Timeless Falcon 1

by Phillipa Vincent-Connolly

  Four

  Early Spring 1522

  I’ve tried the door to the portal on several occasions. The strange thing is that whenever I approach it, the cypher ring heats up, but not enough to become unbearably uncomfortable. It makes me wonder whether it has something to do with the portal opening? It’s a serious piece of jewellery, and I’m beginning to think that it must, in some way, be connected, yet while it remains on my middle finger, the blasted door has still failed to open, even with me twisting it round and round each time. Nothing happens. I’ve been in the sixteenth century for over seven weeks. Seven weeks! What must my family and friends think of my complete and utter disappearance? For all I know, there’s a colossal murder hunt across the nation. Or has time even passed there since I slipped through the portal? Have I taken a quantum leap into a parallel world where time moves at a different rate? The only way I’ll find an answer is to return to my twenty-first-century home and family, but that won’t happen for the foreseeable future now that my path in Tudor England has taken something of a radical turn.

  With mixed feelings, I have accepted Thomas Boleyn’s invitation to attend court. While I’m buzzing with excitement, I’m also anxious at the thought of leaving the portal, my only connection to the twenty-first century, behind. As I help Agnes and the other servants load the trunks, Anne and George are still inside, saying goodbye to their mother. The servants assist us into the litter. Agnes steps up first and sits at the curtained window on the far side. Then I nudge up next to her. She squeezes my hand, obviously aware of my anxiety.

  “Mistress Wickers, I am as nervous as you about attending Court. I will always be there to look after you and the lady Anne, and I promise that I will behave in a way that will make you both proud of me.”

  I watch the corner of her mouth turn up in a reassuring smile and consider how different Agnes’s country accent is to Anne’s French one. This sweet-natured, comforting creature has such a sensitive character and seems the most caring young woman I have ever come across. As I embrace her, she stiffens. I don’t think she knows how to take my show of affection. I can’t explain to her the reason for my nervousness, either. She must never know where I have come from.

  “You are lucky, Agnes,” I say, breaking my embrace.

  “Why might that be, Mistress?”

  “Because servants such as you can stay back in the shadows, undetected and unnoticed by important men and women. Out of any danger, so long as you do not get embroiled in the intrigues of Court.”

  “Lady Boleyn, Anne’s mother, instructed me in matters about serving at Court. I have been warned that if I do anything to distress Mistress Anne, then I will be sent home, to be a burden to my parents.”

  “Agnes, that will never happen. You have no need to fear.” Although she detects my jitteriness, she will never know it stems from the fact that I’m moving away from Hever and leaving the portal behind. It’s my only way back. The prospect of being separated from my only means of returning home – of being miles away in London – has my stomach fluttering.

  The bright spring sunshine warms the air as George and Anne appear, walking arm in arm under the portcullis and over the drawbridge. Anne enters the litter, with George’s assistance. She straightens out the knotted silks of her gown and sits on the seat opposite, while George proudly squeezes in next to me. Our journey, first to Richmond Palace, then York Place – Cardinal Wolsey’s London house – starts off somewhat arduous. The litter, like a primitive carriage, burdened with our baggage, constantly lurches from side to side. Agnes slumbers next to me, her head on my shoulder. I’m surprised she can doze with the jolting. Though bumpy, the journey hasn’t been too bad since leaving Hever, which embodies for me all that is typically English.

  The village of Edenbridge, which dominates the area, as it will do for centuries, creates a timeless contrast of church, inn, and castle, with a few typically medieval cottages dotted about, all surrounded by the lush green Kent countryside. Anne sits upright, opposite me, with a whole seat to herself. George rests against me – I can feel his body heat – and as we pass Penshurst Place on the way to Tonbridge, which is just a couple of miles from Hever, he leans across me and Agnes, reaching to pull back the curtain to stick his head out the window. His action reveals the elegant exterior of Penshurst – well, the entrance gate, at least.

