Timeless Falcon 1

by Phillipa Vincent-Connolly

  “Are you hungry, Mistress?”

  “Yes, but you mustn’t worry about me, Agnes. I am of the same status as you. I’m not titled, and not from an important family.”

  “You are important to me,” George whispers, leaning closer. I don’t show it but my heart melts. I can’t stay angry with him for long. “And,” he adds, “you are a firm friend of my sister.”

  “That is true, but my connection to you, your sister, and family will not make me important in the eyes of the King and his Courtiers.”

  “Wait and see.” He smiles. “Besides, Anne has told me you have quite a fortune in your own right.”

  I sigh. If only he knew that twenty-first century currency rates and inflation bear no resemblance to Tudor coinage. My meagre student loan would be worth millions in their world.

  After a while, Sir Thomas and Robert Cranewell trot on past us again. Within what seems like an hour or so of travelling, the litter grinds to a halt outside the tavern, allowing us all time to rest, and to water and feed the horses. Sir Thomas opens the door and offers me his hand.

  “Mistress Wickers, how do you fare?”

  “Very well, sir, although I would be grateful to relieve myself and have some food.” I straighten my crumpled skirts as George helps Agnes to the ground.

  “Agnes, you go with Mistress Wickers and I shall go with my father and Robert.”

  “Yes, Master George,” Agnes replies, rather shyly.

  She walks in front of me and leads me through the inn, which is dimly lit with many candles. Weary travellers’ repose in wooden settles, and on benches and stools in front of tables soaked in stale wine and spilt milk. We find a serving woman who kindly directs us to the privy. I’m relieved I’ve avoided the stench of the communal pits. I suppose it’s better than going behind a tree. Poor Agnes is in a bit of a state.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s my monthly courses,” she says, releasing a long sigh. “My fluttering rags need changing.”

  “What are you on about?”

  “You know, Mistress – my wallops, because of the bleeding.”

  All I can do is nod. Her period, or courses, as she calls them. The poor woman needs to change her ‘rags’. I find it fascinating how women of this era cope with such problems. I’m lucky, as my contraceptive implant stops me from having to deal with such trifles – a blessing with all my time-travelling escapades. It was my mother’s recommendation to get the implant when I started my A-Levels, to be responsible, as a matter of course, not as a matter of hope…in maybe becoming active with someone – someone like Rob.

  “I do not suffer with monthly courses,” I say. Agnes stares at me, then at my belly.

  “But…you are not with child!”

  “No, I’m not.” Should I explain? Have I said too much already? “I just don’t bleed, and haven’t for some time.”

  Her mouth opens, then closes. She frowns and shakes her head. “I wish I did not!” She leads the way into the privy, which appears to be a wooden row of boxes, built with a pit underneath, where all the waste drops into. I’ve visited some primitive toilets at summer music festivals and…well, some smells can’t be unsmelled. This has the same primitive edge, a version of a garderobe – not exactly luxurious but it does the job. I turn my head as Agnes enlightens me that most women wear a simple girdle belt, which is made from fine Hollande linen and tied at the sides, like tie-sided knickers, I suppose. I can’t help giggling.

  “What is it?” she asks in her country tone.

  “Nothing,” I say, thinking of the gaudy Ann Summers’ tie-sided knickers my sister has sold in her time as a sales rep.

  “I cannot believe you do not suffer with the bleeding, Mistress. You are so lucky.”

  Agnes appears to have sorted herself out. Now she stands there, still talking to me as if nothing is wrong, while I’m sat on the privy, trying to have a wee. The woman has no sense of decorum, nor is she aware she might be invading my personal space. I laugh with embarrassment. She looks at me, her expression strange. What a fine thing to be discussing – menstruation of all things! Old linen rags for sanitary towels? Well, you learn something new every day, if you’re lucky. I straighten my skirts and wish there was somewhere I could wash my hands. This is when I miss the modern conveniences of home.

