Timeless Falcon 1

by Phillipa Vincent-Connolly

  I overhear words spoken by two women. Young women. But though they are evidently speaking English, their dialect is one I’ve never heard before. I focus on catching the essence of their words.

  “Sister, you will return with me to Court, will you not?”

  “Only if Father wishes it. I do not know the plans he has for me now he has summoned me home. I must wait for news of my betrothal. Perhaps Father will bring word from the Cardinal instructing me to go to Court with you when he has finally arranged my marriage, and, in any case, I should support you, my beautiful sister. Now that you have finally confided in me of the King’s interest in you, we need to keep it that way, in the hope that you might be offered a permanent position in the Queen’s household, do we not?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “The King cannot possibly be interested in you. Well, not in the way he was with Bessie Blount!”

  That last remark is made so decidedly, almost with a sarcastic tone. Then there’s silence. I bite my lip. Where the bloody hell am I? And what kind of production is this? Maybe it’s a film, and I’ve stepped onto their set. Yes, the university must be trying to increase its funding by letting the buildings for filming. But surely, we would’ve been told about it. Oh, to be an extra on a show like this. In any case, all I can hear are these ladies moving about, chattering in that weirdly authentic-sounding dialect. I see no trailing wires, sound or lighting engineers, or hear the noises of film cameras or other equipment essential to such a high-quality production. Apart from the ladies, all I hear are the cries of starlings outside the window. Even that sound effects are so realistic.

  Hold on, is one of the women speaking with a hint of a French accent? My heart flips when the floorboards shift under me as footsteps draw closer. Have I been found out? My lungs burn as I hold my breath. Whoever it is, they stop at the side of the bed, and I can’t help risking a careful peek past the velvet hangings. She moves, and I catch sight of the train of a blue silk gown gliding after its owner. A high-quality production, indeed.

  “I have read the King’s letter summoning you to Court. It is Father’s influence, I trust?”

  “No, Anne, not Father, but our Uncle Norfolk. It is also the King’s desire I attend

  Court.” There’s a smile in those words – I can feel it. “Father has suggested I am summoned because the King desires me.”

  An audible gasp comes from the woman who is being spoken to. Anne.

  “What about William?” she asks.

  “Is this not an honour, sister?”

  “I doubt your husband will see it as such!”

  “We have no choice – I mean, I have no choice if this is what the King wants.”

  “You have every choice – this is not a game!”

  “Anne, it is a game I must play if I am to secure my future with William. We need money to remodel our home, to have it ready for the children we might have together.”

  “Sister, I beg you, not every woman has to sleep with a king to secure wealth and happiness.”

  More swishing of skirts.

  “My happiness is to live in the country with my husband, that is all I want. I shall go down and show father the King’s command directly.”

  With that, I hear the letter being snatched from the bed, and a scurry of footsteps takes both out of the room. No, wait, one of them has remained. Is she coming over? I’m afraid I’ll draw blood from my lip, but as the footsteps change direction, I take the chance to have another look beyond the nightstand. A woman’s silhouette is framed in daylight. Beautiful. She steps closer to the window, looking out towards the gardens beyond. Her frame is slender, her reddish, dark-brown hair wound intricately under the coif and French hood perched on her head. I notice her long eyelashes and how they cast shadows on her cheeks as she glances down towards where the voices are coming from outside.

  About five-feet, three-inches tall, she stands straight and thin like a mannequin, with no curves, apart from her breasts – like small apples – bobbing over the edge of the neckline of her Tudor costume. Her neck is slender and elongated as if she possesses extra vertebrae, and she has olive-coloured skin, which is pale – what some would call sallow. However, she looks unusually lovely, and even the tiny moles on her neck add to her beauty.

  She leans forward and peers down at whatever or whoever is below. Conversation rises, but I can’t pick out a single word until she opens the casement and makes a reply, nodding with excitement, informing whoever it is that she will be downstairs shortly. She turns and makes her way towards the bedroom door, and I peek out to follow her progress, gasping when she trips over my canvas bag and nearly falls flat on her face. No! I left my holdall on the floor.

