Timeless Falcon 1

by Phillipa Vincent-Connolly

  “Anne, you have the confidence and abilities to surpass your sister in most things.”

  “You think so, even though Mary does, from time to time, boast a manner about her that is twice as compassionate, caring, and not as capricious as Anne’s?” George asks me.

  I force back a twenty-first-century repost and make do with “Yes.”

  Anne sulks, obviously impacted by her brother’s teasing. George, of course, continues smirking at her, delighted at her irritation. He’s infuriating me now, and I wish I could distract him from the subject of our conversation. I wish he would be quiet or perhaps change the topic of discussion, but he seems to be enjoying himself too much. I grab a pomegranate from a nearby plate and throw it at him in the hope it may shut him up! To be honest, I want to knock him clean out with it, but my aim is useless, and he catches the flying fruit with ease, laughing at me. Griffin snaps at his hand but misses. It makes George laugh even more.

  “Poor Anne,” he continues, slicing open the rich fruit with a sharp knife, then slurping the juices and innards up with a smack of his lips. Considering George is thought of in his time as a man, he appears to be immature to a degree, and I clench my hands in my lap as he continues to goad Anne.

  “How will you cope with being second-best to Mary?” He smirks in Anne’s direction. “Do you think men will flock to you like they do to Mary, if and when you and Mistress Wickers both attend Court?” He chuckles rather unkindly, nearly spewing pomegranate seeds inside the opening of his shirt. “Or do you think James Butler will save you from the attention of other men, sister.” He wipes his chin with his sleeve, staining it in the process. “I am sure he will suffice in time, will he not? Father has made you a good match. I am certain you will get used to the cold in Ireland.” He looks at his sister, obviously aware that she wants the matter of her marriage fixed. His dimples dance on his cheeks as he carries on his campaign. Anne lobs a small cushion at him in retaliation, but it misses, ending up on the floor behind him. Griffin ambles to his feet, thinking it’s a game.

  “Oh, sister, do not be mad at me!” George laughs. “Although you are not yet at Court, you need not worry, dear Anne, nor you, Beth, for soon there will be many of Henry’s gentlemen waiting for both of you to just glance their way. You can encourage Henry’s Courtiers with your fine eyes, Anne, unless, of course, James has married you, and already made you his.” George glances at me. “And who could not fancy you, Beth, with your creamy blonde hair, freckles, and deep-green eyes?”

  Heat rises in my cheeks as I shift in my seat.

  “George, stop teasing Beth so. It’s not like you to make our friends feel uncomfortable.”

  “Anne, I was paying Beth a compliment!”

  “Nevertheless, she is our guest, and you must be respectful.”

  “Anne, it’s okay,” I say, almost apologising for George.

  “No, it is not. My brother is younger than you and me, and he needs to learn to be a gentleman.”

  “So, now you are both ganging up on me!”

  “No, let’s just stop this petty argument about Mary being better than Anne, or vice versa. Can we?”

  “I agree!” Anne smiles. “We two sisters have different attributes but can be equally beguiling!” She giggles.

  I think about a time to come, sometime soon, when it will be the King of England fighting for Anne’s attention, but I can’t let that gem slip. As much as I try to stop it, my blood burns my cheeks as George’s taunting continues, despite being told off. Goodness knows how this makes Anne feel, because it has me squirming in my seat. Surely this young man can’t be such a tormentor.

  “Despite my charms, brother, I will never encourage the men of the Court, and neither will Mistress Wickers.” She lifts her chin in defiance. “I am not like our sister. I do not want to have a bad reputation.”

  “I don’t think Mary wants a bad reputation.” I glance in Anne’s direction. “However, you’re right about one thing, Anne,” I say in support, “I am not looking for a man to ruin my reputation, either. I already have someone interested in me, back home.” Even so, I feel a bit perturbed by her presumptions – she hasn’t known me that long and can’t possibly know what I want.

  George stares at me, his brow raised, and Anne looks surprised, not only as I haven’t mentioned a boyfriend before, but probably because I’ve spoken up for myself.

