Daniel remained entirely silent, giving me the space to finish what I had started. So, I began pacing up and down beneath that ancient yew tree, my hands on my hips, as I had done so many times as Mistress Anne. ‘But look! Here we are Daniel; you tell me you love me, and yet nothing changes. I will never ask you to leave your wife, but I simply don’t see us making any progress whatsoever! We are together—and yet we are not—and it’s killing both of us. You say you’ve made your choice; that you can’t leave yet, not until Jemima is more independent. But you are kidding yourself, Daniel. You haven’t made your choice; you are in no man’s land and it’s tearing you apart, let alone what it is doing to me. I can’t keep doing this Daniel! I can’t keep going round in circles . . .’ Suddenly, the fury had gone out of me and I sank down in resignation upon the tree trunk that had long ago fallen to the forest floor. I couldn’t look at him, for I felt too wretched; in that moment, I wished only to be alone.
‘Sweetheart.’ I snapped my head around to look at Daniel who had sat himself down beside me, his arm reaching round my shoulders, as he brought his in face close into mine. For a moment, I could not believe my ears; he had never used such a word with me. I had no idea where it came from; but for a second, he sounded so like Henry. My lover lifted his hand gently and raised my chin so that my lips met his in a fragile kiss. I closed my eyes and when we finally parted, I found Daniel gazing at me intently for what seemed like the longest time. I could not have guessed what Daniel would say about either my incredible tale of adventure, or my tirade about our never-ending story; but what he said next, was entirely unexpected, shocking and yet deeply moving, ‘You know that whenever I look at you, all I see is Anne Boleyn, don’t you. You have her spirit, of that I am sure.’
Somehow it was the most accepting thing that Daniel could have said to me in that moment. At the very core of my being, I felt entirely validated, even though in truth I did not know where it came from, and he would never say it again. There was always a deep, immortal, soulful connection between us that seemed to endure no matter what fate threw our way. I recognised fully in that moment, that like this ancient tree, Daniel and I were old souls whose paths had always crossed and perhaps always would. Suddenly, my egotistical tirade seemed small and insubstantial in the face of the vast expanse of eternity. And so, in the end, we sat there and drank champagne; we toasted our past, our present and future. The Ankerwcyke Yew, which had stood as a silent witness to Henry and Anne’s historic love, bore witness to ours, and I wondered if this would be the final time, or were we bound to return there again, in another lifetime, as yet beyond our knowing.
Chapter Four
Hever Castle
August 10, 2007
I was returning home to Hever and was virtually beside myself with excitement. Just over two weeks had gone by since Daniel and I spent a lazy afternoon picnicking on the riverbank in the meadows near Runnymede. We had sat in the shade of an old English oak, and after my initial, emotional outburst, I recounted to Daniel all my recollections of my time spent as Anne. It was such a relief to finally be able to tell somebody else about the secrets that I had harboured close to my breast since I regained consciousness at Hever.
To my surprise, Daniel seemed genuinely interested in my experiences, and I was so thankful that he did not condemn me, or try to persuade me to seek psychiatric help. To this day I don’t know what he truly thought about my tales of another world; I always loved Daniel for his open-mindedness and his disinterest in judging others, and that day, I was just grateful for his ability to be receptive to the great mysteries of life, mysteries that sometimes defy our understanding. After that afternoon, he never questioned me about it again, and I had no further inclination to speak more of it. However, it did serve to propel us to an even more astonishing level of intimacy.
Following our trip to Runnymede, I continued to gain in strength, walking out more and more to drink from nature’s never ending power to replenish the soul. I had seen my neurosurgeon a few days before I was due to travel down to Kent with Daniel. He was utterly delighted with my progress, and encouraged me to continue to get back to normality. I nearly laughed out loud at that suggestion, for I no longer knew what that meant! However, Mr. Harris’s words of reassurance were enough to secure me my day out to Hever Castle.
