath the arch of the Gatehouse, before our litter emerged into the bright sunlight of the large, inner courtyard.

  In short order, we drew up opposite the main entrance. A servant dressed in blue and red livery immediately stepped forward and opened the door, offering his hand to my mother, sister and me. Once within the cool shadows of the grand Entrance Hall, we were met by a portly-looking, elderly gentleman who, I assumed by his rich attire and assertive manner, was the master of the house. He wore a long, black overcoat trimmed with a brown, fur mantle; the sleeves of the garment were edged with black damask and the cuffs lined with gold thread work. Draped about his shoulders was a thick and heavy gold collar, and upon his head, he sported a black velvet cap, or coif, as I would come to know it. This cap had been designed to fit closely to the shape of his skull, coming down about his ears. Poking out from beneath that coif, I could just see the odd strand of grey hair that betrayed his advancing years. I found the man’s face beguiling. It was deeply etched with the years of his experience, and although I imagined that his countenance could well be stern should the need arise, on this occasion, his face was set alight in a warm and generous smile.

  As he moved towards us, his girth and the bulk of his clothes gave the impression that he was waddling rather than walking; his outstretched arms welcomed us, as his large, bear-like hands scooped us up into his abode. I surmised that this must be Sir Henry Wyatt; unfortunately, I knew little about him. I assumed that the display of wealth all around indicated that this man had led a successful life at court and was probably held in high esteem by the King. I immediately took a liking to him.

  ‘My Lady Elizabeth!’ The man’s voice was deep and resonant. ‘It is marvellous to see you and your beautiful daughters yet again.’ With that, he looked first towards Mary and then at me, nodding an appreciative bow in our direction. If he knew of Mary’s reputation, he was discreet enough not to show it. However, I noticed that he lingered perhaps a little longer than he ought when he looked upon my face. I wondered if he knew of what had passed between Anne and his son, or perhaps he was already aware of the King’s intentions and was trying to fathom how a simple country girl like Anne could have captivated a Prince as magnificent as Henry. After the slightest hesitation, he added, ‘We have much to speak about.’

  With that, he stepped aside, opening out his arm and indicating that we should follow him into the castle. As we walked together he continued, ‘my wife is just concluding some household business and will join us presently.’ Then, he looked at Mary and me, and added, ‘and my son Thomas and some of his friends are already out in the garden enjoying this beautiful day. Perhaps you should like to join them?’

  Before we could answer, my mother replied,

  ‘Of course, that is exactly what the two of you should do. There is no point in you being bored by the ramblings of old people reminiscing about the past. Go and enjoy yourselves, and when our business is concluded, I shall send for you. Well children, tarry not!’ With a broad smile, she shooed us away. Happily, Mary knew exactly where to go and grabbed me by the hand, drawing me forward through the castle’s corridors and rooms. Eventually we came to a stone gallery that led across the moat at the back of the castle and into the gardens beyo
nd.

  Once outside, I heard the sounds of laughter and voices coming from some distance over to our right, deep within the formal gardens. Letting go of my hand, Mary went ahead of me, turning to call over her shoulder. Despite being the eldest of the Boleyn children, I noticed that she seemed the most childlike; full of innocence and wonderment.

  ‘Come on! I’ll race you!’ Picking up her skirts like a tomboy, she made haste down some stone steps and through a high, dense hedge that surrounded the garden. I paused for a moment, laughing to myself; my sister’s joie de vivre was always infectious. Once again, I found myself puzzled over how she was to become the outcast of the family, when it seemed to me she had such a generous and loving heart. I suspected it was that very same childish impetuosity that would cause her to be led by her emotions in dealings with men. I did not see my father, Sir Thomas, as an emotional man, nor forgiving of those who overindulged in theirs. My mother, although kind, seemed deeply conservative and pious, and likely intolerant of anything which might bring shame upon the family; whilst Anne was ultimately too shrewd to allow her heart to rule her head. It seemed that in various ways, all of this would set Mary on a collision course with her family in the years to come. Yet, I never dreamed back then that I would witness the cataclysmic series of events that would see Mary irrevocable thrown out of the family fold.

  As was Anne’s way, rather than chasing after her, I took stock of all that surrounded me. In front of me, the paths diverged in two directions. I could take the right and go after my sister, or go straight on, towards a garden which was surrounded by a high, red-brick wall. From where I stood, this path wound down to an intricate wrought iron gate set into that wall, leading on into an informal garden beyond. Anne would always be a woman of her own mind, and through pure stubbornness, I chose this second path.