Before we can debate anymore, the waitress finally turns up, placing our meals under our noses. The steam rising from our dishes brings with it a beautiful bouquet of flavours, and my stomach rumbles again as I cut the steak to take my first bite. Not a word is heard from either of us as we tuck into our food, until Rob starts to talk.
“I’ve just got to say, this is delicious.” He swallows his food before forking up another mouthful. I giggle at his terrible table manners. When we finish, I push my cutlery to the centre of my plate and relax against the high-backed bench.
Rob fidgets with his napkin. “Beth, I, um…brought you here for more than just the food. I want to ask you something.” He looks so nervous, which is strange because he’s usually a confident person.
“What is it?” I ask, not sure if I want to hear what he has to say.
“We get on well, don’t we?”
“Silly. Of course, we do. Why do you ask?”
He bites his bottom lip. “You know I really like you?”
“Yes.” Heat rushes to my face, and I know I’ve gone a deep red.
“Well, how would you feel if I was to ask you if we could date each other regularly?”
I wasn’t expecting this. He wants to date me. Me? So many of the girls on our course have been trying to date him for a year or more, yet he wants me?
“I’m flattered, but I’m not really sure I have time for a relationship, what with our workload.” It’s not that I want to say no, it’s just that it seems selfish of me to say yes to a relationship, to then realise I don’t have the time for one. Maybe I’m unsure because of George. What a mess. Although I could keep my options open, couldn’t I? After all, I’m a modern girl. Well, most of the time.
“Maybe you’re right,” he says, shrugging. “Could we take it more casually then? See how that goes.” He motions to the waitress for the bill.
“I don’t see why not.” I smile. “I wouldn’t want you getting jealous of the time I spend studying. It’s not fair on anyone.”
“You’re right, as usual, and I do have to study, too.” He nods – I think more to himself than me. He takes the last gulp of his lager and places the empty glass on the table. “Shall I walk you home?”
“Yes, come on then.” I grab my coat and scarf, putting them on as we head out into the cold evening air. The sky is filled with a thousand stars and the moonlight dances on the surface of the ponds opposite the pub, the water reflecting the nightscape’s speckled brilliance. Rob puts his jacket on as he strides along beside me. This time, however, his hands are not stuffed in his pockets. He offers me one to hold, his touch warm and secure – his romantic gesture flushing heat through my cheeks. We keep up a brisk pace, the streetlights illuminating our way.
When we arrive outside my garden gate, Rob is still holding my hand, but now faces me.
“Shall I see you tomorrow? What’s your timetable like?”
“I think I have a mentor meeting with Professor Marshall about my last few assignments.” I know this is the only way I’ll be able to have access to the portal to see if it will work its magic again.
“Can I catch you later on, then?” he asks, looking down at me.
“Yep, no problem.” I smile. “But don’t text me, I’ve mislaid my phone.”
“I’ll find you,” he says, leaning in for a kiss, which I wasn’t expecting. His soft lips brush against mine and from the corner of my eye, I see the silhouette of my mother as she peers through the net curtains of the living-room window. With that, I pull away and the metal grates as I lift the latch on the gate.
I giggle. “Don’t look to your right, but we have my mother watching our every move.”
“Oh, God. Sorry.” He turns bright scarlet, not knowing quite what to do.
“I’d best go in. I shall see you tomorrow.” I swing the gate open and make a dash for the front door as Rob gets into his car, starts the engine, and drives away. Mum and Dad greet me in the hallway before I have a chance to make a run for my bedroom. Mum is full of smiles, pressing for information, while Dad stands beside her, quietly, looking apologetic, as if not wanting to embarrass me.
Dad, well, he is the most conventional of my parents. A socialist civil servant, who works in the office of the Leader of the Opposition. Contrary to his affiliations, he dresses impeccably and, if not working, always has his nose deep in The Times. He is politically astute and, when not in the city, spends his days just being…Dad – a most charming, clever man, and my hero. His mind is forever on other things, although I’ve never discovered what.
