Timeless Falcon 1

by Phillipa Vincent-Connolly

  She’s finally ready and now looks more respectable.

  “I am sorry to be so rude, dear Beth. I will relate more news to you another time.” She lifts her book of hours from the table, then goes to the door and peeks out. “I know you probably need to rest after your journey, and I have so much to discuss with you, but we must join the Queen.” She adjusts my hood and thrusts a prayer book from the shelf into my hands.

  I follow her to the Chapel Royal, feeling a tad awkward with my heavy skirts trailing behind me as we rush to the back pews. We swish and slide into our seats, settle ourselves, then observe the queen kneeling on the alter steps, twisting at her paternoster and tugging on each bead as she whispers the creed, pleading with the saints to her Catholic god, who seems to be ignoring her. I listen to the Latin wording, something that is rarely heard in my time:

  “Áve María, grátia pléna,

  Dóminus técum.

  Benedícta tū in muliéribus,

  et benedíctus frúctus véntris túi, Iésus.

  Sáncta María, Máter Déi,

  óra pro nóbis peccatóribus,

  nunc et in hóra mórtis nóstrae. Ámen.”

  There is an eerie feel to the scene as we ladies-in-waiting watch Katharine from our huddle. Her gable hood wavers as she pleads with St Mary and God to bless her barren womb – a womb that no longer bleeds and will bear no more fruit.

  “The Queen has known her destiny since she was a small child,” Anne whispers as the choristers sing out their perfect-pitched harmonies and melodies. “She knows her duty and what is expected of her.”

  “Didn’t she come to England as a teenager, to marry King Henry’s older brother?” Of course, once again, I’m pretending to not already know. Tilting my head heavenwards, I stare at the chequered timber ceiling and plaster, decorated with roses and portcullis badges. Such craftwork. I hope they don’t all assume I’m bored. I’m not. How could I be, when admiring architecture which, in my time, has long since disappeared? Anne looks at me, her eyes full of curiosity.

  “Beth, you must know Katharine was an object of prestige for Henry VII and his alliance with Spain.” She nudges my side. “Queen Katherine’s presence was meant to cement the new and struggling dynasty because of its weak claim to the throne.”

  “It’s a shame she hasn’t had any sons,” I say, feeling quite sorry for the woman.

  Anne covers her mouth with her hand and leans closer. “Heirs were expected, but her ladies-in-waiting say they were never certain whether the Queen consummated her marriage to Arthur.” She glances at me. I’m fascinated at having a history lesson from her point of view. Despite being in the presence of the queen and God, she carries on chatting: “Henry, as the younger prince, never knew what to do with Katharine, and his father certainly never wanted to lose her dowry.”

  “Henry VII was a penny-pincher,” I say. “It was Henry VIII’s choice to rescue Katharine when he became King.”

  Anne nods. “His Majesty and Katharine were very much in love, apparently. Mother told me that Katharine went to the marital bed a virgin, but I am not so sure. Sexual relations between the King and Queen were more than acceptable. In fact, Katharine clearly adored her new husband.”

  I tilt my face towards her. “Isn’t it a shame the relationship has soured between them?”

  “At the root of it all is the fact that some of her babies died, and Katharine’s constant petitions for a son have so far only brought her the Duke of Cornwall, who lasted but fifty-two days. She has suffered a string of stillbirths, and the Princess Mary is a useless, young and spikey-faced girl who is prickly and pious, instead of the strong, virilant son the King craves.” She clenches her hands in her lap.

  I stare at her, a tad shocked. “Anne, isn’t that a bit hurtful?”

  “It is the truth. Katharine’s only duty is to produce an heir to the throne. Her parents would have raised her to know this. Queen Claude was a cripple, yet she produced sons for the King of France. She knew her duty.”

  This is the first time I have heard her speak in a derogatory way about Katharine. It’s shocking, but she does have a point. Queen Claude was a good role model for Anne, showing her what was to be expected if married to a monarch. It is a role that, so far, Katharine has not been able to carve out for herself, at least not successfully.

