Timeless Falcon 1

by Phillipa Vincent-Connolly

  “You cannot go to him. Anne would want me to protect you from the King. Look how he has treated my sister Mary – I do not want that for you!”

  “George, that is very sweet of you,” I say, pulling away from his grasp. “But I can look after myself!”

  His eyes are now blazing with anger. “As your friend, and someone who loves you, I forbid you to go to the King.” He wrings his hands as he stands before me. “You must not do this.”

  “Why ever not?”

  His face softens. “I do not want the King to hurt you.”

  “This audience may not even be about me,” I say. “He might want to ask of news of Mary and her pregnancy. Have you not thought of that?”

  “No, I had not.” He looks almost apologetic.

  “It’s a possibility, isn’t it?” I sigh. “Is this not what your father asked us to do? To keep Mary in the uppermost thoughts of His Grace?”

  “Yes, yes – he did.”

  “Then do not worry.” I move closer and embrace him, which startles him. He tries to kiss me, but I pull away.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, “please forgive me?”

  “Do not take advantage of the situation – we are here for your family’s sake. But most of all, we are going to do whatever it takes, for Mary and her unborn child.”

  “I under—” Our conversation ends when we are interrupted by another knock at the door. Agnes rushes to answer it, and George hangs back in the bed-chamber, so he won’t be seen.

  “I have come to fetch Mistress Wickers, on command of the King.” It’s not difficult to recognise the familiar voice of Henry Norris. I check the bows on my dressing-gown, give a nervous half-smile towards George, and head out to the outer-chamber door where Sir Henry is waiting. I gulp back a ball of nerves as he makes a bow and smiles.

  “Mistress, the King is waiting for you.”

  As I walk alongside Henry Norris down the labyrinth of passageways, past flickering torches, my heart is in my mouth, and my questions to Henry Norris must give my nerves away.

  “Have you escorted many ladies to the King’s private apartments of a late evening, sir?

  “You must know the King has acquired tastes when it comes to women – but I cannot tell you the King’s secrets, my lady.”

  “Then, sir, how am I to please him?”

  “When I introduce you into the King’s bed-chamber, I can only say, that as a woman, you will know how to please him. He is a man, like any other, after all.” He gives me a knowing smile, of an attendant beyond his years. My nerves are heightened as I realise that George might be right – what if the king expects me to have intercourse with him? I’m not sure I could do that, even if he is a king.

  I’m glad I have my silk slippers on – the soles slap against the flagstone slabs, which are cold and damp. The embers of glowing fires dissipate, their woody fumes lingering in the air. Mist settles on the Thames, as stars illuminate the geometric hedging in the gardens. The palace is quiet, and many courtiers are either in their own beds or ones belonging to their friend’s wives. I have no idea what to expect, meeting the king in such a private way, as I’ve only spent time in his company when he was surrounded by his entourage.

  My heart skips as Norris walks in front of me, escorting me through the state apartments. We walk through the state bedroom, which is maintained to impress visiting sovereigns. I gaze at the state-bed – a colossal construction with a canopy fifteen-foot-high, hung with gorgeous and expensive tapestries. I can’t believe I’m in here. We walk through a smaller pair of oak doors, guarded by two of the king’s privy servants in full green and white livery. Entering the king’s inner-most sanctum, the air is heavily perfumed with musk and herbs. A small fire crackles in the grate, as Norris and William Compton prepare the room for the king’s arrival.

  “Please sit, Mistress Wickers.” Norris waves towards a chair covered with damask cushions. I do as I’m told, sitting on the edge of the chair, pulling my dressing gown tighter about me.

  “The King is at his bath – he will be here shortly.” I shouldn’t be surprised that Henry has a bath on a regular basis, as I’m aware from the records that he has a Turkish bath at Hampton Court, so he probably has one here, too. I try not to imagine him naked, lying in the sunken bath of hot water and floating rose petals. He’s probably having his genitals perfumed with essential oils and rose water, which the Tudors believe is medicinal and wards off infection. Although, I have to say, it’s a relief he isn’t the morbidly obese king he will later become. His legs are muscular, his chest broad, and I’m about to see and experience them, first-hand. As I wait, I watch Henry’s privy household, his specific attendants of his bed-chamber, prepare his bed.

