Timeless Falcon 1

by Phillipa Vincent-Connolly

  With Thomas and Mary now returned to Court in London, and George arriving from Oxford, I have some time to spend with Anne, who has been helping me work on my new dialect and curtseying.

  “Where are we going?” I ask as I follow her through the hallway.

  “To find George,” she answers. “Mother has just told me he is home!” Her eyes sparkle with excitement as we take the stairs. “George has been considered a man since his fifteenth birthday.” Adulthood appears to start early in these Tudor times. “He is well-educated, having attended Oxford, and can speak some Italian as well as Latin and French.” I know from my studies that, as children, the Boleyn siblings spent little time together – usual for the period.

  As we walk into the long gallery, I see a man leaning against a windowsill as the sun streams through the panes of coloured glass, causing rainbows of iridescent light to illuminate the copper tones in his dark hair.

  “You look beautiful, sister, as ever,” he says as we approach.

  So, this is George. I must admit to being impressed, at least by his looks and stature. His gaze rests on Anne. Then, as we draw closer, he looks me up and down, admiring my borrowed, French-styled clothes.

  “He is a decent, intelligent young man,” Anne whispers. “Just be yourself, and he will like you.” To the untrained eye, he looks as if his only concern is himself and enjoying life. “Do not be fooled by his appearance,” she says as if she has read my mind. “He agrees with me on matters concerning reform and has strong religious convictions, though he leans closer to the teachings of Martin Luther than I do.”

  George takes his sister’s hand, confidently pulling her towards him before placing an affectionate kiss on her cheek.

  “Brother.” She puts a hand on his shoulder. “It feels like forever since I have seen you.”

  “Indeed, sister. Not since the King’s great celebrations near Calais.”

  “The Field of Cloth of Gold?” I say.

  “Yes, indeed,” he answers, scrutinising me.

  “I am sorry, George. Let me introduce you to my friend and companion, Mistress Elizabeth Wickers.”

  George takes my hand and presses his soft lips to my skin. “I am pleased to meet you.” He holds me momentarily under his gaze, his eyes twinkling above a mischievous half-smile. “You have fine, green eyes. Most beautiful.”

  Heat flushes through my cheeks. What can I say about George? George Boleyn is a character, and even more flamboyant than Anne. Nearly eighteen, the youngest of the siblings, he is the most charming of them all and seems like a terrible flirt. His personality is much like his clothes: colourful, over-the-top, exuberant, and a little foolish. He stands about five-foot, nine inches, with dark hair like his sister’s and incredibly piercing amber eyes. His demeanour is so mesmerising that I’m finding it difficult to concentrate. It’s also challenging, as our meeting progresses, to dodge his questions about my connections to his family. He seems keen to know how I became a companion to his sister. Also, I’m not overly used to admiration from the opposite sex, and blush every time he pays me a compliment, which he finds immensely amusing, teasing me terribly as I try to dismiss his interest. Anne grows exasperated with him for making me feel uncomfortable.

  “You know,” she whispers, when we are out of earshot, “you need to keep your composure around my brother. It is important to be gracious to him always. And you must never reveal our story.”

  She takes George’s arm as we walk through the long gallery, a room I have fallen in love with during visits to Hever back in the twenty-first century. The pair seem close, and George appears to be his sister’s confidant and friend. I watch them, wondering if the accusations made against them in years to come have any truth. At this present moment, it appears not. This seems a healthy, supportive, and loving relationship between a brother and sister. Thank God! With the sun fading outside, I hear his every word as he leads her to the central window-seat.

  “Has Father told you about the latest rumours at Court concerning our sister?” he whispers. I pretend not to listen, gazing into the gardens below from the next window.

  “No, brother.” Anne grimaces. “Mary has confided to me that she has been asked to be a lady-in-waiting to the Queen.” She nods. “I also read the confirmation of it in King’s letter, commanding Mary return to Court.”

  “I have heard that the King wants her as his mistress!”

  “No, George. The letter simply asked Mary to attend Court to serve the Queen.” Anne frowns at her brother. “If Mary is attending Court under some other command, she will bring disgrace on the Boleyn name and will be referred to as a prostitute, if she does not take care.”

  George looks serious. “People will only call Mary such names because of the rumours which circulated a few years ago, about her sharing the bed of the French King.”

  “No, Mary never did that! I have heard that rumour, too, I grant you, though I never believed it. Besides, Father was with us constantly, on diplomatic duties. I think he would have known if she had slept with François. Father sent her home to protect her reputation.”

  “I know Father sent Mary home earlier than you, but courtiers think the rumours must be true, sister.”

  Anne lowers her eyelids, and I discern a hint of a headshake. “George, stop this nonsense! I cannot believe you are discussing our sister in such a way. Courtiers might believe gossip, but I would never believe such a thing of her. Mary never cavorted with François. I heard the French king had tried to kiss her and asked her to his chamber, but she had refused him. Mary was discreet.” She looks at her brother. “Even though she is my elder sister, I can assure you, she never said anything to me directly about the French King, apart from the fact he had propositioned her. Besides, I warned her how to deal with men, just as Marguerite of Austria warned me.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “That gentlewomen in our position must, always, remember who we are, or the honour of our family and their hopes for our futures may almost certainly be at stake.”

