Momentarily I gasped, automatically recoiling and pulling the crisp linen sheets about me; for there was a man I did not know standing squarely at the foot of my bed. He was grinning at me broadly. Standing at probably 5 feet 10 inches, he was of average build, with broad shoulders and a narrow, slim waist. The gentleman in question was holding a black velvet cap scrunched up in his right hand, which had left his dark brown, wavy locks uncovered and attractively tousled. There was no doubt that this man had a handsome face; strong sideburns accentuated chiseled cheek bones and an angular jaw, and like many young men I had encountered so far, he had grown a neatly trimmed beard and moustache, as seemed to be the fashion. I admired his rich attire, fashioned from fabrics of grey damask, velvet and silk, all of which were contrasted against the frill of his white, linen shirt. But what most caught my attention was the light in his eyes; it was the light of a kindred spirit. This could only be Anne’s brother, George.
‘Dear sister, have you missed me?’ He held his arms open as if to firmly announce his presence, just in case I had failed to notice it. ‘For I have missed you! Although,’ he paused for a moment, ‘I have to admit that things have become somewhat interesting at court these days!’ I knew that he was referring to the King’s intentions towards me. George strode round the side of the bed and sat on the edge of it beside me; his left leg was bent up, resting atop of the feather mattress. For a moment, I was surprised, as he reached over and gently stroked my hair. It was an intimate gesture, full of deep and sincere brotherly love for his elder sister. Yet suddenly aware of the future danger that this intimacy would bring to George and Anne, I found myself flinching. I suspect it would have been imperceptible to anybody but Anne’s dearly beloved brother, who withdrew his hand and looked at me quizzically.
‘Are you feeling well, sister? You look somehow . . . not quite yourself.’ I nearly laughed out loud—never was a greater truth told! I quickly gathered my composure. Reciprocating the tenderness of his smile with my own, I pushed the sheets back and drew my legs beneath me, kneeling on the bed next to him.
‘Of course, dear brother. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting you. You took me by surprise.’ Wanting to change the subject, I added, ‘So pray, tell me, how is the King’s Grace? And what developments at court?’
Reaching inside a leather pouch clipped onto his belt, my brother withdrew a letter. I saw immediately a heavy wax seal bearing the same coat of arms that I had seen on the Royal Standard. My brother held it out to me and with a wry smile he spoke,
‘The King has commanded me to deliver this letter unto you. He is much perplexed by your continued absence at court.’ He chuckled before going on, ‘in fact, it would not be an untruth to say that he pines for you, sweet sister. I have never seen such puppy-dog eyes when he mentions your name! Fancy, the King of England enslaved by the chains of passion to my sister.’ However, I was not really listening. I took the letter and turned it over in my hand, feeling the rough texture of the parchment under my fingers. For a moment, I paused and ran my fingertip around the Great Seal before slipping my finger beneath the fold and pulling the wax apart. I sat back on my heels.
In reply to my own composition, I saw immediately that the letter was written in French and in Henry’s own hand.
My mistress and friend,
Since I parted with you and you delivered to me that most beautiful gift (for which again I thank you right cordially) I have heard nought more from you. I have been advised by your father that you will not come to court, neither with my lady your mother, nor by any other way. If this report be true, I cannot enough marvel at it, seeing that I am well assured I have never since that time committed fault. Reassuring you now above all else that I have spoken with Katherine of the great weight that my conscience bears pertaining to our unholy union and thus hoping you to be of great surety as regards my intentions toward you.
Praying you also that if ever before I have in any way done you offence, that you will give me your generous absolution. As God be my witness, yet again I henceforth pledge my heart to you alone, greatly desirous that so my body could be as well, as God can bring to pass if it pleases him, whom I entreat once each day for the accomplishment thereof, trusting that at length my prayer will be heard and wishing the time brief. Good lady, I beg you as a humble servant to come forth from Hever and join me forthwith at our Palace of Beaulieu, where we shall rest until the middle of August.
