The Lady in the Tower

The Death of a King

THE FIRST TIME I SAW THE KING was in the cavalcade on the way to Dover where his sister, the Princess Mary, was to embark for France and her marriage to the King of that country. To my surprise I was a member—though a very humble one—of that glorious assembly. This was the most exciting experience of my young life so far and I was in a state of constant apprehension lest I should act without due propriety and be sent home before we embarked because of some deficiency discovered in me—my youth, my inexperience or because I did not know how to behave with due decorum in the presence of the great. True, I had been assiduously schooled by my governess, Simonette, and I spoke French with a fair fluency; but I was realizing that the cocoon of safety which had enclosed me at Blickling and Hever was no longer there. I had left my childhood behind me forever.

And there I was in close proximity to the King himself. He was big— surely the biggest man I had ever seen, which was as a king should be. He was twenty-three years old then. His hair shone golden in the September sunshine and he wore it short and straight in a fashion which had come from France where, Simonette told me, all the best fashions came from. There would have been no need for any to be told that he was the King; all would have known just to look at him. He glittered. The jewels in his garments were dazzling; he laughed and joked as he rode along and the laughter of those about him seemed to punctuate every remark he made.

On one side of him rode the Queen and on the other the Princess Mary. Beside him the Queen looked almost somber—a peahen beside a glorious peacock. She had a serious, kindly face and the cross she wore about her neck called attention to that piety which we all knew was hers.

The Princess Mary bore a strong resemblance to her brother; she was strikingly beautiful, but at this time she wore a sullen expression which indicated that, however much others might be delighted by her marriage, she was not.

I thought how alarming it must be to be dispatched off to a husband whom one had never seen and who had already had two wives—the last one recently dead and the first put away because she was hump-backed, ill-favored and could not bear children. I knew this because Simonette had thought it necessary for me to know what was going on in the world about me, and as I was called precocious and Simonette said I was wise beyond my years, I listened to what I was told and remembered it.

The marriage had been arranged to indicate friendship between France and England, who had until recently been at war with each other. England's allies had been the Emperor Maximilian and Ferdinand of Spain; but Maximilian and Ferdinand had been uncertain allies and Louis of France was a wise man who saw the futility of war and sought to end it. This he did, breaking up the alliance by offering his daughter Renée as a bride for Maximilian's grandson Charles and to Ferdinand he offered Navarre on which Ferdinand had long cast covetous eyes. That left England to fight France alone; but Louis was prepared for that. Why not a friendship sealed by his marriage to Henry's sister? It must have been hard for our King to turn away such a glittering prize. His sister to be Queen of France! So, smarting from the humiliation inflicted on him by the perfidy of Maximilian and Ferdinand and knowing a good bargain when he saw one, he agreed. It was too good to be resisted, so Princess Mary was being led most reluctantly to the altar. It was small wonder that she looked sullen.

As we came into Dover the fierce wind was rising and a feeling of apprehension swept through the company. None of us looked forward to crossing that strip of water which separated us from the Continent of Europe. Storms blew up suddenly and I had heard people talk with horror of what had to be endured on a storm-tossed ship.

So we came to the castle where we should stay until the sea was calm enough for us to set out.

The great fortress loomed before us, its casements dug into the solid rock. It was known as the Gateway to England—a formidable building which could house two thousand soldiers and which had stood for centuries overlooking the sea. It was said that King Arthur of legend had inhabited the castle and that William the Conqueror had had difficulty in taking it. Of course it had changed since those days; it had been restored and added to, to make it the great fortress it was today; and here we must stay to await the King's pleasure and that of the sea.

As I lay in bed listening to the wind buffeting the walls of the castle I thought of how my life had changed so quickly. It had begun with the death of my mother two years before.

I believed I would never forget that day at Blickling. The Wyatts— Thomas and Mary—were with my own sister Mary, my brother George and myself in the garden. We saw a great deal of the Wyatts because our father and theirs had been appointed joint Constables of Norwich Castle, and when we were in Kent—they at Allington and we at Hever—we were close neighbors. We were great friends. I found Thomas exciting to be with and Mary a comfort.

Thomas was a vital person. He wrote poetry and he used to read it to us. Sometimes it made us laugh; sometimes it made us think. I was always happy to see Thomas; and his sister Mary was a girl who never said an unkind word about anyone; she was serious and quite clever. I think I liked Thomas more than anyone except my brother George, who was also a poet and a great talker. I loved to be with them both although I was expected to listen; and I was not allowed to speak for long, they being so much older than I was.

As for my sister Mary, she admitted that she never listened to what they said. Her mind would be flitting off on lighter matters such as what ribbon she would wear in her hair or whether her dress should be blue or pink. That was Mary—not so much stupid as having a lack of concentration. But she was good-hearted and we all loved her.

I was not quite six years old but I seemed much older, perhaps because my father had insisted that Mary and I should be given a better education than most girls of our station, and I profited from it, even if Mary did not. Daughters of minor aristocracy were usually sent away from home at an early age to some noble household where they would learn to read and write, to sing, to dance and play the lute, to ride side-saddle, to curtsy, to wash their hands before and after a meal, to handle a knife with grace and to dip it into the salt bowl, take a delicate portion and never pick it up with the fingers. That was not good enough for my father. So we were kept at home until the right place could be found for us, which was not easy, for his aims were high and opportunities had to be waited for.

I knew why, of course. I had heard George talking to Thomas Wyatt. We did not have to look far back into the family history to see what great progress we had made. Our great-grandfather, the founder of our fortunes, had been a mere merchant trading in silk and wool cloth. It was true he was a very special merchant, for he had acquired a title and become Lord Mayor of London. His greatest cleverness, though, was in his marriage, for his wife was the daughter of Lord Hoo—and her father's heiress at that. They had a son, William, my grandfather, who had married the daughter of the Earl of Ormond; hence more blue blood was injected into the Boleyn circulation. My father had done best of all, for he had married Elizabeth Howard, daughter of the Earl of Surrey, who in due course became the Duke of Norfolk; and the Dukes of Norfolk considered themselves—most dangerously—more royal than the Tudors.

That was the pattern, said George, and our father planned for us all to continue with it. Therefore his children must receive a special education. They must be prepared to stand equal with the highest in the land. They should therefore not only learn the social graces but have the education which was generally reserved for royal children.

Our governess, Simonette, was aware of this. She was a worldly woman with the fatalism and realism of her race. I was her favorite, which was strange because Mary was more lovable as well as being out-standingly pretty. She was hopeless with her lessons, because she would not—or could not—give her mind to them. So I supposed that was why Simonette favored me.

I must dance as the French danced, walk as they walked in France, and I must speak French as it was spoken in that country. I was fond of her because she admired me and I had always yearned to be admired. I was very conscious of being less pretty than Mary and I confessed this to Simonette.

“No, no, no,” she cried. “You have the grace. You have the charm. You will be the one, little Anne. Mary…oh yes…very pretty…loved for a while because she is giving …too giving… and that can pall. Oh, mon amour, I should want to see you older…a little older, yes. Those eyes… they are magnifique …yes, magnifique. And I tell you this: you know how to use them. It is something you are born with… for I have not taught you… They will allure, those eyes.”

I studied them critically. They were large, making the rest of my face small in comparison. They and my thick dark hair were compensation for the mole on the front of my neck and the beginning of a nail on the side of my little finger which made me think that God had intended to give me a sixth finger and changed his mind, leaving me with only the nail.

I hated it. I could not understand it. I found myself staring, fascinated, at other people's hands.

My brother George said: “Never mind. It makes you different. Who wants to be the same as everyone else?”

“I do,” I said vehemently.

Simonette also tried to comfort me. “Sometimes it is more chic to have a little imperfection…more human…more exciting…more fascinating. You will see.”