  “Mistress, would you mind if I ride upfront with the driver for the rest of the journey? He’s an old friend of my family and it will be nice to have a chat before we arrive at Court.”

  “Of course not, Agnes. Now, come along.” What else can I say? I can’t deny her time with a family friend, can I? As I lead the way back inside, I push away the thought that I’ll be alone with George in the morning for the rest of the journey. Everything will be fine. I can handle him – I hope.

  “Mistress wait for me!” she calls as I duck through the back door. She thanks the serving girl and, as we walk through the stuffy small rooms full of sweaty weary bodies, I see that George and Thomas Boleyn have the best table, and have already been served their refreshments. George stands when he sees me.

  “Come sit with Father and I.”

  I nod and pull my skirts in as I struggle to slide into the settle, next to Sir Thomas. George sits opposite me and tucks into a chunk of bread and cheese. Agnes sits next to Master Cranwell, and nibbles on a morsel of bread between sips of wine.

  “Here, some wine,” Sir Thomas urges, passing me an empty goblet and a flagon of the red beverage. “The journey will soon be over – after all, we left this morning. We are nearing Blackheath, and Greenwich is not so far from there. We may well reach Greenwich at dawn.”

  “Dawn, Sir Thomas?” This must mean he is expecting me to sleep in the litter with George as we travel overnight. I can’t possibly do that! What made me think the journey would be like jumping in a car? How stupid am I? Heat rises in my cheeks, made worse by George noticing my embarrassment.

  “Beth, trust me,”—he smirks—“I am here to protect your honour.”

  “All will be well, Mistress Wickers. Why do you think Robert and I flank the litter?” He smiles reassuringly. “There are few robbers on the roads this time of year.”

  “Is Blackheath not far from where you come from?” George asks, chewing on a mouthful of crusty bread.

  “Erm, not far, George.” I half-smile, flicking him a look in the hope the questioning won’t go any further.

  “Father, we could call on the Wickers, could we not?” he says.

  “No, we have no time for that – the King has summoned me, and we cannot have him waiting.”

  Common folk sitting adjacent to our table overhear Sir Thomas and stare at him as we get up.

  “Sir, you know the King of England?” one of them dares to ask as we pass his table.

  “Yes, I’m the King’s ambassador. My name is Boleyn. Sir Thomas Boleyn.”

  The man looks gobsmacked, eyeing Thomas’s fine clothes and sword. He grabs Thomas’s arm.

  “Would you mind taking a petition to the King?”

  Thomas looks at the hand on his arm, then at the man.

  “Certainly not, my dear man.” While he is being polite, his face is puce with impatience. “I am afraid I have no time to deal with your business.” The man shrivels back onto his stool. “But, if you have a written petition, I could pass it onto Cardinal Wolsey.”

  As I watch him converse with this stranger, it dawns on me that Sir Thomas Boleyn is not the Machiavellian character history has so often painted him. He’s gracious, compassionate, and always willing to help others where he can. The man pulls a folded parchment out of the bag hanging from his belt and hands it over.

  “Thank you, sir.” The man bows. With that, Thomas ducks through the doorway and out into the early evening light with his entourage following. He unfolds the parchment and scans the childlike writing, then folds it back up and stuffs
it into a leather saddlebag on his horse.

  “What was that all about?” George asks.

  “A dispute the man wants resolved over some boundaries of neighbouring land.”

  “Can you not deal with it?”

  “It is not in my jurisdiction – Wolsey is the best man for the job.”

  He tugs his leather gloves back on while Robert Cranewell holds his horse. Then he calls up to our ever-patient driver.

  “Get George and the ladies to Greenwich as soon as you can. I want us to be there by dawn.”

  “Yes, m’lord.” The driver jumps down from his position to help Agnes onto the seat beside him. George takes my hand to assist me into the litter. My heart flutters as I glide across the seat to a spot on the far side. Heat flushes through my face, and George must notice as he slides in next to me and slams the door shut. I edge away, trying not to give him any encouragement. The horses trot off, their hoofs thudding against the dirt and grit, as Robert Cranewell and Sir Thomas ride ahead. A moment later, the litter jolts and I find myself hurled against George, who chuckles brazenly at me.

