Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (48 page)

At that time, I knew Whitehall Palace as York Place; for when I last walked in Anne’s shoes, this most grand of houses was still very much in the possession of Cardinal Wolsey, being the official London residence of the Archbishop of York. I would come to know the place well in time, just as I did all of Henry’s great houses. I would walk in its most magnificent of galleries; idle away time in its pleasant gardens and furthermore, be secretly married to the King amidst the intimacy of the newly built Holbein Gate. But such wonders were not yet known to me, and Henry had yet to set about building Anne a grand new suite of apartments as befitted his new Queen. I cannot believe that as we sailed past its invisible facade, I was but a hair’s breath away from my next encounter with my Tudor life.

As our vessel manoeuvred itself by degree against the quay, I found myself queuing with a group of enthusiastic tourists, ready once more to set foot on land and to be delivered into the centre of Westminster—the beating heart of the capital—and of a country for nearly 1000 years. As we waited, my mind wandered ahead, planning my route from Westminster tube station to Euston via the rather dilapidated Northern Line; in turn, it was just a short walk from there to my final destination, the British Library. As I pondered these practicalities, my mobile rang, alerting me to an incoming text. I felt immediately grumpy that someone from work was about to disturb my day of solitude and self-indulgence. I even thought for a moment to ignore it, and then thought better; rummaging around in my bag, I finally located it and read the message which stopped me in my tracks:

‘Rose and I had major argument. Don’t think I can stand it anymore
.

Do you still want me? LD x’

In truth, I simply did not know what to make of it. I had never received a text like this from Daniel before in my life; for whilst he and Rose were not particularly close, they always managed to bumble politely around one another, avoiding the screaming truth that their marriage had died a long time ago. The crowd around me moved, as the gangplank was fixed in place and the barrier lifted. I shuffled forward amidst a throng of fellow passengers, holding the phone in my hand and reading the message over and over again. Truly, I was lost for words. As the crowd brushed past me, I tapped in the briefest of replies,

What happened? R U OK? LA x’

Once more, I was precipitously overcome with a feeling of apprehension that was difficult to explain, and could not be entirely attributed to the words I had just read. At the same time, my mind started to whirr with unanswered questions, the vacuum being filled spontaneously with a multitude of scenarios: What had they argued about? Had Rose found out about us? Did Daniel mean it? Could he really not stand it anymore? Was this the real turning of the tide, or just another wild goose chase that would leave me emotionally wrung out and gasping for air? I wanted Daniel to reply to my text immediately; frustratingly he did not. Yet I did not dare call him, for I had no idea what I might interrupt at the other end of the line. Reluctantly, after a few minutes of dithering, I put my phone back in my bag and made my way up the gangplank and onto Embankment; from there, it was but a short walk to Westminster tube on the corner of Parliament Square. Still hopeful to receive a reply, I waited for a few minutes more outside the entrance, knowing that my signal would be lost once inside. I desperately wanted Daniel to call, or at least text a response to let me know more of what was happening; but a stubborn silence prevailed. Eventually, somewhat dismayed and deeply perturbed, I gave up waiting and plunged deep into the depths of the earth; there to hurtle along beneath London’s streets, heading northbound toward the British Library.

Honestly, for a building which housed such an array of precious antiquities, the British Library itself is far from attractive. Never being a fan of modern art or contemporary architecture, I singularly failed to appreciate either the beauty of its clean lines, or the austerity of its blunt angles. Yet, it is easy to forgive all this, for the building, only ten years old, was constructed through an act of Parliament in order to bring together a huge collection of books and manuscripts that were previously scattered in different locations. As I crossed the open square, heading straight toward the main entrance, I looked upwards to take in its full, five storeys and realised that this was one of the greatest libraries in the world, holding around 150 million items within its fortress-like, red-brick walls. Yet, for all the delights that surely awaited me inside, I couldn’t concentrate; I had still not heard from Daniel. By then, I was becoming irritated that he should so selfishly send me such a cursory note of such profound implication—and then leave me teetering on the brink of my own suddenly, very uncertain, fate. Feeling increasingly fractious, I rather too brusquely pushed open one of the many glass doors that opened up into the library’s massive central lobby, almost knocking a disgruntled elderly gentleman over in the process.

Like most libraries around the world, the entrance hall was enshrined in hushed reverential tones as people crossed the concourse, passing this way and that, going silently about their business. I weaved my way toward the ticket desk, dodging people as I went, my irritation heightened by the long queue, which predictably accompanies the opening of a major exhibition. As dictated by my surroundings, I grudgingly turned my phone to ‘vibrate’ yet kept checking it in the hope that I would receive a vital message from Daniel. By the time I purchased my ticket, I was beginning to feel that something was terribly wrong. I remember being puzzled that the sense of dread which was beginning to grip me was out of all proportion to the brief exchanged that Daniel and I had recently shared.

Nevertheless, there seemed little I could do except to continue with my day until I heard back from my beloved. Thus, I resolved to visit the exhibition, as I had originally intended. In order to reach it, I had to walk back across the bright, white stone and marble concourse. As I did so, rather unnervingly, I felt that Henry’s piercing eyes were watching me from giant posters that were hung about the entrance hall, boldly announcing his majestic presence from the grave as, ‘Man and Monarch.’ Suddenly, I felt him drawing me in, calling me back across the centuries. I thought I was going crazy, so I averted my eyes and hurried onwards, soon plunging into a marble-clad corridor, which eventually led me into a large, darkened room.

