Timeless Falcon 1

by Phillipa Vincent-Connolly

  There is no doubt about it, Henry VIII is a superb athlete, and as we sit in the royal box in anticipation of who is to ride in the lists, we are on the edge of our seats waiting on the informal event to begin. The king’s horse is without trappings, which appears to please Queen Katharine, who looks relaxed watching her husband as he enters the yard. He surveys the crowd, spots for his wife, and nods to her. Then he looks along our row. Who is he searching for? Anne? Surely not. Not Mary, anyway, as he must know she’s in confinement at Hever. His gaze flickers to Jane, then rests upon me. He lingers, watching me for what seems like an eternity, then smiles. I nod back, so as not to draw too much attention to myself, but the queen glances down the row to see who her husband has spotted. I avert my eyes, as if what just happened didn’t occur.

  Cheers rise from the crowd as Henry parades before us all. The reason for the display is so the king can show off the new armour he’s had made to his own design and fashion, such as no armorer has crafted before. The joust has been ordered to test its design, making sure it is fit for purpose and is money well spent. The lord marquis of Dorset, the earl of Dorset, and the earl of Surrey are appointed on foot.

  The crowd watches transfixed as the king comes to one end of the tilt and the duke of Suffolk to the other. The king looks towards the crowd, sucking in their cheers of approval. Then we see a gentleman say something to the duke, Charles Brandon.

  “Sir, the King is come to the end of the tilt.”

  “I see him not,” says the duke, “by my faith, for my headpiece blocks my sight.” With these words, God knows by what chance, the lord Marquis delivers the king a lance, the visor of his headpiece being up and not down or fastened, so his face is quite naked and open to the elements.

  “Sir, the King is coming,” the gentleman says to the duke. We all watch in fear as the king comes thundering towards Brandon at full pelt – but his visor is still up. Heavens, this won’t be good.

  The crowd holds its breath, and I shiver in the freezing March weather, pulling my furs about me as the wind chill hits. The duke sets forward at a great gallop, thundering over the mud, with sticky residue flying up as the horse charges and the duke holds fast in his saddle, his lance out. And the king, likewise, unadvisedly continues in the same fashion towards the duke. Then, when the crowd realises the king’s face is still bare, pandemonium erupts, with everyone shouting and hollering in the hope that he will stop.

  “Hold! Hold! Your Majesty, hold!”

  “The duke of Suffolk appears to neither see nor hear, and the king doesn’t flip his visor down. It must be a mistake. The lance makes a loud crack as it impacts with the gap in the king’s headpiece and splinters fly in every direction. I catch my breath and hold my hand out to touch Jane’s arm as we see the king fall. Copious amounts of blood spout from around his eye and people come running from every direction to assist him as his body slams into the muddy ground.

  All I can hear are screams of terror from onlookers. In that split second, it looks like the duke has struck the king on the brow, right under the guard of the headpiece – on the skull cap or basinet piece to which the barbette is hinged for strength and safety, the part no armorer takes heed of, for it is always covered by the visor, barbette, and volant piece, and thus that piece is so protected that it takes no weight.

  The duke’s lance has broken into shards and has pushed the king’s visor or barbette so far back with the counter blow that the king’s head piece is full of splinters. There is a great danger of death because the king’s face is so exposed. Jane averts her eyes, as do I, until we see Queen Katharine race down the steps of the royal box, lifting her skirts in order to reach her husband quicker. We follow on behind, as a crowd encircles the king. Sir Thomas Boleyn, George, the queen, and many other courtiers surround him. The duke of Suffolk is now off his horse and shouting, “No! No! No!”

  The armorers will be blamed for this, even though the king had forgotten his visor, and so will the lord Marquise for delivering the blow when Henry’s face was exposed.

  The duke disarms as he attends the king, his face ashen, probably wondering how much damage he has done, but the king is pulled up, and Suffolk grabs his head in each hand as he tries to access the damage at close range. The king allows him to study his eye, and tries to make an encouraging smile for his best friend.