  “I have a pre-contract, but marriage is a long way off,” I lie, thinking of Rob, whose face, I must admit, is always etched in my mind. “Anne, your brother must know your father was arranging your match when we were in France?” Hopefully, this will mislead George about my connection to his sister.

  “Yes,” Anne replies, rather bluntly. She turns to her brother. “James’s father and our father spend much time quibbling over details, protracting the arrangement, and leave me waiting. You know this.”

  “Of course, I do. I apologise for teasing you, Anne, but you must allow me to just a little, as we have not been in each other’s company for such a time.” A hint of a smile turns the corner of Anne’s mouth – she understands her brother’s humour far more than me and, I think, enjoys teasing him a little, too.

  Small flames hiss and crackle from the burning wood in the grate and hot tongues spit when George tosses the gutted pomegranate into the hearth. He then leans forward and offers me a plate of sweetmeats, which I refuse, passing them on to Anne, who sits daydreaming beside me. She nibbles at her selection, sliding the morsel into her cheek and chewing it fast, probably hoping she has time to eat it before being called to speak again.

  “On a serious point, though, can you imagine our sister in the arms of Henry Tudor?” George asks her. “Because I am not sure I can.”

  Anne rolls her eyes at me, then shaking her head at George, infuriated by his persistence. “To be honest, I do not want to, brother!”

  “Please George, have we not discussed Mary enough?” I plead. He shrugs, and my mind wanders as I consider what the king might look like. Would he be portly, like his Holbein portrait, or athletic, tall, and virtuous, as Suzannah Lipscomb describes him during her talks and television programmes? The thought of meeting Henry VIII in the flesh frightens me, and I wonder how Mary manages to lure a man like him, let alone keep him.

  Anne swallows her treat and sniffs. “George, I do not want to imagine Mary even kissing our King.”

  “I think it is Mary’s virtuous and sweet nature that arouses the King’s interest,” I say, knowing what I know of Mary Carey.

  George looks at me beneath his brows. “Unless King François has lied, telling Henry what Mary might be like in bed?” He tries to stifle his laughter.

  “George, I cannot believe you would suggest that!” I glare at him.

  “I swear it must be that, Beth, for I am surprised she can summon up anything of interest to say. The trouble is, I find Mary far too obliging, fair, and kind. I expect when in royal company, she cannot match the conversation of the King in matters of politics, religion, or music.”

  “George, please stop it! I am sure she amuses the King in her own way.” Anne’s dark eyes glint with a mischievous light. “Besides, we do not know that Mary entertains the King in the way you insinuate. She has only received a summons from him, that is all. I have told you repeatedly that I do not believe any of these salacious rumours, which you seem to relish in retelling.” She must know something is going on with King Henry from what Mary said to her when she received the summons, but I’ll keep my mouth shut – it’s the best way. George, however, insists on continuing the conversation.

  He clears his throat and sits back. “Henry will not care what she says or does, so long as she opens her legs and allows him his freedom with her.” He laughs, his beautiful amber eyes reflecting the firelight. “The sharpest ambitions are conceived in the softest pouches, or so Uncle Norfolk says.” He watches me, aware from precedence that I take o
ffence at his remarks, as does Anne. I grimace, but it doesn’t prevent him from amusing himself at my expense. Young George Boleyn enjoys winding me up! I need to remember how young he still is. Even so, I’d have thought his time at Court so far would have made him more mature? Perhaps, it’s all the excitement of being home, catching Anne up with all the gossip.

  With all this banter to the detriment of women, the game of courtly love seems a dangerous one for any courtier to play – I hope not to have to participate in it during my time with the Boleyns, although George insists on practising with me. My attention is still on him, though I try my best not to meet his smug gaze.

  Anne sees my discomfort and her chin raises again. “Everyone talks of Mary. Mother, Father, Grandmama. No one talks of me, and I have been away the longest!” She scowls at George. “Mary must be ambitious for this family, and that is why she might accept an invitation to the King’s bed. If she goes to the King’s bed. You are rude, George, insulting our dear sister. There is no reason for you to be so unkind.”