Then came that summer's day when we were all in the gardens. I remember so well that feeling of impending doom. I knew that something fearful was going to happen. The household was subdued. Even George and Thomas Wyatt were quiet. Mary was trying to fight off the evil as she always would by pretending that it did not exist.

But we knew that all was not well, for they had sent to my father, bringing him home from the Court, and that would be something no one would dare do unless it was very important.

My mother was dying. This was not just another of those yearly illnesses which beset her. This was not what they called “another disappointment.” This went beyond that. The doctors were there with the midwife.

I thought of her. She was tender and loving to us children, but we had seen little of her. When she was well she accompanied our father to Court and it was only when he was on embassies abroad that she returned to her family. When she grew heavy with child she would be with us. Then would come the confinement and the brief rest before she joined our father. It was a pattern which seemed to go on forever.

Neither George nor Thomas Wyatt could talk as usual on that day. We had been silent, glancing every now and then at the house, waiting.

It was Simonette who came to tell us. I knew as soon as I saw her walking across the grass as though reluctant to reach us.

To lose one's mother when one is not quite six years old is not only a tragic but an illuminating experience. It teaches one that life is not as pleasantly predictable as one had thought it to be. There comes a terrible sense of aloneness and the alarming knowledge that nothing will ever be the same as it was before.

Our father went away on a mission to the Netherlands and was absent for a whole year, and when he came back there was more change in our household. He was clearly rather pleased with himself. George told us that he had had to conclude a treaty with Margaret of Savoy, Archduchess of Austria, by which the Emperor Maximilian, Pope Julius and Ferdinand of Spain should, with England, make war on France. This was the treaty which was soon to founder; but at that time my father believed that its conclusion was a great success for him. There was something else which was equally pleasing to him. My sister Mary was to go to the Court in Brussels over which Margaret reigned as Regent of the Netherlands.

George said: “This is what our father always wanted—to get his children into royal circles.”

So I lost Mary and as George was soon to go to Cambridge—and Thomas Wyatt with him—our little group was much diminished and Mary Wyatt and I did our best to console each other.

I remember well the long summer day at Hever or riding over to Allington, feeding the pigeons with Mary Wyatt. I was fascinated by the pigeons; they had light brown feathers, different from the ordinary gray ones. I thought the reason why they were there was so romantic. I had first heard it from Thomas, who told it so beautifully—as he did everything.

His father, Sir Henry, had been the prisoner of Richard III because he had not supported his accession to the throne, and on account of this had been thrown into the Tower. There he was severely tortured and when he had fainted with the agony, mustard and vinegar had been forced down his throat to revive him. When he refused to give way, he was put into a cell and left to starve.

Sir Henry had thought his end was near but one day he saw a cat on the windowsill. He staggered to the window, delighted to have contact with some living thing; he put his hand through the bars to stroke the cat's fur. Instead of repulsing him the cat had purred. He felt the better for it. The cat went away but shortly afterward came back with a pigeon it had caught and killed. The pigeon was for Sir Henry. It was food and he was almost dead of starvation. He ate the pigeon.

The next day, the cat appeared again with another pigeon, and thus did that cat keep Sir Henry alive all through the time of his captivity. So he lived to see the defeat of Richard at Bosworth Field and the arrival of Henry Tudor, who, wishing to reward him for his fidelity to the House of Lancaster, immediately freed him and restored his estate to him.

Sir Henry never forgot. Whenever I saw him at Allington it was with a cat… not the same one which had kept him alive, but a descendant of that cat; his cat was like a faithful hound; it followed him wherever he went, slept on his bed and was constantly in his company; and to remind himself of how he had been saved, he had pigeons brought to Allington and he said they would be there as long as there were Wyatts in the castle. And the strange thing was that the cat and the pigeons of Allington were friends. They lived together amicably in the castle—symbols of Sir Henry's survival to serve with loyalty the Tudor Kings.

So Mary Wyatt and I were often together at Allington or Hever until I heard that I was to go to France in the service of the King's sister.

So here I was about to embark on this great adventure.

When we arrived at Dover Castle a gale was sweeping in from the sea and white horses were flinging themselves against the white cliffs in an abandon of fury that sent a shiver of alarm through me.

Lady Guildford, who was in charge of us, came to the apartment to which we had been taken and told us that we should not be embarking yet but that we must be prepared to leave as soon as the sea grew calm, which, she stressed, could be at any time.

Seeing us settled in our apartment, she went back to the Princess and I was left with the other ladies who were inclined to look down their aristocratic noses at me. I was considered to be the outsider by my companions, Anne and Elizabeth Grey, the two sisters of the Marquis of Dorset, the sister of Lord Grey and the daughter of Lord Dacre. Who are these Boleyns? they were saying. True, I was the granddaughter of the Duke of Norfolk—he who considered himself more royal than the Tudors—and he had actually been in the cavalcade with his son, the Earl of Surrey, but they had pointedly ignored my father as though to disclaim the family connection; and I supposed these ladies took their cue from the Duke. I had always known that he deplored my mother's marriage into a family which had its roots in trade. So I was of little account—and not only because of my youth.

They talked over my head as though they were quite unaware of my existence. This infuriated me. Who were they? I asked myself. The Greys were descended from Elizabeth Woodville, and who was she before the King married her? I had always liked the story of how he came across her in the forest and had fallen in love with her and secretly married her, and when it was a fait accompli he had confronted his ministers with what he had done. This was the glorious Edward IV, grandfather to our present King, and, as some said, the two were very much alike.

Edward had triumphed in the Wars of the Roses but he was known to be the most profligate man in England, and his mistresses were legion. Our King had not had the same success in battle and he was, I had heard Tom Wyatt say, moderately faithful to his Queen. So perhaps it was only in appearance that they were similar.

I listened avidly to the talk around me.

“I am sorry for the Princess. She is so angry,” said Anne Grey.

“Who would not be, buffeted about like a shuttlecock…fi rst betrothed to one, then to another. And the Princess of all people. We know her temper.”

“I thought the King might relent right at the last moment. He is very indulgent with her.”

“But this is politics. It has to be. I think she is a little glad to escape from Charles. By all accounts he would not have been the bridegroom for her.”

There was laughter. “And you think poor old Louis is?”

“Hush. Lèse majesté. You are speaking of the King of France.”

“Well, even so, everyone knows he is all of fifty-two. Just think of our beautiful Mary with that old man.”

“She will make him dance to her tune.”

“Of course she will. But how angry she is…and how she longs for Suffolk!”

“I was sure at one time the King would give way to her.”

“Oh no… not even to his beloved sister. It is all part of the treaty. That is what royal marriages are about.”

“I long to know what she will do when she sees him.”

“You will. She will let us know. She will let everyone know.”

“When her temper flares out…”

“As it will.”

“But the King loves her well. That is why he is waiting here to say goodbye to her.”

“Perhaps,” said Elizabeth Grey, “he fears that if he does not see her off she will come back to Court … or run off with Suffolk.”

“How she would like to do that!”

“And knowing her, do you think she might attempt it?”

“And so they continued to talk while we were in our beds but I was so tired that I was soon fast asleep.

The next day I came face to face with the Princess herself. She took my chin in her hands and studied me. She was in one of her good moods apparently. “Little Boleyn, is it?” she asked. She added, “Fine eyes you have, child.” And she gave me a little tap on the cheek.

That, said the ladies, was indeed a mark of approval.

I said I was amazed that she should have noticed me.

“Oh, it is only because you are so young,” I was told by Anne Grey. “Lady Guildford is really very put out because you are here. She said did they expect her to look after children.”

I heard one of them whisper something about Thomas Boleyn always being on the lookout for favors.

But it did not worry me unduly that I was resented. Everything was so novel to me and to be here in the castle waiting for the wind to change, being ready to embark at short notice, was very exciting.

The time came at four o'clock on the morning of 2 October. Everyone had been growing more and more uneasy the longer we stayed, for the year was advancing and October was notorious for its gales. We should have waited for the spring, but matters of state have to be concluded, whatever the time.