  “I swear that I will never run against you again,” Brandon shouts. But if the king had been even a little hurt, his servants would have put the duke in jeopardy.

  “No one is to blame but myself, for I intend to show the crowd I have saved myself and my sight.” But the crowd gasps when the king falters. Then he straightens and stands before Suffolk, who now grips the king by his shoulders to help his balance.

  The queen leans in to mop the blood from her husband’s brow to see what damage has been caused.

  “My Queen, I am well.” The linen handkerchief reddens with his blood. “I shall ride again!” Then he calls his armorers, who put all his pieces of armour together and give him a new helmet. The onlookers return to their positions and the king, much to the queen’s dismay, takes up another lance and runs six courses, by which all men can see that their king has taken no hurt, which is a great joy and comfort to all his subjects present.

  It is a great relief to the queen especially. As Jane and I take our seats, I turn to her.

  “He doesn’t appear to be seriously hurt, bar some damage to his eye and head, but he seems to have recovered well.”

  Jane looks vexed, probably concerned more for the emotional well-being of the queen than the king.

  Tonight, the court is taken by surprise when the king’s household make arrangements for him to visit Queen Katharine’s bed-chamber. When it comes to sleeping with his wife, the king follows a ritual involving a large amount of staff, including an elaborate procession through the corridors that have been cleared and guarded, and I keep my eyes lowered when I see him weaving through the courtiers to the entrance of her rooms. When he sees me standing in her presence chamber, he stops.

  “Mistress Wickers.” He strokes my cheek, his touch warm and light. “Is it not rather late for you to be up?” He is too familiar with me, but then I forget that he knows who everyone at court is, right down to the lowliest of servants.

  “No, Sire. I am here to do the Queen’s bidding.”

  “You may go and have some good rest.” He watches the rise and fall of my bosom beneath the neckline of my gown. I can’t believe I’ve just heard him grunt under his breath! This man is no prude. As I watch him step inside the door of her chamber, with his groom in attendance, I don’t really want to imagine him undressing. He makes no such display when he visits Mary – she has relayed to me how things go and this visible dramatic entrance at Katharine’s apartments is done to provide a diversion to what is really going on in his private life. In my time-travelling adventures, I know him to have bedded Bessie Blount, Mary Carey, and who will be next? This show of pomp and ceremony is in stark contrast to the occasions when he desires privacy when visiting the chambers of his mistresses, or when they are brought in secret to his chambers, for the pleasure of his grace.

  Henry’s grooms are charged to remain humble, reverent, secret, and lowly about all tasks, and Mary tells me that two grooms sleep on pallets outside his door and Sir Henry Norris is charged with preventing all other gentlemen from entering the king’s chambers. The only time the king is alone is when he orders his grooms out, once his mistress of the moment is procured. With Norris’s assistance, it seems it’s not difficult for Henry to admit whomever he pleases into his bed, whenever he wants. But tonight, the king belongs to the queen alone. Whatever secrets his grooms know, they are loyal and never show any surprise when he shows favour to one lady, or another. By the way the king looks at me, I’m hoping I will not be his next target. When I started this adventure, little did I ever imagine that I might be the target of Henry’s at
tentions. I must keep his mind off me at all costs and when and if Anne returns to court, I need to make sure that somehow, I put her in Henry’s way, if only to divert his attentions from me.

  A couple of weeks later, Margery Horsman comes to fetch me when a messenger arrives in the queen’s apartments.

  “Mistress Wickers, a Master Cotton is here. He is asking you to go to Master Skutt.”

  “Oh, my new kirtle and gown must be ready!” I say. “Would you accompany me?”

  Margery is a young woman of good standing, who has served Queen Katharine for some time. She’s petite, not particularly beautiful, but with a cheerful demeanour.

  “Let me ask the Queen’s permission,” she replies. Within minutes, she rushes back from the queen’s chamber. “We haven’t got much time. The Queen wants to go to mass.”

  Master Cotton strides ahead as Margery leads me from the queen’s apartments into Master Skutt’s workroom. The room is full of clutter, fabrics, shears, silk thread, and pots of pins.

