Anne grins. “I have talked to Father and Mother about you being here.”
“And?”
“I explained that because I would soon be a married woman in Ireland, I would need a maid of my own and that you had agreed to come back from France with me.”
“But surely they would have noticed you had company when you returned home?”
“I was clever and told Father you had arrived earlier this morning, while he was in an audience with his tenants and servants, collecting rents and handing out wages.”
“He believed you?”
“Yes,” she replies, her eyes alive with excitement. “They want to see you.”
“Goodness. What, right now?”
“Yes, come on! I think I have done just about all I can with your hair. And my gown definitely becomes you.” She takes my hand and leads me along the staircase gallery and downstairs to the parlour.
The woman I’d seen earlier from the window, who I believe to be Anne’s mother, Elizabeth Boleyn, greets us at the door, waving us through with a welcoming smile into the parlour, where a man is standing before a roaring fire which snaps and spits in the grate.
“Husband, Anne and her acquaintance are here.”
I watch as Lady Boleyn walks up to Thomas Boleyn, who embraces his wife and whispers in her ear before she sits in a cushioned chair next to the fireside.
Anne strides boldly into the parlour and stands before her parents. I loiter at the door, my anxiety getting the better of me. She dips a quick curtsey to her father, who acknowledges her with a smile.
“Daughter, fetch Mistress Wickers. She has no need to be shy.”
Anne nods and walks back to me, grabs my wrist, then pulls me in front of her father. I shuffle from one foot to the other, not sure of the correct etiquette for meeting a man like him for the first time. Standing near this well-known character of Henry VIII’s court allows me to study him up close. He’s a middle-aged man by modern standards – mid, or maybe late-forties, but closer to old-age for this period, who in his youth was probably quite handsome. The elaborate cut of his clothing – soft, dark velvet, modestly embellished – shows him to be a man of culture and well-connected. He brushes his hand through his thick, greying hair and nods at me as I dip a curtsey that is nothing but awkward.
“Mistress Wickers.”
“Lord B…oleyn,” I stammer.
He chuckles. “No need for such formality.” He takes my hand, then plants an itchy kiss against my skin before turning to Anne, who stands next to me. “Anne has explained your situation and has expressed a desire to have you attend on her as a companion, rather than a servant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But we know nothing of your family or your history.” He flicks a look towards his
wife. “We should like to know what kind of companion you would make to our daughter.”
“I am educated,” was the first thing I could think of that might please him.
“Good, we consider a girl’s education important. And your parents?”
“My dad, erm…I mean, father, works in government, and my mother is a tailor’s assistant.” Though I lie, it’s more like an embellishment of the truth.
“Your father works for the King?”
Thomas Boleyn is bound to jump to that assumption, with Dad being a civil servant, so I have to steer him off the scent. “He is a clerk, sir. An assistant to people in government.”
He nods. “And his income?”
“My father earns a good wage, as does my mother.” I don’t provide exact figures, as this would give our game away.
“Where do your family come from?”
“Outside London, sir. South of the river.” I glance at Anne, and she nods, smiling with encouragement.
“Father, I told you Mistress Wickers was from a good family.”
“It appears so,” he says. “Which is a good thing if she is to make a suitable chaperone to you in Ireland, or at Court.”
“I would love for Mistress Wickers to come with me to Court, or to Ireland when my marriage goes ahead. Please say it can be so.” She lifts her chin. “But if I am to go to Court, can Mother come, too?”
Thomas glances at Anne, then at his wife, who sits up.
“Daughter, we have discussed this matter before,” she says. “I would prefer to stay at Hever. The estate needs to be run properly when your father is away on diplomatic business or attending the King. You know this.” She frowns, evidently cross at Anne suggesting such a thing.