I shall never forget that voyage. I thought it was the end of my life and that I should never see France. We had not gone more than a few miles when the storm arose and the fleet was scattered. Never in my wildest imaginings had I thought of anything like this. The ladies were terrified; and Lady Guildford hovered round the Princess, who seemed less concerned than the rest of us.

I realized then how she must be dreading her marriage for she cried out, laughing rather wildly: “I rejoice for perhaps I shall not be Queen of France after all, Mother Guildford.” She always called Lady Guildford “Mother” because they had been together since the Princess's childhood.

How unhappy one must be to welcome death! But later I realized that she, who was so full of life, would cling to it with her entire being; it was just her reckless and extravagant way of talking. The Princess Mary could not be quietly sad, she had to be tragically so and let everyone know it.

So we were flung about—too frightened to feel even the horrible sickness which had begun to affect most of us. We could think only of one thing: death in that angry sea.

We were making for Boulogne—I heard later that some of the ships put in at Calais and some even went to Flanders—and the ordeal seemed to go on for hours. Then suddenly someone called: “Land!”

But that was not the end of our troubles. The Captain could not get the ship into the harbor and we ran aground outside it. But at least we felt comparatively safe then, for although we were still surrounded by sea we could see people watching on the shore.

We were all on deck, drenched to the skin, our hair wildly flying, and soon they were sending out little boats to bring us in. One gallant gentleman waded out and shouted that he would carry the Queen ashore. Mary was lowered into his arms and we watched him take her to dry land.

Then it was our turn; but no gentlemen came for us. We must, with great difficulty, get into the little rowing boats and ride the waves again.

But at last the ordeal was over. We had arrived.

It had been a terrifying experience.

The Princess Mary was in fact already the Queen of France, for the proxy ceremony had taken place at Greenwich (with the Duc de Longueville standing in for the King of France; and in France with the Earl of Worcester incongruously taking the place of Mary) but we had been apt to think of her still as our Princess and should do so until the ceremony had been performed between her and King Louis. This was due to take place in two days’ time.

The day after our arrival we were to make the journey to Abbeville where the King would be waiting to greet his bride.

It was amazing how quickly we recovered from our ordeal. Few would have recognized the bedraggled creatures who had come ashore in those rowing boats as the dazzling company who prepared to journey with the new Queen to meet her bridegroom.

I had thought a great deal about her and how tragic it was for one so beautiful to be sent to a loveless marriage, particularly when—as I had gathered—her love was for someone else. Had I been older, with more knowledge of human nature as I was to come to know it later, I should have felt less sympathy perhaps. It was true that Mary was in love with Suffolk, and Mary, being a Tudor, was subject to intense emotions, loving and hating more violently than most people; it was true that she was being forced into a marriage with an old man who might be repulsive to her, but Mary's nature was such as would enable her to exploit any situation to her advantage and emerge from it unscathed and with the determination to have her own way in the end. As indeed it proved for her.

How beautiful she looked in white cloth of silver with a jeweled coif on her lovely hair; her skin was smooth and pink like her brother's. I envied her fairness.

Our clothes, which had been carefully chosen for this occasion, had been safely brought ashore—for which we were thankful—and our dresses were of crimson velvet. I was glad of this for it was a color which was most becoming to my dark hair and eyes. I noticed one or two ladies glance at me; they said nothing, but I could see by their looks that they were reluctantly admiring me, which pleased me very much.

The King had sent over horsemen and archers to accompany us—a gentle reminder, no doubt, of our fighting strength, even though, through this marriage, we were the friendliest of neighbors.

We were just leaving Boulogne when a party of horsemen rode up. At the head of them was one of the most striking looking men I had ever seen. He was tall—as tall as the King of England—and one rarely saw men as tall; but where Henry was dazzlingly fair this man was dark. He was dressed with extreme elegance and here and there a jewel gleamed about his person to suggest good taste rather than ostentation. Oddly enough, the first moment I saw him, I found myself making comparisons with the King of England.

He was clearly a person of high rank. This was obvious by the attitude of those about him. I quickly learned his identity. He was François de Valois, Comte d'Angoulême and the Dauphin of France. I had heard of him, for Simonette had often talked to me of her country. If old Louis did not get sons, François would be King of France.

I wondered how François felt to see this lovely young girl coming into his country to marry the King. If the marriage should be fruitful, it would be the end of François's hopes.

There was something secretly sly about him, I thought, though his manners were as exquisite as his garments. He leaped from his horse and bowed low as he took Mary's hand. His eyes surveyed her and he managed to convey a great deal by his expression, for if he had said he found her beautiful, charming, very exciting and completely desirable, it could not have been more explicit than his looks.

He addressed her in musical French, telling her of his great joy in her arrival. He was welcoming her to France and was proud to have the honor of escorting her to Abbeville.

His glance traveled over the ladies. It even included me whom he must have found uninterestingly youthful. Then he rode beside Mary and we made our way to Abbeville.

When we were within a short distance of the town a party of horsemen came riding toward us. They pulled up sharply and one of their number moved forward and came to the Princess. I guessed who he was, for the Dauphin had leaped from his horse, removed his cap, bowed his head and stood at attention. I noticed a slightly sardonic smile on his handsome face as he did so. Was he guessing that the bride was comparing the King of France with the Dauphin?

The King looked small and insignificant beside François. His eyes were big and rather prominent; his neck was swollen—with some disease, I imagined; but there was something kindly about him and I liked him for that.

He was looking at Mary and was, I believe, unaware of the rest of us.

She sat there on her horse, glowingly healthy and beautiful—pink, white and gold and a little Tudor arrogance. She was very sure of herself and I fancy made a little happier by such obvious admiration.

“The Dauphin has taken good care of you, I trust,” said the King.

Mary replied in rather charmingly accented French that indeed he had and so had all since she had set foot in France.

The King took her hand and kissed it. “They deceived me,” he said. “They just told me you were beautiful—but not how beautiful.”

Mary replied that His Grace was too kind.

The King said he had told his courtiers that he was going to hunt, but he had been unable to curb his impatience. He would now have to leave her; and he was going to let the Dauphin conduct her to Abbeville. Then she would know that the cheers of the crowd were for her alone.

He rode off. François leaped into the saddle and brought his horse close to hers. It was obvious that he was attracted to her.

And so we came into Abbeville.

The next day they were married. My grandfather, the Duke of Norfolk, and the Marquis of Dorset rode with her to the Hôtel de la Gruthuse.

I wondered what she was thinking of her sickly bridegroom with the bulging eyes and the swollen neck. Of course he had a crown to offer her. Did she think it was worth it? I knew she did not, for she yearned for the Duke of Suffolk. Everyone knew this, for she made no secret of it. I was glad it was not yet time for me to be married and I wondered who would be chosen for me. I would rebel if I did not like the choice. But then I was not royal. I was thankful that I should not be a clause in a treaty.

The ceremony took place in the great hall of the Hôtel de la Gruthuse which had been made very grand for the occasion. Cloth of gold and silver with beautiful tapestries lined the walls; the glass windows had been designed to show pictures of the life of the town's saint, Wulfran; they threw a tinted light on the cloth of gold and silver, making it shimmer, which added a magical touch to all the elegant furniture which had been put into the room for this very special time.

A canopy was held over the bride and one of the bearers of this was the Dauphin, the other the Duc d'Alençon, who was the husband of the Dauphin's sister Marguerite.

Thus Mary Tudor became truly Queen of France.

It was at this ceremony that I was first aware of the Princesse Claude, daughter of the King, for, to my amazement, I had heard that she was the wife of the fascinating Dauphin. What an incongruous pair! She was slightly deformed, had a limp and looked sickly. Her marriage had obviously been made by a treaty. François, the future King of France—providing Louis did not get a male heir—would naturally have to marry the daughter of the reigning King. It was all very neat, but I did wonder what the thoughts of Claude might be as she watched her fascinating husband, and even more did I wonder what was going on in François's mind. That he was ambitious, I had no doubt. So what would he be feeling now to see the King married to, and so enamored of, this beautiful young girl? If this marriage was fruitful, what of François's hopes for the crown?