  He is so close that his thigh is pressing into mine. I can’t move, trapped between Agnes and this young, virile man. He probably means nothing by such a move, and it’s possibly all in my twenty-first-century mind. I could push him away but, secretly, I’m enjoying this unintended intimacy. I know I shouldn’t, but there is something that attracts me to him. George’s over-familiarity mustn’t surprise me, because he’s so confident by nature. Perhaps that’s why I like him. I press my spine against the seat while he points out the view.

  “Penshurst Place has recently been returned to the King,” he says, gesturing to the entrance gate. “As the estate belonged to the traitor, Buckingham, Penshurst has now become the property of the Crown.” Agnes shifts in her seat without opening her eyes and rests against the side of the litter.

  “What will Henry use the house for?” I lean across Agnes to poke my head out, craning my neck for a better look, aware of the lack of space between Agnes, George and me.

  “I’m sure the King will use it as a hunting lodge. I know his friend, the Duke of Suffolk, stays here regularly.”

  We move on from the castle’s mellow stone walls, which drowse in the leafy valley of lush vegetation; a paradise of orchards and hidden gardens, its vine-shaded walks and rose gardens echoing the fragrances of a familiar England. I listen in wondrous excitement as George relays his stories of Tudor life, people, and places.

  Having explored Hever with Anne, I had been loathed to leave its rooms, but George assures me that I will find Court far more fascinating. Of course, Hever Castle is entirely different from my memories of it in modern times. There is no visitors’ centre, no shop, no Astor Wing, and none of the Tudor portraits that will be collected, and displayed centuries later hang there. Some of the original furniture that Anne and her family use daily is still in the castle in modern England, but because of the coachloads of tourists, visitors are forbidden to touch anything. For an historian-in-training like me, it is the most magical experience to see and use such artefacts in context, when they are in their prime condition.

  George witters on and on about the people we are likely to meet. He explains that he must pick up his own valet to take with him to London. Anne listens politely until she can get a word in edgeways, and Agnes starts snoring as her head rattles against the side of the litter. We all chuckle and giggle at the noises she’s making.

  “I hope you are happy, dear Beth, with the gowns and shifts I have given you,” Anne says, her words gushing with excitement. “It is only right that you have your own wardrobe at Court.”

  I almost have to pinch myself at the reality that I am living part of this history that enthrals so many of us in the twenty-first century. I keep trying to make a mental note, take pictures in my mind of every detail, of the smells, of the textures of Tudor life and wish my mobile phone, which I’ve left back at Hever tucked away with my modern clothes, would work. But there is no signal, of course, and I don’t want to waste what is left of the battery’s life. I have taken many photographs when alone, and sneakily when Anne wasn’t watching me. Imagine the stir it would cause at university if all the students knew I have actual pictures of Anne Boleyn. Trouble is, if my secret becomes common knowledge, details of the portal, and so many other things, will come-to-light. There would likely be an investigation, and I would have no evidence other than the photographs, which I’d never be able to prove were the real thing.

  “I am so very grateful.” I smile back at her, turning the ring on my index finger. I’ve been clever at hiding the cypher while in company, twisting the band, keeping the init
ials tucked beneath my finger.

  “Do not mind my sister – Anne will want you looking a poor reflection against her, as she will not want you to outshine her!”

  “George!” I thump him hard in the upper arm.

  “It is a good job I am leaving you both to travel from Tonbridge alone, otherwise by the time we reach London, I would be covered in bruises!” He laughs, eyeing me with relief.

  Anne scowls. “Father was under the impression you would escort us the whole way to Richmond, and then on to York Place.”

  “No, sister, I have business to attend to.” He traces his forefinger across his upper lip. “Besides, the driver will keep you all from harm. The country roads are peaceful in comparison to the city.”

  Anne, obviously put out, frowns at her brother all the way to Tonbridge. When we arrive at the inn, a young man steps to the door.

  “George Boleyn?” he asks as we step down from the litter.

  “Yes. You are John?”

  “Yes, sir.” John bows.