  I almost choke when she bends and lifts it, and one book after another spills out. Her brows draw together as she picks up The Real Tudors, which catalogues the art exhibition previously held at the National Portrait Gallery. I pray she’ll drop it and go backstage, or wherever actresses go once their scene is finished, but she flicks from a page explaining Holbein’s paintings to one showing Katharine of Aragon. Her expression grows darker when she opens a page to the portrait of Anne Boleyn. No! I squeeze out from my hiding place, race across the room, and lunge at her, pushing the book out of her hands. Then I snatch it off the floor, sick and dizzy at the madness before me. This woman’s resemblance to Anne Boleyn is uncanny.

  “I’m sorry, but this is mine,” I say, catching my breath as I attempt an apologetic smile. “My personal stuff.”

  I shove the book back into my bag before she sees another picture. She stands there glaring at me, looking confused and alarmed, scanning me from top to toe. Those eyes, so dark, like jet embedded in the soft cream silk of an evening gown – arresting and alluring. I have never seen eyes that black and beautiful. Silence ensues, for what seems like an eternity.

  “What is this? And who are you?” she asks, her chin raised, looking down her nose at me beneath those long eyelashes, her obvious suspicion conveyed in the twitching of the graceful curvature of her spine.

  I don’t know what to say. What do I tell her? Who the hell is she? And what’s the story with this…place? She watches as I grab up the rest of my books and papers, then as I fumble with the zip of my canvas holdall. I want to escape her clutches, so I dump the holdall where no one can fall over it, and from where I can retrieve it when I’m able to scarper back to the professor’s office.

  “Come here!” the woman orders. Now I’ve ruined her scene. Obediently, I stand in front of her, waiting for her to have a go at me for being here. Sure of herself, this lady – no, this actress – circles me, her skirts trailing as she flicks the collar of my jacket. I tense when she teases the ends of my sun-bleached, creamy blonde curls, piled up today into a messy topknot that trails loose strands about my neck. She pulls up the cuff of my jacket and stares at my watch.

  “What is that?”

  The words won’t come to form my reply. I’m in shock at being in the presence of a woman who looks so like a historical figure I have so long admired. This must be a re-enactment. It has to be.

  We stare at each other, equally nonplussed. I touch the back of my head. No soreness anywhere. I can’t be concussed, as I didn’t trip or fall over. Or maybe I did and simply don’t remember. Perhaps I’m dreaming all this while I lie in the professor’s study. As the woman scrutinises at me, my temples throb and I shake my head, then look around to search out the cameras. Damn it, I must be on a film set, there’s no other explanation for it. This Anne lookalike is an actress. She must be.

  I want to escape back to the professor’s office before the film crew, and production team come in to berate me, but with the actress glaring, staying in character, it’s not going to be easy.

  “Well?” she demands. “What is that?”

  “It’s my watch.” My whispery voice is barely audible, and she scowls at me. “It’s l
ike a…sundial.” For the life of me, I don’t know why I said that because it’s not like she doesn’t know what a watch is.

  “Are you a horse rider?” she asks.

  “No.” I try not to smirk. Do I look like a horse rider, wearing my ripped jeans, not jodhpurs? I don’t think so. I know I must look terrible with my student-vintage, retro look, barging onto her film set, but does she have to insult me? A thought nearly lifts me off my feet. What if she thinks I’m part of the production? Maybe she thinks the director’s testing her. That would certainly explain why she’s remaining in character.

  “Why do you wear such attire? Where is your gown?” She frowns, continuing to circle, before standing face-to-face once more.

  “But I don’t…” I shake my head and shrug. “I don’t have a dress, I’m sorry.” My sheepish reply draws her closer as her piercing dark eyes continue to search my face for answers.

  “What is your name, and why are you come to Hever?”