It was an interesting situation and now I had recovered from that fearful sea crossing, I was beginning to feel normal again and most exhilarated to be here, away from those backwaters, Blickling and Hever, out in the world where extraordinary and exciting events took place.

There was a great deal of giggling and whispered conversation in the apartment that night. They were talking about the new Queen of France and the old King.

Lady Guildford was very sad. She had been with the Princess Mary from her childhood and regarded her as her own child. She spoke sharply to the ladies for she guessed the gist of their conversation and it upset her.

“They will sprinkle the bed with holy water,” said Anne Grey. “They will bless it and pray that it will be fruitful.”

“Just imagine her… listening to all that. It is a beautiful bed, they say, with a canopy of velvet and everywhere the golden lilies of France. They know how to make things look beautiful.”

“It won't make up for the man she has to share it with.”

“Well, what about François…”

They whispered together.

“Hush. Don't forget the little Boleyn. Why did they send babies with us?”

“Her father snatches every opportunity. He evidently found one here.”

“He is very sharp. He gets that from the silk merchants.”

I wanted to hit them. I wished I could. I was often impulsive and acted without thought; but I remembered that if I did anything like that I should be sent home immediately. Lady Guildford would be only too glad of the excuse to be rid of me. Simonette had often told me that I acted first and thought afterward, which was a very unwise thing to do.

So, as the last thing I wanted was to be sent home, I meekly hung my head and shut my ears; and I lay in bed thinking about the King of France and his new English Queen.

The next day a great shock awaited us. The ladies who had come from England to serve the Queen were all to be sent home.

There was great dismay in our apartment. Lady Guildford was too shocked to speak. There was chatter and speculation. “Is this how he intends to treat her? She will never allow it. She will storm and rage.”

I think they were right about that. But the King had great dignity and determination. I had heard before that when royal personages married into foreign lands their attendants were invariably replaced. Naturally, the Queen of France must not be surrounded by English attendants.

Lady Guildford was incensed when she recovered from the first shock. Had she not been with her Princess since her childhood? How could Mary manage without her?

But Mary did manage without her. She had to.

The strangest thing of all was that the King had said she might keep one of her retinue—the little girl. I could not believe it. I had been selected as the only one to stay! It was naturally because of my extreme youth for I would obviously be considered too young to indulge in political scheming and such like. So …I was safe.

Perhaps Mary was not sorry to see the last of her attendants—except, of course, Lady Guildford of whom, I was sure, she was genuinely fond. Mary, whom I was to know more intimately after the others had left, was tempestuous by nature; she would flare into anger but very soon afterward would have forgotten her rage; she was generous at times, mean at others; but there was a certain shrewdness in her which never really allowed her to forget what would be advantageous to herself; and whatever impetuosity she was involved in, she would always stop short of disaster.

I think she had made up her mind that the King of France could not live long; whatever she had to endure could not last and for this reason she was more amenable than she would otherwise have been, for when she was free of her husband she should have complete charge of her own affairs. Moreover, in place of her ladies, she had the Duchesse d'Alençon, that very talented and fascinating sister of François, and, as I was to learn later, her company was a great deal more enjoyable than that of the discarded ladies. The Princesse Claude was also sent to comfort her, and I think Claude did not displease her either. She was, after all, her step-daughter, and the fact that she was married to the exciting François did intrigue Mary a little. I was glad to discover she took a fancy to me.

“You are all they have left to me!” she cried, looking at me quizzically.

“I am sorry, Your Highness,” I said.

“Sorry! That you are to serve me?”

“Oh, no, no… sorry that I should be all that is left to you. Sorry for Your Highness, pleased for myself.”

That answer seemed to amuse her.

“Well, little Boleyn, we have to make the best of what comes to us, do we not?”

There were occasions when she was almost affectionate toward me. She would show me jewels the King had given her.

“Poor man,” she said. “He tries so hard to please me.”

She liked me to brush her hair. Then she would smile at me and let her thoughts run on. I think at times she forgot my youth. Very soon she was telling me about her lover—the incomparable Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk.

“There was never a more perfect man on Earth,” she declared. She invariably used exaggerated terms. “He is always the champion at the joust.”

“Does he joust better than the King your brother, Madame?” I asked innocently.

“Well, it is advisable for a subject to be just a little less good than a king. You should know that.”

“But what is the truth?”

“Ah, the truth! The truth is that my Charles is the most wonderful man on Earth and does everything better than anyone else.”

“So … he allows the King to win?”

“Little Boleyn, you are asking me to utter treason against my brother.”

I looked alarmed, so she took the brush from my hand and put an arm about me.

“I'll not betray you,” she said, her laughing face close to mine. “I'll not have you sent to the Tower. I'll not have you put on the rack, even. There, little Boleyn. I really think I have frightened you. Now … just within these four walls. Charles is the finest man in the world and nobody… nobody compares with him.”

Then she would sit thinking of him with a dreamy look in her eyes, and suddenly seem to remember that she was married to the King and her eyes would grow stormy with anger.

I used to sit watching her waiting for her commands; but sometimes she seemed to forget that I was there.

But in a way she was fond of me then; she often sent for me. She liked me to be there alone, I believe, so that she felt free to talk to herself— which was what she was really doing. I was too young to matter. I expect she felt a little lonely at times in a foreign land. I was after all the only English attendant they had allowed to remain with her. I liked to hear about her love for Charles Brandon. I had even on one or two occasions very carefully prodded her to talk about him when I saw her staring dreamily into space and would ask something about the Duke of Suffolk and she was only too ready to talk.

“I knew as soon as I saw him that he was the one for me.”

“Did he know?” I asked.

“He knows now.”

Then she turned to me and caught my arm. “One day, little Boleyn, Charles will be my husband. You see, a Princess must marry for state reasons… but when she has done it once… the next time she should be free to choose for herself. Do you agree?”

“Oh yes, Madame.”

“So shall I… when… when …” She put her fingers to her lips. “The King is very old.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“And I am young. Do you know, before I came to Court he used to go to bed at six…and now he does not go until after midnight. I arrange that. Would I want to go to bed at six… with him, do you think?”

“I do not think you would, Madame.”

“No. There are entertainments now. We feast… and there are balls, ballets and suchlike…as you know, do you not? Poor Louis…he has lived such a quiet life with his saintly Anne of Brittany, but he is not married to her now, is he? He is married to Mary Tudor and that is a very different matter.”

“Marrying Your Highness has changed his life.”

“And mine, little one.” She put her lips close to my ear. “We live merrily… but how long will it last, think you?” I was too astonished to reply and she went on quickly: “How long do you think it will last? Not forever. And then…I shall be free. And the second time I shall make my own choice.”

I learned a great deal from her.

She told me of the King who was so enamored of her.

“He is so much in love with me,” she said, smiling at her face in the mirror with complacent pride. “I seem such a child to him. He has had two wives before me… and never a really beautiful one before, poor man. Sometimes I am rather sorry for him. He is touching in his devotion. But when I compare him with my Charles… but then all would suffer in comparison with him. Louis is a good king. The people appreciate him. He is a moderately moral man … as moral as the French go. They have had some wild monarchs. Of course he is not like St. Louis. Saints turn up very rarely. But he is not licentious like Charles VII, or coarse like Louis XI or very, very immoral like Charles VIII. You see, it is easy to follow such. So my Louis has the respect of his people. They don't love him, he is not handsome or romantic enough. It is strange, little Boleyn, that kings are not always loved for their virtues. But they are respected for them. My father was respected but not liked. But how they love my brother! Why? Because he is big and handsome and merry. My father did much that was good for England but they love my brother… who has not made any great reforms yet.”

