A Step Back in Time

The day was hot and humid, the sun a yellow ball in a deep blue sky baking the garden and muting the vibrant colors of the flower beds and the lawns. The scent of cornflowers and columbine hung in the air like a line of washing as I ran outside, my father’s dogs, Gilbert and Sturdy, running ahead, barking with excitement as I threw them a shuttlecock and they raced to catch it.

I was happy, so happy, for no real reason other than that it was May and I was but fifteen years old and the day was bright and I wore a new gown of vibrant green silk, the long bell sleeves slashed to reveal the palest oyster pink to ever have been seen—or so I thought. I ran and jumped and danced across the lawns, my soft green slippers sliding across the grass as if on ice. I put my face to the sun and threw the shuttlecock again and the dogs, their tails wagging, ran again to fetch it to me.

My father, Sir Richard Pole, and my mother, Margaret Pole, her arm hung over his like a claw, sailed by on their walk, and my brothers, all four of them—Henry, Arthur, Reginald, and Geoffrey, swaggering like painted peacocks—took the air before dinner was to be served. They walked in crocodile two’s, each of them with their hands behind their backs, their heads low and pointing forward, the colors of their suits even brighter and more vibrant than my own gown.

I danced along the paved pathway, and from there into the coolness of the overhanging branches of the trees, where lozenges of sunlight peeked between soft green leaves and spangled the dry ground. The sound of the dogs barking became fainter and fainter as they joined my father, my mother, and my brothers, the dog, Gilbert, holding the shuttlecock securely in his mouth, no doubt encouraging the others to play fetch now that I had escaped them.

Taking hold of my voluminous skirts with both hands, I swayed from side to side, taking great pleasure in the swishing of the silk against the soft material of my new lacy undergarments.

I stood still then, humming softly under my breath, raising my face again to the sun and reveling in the warmth on my tender young skin. I closed my eyes tightly, very tightly, the sun becoming a red angry mist behind them, and when I opened them, very, very slowly, he was standing there, as I knew he would be. I smiled coyly at him and he smiled back, tiny wrinkles around his eyes fanning out like the marks of the sea breaking on the sandy beach at Southsea.

“My lady.” He bowed deeply from the waist, lowering his eyes and then, because he could wait no longer, looked up and grinned as cheekily as a little boy.

“Arise, Sir Gregory,” I demanded imperiously, waving my arm with a flourish.

With a smile, he took me into the warm circle of his arms and I melted into his long lean body as his mouth sought mine. We kissed, our tongues entwined and his mouth warm and wet, when all of a sudden the sound of a fanfare rang throughout the hot still air, and Gregory and I, drawing slightly apart, stared at each other in disbelief, both thinking the same thing.

“Was that the king’s fanfare?”

But then all became quiet, all became still, and, thinking it had been our imagination, we relaxed again. I buried my face in the curve of his neck to feel his pulse beat rapidly beneath my lips.

The excited barking of Gilbert and Sturdy alerted us once more, and pandemonium ensued as my mother, closely followed by my father and my brothers, sped past as if chased by the hounds of hell.

“Henry,” I heard my mother say. “Oh my goodness, Henry—he is here.”

They didn’t see Gregory and I in our secret hiding place amongst the trees, and probably wouldn’t have seen us anyway being in such a panic at the king’s unannounced arrival.

The king’s fanfare sounded again, louder and closer now, and a creaking like old arthritic joints was heard as the drawbridge slowly raised and horses, their hooves pounding, cantered through, followed by the marching of boots. At the head of the procession, the royal standard fluttered in the breeze as King Henry the Eighth of England and his retinue thundered into the gardens of Warblington Manor, the royal carriage rocking dangerously from side to side. Frantic neighing shrieked through the air. Gregory, with one last frantic look at me, fled away, while I ran across the gardens in pursuit of my family.

Such was his height he had to stoop as he came through the great door into the shadowy hallway of our home, clutching his cloak around him which, although travel stained, was sumptuous and rich. My mother bowed so low that her nose touched the aromatic rushes that were strewn over the flagged floor.

“Arise, my Margaret, my kin,” boomed Henry, reminding me of what I had said earlier to Gregory when he had bowed in front of me.