Written with the hand of that secretary who in heart, body and will is your loyal and most insured servant
H.aultre ne cherse R.
My brother flopped backwards on the bed; one knee raised high, his arms extended above his head. He looked at me.
‘So, what does it say? No, don’t tell me.’ Then in playful imitation of a lovesick king, he went on, ‘I can’t live without you, have pity on me, I beg you to return to court. . . .’ He circled his hand languidly around in the air indicating ‘and so forth.’
‘George, don’t make fun of me!’ I was not much concerned with his teasing. I paused for a moment savouring this incredible moment, holding a love letter from the King of England in my very hands! Then I said, ‘Henry says that he has told Katherine of his intentions to annul their marriage. Pray tell, how has she taken the news?’ Remaining reclining on my bed, my brother replied,
‘As you would expect; full of pious self-righteousness. I heard tell that the King and Queen had a furious argument. Mark my words, that woman is imperious—not to mention corpulent! No wonder the King wants rid of the old hag!’
I swiped at George with the letter playfully, admonishing him for his disrespect,
‘George! That is St. Katherine you’re talking about!’ I knew that I should not be so mean, but I was suddenly gripped by an irritation towards the woman. I sensed that even in those early days of Henry and Anne’s romance, there was little love lost between them. ‘And no doubt she blames it all on me?’ I cocked my head to the side, quizzically.
George lifted himself up, supporting himself on one hand, whilst resting the other on his bent knee.
‘Of course,’ he said casting his eyes downwards, searching for the right words. Finally, he said, ‘Anne, I think you should hear it from me rather than from some tittle-tattle at court. She is . . . has . . . called you . . .’
‘A whore?’ Of course, I knew full well of Katherine’s opinion of Anne Boleyn, the ‘scandal of Christendom.’ George flinched. It clearly both hurt and angered at him to hear the honour of his favourite sister so defamed. ‘Think nought of it, my brother. We must seek to rise above such malicious slander.’ At this, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and still with the letter in my hand, made my way to the cabinet and the casket that lay within. I took the box out, whilst my brother spoke again.
‘So what happens now?’
‘ ‘Now?’ I turned to look at him. ‘Now, sweet brother, I come to court. I have tarried here long enough. No doubt Katherine will do all she can to deviate the King from his chosen path, and we must ensure that she’s not successful.’ It was one of those moments in which I felt Anne take control and speak through me. As I placed the letter from Henry safely inside the casket, I sensed a cold and steely resolve take a hold of me. Katherine had had her chance with Henry, and Anne was not about to give her another one.
‘Now, George, leave me to dress. I will come and join you and mother shortly, and then we can make our plans.’ George pulled himself up from the bed. As he passed, he kissed me lightly on the cheek, and then withdrew from the room, leaving me to contemplate the many wonders and intrigues that lay ahead.
Chapter Seven
Journey to Beaulieu
July 22, 1527
Our plans were made for the journey to Beaulieu. Our arrival was imminent, so we sent a messenger on ahead to warn the King, who was in the midst of his summer progress, and was shortly due to arrive at the palace himself. On the morning of our departure, I took refuge in the library one last time. Whilst waiting for our hor
ses to be made ready, I made myself comfortable reclining in one of the window seats that looked out across the moat towards the fields and woodland beyond. Thankfully, it was a fine day for travelling; bright and clear with a cool breeze. On this occasion, for my reading material, I selected a small and ancient leather-bound Book of Hours, which I was now thumbing through carefully. One could only be in awe of the immaculate handwritten prose and astonishingly beautiful illuminations which brought the words to life. It was an exquisite piece of artwork that I often admired during my visits there. Strange in some ways, as this was such a little book and there were so many more impressive volumes that I could have chosen. Yet somehow, this book kept calling my name. Whilst pondering this, I heard the door creak open and my mother entered.