“He has not been long on the throne… only five years.”

“Is it then? How knowledgeable you are, little one.”

“I had a very good governess.”

“And those big eyes saw all… and often what was not intended for them, I'll warrant. And those little ears were always on the alert. That's so. And I talk too much to you, Mademoiselle Boleyn. Now I am going to shut my mouth like a trap and tell you nothing.”

I was downcast. I had been foolish to display my knowledge and remind her that I could remember what I had heard.

But of course she did not stop her confidences, and what she said one moment she had forgotten the next.

She told me about Louis's previous wives. “He had to marry Jeanne. She was the daughter of Louis XI. She was very ugly and had a hump on her back. But she was very good, saintly in fact. I suppose it is easy to be good if one is ugly.” She sighed. “I shall never be a saint. Why do you smile? I'll tell you this: you will not be one either.” Then she laughed and hugged me for a moment. She was very familiar when we were alone. She went on: “You amuse me with those big, wondering eyes. You are not in the least pretty, you know. But you have something more. You are going to find life very amusing, I am sure. You will not be like saintly Jeanne, I promise you. Poor girl, she could have no children. What store these kings set by children! Sons, sons, sons—that is what they want. It is an insult to our sex, is it not? Louis hopes I will have a son. François, his mother and his sister live in daily terror that I shall have one—for if I did, what would become of bold François's hopes of the crown, eh, tell me that? Sons… sons…Well, poor little hump-backed Jeanne could not have any and Louis—my husband now—begged the Pope to annul their marriage.” She paused and laughed.

I waited eagerly and then I said: “And did he, Madame?”

“But of course he did. You see, this Pope was the notorious Alexander VI—Roderigo Borgia. He had a son. Ah, you say, but Popes do not marry. No, little one, you are right. But it is not necessary to marry to have sons… and this Pope had a son called Cesare Borgia. He loved him dearly and sought great favors for him. Now Louis was in a position to be of great use to this young man, and in return for favors to Cesare, the annulment was granted.”

“What happened to Jeanne, Madame?”

“What do you think? She accepted her dismissal with quiet resignation. Would you have done so? I would not. But we do not belong to that band of worthy females. Louis was free and he married another saintly one—Anne of Brittany—the widow of the previous King. But she was not quite perfect. She was lame, but pretty, they say, very witty and clever. Both she and Louis had great respect for each other; and although she could not give him sons—fortunately for François—she did produce two daughters—Mesdames Claude and Renée whom you have seen at Court.”

She paused and I almost held my breath. I was always afraid that she would remember that she was talking too much, and stop. For the first time in my life I was glad that I was of little account.

“They were married for fifteen years,” she went on dreamily. “Fifteen years… think of that! She was a very good ruler, though some say she had more care for Brittany than for France. But she was greatly respected and Louis was very sorry when she died.”

“He is sorry no longer since he could not have married Your Grace if she had not died.”

“Oh, he is not sorry now. He is living as he never did before.”

Then she laughed and studied her face carefully in the mirror.

“So much gaiety,” she whispered. “I say to him: “Why does not my lord retire early? I will be at the revels in your stead. I will represent you.” But he says, “No. No, my Queen, I shall be there.” Poor tired old man! And he comes to his bed so wearily at night that there is nothing else for him to do but sleep the sleep of the exhausted.” She smiled. “He is afraid, you see, because…”

She looked at me steadily and I cast down my eyes and tried to look innocent and to hide my eager desire to hear more. “You see…he is afraid of François. I believe that François is in love with me…a little.”

“You are so beautiful that it is not surprising,” I told her.

She shook her head. “François is passionately in love with all things beautiful. Fine buildings, fine music, poetry, pictures, statues and beautiful women. But most of all he is in love with himself. So, my clever little Boleyn, he would not have a great deal of love to spare for one person. He would like to make love to me—and the prospect is all the more enticing because he would be afraid to. What if I were to be with child…by him! What a situation! It is enough to make the gods laugh. He wants me… very much he wants me. He says so with his eyes. I know. But what if he gave me a child? That child would be the King of France because all would think it was the King's. His son would be a king, but it is himself he wants the crown for.”

She stopped suddenly. “What am I saying? You are a witch. You are probing my secret thoughts. Go away. You are dismissed.” Then she caught my arm and held it so tightly that I could have cried out with the pain. “If you ever mention a word of what I say to anyone…I'll have you in the Tower. Yes, I shall send to my brother and say, ‘The child Boleyn is to go to the Tower. She is a traitor.’”

“I will never say a word …”

“Go away. I don't want to see you. I want to go home. I want to see Charles again.”

I crept away. I was heartbroken for I did not know what I had done to displease her.

Time dragged heavily when I was not with her.

Those months were full of revelations for me. I think I grew up then. The Court was rather somber for the King had a reputation for parsimony. He was a good king and did not want to tax his people to pay for his extravagances, which was a habit most kings indulged in; and because of this they called him mean. He hated war, therefore they called him unadventurous. France prospered under him more than it had under his predecessors, but the people did not love him because he was not the glittering figure they liked their kings to be. I often thought how difficult it is to please the people; whatever one was, whatever one did, there would always be the other side of the picture to bring complaints.

Of course I saw him only from a distance, but I did realize how he doted on his beautiful young Queen. He often looked pale and fatigued; his eyes seemed to have grown more prominent, his neck more swollen. In the evenings at the revelries—which I was sometimes allowed to attend—he looked as though he needed nothing so much as sleep. But the Queen would be there dancing—often with François, laughing and coquetting. I thought it was not very kind; but I knew from those monologues at the dressing table how she yearned for her Charles, and that her one idea was to get to him. I could understand that need in her but it did occur to me that she planned these feasts and revels with the great idea of tiring her husband so that he would be too weary for anything but sleep in the big canopied bed decorated with the fleurs-de-lys… and perhaps to hasten his end.

There were three women at Court who interested me. Perhaps it was because of their connection with François, who himself was the most interesting as well as the most attractive man at Court. These three were François's wife, Claude, his sister, Marguerite d'Alençon, and his mother, Louise of Savoy.

Claude was good and kind. She was like her father in that she tired easily; she was delicate in health and walking exhausted her because of her limp.

She took notice of me because I was so young and she thought that it was wrong for a child of my age to be sent away from her country to live with foreigners. I told her that I was very happy to be here and to serve the Queen.

“Ah, the Queen,” she sighed. “What a beautiful and healthy lady she is!”

There was no malice in her, but she must have hated to see the way in which her husband danced attendance on the Queen. I wondered what she felt like being married to such a man. She accepted her husband's infidelities as a matter of course. She had no doubt been brought up by the excellent Anne of Brittany to do her duty whatever it was, and as the daughter of the reigning King it was her duty to marry the heir presumptive to the throne—and this she had done.

They were hardly ever together; he was usually beside some dazzling beauty. He treated her with courtesy. François's exquisite manners would not have allowed him to do anything else, but at the same time it must have been very hard for her.

I liked to talk with her and really it was great condescension on her part to notice me. She made me read with her and insisted on correcting a slightly imperfect accent. She insisted that I learn to do very fine embroidery and petit point, which I quite enjoyed. She was very gentle and I could not help being fond of her.

But she was not as interesting as François's sister. There was a woman who amazed me. She was very beautiful and extremely well educated. She was noted for her cleverness; she wrote verses and was interested in every new idea which was presented to her. I saw her often with her brother, their arms entwined. In fact, one would have thought she was his wife. They loved each other with a fierce passion. The Queen told me that if anyone said a word against François Marguerite would be ready to slay that person. “Of course,” she added, “no one ever does say a word against François…except the King, and even Marguerite could not slay him. The King is really worried about François. Not so much now but he thinks of what will happen after he has gone. You know how the King cares for the people. He does not want them to be subjected to taxation and hardship, nor to be involved in wars. I heard him say to one of his ministers the other day, ‘We are laboring in vain, the Big Boy will spoil everything when I am gone.’ The Big Boy, of course, is François. Marguerite did not hear that or she would have stormed into the royal chamber to castigate the King.”

