“Yes, but the doorway I came through is stuck and I can’t re-open it.”
The actress walks to the window, looks up at the sky, then invites me to join her while she studies me further. As I stand with her, a woman calls up to the Boleyn lookalike from the other side of the moat.
“Anne! You are requested in the parlour. Your father needs to speak with you.”
She kneels up on the window seat and leans over the ledge. “Mother, I will be down presently. Is not the letter from the King exciting?” She casts a huge smile towards whoever is there. I perch next to ‘Anne’, leaning behind a drape hanging at the window, so I cannot be seen over her shoulder and watch a woman nod beneath the hood of a heavy cape, who smiles back up at Anne. She’s carrying a wicker basket, picking winter roses from a flower border running alongside the moat. My legs turn to jelly at the realisation that the window visual is anything but a green-screen special-effect. I can see with my own eyes that everything about this scene is as authentic as the beautiful aroma rising from the fresh, winter blooms.
With Anne beside me, I now scrutinise her up close, and I stare at her right hand, with its long elegant fingers. I don’t expect to see a sixth, as documented by the Catholic propagandist, Nicholas Sander. However, at the side of her little finger is a small extra nail, not fully formed. It’s barely noticeable. So Weird. All these signs point to this woman being the real thing. So, the writings of George Wyatt, Thomas Wyatt’s grandson, are correct. Obviously, the speculation of Nicholas Sander has been highly inflated and concocted to suit the Catholic propaganda machine.
I notice that everything about the older woman below is authentic, too, as are the Tudor costumes both women are wearing. Each woman presents themselves as plausible. Goosebumps break out all over me, and I need to hold onto the sill to prevent collapse. This is real. My goodness, this is…1521!
I don’t know how I do it, but I pull myself together. The woman outside looks middle-aged and has an air of nobility about her. Anne referred to her as Mother. No, she’d hardly be picking roses, would she? Whoever she is, she’s too well-dressed to be a servant. I let out a quiet sigh and bite my lip at the madness of this new reality. What if the door remains stuck? Does this mean I’m here forever? What about my family? My studies? Rob! He probably won’t even miss me.
I’m glad the woman hasn’t seen me, as I hang back beside Anne. Despite my concerns, the conversation continues.
“Do not tarry, as your father has much to discuss with you and Mary regarding the King’s summons.”
I turn and plop onto the window seat. This is real. My head is swimming. It’s not a film production after all. It’s not an exhibition. It’s not a dream. It’s the real thing. I pinch my cheeks to get the blood back into them. What to do? I’ve got to think of a credible way out of this…dilemma. If I can’t go back in the direction I came, and it doesn’t seem likely, then I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb.
“Lady Anne.” I swallow back a ball of nerves. “If I can’t go back to where I came from right this minute, what should I do?”
“Stay here with me, of course.” She squeezes my shoulder and smiles as if my enormous life-changing problem doesn’t cause her the least bit of worry. “All shall be well, and you will get home, but while you are with us, you cannot stay in those clothes. No, they will never do.” She starts pacing up and down the room, her eyes sparkling as she knits her plan together.
She stops and claps. Just the once, but the sound nearly gives me a heart attack. “We will say you are a visitor!”
I force myself not to roll my eyes at her stating the obvious. No point alienating my only hope. “From…the country?”
“Perhaps. Hmm… No, we need to convince my father that you are a distant cousin, related on our mother’s side, so he suspects nothing.” She cups her mouth with her right hand and taps her cheek as she continues pacing.
“I can’t be related to your Uncle Norfolk,” I say, sitting back on the bed, my legs still trembling. “It wouldn’t work. I’m no Howard, Lady Anne.” It seems natural to refer to her this way now that my poor brain has accepted my new reality. Or has it?
She smiles. “No, you are right, you cannot be a Howard. Of course not.”
I realise my mouth is hanging open as I watch her. All I can do is shake my head. “You really are Anne Boleyn, aren’t you?”
