Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (39 page)

‘No!’ I cried out, wrenching myself away from my mother, for I needed to see Henry; he was my love and my life in the world, and I was suddenly and acutely overwhelmed by a powerful and primitive urge to run to his side. Nothing could touch such a mighty Prince, and my fear sought to drive me blindly into his arms, arms in which I might shelter from this raging and merciless storm. As I turned to go, my mother spoke in a firm and even tone, stopping me dead in my tracks.

‘Anne, the King has gone. He asked George to follow him as soon as he returned to the palace.’ I could not believe what I was hearing; Henry would never leave without me—he would never abandon me. As such thoughts plagued my mind, I remembered the painful truth. The letters of eyewitness accounts to this terrible tragedy would tell us that Henry had in fact abandoned Anne to fend for herself as best as she could. A sinister heaviness took shape within my breast. Whilst the King avowed his love for Anne Boleyn, showered her with fabulous jewels and other riches, written songs in her honour and poetry that glorified her divine womanhood, the simple and awful truth was that at the first sign of trouble, Henry had fled without her, with scant regard for her safety.

I cannot deny it; I was crushed by this first betrayal. I sank quickly into a mire of despair and disgust, and could not focus on my mother. Despite my obvious state of self-pity, she continued to talk decisively.

‘You must leave immediately George. The King has gone to Waltham Abbey. He requires your presence there.’ She opened her arms out to embrace her son, holding his handsome face between her palms, as she stared lovingly into his eyes and struggled to fight back the tears. I knew always that she adored George, and with a heavy heart, she looked upon his face as if for the last time. My brother smiled good-heartedly. Ever the gallant knight, I knew that despite George’s flippancy, he would always be a man of deep substance, and his noble training nurtured a proud courage within his breast. His main concern was to protect mother and me from further distress; as he said his goodbyes in turn, he urged,

‘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 wormed 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 16
^th
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 16
^th
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.