Anne Boleyn's Ghost Read online

  ANNE BOLEYN’S GHOST

  Anne Boleyn’s Ghost by Liam Archer

  Copyright © 2013 Liam Archer

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, unless permitted by the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN 978-1494736484

  Oashi Publishing

  Photography by Liam Archer

  First Edition

  Contents

  Introduction

  The Visit to Hever Castle

  In the Darkroom

  The Photographs

  The Difference between the Camera and the Eye

  Anne’s Story

  How it Began

  The Break from Rome

  The Coronation

  Elizabeth Arrives

  The King’s Will

  Untimely Mishap

  Devising a Plan

  Losing her Freedom

  The Accused are Heard

  Final Days

  Sightings of Anne’s Ghost

  Introduction

  It was midsummer 2009, when I went with family and friends to visit Hever Castle on the five hundredth anniversary of King Henry the Eighth’s Accession to the Throne. In the past, I visited Hever Castle on several occasions, and I have many cherished memories of the castle. Hever Castle was by no means the only castle I visited with family on more than one occasion. By the time I was ten years old I had been to so many castles, I couldn’t possibly count them all – such as Tintagel Castle in Cornwall; Cardiff Castle in Wales; Windsor Castle; and the infamous Tower of London, to name a few.

  Shortly after my thirteenth birthday, I discovered photography. Winter was coming to a close and the days were growing increasingly warmer. One sunny day I came across a disposable camera lying vacantly on top of a cabinet at home. I picked it up, looked at the dial on top, and noticed it had a full roll of film. So without further ado, I took the camera downstairs, went into the front garden, and looked for something to photograph.

  I spotted a small group of newly emerged daffodils, all bunched together and thriving in the warmth, while surrounding tall trees broke up and softened the sun’s heavenly rays. I took a few steps towards them, peered through the viewfinder, and started to take pictures. As I clicked happily away, I found myself searching for dramatic angles: my chin grazed the grass; the camera twisted and turned one way, then the other; all until my little box became silent. And with the glorious day ahead of me, I took the camera back inside, where I immediately forgot about it, and spent the rest of the day doing more important things, like skateboarding.

  Nevertheless, that tiny fragment of my day would prove to be much more significant in my life than I first gave it credit for, and was a subtle sign of a gift and love I would come to appreciate in the years that soon followed.

  Halfway through high school, I took my first ever photography course. It combined the practical side of shooting and camera operation, with film development and printing. I passed the course with an outstanding grade, and thoroughly impressed my teacher, as well as many of my classmates, with my photographs.

  Later that year I was given my first SLR camera for my sixteenth birthday. It opened up a whole new world as I began to discover life through the lens. There seemed to be a kind of magic about photography, ingrained within its wizardry. A part of its magic seemed to be in the sheer mystery of the unknown – with this ‘unknown’ having two parts: firstly, the long period of time between taking a photograph and seeing the final result (as is the case with a traditional film camera); secondly, the difference between observing what you intend to capture and how that will transpose on to film (the final result).

  It wasn’t long until digital cameras became popular and I bought a compact digital camera as I followed the trend. It became seldom that I used my SLR after that; the convenience and practicality of digital technology was a big advantage, and one that was not easy to overlook, even if my older SLR was inherently a better camera. I also enjoyed seeing my photographs immediately after they were taken – something that took away some of the mystery from the process, but in turn had made photography less expensive and more accessible – and I liked being able to take a camera with me virtually everywhere I went. Ultimately, my SLR began to gather some dust.

  Despite my likeness of digital technology, I didn’t go ahead and buy a digital SLR camera. This was mainly because I already owned a perfectly good SLR, and had had great results from it for years. I enjoyed doing photography as a hobby, and compact digital cameras were perfect for someone like me: an enthusiast and someone that never liked to miss a shot.

  The Visit to Hever Castle

  Shortly before our family trip to Hever Castle, I accompanied my mother on one, bright, Saturday afternoon as we went to the local Garden Centre. Having made a habit of bringing a camera with me on pretty much every outing, I had brought along my fairly new digital camera for the short trip.

  When we returned home later that day, I pressed my coat pocket, expecting to feel the chunky, candy-bar shaped camera inside; but it wasn’t there. Somehow it had managed to slide out of my pocket at some point during the day, and it wasn’t about to grow a small pair of legs and find its way back to its rightful owner. It was lost.

  Our visit to Hever Castle was less than two weeks away and the only camera I could bring now was my older, heavier, SLR camera. The large size of the camera, and the general inconvenience of having to buy film, made the camera more bothersome to bring on long outings than a compact. And it had been more than two years since I had used my SLR for anything more than taking a few photos in town. However, left with no other choice (short of going without a camera at all) I went in search for the right batteries as the day to visit the castle neared.

  I tried not to be too disappointed about losing my nifty compact. Actually, I felt rather excited that I would have to bring my bulkier SLR along, which had rarely seen the light of day for years, and had seemed all but destined to antiquity.

