Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn

by Morris, Sarah A.

  ‘Be of good cheer ladies, for everything will be well, you will see. We shall meet again when this is over.’ I was the last to be embraced. As he finished saying these words, he picked up my hands as if they were the most precious thing in the world to him; kissing them, he never took his eyes from mine. In that private moment, for I knew my brother unlike any other, I saw all too easily through the mask of courage that he had worn, a mask which belied the fear he harboured for our safety. I wanted to speak but I could not find the words, and my brother unable to prolong our goodbye had turned, and with a swish of his black velvet riding cape, he was gone. I struggled with my own vicious storm of emotions, regretting already that, stunned by the disbelief of the King’s departure, I could not say all I had wanted to say to my dearly cherished brother. I stood motionless, staring at the door through which George had departed, entirely lost in my own shock and grief. It was my mother who drew me back to reality.

  ‘Mary, Margery’ my mother repeated herself, looking to each of my ladies in turn. ‘You both must leave now . . . Go! Go!’ My mother gestured to shoo them away in haste. I knew that she was as fond of both of my friends as I was, and it pained her to see them go. The three of us clung to each other desperately, tears streaming down all of our faces, until my mother finally parted us and with steely resolve Elizabeth Boleyn sent them on their way.

  When my mother and I were alone, and the sorrow of being parted from my dear brother and friends gently ebbed away, I turned my attention once again to Henry. As I reflected on Henry’s actions, I was filled first with a cavernous emptiness; grief soon followed, only to be replaced by anger, which quickly ignited in the ashes of my lover’s betrayal. Anne’s spirit had instantaneously been ablaze with fury. I did not know which was worse, Henry’s utter selfishness or lack of courage; I realised that Anne despised both with equal measure. Had I raised Henry on a pedestal of invincible manhood or had Anne, against her better judgement, allowed herself to be mesmerised with empty words and gestures?

  ‘Where is Katherine,’ I asked my mother directly; for this question had begun to weigh heavily upon my mind. My mother held my gaze silently, and in that silence I heard all that I needed to know. Henry had taken Katherine with him to Waltham Abbey, of that I was sure. The knife that had already been plunged into my heart was then twisted ruthlessly by this second act of betrayal. I realised that my love had chosen to shelter and protect his wife above me, above Anne. I exploded into a rage that blinded me to all reason.

  ‘How can he possibly do this to us,’ I opened my arms, hands outstretched, as I gestured emphatically with each word in sheer frustration, ‘I see that I have been deceived by him! He does not love me, but uses me only to fulfill his own desires and needs.’ My mother looked on with desperate sadness and sympathy. Yet this only threw me into an even greater frenzy of despair, as I continued, ‘I cannot believe I have been such as a fool!’ I raised my arms to the heavens as if beseeching God for mercy. ‘How could I have not seen, dearest mother,’ I said emphatically, as I swiped the air with indignation, ‘that Henry is no different to any man; selfish and self-obsessed.’

  Suddenly, I realised that I no longer knew if I were talking about myself in my modern day life with Daniel; at my utter frustration with his inability to free himself from his own chains, or was it Anne, that in her disgust with the King was giving vent to her hot rage. For without thinking, I found myself saying,

  ‘Think on it, mother, my Lord Percy, who declared to me his everlasting affection and regard, ran away with his tail between his legs like a startled alley cat the moment my Lord Cardinal and my Lord of Northumberland snapped at his heels . . . And now Henry, the great and mighty King of England, the Defender of the Faith, does likewise!’

  ‘Anne, he is the King and does not yet have a son to take the throne should,’ my mother crossed herself, ‘God forbid, anything happen to His Majesty.’

  ‘Mother, how can you defend him when he has just abandoned your daughter to her fate, as if she were just a trifle of no matter or consequence?’ My mother sighed deeply. She, of course, knew me well; she knew her daughter was made of tougher stuff than any man, and that whilst Anne seethed in anger, there was little hope of appealing to her sensibilities. I turned my back toward her and gazed out of the window toward the deserted tiltyard below. It was clear that with the departure of the King, anyone who was able was fleeing the palace; nobles retreating with their servants to the cleaner air of the country and a hope of greater solitude and safety.