  As I make no reply, my apparent puzzlement seems to annoy her.

  “You are a stranger in my family home. I ask you again, what is your name?”

  This is beginning to wear thin, but I decide to play along, at least for now. “My name is Elizabeth, but my family call me Beth.” I stare back at her, not wanting this ‘Tudor’ lady to have the upper hand. What does she mean by saying Hever is her family home? Hever was Anne Boleyn’s home. She’s good, being able to stay so deep in character.

  “Why are you here?” She begins circling me again, looking me up and down, trying to work me out as much as I’m trying to figure her out.

  “I have no idea,” I answer. “I’m not from here. I’m not part of this…production.”

  She studies me now, her eyes betraying confusion. As good as she is, I realise I don’t know this actress, but she certainly plays Anne Boleyn well. I know the Boleyn story – especially how it ends. I wonder if she’ll let me watch her next scene. After all, I’ve read enough books, seen enough films and TV documentaries, and thumbed through enough academic essays to have a fair idea of who Anne was, but staring at this actress now, with her true-to-life portrayal, I realise I may be fooling myself.

  “What do you mean by production?” Her eyes have become small slits under a furrowed brow.

  This is too authentic to be re-enactment. The accent, the dialect, the details on the clothing, the room, it all looks so credible. The best thing to do would be to tell her where I’ve come from. She’ll either laugh at me or think I’m some crazed film fan.

  “I am a student at the university. Who are you, really?”

  “I am Lady Anne Boleyn. What university do you speak of?”

  I hold my tongue, fearful of her reaction. How could she possibly be the real Anne Boleyn? “Look, stop messing around. You know you’re filming in my university. I came from my professor’s office, from behind the tapestry props, along the passageway and up the staircase. All I did was fetch some paperwork and books. Now I’ve ended up here. For goodness sake, tell me who you really are.”

  The woman looks at me, blinking, waiting, staring. “I have already told you who I am. I am Anne Boleyn. Now, pray, continue to tell me who you are, and why you have arrived here, standing in my bed-chamber.”

  “I’m a history student. I study history.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” Her eyes widen, and a peal of laughter fills the room. But as soon as it starts, it stops. She grabs my hand and guides me to the great bed.

  “What are these incredible stories?” She looks perplexed, pulling me to sit next to her, patting the furs on the mattress. The reed inside the mattress moves beneath us.

  “What year were you born, and how did you get here? Are you related to one of the servants?” She doesn’t seem to understand what I’ve told her. How do I get across to her that I’m nothing to do with her family, her servants, nor the village in which her home sits? I give myself a mental shake. I must still be in the university, I have to be, there is no other probable explanation for it. However, her manner feels so authentic, especially in this setting of such high-production quality that I deem it unrealistic to relate to her as anything other than mistress. Production or dream, if she believes she’s the Anne Boleyn, I need to play along. What harm can it do?

  “Mistress, I was born over four hundred years from your time, at the end of the twentieth century. I came through that antechamber door, beyond that tapestry on the wall, just as I told you.” I get up and walk into the antechamber, and Anne follows. I point to the door I entered through.

  “But that door leads to the servants’ quarters and the back stairs.” She frowns. “Those stairs are not often in use – hence, the wall hanging.” She takes time to study my face again. “Please, you must tell me that you know who I am” She blinks. “I am known well hereabouts. My family are servants to the Crown after all.”

  “If you are who you…say you are, then I believe you are the second-eldest daughter of Thomas and Elizabeth Boleyn.” She doesn’t smile back at me, as I’d hoped. So much for my playing along. We return to the bed. As we sit, all I can do is stare at her.

  “If you are from the future, Elizabeth,” she says, her voice tinged with intelligent guile, “what else do you know of me?”

  “Mistress Anne, I know that you can play musical instruments. You can sing. You can dance. You can speak French. You are sophisticated and witty.”