  “How many of there are you?” I ask Norris, his key swaying on his blue ribbon as he pulls back the linen sheets.

  “Six of us.” He smiles, then lies on the bed and rolls across it. “There are always attendants in the King’s private bed-chamber,” he says, somewhat out of breath.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Checking for assassins with knives!”

  “Oh.” I grimace. “Where do you and the other servants sleep?”

  “Either on a small wheeled bed pulled out from beneath the royal bed,”—he pulls it out a foot or two to show me—“or favoured servants such as myself share the King’s bed, when it is required.”

  “You are very intimate with His Grace, then?”

  “Yes, indeed Mistress,” he replies, then smiles, as the other servants make the king’s bed ready. He sleeps on a pile of eight mattresses. William Compton and Norris lift the sides of each mattress to confirm there are no hidden enemies with daggers lying in wait.

  “So, the King has little privacy?”

  “I am the King’s Groom of the Stool. I guard the King’s privacy in his privy apartments. It is my job.” He reaches for the badge of office, which is a gold key on a blue ribbon hanging from his neck. “This gives me the ultimate authority to demand that no other keys for the bed-chamber be made or allowed.

  “How many servants of the bed-chamber do you control?” I ask.

  “There are a handful of servants here at all times. We prepare his bed-chamber when he wakes, for sleep, and if he needs our attendance at night.”

  He says this somewhat sarcastically. Intrigued, I watch as Norris sprinkles the sheets with holy water and makes the sign of the cross over the bed. William Compton warms Henry’s nightshirt before the fire for a few minutes as an owl hoots its goodnight from outside. Other attendants draw the long and heavy drapes across the casements, shutting out the night. Attendants deliver trays of sweetmeats, sliced apricots and asparagus, and place them on a sideboard. Finally, rose petals are scattered across the bed.

  “Norris, I shall attend His Grace with his nightgown,” Compton says.

  “Very well.”

  Butterflies flutter in my stomach while I watch an attendant light numerous candles about the room with a small taper. The warm glow, mixed with the room’s heady, musky scent, creates an intoxicating atmosphere. Perhaps this is the effect Henry is after. I glance over at the servants as they hurry around carrying out their ritual tasks. They keep staring at me, probably assuming that I’m to be the next courtier Henry will bed.

  Behind me, large oak doors swing open, and there in a dark-red dressing gown, enters Henry VIII. He towers over all of us. I rush to stand and drop in a curtsey at his feet. Norris hands the king a full goblet of red wine.

  “Thank you, Norris.” Norris bows. “Mistress Wickers, I am delighted to see you.”

  The king smiles, extending his free hand, which is covered in rings. I stand up and take his hand, then plant a brief kiss on the biggest ring that glitters before me.

  “Your Grace.”

  “Call me Henry. No need for formalities here.” He nods. “And I may call you?”

>   “Elizabeth, Your Grace…erm, I mean, Henry.” I pull my dressing gown about me, to cover myself. He notices.

  “Do not fear me. I am no rapist, my dear.” He shocks me with that remark.

  “What makes you think I would consider you in that way?”

  “I heard rumours that a certain Boleyn girl thinks me capable – does she?”

  “Which Boleyn girl, Sire? Mary, or her sister Anne?”

  “Anne. She alleges I forced myself on Mary. George told me. He said that Anne thinks I could not possibly have honourable intentions towards her sister.”

  “Sire… Henry.” I wince. “I believe that Anne thinks you have treated her sister badly, because since she announced her pregnancy, you have ignored her and sent her packing to Hever.”

  “I see.” He frowns. “Does Anne not consider that the child Mary is carrying might be William Carey’s?”

  “I do not know, Sire.” My brows feel heavy as I frown. “She might realise it is a possibility.”