  I wished to flee too, back to my little home and refuge at Hever, for I had resolved that Henry would not lightly forsake me thus again; His Majesty would feel the chill of my absence and the withdrawal of my affections. As the fire in my belly began to subside, and the dense mist of white-hot rage that had clouded my mind cleared, an even more ominous sense of foreboding was rising up, reaching around me with death’s icy tentacles. Unbeknownst to me at that moment, in a small room not very far away from where I was standing, Bess had succumbed to the sweat, and I would never see her again.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Palace of Placentia, Greenwich

  June 16, 1528

  In my dream, I was running blindly down the corridors of a semi-deserted palace, searching desperately from room to room to find the King. I was frantic, and yet those few souls that I met cared little for my plight; in stony silence they turned their backs on me with looks of disdain, and despite all my pleas beseeching them to help, their lithe and shadowy figures seemed to melt away into the dark recesses of unlit corridors and abandoned rooms. I was exhausted from my endless searching and yet, at last and rather strangely, I found myself entirely alone in the Queen’s Presence Chamber. The empty throne that I had so often seen Katherine occupy stood before me, mocking my abandonment. At the same time, the ghosts of those who I sensed had succumbed to sweating sickness stared on, haunting me with their eyes that spoke only of their empty pity. I turned my head to the side, for coming from the room beyond, I heard crying; soft and pitiful sobbing that had mesmerised me and drew me forth against my better judgement. At last, when I reached the doorway of the Queen’s Privy Chamber, with the sound of my heart throbbing loudly in my head, I stretched out my hand and tentatively pushed it open. As I did so, the black spectre of death rushed forward to engulf me, its mouth open wide in a hollow, noiseless scream.

  Suddenly my eyes flicked open. For a moment, there was utter confusion, my heart still thudded wildly in my chest and I was gripped momentarily by intense fear—yet around me, all was silent. Then slowly, by degrees, I realised that I had been dreaming, lost in the midst of a terrifying nightmare. There was a moment of acute relief, as all the tension that had been gripping my body melted away; then the grim nature of my reality began to dawn on me. The horror of the past twenty four hours flooded my mind once more; the return of sweating sickness, the hasty departure of my friends and my brother, my abandonment by Henry and finally, the death of my beloved Bess. I was not allowed to see her body of course; for fear that I might catch the deadly disease. Instead, I cried myself into a fitful sleep with racking, exhausting sobs.

  It was a dull and sombre morning, which reflected perfectly the macabre events unfolding around me; brooding clouds, coloured in hues of grey weighed down the heavy skies. I awoke lying on my front, twisted up in the bedclothes, as if I had been fighting throughout the night with them for my very life. I sought to untangle myself. Lifting myself up on my elbows, I swept away my thick, tousled locks from my face as I looked about my bedchamber; the room looked desolate without Bess who, by then, would normally be busying herself, making ready for the day ahead. I buried my face in my hands; I was heavy with grief and anger, and so I dug deep to find the courage that I needed to make it through the day. Suddenly though, I lifted my face up, cocking my head slightly to the side as I strained to listen to the sound of what seem to be muffled sobs coming from the room beyond. I realised that the crying that I had heard in my dream had w
ormed its way into my sleepy consciousness and had awoken me to my present reality.

  My curiosity was piqued, and I quickly turned myself around, throwing back the covers and slipping into my nightgown. As I made my way towards the door, I caught my reflection in the grainy mirror that hung opposite the bed. I hesitated; Anne’s striking beauty was somewhat marred by swollen, red eyes, which spoke deeply of my own desolation.

  I must admit that I was surprised by the depth of my reaction to the news of Bess’s death. It seemed to resonate with Anne’s profoundly emotional nature, and I admired her unshakeable sense of loyalty and caring for those whom she loved. Driven to uncover the source of the crying, I did not dwell on my own sorrow further. Instead, I opened my bedroom door and stepped into the main privy parlour beyond.