I had wondered why Thomas hasn’t intended for his wife to go with Anne. Most wives of successful courtiers would jump at the opportunity of attending Court, but from the sounds of it, Elizabeth doesn’t seem to have a regular position there. Maybe this is a personal preference, but I’ve read reports that at one time she may have been a mistress to the king. If that’s true, could it be that she doesn’t want to go in the hope of avoiding these rumours resurfacing? She doesn’t appear to lack confidence and hasn’t hinted that her choice not to return to Court in support of her daughters is related to whatever might have given her a poor reputation. I knew from Anne that the last time her mother supported her at any Court event was when she attended the Field of the Cloth of Gold summit.
Lady Boleyn waits for her husband to speak. Perhaps they’re not the type to use their children as pawns to further their family’s plans for power and wealth. Is it possible that history has done them both a disservice? From the corner of my eye, I see Lady Boleyn observing me. She is dressed in a sumptuous velvet gown, the colour of dark cocoa – it’s gold trim habiliments twinkling in the firelight. Her red hair, which is greying at the temples, is pulled back under an elaborately-decorated gable bonnet, which emphasises her high forehead and prominent cheekbones. You can tell that Lady Elizabeth Boleyn, once a Howard, came from money. Love stole her ambitious nature, and she no longer seems to care for power, only for the well-being of her children. A callous, cold, and calculating parent she is not.
“Dearest Anne, you were returned to England due to worsening relations with France.” Thomas gives a knowing look to his wife. “The King has much on his mind and, because of that, your marriage negotiations have been drawn out, and we feel…”—he looks at his wife again, then back to Anne—“that perhaps it may be a good thing for you to experience life at the English Court before you go to Ireland.”
Anne looks anxious. “I would like that, Father, but why are arrangements for my marriage taking so long?”
“There are financial matters to conclude. Dowries. Property. The King has yet to sign his agreement. Up to now, things have only gone as far as Cardinal Wolsey.”
Anne tries to speak, but her father holds his hand up. “Daughter, do not become overwrought. There is much preparation to attend to. In the meantime, you shall attend Court.”
“And if I go, Mistress Wickers can come with me?”
“Yes, Anne.” Thomas smiles. “That is if Mistress Elizabeth wishes it.” Anne grins at her father, her hands fluttering at her sides.
He takes a sip from his goblet, licks his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, as if to save an errant droplet from slipping away, then captures me with a direct look. “Mistress Wickers, Lady Boleyn and I think it best that you stay with us for some weeks, to get used to the idea and, once arrangements have been made, to see how that would suit you.” He places his goblet on the fireplace mantle and turns back to me. “Would you like to attend Court with Anne?”
Everything he does is controlled, composed, and considered, but not in a Machiavellian manner. He’s quite soft-spoken, with no hint of deviousness about him, as far as I can see. The man is a blank canvass – the consummate diplomat.
“Sir, if that could be arranged, I would be most honoured.” What an excellent opportunity. I need to blend in, which will necessitate changing my speech patterns.
My twenty-first-century colloquialisms and slang will mark me at every turn. No, I must copy the way this family speaks. I must take on board their mannerisms, dialect, and demeanour to help me assimilate.
“I am sure you have been educated as well as Anne when you were at the French Court,” Lady Boleyn says. “If you are uncertain of your position or responsibilities at His Majesty’s Court, Anne will be able to guide you. The Court can be a licentious place, and you must guard your honour and reputation at all times.”
“Yes, my lady,” I reply.
“You will meet my brother there, the Duke of Norfolk. He is an earnest, single-minded, and ambitious man, who seeks power and success at any cost, and will use anyone to aid in his ambitions. I have warned Anne against becoming tangled in his web of intrigues, and caution you, too, in case you fall foul of his scheming.”
“I shall take note of your warning, Lady Boleyn.”
She nods, looking less perturbed now she has been able to air her grievance over her brother. Elizabeth Boleyn seems a loving mother, who views blind ambition as a sin – anxious that her children will not be used to advance her family, regardless of her brother’s personal feelings and desires.
Thomas scoffs under his breath. He seems none too happy with his wife mentioning her brother, but from what I have studied of Thomas Boleyn, he’s such a professional that he would never burn bridges. Their opinion of the Duke certainly isn’t a good one, and I wonder if they’d think so kindly, and be so gracious if they knew who I was, and where I’d come from? How would they react if I was able to take them through the portal and back to the professor’s office? I shudder at the thought of the chaos that might cause.
