Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Reviews for Timeless Falcon – Volume One
Acknowledgements
Other Publications by Phillipa Vincent Connolly
Miracle
Disability and the Tudors
Coming soon……
Timeless Falcon – Volume Two
Timeless Falcon – Volume Three
About the Author
Volume One
Copyright © 2020 Phillipa Vincent-Connolly.
Copyright © 2015 Cover photography Richard Jenkins
Copyright © 2019 Cover design by Megan Sheer: sheerdesignandtypesetting.com
First Edition
The author has asserted their moral right under the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified
as the author of this work.
All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
Gina Clark
Thank you for your incredible friendship, warmth, and love.
One
Mid-December – Present Day
Once we are all settled, hands begin to fly up, questions are fired towards the front of the classroom, answers are given succinctly, and intelligently. This month seems to be starting out the same as any other. However, up until today, the only thing that has alleviated the usual monotony is Professor Marshall’s brilliant history lectures. His marker always flies across the whiteboard as he delivers dates, context, and explanation for each source he shows us on PowerPoint.
“Forget Henry for a moment! Wolsey is the man to watch…” He cites examples of sources, declaring what a mastermind Wolsey was, until I raise my hand.
“What about Thomas Cromwell, sir? Is he in the background at this point?”
“Cromwell, now there’s a character! He manoeuvres around the throne and around Wolsey. A clever man, more than a mastermind.” He nods. “Later Henry’s enforcer, as you will hear in subsequent lectures.”
He continues to smile as he describes the leading players of the Tudor Court. I scribble down copious notes, trying to keep up with his eloquent explanations. The professor reminds me of the historian David Starkey, who is also extraordinary in his delivery when speaking of events and personalities at the Tudor Court, always able to bring a story to life and put it into context, rather than just spouting dates and facts.
My reasons for studying history are simple – I want to teach the subject as a secondary school teacher, but looking through the window, past the lecture hall and beyond the university grounds, I wish I could experience real, historical events at first hand. Yet, it would be just my luck if I had lived during the Tudor period, that I would most likely have been born into poverty, which constituted a third of the population at that time. Not the best start for anyone in the England of that era.
My thoughts snap back to reality at the sudden silence. I look up to see that I’m the focus of Professor Marshall’s attention.
“Miss Wickers, do you think Wolsey could have handled the Papal legate, Campeggio, in a more decisive way? Steering him, perhaps, from his course of returning Henry VIII’s divorce suit to Rome after the Blackfriars’ hearing?” My face feels hot as the professor’s gaze demands an answer, prompting me to conjure one without thinking.
“Wolsey…fears for his position, sir. He doesn’t want to upset the King or Rome.”
“So, what do you suggest he could have done in this situation?”
“If I’d been Wolsey, I would have returned to Rome myself with Campeggio and appealed to the Pope in person. Continually diplomatically writing to Rome didn’t aid his cause.”
“A good point. Face-to-face meetings often produce results. But the Pope had to consider Queen Katharine, the integrity of the Catholic faith, the effect of bad judgement on other monarchs…”
Feeling less flustered, I lower my head, continuing to scribble. When the lecture finishes, I pack my books away and drag myself back into the present, watching the other students bundle out the door, their inane chatter about their social lives, pub meets, and essay deadlines filling the corridor.
“Miss Wickers, before you go, can I ask a favour?” Peering over his glasses, Professor Marshall smiles.
“Yes, sir?”
“I’ve been having a clear-out and wondered whether you would like to take home a few boxes of books that I don’t need anymore. I thought you could put them to good use.” He beams at me, knowing my deep passion for the past.
“They’re in my study, in a box marked ‘TO GO’.” He presses his keys into my hand and motions me through the open door into the throng of students and staff passing by in the corridor.
“Put the keys in the top drawer of my desk. I will leave you to it, as I’m going to a department meeting. I’ll see you tomorrow.” His manner seems strange, almost excited. He gives me a sort of conspiratorial look as he follows me from the lecture hall.
Grinning in gratitude, I leave him, insert my earplugs’ lead into my I-phone, and thread the cable underneath my buttoned jacket. As I head up the oak stairs, I bury the buds in my ears, then open I-tunes just as a Bowie track blasts through my brain. I find the professor’s study, turn the key, and enter. The room smells of old parchment, solid wood, and red wine, as well as the stench of his stale tobacco smoke. I tug out both earbuds and leave the dangling lead hanging over the neckline of my jacket. Books are scattered on every available surface, while the computer on the desk hums in idle mode. Searching for the cardboard box in such disorder is no easy task. As I work my way around his room, I can’t help myself, tracing my fingers across the gold-leaf lettering along the leather-spine books on his shelves, fascinated by old artefacts, photocopies of state papers, and a marble bust of Henry VIII high on a shelf above my head. Small Tudor portraits cover the walls, among them a copy of the famous 1536 Holbein cartoon of Henry VIII, showing the king with hands on hips, legs apart, his gaze boring into me.