  When the ornamental ritual and choral music finishes, the queen is helped from her knees, and I stare at the floor as I follow everyone to her private apartments.

  “Elizabeth, what is the matter?” Anne whispers. I wince as she rubs the top of my arm – bruising from my time-flip.

  I glance in the queen’s direction. “I feel sorry for her, that’s all.”

  She leans closer. “There is nothing any of us can do for her.”

  The queen stares at us as she passes. Her apartments are large and airy. Even with the brilliantly coloured tapestries, the walnut linenfold walls make the chambers dark, but the fires create a hearty-enough welcome. There is a small oratory, with an altar, a brass crucifix, and lots of candlesticks. Queen Katharine sits beside the low-burning fire as everyone else spreads out on cushions around her.

  “Lady Anne, Mistress Wickers, please come and sit with us. Please share your earlier conversation with us.”

  I can’t help myself and feel the colour rising in my cheeks as we nervously sit with the rest of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. “We were just saying that, with your faithfulness, Your Majesty, there is no reason why God would not answer your prayers.” She could have been praying for anything, not just for the Holy Spirit to fill her empty womb, so I am truthful.

  The queen smiles graciously, and I’m glad I was quick-witted enough to twist my response into a compliment. Anne just stares at me, probably in disbelief that I’ve managed to be as outspoken as her.

  Anne and I, with everyone else, sit and sew, making garments for the poor while the queen works on a collar of blackwork embroidery.

  I lean closer. “I can’t do this kind of sewing. I have never been taught it.”

  “Follow what I do,” she says, poking her needle in and out of the linen, showing me in slow motion exactly how to count the stitches. I try to copy, then pass it to her for inspection.

  “Who is the woman sat to the Queen’s right?”

  “Margery Horsman.”

  I watch her, knowing I will have to keep a close eye on her, on everyone, having read in Eric Ives’ book about an anonymous person, listed with Anne Cobham and Lady Worcester, as being sources of information against Anne in 1536.

  “Who is that woman in the berry-colour dress?”

  Anne smirks. “You mean the Mulberry gown?”

  I nod. I need to remember to speak ‘Tudor’. I seem to have forgotten their vocabulary.

  “That would be Jane Seymour.”

  This girl sits demurely on the queen’s left. I stare at her, now I know who she is, and am shocked that this mousy girl will one day be Queen of England. She is not a beautiful woman. Far from it. Her face is plain, her skin whitish – she has a long, big nose and a receding, yet slightly pointed chin. Her cheeks are rounded, and her mouth is small. Jane is just as I imagined her to be, with an insipid face that almost fades into insignificance. She keeps her lips pursed as she sews, and favours the conservative gable-style bonnet. I’ve read somewhere that Chapuys, the Spanish ambassador, will later describe her as “proud and haughty” in her demeanour, which doesn’t quite mesh with the tranquil picture history has passed down.

  As I study her, thoughts of changing history flit across my mind. Maybe I could encourage her to fall in love with someone way before Henry sets his sights on her. If I could somehow persuade her to marry a rich man who is too stupid to interfere in politics or live at court, then perhaps she might be happy and not lose her life in childbirth. Without Jane to distract the king, maybe Henry might give Anne a second
chance, instead of throwing her in the Tower. My heart skips at the implications of Jane not blessing Henry with little Prince Edward, and Anne bearing a healthy son, and I daydream about how my actions could prevent the succession being awarded to Lady Jane Grey, which would mean she’d never be executed!

  Goodness, I really need to control my intervention fantasies and heed the professor’s warnings about interfering, as I could seriously disrupt the course of history. Anne nudges me, and I banish a visual of a furious Professor Marshall from my mind.

  “You seem deep in thought. What is it?”

  “Nothing,” I lie, but I’m not sure she buys it.

  “Have you met Mistress Seymour before?” she asks. Her brows knit together as she leans closer to hear my whispered response.

  “No, never,” I answer, shaking my head, “but….I have heard of her.”