When we set out on that pleasant morning in August, my relationship with Daniel had never been more beautiful, more intimate, or more promising. I was sure that the tide had begun to turn, even if just by degree, and oh, how much I wanted that tide to turn, to finally taste the possibility that Daniel and I would at last be able to contemplate beginning our life together.
When he dropped me off at the entrance to the castle, I kissed my lover and friend lightly on the lips, saying goodbye and sealing an agreement that he would pick me up in the same spot, three hours hence. If I’d had my way, I would surely have stayed all day, luxuriating in the feeling of being once more within the arms of my ghostly family. However, it was just six weeks since the rupture of my aneurysm, and although I was feeling so much stronger, I still tired easily. Thus, I agreed somewhat reluctantly to Daniel’s terms, thankful at least to have the opportunity to be close once more to the place which was as much my home as anywhere in this world.
I paid for my ticket and walked down the sweeping drive, the Boleyn family home revealing itself to me gradually from between the leafy foliage that adorned the surrounding parkland and which ran along each side of the driveway. I descended the winding path that had once actually headed northwards and parallel to the castle, sweeping through the heart of the medieval village of Hever. The settlement had long since been displaced by Lord Astor in his quest for total privacy, leaving instead the paved driveway to lead me eastward, into the heart of the Eden Valley and towards the gatehouse and the main entrance to the building.
It was the perfect late summer’s day; the morning already melting beneath a pristine, flawless sky. The gentlest of breezes touched my skin, keeping the heavy heat of the approaching midday sun at bay; whilst circling languidly above my head, climbing skyward upon hot thermals, the screech of a hawk reminded me of the day when Henry and I had picnicked at Windsor Lodge; the day that the King had so fervently declared his love for Anne Boleyn. As I looked around, I noted that the profusion of colour associated with midsummer had long since returned to the earth, but the vibrancy of green, manicured lawns set against the azure sky and the mellow sandstone of the castle’s ivy clad walls, remained truly enchanting. I paused for a moment, as I beheld the most welcome of sights; my home, waiting for me patiently as she had done for nearly 500 years.
It was the place that nurtured me as I took my first tentative steps in a world that had only previously lived in my fertile imagination. I had known some of the happiest times of my life there, and closing my eyes, I imagined the castle just as I had last seen it. Of course, I had been half delirious with the sweat when I returned home with my parents from Greenwich, but I could never forget the sight of my beloved Hever. There it was, in the theatre of my imagination; the small settlement of several, rather modest wattle and daub houses that formed the village of Hever to my left; then straight in front of me, directly in front of the castle itself, a large area of swampland, which originally protected the south facing gatehouse from attack. When I opened my eyes, the rugged beauty had gone; in its place, a far prettier, more manicured version; the marsh long ago drained, replaced by lawns, topiaried hedging, and a second, perfectly formed moat, which was crossed by a bridge leading towards higher ground to the south.
I was not alone when I visited the castle that day. It may have been midweek, but it was also mid-August and at the height of the summer vacation period. Schools were on holiday and great swathes of families and foreign visitor’s flocked to enjoy this most wonderful piece of English history. I crossed the castle drawbridge, weaving my way between boisterous children and frazzled parents. Like Anne, I was an intuitive soul, who drew much from the energy that vi
brated from people and the walls of any building. However, I felt myself begin to panic. The great cacophony of noise, of people jostling to see all the great treasures of the castle, at first made it difficult for me to tune in to the more subtle energies that whispered my name.
So yes, I was assaulted by the images of Henry arriving at Hever on that very first day; instead of the busy crowd, I saw only the vivid colours of heraldry, heard the sound of horses’ hooves upon the cobblestones, the clinking of stirrups, the chatter and laughter of men who accompanied the King on his journey. But, it was only my memory that painted these pictures; pictures that were as wispy and ghostlike as the people who had long since passed over to a different world. I felt the impregnable barrier that I usually sensed separating my two lives; and I was immediately sure that whatever had paved the way for me to travel across time before would not be found at Hever that day. I suspect, that deep down, I was disappointed, but I was also stoically determined to enjoy whatever the castle could offer me by way of quiet comfort.
