Timeless Falcon 1

by Phillipa Vincent-Connolly

  The lady of the house is in her chamber, which is sombrely lit with two flickering candles on sconces either side of the Boleyn four-poster bed. Hardly any light comes through the draped casement windows from the oppressive gloom outside as Anne rushes over and hugs her mother in a tight embrace. I peer through the window and see George in the courtyard below. He’s talking with a tall, thin young man. Maybe it’s William Carey, Mary’s husband. I strain to watch them in conversation, but my focus is broken by Anne’s exuberance.

  “Mother, I am so delighted to see you. I have missed you!” Lady Boleyn smiles and smooths the skirts of her gown. “Beth and I are excited for Christmastide – I cannot wait for her to experience the season as we do.” She releases her mother and turns, sharing a conspiratorial smile with me while I hang back from the family familiarity.

  “Yes, indeed.” Lady Boleyn smiles at me, beckoning me over. Her warm embrace and her soft kiss on my cheek helps me to relax. “I am happy to see you, happy to see the both of you.” She gets up and walks over to the door to call Mrs Orchard, then turns back to face Anne. Her smile fades.

  “I received your letters. However, I am unhappy that you are returning to us under a cloud of such controversy.” She wrings her hands. Anne lowers her eyes beneath her mother’s critical gaze. Lady Boleyn looks concerned, but all I see in Anne’s expression is frustration and anger. She must know her mother wouldn’t be pleased about her being scolded by Wolsey.

  “Controversy, Mother? What controversy? I fell in love.” She looks as if she is about to burst into tears. “I had an arrangement with Henry Percy, and Cardinal Wolsey blocked it!” She shrugs, her hands outstretched, emphasising her disquiet.

  “Your father has written concerned about your situation. Mary and George have told me everything. We shall discuss it later.” She gives her daughter’s shoulder a reassuring tap, no doubt knowing that Anne’s temper will cool in time.

  Anne exhales, clearly exasperated by her mother’s brush off. She sees me shake my head, and I mouth, “Change the subject.” A familiar friend brushes up against her skirts, and she ruffles the ears of Griffin as he stares adoringly up at us.

  “Is George here? And Mary, is she here with her husband?” Anne is decidedly excited about spending time with her family, as am I with George.

  “Your brother arrived this morning, along with Mary and William.” Lady Boleyn looks at me, and her lovely face brightens with an amused smile, making me feel most welcome. “So, Beth, how are you?”

  “I’m very well, Madam, and very happy to be here again.”

  “I have heard you behaved beautifully at Court, unlike my younger daughter!” Anne bristles, but says nothing. Her expression is easy to read, and she doesn’t look happy, but her mother continues. “Dear Beth, despite Anne’s behaviour, we will all be sure to have a lively time together, as a family.”

  Later, in the afternoon, while sitting reading with Anne, our peacefulness is broken by the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs, and the door at the end of the long gallery is flung open, though the force of the gesture is contrary to the young man who makes it. George strides over to us, bows in salutation, then bends to kiss his sister on her cheek. A slow smile crosses his lips as he makes a beeline for me in the hope he can share the same deference with me, but Anne blocks him with her arm.

  “No, brother. Show some restraint.”

  He groans under his breath and straightens his back. “Ladies, William and I have put your trunks in your bed-chamber.”

  I close my book. “Thank you, George.”

  “That is most kind of you,” Anne says. “Are Mrs Orchard and Agnes unpacking for us?”

  “I believe so. What are you reading?” He reaches for Anne’s copy of Treatise of Love, then snuggles in between us on the window seat and thumbs through its pages until he arrives at a section in Part One. He begins reading it out loud.

  “And see the inclination of his head to kiss you; see the spreading of his arms to embrace you; behold the opening of his fair side and the crucifying of his fair body, and with great affection of your holy love, turn it and turn it again from side to side, from the head to the feet, and you shall find that there never was sorrow or pain like that to that pain our Lord Jesus Christ endured for your love.”

