Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn
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‘Anne, Anne . . . dear child, wake up!’
That was the last thing I remember. Everything suddenly collapsed rapidly into blackness, and in that moment, I lost all that I had come to know and love so dearly.
Part Three
Chapter One
Hever Castle
June 21, 2007
‘I think she’s coming round,’ said the calm, disembodied voice, which softly pricked my awareness. Suddenly, I felt my eyelid being lifted gently and a bright light flashed painfully in my right eye. I flinched automatically, twisting my head away from the light which blinded me and caused a searing pain to tear through my skull. I remember that I felt as though I was suffocating, although I couldn’t understand why at first. Then as I began to regain my footing in the world, I was aware of something covering my nose and mouth and half conscious, I tried to reach up and tear it away from my face. However, my hand was caught, and the disembodied voice spoke evenly to me once more,
‘It’s all right, Anne. It is just an oxygen mask . . . You collapsed and passed out but you’re in safe hands now, everything will be all right. We will have you to hospital in no time.’ ‘Hospital!’ I couldn’t understand what they were telling me. I fought valiantly to bring my mind into focus, as I couldn’t make any sense of what was happening. But each time I surfaced above the swell of unconsciousness, I seemed to be dragged back down into its depths once more. Fragments of memories were interwoven with a mutable reality which seemed to slip and slide in and out of my grasp, changing form and leaving me lost in a labyrinth of confusion.
Suddenly, my mind alighted on what I was struggling to remember, the reason for my passing out in the first place—the sweating sickness; I recalled how I had fallen ill on my journey back to Hever from Greenwich Palace; I remembered my father carrying me to my bedchamber and my mother, yes . . . my mother; I heard myself cry out for her.
‘Mother . . . !’ I tried to speak but I could hardly form the words, and they came forth in nothing more than a parched whisper.
‘It’s okay, Anne. We are here to look after you and you will be fine now.’ I forced my eyelids to flicker open, and saw that leaning over me was a young, dark haired woman whom I did not recognise. I must have looked incredibly confused, because she was dressed in clothes that for a few seconds, I couldn’t place; they seemed so alien to me. The woman smiled down at me reassuringly and spoke again,
‘Anne, you’re at Hever Castle. Do you remember being here? I struggled to focus through the grogginess and pain which dominated my senses. I managed to nod, before she continued, ‘You were taken ill and somebody called an ambulance. I think you may have had a fit and we need to get you to hospital to find out what has caused it. Do you understand me?’ I nodded again, almost imperceptibly. But already beyond the veil of my incapacity, a knot of panic was forming in my stomach. A slow and painful realisation was taking shape in my mind; a realisation that somehow I had been ripped away from the 16th century and that, without my desire or consent, I had been sucked back into my modern day life.
Slowly, I was lifted onto a stretcher and carried with some considerable difficulty down through familiar rooms, corridors and staircases of the castle. I strained my neck to catch a glimpse of the home that had become my sanctuary, the idyll that I had grown to love so dearly during my time spent in Anne’s world. It was difficult to do, not least because of the blinding pain which had suddenly returned with such ferocity. As I was gently manoeuvred down the main staircase, I managed to regain my senses sufficiently to catch sight of the portraits of Anne and Mary Boleyn in the main Entrance Hall. Anne stared out at me enigmatically. Her face was so familiar to me that the image was no longer a flat, two-dimensional portrait but a vibrant, living entity, who shared all my untold secrets. This hallway had been the place in which my adventure had begun, and I simply couldn’t believe that I had lost her.
A torrent of tumultuous thoughts swirled through my mind, fighting their way through the pain which insistently throbbed in my head; thoughts of the people that I had grown to love and feared that I may never see again. Tears began to flow down my face, though I didn’t have the strength to cry out in grief. They saw my tears and thought I was afraid for myself. They couldn’t know, of course, the true reason for my distress, and although they tried to soothe my anxieties, as I was carried away in the ambulance, I was inconsolable; I could not bear the thought of leaving behind my beloved Hever and my ghostly family, who had, over twelve glorious months, become my world.