  George pouts like a child, knowing he’s in the wrong. It is a sight I find easy to like.

  “Both of you need not concern yourselves with Mary. I have heard that the King’s liaisons are soon over,” I say. “Is that true?”

  “The King has not had many mistresses that we know of, except Bessie Blount.” Anne nods. “Mary will stay in William’s bed, you will see,” Anne answers. She shakes her head. “I tell you; I do not believe Mary will succumb to the King!” Her defiant arguing is a ploy to remove George from the scent. From what I heard of her conversation with her sister when I hid behind the bed, Anne knows full well that Mary would never consider turning down the king if an invitation to share his bed arose. Mary admitted it.

  “Ooooh, I think I have annoyed my sister, Beth. What say you?”

  “You have hacked us off with your unsavoury comments, George. Anne is right about you – you are unkind.”

  He stares back, understanding my meaning, even if he doesn’t recognise the phrase I use. Anne glares at me, and I realise that I should remember to be more sixteenth century. It’s not so easy blending in, but spending time with these siblings is a big help.

  I’ve read that George had a way with women, which I can well believe – Anne has told me he flirts with the female servants, but he isn’t at his best here. I’ve encountered online reports by Retha Warnicke that he was also attracted to men but observing the way he ogles me, homosexuality seems unlikely. Besides, neither George nor Mark Smeaton were charged with treason – set out in the Buggery Act of 1533 – when they were arrested in 1536. I shudder at the thought, of the arrest, not the treason. Watching George at this moment, I’m sure he can’t be gay. In saying that, one never really knows.

  Sitting with him now, I don’t doubt his ability to entice women, as he is good-looking: dark like Anne, but with his mother’s gentle features – an irresistible combination. Both Mary and George, it seems, are attractive to the opposite sex, while Anne has confided in me that suitors, despite the licentiousness of François’ side of the French Court, never lured her. Claude raised Anne in her circle to act virtuously and chaste. I wonder if she’s still a virgin. I almost roll my eyes at that – I must remember not to judge Anne or her sister by twenty-first-century standards.

  “As I said,” George says to me, obviously deciding to continue, “you cannot blame a man for taking a fancy to any young, and beautiful women. Not when the prize could be so delightful.”

  I wish George would just shut up! He’s difficult to ignore with his crude remarks, and I force my thoughts towards Mary’s husband. “My sympathies are with William Carey, not his wife. I’m sure he hates the rumours that are circulating and must find it difficult hearing that Mary might have been with the French King, before him. What must he be feeling? They’ve not been married a long time, have they?”

  “William and Mary married last year, in the Chapel Royal at Greenwich Palace,” Anne says, unaware that I would know the exact date.

  “Carey is an Esquire of the Body,” George states. “A relative and close friend of the King, which made it a pre-requisite that Henry attend the wedding.”

  “The King made an offering at the ceremony,” Anne says. “Even though I did not return home for her nuptials, Mary wrote to me, telling me all about it.”

  “What kind of offering?” I ask.

  “A financial one, and very generous, too,” Anne replies. I remember having read that Henry was known to make financial offerings to family who wed but have no idea of the amount given to William and Mary.

  George pokes at the fire. “William Carey shares the King’s appreciation of art, is assembling his own collection, and has introduced the Dutch artist, Lucas van Horenbolte to the Court.”

  Anne stares at her brother for a moment, then turns to me. “I must assure you, Beth, that the marriage of Mary to William has been no hasty affair, and never designed to cover up any interest the King might have in her.”

  “I believe you, Anne,” I say.

  George throws another log on the fire, then prods the embers back to life. He sits back and takes us in. “Indeed, William Carey is a great match for Mary, he always was. As well as holding one of the most coveted positions in the royal household, he is a major figure at Court, and is in high favour with the King.” George speaks ten to the dozen, rambling on, before stuffing another portion of sweetmeats into his mouth.