  I didn’t think much about it at the time; I was just glad I was going to be able to take some photos when I got there.

  Hever Castle

  The History of Hever Castle

  Hever Castle was built shortly after the Norman Conquest when the land on which the castle was eventually built was given to a Norman noble, called Walter de Hevere. The oldest part of Hever Castle dates back to the late thirteenth century when Walter’s grandson, William, converted the original farmhouse into a manor and castle, consisting of a huge gatehouse, a wooden drawbridge, and a motte and walled bailey. In 1459 the Lord Mayor of London, Sir Geoffrey Bullen (later changed to ‘Boleyn’) became the proud owner of the castle. Three years later, the castle underwent a period of renovation that transformed the imposing defensive structure into a mysterious home suitable for raising a family. The castle was then inherited by Geoffrey’s son William, who, in 1505, passed ownership on to his son, Thomas, shortly before he died. When Thomas Boleyn married Elizabeth Howard, Hever Castle became the mysterious home for him, his wife and three newborn children: Anne, Mary and George.

  A few years later, Thomas Boleyn extended the castle by adding the Long Gallery. In 1538 Thomas died and his brother gained ownership of the castle; though it was soon seized the following year by King Henry the Eighth. In 1540 Henry gave the castle to his fourth wife, Anne of Cleves, as a part of their divorce settlement. From 1557 onwards, the castle was owned by three families: the Waldegraves, the Meade Waldos, and the Astors. In 1903 William Waldorf Astor purchased and invested in Hever Castle by extending the grounds with a m
ock Tudor village, gardens, and a lake, as well as numerous Italian sculptures of his that gave the grounds a distinctive theme and a romantic twist. Today the castle is open to the public, having long since out-lived its day as a home for nobility, royalty and commoners alike for nearly eight hundred years.

  *

  On July 25th 2009, my mother, brother, his partner and I arrived in Kent by train. It was shortly after two o’clock when we stepped off on to the narrow and empty platform. As soon as a taxi pulled up we got inside and went along Kent’s narrow and winding roads, accompanied by our chatty driver, towards Hever Castle. Peering out the window, light grey clouds filled the sky, and it looked bound to rain at any moment; but, oddly enough, on arriving at our destination, and the foliage overhead gradually subsiding, the sun shone warmly through.

  We bought our tickets and with every step the castle’s majestic walls slowly began to emerge in the valley. The first thing I had to do was buy some film for my camera, so off we went to Hever’s Gift Shop.

  After waiting ten minutes or so in the long queue, which appeared to have been caused by a woman who was arguing with the cashier, because her card wasn’t being read by the machine, I bought two rolls of film, loaded one of them into my camera and met up with the others, who had made good use of the time and were now carrying several bags full of souvenirs.

  Next, we all headed to the café, situated near the lake, for lunch. The sunshine was short lived: rain began to fall lightly and thick grey clouds once again blanketed the sky. As we made our way towards the café I began to take photos of the gardens and sculptures – taking care not to get my camera wet, and routinely wiping the lens with the sleeve of my shirt at each tiny spec of rain that fell upon it.

  We stopped by the Loggia Fountain, where a reenactment of a Tudor scene was taking place. The men and women dressed in colourful clothing and sitting around a table playing a game of cards in the portico. A handful of rowboats were out on the lake, and almost everybody had their umbrellas open, though the rain was especially light. I took some photos of the fountain – its cherubs pouring and whistling water forth – and the lake, before carrying on with the others to the café.

  Once there, we sat outside in the drizzle while we had some tea and cake. Fifteen minutes or so later, we left our table and began walking back towards the castle, all of us now much looking forward to seeing its quirky old rooms, and for one hour almost traveling back in time to the sixteenth century.

  I took a few more photographs of a pair of empty rowboats that drifted idly under a willow tree in shallow water, and some of the castle as we arrived outside its enchanted walls. The clouds had almost entirely vanished since our short walk back from the cafe, revealing a baby-blue sky; and occasional, blustery gusts of wind gave this seemingly picturesque view a touch of electricity. Families were making their way over the old wooden drawbridge and enjoying the sun outside the castle’s walls, when my first roll of film began to wind itself up inside my camera of its own accord, and I sat on a nearby bench as I removed it and loaded a second roll of film in its place.

  And with my camera ready to go, I was eager to capture the castle itself.

  We passed over the drawbridge, through the grand gatehouse arch and into the small, enclosed courtyard. Wind was rendered non-existent by the castle’s high encompassing walls, and the blue sky floated airily above the courtyard as the sun’s inviting light lit up the Tudor manor.

  The Drawbridge, Hever Castle

  I approached the front-door, reached for the handle and pulled, but the door would not open. We glanced at the timetable, and, checking the time, realized we had arrived one minute late – we had arrived at 4:01 and the doors were closed at 4:00.

  A glum felling overcame us all. Not knowing what to do, we looked at each other a shade disheartened, almost sure we would have to head back home without going inside the castle.