The room was draped in black fabric. There was something comforting about that windowless space, with its cool interior and muted lighting. It was like being sealed inside a gigantic womb, which magically held time suspended, sealing us off from the noise and frenetic bustle of the outside world, allowing those of us inside to lose ourselves in a different time entirely. The room was quite full, although, for its size, it held the numbers well. Various spotlights shone down on numerous glass fronted display cabinets, brilliantly illuminating the objects within in bright pools of light. It quite took my breath away; I felt as if I had found myself in a treasure trove of familiar friends, and I sensed the energy calling to me from the huge array of priceless historical artifacts that spanned every decade of Henry’s life.

I moved from one to the other, patiently waiting to take my turn, to pause and stare in wonder at the books and manuscripts in front of me, several of which I had either seen, or once held, within my hand. Oh, to read again the writing of my friend, Thomas Wyatt, to hear the sound of his words echoing in my ears across the centuries; to lay my eyes upon the familiar and rather erratic scrawl of my sworn enemy, Thomas Wolsey, recorded in a letter which he had once penned to the King.

One amazing piece of history after another revealed itself to me, each one a survivor of the ravages of time and a fragment of a lost life; each one with its own, unbelievable story to tell. You could hear them whispering their secrets, if only you had an ear to hear and the eyes to see. Eventually, I came to a cabinet, which had its own single spot light; I must have gasped aloud, for lying open in front me was a book which I recognised immediately; it was a book of hours that had once belonged to Anne, and which I alone knew had been a gift from the King. Indeed, I had carried it with me daily having left my other Book of Hours behind at Hever; it had come to be one of my most treasured possessions.

With the gentleness of caressing a long-lost lover, I placed both my hands on either side of the cabinet, peering forward to examine the page at which it was opened; the gory picture of ‘The Flayed Christ,’ which I recognised only too well. Below it was writing which had never been there in my day. It was an inscription in Henry’s hand which read, ‘If you remember my love in your prayers, as strongly as I adore you, I shall hardly be forgotten, for I am yours, Henry R forever.’ I wondered when Henry had written it. What intimate moment had the two lovers shared which caused the King to pen his message. In turn, I read in the notes next to the book an explanation that Anne had replied in kind; ‘By daily proof you shall me find, to be to you both loving and kind.’ I suddenly felt so sad for them both, for to lose such love was a tragedy indeed.

‘Why Henry? What happened? What caused you to forsake her so cruelly, when you loved her so entirely?’ These were the words that I whispered to myself beneath my breath, wondering at the same time if somewhere out there Henry could hear my voice. I was lost in my world of imagining, when out of nowhere the scent of rosewater again filled my nostrils. I quickly straightened myself and looked about me; a man closely studying Henry’s Great Bible in the cabinet nearby, turned his head, clearly startled by my sudden movement. I smiled rather feebly, only to watch him return my gesture and continue to study the text in front of him. There was no one else near me, and yet I sensed Anne everywhere around me.

I felt incredibly disoriented, as the oddest sensation surged through my body. I did not know what was happening to me and quite afraid, I gripped the edge of the cabinet for support. Then suddenly, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket; I had completely forgotten all about Daniel and his text, for I had been so entirely lost in my own secret world. Fumbling to retrieve it, I saw the screen alight, shining fluorescent in the semi-darkened room. Thereupon it was the text that I had been waiting for. I could scarcely believe my eyes as I read,

‘I’ve done it. I’ve left Rose. I need to see you. Where are you? Love you, Daniel’

It was the last thing that I remember. Twenty months in which I had tried to rebuild my life came crashing down around me in an instant. And if I had thought that Anne was done with me, then I was wrong. I was about to find myself in my heroine’s body once more and this time, I would experience two of the most tumultuous, momentous and dramatic years of her tragic story; they would be years which would see Anne at the pinnacle of her triumph, but that would ultimately leave both her, and me, on the edge of our utter ruin.

End of Book One

Glossary:

Long Gallery:
an architectural term given to a long, narrow room, often with a high ceiling. In British architecture, long galleries were popular in Tudor, Elizabethan and Jacobean houses; they were often located on the upper floor of the great houses of the time, and stretched across the entire frontage of the building. They served several purposes: among others, they were used for entertaining guests, taking exercise in the form of walking when the weather was inclement, and displaying art collections.

Arras:
another word for tapestry.

Barbican:
a fortified outpost or gateway, such as an outer defence to a city or castle, or any tower situated over a gate or bridge which was used for defensive purposes.

Billament:
the bands of decoration (usually of precious metals and stones) adorning a lady’s hood.

Blackwork
: a form of embroidery using black thread. Traditionally blackwork is stitched in silk thread on white or off-white linen or cotton fabric. Sometimes metallic threads or coloured threads are used for accents.

Book of Hours:
a devotional book used by lay people of considerable wealth, popular in the later Middle Ages and Tudor period; it is the most common type of surviving medieval, illuminated manuscript. Like every manuscript, each book of hours is unique in one way or another, but most contain a similar collection of texts, prayers and psalms, often with appropriate decorations for Christian devotion.

Breeches
: garments worn by men covering the body from the waist down.

Canopy of Estate:
in the Middle Ages, a hieratic canopy of state, or cloth of state, was hung over the seat of a personage of sufficient standing, as a symbol of authority. The seat under such a canopy of state would normally be raised on a dais. Emperors and reigning kings, dukes and bishops were accorded this honour.

Carcenet:
a necklace. However, the word ‘necklace’ was not used during the Tudor period. A ‘carcanet’ was like a wide choker, which was usually worn around the base of the throat, or on the collar of a high-necked doublet. Women also wore a longer, rope style necklace which could be draped up at the centre or the side with a brooch.