I felt I was dying. As we sped along narrow country lanes towards the nearest city hospital, excruciating pain and overwhelming surges of nausea washed over me. I had never experienced a headache like it before, and I vomited several times; the retching only intensified the pain until I cried out in blinding agony. The lady talked about giving me something to relieve the pain and alleviate my sickness. Thankfully, she didn’t wait for me to respond, because I just wasn’t able to do so. I was vaguely aware of something being injected through the needle in a vein at my elbow. Within minutes, I felt a blissful release as the intense, white hot pain which tore through my head, and the associated sickness, began to abate. For a time, I must have slipped once again into unconsciousness. Faces with whom I had become so familiar: Henry; Elizabeth and Thomas Boleyn; my sister, Mary; my brother, George; Nan; Margery; my uncle Norfolk and even Cardinal Wolsey, slipped in and out of focus. Each spoke to me earnestly and with great urgency across time. I felt they were trying to hold onto me, but I couldn’t form the words to respond to their pleas. I reached out towards them, imploring them to help me; but every time I did, they faded into shadows and I was alone once more.
Our arrival at the hospital was a blur of white light; a parade of well-meaning, concerned faces, whose voices continued to drone in and out of my awareness. I was cognizant of being rushed into what looked like a scanner of some sort, then not long after, meeting a fair-haired man who introduced himself as Mr. Harris. He told me that he was the consultant neurosurgeon on call, and that he would be taking over my care. I remember his kind face leaning over me, gently squeezing my hand, explaining carefully that I had a cerebral aneurysm which had ruptured and was bleeding into my brain, and that they needed to operate on me as a matter of urgency in order to seal off the leaking blood vessel.
I was being prepped for theatre when the nurses asked me for my next of kin. I tried to speak, to tell them that I was an orphan in this world with no siblings; to tell them about Daniel, but I was too weak and confused. I heard myself say his name aloud, but as hard as I tried to remember his other details, they frustratingly lay just beyond my grasp. The last thing I recall was scrawling my signature on a consent form for the operation. Then I was subsumed into the inky blackness once more.
It was all a blur, a frenetic whirl of activity that swept me along in its wake. After it was all over, Mr. Harris told me that I was lucky to have survived, although he had found the ruptured aneurysm easily enough, and repaired it without complications. For a few days, apparently, I had precariously teetered on the delicate edge between life and death; the unknown frontier of what lies beyond this material world was almost tangible to me in my semi-conscious state. Fate, however, played her hand. Just as I was aware that in my 16th century life, Anne had been spared from sweating sickness, so too, miraculously, I had been spared from my own brush with death.
Within a few days of my surgery, I had improved so much and that I was able to give the hospital staff the names and contact details of friends - and of Daniel. I was overwhelmed by the huge outpouring of love, thoughtfulness and generosity from those very same friends who visited me in a steady stream, surrounding me with flowers, cards, their love and prayers for my recovery. Oh, and so often I was told just how fortunate I was to be alive! Yet, they were all blissfully unaware of the two secrets that I harboured close to my breast.
The first was my unbelievable sojourn into Anne’s world. I still couldn’t decide if I would tell anyone ab
out it; I could not bear the thought that on hearing such a fantastical story, my friends would dismiss it as the ramblings of a sick brain, and indeed, who would blame them for coming to such a conclusion? Even I had moments when I questioned whether it had all been real. Yet, all that I had known seemed more real to me than the world in which I then found myself. And whilst on some days, I thought I must surely be going mad, I knew in my heart that what I had experienced was not a figment of my imagination.