  She stares at me. “Ohhh, do you mean in future terms?”

  I nod. “You could say that.”

  Her lips spread into a thin smile. “Tell me more.”

  “All I shall say is…she will be connected with you.”

  “Really?” Her eyes widen. “In what way?”

  “You will serve Queen Katharine together, as ladies-in-waiting.” At least I’ve kept to the truth.

  “But Mistress Seymour has not yet officially joined us as one of the Queen’s attendants.” She frowns. “I believe she is here while her father, Sir John Seymour, has an audience with the King.”

  Anne seems to be well-clued in with everything that’s been going on at court during my absence. Being so quiet spoken, no one really notices Jane – I haven’t heard her laugh, nor seen her smile. She seems self-effacing, even humble, and looks desperately unattractive.

  “Jane can ride and hunt well but has few other accomplishments to recommend her,” Anne says, keeping her voice low. Both she and Jane are direct opposites, and, in later years, Henry will swing like a pendulum from one to the other. I cringe at the thought, observing the circle of women: one queen, and two others who will later assume that role, providing I don’t meddle.

  My eyes sting through concentrating on the close needlework. I would generally listen to music on my I-phone when studying, and being able to do so now would be fantastic as my brain screams with boredom. Impossible, though, as too many questions would arise. It seems I’m not the only one who is bored. Anne moans about it being as dull as ditchwater, and while I agree, I shouldn’t take for granted the company I’m in, even if I can’t expect lively court entertainment. However, I take every opportunity to observe behaviour, speech patterns, décor, even the tedious stitch-work. I’m fascinated with every second, despite Anne’s complaints.

  My enthusiasm is dulled by our little group’s stifling piety and pity for a woman who is adored by her subjects. Katharine looks worn out and almost old for her age. Her gable hood and Spanish attire don’t help with her beautification, and she sits stiff and statuesque in comparison to the sophisticated, witty Anne in her French silks, resting beside me on a velvet cushion.

  Katharine ignores us when she’s in a contemplative mood, and her muted mutterings of prayer continue on and off. I’ve heard that she shuts herself away in the oratory, praying late into the night.

  Anne nudges my ribs again, drawing me to her. “Katharine would do better to get up off her knees, stand straight, lighten her mood and expression, and even attempt to lure the King to visit her bed at night.”

  “Does he not accept her invitations?”

  “Not as often as he used to. He has my sister now to keep him busy.”

  As I observe the queen, I suspect that she might be menopausal. For the life of me, I can’t remember the exact reference to it from my studies. At this stage, it must be evident to Henry that she will not bring him an heir. She behaves more like his mother than his wife, and he must blame her for not providing him with a living son and successor.

  “If I were Queen, I would try and fight for him,” Anne whispers. “But I am not Queen, and Katharine’s piety, prayers and silence will get her nowhere.”

  She flicks a look at the group to make sure we’re not being observed. “I have seen the Queen casting an envious eye on Mary when she is around.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, she knows something is going on, but says nothing.”

  The queen grimaces at us for our whispering. We are obviously grating on her mood, which is made worse by the stifling air in her apartments. My throat is dry for breathing in the fumes from the burning logs on the fire, and I try to stifle a cough. Anne and I bow our heads over our sewing. Katharine sighs continually until, finally, she drops the embroidered collar she’s working on into her lap and closes her eyes. Above her nose, crevice lines deepen, and her jawline droops.

  “The Queen was beautiful once,” Anne whispers. “As a young woman, she was a golden-haired beauty. Apparently, everyone at court admired her. Now she is faded, like a worn-out husk, unable to give the King what he most desires.”

  “Anne, shush, she will hear you.” I nudge her, and she scowls back at me, but there is a hint of a smile in her eyes.

  “I only speak the truth.”

  My bones ache. I’ve not slept well because Anne has been tossing and turning next to me, all night. Although I’ve only been back a week, I need to adjust to my Tudor life, and fast. As the sun breaks through the boarded window, Anne stretches out under the linen sheets, sits up, then pounds the pillow with her fist and thumps her head back into the crevice she has made.