Marguerite had noticed me even as Claude had.

She said: “You are young to be in a foreign Court,” just as Claude had. She questioned me and she must have been pleased with my answers for she gave me a book to read.

I read it avidly and when I returned it she questioned me about it. I felt gratified because I could see that I had impressed her with my intelligence.

She was twenty-two years old at the time—two years older than François. At the age of seventeen she had been married to the Duc d'Alençon; but it was clear to everyone that her feelings for him fell far short of those she cherished for her brother. Everyone paid homage to her—not only because of her wit, learning and beauty but because she was the sister of the man they expected shortly to be King and when he was in that supreme position, she would be his chief adviser; in fact, she would rule beside him.

The other who aroused my interest was Louise of Savoy. She had always ignored me; in fact, I do not think she was even aware of my existence. She was a very grand lady, very much aware of her royal connections. She had married Charles, the son of Jean d'Angoulême whose grandfather had been Charles V—hence François's claim to the throne.

Louise doted on François with the same idolatry which was bestowed on him by Marguerite. Mother, daughter and son were irreverently referred to as “the Holy Trinity.” And thus it was. From the date of François's birth Louise had been hoping for him to ascend the throne. It was said that she had refused all offers of marriage after she became a widow, because she wanted to give her entire attention to her son.

When he was a little boy, the possibility of his ascending the throne must have been remote and it would have seemed to Louise like a miracle when King Charles VIII, on his way to watch a game of tennis with his Queen Anne, had struck his head against a stone archway and died as a result. Consequently Louis d'Orléans became Louis XII and Louis was at that time married to crippled Jeanne who had no hope of bearing a child. That was why he had decided to rid himself of her and had done so with the help of the Borgia Pope; and then he married the late King's widow, Anne of Brittany.

Having seen what I had of Louise of Savoy, I could imagine her rejoicing. She was the sort of woman who would let nothing stand in the way of ambition and that ambition was for her son, her Caesar, as she called him. To her he was perfect; all his rash acts, his daring exploits, his love affairs, his infidelity to his wife, they were all regarded with indulgence by the devoted mother and sister. It was indeed a trinity—if not a holy one.

I was amused—and I knew the Queen was, too—to see the anxiety of this haughty lady now that the King had married a young wife; and so deeply were her hopes and ambitions involved that she could not hide her feelings.

The Queen said to me: “She fears I may be pregnant. Oh, what if I were! What if I bore the King's son? What of François's hopes then? I think it would kill his mother.”

“Is it…?” I was rash enough to begin.

She looked at me and taking my cheek between her finger and thumb pinched it hard.

“You must not take liberties, little Boleyn. Just because I show you favor.”

I cast down my eyes; and it occurred to me that it was not easy to tread safely when dealing with royalty.

But I was completely enthralled by life at Court and what I dreaded most was to be sent away.

The Queen was growing restive. December had come and, although the King often looked fatigued, he still attended the masques and entertainments which Marguerite and François devised. I believed that they, like the Queen, were anxious to tire him out.

Poor man, I thought. In a way it is a gentle sort of murder. How dreadful that people should want to be rid of you so much that they are prepared to kill you…even gently. But what goals these people had! For the Trinity there was the crown; for the Queen there was Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk.

I wondered if Louis knew. He was a very astute man, so it might have occurred to him.

I think he was longing for the Queen to be pregnant so that he could foil François's hopes. If what I heard was true, he was apprehensive about leaving the crown to François. He was a good king who cared about his country. I wished that I knew more about French history. I did know that there had been a hundred years’ war which the English had lost and that one of the Charleses—Charles VII, I believe—had been crowned because of the success of Joan of Arc who had been burned as a witch. But it was the present in which everyone was interested now and it seemed as eventful as anything that had gone before.

As the weeks passed the tension seemed to be rising. The Queen was aware of it and did all she could to intensify it. She liked to tease. I had quickly realized that. I had seen her when in the presence of the Duchess Louise, being aware of how closely the older woman watched her, giving some little sign which might mean that she was enceinte.

She used to laugh about it. “Well, why not?” she said. “Let us give the lady some excitement. Did you see her eyes on me? She would like to bore through me. Is she? Is she not? I can see the question in her eyes. And if she is… mon dieu, mon François …my god, my Caesar… deprived of the crown. The good God cannot be so cruel. What a king he will make! And that poor, feeble old man struggles on when there is my incomparable François…”

She gave a good imitation of the Duchess which made me laugh.

I think she was beginning to feel that we were reaching some climax, for she talked more frankly now. Charles! It was always Charles. I would not have thought such a mercurial creature could have been so faithful, so single-minded. But however much she flitted from one enthusiasm to another, she was always true to Charles.

“I would be happier in a little house… right away from everyone…if Charles were in it with me,” she told me wistfully. “These fine clothes, these jewels… this flattery… this homage…I would give it all for a quiet life with Charles.”

I was not sure that I believed her. She seemed to have been born for her position, just as her brother seemed to be for his.

She was talking more and more of Charles. I would brush her hair and she would close her eyes. I heard her murmur once: “How much longer?”

I almost said: It is only eight weeks since we came, Madame. But I had learned my lesson. It was unwise for me to comment; and at times she was really talking to herself.

Sometimes she seemed depressed and then she would talk of Charles to me, how he had first come to Court with little hope of promotion save for one thing.

“His father was the standard-bearer to my father at the battle of Bosworth Field. His father died defending mine. We Tudors remember our friends… and our enemies. When my father was declared the rightful King and the usurper Richard was dead, he remembered the faithful standard-bearer and sent a message to his widow to tell her that if his son came to Court there would be a place for him. And that was how Charles came to Court. He was put into the house of the Duke of York. Perhaps he would have preferred to be in that of the Prince of Wales. But fate works strangely, does it not? For the Prince of Wales married Katharine of Aragon and very soon he was dead and his brother, Henry, Duke of York, became Henry, Prince of Wales…and now he is the King instead of going into the Church as they intended him to. Every time I think of Henry as a Cardinal, I want to laugh. Well, it was the crown for him, and much more suitable, too. And Katharine did not lose by it. She was Arthur's widow but now she is Henry's wife. So you see, Charles was in the right place after all.”

She was silent for a while, musing.

“They are alike. So tall… both of them … my brother and the man I love. I love them both, of course. Henry is very dear to me but there is no one like Charles. Charles is six years older than my brother…so my love is not a silly, beardless boy.”

“He is indeed a man,” I said, feeling the need to say something.

“Such a man! There was never one like him. At Court he learned to joust and ride and fence… and being Charles he could do it all better than anyone else. He and my brother became the closest friends. They are so like each other. They might be brothers…so tall, so fair… both of them, and excelling in all sport. You cannot be surprised that I love him.”

“No, Madame,” I said.

“Go on with the brushing. It soothes me. You are thinking if he is six years older than the King why is he not married?”

I was afraid to say yes, though it was what I was thinking.

“Well…he has been married. Twice. But that is of no consequence to me. I would not want a foolish, inexperienced boy.”

“Of course not, Madame.”

“And what do you know of such things?”

“Only what Your Highness tells me.”

“I believe there is more going on in your head than you would let us know.”

“Oh no, Madame,” I said in some alarm.

“Well, there should be,” she said. “I do not want stupid little girls about me.”

I did not know what to reply to that. But she was smiling at me.

“He has told me all about his marriages,” she said. “There are no secrets between us. Did you know that Margaret of Savoy wanted to marry him?”

“I did not,” I said.

“Well, she did. When he was on an embassy there, she fell in love with him. We can understand that, can we not? She might have married him. What a catastrophe! But fate was kind. Though perhaps it was the Emperor. He would never have allowed it to happen…however much she wanted him. And you may depend upon it, she did want him. Any woman would be mad not to want Charles.”