My second secret was that my surgeon had sat down on the side of my bed three days after the operation. By then, I was well enough to listen and respond to his words. He gently told me that the aneurysm which had caused the bleeding into my brain had been repaired and was unlikely to cause any further problems. However, the brain scan had revealed that there was another one of similar size, unfortunately this time buried much deeper in the brain tissue. There was no way that it could safely be reached surgically. I remember the sadness in his eyes, as he gently broke the news that there was a significant chance that this, in turn, may also ultimately rupture, and because of its location, there might be no way of stemming the bleeding. There was a significant risk that I may die as a result. I suppose I should have been shocked, grief stricken, even. But I was not. I was left with only a sense of guilt for the ease with which I had abandoned any concern or ties to my modern day life; for it is true to say that at that time, I felt that my life was already bereft without Anne and Henry.
I had lain for hours at a time in my clean, starched hospital bed simply staring at the ceiling, lost in a world which was way beyond the imagining of those who surrounded me. When I was somewhat better and cajoled to walk about, I would sit staring out of the window of my private room. So many times in those few weeks, I closed my eyes and desperately tried to transport myself from my modern day life. I willed myself to catch hold of the wings of time, so that I could be swept back to my love; back to the life which had become my own. Of course, it was a fruitless quarry, and I could do little to hide the cavernous blackness that engulfed and weighed down heavily on me. Indeed, sometimes it was so oppressive that often I found it difficult to breathe, struggling to hold the space long enough for my grief to unravel itself.
As much as I tried, my melancholia could not be entirely concealed. Consequently, I was referred to a psychiatrist, who rather predictably diagnosed that I was depressed, erroneously attributing it to my sudden illness and the doctor’s dire warnings for my future health. But in truth, I cared very little for my own health. In those early days, I was single-minded in my thinking, and nothing, simply nothing, mattered to me except getting back to Henry, my Tudor family and friends.
I admit that I was strangely obsessed by this more extraordinary life. I remember wishing that the hospital staff would leave me alone with my memories. So, it was at that moment that I decided to put up a facade of normality—the perfect patient, optimistic and responsible. This deception suited my purpose, for as my strength grew, I increasingly yearned to return to Hever. I thought that if there was anywhere that I might cross back into my old life, then surely it would be there.
Chapter Two
Greenwich, London
July 10, 2007
Two weeks later, I was well enough to be discharged from hospital. In my final debrief from my consultant, I was given strict instructions to rest and take it easy for the next few weeks; something, I confess, I had little intention of doing. Mr. Harris made it clear to me that as a result of the bleeding and the surgery to stem it, I might experience complications such as seizures, or future intracranial bleeding. I knew what to look out for and when to ask for help. So, armed with my outpatient appointment for four weeks hence, I was busy packing my few, personal belongings when my dear friend, Kate appeared in the doorway of my hospital room.
‘Anyone need a taxi!’ she exclaimed. I smiled warmly when I saw my friend standing in the doorway; her thick, dark brown hair swept back off her face by her Dior sunglasses. She looked effortlessly chic and casual in a crisp, white blouse and slim fitting jeans. I mused that Kate always looked immaculate, no matter what the occasion, and I often looked on with friendly envy at her perfectly groomed nails, flawless skin and radiant complexion. With just three months age difference between us, Kate had been a friend ever since we both found ourselves working in the same high pressured, ruthless environment some ten years earlier. She was a pragmatic, kind-hearted woman with a razor sharp, incisive wit and from the very earliest days, we recognised each other as kindred spirits.
I suspect that our friendship was forged by the need for us both to take refuge in what we then perceived to be the only other sane person in the office. I suspect that the camaraderie that subsequently flourished started as a safety valve, allowing us to release pressure when faced with the mindless autocracy and egotistical behaviour of those who led the company for which we worked, and who frankly should have known better. Ten years on, our friendship was substantial, its deep roots providing a solid foundation that no doubt would last a lifetime; it was a lifetime that in the end, I see with irony, was to be much shorter than I ever anticipated.