  “We have your gown and kirtle ready, Mistress Wickers.” He directs me to the back of the room, and as he pulls back the curtain, I’m astounded to see the mannequin dressed with my finished kirtle and gown. “We hope that you will be pleased with the design.” Margery follows me in behind the curtain. “Please feel free to try it on – we would like to see how it becomes you.”

  Margery helps me to change into the new gown, and as I step out into the clear expanse of floor, I feel like a queen. Master Skutt and Master Cotton take a sharp intake of breath when they see me. I look down on the midnight-blue velvet, matched with a golden-yellow kirtle and dark-brown fur turned-back sleeves. To say I’m overjoyed would be something of an understatement.

  I lift my arm, inspecting all the tiny natural pearls which have been sewn into the fore-sleeves, all shimmering in the well-lit room. As I stand here, Master Skutt pulls the train out to show its full effect. He circles me, nodding to Master Cotton, who smiles at their handiwork.

  “This is more than adequate,” Skutt says. I can’t help but stroke the plush silk velvet, feeling its luxurious texture.

  “You look incredible,” Cotton says, a wry smile curling his lip. He turns to Skutt. “I think this is one of your best creations, sir.”

  “Are you pleased with our efforts?” Skutt asks me.

  “Sir, there are no words to express how exquisite this gown is.”

  “To finish off this ensemble,”—Skutt turns to Master Cotton, who is now reaching for a small box on a shelf above their heads—“we have also created a bonnet, in the design the Queen prefers – a gabled English style.” With that, Master Skutt opens the box and pulls out a pearl-encrusted gable hood, accentuated with gold and yellow-hued tissue and a rich black velvet. He comes towards me, bonnet in hand, and decorates my coifed head with his incredible creation. Then he hands me a small mirror and what I see takes my breath away. The hood highlights the curvature of my cheekbones and my high forehead and slender neck.

  Margery Horsman sighs. “I think the Queen will prefer you in this, Mistress Wickers.”

  “I think she will, too.”

  A couple of days later, I throw myself into preparing for the entertainments and decide that my new gown will be perfect. As the queen leads us out into the Great Hall, Jane and I walk with Margery Horsman. The musicians play their melodious turns, and as we watch the revels, Jane notices George saunter in our direction. He’s left Francis Bryan, Will Compton, and William Carey near the king, in case their services are required. He bows directly to me, but before he has the chance to speak, I am shocked to see the king now standing beside him. Jane and I dip into deep curtseys and my heart is in my mouth as I stare at the king’s kid-leather, soft shoes. To my surprise, I feel his forefingers gently lift my chin. He is tall, broad, and magnificent in his suit of red cloth of gold – a confident man in his early to mid-thirties, with an air of grandeur and assurance that royal blood and years of wearing a golden crown has conferred.

  “Mistress, there is no need to avert your face from me. For it is such a beautiful face.” Surprisingly, he bows in an elegant, courtly fashion that enhances his majestic dignity, even though he shows deference to me. I sink into a deeper curtsey. The kaleidoscope of colours twirling past us begins to slow, as I realise most of the court’s attention is now on me. From the corner of my eye, I see George fixing his gaze on the king, then on me. I feel faint and unsteady on my feet. The king must realise this, as he reaches out for my elbow to steady me.

  “You look lovely this evening, Mistress Wickers.” He looks at me with a gentle, reassuring smile. “I am pleased to see you in English fashions.”

  “The gowns that Mistress Boleyn had given me have become a little worn, Sire.” My face burns. “Lady Boleyn gave me some bolts of fabric as a New Year gift, and your master tailor has created this gown from them.”

  “I am so glad that my tailors have worked so hard for you.” He makes no pretence about surveying my gown from neckline to hem. “You may send me the bill.” He looks down at me with such intensity, his blue eyes are piercing. The scent of fresh herbs fills my nostrils as he leans in close to my ear. “I would like you to visit my chambers this evening,” he whispers. My face flushes as my jaw drops.