  My mother was seated next to the fireplace and was crying inconsolably. I was deeply shocked, for I had never seen my mother so taken up with such an unbridled show of raw emotion. To my surprise, my father, who had clearly returned from the countryside, was kneeling next to her, one hand placed lovingly about her shoulders, whilst the other held her own small, delicate hand in his. For a moment I forgot about the sweating sickness, about death, about my grief, and watched an intimacy pass between Anne’s parents that I had never before witnessed; if this was an advantageous, dynastic match, as was so common in the 16th century, then at some point it had blossomed into a deep and genuine respect. I saw a genuine love between Thomas and Elizabeth Boleyn that day. But the spell was broken all too soon, for as the door clicked shut behind me, my father looked up, his face flushed with concern.

  ‘Father, what has happened?’ I enquired, still aware that I had not yet quite shaken off the sense of foreboding which came from my own nightmares. Sir Thomas stood up, came towards me and asked,

  ‘Are you well, Anne?’ Before I could answer, my father, who had come to stand in front of me, put one hand across my brow and with the other, gently lifted my chin and looked with great concern into my eyes.

  ‘Yes . . . I think so.’ I frowned, shaking my head ever so slightly, still trying to clear the grogginess that clouded my mind. It took me a few moments to realise that my father had still not answered my question, so I pressed him again, ‘What has happened? . . . Mother?’ I looked over at my Lady Mother, beseeching her to tell me the truth. Sir Thomas spoke first.

  ‘Your brother has fallen ill with the sweat. A messenger came from the King’s household at Waltham Abbey this very morning.’ Like any 16th century nobleman, my father was hardened to death and dying, and no doubt had seen much of it in his lifetime. He was not a squeamish man but, with his only surviving son at death’s door, I heard the tension lace his voice and I sensed the depth of his own, black pain.

  ‘Oh George, dearest brother . . .’ I said to myself softly as I sank down to sit on a nearby stool. However, as I did so, I suddenly remembered myself, suddenly remembered all that I already knew. How could I become so lost in this drama whose ending I already had knowledge of? My first and only thought had been to comfort my mother, and so I hastened to her side, sinking to my knees, much as my father had done only a few moments before. I squeezed her hands gently in mine, beseeching her to look into my eyes and to trust my words—even though I knew that I could not explain to her the certainty of my knowing. ‘My dear, dear mother, do not fret so, for I know with all my heart that George will recover and be entirely well again. I promise you that; you will see him again soon.’

  As I uttered these very words, I could not wipe from my mind that if history were to run true to course, then very shortly Anne and her father would also fall ill. I must admit, I did not relish this prospect in the slightest and yet I took heart, for I knew that both would recover and all would be well again. Of course, I was correct; Anne would indeed be well again. Yet, I had not reckoned with the cold-blooded fate that lay in store for me.

  At my insistence to see Bess properly buried, and on account of the distress experienced both by my mother and me, my father agreed to wait for a few days before setting out for our return to Hever. We minimised contact with the outside world, whilst my father kept up a steady stream of correspondence with the King and the court, first at Waltham Abbey, then Hunsdon. Through these letters, we soon found out that George had fallen ill almost immediately upon arrival at Waltham. Predictably, the disease had swept through his body with rampant speed, yet death found no home there, and within two days he had considerably recovered, enough to write to my parents with great assurance of his health.

  It was the fourth day after Bess’s death; with all our belongings packed and our affairs in order, we were ready to depart. I was about to leave my chambers when a messenger arrived from the King’s household. With no servants to attend us, I took delivery of the King’s message in person, dismissing the young man with a crown for his trouble. I paid little attention to his pallor; the beads of sweat forming upon his brow, or the look of agitation in his eyes. I put it all down to the gruelling ride, taken at full pace no doubt, to deliver the King’s message swiftly into the hands of Mistress Boleyn. How foolish I was! How careless!