He stood with his large meaty hands on his hips, legs wide open and feet planted like a sturdy tree. Sunshine streamed through the tiny windows, gilding his blond hair that stood around his head like a halo. He was a handsome man, with eyes of bright blue and full round cheeks sprinkled with faint stubble. Dressed richly in a cloth of gold, pure white feathers adorned his hat and rings sparkled on his fingers. His codpiece, decorated with diamonds and pearls, stood out proudly.

“Feed me and water me, my kin Margaret, for my stomach is empty and my throat parched.” Behind him his men stood to attention, their swords hanging like silver rods from their waists, dirt and sweat seeming to ooze from their pores like a fast flowing river.

All of a sudden his gaze fell on me. Narrowing his eyes and squatting to my height, his powerful thighs folding beneath him, he said, “Ah, Ursula…belle Ursula. You are grown.” He glanced up at my mother and father with his hot blue eyes. “I have a husband for this one.” And when my mother looked just a little afraid, he said, “Just you wait and see.”

A shiver ran down my spine.

“It is so good to see you, Henry,” said my mother, able, it seemed, to find her voice at last. “Your visit is such a lovely surprise. But come, follow me, for there is food and drink within.”

Drawing himself up tall and strong, towering over us like a giant from a story book, Henry stood at his full height, surveying us all.

***

The ringing of my mobile brought me back this time, and a beep as a text message came through. Groggily I lifted my head from where it had been resting on the hard, wooden desk, and I cautiously rolled my neck to ease the stiffness. My computer screen was blank, but as I knocked against the mouse it sprang to life, showing that the last thing I had been looking at was the emails in my Hotmail account. Vague noises sounded around the building, and I could hear Claire typing in next door’s office.

Picking up my mobile, I put it to my ear and said, “Hello?”

“Hannah, are you okay?”

“Oh, hi Mum. Yes, fine. You?”

“I can’t stay to chat,” she said. “And I know you’re busy too. I just wanted to remind you about tea tonight. Come around between five and six?”

“Yes, of course,” I told her. “See you tonight, Mum.” Gratefully I hung up and put my mobile back on the desk beside me. Thank God, I thought, that she didn’t want a long conversation. I wouldn’t be capable of that—not after the trauma of meeting King Henry. I looked around, half expecting him to appear in the office and look at me with those piercing blue eyes, that sneering gaze. Once again a shiver ran down my spine, and I understood fully then why I had such a cruel husband, knowing now that he had been chosen for me by the king.

Remembering the text that had come through as I woke up, I reached for my phone again, surprised that the text wasn’t from Gregory, but from Claire, also reminding me of tonight’s tea, and that we could go together after work. She obviously thought it was funny to send me a text from the office next door instead of coming to speak to me. Oh, ha ha, Claire!

I didn’t know why, but I became frantic then, searching through my texts, desperate to read one from Gregory to be assured of his presence and confirm when we could meet again. I found messages from Sarah, more from Claire, a few from Mum, even texts from my ex Andy and Max and Stuart, but nothing from Gregory. I scrolled through my contacts, becoming increasingly distraught when I couldn’t find any trace of him. Gregory, I thought. What’s happened to Gregory?

It hit me suddenly like a ton of bricks, the realization that Gregory didn’t have a mobile phone, that he had lived a long time ago before text messages and phone calls existed, and that there was no way he would be in my contacts for that reason alone. Tears poured down my face. I sniffed and rubbed my eyes wearily with the pads of my fingers.

Glancing out of the window, I saw that the sky was a pale blue dotted with creamy clouds, and the sun shone, yet tiny spots of rain pattered at the window and dotted the moist earth around the daffodils and tulips with tiny holes. A slight wind blew, causing the flowers to bend and sway in their pots.

I was dabbing at my face with a screwed up tissue when Max walked into the office carrying a tottering pile of buff colored folders, which he put down heavily on the desk before he realized I was there. He looked taken aback when he saw me, and said, “Oh Hannah, you’re here. Sorry about these.” He pointed to the folders. “I was hoping that you could file them away for me.”

“Yes, of course,” I replied.

“Anything wrong?” he asked, standing in front of me, his hands on his hips, much like Henry’s stance—typical male, although thank God no codpiece anywhere in sight! He looked so worried, so concerned, that I almost burst into tears again, so tempted to tell him everything, to pour out my heart, so to speak. I was just about to do that and Max had opened his mouth to speak when Claire walked into the office and his attention was immediately diverted by her Barbie like presence.