There is also a copy of the National Portrait Gallery painting of Anne Boleyn. The portrait is painfully plain, and she stares wistfully down at me from her vantage point, tight-lipped, keeping her secrets. I stand for a moment, considering her renowned dark eyes. Her reddish-brown hair is constrained into a tame parting beneath her hood, and that famous ‘B’ pendant hangs from a string of pearls about her slender neck. I know, of course, that this is not a contemporary likeness – the only surviving one being a medal dating from 1534, commemorating her second pregnancy, and inscribed with her motto “The Moost Happi”. It is most unfortunate that the medal is severely damaged about the nose and left side of her face.
The professor’s love of history permeates the office. If only I could spend all my time in his study, reading his papers, searching for primary sources, and losing myself in academia. I almost trip over a box on the floor, then realise it’s the one I’ve come to find. I lift it onto the desk and remove the lid. Inside, I discover the famous biography, Anne Boleyn, by Norah Lofts; thumbed-thro
ugh old copies of the journal, History Today; a set of the Letters and Papers, Foreign and Domestic, of the Reign of Henry VIII, and photocopies of The Life of Cardinal Wolsey, by George Cavendish.
Why would the professor want me to have these books and papers? Surely, they’d be useful for other students besides me? Unable to believe my luck, I stuff the books and documents into my canvas bag, then dump it back at my feet before continuing to search through the box.
At the bottom, to my surprise, I encounter something harder than a book. I lift the few remaining papers aside and pull out a small wooden casket, my focus sharpening when I raise the embossed lid. Inside, a ring glistens and winks at me as the light illuminates it while it lies there on a cushion of red velvet.
I wet my lips and lift the jewelled ring from its bed, marvelling at the twinkling facets of the small, individual stones glimmering before me. It is heavy, made in a setting of solid gold. At the centre are the initials “AB”, surmounted by a small crown. Looking inside at the faint markings, I can just make out the date: 1532. I turn the ring around and glance at the portrait on the wall.
The initials jump out at me. Of course, Anne’s “B” pendant. “AB”: ANNE BOLEYN – that must be the connection.
I can’t resist sliding it onto my middle finger to see what it looks like, shuddering as a chilling shiver runs through me. It is heavy, bold, and regal. Strangely, within seconds, the metal warms against my skin, and I slide it off to take a closer look. It’s hot, but not so warm that it’s unbearable to wear, so I slide it back on. Should I find Professor Marshall to return it to him? Maybe he left it in the box in error. But I don’t have the time for that, as my afternoon lecture will be starting soon. Remembering the date on the ring, I know some research will be necessary if I’m to get to the bottom of its provenance. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s research.
With my bag in hand, now laden with historical booty, I turn to go and notice, almost in front of me, a copy of Eric Ives’ The Life and Death of Anne Boleyn jutting out from the middle bookshelf. Of course, I have a much-worn, thumbed-through copy, so finding the information I need will take just a second. I reach for the top of the spine, but the book won’t budge. Unusual. I tug at it a little harder, and the exposed end moves, like a pulley. The book continues to be stubborn, and I pull again. Then, suddenly, the whole expanse of the bookcase levers itself into a pitch-black cavity in the wall. The door – it can’t be anything else – creaks as it slides into the darkness.
I hold my breath and peer into the gloom, my bag’s weight pulling on my shoulder, making me falter. My heart is in my mouth as I blink to adjust to the lack of light. Treading on what feels like flagstone slabs, I take minuscule steps into the murky space beyond, and get the fright of my life when a torch to the right of me flickers into life. I jump again when the bookcase slams shut, the sound resonating around me.
What the hell is going on? I grab the torch from its iron holder and wave it around, feeling a bit of a fool but thinking that if anything nasty happened to be lying in wait, I might scare it away. It kind of works because having the light close makes me feel somewhat safer. My heart pounds in my chest as I turn back and press against the wall, trying to find the opening where the bookcase had swung from. It’s of no use. Even if I could see it, the door would be too heavy to open alone.
The torchlight guides me forward as it cuts through the charcoal darkness. There is a heavy mustiness in the air – remnants of smells I don’t recognise. As I continue down a narrow passageway, the sounds of the students in the adjoining corridors and communal areas have not only faded but disappeared altogether. When I turn a corner, I discover a large door ahead of me, oak-panelled and ancient-looking. The silence is eerie, and I hesitate, wondering whether to back away from the door’s large handle. How can I describe the stillness behind me, or beyond the door? All I can say is that it is inconceivable for the university to be so silent.
My heart beats in my ears as I stand before this old oak door, its handle round and protruding, shaped like a lion’s head, its tongue hanging from its mouth, almost smirking at me, beckoning me closer. I place my free hand on it and, using a little force, pull open the door. Beyond, a narrow stone staircase spirals upwards. I count the steps, all thirteen of them, and continue my exploration, the excitement biting at my heels, egging me on towards a less-cumbersome door ahead. It is ajar, and the room beyond is partially obscured by heavy tapestry drapes. Yet, I see a hint of movement through the gap in the door – a shadow shifting in the room’s dim light.