With Hever so busy, I had to queue patiently around the edge of the courtyard before I could enter through what was still the main entrance of the family home. As I finally stepped into the cool interior, I was flooded with the most glorious feeling of finally being home, and I could have cried with joy. Although I was surrounded by people shuffling their way through the Entrance Hall towards the rooms in the west of the castle, when I closed my eyes, I almost expected to be met by pretty Bess, bobbing a curtsey, ready to take my riding gloves from me and tell me the whereabouts of my mother, busy in her duties as chatelaine. Somehow, I did manage to get beyond the crowded hubbub of the present and feel the old energy of the Boleyns—my very own family—touching my heart and whispering their words of welcome in my ear.
As on my fateful visit to Hever just six weeks earlier, I had followed the crowd into the modern day Inner Hall. Of course, I saw what so many others did not; how the castle had been remodelled by the Astors and just how different it was to the home that I so recently called my own. I was not ungrateful, for the family had rescued Hever from decay. However, I was not misled by the very elaborate hallway, which I once thought original to the house. In Anne’s time, it served as the castle’s kitchen; it amused me that it had become so elegantly adorned, displaying some of the castle’s most valuable paintings. This time, I found myself first in front of the portrait of my sister, Mary. I think that I stood there for the longest time. Through her frozen and enigmatic smile, a montage of happy memories ignited in my mind, and filled me with a yearning to see her again. Without thinking, I did what I had done a hundred times or more in Anne’s shoes; I simply reached out the index finger of my hand to touch her face, as if I might feel the very warmth of her skin. Suddenly a voice piped up,
‘Excuse me Madame; please do not touch the paintings!’ I spun about to see a guide shaking her finger and frowning with disapproval in my direction. I quickly came back to my senses and shrugged my shoulders, apologising silently as I mouthed,
‘Sorry!’ through the crowd, several of whom turned to look in my direction, some no doubt ‘tut-tutting’ at my transgression. I found it ironic that they were unknowingly guarding the castle from the one woman who had undoubtedly put Hever on the map. I wondered what they would say to me if they only knew the truth, knew just what secrets I held close to my breast. I walked over to the far side of the fireplace to where Anne’s picture was hung, positioned so that it allowed her to gaze toward her sister for eternity. Suddenly though, my line of sight was caught by the life-size picture of Henry, hung upon the far wall.
The portrait was of someone visibly older and more obese than the Henry I had known. Of course, I had seen this famous image painted in 1542 many times; Henry stood squarely on, supported by his bejewelled staff and almost defying the onlooker to meet his eyes. Yet, somehow on that day, for the first time, I could see into the painting and to the man I had come to know so well. I felt the pain in Henry’s bloated, diseased body, and knew how deeply it had sickened his mind. But what most struck me is how little light there was in his eyes. There was so much anger there it almost made me want to turn away. I knew in that moment that Henry had seen too much of the darkness in men’s hearts—including his own—and it had poisoned him to the core, eroding his vitality by degree; so, that by the time this picture had been painted, he was surely and gradually letting go of life.
It had saddened me, and after a time, I had torn myself away to continue my gentle exploration of the other rooms of the house, lingering in those chambers which we had used most as a family. I rested silently, tucked away by a side wall in the Great Hall for maybe ten minutes or more, trying to recapture the night that I danced in Henry’s arms for the first time, replaying every detail over and over in my mind. Yet, no ghostly voices called to me as I mounted the stone vice-staircase that led up to the first floor, nor did I smell the tantalising scent of rosewater perfume that had been Anne’s own.
However, when I emerged into the room that had once formed the lion’s share of the solar—the main, first-floor family room—I stopped. In the 21st century it was aptly named ‘The Book of Hours’ room. But I was not initially drawn by the object which had given the room its name. Instead, I was frozen to the spot, as I saw my mother, Elizabeth Boleyn, sitting in front of the lighted fire, working her embroidery diligently, as I had seen her do so many times before.