  “And?” George urges, leaning in closer.

  “I told Mary it is up to us, as ladies of the Court, whether it be French or English, to rein in the lusts of men, so they be civilised gentleman, suitably behaved in the presence of royalty. Marguerite advised us about courtly love. We were to flirt, encourage, and even bestow favours – to a point.”

  George fails to stifle a chuckle. “But the ultimate prize,” he says, laughing again, “is a woman’s…virginity.”

  Anne thumps him. “A woman’s virtue, as you know, is the greatest gift any woman can give to her husband.”

  “But the trouble with Mary is that she is too easily led by men.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “I know what most noble ladies are like.” I try to stop myself glaring at George. “And because I know Mary.” He continues, “She loves to please people, but, most of all, she loves to please men.” He glances about, and though I’m only a few feet away, I feel almost invisible. I never imagined George would be so rude, unkind and downright insulting about his own sisters.

  “I too am shocked sister, that such rumours of François still fly about, especially when this ‘affair’ happened two years ago.” Now he’s trying to redeem himself!

  “I swear François may have been persistent!” Anne answers, “But…Mary assured me at the time that nothing happened!”

  “Are you sure she did not succumb to his royal charms?” George replies as if he’s waiting for Anne to interrupt him. “I know it was Father’s reputation and high standing with the king that meant he managed to marry her off respectably to William Carey, without a struggle, but I cannot help but wonder if there was truth in the rumours, especially if it is true that Henry now has his eye on her!”

  “George, I heard about the incidents with François from Mary when we were at the French Court together,
but that does not mean that just because François took a fancy to her, that Henry now set his sights on her too.” She tuts at George. “Father was much relieved that François’ pursuit of our sister didn’t ruin her marriage prospects, but she was discreet enough to not discuss the French King, except with Father and me.” She takes a deep breath and sighs. “You only had to see how François looked at her to know he wanted something to go on between them.” George raises both eyebrows and nods.

  “Besides,” Anne continues, “Mary was considered sport by François, all the women at the French Court were, except his wife, of course!” Anne grumbles, “Father did very well in securing her marriage, the negotiations were advantageous, George.” The corners of Anne’s mouth curl. “Even though William Carey is a man of small fortune, he owns land and is reasonably connected at the English Court. Besides, you have seen how they are happy together.”

  The hint of a smile pulls at George’s mouth. “It is true she loves William, but it is rumoured that our King fancies our sister, regardless of her marriage, would it not be possible that she might fancy the king too?”

  “Brother, you presume too much!” Anne grumbles. “I have told you; Mary has been ordered back to Court to serve Queen Katharine.”

  Anne stiffens. “The King will not look at our sister, not in that way. Henry wants her at Court to be a servant. A lady of the royal household, nothing more. She is respectable, now that she is a married woman. William will no doubt hope that Mary will start a family with him soon. I should like to become an aunt.” She frowns. “It would not do to have these rumours repeating, of her having been a mistress to King François, when she was nothing of the sort, let alone that she might become a mistress to our King.”

  I know Anne is telling half-truths to her brother, and I sigh, thinking of the conversation I heard between Mary and her the day of my arrival. Everyone speaks in whispers here – it takes some getting used to. I edge closer.

  George laughs. “It seems Mary Carey enjoys collecting monarchs, as one might collect Aesop’s fables.”

  “Stop it, brother, you are cruel to speak of Mary so. I will not believe she ever slept with King François. I swear, she never accepted his advances, and if she had, I believe she would have told me. No, you add to the gossip, which is all rumour, brother, I assure you. Our sister’s reputation will be in ruins if these lies carry on.” She sighs and wrings both hands, probably concerned that her sister’s reputation might also reflect poorly on her.

  I clear my throat. “Maybe Mary feels that if she promises herself to King Henry, she would be doing her courtly duty?”

  Anne snaps a look at me. “Now you presume too much!” She glares at me. “Mary has done nothing of the sort, and if she has, she needs to learn her duty by remaining faithful to her husband!”

  That shuts me up. I need to learn not to allow my knowledge of their lives to drive my behaviour. Watching these two in conversation, they indeed appear close, and George seems happy to listen to Anne, although at times he loves to make fun of her.

  After a light supper of bread and soup, which I must force myself to eat – it is served so differently to modern recipes – Anne and I retire. As I munch on a smuggled piece of gingerbread, I realise that it tastes better than some I’ve had when re-enacting. They don’t quite meet the standard of this Tudor one. I must keep this in mind for my next re-enactment if I ever get back home.