  “See, you are sat where you are meant, are you not?” He embraces his opportunity and pulls me close.

  “George, no!” I try to push myself away from him, but his hold is too strong.

  “Beth, what hurt would it do?” He looks down at me with those dark, mesmerising eyes, which twinkle with elation.

  “Look, you must stop this.” I push against his chest, and he releases his grip a little and stares at me with his puppy-dog eyes.

  “Why must I? You know how I feel, I’ve made no secret of it.”

  “But it’s wrong.” My nostrils flare. “You are now engaged to be married.”

  “Ah, but betrothed is not married,” he says, chuckling. “It’s a long way from bended knee to the altar, you know.”

  “That is as maybe,”—my shoulders slump—“but I don’t want to get on the wrong side of Jane Parker. She barely knows me.”

  “I wish she barely knew me!” he says, and I thump him hard.

  “Don’t be so mean!”

  “There you go again, always chiding me.” He laughs. “You are worse than Anne.”

  I take the opportunity to break free to sit on the opposite seat. Being able to look straight at him makes me feel more comfortable, even though his striking looks are more dangerous head-on as he leans towards me, chattering on. For the rest of the journey, I’m more relaxed. We discuss everything, including his interest in theology – he’s definitely a Lutheran. He enthuses about Thomas Wyatt’s poetry, and a manuscript he and Tom are compiling. I listen as he shares his hopes and dreams for the future and his ambitions for his family.

  “Why do you not talk of your impending wedding?”

  “It is a long way off – there will be time for all that soon enough.”

  “Have you spent any time with Jane? Alone, I mean?”

  “Not really, we have only exchanged pleasantries.”

  “What do you think of her…really?”

  “She has nothing in particular to commend her.” He sighs. “She is not like you.”

  I sit up. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I doubt I could talk to her as I talk with you or Anne.” He grins. “She does not discuss politics, and says little on religion, although I think she supports the old faith.”

  “You mean she is probably a Catholic?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Perhaps, George, you could educate her.”

  “In more ways than one!” He chuckles.

  “George!”

  “Well, she is most certainly a virgin. It won’t be like putting my person in a grizzled-up leather bag – more like a silk purse!”

  I can’t believe he just said that.

  “Stop looking at me like that – it was a joke!”

  “With your humour, George, I feel sorry for the girl.”

  “I don’t know what you mean!” He laughs again.

  “How do you get away with that kind of talk at Court?”

  “I don’t.” He smiles. “I am well-behaved at Court.”

  “Really?”

  “You have seen me. As the King’s Page, I am diplomatic, courteous, and gracious.”

  “I suppose if you weren’t, the King would not have you in his service.”

  “Indeed not.”

  Dappled twilight streams through the windows, and sparrows swoop over the fields in search of a cosy roost, even though the winter air is damp, and the mist is closing in. The creeping cold makes me shiver and I pull the fur rug over my lap.

  “Talking of diplomacy, what is our commission at Court?”

  “You heard what my father said.” He nods at the window. “He wants us to keep the King’s mind on Mary. With Henry’s bed cold, we cannot allow others to parade their daughters under the King’s nose.”

  “But your father didn’t want Mary to be his mistress in the first place.”

  “You are right, he didn’t, but since Mary has secured that position, she needs to keep it.”

  “I hope your father does not expect me to impress the King?”

  “You will make a profound impression at Court, if you stay there long enough. I know it.”

  “I am not of the disposition to divert or beguile a King!”

  George squeezes my hand. “Beth, you will enchant him. I’ve seen him captivated by you before!”