  Having dismissed the young gentleman, I turned away from the doorway, making my way to my writing desk. Sinking into the chair, I paused for a moment looking down at the letter I held in my hand; the now familiar stiff parchment was sealed with the Royal Seal, which kept secret Henry’s own privy thoughts. However, on this occasion, I was slightly apprehensive; I wondered what Henry would have to say to me. For I confess that a day earlier, having initially ignored the King’s daily ministrations requesting news of my health, I had finally written a rather stern letter to Henry expressing my displeasure and hurt at having been abandoned by him without any care for my well-being. I boldly questioned his true feelings and commitment towards me—in short Anne’s fiery indignation had got the better of me once more. In the cold light of day, somewhat sheepishly, I privately questioned whether I had overstepped the mark, stretching the King’s patience to beyond its limits. However, yet again, I had underestimated the potency of our love to smooth away disquiet and sweeten the bitter pill that I had forced His Majesty to swallow. Finally, taking a deep breath, I opened the letter with my finger and began to read,

  To my mistress.

  The uneasiness my doubts about your health gave me, disturbed and alarmed me exceedingly, and I should not have had any quiet without hearing certain tidings. But now, since you have as yet felt nothing, I hope, and am assured that it will spare you, as I hope it is doing with others. For when we were at Waltham Abbey, two ushers, two valet de chamber, and your brother, fell ill, but are now quite well; and since we have returned to your house at Hunsdon, we have been perfectly well, and have not, at present, one sick person, God be praised; and I think, if you would retire from Surrey, as we did, you would escape all danger. There is another thing that may comfort you, which is, that, in truth, in this distemper few or no women have been taken ill, and, what is more, no person of our court, and few elsewhere, have died of it.

  For which reason I beg you, my entirely beloved, not to frighten yourself, nor be too uneasy in our absence; for, wherever I am, I am yours, and yet we must sometimes submit to our misfortunes, for whoever will struggle against fate is generally but so much the farther from gaining his end: wherefore comfort yourself, and take courage, and avoid the pestilence as much as you can, for I hope shortly to make you sing, ‘le renvoye.’ No more at present, for lack of time, but that I wish you in my arms, but I might a little dispelled your unreasonable thoughts.

  Written by the hand of him who is and always will be yours,

  Im-H.R-mutable.

  I remained motionless staring at the letter; I realised that I was filled with a sense of relief that the King and I remained perfect lovers. Oh, how I adored these messages of love and longing, spawned from Henry’s own hand! It was a task which he undertook with great disdain for others, and yet in writing to me—to Anne—I only ever sensed great thoughtfulness and tendernes
s. Yet, I could never read one of Henry’s letters without a heavy sadness trailing behind in its wake; for Henry’s protestations of immutable love would ultimately prove to be only empty words. Not for the first time, I wondered exactly when would be the turning point in Henry and Anne’s relationship; when would Henry’s love sour and turn to hate, when would his desire turn to revulsion, and when would his longing turn to indifference.

  I folded the letter carefully, placing it in my purse; I also made a note to myself to put it with the others upon my arrival at Hever. In retrospect, somebody, probably my mother, must have done so on my behalf, for by the time I arrived at Hever, the sweating sickness would have taken hold of my body with vicious potency and terrible consequences.

  I remember very little of what happened to me after I left Greenwich. It started with an ominous sense of foreboding that something terrible was about to happen, the like of which I have never experienced before. I swear to God that I thought that I was going to die and yet, for a short time, all had seemed well. Then there was a little pain in my head and chest, and by the time we arrived at Hever Castle, I was drenched in the most terrible sweat. I vaguely remember my father carrying me up to my bedchamber with no regard for his own well-being. Although I was becoming delirious from the fever, my mind was coherent enough to beg him to get away from me, for I feared for his life.

  It is strange that in such extreme circumstances, I remember more than anything that I was just so glad to be home; if I were to die, I wanted to die there, that idyllic place that had so gently nurtured me as I had found my way in Anne’s world. I thought of my dear friends, of my brother and of Henry; their faces, voices and my memories swimming in and out of my consciousness. Within two short hours of the first onset of symptoms, I began to lose focus as I slipped helplessly into unconsciousness. The last thing that I remember seeing was my mother leaning over me, shaking me violently. I knew that she was trying to keep me awake, for it was well told that the chances of survival were greater if the patient did not lapse into sleep. Echoing some way off in the distance, I could hear her desperate, final pleas,