It took another two days of riding to penetrate deeply into the county of Essex. On the third day, we found ourselves approaching the Palace of Beaulieu. Listening to the conversations between my mother and brother, I learned with interest that my father had sold the palace to Henry in 1516. I wondered, at the time, if Anne herself had visited there as a child before her departure to the continent; an experience that would transform the very fabric of her personality and carve out her destiny as Queen of England.
Lost in these thoughts, I suddenly had a flash of an image that seemed like a memory, and yet it was not familiar to me; a montage of blurred and hazy pictures filled my mind. I seemed to be seeing through the eyes of a small child. I was perhaps seven or eight and playing with another child of similar age. We were laughing gaily as we dipped our hands into the water of a fountain. The fountain itself was carved from marble, sculpted into figurines of small cherub-like angels, dancing at the feet of a partially-clad Grecian woman. Within moments, the images had gone. It felt strange; as if the pictures were not my own, and yet I had seen those things through my own eyes. However, as we turned into the long, tree-lined driveway that led up to the palace, I quickly forgot the incident; I was in awe of the building that lay before me.
The long drive up to the Palace of Beaulieu was lined on each side with a double row of mature oak trees. In the open parkland beyond, herds of deer grazed contentedly. Only as we passed, did they cease their grazing, and with numerous eyes upon us, attentively watch our steady progress until they were assured that we were no threat to their safety. At the end of the driveway, we were met by a huge red-brick Gatehouse; two enormous octagonal towers, bejewelled with fine mullioned windows, stood guard on either side of the Gateway itself.
As I was to find out, Beaulieu was certainly not the most magnificent, nor the grandest of Henry’s palaces; but it did have a gentle charm with pleasant airy rooms, fine views across the idyllic Essex countryside, and tranquil, formal gardens. Like most Tudor palaces, the most elegant and prestigious rooms were built around a large inner courtyard; the finest of which were reserved for the King and Queen’s State and Privy Apartments.
As we drew up outside the main entrance, Sir Thomas emerged from within the palace to welcome us. Greeting us with kisses, he wasted no time in showing us the way to our lodgings. As we walked along, my father took me by the arm, my mother and brother falling back discreetly so that we were able to talk more intimately. My father wasted no time in getting straight to the point.
‘The King is eager to see you and is delighted that you have come again to court. He has asked that as soon as you are settled, you should visit him in his Privy Chamber. As often as possible your mother, brother or I will be present to act as your chaperone.’ Almost as an aside he went on, ‘The King has made his intentions clear, that for the sake of your reputation, you should not be seen to be alone in privy company with His Grace.’ We ambled along through a multitude of corridors; I listened intently. I could not help but be aware of how matters that were so close to my own heart were being decided by men behind closed doors, and without my involvement. This did not sit comfortably with my modern day persona; a young woman who was so independent and in control of her life. My father continued, ‘As you know, the King has spoken with Katherine of his intentions to annul his marriage to her just as soon as he is able to secure a dispensation from the Pope. In truth, many learned men see that the case is not straightforward. Yet, His Majesty anticipates that by Christmas at the very latest, the two of you will be openly betrothed.’ I nodded silently, deeply skeptical—and yet for some reason ridiculously hopeful—that this could be achieved. He hesitated to tell me the next thing on his mind. ‘His Grace has asked that I raise a rather delicate subject with you.’ I stopped abruptly, dropping my father’s arm as I turned squarely to look him in the face. An ominous cloud was gathering, and I felt suddenly apprehensive at what he was about to say. Taking a deep breath, my father explained, ‘His Majesty has asked that you continue in the service of Queen Katherine, he . . .’
‘What! Surely this cannot be!’ I interrupted him before he could go on. I was furious with my father, and with Henry, for bringing me back into a situation in which Anne had clearly had her fill. ‘Does His Majesty have any idea how impossible . . . how difficult . . . how utterly demeaning it is for me to be washing the feet of a woman who loathes me and wishes me dead!’ Anne had emerged to take charge again, as emotions and words poured forth in a passionate torrent of anger. ‘Did he not listen to me when I explained this to him?’ I said this almost to myself, as I paced back and forth in front of my father in a clear state of agitation.