‘I thought I would find you here, child. These books will be lonely without you.’ She made her way across the room and I could see she was curious as to what I was holding in my hand. I spoke before she had a chance to ask.
‘It is a Book of Hours, mother. I find something familiar and comfortable within its pages,’ I explained, although I knew it was not necessary to do so. My mother looked over my shoulder; the lightness of expression that comes from seeing an old friend lit up her face.
‘Ah! That book belonged to my mother.’ I could tell immediately that, echoing Anne’s relationship with her own mother, theirs had been a close one, full of love and affection. I imagined that it was unusual in a time that was not known for such tender and expressive love to be shared between a parent and child. I suspected in that moment, I understood a little more of how Elizabeth Boleyn had managed to create such a close relationship with her own children.
‘Why do you not make use of it yourself?’ I asked puzzled.
‘Your father gave me a Book of Hours shortly after our marriage. I think I put it aside then, and in truth, I had forgotten all about it.’ She smiled down at me, studying my face for a short time, before she spoke again. ‘But since it speaks to you directly daughter, then I heartily give it to you. Wherever you go, may its constancy remind you not only of God’s love for you, but of your mother’s love, which knows no bounds.’ Suddenly, I felt tears sting at the back of my eyes, for I could not remember the love of my own mother. Immediately, it became the most treasured of gifts and something that I swore would always remain at my side. I stood up, holding my arms out; my mother fell into them and we embraced. When we finally pulled apart, she spoke again. ‘The horses are ready now, child.’ She took hold of my shoulders firmly in both hands. ‘It is time for us to leave.’
Arm in arm, we left the room, bidding farewell to those servants who were to remain behind to look after the castle, and who lined up by the front door to wish us Godspeed. In the courtyard, three horses had already been prepared and my brother, already mounted on his fine rouncy, awaited our arrival. I could see that we were to be accompanied by a small retinue of servants and several carts, all precariously laden with various trunks containing our clothes and most precious belongings. A stable boy held the reins of my horse. With great satisfaction, I noted it was the same chestnut gelding that I had ridden with the King during the day of the hunt. As I approached, the boy smiled at me and spoke with pride,
‘Titan has been looking forward to seeing you, Mistress.’ I smiled back. I had found out the name of my horse. He had been a joy to ride during the hunt, and I found myself eagerly anticipating the journey ahead. I had been relieved to learn that we would make the journey to Beaulieu on horseback; the sway of the horse and the fresh, open-air suited me much better than the restricted confines of a litter.
The journey took us five full days. In order to reach Beaulieu, which was near Chelmsford in Essex, we were obliged to pass through the City of London. Quite contrary to my modern day life, London was the only place where there was a bridge that would allow us to cross the River Thames. And so, we made our way toward the capital, arriving on its outskirts some two days later. I had been so looking forward to my first sight of Tudor London and I was not disappointed. It was truly a marvellous sight to behold!
My first impression was of its skyline, pricked often by twisted, red-brick, Tudor chimneys. Buildings such as Westminster Abbey and another cathedral that I assumed to be the old, Gothic St Paul’s, dominated the panorama and dwarfed the many houses nestled around them. Entering the suburbs, the fields of the open countryside began to melt away; I admired up close the many timber-framed, wattle and daub dwellings of the everyday London merchants set against the grander, brick-built residences of the city’s affluent aristocratic classes.
It was the oddest thing to see the city that I had been brought up in devoid of cars. The noise of the engine was replaced by the clattering of hooves on the cobblestones, the shouting of traders selling their wares, and the occasional shout or laughter emanating from the local alehouse. In short, the predominant noise was not of machines but of people. It made a wonderfully refreshing change.