  “No need for formalities, boy. At least not until we arrive in London.” George smiles, probably tickled that he is not much older than this poor servant standing before him. He indicates which trunks are his and orders John to reload them onto another litter.

  “Sister, I will stop at the inn for an hour, share a jug of ale, then follow on with my servant. I need to acquaint him with the ways of Court, sort out his attire, and wait for horses to be prepared.”

  Anne’s mood appears to have brightened, probably because she knows George will not be far behind us. “Very well, brother, but do not tarry. Beth and I do not want to be lone travellers on the road.”

  “Do not worry, Anne, all is arranged.” He nods to the driver before embracing his sister, then kisses my hand. He laughs as colour rises in my cheeks; even with my schooling from Anne and George, I’m still not used to the ways of courtly etiquette.

  Agnes is now wide awake, having stepped out into the crisp air. “Mistress Anne, may I ride upfront, alongside the driver? It will give you and Mistress Wickers the chance to sleep if you both need to.”

  “I do not see why you cannot,” Anne replies as we step back into the litter.

  We set off again, without George, which is probably a good thing, as after an hour or so, the horses tire, so we must take a break at the side of the road, giving us time to stretch our legs, relieve ourselves behind a tree, and drink a little wine we have been saving in a leather bombard. I wonder what Rob would think if he could see me grappling with my petticoats and skirts, trying to negotiate long grass and mud underfoot!

  As we journey on, Anne and I discuss many topics, but most of all, she wants to know why historians are so interested in her.

  “Is it because I am to be a lady-in-waiting to Queen Katharine that learned men in your time discuss me?”

  I wince inwardly, wondering how I can answer her questions without revealing too much. “Mistress Anne, the Tudor Court and the reign of King Henry VIII and his heirs have a massive impact on England and its history.” I pause for a second, trying to think of what else I can say. “Anyone so connected with the Court is read, written, and debated about, even five hundred years since.”

  “So, I am studied by scholars and students? Women go to university where you come from?”

  “Yes, they do, and you are studied, Mistress Anne. Female historians, in particular, are fascinated with you.”

  She looks at me, puzzled by my comments. Reading her expression, I really feel as if I should explain.

  “Women have the same rights as men, Anne. They can make decisions, they can earn money, buy their own homes, marry whomever they choose, and even have children without marrying, should they so decide.”

  Her eyes widen at my revelations.

  “When in France,” she says, “I read the work of Christine de Pisan. She was an Italian fourteenth-century writer who became a speaker for the rights of women during her lifetime.”

  I haven’t heard of this woman before, so the fact that Anne has read some of her work sheds light on why she will become so forthright in her views, and be a mistress who will go on to say ‘no’ to a king.

  “All rights of inheritance go to men, don’t they?” I ask. “When a woman marries, all her property becomes her husband’s?”

  “Indeed, it does. Women have always been restricted where inheritance of land is concerned, and they are restricted from membership of guilds. And what of God, of faith, in your time?”

  “Well, we still have some factions within our religious beliefs in my time, as you do between Catholics and Reformers, but faith is not seen as important as it is now. We also have other religions to contend with.”

  Anne raises an eyebrow and looks dismayed at my answer.

  “We are a multicultural society, Mistress, and we have people of all faiths and races living amongst us.”

  “You mean you live alongside Saracens, such as the English fought against in The Holy Wars?”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  She stares at me in astonishment. “At present, we struggle against ancient thinking as we try to reform the Catholic faith. Father has told me that not a few days ago, Bishop Warham wrote to Wolsey, who has received letters from Oxford, and in them, Warham has written that the university is infected with Lutheranism, and many books forbidden by Wolsey are obtained and have circulation there.”

  She glances about and urges me closer with her eyes, obviously worried she might be overheard by Agnes, upfront with the driver, but the clatter of livery means no one can hear our conversation.

  “Is this where George learnt about Luther?”