“Your sister has just left,” he says. Joanna, or Jo-Jo as she likes to be called, is the opposite of me: a single mum, with elfin eyes, pink T-shirts, and eternally bare feet – she tends to be even more eccentric than the rest of my peculiar family.
“I’m sorry I’ve missed her. I didn’t know she was coming round.” I smile. “Is she okay?”
“Yes, darling, she’s fine,” Dad replies. He wanders into the kitchen, grabs a bar of chocolate from the cupboard, breaks off a couple of squares, and bites into it as Mum continues to stand in the hallway, beginning her tirade of questions.
“So, you do have a boyfriend!” She smirks, locking the front door behind me.
“Mum, he’s just a mate.” Dad has wandered back into the lounge to find his newspaper. From his demeanour, I can tell he isn’t impressed with Mum’s interrogation of me.
“You looked more than mates from where I was standing.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have been spying.” I enjoy telling her off. I don’t get to do it too often.
“Will you stay up for a nightcap with us?”
“No, I’m off to bed. I’m shattered. Will you say goodnight to Dad for me?”
“Yes, of course.” She smiles. “Night, darling.” She kisses my cheek and, as I make my way up the stairs, calls out after me. “Love you!”
Finally, in the quiet of my room, I collapse on the bed, only to be meowed at by Rutterkin, who reprimands me for spoiling his sleep. He has been comatose in my duvet where I left him earlier this evening. My bag of stuff sits at the foot of my bed, full with provisions for my next adventure. I’m ready to face Tudor England once more. Will it be ready for me?
Eight
Richmond Palace, London – September 1522
After my discussion with the professor, I resolve wholeheartedly to return to Henry VIII’s Court at Richmond Palace. I used the ring as Professor Marshall directed. Once back in his office, dressed in my Tudor-re-enactors’ costume, I twist and press the ring, thinking of Anne and where she might be in 1522. I last saw her at Richmond Palace. I’ll think of that and hope to return to the same point in time, but the process seems to be more random than I wish. With one twist of the ring, it’s as if I take off in my head, with everything around me swirling and tumbling, until I am here, out of breath, still clutching my bag to my breast.
To regain my equilibrium, I sit on the grass beneath the golden foliage of a large oak tree and marvel at the sight of the Royal residence that dominates the lush landscape between what must be Richmond Green and the River Thames – its white stone beckoning me in the bright sunlight. The octagonal towers, capped with pepper-pot domes, are magnificent with their delicate strapwork and brass weathervanes. I’m dying to get to the palace, and hope the ring has done its work and I’ll be re-united with my mistress. But I am glad to catch my breath for just a minute under the dappled shade, as the branches rustle and whisper in the light breeze.
My chest is tight, my side sore. Did I lace my kirtle too tight? The rough bark scratches me as I arch and stretch my back against the tree trunk, somewhat alleviating the tension between my shoulder blades. My lungs fill with the most-pristine fresh air, so alien to the London I come from.
Time to get moving. Amber leaves crunch beneath my soles as I cross the grass, which splays out like a
green blanket before me. I straighten my hood and adjust my cloak, then lift the hem of my skirts so they don’t trail in the mud. If Gina could see me now, in her creation, in Tudor England, she really wouldn’t believe it! When I reach the stony track that leads towards the palace entrance, the sun hides behind a cloud, stealing the cheering warmth from my cheeks.
The redbrick walls rise towards me as I approach the palace gates. All this Tudor architecture excites me, and I’m reminded of reading at the archives at Kew, in the ‘Great Chronicle’, that in 1506 a fire broke out in King Henry VII’s chamber, destroying the room but luckily not damaging the structure of the building itself.
On the opposing side of the castle entrance, there are a few small, round tents erected, with people sitting outside peddling their wares. Beggars approach the main gates but are unceremoniously chided and given their marching orders.
A range of double-storey, brick-built apartments – with half-turrets at intervals along the outer wall – extend for almost the full length of the frontage facing me. Once I’m within touching distance, I brush my hand along the bricks, stare at their beauty, and think of how Henry VIII, then a prince, had also escaped death by fire within these same walls. I’d read an account from 1507, that the teenage Prince Henry had just finished walking through the galleries when, for no reason, they collapsed, almost killing the would-be king. Furious, he had the builders imprisoned and the whole palace renovated.
