Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (47 page)

I didn’t know what would be on show at the exhibition, but I knew that there would be objects which I had already seen, and probably touched with my very own hands; perhaps there would even be objects that I once called my own. I found myself longing to see them again, a longing touched only by sweet anticipation. I was determined to make it a day of celebration for the woman who I loved, and still held so close to my heart, and of the man she had so utterly beguiled.

Therefore, on that morning, I planned to walk from my flat, up through Greenwich Park to enjoy the view from the Observatory over the place where Henry’s great palace had once stood, perched as a jewel on the banks of the Thames, before treating myself to a river trip from Greenwich Pier toward Westminster, there to alight and take the Tube northwards towards my final destination. It was not the easiest or the quickest way to get to the British Library, but I wanted once more to enjoy the journey that I had taken on so many occasions at Henry’s side, in a flotilla of barges heading upstream as the royal court had moved from Greenwich toward Richmond and Windsor.

By nine o’clock, I was ready to leave the house. Pausing in the hallway, I picked up a warm jacket to wear over my bootleg jeans, and slipped my hands into a light pair of grey leather gloves and a soft, grey, woollen scarf; I knew that there would be a cool breeze upon the river that morning, and that I would no doubt be grateful for the extra warmth. For a brief moment, I caught sight of my face in the mirror. By then, my hair had fully grown back, hiding the scar on my scalp; that morning I swept it up into a loose chignon at the nape of my neck in order to tame it from the blustery wind. I could not help but notice that whilst I looked well, the last few years had seen my eyes take on the appearance of one who had seen more of life than perhaps she might have liked. I often saw it in my reflection around that time, a certain wisdom mixed with tiredness and a subtle undertone of haunted sadness. Nevertheless, I smiled at myself with compassion, brushing away any sense of melancholia, and instead picking up my bag and mobile phone, which lay nearby on the hall side-table. I briefly checked for messages; there were none. I was glad as it set my mind at rest and allowed me to relax and delight in the remainder of my day.

In Anne’s time, Greenwich was a delightful little village, lying outside the palace precinct. My dear friend, Sir Henry Norris and later, the likes of Thomas Tallis, would have lodgings there. It was a thriving little community, which served the palace faithfully. Back then, the village was surrounded by idyllic countryside, set back a good distance from the main city of London, on the south bank of the Thames. Over the centuries, Greenwich had been gradually engulfed by the urban sprawl of London’s suburbs. However, it managed to retain a sense of character and unique identity. Of course, it was far busier than the Greenwich I once knew, but its 21st century persona had come to possess a vibrant array of boutique style shops, cafes and restaurants that attracted both well-to-do and bohemian residents, as well as great swathes of tourists who came to see the Old Naval College, the Cutty Sark, as well as those who wanted to simply enjoy the delights of Greenwich Park.

Sadly, the sprawling forest surrounding Greenwich Park had long since fallen victim to town planners. It often made me regretful to think that such great beauty had been so irrevocably lost, but I was eternally grateful that at least part of the park in which Henry and I had spent so many happy hours hunting and hawking, had survived the passage of time. On a weekend in summer, it was a place that was packed with tourists and local residents; some out walking, others playing football, whilst dogs chased round, one after the other, barking their happy delight. Many other folk just lay in the sun, sunbathing alone or chatting with friends, content to while away the hours in one of the great open, green spaces of London. However, the day I visited, it was very different. It was midweek on a cool, windy, April morning; so, by and large, those people passing through the park were busy going to work, or taking their morning exercise. Just occasionally an enthusiastic tourist, determined to beat the crowds, could be found making their way uphill toward Greenwich Observatory, the home of Greenwich Meantime.

This too was my destination, and I was glad that I had worn my warmest jacket, for the wind whipped around me in all directions with a fierce chill, despite the dry, brightness of the day. I watched other people as they passed by me, heading downhill toward the village of Greenwich, whence I had just come; the wind tugged playfully at people’s coats and scarves; one man even losing his hat, which was tossed carelessly aside upon the invisible breeze, the wind seeming to delight in its game as he chased the errant cap across the grass, before finally pinning it down, brushing it off and fixing it firmly back upon his head.

The path that morning took me diagonally across the parkland, before climbing steeply up several flights of steps to reach the summit of the hill that overlooked the old Royal Naval College. Once upon a time, I rode my horse out to this place, my brother at my side. Back then, Duke Humphrey’s Tower had been our backdrop, but this had long ago been replaced by the Observatory.

I sought out the exact spot where we had rested side by side, and spoke about George’s marital trials with his wife, Jane. I found myself giggling involuntarily, closing my eyes and remembering well our laughter, and how I nearly fell off my horse in the process of our playful exchange. As my laughter died away, I opened my eyes to see the great palace of Greenwich below me. There she was in my mind’s eye, an impressive sprawl of elegant Tudor architecture; the pitched roofs of the Queen’s apartments, the Disguising and Banqueting Houses, in which I had danced so often, the many tall chimneys spiralling heavenwards in delicate barley twists, the two, twin, fairytale towers that overlooked the tiltyard on the eastern side of the palace precinct, and finally, Henry’s great donjon encompassing his most secret of chambers. How beautiful the gardens had looked, perfectly symmetrical and overflowing with sweet flower blossom! For a moment, it was as if I had pulled back the veil on a lost world, and watched my friends and I riding out from the southern gateway of the Palace, or shooting at the butts in the garden—just as I did on that fateful day when Nan had come crying to me that Wolsey had seized my copy of
The Obedience of a Christian Man
from her beloved, George Zouche.