“I told you already, yes.” She rubs her hands together. Why isn’t she phased by what’s happening? If I didn’t know better, I’d swear this isn’t the first time she’s encountered a time-traveller. Perhaps I’m not the first. The professor? She raises a hand, as if about to make a point at a lecture. “We need to decide who you can be, if not a Howard.”
This should be easy for me, what with the million or so hours I’ve spent studying the people of Tudor England, but not one clear name sticks out from the maelstrom in my head.
“I know!” she says, dancing over to me. “Father is arranging my marriage. Shall we say you are related in some way to my betrothed, James Butler, and that you were sent by his family…to let them know what I am like? You are a spy!”
“That’s why you’ve come back from France…for your marriage?” The details are coming back to me but, again, I can’t let her know what I know. “Do you think that would work? What happens when James comes to Court, or here to Hever?”
I get up and walk around the room, my nerves heightened. “Being related to the Butlers might prove dangerous. I may be found out.” My mind is both a jumble and a blank. I shake my head at Anne, willing her to come up with an alternative narrative that will convince her parents we aren’t deceiving them.
“Although James is a page in Cardinal Wolsey’s household, he is often in Ireland. He is with his family there now. Father does not know everything. We shall say you came back with me from France to be my personal maid. Perhaps suggest you have distant relations here, and in France?” She continues to look me up and down. “It is agreed?”
“Agreed.” Although I’ve no idea what I’m agreeing to, her smile is reassuring, and I’m curious. I want to spend time with her, but I’ll have missed my afternoon lecture by now, and what about getting home tonight? What about ever getting home? How in the hell am I going to get back?
Panic grips me, and I run back through the antechamber to the drapes and check behind them, tugging on the door handle, but it’s shut fast. My heart is beating so fast as fear for my family wells up. If this is as real as it feels, as it looks, what am I to do? I look around, but there seems to be no other exit back to the professor’s office. This is like a bad nightmare I have no idea when I’ll wake up from.
My phone! I fumble in my jacket pocket, doubting that I’ll get any service on the thing, especially as I have no idea where I am, or whose reality I’m in. Anne watches as I pull it out, yank the earplug lead from its socket, hold it up, poke at the power button, prod at the home tab, but nothing happens – the phone seems dead.
Anne watches me getting annoyed as I wave it around like a flag. I think her curiosity gets the better of her because she comes closer and snatches it from my hand.
“Hey, that’s mine!” I yell.
“What is this strange object?” she asks, turning it over in her hands.
My anger disappears, and I giggle. “Come on, I can’t believe you’ve never seen a mobile ph—”
Then I remember – as if I could forget – she really is the real thing.
“Whatever it does, it looks like a strange contraption.” She runs her fingers over the phone’s glossy screen. “I have never seen anything as odd as this before. What does it do?”
“It’s a mobile device. You talk to your friends with it. Have conversations. Text people. Send messages, emails, photographs.”
The poor woman is baffled. And no wonder, as being from the sixteenth century, she will never have seen any post-industrial techn
ology in her life, let alone a mobile phone. I’m so attached to mine; I could never live without it. I take it back, press the power button again, and the thing springs to life. Whoa! I look at the service bar, but it’s non-existent. No matter. I open the camera function, then hold the phone out, facing Anne, and snap a picture of the woman, temporarily blinding her with the flash.
Alarmed, she covers her eyes. “What did you do to me? Am I injured?”
I can’t help laughing. “No, I took your photo, silly. Look.” I turn the screen to her. She draws closer, peering at the picture of her on the screen.
“This is strange. We do not have such a thing as a phone here. The court painters could not do better than this picture you hold up to me.”
“Okay, let’s call this my Holbein device. To take the likeness of people quickly and without the use of canvas or brush.” I giggle at my own joke, but she doesn’t get it. I flip the power off and stuff the earplugs, lead, and the phone in my bag, hiding it at the bottom to avoid the temptation of taking it out again, wasting what’s left of the battery. For what seems like minutes rather than seconds, I stare at the woman, studying her, stunned that this is Anne. Anne Boleyn.