Two
Stuck, Somewhere in Time
My heart skips when my holdall tangles in the drapes as I lean in to open the door. I release it, and it takes a long moment before I dare to step forward, breath held, ready to apologise for disturbing whoever might be here. What is this place? And how haven’t I known about it before?
The movement I thought I saw must have been the light streaming through the lead-paned window to my right. My transition into this oddly familiar place is no abrupt jolt, and I experience no disorientation. However, as I enter deeper, I have an unfathomable feeling of foreboding. I’m not prone to moments of darkness, but something has come over me that hints at things I’m not sure I’m ready for.
I squint, then blink a few times to acclimatise to the change in light, amazed that my torch flickers and stills when I rest it into an empty wrought-iron cradle on the wall. Goodness. What’s going on? The hazy light illuminates the few pieces of renaissance furniture spread about this antechamber. I grip my bag as I risk a look out the window, and my face and neck go cold as I’m met with what I can only refer to as expansive gardens, not the university campus I’ve just left. Where in God’s name am I? I have to still be in part of the university – where else would I be?
I brush the hair from my eyes as I peer through the glass, trying to get a better look. Perhaps it could be a digital, green-screen effect, part of an interactive exhibition facilitated by the university. Whatever it is, it’s good – wholly realistic. I circle the room with trepidation, unable to resist threading my fingers over the walnut trunks stacked along the walls, and notice, above my head, the half-domed ceiling – a fifteenth-century feature. Everything feels strangely familiar.
The floorboards creak. Rushes, gathered in corners with lavender and herbs, look like they have absorbed a few weeks of dust. Everything – the room, the props – appears to be like something from a historical film set. So authentic. When I move forward, beyond this small chamber, I see that oak panelling decorates the walls, much like the linen-fold relief carving of Wolsey’s lodgings at Hampton Court Palace. So beautiful. Whoever built this set, for that’s what it has to be, did their homework.
I breathe in the sensuous, musky atmosphere, with the fresh flowers on the window recess filling the air with their delightful top-notes. I drop my bag and walk through a second door, into what appears to be someone’s bedroom, and over to the large window, to find a similar view to the one that met me in the antechamber. These people are good. To my left, towards the centre of the wall, stands an impressive four-poster double bed, with a rich red tapestry canopy, and velvet curtain hangings falling around it to the floor.
On the nightstand beside the bed, a burnt-out candle rests next to a cluster of leather-bound books. The inkwell beside it is empty, but not yet dry, giving the impression that its contents were recently used on the nearby blotted parchment, on which lies a beautiful quill. I’m tempted to dip my finger but am wary of tinkering with the sheer quality of this reproduction. I’ve taken part in a few plays covering this period, but the detail here is remarkable – way beyond our amateur efforts.
To my right, down from the window, is a petite, finely-carved fireplace, decorated on the outside with wooden panelling and mounted around a simple stone surround. A small tapestry hangs on the far wall of this modestly-adorned bedroom, with its feminine accents. As quiet as I can,
I step over to the four-poster. I’m bound to be found out soon if I don’t get back to university, but a folded letter on the bed catches my attention. Beautiful to the touch, I believe it is made of calfskin and, with its large, broken wax seal, it looks significant. The writing proves challenging to decipher, but I manage to make out the first line: My Dearest Marye. As I trace each word in the opening sentence with my forefinger, I wish I’d listened more attentively to my first-year lectures on reading renaissance cursive text. The ink is spider-like as it creeps across the vellum, but I persevere, and my endeavours prove worthwhile.
It pleaseth me for you to come to court, to serve the Queene.
A trill of laughter from the hallway breaks the stillness, the sound dancing on the air. I have no choice but to move, and quickly. I fling the letter back on the bed. If I’m caught, there may be trouble, but where can I go? My only option is to squeeze into a gap between the bed’s headboard and the panelled wall, which I do, hiding behind the excess curtain that hangs from the corner post. Whoever it is, once they go, I promise myself to get back to the professor’s study without delay.
Shadows move across the floor, and skirts swish, confirming that a couple of women have entered the room. Who could they be? Will I know them? Maybe they’re the curators of this fantastic exhibition? If so, they mightn’t be too happy with my tinkering about with their perfectly assembled presentation.
My heart pounds in my chest, as I wait for them to leave, I consider my situation. The truth is that nothing has changed, nothing whatever appears to have happened, apart from walking through a variety of doors and passageways to bring me to this rather chilly point. Yet, as I hear these people moving about, I experience an elemental terror, so great that I lose all common sense of the situation – not knowing where I am, or what I’m supposed to be doing. Hiding in the heart of this beautiful bed-chamber, I feel no power of mind or body as my thoughts tumble around in my head.
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