With a beaming smile, Kate threw open her arms and came towards me, scooping me up in an embrace that spoke of her pure joy and relief to see her friend finally well enough to be going home. I hugged her generously in return, for although my heart ached with grief, I was beginning to learn to conceal it well and indeed, there was a sense of gladness about the idea of finally escaping the clinical austerity of my small hospital room.
‘Boy, am I happy to see you! I can’t tell you what a relief it is to be finally getting out of here; I have been so bored!’ I cried out, throwing my hands up in mock despair. However, this was only a half truth. The mindless monotony of hospital life had suited me to a degree, allowing me to sink into an effortless rhythm that required little active engagement on my part. I confess that I indulged myself entirely in my lost life. Perhaps I was somewhat reckless in doing so; perhaps I should have turned my back on my secret adventure and thrown myself head first into whatever life I had left in the present. But I did not; my Tudor life had become my preoccupation.
Kate waited until I finished my packing, and I had put away the last lonely remnants of my institutionalised life. Perched casually on the edge of my bed, I was aware that she had cocked her head to the side; a small furrow appearing in her brow. Eventually, Kate tentatively broached a subject that she knew was not an easy one for me.
‘Have you heard from Daniel?’ I paused for a moment. Without looking up, I continued with my task and replied nonchalantly,
‘He’s been in on a few occasions, when he could.’ I noticed immediately the ever-present need to justify his actions, or more often, the lack of them. Probably for the thousandth time in our relationship, I pushed away the reality of our situation; like Henry, Daniel was married to another woman. Togeth er they had a child, a little girl called Jemima, who was the ever present wedge dividing us. I put the last of the things in my case and reached round to zip up the weekend bag that went everywhere with me when I travelled. I paused again momentarily, before turning to look at my friend. ‘He’s coming over this afternoon. I think Rose is away with work, and Jemima is at school.’
‘And what did he say about . . . that?’ Kate gestured toward me, nodding meaningfully towards my scalp which, of course, was now shaven across one side of my skull and which sported a frightful scar beneath the crisp white bandages. Of course, I knew she was not referring to any reaction that Daniel might have toward my physical appearance, that would heal in time; rather that she wondered whether the prospect of losing me might have brought his painful dilemma into sharp focus and catalysed a shift in the stalemate that had been going on for five, long years. Oh yes, if anyone knew how Anne felt about the waiting game, it was me.
I shrugged my shoulders, shaking my head almost imperceptibly, as I tried to make sense—first and foremost to myself—of the terrible mess that we seemed to have entangled ours
elves within. Oftentimes, I longed to talk to my friends of my relationship with the man that had captured my heart so completely, of the tearing, searing and desolate pain of being unable to be with the person that you love. Yet many of my friends did not even know about our illicit relationship because I feared their harsh judgement. It is not that I lied to them, rather just artfully dodged any conversation which touched on matters of love. It was true though, no matter which way you looked at it, there was no escaping the fact that I had become a master of deception and was not proud of it. However, I was grateful for the easy acceptance of my friends who did know of the situation in which I had become embroiled. Yet, I soon understood that with the exception of Kate, who had personal experience with a similar situation before we were friends, it was impossible for people to comprehend the exquisite torture of prolonged separation; particularly when the person who chose to prolong that separation was your lover. I finally answered my friend, who was waiting patiently for my reply.
‘Oh, you know Daniel, always a pragmatist . . . just like you!’ I smiled at Kate, picking up a light sweater that lay folded at the end of my bed. Slipping it over my head, I adjusted the sleeves, taking a moment to pause before going on, ‘In truth, I think it shook him badly . . . and I don’t actually remember much of his first visit.’ I circled my hand in the air as if trying to pluck my fragile memories from beyond my conscious awareness. ‘I vaguely remember him here and I think there were tears in his eyes. He was telling me he loved me, over and over; that I was the best thing that has happened to him since the birth of his daughter.’ I looked down at my bag still resting on top of my bed. I found myself mindlessly playing with the leather handle, running my finger up and down its smooth form, lost in the rather foggy recollection of seeing Daniel again for the first time.