  As we are now accustomed to doing, Anne and I closet ourselves in her bed-chamber, away from everyone else in the castle, change into our dressing gowns, in the style of the one Christina of Denmark wears in her full-length portrait by Holbein. They are not just for wearing in the bed-chamber and are slightly less formal than the French style. Anne calls her bedroom her little sanctum, and we sit with their beloved family wolfhound, Griffin, discussing the events of the day – in this case, Mary – but before long, George pops his head in, making his way into the room so he can be the centre of attention. He stands before the hearth, poking and nudging the slumbering coals back to life.

  “You do not mind me joining you?”

  “No, George,” Anne replies, closing her eyes for a moment.

  “I thought you would both be getting ready to turn in for the night, but I know you are still discussing Mary. Do not deny it.”

  “We were discussing you!” Anne responds.

  “Do not lie, sister. You were discussing Mary, I know it!”

  “We might have been talking about Mary, what of it?” Anne replies.

  “One would think you are jealous, sister.”

  Anne glares at him. “I am not jealous!”

  “You are jealous!” George chuckles. “Jealous of Mary already being married. Jealous that she attracts the attention of kings.”

  “No, brother!” Anne grimaces. “My time will come to marry.” She’s not wrong, but she doesn’t know it. I try to stifle a giggle, and they both look in my direction. Nevertheless, George persists.

  “The King fancies himself with all the young, beautiful women of the Court,” he says, chuckling to himself. “Henry Tudor loves to flirt!” George is certainly cheeky. “And it cannot be denied that dear Mary does attract male attention. The King’s attention.”

  “Brother, you must relent and take up another pursuit.”

  He smirks at Anne, steps over Griffin, throws himself back into a chair, and stretches his feet towards the flames as the rekindled fire licks the chimney breast. “Mary is beautiful to look at – that you cannot dispute. Her features are pleasing on the eye, unlike the Spanish women at Court, who are dull, and never as pretty as our English girls.” He laughs. “Besides, Mary isn’t cursed with your dark eyes, slender neck, and continental air.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Anne bristles, glaring back at him. “I do not look Spanish!” I get the impression she knows very well that he’s teasing her. She sits straight, her neck seeming to stretch even more. “Some have said my features are alluring.”

  “I meant nothing by it,” George says, waving her irritation away. “I know my friend Wyatt thinks you are alluring!” Witnessing these two hurling barbs at one another reminds me of attending Wimbledon with my dad when we watched several fierce rallies. George and Anne make me feel as if I need to referee.

  “Brother, do not talk to me of Tom Wyatt!” Anne replies.

  “Anne definitely doesn’t look Spanish, George. French, perhaps, but never Spanish,” I remark, defending my friend, before finishing the last bite of my gingerbread – a useful stalling device to focus on my new Tudor-speak. “You know very well that a certain kind of physical beauty is not always essential – her wit and intellect, as well as her Frenchified manners, so different from the English and Spanish women at Court, will stand Anne in good stead, if and when she attends. Besides, I am led to believe Mary is not as well read, nor as accomplished, although she may be able to compete in terms of her beauty, even excel beyond Anne in that regard, concerning the attention of men.”

  “No, you are right. Beauty is not always essential,” he smirks, “but, my goodness, does it not help?” George stares at me, probably wondering why I’m such an authority on his sisters.

  “Well, yes.” I reply.

  “Indeed, Anne is cosmopolitan, I’ll grant you. And you are right, Mary may excel with her beauty, but she cannot compete with my younger sister’s European education.”

  Anne shrugs, opening her palms and raising them towards George as if to suggest to her brother, I am here.

  I glance in her direction. “Mary went to France, but not for as long as you, is that right?”

  “That is so,” she says, nodding once. “She did not stay, once the Duchess of Suffolk returned home.”

  I giggle to myself over how they often give the full title of everyone, probably because they think I won’t understand who they’re talking about. How little they know!

&nbs
p; “As I said, Mistress Wickers, my sister Mary was never allowed the same opportunities as Anne. Granted, she spent some time in France, but Father knew Mary’s looks rather than her intellect would stand her in greater stead in finding a husband.” He chuckles. “Besides, Father had heard the rumours about King François and dragged Mary home for the protection of her reputation!”

  “No, George, that is not entirely true! We spoke of this earlier. Mary was sent home because she was not asked to stay on in France, as I was.” For the time, I imagine that was such an accolade for Anne. Being invited to any court, as a lady in waiting, must have been the Tudor equivalent of finding fame. “Do you think I am more of a catch than our sister?” Anne continues.

  “Yes, of course, but for your intelligence and wit, rather than your features!” He laughs, but avoids her glare, probably hoping he hasn’t overstepped the mark. George is good at giving back-handed compliments. I’ll have to watch out for that. I’m glad he agrees with me, about Anne being the more attractive of the two sisters, and I’m relieved that I haven’t revealed too much of what I know of them from my research. I’m fair-haired, but surely George can’t suggest that a full-bosomed, blonde-haired beauty is the only ideal woman and option for a man. From the way he describes Mary, you’d think she was the Tudor equivalent of Marilyn Monroe. I reassure Anne that brunettes can also be attractive. This will not be the Tudor version of gentlemen preferring blondes.