  He walks over to his bed, tapping the covers. “Come and sit beside me.” He smiles. His eyes twinkle in the candlelight, their cobalt blue lighting up his face. His beard is neatly trimmed, and his hair is cut short around his ears in the new fashion. Through the opening of his dressing gown, the neckline of his nightshirt peeps through, with its intricate blackwork stitching around the collar. Short, red chest hair winks at me, but it isn’t inviting me in.

  “Gentlemen, you may go. I bid you goodnight, and good rest.” He waves his attendants away.

  “Your Majesty, if you need anything, you only have to call,” Norris says, taking a few steps backwards through the open bed-chamber doors, closing them firmly behind him.

  The king turns to me. “You have no need to fear me.” This big, powerful man looks as different as a schoolboy, sat in his night attire, making a humble, earnest plea. “I asked you here, hoping you will take pity on me, for these are unfair slanders laid at my feet.” He takes a sip of wine from his goblet, then retrieves a kerchief from his dressing-gown pocket and wipes his lips.

  I settle next to him, pulling myself up on the coverlets and furs on his bed, which are covered in rose petals. “Sire, Henry, you are my noble Lord and King, why would I need to pity you?”

  “One Boleyn sister think badly of me,” he says in an imperious voice. “Mary gave herself willingly to me. I would never force myself upon a lady, especially one I so admire.”

  “You are ever gracious, my Lord,” I say, rolling one of the rose petals between my fingertips. Henry gets up and sets his drink on the sideboard.

  “It was amiss of Norris not to offer you some wine… Would you like some?”

  “Yes, please, Henry.”

  He picks up an empty goblet and pours the contents of the jug into it until it’s almost full to the brim, then passes it to me.

  “Thank you, my Lord.” I have to pinch myself, because I’m having trouble believing that I’m sitting all alone with Henry VIII in his private bed-chamber. I shake my head in disbelief, then take a sip of the spicy, fruity red wine.

  “Would you please implore your mistress that I would never harm a hair on her sister’s head? I admire Mary, for her beauty, sensitivity, and grace.”

  “From what Anne believes, there was more force than fondness between you and Mary.”

  “I am fond of Mary, but would never do such a thing!” His eyes are blazing. “This affair with Mary, for the time being, has come to an end due to her pregnancy. It is all…momentarily. It has run its course.” He plonks back on the bed beside me.

  “Anne has pushed Mary for answers for months,” I say, tugging at my dressing-gown sleeves. This is a conversation I wasn’t expecting. “Besides, all Mary says is that she loves you.”

  “Does she, indeed?” Henry beams as he takes another sip from his goblet.

  “But Anne thinks that your Grace gave Mary no choice.” We all know that it’s impossible as a woman to refuse the king, otherwise I wouldn’t be sat here. Oh God, Anne is going to kill me for being so honest, and what the hell was George doing retelling all his conversations? I shake my head.

  “What is it?” His face flushes. “Is that what Anne really told you?”

  “It has been implied in conversations, your Grace.”

  “Henry – please.” He seems frustrated. “Elizabeth, you must know I am a gentleman and a knight, I will not gainsay her, but do not think ill of me.”

  “I do not…Henry.”

  “I’m glad.” He smiles once more. “And Mary loves me. Well, I was not expecting that!” He chuckles. I know he thinks a lot of himself, so that statement is a lie. “Anne will poison Mary’s mind against me. You must reassure Mistress Anne that her sister came to me willingly enough.”

  “Like me…Henry?” I giggle, then smile, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Ah, I do not think you come to me with any expectations.” He raises a brow. “If my heart was currently not with Mary Carey, it would be yours!” His eyes light up.

  My face flushes hot, and my décolleté reddens. The heat from the fireplace is overwhelming. This is what it feels like when Henry VIII hits on a woman!

  “My Lord, what a compliment you pay me.” I nod. “But I don’t think it is my favour you look for.” I need to turn his attentions towards Mary, and eventually Anne.

  “No, how so?”

  “You look for the approval of Mistress Anne Boleyn,” I reply. “I have seen the way you watch her. You have been admiring her for some time.”