  Now smiling, she clasps my hand between both of hers, her skin warm. Then she gets up from the bed, releases her grip, and dips into a deep curtsey, a flirtatious look on her face. “Oh, yes, I can indeed be sophisticated.” Her gown twirls about her as she performs a galliard, she probably learnt in a dance class at her drama school. “Do you think I could catch myself a noble Duke or Lord?” She continues to dance around the room, her head raised and arms gracefully open as she takes each step, showing the toe of her slipper beneath the hem of her skirts.

  Admiring her grace, I consider more compliments to please her. “I also know, Mistress Anne, since you have recently been exposed to a world of art and beauty, such as the French court, that it will indeed make you an attractive prospect for a nobleman.” I keep my answers positive and light-hearted as if she is who she says she is. I almost chuckle at that, but if it was the case, alerting her to her fate might change the course of history, and I can’t afford for that to happen. What am I thinking? Why am I worrying? None of this is real!

  She dances over to me and leans into my ear. “Is there anything else you could teach me, which the French court has not?”

  “I have no idea what you mean, Mistress Anne!” I fail to stifle a giggle, hoping she isn’t implying what my twenty-first-century mind is perceiving. I search for something suitable to change the subject. “You speak so beautifully.” It’s true. Her dialect coach has taught her well.

  “Thank you. May I call you Beth?”

  “My dad calls me Beth, so, yes.” It’s rather sweet of her to be so polite, especially when I’m the one encroaching on her territory.

  “Dad? You mean your father calls you Beth?”

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “How old are you?”

  “Nearly twenty-one.”

  “Then you and I are near the same age!”

  That surprises me. “What year is this?”

  She frowns at me like I’ve stepped in something that should’ve been left outside. “It is the year of Our Lord, fifteen twenty-one, of course.”

  My breath catches as a cold flush races through my body. I shake it off and focus back on our conversation. “The month?”

  “December.”

  Ah, I knew something was different. December is a damn cold month, and as I left the professor’s office in September, I’m certainly not dressed for the depths of winter. I wonder why she’s jumped three months ahead. It’s confusing. I feel embarrassed because when I looked
out the window, I should have realised the season from the leaf fall and the lack of life in the hedgerows.

  “How old are you, really?” I ask. “Are you twenty-one?”

  “No, I am twenty.”

  “And…” I think of where the real Anne Boleyn would have been at around the date of December 1521. “You must be just arrived back from the French court of Queen Claude?”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Like I said, I study history. I’m from the twenty-first century.”

  “The twenty-first century,” she repeats, looking down, her brows creased as if calculating something beyond her grasp. I scoot over and retrieve my bag, then pull a small notepad out and scribble down the year I was born, with this year beneath it.

  She stares at me, then points at the top line. “You were born in that year?”

  “Yes.”

  She stares at me like she’s seeing me for the first time. “And this year?” She points to the line beneath.

  “That’s the year I’m living in now.”

  “Hmm.”

  She’s good. Ok, time to take this up a step or two. “Mistress, were you born at Blickling Hall in Norfolk?” I drop the pen and notepad back in my bag.

  “Yes, Norfolk is my birthplace. Why all the questions about me? I thought you knew who I was?”

  “Yes, Mistress, but not every detail. In any case, some hist—”

  “If you know the year I was born and are from the future, you must know the year I die.” She wets her lips with the tip of her tongue and leans in. “Do you?”

  I’ll have to think fast here if I’m to get back to the professor’s office anytime soon. Improv was never my strong point, and this actress is keeping me on my toes.

  “I do know the year you die,” I say, “and so should you if you’re acting out Anne Boleyn’s life.” I glance about but catch no sight of her production crew. “You’re doing a fantastic job of it, might I say.”

  She squints and leans away from me as if chewing over my response. “I do not understand you, but no matter! It seems you will not give me a straight answer, but the truth will out.” She brings her hands together, pressing her slender fingers into a steeple below her nose. “Have you tried returning from whence you came?”