Her appearance for work dismayed me, and I did a double take thinking that maybe I’d entered another parallel universe, and had found myself in a night club in the nineteen sixties or seventies. She wore a skirt so short that it resembled a very thick belt. Her long slim legs were encased in black opaque tights, and she tottered in sky high heels. Her top, either made for a child or shrunk in a very hot wash, clung to her slim waist, and her breasts peeked out of the low neck like two huge bouncy balls. Had she had a boob job? I didn’t know about my eyes, but Max’s bore a startling resemblance to an extremely surprised frog.

“Oh, you’re here, are you?” she said, looking at me but taking no notice whatsoever of Max, which I thought was quite rude.

“Of course I am.”

“Where have you been?”

“Nowhere,” I replied, frowning, shaking my head. “Here?”

“No, I don’t think you have,” said Max suddenly, obviously having gotten over his initial reaction to Claire’s appearance and able to speak. “I was just about to ask you where you’d been.”

“Yeah,” butted in Claire. “Why do you think I sent you a text about tea at Mum’s tonight instead of just speaking to you? You weren’t here, Hannah.”

“Oh, I just thought you were being silly,” I giggled. “Or maybe being lazy—you know, not wanting to actually walk into this office from that office.” I pointed in the vague direction of where Claire had come from.

Claire said nothing, just stood there staring at me, her arms folded over the enormous globes that stuck out on her chest.

Max, perching on the edge of the desk now, said, “Look, Hannah, if you ever do need to pop out, to go to the shop or whatever, please let me know first, will you? I was worried—it’s not like you to just disappear.”

“Yeah,” butted in Claire. “Particularly as your mobile was left on the desk. You don’t usually like being parted from your precious phone.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but thought, Why bother? They won’t believe me if I tell them where I have been, so it’s best to say nothing at all. I was puzzled, though, because I’d always thought that my physical presence remained here in this time when I was back in the 1500s. After all, Claire had found me supposedly drunk in the ladies’ room when I was gone the last time. Hmm, I thought. Very strange.

While I’d been busy thinking, Max and Claire had disappeared. I’d vaguely heard her asking for a document that she needed for her work, and apparently Stuart had told her it was in Max’s office. I could hear the rumble of Max’s voice, and Claire’s high-pitched giggles as they walked—well, Claire wiggled—across the spacious entrance area and into the office. The door closed with a click.

I felt like a naughty school girl that had been told off by her parents. Really, what did it matter to either of them if I was there or not? Why was Max so worried? Where on earth did he think I was? Feeling naughtier than ever, I tiptoed across the tiled entrance way and stopped at Max’s office, where I pressed my ear against the sturdy wooden door. Grinning, a vague memory of my mum being nosy and listening in to our next-door neighbors came to mind. I recalled her shushing me, a finger to her lips, and putting her ear to a glass pressed against the wall.

Hmm, I thought. I could try that.

But before I could go to the kitchen to get one of our many glasses, I heard Max’s rumbling voice again, followed by jovial laughter, and then another higher pitched voice chimed in. Very much put out now by Max and Claire’s behavior—it just wasn’t professional—I began very slowly to turn the brass knob and, as I did so, the door began to open, a tiny sliver at a time.

Putting a narrowed eye to the crack, I peered through, but the room was very dark, strangely dark, and something was flickering. Was it candles, or were the bulbs failing? Why would Max have candles in his office? To set a romantic scene for him and Claire? Totally ridiculous!

Glancing behind me, I saw that the entrance way was now almost pitch black, and dark creepy shadows lurked in every corner. As my eyes adjusted to the light, a massive fireplace set deep into one thick wall came into view, along with a wooden settle with a high back and arms, and a gleaming sideboard, chunky tallow candles standing on its top.

The area looked more like an ante-chamber than an entrance hall now. Alarm bells began to ring, and the realization that I was Ursula Pole again crashed into my mind. With no holding back because of that, I flung the door wide open to find that it wasn’t an office now, but a bedchamber, and the flickering that I’d seen was indeed from candles covering, it seemed, every surface.

The couple laying on the bed entwined in each other’s arms turned languidly towards me, their faces drugged with desire. Without any feelings of shock or surprise whatsoever, I saw that it was my husband, Henry Stafford, and William Palmer, a very talented musician in the court of King Henry the Eighth of England.