  “You are right, but only to win her affection, for her sister’s sake.” He sighs. “I had feared approaching her because she seems cold towards me.”

  “Sire, I mean…Henry, she is cold towards you because she believes you ordered Cardinal Wolsey to interfere in her affair with Henry Percy.”

  “I did not!” His face grows puce. He gets to his feet and refills his goblet from a flagon of wine that sits on the sideboard. “Would you like more wine?”

  “No, thank you, your Grace.” I smile, covering the top of my goblet with my hand.

  “That is a beautiful ring you are wearing.” He comes to sit back next to me, and I want to shrink into the tapestries on the wall and disappear. “May I see?” He takes my hand and inspects the rubies and cypher on the top of the ring.

  “The ‘AB’, what does that signify?”

  “It is a cypher, my Lord.” I half-smile. “After Anne Boleyn, for being part of her household.” He buys my lie, thank God.

  “’Tis a beautiful thing.” He stares at it, but I don’t want him to inspect it any closer, and I snatch my hand away. “I think you are a loyal friend to the Boleyns.”

  “I am, Sire.”

  “I have been glad to show favour to that family. Thomas Boleyn serves me well.” He sips more wine. “I am prepared to be more generous still, once Mary has had her child.

  “Should you like to resume relations with her?”

  “Why ever not?” He chuckles. “She is a beautiful woman – declares her love and loyalty – so what is there not to desire?” He smiles. “But, I am not one for being around women who have been in confinement, nor in labour. It is an unclean thing.” He grimaces. “I shall send word to Mary once she has been churched, and when we know the child and she are healthy.”

  So, he has not closed the door on a relationship with Mary. That surprises me.

  “It seems,” he says, “from my recent conversations with George, I must make more of an effort with the Boleyns, especially the women!” He grins. “Do you think that would please them?” He takes another sip of wine.

  I nod. “I know it would please Mary, your Grace.”

  “And what about Anne?” He leans in closer to me.

  “Sire, Anne is her own person. She protects her family name fiercely, but she has a renegade tongue.”

  �
��I see.” He laughs. “A strong-willed woman, and one not to be crossed, it seems.” He leans closer and kisses me on the cheek. Heat floods my face.

  “Henry, you are very forward!”

  “Fear not, that is a thank you for being so honest with me.” He blushes, too. “I think you and I could be good friends?”

  “You would want me to think of my King as a friend?”

  “Of course. You may ask anything of me, at any time when you need anything, all you must do is ask.” He smiles again, the honesty radiating from his pours. Then he stands, takes my hand in his, and pulls me to my feet. He places my hand against his bare chest through his nightgown and I feel his heartbeat. Ga-goon, ga-goon, ga-goon. He bends to kiss me on the lips, and his hands slide down my waist as he draws me to him. His hold is strong, and in that moment, I understand how difficult it might be for a woman to refuse intimacy with him, and how vulnerable that makes me feel. I go rigid in his arms, the thought flashing across my mind that, despite his declarations for Mary, he may want more.

  “I want us to be good friends – if for now, we can mean nothing more.”

  So, he does want me – not now, but at some point, he will. My body stiffens, and for a moment, I’m frightened.

  “Sir,” I cry, shocked that he might think he could get away with sleeping with me. “I am your good subject, nothing more.”

  He lets me go, standing back and looking at me with such a wounded expression that I almost take pity on him. To think that, in this moment, I have a power over this man who holds the lives of thousands in his hands. I do not want him like that. I have to think of a right and proper answer to the evening’s discourse. I have to think of an answer that will bring his thoughts back to Mary and Anne. I have to deflect his interest in me, without offending him.

  “Henry, would you not be happy with friendship between us, for now?”

  “Friendship it is,” he say, rather reluctantly.

  Fourteen

  An awful banging comes from the outer chamber door, and I shoot up in my bed as Agnes scurries to answer. Morning sunlight cascades through the window and I rub my eyes, wondering just how early it is. Back home, I’m so used to having my I-phone to check the time but, of course, it’s at Hever, and wouldn’t be any use, anyhow, with time here being so different.