I waited because I was afraid to speak, lest what I said did not please her. I found these sessions with her fraught with apprehension and delight. Her conversation was so racy, so indiscreet. I was sure a great deal of what she told me was exaggerated, but that made it all the more exciting.

She went on: “When he was very young, he fell in love…or thought he did… with the daughter of the Lieutenant of Calais. Of course he was not really in love. He has never loved anyone but me, but when people are young they hear the minstrels singing of love and they become enamored of love… for love's sake. So it was with Charles. This girl, Anne Browne, was, of course, madly in love with him; but she was very young and the marriage was delayed; and after a while Charles realized that it had been a temporary infatuation and that he would be a fool to marry someone in such a humble position, for by that time my brother had become King and Charles was his constant companion. It is a very different matter to be King of England from Prince of Wales with a stern father to keep one in check. You understand me?”

“Oh yes, I understand.”

“Charles is human and all young men have desires. They must satisfy them for it may be that they do not meet the only one in the world for them until they are passing out of their first youth. So it was with Charles…”

She was silent for a while. Then suddenly she dismissed me—and that was the end of her confidences for that time.

But later she took up the story where she had left off.

“He was visiting his grandfather when he met Margaret Mortymer. She was young, lusty and a widow; therefore it was a great hardship for her to be deprived of a husband; and of course, as soon as she saw Charles she wanted him. He was young. He cannot be blamed. It was natural for him to take advantage of the situation. It would be a poor sort of man who did not. He was only a boy then…very inexperienced—and she was far from that. She initiated him, as you might say. Well, it had to happen. Do you understand what I am talking about, little Boleyn? Sometimes I forget what a child you are. There seems to be so much wisdom in those dark eyes. Perhaps I talk too much.”

“Oh no… no, Madame…”

She laughed and gave me a slap on the hand. “You have to grow up. And if you stay long in this Court you will need all your wits about you. It will not be long before the men begin to notice you …” Her eyes were dreamy again. “This woman was of a better family than poor little Anne Browne; her father was a Marquis. The fact is that Charles married her. He was very upset about little Anne, because she was expecting to marry him—but he got carried away by the voluptuous widow. He did not know then that people get tired of a relationship which depends on erotic excitement for its continued existence. There should be love, little one. Nothing else matters…jewels…power… nothing. Let it all go for love. My brother was very interested in Charles's affairs. He was his confidant, you see. So he said why not get the marriage annulled which might not be so difficult as there was a pre-contract with Anne Browne. Luckily for Charles, Margaret had come to the same conclusion as he had about their marriage, so there was no conflict between them. Charles was soon free. He married Anne. So you see, he was very impulsive.”

I was afraid that she was going to stop but she merely sighed and went on: “They say there is one person in the world for each of us and the lucky people are those who find that one…at the right time and the right place. I have found Charles and he has found me… but there are many obstacles for us to overcome.”

“Your Grace will overcome them.”

“You are right. For he is free now. Anne died. She was a delicate creature. He has two little daughters—Anne and Mary. He loves them dearly and so shall I. I will be a good mother to them when the time comes. Soon…”

She looked at me and smiled; but even she realized it was not wise to say what was in her mind.

She was pensive suddenly, for her moods changed quickly.

“We had some happy days at Court … my brother, Charles and I. We were always together. When there was to be a masque it was for us to devise it. We would plan it together. Henry knew how it was between Charles and me. Oh, he is my dear brother but there are times when he remembers he is the King; and of course, as his sister, I am a useful pawn in the game he has to play. Much as he loves Charles, when he puts on his crown he says, ‘My sister must marry into royalty.’”

I thought of what Simonette had said: “The Tudors have to stress their royalty at every turn simply because they only came into it a short while ago. When one has descended from a long line of kings, one's royalty is apparent; it is only when the glory is short lived that it must be stressed and none be allowed to forget it.”

“My brother wanted to make Charles richer and more powerful so he appointed him Keeper of the Royal Manor and Park of Wanstead, Ranger of the New Forest and then Knight of the Royal Body. Before he had been only a Squire. Henry wanted him to have a grander title so he thought of Elizabeth Grey, a little girl who was the sole heiress of her father, Viscount Lisle. He planned to make her Charles's ward and when she was old enough Charles could marry her and take the title. There was a wealthy estate to go with it.” She sighed. “You see how fate has always worked against us.”

“And did he…?” I ventured and stopped. She did not like me to ask questions. Perhaps because she did not greatly care for the answers. I was thinking that he only had to tell the King that he was in love with someone else and was not tempted by the title and wealth he would get by marrying the girl.

“He dared not offend the King, of course. And you know that when a gift is offered it is churlish not to show gratitude. Charles visited the young girl. He is delighted because she is only a child and it would be years before he could marry her. So he is safe… for a long time…and by the time…”

She smiled, looking into the future.

“He is so brave…so good. He rescued a child from the river…a little thing of only two years, and when he found that she was an orphan, unwanted by some aunt who had a brood of children of her own, he sent her to be brought up with his own children. That is the sort of man Charles is.”

“How noble,” I said.

“You speak truth. It was then that he was sent to the Netherlands.”

“My sister is there, in the Court of the Duchess of Savoy.”

She was not interested in my sister.

“Margaret fell in love with him and wanted to marry him. You see there are so many who want to marry him. Wherever he goes, it is inevitable. Charles had been with my brother during the invasion of France and had been made a Duke… the Duke of Suffolk. There will be no marriage with Margaret of Savoy…no marriage with Elizabeth Grey… for when Charles marries it will be with me.”

She put her finger to her lips; then she stood up and, taking me by the shoulders, shook me gently.

“Talking to you is like talking to myself. You are too young to understand what I am talking about, are you not, eh? Answer me.”

“Yes, Madame,” I said.

Then she laughed and there was a warning look in her eyes. “Remember,” she said. “You are only a child.”

“Yes, Madame,” I said again.

The festivities of Christmas and the New Year were celebrated at the Palais des Tournelles. The Queen was growing more and more reckless. She confided in me less, but I could feel the rising tension of the Court.

Mary was constantly in the company of the Dauphin. There were whispers that he was neglecting his mistress and that all his thoughts were now for the Queen. I was alarmed at this, knowing her impulsive nature; and if she had not talked to me so fervently of her love for Charles Brandon, I should have suspected her of having a love affair with the Dauphin.

He was so very much the leader of the Court. The masques he and his sister devised were elegant and witty, and he was always at the center of them; but he had drawn the Queen into the play to share the honors with him.

I was aware of his mother and sister watching him anxiously. Louise of Savoy was such a formidable lady. Before, there had been such accord between her and Marguerite and François; they had seemed to think as one person. How well the epithet Trinity fitted. And now François was acting apart from them and giving the greatest cause for anxiety. I understood their feelings well. They knew their darling's nature. I had heard that ever since he was in his early teens he had enjoyed amorous adventures. They were part of his life. And now he was unable to hide the desire he felt for the young Queen. Mary knew this and reveled in it. I had seen her lay her hand lightly on his arm and gaze up at him, sparkling and dewy-eyed. I wondered what the King thought of the outrageous Big Boy's fondness for his lovely young Queen. I knew what Louise and Marguerite felt. Nothing could convince them that Mary was not madly in love with François, because they thought every woman must be. They had not heard those monologues that I had listened to in which she had showed so clearly that there was only one man for her. But being Mary she was enjoying the situation; and I believed it made those months tolerable to her.

Meanwhile the terrified mother and sister were watching, sure that Mary would not be able to resist their Caesar. And if François was the successful lover, what if there should be a child? They would think this very likely in the case of their virile paragon. The son of François King of France! No! No! That was not what they wanted… for the son would never be recognized as belonging to François and what use was that to the Trinity?

I wondered whether, in secret, they begged him to take care.