  “Yes, he did, and in France. Tracts are circulating in places such as Oxford, which are things pleasant to the Lutherans beyond the sea, and a great encouragement if the two universities – Oxford, which has been void of all heresies, and the other, Cambridge, which boasts it has never been defiled – should embrace these tenets.”

  “So, literature is circulating against Catholicism?” I ask as if I didn’t know.

  “The university has requested the bishops of Rochester or London to draw up a table of Lutheran writers who are to be avoided. It seems that this new religion is beset with setbacks at this time, and I am sure any pamphlets or books smuggled in by Lutherans will be burned.”

  I concentrate on what she says, knowing how ardently she will support reform. I know George will come quite near to becoming a Lutheran, but that Anne and her father will die as orthodox Catholics – the Boleyns will become zealous for the cause of reform within the Church and, eventually, evangelical rather than Lutheran. Luther launched an attack on the Pope in 1517 by translating the Bible into German. His radical ideas spread across Germany and Europe as his doctrine of grace struck at the heart of the Catholic Church. Luther believed that people obtained eternal life, not by the church holding the keys to the gates of heaven, but through justification by faith. What is happening now is not just a war of words and manuscripts back and forth between clerics, but a battle for souls. Henry has become Defender of the Faith through arguing in written doctrines against Luther’s subversive beliefs. But the new ideas suggest that the only way to save a person’s soul is to read the word of God and to understand it in their own language.

  “Luther will make it his life’s work to ensure the Bible is available to all,” I continue, and wish I could reassure her with all that I know, but I should remain discreet and silent on matters so as not to attract attention once I’m at court.

  “Our old faith twists everything, Elizabeth. Christ crucified does not transfigure into bread. Did Jesus suggest he was a door or a vine?”

  “No, Mistress Anne, Jesus never meant that he was literally a door or a vine, or even that his body was bread or his blood wine. The Catholics have translated the word of God and changed its meaning, but everything will turn out well.
Soon there will be an English bible in black and white.” It’s not that I’m an agnostic or an atheist – I’m glad my own beliefs mean that I don’t have to keep up any pretences, having to assuage Anne that everything will be okay when the likes of Galileo and all that entails is just around the corner. For fear of alarming her, I mustn’t let her know that a sizable chunk of the modern world doesn’t believe in the ‘God’ of her world, and that science will try to go on to reveal the wonders of the universe.

  “Beth, sympathisers of an English bible being printed will face severe punishment.”

  “You wait, Anne. Things will change. Give God time. Tyndale will introduce a New Testament from Cologne three years from now, for anyone who can read the truth so that scriptures will be plainly placed before the eyes of laypeople in their mother tongue. Despite the dangers and expense of the endeavour and the quashing of the printer’s workshop, three thousand copies of the pernicious merchandise will eventually be smuggled on to our shores.”

  “Be careful, Beth, that is heresy!” she exclaims as the litter lurches. She wrings her hands and looks to the window. “Who will be so Bedlam mad to keep people in dark ignorance when they can have access to true light by reading the word of God?”

  “Mistress, it is the truth. In a few years, Tyndale will smuggle in copies of his translation of the New Testament in barrels from the ports. The book will be small enough to be hidden away in clothes, carried around surreptitiously to protect its readers because they could be tortured and sometimes executed for even possessing it.”

  Her eyes widen as she moves across the litter to sit beside me, leaning in close to ensure our conversation is exclusive. She looks at me excitedly as I carry on.

  “Tyndale’s Bible will be a translation that will have a powerful effect on your friends and relatives. The Word of God is destined to be read by all, as Tyndale’s simple language is resonant, and he keeps sentences short and simple, translated from the Greek. For the ordinary people of our country, it will be an education and a revelation. My Lady, I know it is hard now for you to imagine the effect the English translation will have on the minds of the people who read it. They will understand the stories, the conflicts, the nuances, the arguments, the characters – the difficulties in the New Testament, which will be all theirs to debate and discuss amongst themselves – even the potboy will have an opinion.” Have I said too much already? I must think of something to say to reassure her.