  “Your Grace, I am not worthy of such an honour. It would be wrong of me…”

  “I shall decide who is in the wrong,” he whispers.

  “But Your Grace, I can’t…erm, cannot.”

  “Henry Norris will come to collect you, after the entertainments tonight.” I open my mouth to reply, but he stops me with his forefinger on my lips. Our eyes lock. “Now, Mistress Wickers, will you do me the honour of joining me in this dance?” I want to refuse him, especially in front of George, but no one refuses the king, not even me.

  George stares in disbelief. “Your Grace, Mistress Wickers is new to the Court and does not know the dance.” He tries to hold me back from taking the king’s hand, but the king growls at him. I give Henry my hand, bowing my head so he won’t see the discomfort, nor the thrill of it in my eyes. One dance, and that would be it. Nothing more.

  “Boleyn, you think me not capable of leading this young woman in the dance?” George shrinks back, his face shocked at the turn of events – I do believe he is jealous!

  “Elizabeth!” George cries, as the king leads me out onto the dance floor. The Boleyn boy is clearly flustered. I look back at him, and shrug. Then I glance at Jane Parker. She stares at me, then at George, looking like someone has pierced her heart with a knife. I can’t resist gloating a little at the thought of the journey from Kent, with me asleep on his chest, having him to myself, even if we are just friends. Besides, she will have him all to herself in more ways than one when they become husband and wife. Now who’s jealous? For the moment, George is my dearest friend, but how long it will last, especially after tonight, who knows?

  Thirteen

  Agnes fumbles with the ribbons and cords on my dressing gown as I stand in my chambers, preparing myself to be collected by Henry Norris for my midnight audience with the king.

  “Calm down, Agnes!” I squeal. “What’s wrong?”

  “Mistress, I know it’s not my place, but…” Agnes says in her country accent.

  “But, what?”

  “You should not be visiting the King at so late an hour, and on your own, without a chaperone!” She’s still fumbling with the turn backs on my brocade sleeves. “What would Sir Thomas say?”

  “Sir Thomas is probably well aware of the King’s request.”

  “I doubt it – he would only know if Master George were to say something.”

  “George will not tell his father.” I say. What am I doing? What if he wants to kiss me, touch me, or sleep with me? He can’t possibly want me in that way. Surely not? This isn’t about sex, this is about reminding the king of Mary, or indeed arousing his interest in Anne. This i
s about the Boleyns, not me. My heart leaps when someone bangs at the door, which Agnes goes to answer.

  “Is Mistress Wickers there? I need to see her, urgently!” This male voice is insistent.

  “Master George – this is highly inappropriate – especially at this late hour!” Agnes argues. “George, you must wait here!”

  George doesn’t wait, and barges into my bed-chamber.

  “Beth, why is it when I tried to stop you dancing with the King tonight, you ignored me?” His face is pale, his eyes red, as if he’s been crying.

  “Please, George, you know as well as I do that no lady-in-waiting can refuse the King. You should not have taken my ignoring you as an insult – how can any woman refuse the King?” I try not to show the panic in my voice as he continues pressing his argument. This isn’t how things are meant to be turning out. I could have really messed up the bloody timeline of events by even accepting a dance with the king. Who knows what a butterfly effect this will make? How did I get into this mess? I could just run out into the night, twist the ring and be out of here, out of this whole sorry debacle!

  “You could have refused him, especially if my affection for you has meant anything to you!” He whines. “Am I not pleasing to you?”

  “You know I adore you!” I wish I didn’t have such an honest heart, but I can’t help myself, as I blurt out how I feel. “Until that kiss at Hever, I never dreamed that you thought of me in any way beyond the ordinary – up until then, I thought of us as good friends.”

  He strides over to me. Agnes nervously potters about the bed-chamber, folding gowns and tidying things away. Bless her heart, hanging around to protect my modesty and my reputation.

  I stiffen, not wanting to give the game away to her, unsure how much she’s already overheard. Mercifully, George takes my hand.