‘Anne, Anne, please calm down.’ I noticed that Thomas Boleyn had also become anxious, glancing up and down the corridor to ensure that we were not being overheard. Suddenly, he gripped my shoulders and our eyes locked. He then spoke to me with great fervour, ‘You must understand this. The King has begun to seek an annulment from the Pope. Many people at court do not know that he loves you and intends for you to be his bride. God forbid that they should at this stage! It is imperative that the King’s Grace is seen to be seeking this annulment on the grounds that he is living in sin with his brother’s wife, and that his conscience, in the sight of God, can no longer abjure it.’
Already, I felt my anger and resistance beginning to drain away from me in shame. In my naïveté, I did not see fully the political necessity of my remaining in the shadows for as long as possible during that sensitive time. My father continued, lowering his voice,
‘We must not do anything to jeopardise our cause. You do not yet understand the ruthlessness of our enemies. For all intents and purposes, the King must appear to be living with, and paying due deference to, his Queen. You are now a lady at court, and as such, it is your duty to give service to Katherine. Your time will come, child. Have patience.’ I fell quiet and nodded my head, although still simmering with hurt. ‘Good,’ was all that my father had replied.
Our party continued to walk onwards, as my father delivered his instructions, expecting no further objections from his head-strong daughter.
‘You will change and meet the King. Later your uncle Norfolk has asked that we should join him in his chamber for supper. There is much to discuss. You will also need to present yourself to Katherine. She is aware of your return to court. However, methinks that given the late hour, you can do this in the morning.’
‘I imagine she can hardly wait!’ I said rather sarcastically. My father tactfully ignored my comment and in short order we arrived at our apartments. The door was opened for us by the page, who was waiting outside. As it swung inwards, I was aware that the next act in the drama of Anne Boleyn was about to get underway.
The King had ordered that our family be housed in accommodation that befitted our rising status at court. We had been allocated a series of interconnecting rooms, providing us with a grand reception room, or parlour, and separate bedrooms for my parents, my brother and myself. However, my father informed us that, for the sake of propriety, we had been housed at a respectable distance from the King’s chambers. Our lodgings at Beaulieu were not only spacious but richly decorated, with fine pieces of furniture including a huge, walnut dining table that dominated the main chamber. However, the most striking feature was a series of large stone windows that let in an abundance of light, and afforded delightful views across the Privy Gardens.
As I looked around, taking in the splendor of our lodgings, I started to peel off my leather riding gloves; all the time watching a stream of servants scuttle back and forth bringing up those belongings that had followed us from Hever. My mother soon became occupied issuing orders to a gentleman usher and one of her personal maids, whilst my father had already returned his attention to some paperwork that he had abandoned on hearing of our arrival. Just at the moment that my brother disappeared from the parlour to inspect his own bedchamber, there came a knock at the open door. My parents and I glanced over to find a page, d
ressed in the Royal livery, standing in the doorway. As head of the household, my father rose from his seat and had walked over to him.
‘You have a message, boy?’ asked Sir Thomas.
‘From the King’s Grace, for Mistress Anne,’ the page said, as he bowed and held out a silver platter in my direction. My father indicated that I should come forward. Thus, I sauntered over, peeling the second glove from my hand as I did so. There was a letter and a long package wrapped in red velvet lying upon it. Taking it, I thanked the boy cordially and watched him bow, turn and disappear.