  “We know William is not the first husband to be so used by the King, if indeed Mary may go to the Henry’s bed.” Anne glares once again at her brother. “And if Henry were to use his wife, and make a cuckold of him, he will probably not be the last.”

  George rubs Griffin’s head. “To be cuckolded by a king is no insult, Anne. William should be grateful. If the King wants to honour such a man by using his wife, regardless of her marriage, he will have her, and besides, we do not even know if the King has so honoured our sister by taking her to his bed, do we?”

  “So far, brother, as I have repeated before, Mary has decided to accept an invitation to Court, nothing more.”

  “Would Mary hold the King at arm’s length to save her marriage?” I ask, approaching the situation from my modern standpoint.

  George smiles. “Only if she wishes to cling to what remains of her chaste reputation.”

  “So, you think the King will just talk with Mary in his privy chambers?” My tone reveals my exasperation.

  “Probably not,” he says, his eyes glinting once more. “Not going by the King’s reputation with women, anyway.”

  Anne gasps. “George, are you suggesting the King is not honourable when it comes to women?”

  “The King makes demands of women, like any man,” George replies, his manner matter of fact.

  “Do you think Mary would refuse the King if he asks? Surely Father would disown her if she did not have the strength of character to refuse him, would he not?”

  “My dear sister, please.” George shakes his head and looks to the ceiling. “You think Father would never speak to Mary again if she became the King’s mistress? Admittedly, Father is not as ambitious as our Uncle Norfolk, and he would certainly never deliberately push Mary in the King’s way.” He leans towards his sister. “Look, Carey has a good position, but his family is not very rich. Mary’s dowry has been spent and, as a family, we must use this situation to our benefit. Father is realistic enough to know that even if Mary refuses the King, as one of Henry’s most trusted ambassadors, the family would never lose its royal connection, but to save face, he will need to make sure Mary does not refuse Henry, even if he hates the idea of her being in the King’s bed. He must make sure the King is pleased with our sister. The King usually looks after his whores and pays well for a virgin’s sweet cherry.”

  I roll my eyes, fully aware that as a married woman, Mary could no longer be a virgin.

  Yawning, I w
atch as Anne flings another cushion, this time hitting her target. She is furious with her brother, as she knows, as does he that the family has been on the rise for years.

  “I do not like the fact that you underestimate Father’s standing at court, and as a diplomat in France. Do you not remember how Father was rushed in, led by the hand of Louise of Savoy, to greet Queen Claude when she was in confinement?”

  “Yes, how could I forget?” George strokes Griffin, who rests its head against his leg. “I know Father is a man of influence and wields enormous respect.” His grin lights up his face, knowing well of his father’s diplomatic efforts. Neither George nor Anne underestimate Boleyn’s standing a court, in England and abroad. George knows that the elevation of the family has nothing to do with the king’s interest in his eldest sister. Thomas Boleyn is Treasurer of Henry’s household – he doesn’t need his girls in any royal bed.

  Anne sighs, pulling at her dressing-gown sleeves. “George, Father would never allow Mary to be so used and would certainly never encourage it. Now, can we stop all this talk of our sister?”

  “I agree, Anne,” I say. “Let’s change the subject.” I’m shocked by George’s statements and his manners. How can he speak of his own sister in such a way? I wonder if it’s perfectly normal for the men of this period to talk of their women in such a manner. If it is, this is something of a behavioural revelation to me, but how could I take it back to my time and prove it? If I included it in an assignment, how could I back it up?

  Mary’s virginity must have been lost to her husband, and will her honour eventually be lost to the King? Maybe I shouldn’t pry. My mind drifts back to what I’ve read of Henry. Has he really got this overwhelming presence, so many of his contemporaries described? I need to make out that I know nothing about the history of Tudor England, so that I come across as if I’m living in the moment. Maybe I can portray myself as a weak and feeble woman? Maybe, I can ask George to shed some light on life at the English Court. I catch his eye.