  She groans, staring at the whitewashed ceiling. “I cannot sleep. I have barely slept all night.”

  “Why, what’s bothering you?” I ask, propping myself up on my elbow.

  “Mary. I wonder how William Carey is coping with the situation, and I worry if Mary is happy with the King.”

  “You care for your sister, don’t you?”

  “Of course, I do, but I also worry about what problems her liaison might create for me.”

  “Nothing will touch you, Anne,” I assure her, hoping my tone doesn’t reflect the fact that every day I hide the truth of her fate from her.

  “I bumped into William only yesterday when he was leaving the King’s apartments. He seemed in a hurry, probably on His Majesty’s business.” She sighs. “He has no choice in the matter, but I can’t help but be concerned about Mary’s marriage. I hope my uncle Norfolk did not scheme to get her into the King’s bed.”

  “Perhaps Norfolk persuaded your father that the opportunity would be a good one for Mary?”

  “No. Father is not my uncle’s puppet, and neither is Mary.” She swings her legs out from under the bedcovers, sits on the edge of the bed, and rubs her brow. “I have a terrible headache.”

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t attend Mass this morning?”

  “I should go. We should go.”

  I fumble through my bag, grab my make-up pouch, and take out a strip of paracetamol from their box, releasing two pills into my palm.

  “Here, swallow these with a little wine.” She takes them and turns the white tablets between her fingers.

  “What are they?”

  “They will get rid of your headache.” She does as I tell her and, too late, I wonder what effect paracetamol would have on someone who has never had a drug in her life. She watches me fuss around my belongings while I find my brush from the bottom of my bag.

  “Even if this gets rid of the pain, I still do not want to go to Mass. I would rather stay here and talk to you.” She tugs her shift off over her head and stands before me naked, goosebumps rising with the cold. These people are more robust than me or my contemporaries. She pulls a clean shift from her trunk and slides is over her head, shoving her arms through both sleeves simultaneously, then adjusts the neckline.

  As she dresses, I continue searching through my belongings, until my nails jab against met
al. I look in and smile to myself at the sight of the two power banks I brought for my I-Phone.

  “What is that?” Anne asks, lacing up the anglets on the side of her kirtle.

  “To be honest, Mistress Anne, it’s pointless explaining.”

  “Why?” She plucks the bank from my grip, turning it in her hand and running her fingers over its smooth surface.

  “You remember the device I had when we first met, where I was able to take your portrait instantly? My phone?”

  “Yes, I remember.” She passes me back the power bank.

  I wave it in the air. “These are used to charge and provide power to the phone, so it can be used.” Her face contorts. I knew I shouldn’t have tried to explain. How would she understand the concept of electricity and battery packs?

  “For me, it means that if and when I get back to Hever and find my phone, I can take a few sly ‘portraits’ to help me document my experience of living with you.”

  The odd photo along the way wouldn’t hurt, so long as I keep them to myself. I could take a few, at least until the power runs out. I’ve accumulated too much twenty-first-century stuff in my time-travelling escapades: my holdall back at Hever, with all the papers from Professor Marshall’s office, along with my books and I-Phone. The only items I brought on my first visit to Tudor London were the few bits of make-up, toothpaste, and toiletries Anne tested during our carriage journey, and which she has all but used up in my absence. It’s a good job I’ve brought more this time. I stash the paracetamol and power bank back in the bag. Anne stares at the plastic make-up bag, then squeals.

  “You brought more things to make me beautiful!”

  She reaches for the bag, but I snatch it off the bed. “Yes, but you must make them last. After all, I don’t know how long I’m to be here.”

  I open the bag, and her eyes light up, like a child at Christmas wanting to open her presents early.

  “Let me apply some to you to remind you how to use it, because you must not look like a painted doll.”

  She nods and sits on a stool facing the window, the sunlight streaming in as she holds a small mirror up to her face, remaining still until I’ve worked my magic. I’m satisfied, and it doesn’t look too much.