  Almost all he does is measured, considered, and perfect. Everything seems to have changed about him over the last couple of years – he’s matured and is now accomplished and articulate. He’s twenty-one, the same age as me, but looks older.

  “Sister, this is not very light-hearted reading! Can you not find something a little more entertaining to occupy your time?”

  Anne smiles. “’Tis poetry, George.”

  “Anne has been reading this book to me. She is teaching me the ways of a noblewoman.”

  He chuckles. “Is she now?” He smiles at me. “I think you are becoming very accomplished, Beth Wickers.” He grins even more. “But I have yet to see you ride a horse, handle a hawk, or play the lute!”

  “Brother, do not pester Beth so.”

  “Well, from this book, I have learnt that the text contains three main parts that deal with divine love, which are largely based on the early thirteenth-century Ancrene Wisse, and seven brief sections dealing with other aspects of ‘religious’ love. This book is meant to be used as religious advice, written for aristocratic women, but then you probably already know that, George.”

  “Indeed, I do.”

  There’s not much he doesn’t appear to know for his age. He’s well-educated, which doesn’t surprise me in the least. Considering I’m living life in sixteenth-century England, I feel fantastic. My knowledge is challenged at every turn, without people knowing they are doing it. I’m absorbing all I can at an indeterminant rate, and while I have so many questions, I often have to curb my enthusiasm in case I look and sound a little weird. The only headaches I have are ones brought about by the fact that I feel as if my brain might explode from the information overload. Other than that, I feel quite healthy – radiant even. Perhaps this is because of the absence of pollution, and the lack of processed food and so much sugar in my diet. The noticeable difference with me is that I’m not actually ageing, or at least not beyond the one or two days I’ll end up being away when I return to the twenty-first century.

  George runs his hand through his hair and notices me watching. He smirks, but his eyes are serious.

  “What is it, Beth? Why do you watch me so?”

  “No reason. You seem different than when I last saw you.”

  “In a good way?” He eases the book closed, then nurses it in his lap. I know he’s teasing me.

  “Master Boleyn, you seem to have matured.” My stomach ties itself in knots when he even glances at me. I fancy Rob, too, but he doesn’t make me feel the way George does. No one makes me feel like George does. Anne stares at me, rolling her eyes before shaking her head, then smiling. I must be so easy to read – like an open book.

  “Oh, so I am not George anymore?” He grunts. “You prefer to call me, Master Boleyn?”

  “Sorry for being so formal. I have grown used to the ways of Court.”

  “First, you praise me, then you wound me by being so unfamiliar.” His eyes narrow, as if he’s trying to work out what I’m really thinking. “My sister has taught you the ways of women well.” He chuckles and nudges Anne’s elbow. I hope my expression doesn’t betray my feelings for him as I consider his amber eyes, their golden flecks almost sparkling, and I lower my gaze for fear of getting lost in them. When I look back, he flicks his hair from his face, his stare now intense. Something touches my side, then his arm is about my waist.

  “George, stop it!” I whisper, shrugging him off, hoping Anne hasn’t noticed. His mouth lifts into a slow smile, and his seductive eyes view me with amusement.

  I squirm inwardly as Anne turns to me and raises an eyebrow. A fleeting lo
ok of concern passes over her features.

  “Hever is going to seem so inestimably dull,” she says, groaning as she brushes the open page in her book, changing the course of the conversation, much to my relief. “I love being home to see Mother, but it has been far more entertaining to be at Court.”

  “I’m sure there are many advantages to be gained from living so far distant from the prying eyes of Court, eh, Anne?”

  “Brother, I am certain you could not name one!”

  “Why, that is easy!” He laughs. “’Tis being here…with you two.” He’s trying to brighten the afternoon, but with Anne, at this moment in time, it’s not working. Her mood is so changeable that I don’t think it matters where she is, now that Wolsey and the king have quashed the debacle of her engagement with Henry Percy. The day is grey, a mirror of her melancholy. It doesn’t help that her father is embarrassed by the whole sorry business.