I’m jolted from my thoughts when I’m prodded by a man, I assume to be the gatekeeper. His clothes are dull, dark wool, and the only signs of his hierarchy is the Tudor rose embroidered on his chest, and his crisp, white linen collar poking up from his doublet. He rubs his chin and hacks up a wad of phlegm, which he proceeds to spit into the nearby grass. Gross. The last thing I want is to become sick here, so I try not to get too close in case he has a cold.
“My Lady.” He looks me up and down, staring at my gown. “Who might your business be with, here at Richmond?” He pulls me closer to him, to allow for a group of courtiers leading horses on reins to be ushered through. One or two of the visitors doff their caps, but their faces aren’t familiar. I nod in acknowledgement. The gatekeeper, his hand now resting on the hilt of his small sword, pulls his cheeks in, waiting for me to reply.
“Well?”
“I am come to see Mistress Anne Boleyn.” I give him my best smile in the hope that he’ll wave me through the gate. Swords rattle as they clip brickwork, and livery colours and luxurious damasks flash against the redness of the walls as visitors hurry past me and are questioned by servants, who direct them on.
“Is Mistress Boleyn expecting you?” He threads his thumbs beneath the leatherwork of his belt and stares at me. He’s obviously a busy man, and suspicious of anyone he doesn’t know.
“Yes,” I lie.
“Well then, go and find Sir Henry Guildford, and he will take you to the privy lodgings and to your mistress.”
“Thank you, sir.”
With that, he hurries past me, barking orders at servants and interrogating those who should not be so close to the palace. My heart pounds as I walk beneath the gate-house, and I’m surprised to find myself in an expansive cobbled courtyard called the ‘Great Court’, which is not dissimilar to ‘Base Court’ at Hampton Court Palace, as it is in my time. The Great Court has redbrick buildings on the east, west, and north sides. On the east side is the palace wardrobe, where the soft furnishings are stored, while on the west are rooms for officials and courtiers.
I follow the flagstone path. Courtiers to the left of me tether their horses against the lodgings, giving orders to the stable hands. Hoofs clip the cobbles and tails flap, swiping flies as the animals wait to be fed and watered. As I head towards the middle gate, which is turreted and adorned with the stone figures of two trumpeters, I see familiar faces and hope one of the Boleyns might be amongst them. However, it’s not to be. Courtiers and servants hurry everywhere. I pass through the gate and into Fountain Court, pulling my bag closer as I go. In this bustle, I must look lost, because as I enter another central courtyard, Sir Henry Guildford, flanked by other court officials, notices me. I recognise him because of his portly stature, so expertly captured in Holbein’s painting.
He strides towards me, passing the Great Hall. Sir Henry Guildford, the comptroller of the household and master of the horse, makes a short bow and politely smiles, oozing confidence. He is a well-dressed gentleman in sumptuous velvets of gold and green, his chain of office dazzling in the intermittent sunlight. I guess he is in his early thirties – middle-aged for the time. His cheeks are ruddy, his eyes dark brown, and he has a cleft in his chin. He wears his hair in the straight fashion, long enough to help disguise his undefined jowls. On the other side of the courtyard, the chapel’s bells peal out a charming sound every so often, calling those who wish to observe daily Mass.
“Mistress, can I help you?” he asks. “My name is Henry Guildford. I usually reside at Leeds Castle as Comptroller of His Majesty’s household.” He is animated and appears to enjoy letting me know exactly who he is. I dip a small curtsey in deference, which he seems to appreciate.
“Sir Henry, I am Mistress Beth Wickers, I am a lady in waiting, and I have come to stay with Mistress Anne Boleyn.”
He frowns, and the cleft in his chin deepens as he purses his lips. “We were not expecting you.”
I nod. “I apologise, sir. I had no time to write to Mistress Boleyn to let her know she was to expect me.”