‘Please look up . . .’ I whispered, for I longed to see her face again. Of course, it was all in my imagination, and so Elizabeth did as I commanded and lifted her face. Smiling she said,
‘Come child, sit with me and talk awhile.’ It was as we had done on many evenings during my self-imposed exile to Hever; times that I now treasure as the picture of happy innocence, before I—Anne—was dragged into all that was black in the world, before the earth had opened up beneath my feet and swallowed me whole. I must have smiled back at her apparition, a gesture misunderstood by a guide standing beyond, close to the window, for she greeted me warmly,
‘Good morning.’
‘Oh, good morning!’ I said, as I smiled in return, before moving awkwardly on, drawn this time by a book displayed in a glass case over to my left. Thankfully, a large group of tourists had just left the room. It was perfect for my reunion with an object which nearly 500 years earlier had been so dearly treasured. I wasn’t surprised that it was there—I knew of its existence and that it was a prized possession of the castle, and unlike the painting downstairs, this time I was allowed to touch the glass casing that protected Anne’s fragile Book of Hours.
It was open at the page where I once scrawled the most poignant of words; Le Temps Viendra, Je Anne Boleyn. I did not know that day in the castle’s 16th century library why I was suddenly moved to write those words, but it was Anne who had guided my hand to write the message that would speak to me alone. The time had indeed come for me to see this book again, and I suddenly realised that I had written those words as proof to myself that I had been Anne Boleyn in another lifetime. I ran my hand across the smooth, cold glass, imagining that I was again able to turn its illuminated vellum pages. It is funny how sometimes an object speaks to you of its owner; and as I stood there before that little book; one which I had read diligently, nearly every day as Anne, I felt her energy singing sweetly from its pages, filling me with the most exquisite memories of sunny hours cosseted in my father’s library, hidden away from the intrigues of court. I longed to hold it again, but of course, it would have been a fool’s errand to even try and explain why I should be allowed. How frustrating it had been back then to know what I knew, and yet never be able to disclose my secrets to the world. They will indeed be secrets that I, as Anne, will take to the shallow grave that shortly awaits me on the far side of the Tower precinct.
However, on that day, I was all too aware of more people beginning to fill the room behind me, and so, I reluctantly moved on. For the time being, I finally felt ready to say goodbye to the chamber in which my mother
and I had spent so much of our time together at Hever. Yet, one more surprise lay in store for me. As I was making my way toward the exit, I noticed an enormous tapestry covering the entire left hand wall; in the centre was a woman who was vaguely familiar to me. In Anne’s world, I had seen many portraits of her although, due to her pride and disdain for Anne, we had sadly never met in person—it was Mary Tudor, Henry’s younger, and much beloved, sister. It was immediately apparent that the tapestry depicted the marriage of the Princess to Louis XII of France in 1514. It was a powerful dynastic image, and the two central figures of Louis and Mary, who were exchanging rings, commanded the scene and drew one’s eye away from those courtiers surrounding the royal couple. However, I looked right past them to the figure of a woman, set back in the upper right hand corner; it was a figure which left me transfixed. With growing excitement, I stepped back to get a better perspective on the picture portrayed.
Yes, it was! I was sure of it. There, fifth along from the right hand side, was the figure of Anne. She was unmistakable to me; I looked at her face in the mirror so many times before! I almost laughed out loud, for whilst no known contemporary portrait of Anne existed in the 21st century, there she was, a dark-haired, young woman in her first flush of youth. She was clearly leaning forward and gesturing with her left hand, all the time effortlessly holding the attention of two richly attired men, who were no doubt part of the English delegation in France. The image was full of vibrancy and movement—just like the woman I had come to know. Trying to get the best view of the tapestry, I found myself once again close to the guide who had greeted me with a warm smile when I first entered the chamber. Lost in my own thoughts, I was slightly taken aback when she spoke to me once again, this time, clearly reading my mind.
Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn Page 33