  “Wolsey has robbed me of my future,” she complains. “How dare that insufferable man do such a thing to me.” She throws down the book and gets up to gaze out the window at the white blanket of snow gripping the countryside; spring is far off, and the snowdrops have yet to arrive. I walk over to her and pat the middle of her back – a comfort I know she likes. She looks out through the glass as she traces the intricate leadwork of the casement with her fingertip. The pane mists as I speak, momentarily obscuring the view of the trees, and St Peter’s Church in the distance.

  “I know you think things are bleak,” I say, hoping to reassure her, “but be encouraged, things never stay the same for very long.”

  She releases a long sigh, and I despair that she is ever going to pull herself out of this depressed state. “The trouble is, Beth,” she whispers, “I know you must know about my life, but you do not tell me!”

  “I don’t know everything,” I lie, trying to keep my voice low so George doesn’t hear me.

  “You will tell me, eventually. You must!” A sharpness has crept into her voice, and it cracks as if she is about to cry.

  “Listen,” I whisper, rubbing her arm, “you may not have Henry Percy, but God may grant you a better husband than you thought possible, trust me.” I try to smile, hoping I haven’t said too much.

  “Better than a duke?” She screws her nose up at me. It looks like she doesn’t believe me – thank goodness!

  “Just trust in your education and your abilities, and the right person will present themselves to you.”

  “You believe that?”

  “I know it!” She looks like she wants to press me for more answers, but I turn to look out of the window again, to distract her. “Look, it’s snowing again!” I sound like an over-excited child. Great flakes flutter down, adding to the accumulation below, making the manor look beautifully romantic. However, I long to see the golden hue of daffodils poking their heads through the lush green foliage, and bluebells springing up in woodland and the surrounding parks, carpeting the grass in a mass of purple.

  George joins us, staring out at the big silver sky. I don’t think he overheard our whispers. “Ladies, you seem melancholy. It cannot be all bad – we have festive views. It will soon be Christmastide, and we have so many amusements to look forward to, and I am here with you for a while, unless, of course, Father calls me back to Court. I will cheer you both.” His eyes widen as he beams a dazzling smile at us.

  Christmas Eve and Christmas day are the happiest of times in the house, and, indeed, they are filled with the festive warmth Lady Boleyn has promised. It is a joy to celebrate the season as it is meant, surrounded by the people you love – by family. But, at times, my heart is heavy at the thought of my own dear family back in twenty-first-century South London. I miss my sister and my little niece. But, of course, it may not even be Christmas there – the time lapse means I’ve been gone for probably two days at most, if that’s how this time-travelling stuff works. Mum and Dad will think I’m studying and won’t even notice I’m gone.

  Occasionally, without telling Anne, I try the door back to the passageway and the professor’s study, but my efforts come to nothing, with the door always sticking fast every time. Even when I stand before it, gripping the cyphered ring upon my finger, nothing happens. Why isn’t the ring working? Perhaps the bloody thing only works of its own volition? Maybe it chooses what I should and shouldn’t experience of these time-bending adventures? Mind you, I remember the professor warning me to use the portal rather than the ring when trying to return home.

  My finger is red and swollen as I tug and twist, and swearing under my breath doesn’t help matters, either. As my frustration builds, my palms become clammy, and I double my efforts. Then, without warning, the ring releases and flies off my finger. As I squeal, it rolls across the floorboards and falls through a gap under the curtain. My stomach flips. My God! I scramble around on my hands and knees in the rush matting, hoping it might have got caught between the skirting and a floorboard, but there’s no sign of it. My heart thunders as I realise it has disappeared.

  “What on earth are you doing?” that familiar voice asks.

  “Anne, you nearly gave me a heart… Em, you made me jump!” I look up at her, still on my hands and knees. “I’ve lost the ring.”