My brother had re-entered the room from his chamber, and all eyes were upon me; I laid the velvet pouch down on the walnut table. Cross with myself from my show of intemperance earlier, I opened the package nonchalantly, revealing a beautiful gold necklace at the centre of which was crafted an array of roses entwined with two lovers’ hearts that were studded with rubies and diamonds. Peering over my shoulder, my brother let out a high-pitched whistle in acknowledgement of its beauty and value. I left it untouched, rather reaching for the letter that accompanied it. Breaking the sealed wax, I unfolded the parchment to see Henry’s now familiar handwriting. The note was brief and in English:
Dear mistress and friend,
The approach of the time for which I have so long waited rejoices me so much, that it seems almost to have come already. However, the entire accomplishment cannot be till the two persons meet, which meeting is more desired by me than anything in this world; for what joy can be greater upon earth than to have the company of her who is dearest to me, knowing likewise that she does the same on her part, the thought of which gives me the greatest pleasure.
Written by the hand of the secretary, who wishes himself at this moment privately with you, and who is, and always will be, Your loyal and most assured Servant,
HR
I pushed the letter over to my father, who duly read it aloud. Speaking resolutely, I announced,
‘I will change and then visit the King.’ By this time, thankfully, I had regained my composure. Although in truth, I felt stirrings; an intoxicating mixture of passion and excitement was already beginning to take shape in the centre of my belly. I indicated to Bess, who had joined us from Hever, to follow me into my bedchamber and help me to change.
When I emerged some short time later, I must have looked truly resplendent, as wealthy as any noblewoman at court; even my mother was taken aback by my glittering appearance. Henry’s diamond and ruby necklace had not been the only gift he had given me that day. When I entered my bedroom, I found three of the most divinely glamorous gowns laid out for me, all gifts from the King. The first was a heavy winter gown of black damask and velvet; its long sleeves were generously trimmed with the softest sable fur, whilst the edge of the kirtle, just visible about the square-cut neckline was studded with precious and semi-precious jewels. The next gown was in the English style and made of dusky blue silk. However, it was the third dress that I chose to wear for my reunion with Henry. The gown itself was made of silk, this time in the colour of deep, raspberry red. The fabric was almost entirely covered in silver thread work, which had been woven into the fabric in a fashionable geometric pattern. Typical of the French style gown, the sleeves were tightly fitted from the shoulder to the elbow and turned back with velvet. Elaborate false sleeves, ended in the redwork frill of my underlying chemise, which in turn fell over Anne’s delicate hands thus accentuating the narrowness of her long fingers. It was not the first time that I noticed the absence of any deformity on either of Anne’s little fingers.
These gifts were the first trickle of the tokens of Henry’s affection that he bestowed upon me during those heady summer months. It was a trickle that would soon become a torrent. He seemed eager to lavish every imaginable luxury upon me. I received not only jewellery such as bracelets, brooches, rings and necklaces, but also diamonds for a new headdress, gilt and silver bindings for books, gowns, bows and arrows and an exquisitely carved leather saddle for my palfrey. It was flattering of course and, at first, a little overwhelming. Sometimes though, in my more melancholy moments, I could not help but feel that my love was being bought, and how easily the torrent could stop just as soon as it had started—and of course, eventually, it did.
Soon, I was ready to meet the King, and my father and brother accompanied me to Henry’s Privy Chambers. We did not enter via the public rooms of the palace. Instead, we were escorted by one of Henry’s liveried servants through a private corridor, which I later came to understand was a gallery designed for the King’s privy use. Beyond this, we were taken through a series of deserted chambers, all breathtaking in their magnificence, finally entering Henry’s private chapel. The servant indicated that we had permission to pass by the two armed guards, who stood on either side of the entrance. The door was opened for us, and my father gestured for me to lead the way and step inside.
Once within the sanctum of the chapel, I stood still for a moment, taking in the sheer beauty of the scene that lay before me. As Henry’s private place of prayer, it was relatively small and intimate. The walls were made of stone; a larger outer room separated from a smaller, inner one by an arch carved in the Romanesque style. Within that inner sanctum stood the raised altar carrying a weighty silver cross, surrounded by several beeswax candles; all were lit, despite the fact that it was still light outside. I was struck by how the stonework had been embellished by a repeating geometric pattern, painted in vibrant colours of gold and red, whilst three, small Gothic-style windows were inset into the walls and decorated with stained glass. The window directly above the altar depicted a picture of the Risen Christ, adored by angels. In the late afternoon sunlight, it caught the last of the sun’s rays, and a beam of light danced with the colours of the glass, lighting up the room as if it were transmitting a message from God himself. I drew in a deep breath, and a heavy scent of incense filled my nostrils, plunging me instantly back into long forgotten memories of attending Mass with my parents as a small child.