“You are an unusual girl,” she says. “And I wish you would not fix your gaze upon me so.” She pulls me to the centre of the room, eyeing me up and down in what can only be described as a conspiratorial manner. “Now, let’s get you out of these clothes.” She smiles, marches to the open doorway on the other side of the bed-chamber, and calls out to someone named Agnes.
“My maid will be here directly, and we shall find you a suitable gown. Now, get out of these strange clothes before she sees them.”
With that, she pulls my jacket from my shoulders. Everything modern is removed, apart from my bra and knickers, and placed in a pile on her bed. I’m left standing in the middle of the chamber, shivering and almost naked. Anne takes my hands and holds them out from my sides, studying my body. She lets go and scrutinises my lingerie, which doesn’t exactly make me comfortable. Then she stares at my vaccination marks on my upper arm, stepping closer to prod at them with her forefinger.
“What are these?”
Fearful she’ll think my scars are a mark of Satan, I need to get my skates on and come up with a reason for their presence. “The scars are from a visit to a…barber-surgeon.”
“Like la saignée?”
“Bloodletting? Not exactly.” I know my translation of the French is correct. I’m hoping my explanation has fobbed her off.
“And this?” She twangs my bra strap, so it snaps back onto my shoulder. “And these?” She stares at my knickers, the cerise lace blaring out like a beacon in a grey world.
“It’s my underwear.”
My comment amuses her. “We have no such garments like these.” She giggles. “You have a pleasing figure, Beth, and we are the same gown size, perhaps.”
She’s right. We do look a similar size.
“Firstly, you need to take those off.” She frowns, transfixed by the shape and design of my knickers. The lace slides to the floor, and I step out of them. Then my bra is discarded, just as fast. Naked, I stand before her, covering my private parts with my hands.
“Do not be shy. We wear a shift under our gowns. That is our underwear. We are not uncivilised.” She retrieves a linen shift from a nearby trunk, then places it over my head, just as her maid appears in the doorway.
“You asked for me, Mistress Anne?” She bobs a curtesy, staring at me, her rosy cheeks glowing, and her short, plump frame conveying an air of healthy vitality.
“Agnes, fetch my gown of frost-upon-green and brown fur. The Mistress Elizabeth will also need matching underskirts and a kirtle.”
I find it funny that she calls me a mistress. Mistress Elizabeth – how grand that sounds. The maidservant starts to turn away.
“Wait! She will also need fore-sleeves and a hood. Do not tarry too long, for my friend shall catch a cold.” Anne beams at me, happy to be transforming me into someone suitably dressed to spend time in her company. With the shift on, I don’t feel so exposed, but the wooden floor is cold, creaking as I shuffle from one foot to the other, impatient to be dressed and warm again. Anne stands close to me once more and hands me red woollen stockings. I pull each one on, up my calves and over my knees, securing them with corded garters.
“Sit. We will need to brush your hair and braid it, for you cannot wear it as it is.” She fetches a small silver mirror from the inside of a nearby oak storage chest and passes it to me.
I watch her in the mirror as she starts tugging the tangles from my hair with a wooden comb. Usually, I love having my hair touched, but she isn’t exactly gentle. She bends to view my reflection, then stares sideways at me.
“Your eyelashes are strange and long, Mistress Elizabeth.” She brushes the tips with her fingernail, examining the coating of mascara I have on them. “And what is that floral scent?”
“My perfume is from a bottle, Lady Anne. Would you like to try some?” I jump up, remembering I have a small sample in the inside pocket of my jacket, but before I can get it, the servant appears in the doorway, almost collapsing under the weight of the kirtle, gown, and fore-sleeves. Anne beckons to her.
“Place the clothes on the bed and help me get the Mistress Elizabeth dressed.”