  “What ring?”

  “The ring.”

  “Oh, that ring!”

  Before I know it, she’s joined me on her hands and knees, searching around the floor. Her tiny hands thrash at the dry lavender as I explain what’s happened. She giggles.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “It would not be so bad if you were permanently stuck here with me, would it?”

  “Erm, no.” I keep telling myself it’s not so bad, as I am excited to be witnessing a Tudor Christmas and need to remember what a privileged position the professor has put me in.

  “George would not mind – do you not think?”

  “What?” I grin. “Me being permanently stuck here?”

  She laughs at me, and I look away.

  “I wouldn’t know!”

  “Oh, I think you know exactly!” She sits back on her haunches, her skirts crumpled about her. A short silence ensues before she glances up at the door. “Would you be willing to take me through there?”

  “Definitely not!” My grimace is too apparent.

  She frowns. “Why ever not?” Then leans forward, a twinkle in her eye. “What could possibly go wrong?”

  “Everything!” I answer, getting to my feet, still scanning the floor for the missing ring. I need to put her off thinking she could time-travel with me. Nothing good would ever come of it. Besides, I need to think of the future – the history of the house of Tudor. If there was no ‘Gloriana’, what would that mean? I shudder at the thought.

  “Whenever I try the door, the stairs and the parlour below are the same as they ever were.” She sighs.

  “Look,” I say, “if you were meant to accompany me to my time, I’m sure it would have happened by now.” I close my arms across my chest. “But you have so much to sort out here.”

  “I want to see what you experience, in your life and at your home. I want to meet your family. To meet your friend. Rob, is it not?” She is almost begging. “Please, let me come with you.”

  “I wasn’t planning on going back to my time, at least not at this moment. I’d tell you if I was.” I avert my eyes for a moment. Maybe she realises I’m lying, which I’m useless at. If I had confided in the professor that I’m not so good at hiding a truth, he might never have allowed me to find the ring in the first place. Mind you, if I can’t find this bloody ring…

  “But, Beth…”

  “Stop pestering me! If I don’t find the ring, then I’m never going to get back home. Ever!”

  “You cannot go back to your own time. Not now. Not yet. I need you. And what about George?”

  She’s clever. Use that nugget on me, Anne. Use your brother to
pull me back to the Boleyns – to keep me here at your beck and call. You know what buttons to press. You’re no fool.

  “What about George?”

  “Come on, Beth, you know he likes you.” She giggles, but she isn’t so innocent.

  “He has never said as much,” I splutter.

  “Believe me,” she says, “I have stopped him declaring himself to you on numerous occasions. It has not been easy keeping him quiet.” She stares at me, and I wonder if she’s playing me. “When you disappear, I have terrible trouble explaining to him where you have gone.”

  “What do you tell him?”

  “I make something up – usually that one of your parents is unwell, or your niece needs you to go home and care for her.” She winces. “I say anything that will stop his infatuation for you from growing.”

  “You hope that me being absent from you, and him, will take his mind off me?”

  “Exactly!” She nods. “But George still insists he loves you, no matter what I say.”

  “Why don’t you want him to share with me how he feels?” My voice quivers. News of George’s feelings is a revelation, even though he always flirts with me.

  “I do not want either of you to get hurt.”

  Her answer surprises me. That is the first time she has shown genuine, heartfelt affection for George in front of me. Perhaps their bond is as strong as the historical texts suggest? I shake my head, hoping it’s not in the way they might be accused of committing treason with each other. I shiver at the thought.

  “What is wrong?” She’s now on her feet – her arm around my shoulder. “What vexes you?”

  “George vexes me.” What else can I say? Not what I’m thinking, that’s for sure. George, however, is not my only problem. I’m now trapped in Tudor England, in all probability never to see my mum, the rest of my family, or Rob again. I need to find that ring.

  George has been summoned back to court by his father, who has stayed with the king. They will arrive home for the New Year season.