Compared to the countryside to which I had become accustomed, London was abuzz with life. Elegantly dressed noblemen and well-to-do merchants with their horses, fine clothes and jewels stood out in breathtaking contrast to the coarse and plain appearance of the city’s poor. Our party must have seemed more regal than most, for many people, wealthy and poor alike, stepped aside allowing us to make our way easily through the narrow and crowded byways; often bowing their heads or doffing their caps as we made to pass by. Riding along the urban streets, I was struck by how tightly packed the houses were. Only the largest and grandest of houses occupied a generous plot with elegant, private gardens that could be seen stretching down to the Thames.
We rested overnight at Norfolk House. This was the Howard family’s London residence, sitting on the south bank of the Thames, close to Lambeth Palace. In 21st century London, Norfolk House had long since been destroyed. However, the pretty Tudor facade of Lambeth Palace was one of the few 16th century buildings that had survived the passage of nearly 500 years. I passed it many times in my modern day life; it always looked so quaint, a palace dwarfed by the modern buildings that had gradually encroached upon it with time. Yet, in Anne’s day, it assumed its true grandeur as the London residence of Archbishop of Canterbury, the Premier Prelate in the land. Next to the Howard residence, it was one of the grandest and most notable buildings on the south bank of the river.
Of course, my mother was the sister of the Duke of Norfolk, and as part of the family, we were immediately made welcome. We were to rest there overnight before continuing our journey the following day. However, I admit that I was relieved that we did not meet the Duke himself; that was to come. Along with other notable members of Henry’s court, including my father, Thomas Howard had already left London, accompanying the King on his summer progress.
So, ravenous from the journey and exhausted by the plentiful fresh air, we dined well and slept soundly that night. The next morning, we were woken by the sound of the bells of St Paul’s ringing out across the city. I was bursting with apprehension and excitement; in Anne’s shoes, I was on the brink of my first taste of the glittering spectacle, and the deadly ruthlessness, of Henry’s court.
We were up bright and early, ready to recommence our journey. I made my way from our lodgings through the Grand Entrance Hall to meet my mother and brother, who were ahead of me and already in the courtyard beyond. Suddenly, a small child appeared from one of the nearby rooms; approximately five or six years of age, and of slight frame with auburn hair, she was running furiously away from another, older child, who was close behind in hot pursuit. So engrossed was she in the chase that she entirely failed to see me, colliding full force into my billowing skirts before I could step aside. The girl fell backwards onto the floor with a bump, and I immediately knelt down to help lift to her feet; thankfully, she seemed unharmed. For several seconds she stood there, studying me intently and clearly wondering who I was. There we remained for a few fleeting moments, before her governess appeared from one of the nearby passageways.
‘Forgive me, my lady. I did not mean to be so clumsy.’ With that she curtsied a second time, before racing off to join her governess who led the girls back into the depths of the house.
On our journey across the City of London, I was struck by how the houses gave way unexpectedly to green open spaces. At one point, we rode along the track that wrapped itself around the northern edge of the Tower of London. In my 21st century life, this building was surrounded by large and elegant Georgian facades and modern office blocks. Busy roads swept by its outer walls, leaving the Tower to cling on to the embankment of the Thames for dear life. Yet in the 16th century, the Tower of London dominated this part of the city. It was surrounded by a sweeping expanse of space which I assumed to be Tower Green; the place where common traitors were beheaded. Beyond the Green, and surrounding the Tower, was a modest smattering of ordinary dwellings.
I looked up at the fortress, remembering my many visits there in my modern life. I recalled how unsettling I found the place; thinking oftentimes of Anne and the men who had been imprisoned with her at the Tower in May, 1536. I suddenly felt icy cold in the summer heat, as a wave of dread washed over me. No matter how hard I tried, I could not shake from my mind that if fate was to take its course, then in less than ten years, Anne’s bones would eventually lie in the cold earth beneath the paving stones of the chapel of St Peter ad Vincula, the tiny chapel within the Tower walls. I must have looked temporarily unwell, as my brother enquired after my health and reassured me that we would soon reach the open air of the countryside beyond.
Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn Page 10