I was brought up in the Catholic faith. As the service had changed little over the centuries, the Mass, prayers and incantations were profoundly familiar to me. Of course, I had also attended Mass at least twice a day with my mother while we had whiled away those happy weeks at Hever. Although in my modern life, I felt deeply spiritual, I had long since abandoned religious observance. Nevertheless, I quickly found myself to be at home in this environment once more; from those very earliest days, the ritual provided me with a sense of grounding in a strange, new world. And without any other obvious means of finding spiritual comfort, I would soon immerse myself in the daily religious observance of Tudor society, holding my own God silently within my heart.
I looked ahead of me to Henry, who was kneeling in front of the altar on a prieu-dieu. With my hands clasped lightly in front of me, I walked toward the King; my father and brother remaining behind, and kneeling discreetly at the pews in the back of the chapel. As I moved forward, the soles of my shoes had struck the tiled, chequered floor, alerting Henry to my presence. Approaching the archway, the King turned to look over his right shoulder. When he saw me, his face lit up with joy, and in response, I sank into a graceful curtsey. Without a word, he beckoned me over and indicated that I should kneel by his side and join him in prayer.
Thus, we stayed for some time until our prayers were completed. Afterwards, Henry had proposed that we promenade in the Privy Gardens, so that we could enjoy the early evening sunshine together; we were to be accompanied by my father and brother. Our reunion had left the King in high spirits and attentive to my every need. Indeed, he had been unable to contain himself. And so, in the relative privacy of the church, Henry kissed me tenderly on the lips, holding me close for the longest time; it was as if he feared that to let me go would cause me to dissolve away into thin air. I was sure that I had seen tears of joy welling up in his eyes, and yet again, I felt the flush of exhilaration from his singular adoration.
As we walked outside, I noticed that the Privy Gar
dens were empty, save our little party and the ever present bodyguards that kept watch over the King. Soon we turned into the sunken garden. For a moment, I stood still and must have drawn in breath, for the King seemed startled and turned towards me, enquiring,
‘Sweetheart, are you all right?’ I did not answer immediately, for I was lost in my own thoughts. I was astonished to find myself looking at a marble fountain with a semi-nude lady, surrounded by cherubs dancing at her feet. It was the very same fountain that I had seen in my vision as we had approached the Palace of Beaulieu. I remember how perplexed I had been at its appearance; what could it mean? Had I for the first time had access to Anne’s memory? How had that been possible?
‘Sweetheart?’ The King’s words broke the spell as I shook my thoughts away. Shrugging off my reverie as being a consequence of the breathtaking beauty of that pretty little space, I responded,
‘Oh, it’s just so delightful . . . and if truth be told, perhaps I am a little overwhelmed and so very happy to be back in Your Grace’s presence.’ This was no lie. Henry smiled, satisfied with my reply. And so we continued forward, walking arm in arm, the crunch of tiny stones beneath our feet on the path. After a little while, I spoke again. ‘I thank you kindly, Sire for the very beautiful gifts that you have bestowed on me.’ I let go of Henry’s arm, turning to face him, displaying in its full glory the magnificent ruby and diamond necklace that Henry had given me. With some inner satisfaction, I saw how his eyes widened, as he appreciated not only the jewel, but the long neck, sculpted collarbones and modestly raised breast against which it was set off. Inwardly I smiled. I mused that clearly some things about men certainly had not changed in the last 500 years! Henry took a step back to take in my entire appearance. He smiled broadly, one of those smiles of his that could light up a room if you were lucky enough to be the recipient. Yes, there was a time when he looked upon me that way. Henry had a way of making you feel like the centre of the world, if that was his will. Appreciatively, he finally said,
Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn Page 11