Poor Agnes looks puzzled, staring at my bra and knickers on the floor. I suppose she would because, until now, she’s never set eyes on me, or twenty-first-century lingerie. She drops everything onto the bed and picks up my bra from the floor and dangles it in front of herself. She holds its cups against her breasts, her eyes wide in amazement.
“Agnes! Fret not about that. It is a new fashion in France.” Well and truly told off, the girl drops the bra on the bed, before picking up a petticoat. Anne beckons me to stand closer to her.
“This is a petticoat,” she says, smiling, as if proud of her ability to teach me about her own fashion items. I don’t let on that I know all about Tudor fashion and dive into the quilted taffeta which, incidentally, is mulberry red to match my stockinged legs. Agnes assists in sorting out the kirtle, and manoeuvres my head and arms through it, helping me slip into the thick fabric, which wafts about me. Then she ladder-laces me in, weaving the cord back and forth until my torso resists the tension, all the while pulling it tighter and tighter. To maintain the sureness of the bodice, the kirtle should be as snug as can be. I stand there, leaning into the walnut bedpost, holding on with trepidation, as if hugging a tree, breathing in as the lacing grows steadfast and secure.
Fascinated, and glad to have paid attention in my Tudor-fashion lectures, I look down at the volume of fabric as Agnes secures the light-green gown over my kirtle, then adds the fore-sleeves with their laces, and rolls back the gown sleeves with their big, turned-back cuffs. These are fur-lined and fastened with individual pins. The gown’s bodice is now tied at my breasts and covered with a placard, which has been hand-sewn on one side, with pins to hold it on the other. The double-pearl habiliment – the beaded trim – glistens against gold braid that is decorated with embroidery on the kirtle’s neckline. The layers, when worn on top of one another, are such a weight, I’m going to need to be more graceful when I move. When I extend my arms, looking at the drop of the gown sleeves, Anne smiles, and I realise my face must be a picture.
“You look very fine in this gown, do you not? How do you fare, with your kirtle laced so tight, Mistress Elizabeth?”
“Mistress Anne, I’m not used to it, but it won’t take me long to learn to carry myself in it, with your tuition, of course.” Not that I’ll be here that long. I expect to be out of here and back in university in time for my next lecture.
Pleased with my answer, Agnes tells me to extend each arm in turn, as she pushes on some fore-sleeves, which are covered with fakings and pearls. She secures them well, tying them about my upper arms, beneath the gown sleeves. Tudor
dressing is complicated stuff.
Before I have a chance to admire my new sleeves, Anne unwraps a pair of beautiful slippers from parchment. “Slide your feet in and see if they fit.” Her dark eyes brighten as she guides my stockinged toes into the exquisite shoes. I inspect the soft leather as Agnes fastens the brass buckles. My feet feel so snug.
“Now,” Anne says, taking a step back to assess her handiwork, “isn’t that better than when you arrived?” She turns to Agnes. “You may go. I will do her hair.” Agnes glances at me, curtseys to Anne, and obediently leaves us alone. I take my seat at her dressing table, and Anne resumes brushing my tangled and product-covered hair.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.
“Why not?” she says. “For the time being, you cannot get home, and I think you may be able to help me.”
My eyebrows tighten as I work through that. “How do you think I could possibly help you?”
“If you are from the future, then you may be able to advise me if I am to catch a rich husband.”
I already know that family ambition is paramount with the Boleyns, and Anne is obviously not excluded from feeling the same way.
Three
Hever Castle, Kent – 1522
Having spent the last few hours here at Hever, I’m learning how to move gracefully in my new garb, even getting used to the weight of the layers, though the pureness of my shift’s linen feels itchy and a little rough against my skin. I’m more settled than when I first arrived, thanks to the warm welcome I’ve received from Anne. My stomach is churning, not just because I’m hungry, but because she wants to introduce me to her parents and to test her cunning plan. I’m also anxious because I’ve tried the door back to the professor’s office numerous times, but it’s still stuck fast.
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