I stood still, enjoying what no one else could see for perhaps just a few, brief minutes. Then suddenly, I was struck by a familiar scent of rosewater perfume. There was no mistaking it, for it was Anne’s favourite scent and I was intimately familiar with it; I applied it to my skin daily when I had walked in her 16th century shoes. I turned to see if a passerby might possibly be responsible for the aroma that filled my senses; but there was no one nearby. Still the scent persisted, strong and clear. It was if she was standing right next to me. I was seized by a heady mixture of apprehension and excitement and the strangest feeling that I was somehow outside of my own body, experiencing an event that felt profoundly familiar. The experience was disorienting and winded me sorely. Dropping my bag to the ground, I took refuge by sitting down on the grass in an effort to compose myself. Rather disconcertingly, the scent of rosewater and the feeling of
déjà-vu
persisted for perhaps ten or fifteen minutes, before gradually losing its power over me and dissipating into the morning breeze.

All the time, around me the world continued to turn; people went about their business, oblivious to the fact that I was teetering on the edge of something extraordinary. It was the first time in many months that I had experienced something akin to the strange, paranormal occurrences that had heralded my first time-slip into another world. Eventually, I was left with no sense of time but the present, and the scent of perfume was gone. I was back in my body and I felt well and strong. Although slightly bewildered, I decided to be on my way. I picked up my bag and set off back down the hill towards Greenwich Pier, all the time trying to shake off the possible implications of what had just shaken me to the core.

No matter what I thought of my time spent in another lost world, I had come to appreciate the pier at Greenwich even more in my 21st century life. Boats have come and gone from that place for centuries; whilst the old Palace of Greenwich had fallen into disrepair during the English Civil War, and was finally dismantled later the same century, the riverboats continued to provide a comforting sense of continuity with the past, shuttling the people of London up and down the Thames as they went about their daily business. I boarded one of the large, passenger vessels, which was headed up-river to Westminster Pier.

To travel on the Thames through London was surely one of the most enjoyable ways to see the city. Away from its congested streets, the river afforded a rare sense of space and perspective upon some of London’s most beautiful buildings; a perspective which was not available to those who were land-bound.

Despite the fact that I remained slightly disoriented by my experience in Greenwich Park, I optimistically made straight for the upper deck, seating myself at the front next to an elderly couple, who were also wrapped up warmly against the choppy river breeze. A large camera slung about the gentleman’s neck gave away the fact that he was a visitor to London, their perma-tanned skin telling me that they had come from climes warmer than England’s temperate shores. As the boat pulled away from the Pier, I sat back in my seat, unable to think of anything else but that Anne had made this very same voyage on two of the most important occasions of her life. I had no idea at the time that I would experience them both for myself; I just saw the heart-wrenching poignancy of how the great triumph of her coronation procession in 1533 had been all too soon followed by a journey that I knew must have been filled with unspeakable dread, fear and shame—her final river trip from Greenwich—the one which would take her to the Tower and to her ultimate destiny on the scaffold. It was to be her last taste of freedom, and I felt shivers run down my spine, wanting to weep for her, as I so often did when I allowed myself to feel her life force running through my veins.

I heard the captain of the ship begin to give the witty patter that he had no doubt delivered a thousand times before, revealing the most interesting tidbits of information, both past and present, of the river and its murky inhabitants. Next to me, the elderly couple began to speak to each other of the sites that unfolded before us, one after another, as we cut our way smoothly along the great expanse of winding river. It was soon apparent that they were visiting from the United States and I enjoyed their West Coast accent, amused as one often is to hear what foreigners think of far-flung lands and the place that you call home.

We were heading westwards, and with the sun behind us, I was able to enjoy the buildings glistening in the morning light. One by one, we passed places which I had once known as open countryside, but which had since become crowded with swanky, expensive river apartments; the great dockyards that were filled with the pride of Henry’s Navy, long since dismantled or lying silently in their watery graves.

It probably took just twenty minutes to reach the Tower from Greenwich. Powered by the modern miracle of the engine, our boat made light work of the turning tide. It was such a far cry from the many times in which I had to wait patiently with Henry for that same, immutable tide to turn in our favour, and even then, a similar journey could often take at least two hours.

I would come to know the Tower, this bastion of English history all too well; it would laud me in Anne’s hour of triumph, and mock me in her hour of darkness. Whenever I was in its presence, it consumed me in a hornet’s nest of conflicting emotions; of awe, reverence, morbid curiosity and repulsion; yet, I was never completely comfortable in its vicinity, the walls always whispering my name in menacing tones. Thus, I was glad when that day we did not have to stop to allow passengers to disembark at Tower Pier; instead our vessel swept on past this most grizzly of fortresses, this most mighty of palaces, forging our way relentlessly towards Westminster.

I remembered that part of the journey well from my Tudor life and the very first time that I stepped aboard the Queen’s Royal Barge, to be conveyed as one of the ladies in attendance on Queen Katherine up river towards Henry’s Palace at Richmond. I recalled the daunting shadows cast by the mighty, old London Bridge falling upon my face, thankful that on this occasion I did not have to endure the grisly sight of the heads of decapitated traitors displayed upon its battlements. I saw in my mind’s eye, the modern day facade of the northern bank of the Thames begin to melt away, and instead rise up in its place the great palaces and houses which abutted the river along the stretch of embankment that led westward toward Westminster; Baynard’s Castle, Bridewell Palace, Durham House, and coming into view as we rounded the final bend in our journey, the stretch of river front which had once been dominated by the mighty Palace of Whitehall.