Thomas Boleyn looks at me as he strokes his moustache and beard, then he turns to his daughter. “It is settled then. We shall pay Mistress Wickers and I shall write to the King and await his consent on the matter, then send word to the Comptroller of the Queen’s household when Mary and I return to London in a day or so.”
Anne beams. “Thank you, Father!
“Thank you, sir,” I say. I didn’t realise I’d be paid – perhaps it’s wrong of me to accept, but before I can speak Anne and I curtsey in unison, then leave their presence. While I’m relieved that this first meeting is over, my nerves are in tatters. I hope Thomas Boleyn doesn’t suspect me of lying to him, and I wonder if the professor knows about his bookcase pivoting to a different place in time. He has to. So much is happening. Having watched that old eighties’ movie, Back to The Future, I’m aware of the consequences of tampering with history, or of saying too much about the future or future advancements for fear of changing things detrimentally.
For all I know, time may not have even moved forward on the other side of the portal. And if it has, will anyone notice my absence? Mum will worry once she realises I’m not around to give her my dirty laundry. Then there’s Rob. What’s he going to think if I’m not about to chat to? And I don’t want to get behind with my coursework. I’ve got a deadline looming for an assignment – one that’s due in a couple of days. The professor will go nuts if I don’t submit it on time. No, I need to get back to my time.
My heart thumps as I gather up my skirts, rush up the staircase, and back to Anne’s room. The urgency is apparent to her as I pull back the tapestry in the antechamber. I clutch the iron handle of the door that leads back to the passageway, the portal, and the professor’s office. Flustered, heat surges into my face as I push, tug, and bang on the door. Tears sting my eyes through frustration, self-pity, and the incredulity of my situation.
“What can I do to help you?” Anne asks, no doubt trying to ease my anxiety with her gentle speech. She hands me a small linen handkerchief.
“Nothing.” I snatch the handkerchief and dab it against my skin, blubbering as I wipe away my tears. “I’m sorry. The problem is, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to return to you if I do get back to university. I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to miss the chance to spend time in your world. What an opportunity it is, but the trouble is, I need to go back to my time. I have obligations to family, friends, and my studies. I have important assignments to complete!”
“I wondered why you were so insistent on trying the door, especially when you have made promises to my parents. You are obliged to me, too, you know. You can’t just arrive, become my friend, and then leave me alone again.”
With that, I slide down against the door and draw my knees up against my chest, sinking my face into the frothy green velvet of my skirts. My sobs rake through my shuddering shoulders, and I feel Anne’s hand on my arm. She doesn’t seem to know what to do with me.
I look up. Anne’s mood has become as dark as her eyes. She juts her chin out, as is her way when her blood is up. “I feel constrained here, too,” she snaps, “if that makes you feel any better?” She turns on the spot and gestures to her room. “Home is not like the French Court. This house is too small, cold, and dark.”
I’m not the only one feeling stuck. She’s right in comparing Hever to Château Royal de Blois. Her mother seems distracted with making Hever Castle as comfortable as she can, and her father, while being a gentle soul, seems stressed and sullen due to diplomatic relations, and details of Court and European business which are sent to him every other day.
Anne gazes forlornly at the linen-fold panelled walls and fresh, newly-arranged rushes on the floorboards. “My return to England has been on the summons of either my father or Wolsey.” Her chin is still up as a sense of unfairness shadows her features. “England is so dull after my experiences of the French Court.”
She misses her lifestyle abroad. It’s a long time since she has been home. I can tell by the way she looks about the place that she feels stifled, being so fresh from the cultivated hothouse of Renaissance France. She extends her hand to me and pulls me up from the floor.
“Come sit with me. There is nothing we can do, for now. Dry your eyes. All will be well, I promise. I will make it so.”