  I make no reply. Surely that can’t be true. This commission is ramping up my anxiety. I hope the Boleyns don’t expect me to sleep with the King. No, Sir Thomas wouldn’t expect that. After all, he has been against Mary’s affair from the beginning and, no doubt, when Henry’s desires rest upon Anne, it’s highly likely her father will be against that relationship, too.

  I look out the window, hardly able to believe I’m in this situation. A part of me wants to order the litter to turn around and head back to Hever, so I can run through the portal and go home. I twist the ‘AB’ ring on my finger. “Do you think he likes me?”

  “What are you worried about?” George grabs my hand this time and leans closer. “You are lovely, dear Elizabeth – why would the King not like you?”

  “Is the King not fickle when it comes to the opposite sex?”

  “No, not when he has been married to the Queen for nearly twenty years. The King of France has had many more mistresses than Henry.”

  “I think the King likes to be in love.”

  George stares at me. “You do? How so?”

  “He was raised by women and has lived with women most of his life. He is adored by women.”

  George nods. “That is true.”

  “So, it is obvious that the King might be infatuated with the idea of being ‘in love’.”

  “Women love men of power.”

  “Men just love power.”

  George gets up and sits beside me. “You have a funny way of looking at things, Mistress Vickers.” He pulls the fur coverlet over his lap and we hold hands beneath, like old friends.

  After what seems like hours, I’m jolted from my sleep by the wheels of the litter clashing against stones. I rub my eyes and realise I’ve had my head on George’s chest, snuggled against him – his arm about my shoulders. I jolt upright, pulling the fur tighter around me.

  “Why are you moving?” His brows knit together. “You looked so peaceful sleeping against me.”

  “It’s too intimate – I don’t mean to encourage you.” I shiver, and he notices.

  “Look at you. Now you have moved, you’re cold.” He pats his doublet. “Come here and cuddle against me – no one can see – we aren’t doing any harm.” He looks at me through lowered lashes. “Come on – go back to sleep.” I look at him rather sheepishly. “There is no reason to be shy. Not now.”

  “I suppose
not,” I say, closing my eyes as I lean in against him once more. Between his cosy heat and the gentle rocking of the litter, it’s not long before I sink into a comfortable slumber.

  Twelve

  Greenwich Palace - 1524

  My heart flutters when I lean out of the litter window and see the sprawling, turreted palace of Greenwich come into view. It’s the king’s pleasure palace and my jaw drops as we roll through its gates. The entrance is guarded by liveried men, just as Richmond was. Our driver halts the horses, and I hear Sir Thomas talking to the gatekeeper who, from his response, obviously recognises him. The sun is rising on the horizon and the stacked silhouette of the red-bricked turrets and chimneys takes shape through the early-morning mist from the river. Sir Thomas glances at me and explains who I am. George remains sitting beside me, waiting for us all to be ushered through the gates.

  “Are you catching flies?” he asks, chuckling.

  “No, but it’s my first time here,” I reply, my gaze following the woody smoke wafting into the air. The driver takes us forward and we stop in the cobbled courtyard. Sir Thomas dismounts, pats his horse, and passes the reins to Master Robert, who leads both animals away to the stable block.

  “George, show the ladies to the apartments,” Sir Thomas says after opening the litter door, “then take Mistress Wickers to the Queen.”

  “Yes, sir.” George alights and takes my hand as I step down. Agnes follows on behind us. He leads the way towards the Boleyn chambers allotted to us by the Comptroller of the Household.

  “We Boleyns are on the rise,” he whispers. “The King has given our family new lodgings here, which are better than the last.”

  I have an adjoining room to Sir Thomas, and George’s apartment is closer to the King’s private apartments, so he is only a moment’s call away when needed.

  George waits outside as Agnes helps me freshen up and change into a gown of black damask, a favourite fabric of the queen. Agnes dabs her fingers against my neck, planting drops of rosewater onto my skin, the sweet-smelling scent filling my nostrils.

  “There, Mistress,” she says, viewing her handiwork, “you look fit for a Queen.”