  But having just missed the closing time, we endeavored to enter. The door behind us seemed to be a part of the gatehouse and was wide open with an exit sign beside it. So without further delay, we all went inside and climbed the stone spiral staircase, hoping to find someone who could help us once we had reached the first floor.

  Mildly surprising members of staff as we entered the dimly lit room, we asked if we could be let in, having been a minute late, and were told to knock on the front-door and ask for a certain member of staff, who would let us in.

  Having gone back down the same spiral staircase, with its sharp twist and exceptionally narrow walls, we approached the front-door once again, hoping, this time, we would contrive to enter. The courtyard was now completely empty and had become a pale-grey hue from the prevailing cloud cover (which had reappeared as quickly as it went, as if time itself was jumping in leaps and bounds). And there we stood, in the grand and quiet courtyard, wondering who would go up and knock on the castle’s ancient front-door.

  The Tudor Manor, Hever Castle

  Complete silence fell upon us, caused by an underlying and inexplicable apprehensiveness of this one simple task. It was almost as if a veil had been lifted from the castle; the walls appeared oddly larger than they were only minutes before, and it felt like we had suddenly found ourselves anxious guests, patiently waiting to be let into a home of royalty …

  My mother went up and knocked on the door with four, consecutive, timely knocks that echoed eerily in the empty courtyard.

  After a minute or so the dark oak door slowly opened, revealing a petite young woman behind it.

  ‘We were told to ask for Anne?’ And just like saying the magic words, we were soon crossing the threshold into the castle.

  As I approached the doorway, I couldn’t help but notice how dark it seemed inside. Tilting my head as I entered to avoid hitting the door’s frame (people in the sixteenth century were on average a foot shorter than the people of today), we were all now happily inside, and it appeared that we were the only visitors left inside the castle. I turned towards the part of the room that was better lit by the windows as my eyes adjusted to the room’s thin light. Looking around to see if anyone apart from ourselves was inside the castle, the only thing that indicated we weren’t alone was the faint creaking of floorboards as people shuffled along on the floor directly above.

  The door closed behind us; the latch fell quietly into place. I looked back, unaware that the lady who had let us in was still standing nearby; and by the time I had turned round again, the others had moved through the ground floor so quickly, they were almost completely out of sight. Their footsteps hadn’t made a sound. Why are they in such a rush? I thought.

  As I watched them from where I stood, rooted, I thought about catching up with them, so I wouldn’t fall behind; but then I was determined to take my time, and felt a little perplexed as to their quickness. So I decided to have a little look around, and catch up with the others once I had.

  It was a fairly large room and the windows were all to one side. Nothing in particular caught my eye, so I didn’t dawdle. I was now completely alone and felt quite at home strolling along as I got a feel for what it might have been like to have actually lived here. Never had I walked through these rooms, so steeped in history, by myself. And for the very first time I began to see Hever Castle, not as a museum holding relics of an age that had long since gone by, but as a home.

  I turned a corner that led into the living-room, at the centre of which stood a grand fireplace; and, a little further on, as I approached the staircase, the room was almost asking me to capture it, being free from the daily brushes of tourists and workers. I looked back towards the staircase, to see if the others were still nearby, and caught a brief glimpse of someone as they turned a corner up the short flight of stairs. Realizing I wasn’t too far behind, I began to get my camera ready.

  I placed my camera bag on the floor, and was just about to open it, when the metal-base of the lamp directly to my right began shifting subtly, from side to side, and appeared to vibrate like strings on a musical instrume
nt …

  I wanted to photograph the focal points of the room, being the fireplace, furniture, and paintings on the walls. I switched my camera on, set it to auto, peered through the viewfinder and got the room into frame. I pressed the shutter release halfway down, when the flash flipped up as I took the first shot: the flash pulsing continuously like a strobe as the room seemed to starve itself of light. And, outside the corner of my eye, shadowy, uneven light was falling throughout the room, as if invisible clouds lurked within …

  Immediately after the first shot I turned the camera ninety degrees clockwise and took a second; this time, however, the flash did not go off: the room hadn’t darkened.

  With two photographs taken, I felt content with what I had captured, as there wasn’t much else to see of this room.

  I placed the camera back in its black-leather bag.

  I stood up and turned, once again, to face the staircase, and was ready to leave, when a very faint, elongated ray of white light drifted past in a slow, subtle, snake-like fashion through mid-air towards the stairs, where it faded into thin air …

  Anne Boleyn’s Bedchamber, Hever Castle

  Having ascended the staircase, I arrived on the first floor and walked directly into the bedchamber that had once belonged to the famous Anne Boleyn, where I was pleased to find the others contently looking round and hadn’t gone on too far ahead without me. The original furniture and artwork, as well as the smallness of such a private space, gave the room an intimate and rather heavy feel.

  After ten minutes, we were all just about to move on to the next room, when I asked my everyone to bear in mind I was taking photographs inside the castle and wanted to capture the rooms unobstructed and as they were. With this request being taken onboard by them, I was capturing the upstairs rooms in the same manner as I had done in the living-room on the ground floor: empty apart from the furnishings.