Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn Read Online Free

considerable trouble to stage this spectacle. I was impressed and about to say so, but something in the woman’s earnest gaze held me back. I felt something stir inside of me—a knowing, an understanding of something far beyond my conscious awareness. I felt inexplicably drawn to this woman, who was holding my hand so tightly. I must have smiled, for she impulsively leaned forward and kissed me gently on the cheek, wide-eyed excitement radiating from her face. Suddenly, she rose to her feet and turned to look toward the door. As she did so, I too heard what had caught her attention. Shouts echoed from within the castle; they seemed to be coming from the direction of the inner courtyard. Then, growing louder and more thunderous with every second, there came the sound of horses’ hooves clattering over the drawbridge and onto the cobbled stones.
    ‘He’s here! Anne, we don’t have much time. We must go!’ With that, the young woman grabbed my hand once more and pulled me to my feet. To my relief, my legs, which I recalled had felt so unsteady before I had collapsed, were now strong again and bearing me forward effortlessly, hurried along by my unknown companion. In my confusion, I was hardly able to say a word, let alone resist the insistent tugs which kept up our momentum. Before I knew it, we had left the Long Gallery, gone down a short flight of stairs and through two further rooms; each one as beautifully adorned as the Gallery itself; portraits, heavy oak furniture, all elaborately carved, even plates of silver and the odd item of what seemed to be gold. However, as we reached the end of the second room, I came to an abrupt halt. This caused the young woman to yelp in pain as, still holding my hand, I jarred hard against her. I had found myself staring into an old mirror hanging on a wall. The mirror was not as flawless as I was used to, so the image was somewhat distorted, but I saw enough to take my breath away. I was transfixed for a second time.
    Next to my companion stood a striking young woman of slim build and a little taller than the woman next to her but, nevertheless, of average height. Her face—no—my face, was oval, perfectly proportioned with a darker, more olive-like complexion than the English rose that I had studied so intently in the Long Gallery. Like the English rose though, there was a similar long and straight nose and beautiful full lips. I was struck by how flawless her/my skin was. She had a long, slender neck, her breast creating a gentle swell beneath what I would come to know as a kirtle. The eyes were deep and dark, framed by slender, arching eyebrows. I felt that it would be easy to get lost in the depths of those eyes that were both searching and captivating all at the same time. Unlike the stranger next to her, this woman wore no hood but merely a coif, which gathered up an abundance of glossy, dark chestnut hair.
    I finally allowed the reality to wash over me, that I was this other woman. I gasped almost inaudibly, for about that slender neck was an unmistakable mark of my true identity. Set against a gold chain, was a double strand of pearls from which hung the unmistakable gold ‘B’ that I had seen in so many portraits before. Could it be possible? I turned briefly to look at my companion, reassuring myself of her presence and that this indeed was real. Hesitantly, I turned back to gaze once more at my reflection—her reflection. I was looking at the face of Anne Boleyn.
    ‘Come on!’ she said. Clearly exasperated from my dalliance, the young woman dragged me away from the mirror and down a corridor that I recognised as ‘the Staircase Gallery;’ a gallery which was added by Thomas Boleyn after the family moved to Hever Castle in 1506. Thomas had turned what had been a slightly outdated early Tudor manor into a bright, warm and fashionable house of its day. The corridor was about three metres wide, clad again in oak panelling. It wrapped itself round the three sides of the