“Ah, well, you are here now.” He clutches the hilt of his dagger, eyeing me up and down, squinting at my gown. “John will carry your belongings.” He gestures to an usher, but I clutch my linen bag as tightly as I can to my chest.
“Sir, I am quite capable of carrying my own bag!”
Henry Guildford frowns again and shakes his head. “If you are sure?”
“Yes, I am.” He stares at me, then at his servant, who looks somewhat bemused, not knowing whether he should have grabbed my bag before I had a chance to decline. With all my twenty-first-century goodies inside it, I couldn’t possibly risk anyone else seeing them – there’s too much to lose – I might be burned at the stake as a witch if they catch me with such modern conveniences. How could I possibly explain them? I couldn’t risk being reported. Heat rushes into my cheeks, and for the second time today, I must lie.
“Mistress, are you well?” Guildford asks, rubbing his forehead.
“Perfectly fine, thank you. I have a gift for Mistress Anne, that is all.” It isn’t that bad a lie, and if it means me keeping my true identity and origins safe, then I don’t feel so bad.
“You look in need of some refreshment. John will take you to Mistress Anne.” He smiles, and I’m confident he’s bought it. What a good job he doesn’t think I’m smuggling Lutheran tracts or other religious propaganda.
“Mistress Anne will be delighted to see you.” He bows again, then turns and walks away into a crowd of waiting ambassadors and their respective entourages, no doubt requiring food and lodgings. I follow John, the usher, who proceeds to lead me past the chapel and the Great Hall, then over a bridge which crosses the moat. I’m out of breath as I try to keep up with this equally flustered man, while he talks ten to the dozen. The bridge seems sturdy enough, which is good because it survives from Edward III’s time, linking the Privy Lodgings to the central courtyard.
John explains where the public and private kitchens are, and informs me that there is a library should I wish to collect any books my royal mistress – he means Queen Katharine – may be interested in reading. The palace gardens are extensive, and as we enter the Privy Lodgings, it smells musky and damp. Through the windows, I see courtiers walking, playing games, and admiring the late-blooming roses. John hurries me to the rooms being used by the queen’s ladies-in-waiting – up three storeys, which are set in a rectangular block with twelve rooms on each floor, and set around an internal cou
rt. This part of the palace contains staterooms and private apartments, while the ground floor is entirely given over to accommodation for palace officials. Servants and ushers bark orders at each other behind us as they carry caskets and trunks to the upper lodgings.
The rooms are bustling with servants, and I need a moment to gather my thoughts and pull myself together, still a tad disoriented after my tumbling, time-travelling experience. Will I ever get used to it? Now that I’m here, I realise that I must look a terrible sight. John opens the door to a series of small dormitories and introduces me to one of Katharine’s mistresses of her household. It isn’t Maria de Salinas – I would have recognised her. This woman, in black velvet and silver damask, looks down her nose at me, her dark eyes assessing my obvious disarray. My face flushes and I tug at my cloak, pulling it tidier around my shoulders. How would this Spanish lady feel if she’d been flung head over heels through time? I want to return the sneer but hold myself back, knowing she’d be unable to grasp anything I’ve been through. It would be so much better if time-travelling entailed a quick ‘Hey presto!’ from there to here but, unfortunately, that isn’t the case. Maybe walking through that hidden door is a better way to proceed. I’ll have to keep it in mind for when I see the professor again.
“This is where you shall sleep.” The woman indicates with a wave of her hand. “Mistress Boleyn shall make you aware of your duties.”
I nod. “Thank you, Madam.” My mind is a jumble as I remind myself how to sound like a sixteenth-century noblewoman. She sniffs, looks down her nose at me in my French apparel, then leaves the room, closing the door behind her. I breathe a sigh of relief that I had the hindsight to swop my personal belongings into a handmade linen bag, which looks more historically accurate than the holdall I’d had with me back when I entered the portal in the professor’s study. I hope Anne had the foresight to pack some of my gowns; otherwise, it will be an expensive journey, having to re-order clothing out of her father’s purse.
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