Glancing back at the stubborn door, at this moment, it dawns on me that my situation may be hopeless. The only thing, for now, is to forget about the damned portal and try again tomorrow. I’ll persist every day until the bloody thing opens.
“Take my mind off things, Anne. Tell me why you came back from France.”
She pulls me into her room. “I served Mary Tudor, the King’s sister, before transferring to the household of Queen Claude, and Father has been arranging my engagement for two years, which is why I am summoned home, in order to marry James Butler, the son of my father’s cousin, Piers Butler, who claims to be Earl of Ormond.”
From my recollections, I know that the matter of Anne’s marriage is far from certain, and Piers Butler, although considerably more distantly related to the previous Earl, is his heir male. I recall that the family had some dispute over the Ormond estate with Thomas Boleyn, and that is the apparent reason why Anne’s marriage negotiations are so protracted. She says she has never set eyes on James, yet her father seems content with the match. James Butler is young and rich enough to make a good husband, and while researching this period in the past, I admit I’ve never read anything bad about him. I think Anne trusts her uncle and father to choose well for her, but, of course, I know the match will never happen and must remind myself never to divulge it.
“I will press my father to write to Wolsey, asking him to push the King to agree to the marriage. Wolsey has a way with the King. I am sure he could settle things. I have grown impatient waiting for a decision on the match. At my age, I should have been married by now.”
She is excited to show me the small keepsake, a miniature which she keeps in a little draw in a small bedside-table. The portrait is so tiny, it is an exquisite rendition, but she holds it, staring at it as if it will help her discover what her intended is really like.
“What think you of James Butler?” she asks, handing me the little portrait. “Is he not handsom
e?”
“He’s handsome. I think your father has chosen well.” I smile as she retrieves the miniature and places it back in the drawer.
“I take the portrait out and stare at it from time to time.” Anne sighs. “My only consolation has been to read, sew, or draw, or watch mother order the servants around, while I wait for my future to unfold.” She sighs again, long and hard, groaning with resentment. “All I do is embroider, practise my riding one of father’s horse, or kick around the house in my slippers waiting for something to happen, and I loathe it!”
“But it won’t be long before your father sends word that we can join Queen Katharine. He said we would be at Court in a matter of weeks.”
“I know. Although I have my marriage to look forward to, Mother is not great company, for she bustles around the house, never having much time for me. The only thing that alleviates the monotony of the place is knowing that my brother George will soon be here with me.”
“When will that be? What’s George like?” I try to hide my enthusiasm. “Do you prefer the company of men?”
“Most of the time, although…George can be irritating.” She smiles, which is nice to see after her recent griping. “I think I will be glad of your companionship, Beth.”
I’ve been here two days now, and while I’ve tried the door many times, it remains stuck fast. Though I’m still not accustomed to my surroundings, little by little, Anne is helping me adapt to life at Hever. Right now, I’m resigned to remaining here for the foreseeable future. It’s not that I’ve accepted my unforeseen circumstances and taken to Tudor life. Hardly. Sleeping in Anne’s four-poster bed with her is weird for me. I’m so used to sleeping like a starfish in my own bed at home, not keeping to one side, or even end. What is weirder is Agnes, the servant, sleeping at the base of our bed, on a pallet pulled out from underneath. I’ve read about this practice by servants, but the reality isn’t so easy to adjust to.
I miss my modern conveniences, like having a shower, or using a toilet instead of a chamber pot, retrieved from under the bed and taken out by poor Agnes. When we aren’t caught short in the middle of the night, the family does have a water closet towards the back of the castle, near the moat. I pity the poor sod who has to clean the chamber beneath the seat. The water closet is the strangest thing to get used to, especially with all the layers of petticoats and skirts to tussle and negotiate with. On a sour note, it reminds me of the rows of wooden quarantine latrines found at Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camp. Not a helpful comparison, but the nearest one I can think of. The food is also taking some getting used to. In my twenty-first-century experience, Kentwell re-enactors are brilliant, and the details and essence of Tudor life superb, but the real thing is truly something to be believed.
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