And what of the King? Louis was no fool. Did he see what was going on? I was amazed that he did not put his foot down, put an end to this flirtation—for it could be nothing else—which was going on between his wife and the Dauphin.

I think he was bemused by Mary. She was indeed a very lovely creature—so young and fresh with that magnificent reddish gold hair and the beautiful blue eyes; but it was her vitality which was her greatest charm. Louis had been married to poor deformed Jeanne and later to Anne of Brittany, and in complete contrast was this young girl—wayward but beautiful and spirited.

He made an effort to live up to her, although it seemed to be killing him. He would look on smiling while François beguiled her with his witty conversation; he watched benignly while they danced together or rode side by side. It sometimes seemed as though he was pleased to have François to charm her in his essentially French manner. It was as though he were saying: “This is France. Notice the courtesy of our gentlemen, the wit, the charm.” If anyone could show her these things, François could.

King Louis had changed his way of life completely, I understood. With Anne of Brittany he had retired early. It would have been a staid routine, devoid of excitement. I supposed that much of the time they were together was spent discussing matters of state. There had been two daughters, it was true—neither of them healthy. Mary must seem very charming to him. But he was obviously an old man trying to keep pace with a young and lively wife.

There was a little verse which he had been fond of quoting before the arrival of Mary:

“Lever àsix, diner àdix,

Souper àsix, coucher àdix,

Fait vivre l'homme dix fois dix.”

That was the rule he had followed. Now it was hardly likely that he would live to a hundred.

It seemed to me that everyone was watching him. How long? they seemed to ask and particularly during those Christmas revels. I wondered whether he was in pain. He would sit there smiling but he seemed to be very weary, and his eyes seemed to grow more prominent and his neck more swollen.

Like everyone else at Court, I was aware of what was going on and wondered what the outcome would be. I knew my mistress perhaps better than most; and it was my belief that she was faithful, not so much to the King as to Charles Brandon. I did not believe in this love affair with François; what I did believe was that the sense of mischief in her wanted them all to draw that conclusion. I believe she enjoyed leading François on and watching the acute anxiety of his mother and sister.

François was almost at the post. He could not be cheated now; and Mary was amused by the watchful eyes which studied her so closely, wondering all the time. Was she pregnant? Or wasn't she? Was this the end of hope for the Trinity?

Mary was not naturally unkind; but the only way she could endure the intolerable situation which had been thrust upon her was by extracting some amusement from it. She did not dislike the King; that would have been difficult for he was a very kindly man; he could not help it if his appearance was repulsive to her and she was yearning all the time for handsome Charles Brandon. The King had been ailing before she came—and she longed for freedom.

At this moment Charles was free. But how long would he remain so? The right time… the right place…it was necessary for the lovers to be there when the moment came.

It happened on New Year's Day. They had retired to their room. It was midnight.

He lay in his bed completely exhausted. The last words he said were that he wished to be laid beside his Queen, Anne of Brittany.

Mary wept a little and her tears were genuine.

“He was a good man,” she said, “but it had to be.”

Then a certain radiance came into her face. I knew that she was thinking: I am free. I married once for state reasons. Now my reason will be my own.

There was deep mourning throughout the capital. The clocheteurs des tré-passés, according to the custom, went through the streets ringing their “death bells.” Dolefully they spoke of the passing of the Father of His People. They remembered that not since St. Louis had there been a king to care for his people as had this king. His frugality and thrift, which had been called meanness and avarice during his lifetime, became virtues. Reforms which had been introduced, abuses which had been abolished were remembered. But putting aside the vacillating affections of the people, when the facts were looked squarely in the face, there must have been evidence throughout the country that Louis had been one of the best kings they had ever had. He had worked hard to keep the country out of war and if he had not always succeeded that was not due to a lack of trying; people had prospered under his rule; they should have been grateful to Louis XII—and although it had taken his death to make them realize his virtues, they did at this time. So there was genuine mourning throughout the land.

Mary went to the Hôtel de Clugny for the traditional six weeks and she took me with her.

The Hôtel de Clugny had been the home of the Clugniac monks— hence the name. It was situated in the rue des Mathurins. During the mourning period she was expected to remain most of the time in la chambre de la reine, an apartment made gloomy for the occasion with the daylight shut out and wax candles giving the only light.

Mary herself was dressed completely in white.

She was troubled a little by her conscience. That was inevitable. The King was dead and she had wished him dead. Now she recalled his virtues. He had been so indulgent. He had wanted so much to please her.

“He was always gentle with me,” she said. “It is sad that it had to be thus.”

But she was soon remembering her freedom.

“Six weeks,” she said. “It seems a lifetime. And I am expected not to go from this gloomy chamber until that time is passed. Tell me, little one, who, do you think, will be most anxious to see me?”

I was glad to see the mischief returning to her eyes.

She began to laugh. “They won't be able to wait. They are all agog. How long will it be before they can be sure? You are too young to know these things, my little wiseacre. But you may depend upon it that Madame Louise and Madame Marguerite are beset with anxiety as to the future of their darling. And what of the darling himself? The crown hovers over his head. Is it going to sail right past him? I could die of laughing.”

I was so pleased to see the change in her. I smiled with her.

As the days passed, she grew happier. Her conscience had ceased to worry her.

“He was old,” she said. “He was halfway to the tomb before I came.”

Although she was shut away it was permissible for some to visit her; and of course one who would have special privilege was the Dauphin. He lost no time in coming.

She looked very beautiful in her white mourning clothes as she went to receive him, and when she returned from that interview she was her old sparkling self.

“His great concern was that I might be carrying the King's child,” she said. “Poor man, his thoughts could not go beyond that. Oh, he is so clever, so courteous, his choice of words is exquisite. He could not ask the question outright as my brother or most Englishmen would have done. That would have been crude and vulgar. Is it not amazing that these French—the most licentious people in the world, I believe, flitting from one lady's boudoir to another with impudent bravado and discussing us at length afterward—should be so delicate in this outward treatment of us? Oh, I am having fun with François, little Boleyn. I let him think… yes, perhaps. “How is your health?” he asks with concern. I say to him … listen to this for it is clever…I say, “I am as well as can be expected in the circumstances.” You should have seen his face. Even François with all his beautiful manners could not hide his alarm. What did it mean? Was I referring to my widowhood…or my coming motherhood? I shall amuse myself while I am in this doleful place. Six weeks… and then I am free.”

And amuse herself she did.

Louise and Marguerite came to see her. They could not hide their anxiety. After all, this was the most important time of their lives. Ever since Caesar had been born his mother had had her eyes on the crown, and even though in the early days it had seemed a remote possibility, I believe she thought that even God must realize that He must work a few miracles for the sake of this incomparable boy. They went away in a fever of apprehension.

And when Mary summoned me, she was so amused that she found the mourning chamber tolerable.

She shared the secret with me. She was afraid to impart it to anyone else. I was flattered to be the one she trusted; but I think it was because of my youth. Moreover she would take me by the shoulders and tell me that if I betrayed her she would have me sent to spend the rest of my days in a dungeon in the Tower.

I would never have betrayed her.

She had taken to wearing extra petticoats. “How does that look?” she would ask. “It must not be too much. I could be three months with child. But perhaps we had better make it two. That would be more likely. How does one look at two months? Not much to show, I fear. Let us make it three. After all, it is a possibility, and my husband was in better health when I arrived than he was later. Oh, we are going to deceive them.”

When the Duchesse d'Alençon called to see her, she sent a message saying she was a little ill. She added: “It is to be expected.” Leaving her in that uncertainty as to whether she referred to her husband's death or her pregnancy.

She used to tell me what they said to her.

“We are anxious about your health,” said the Duchess of Savoy. “Marguerite would like to come here to be with you. Oh, I know you must be alone, but Marguerite could come and stay at Clugny… just in case you felt the need to see her.”

“Dear Duchess,” she replied. “You are too kind. I am as well…as I can expect to be. A little sickness now and then and I confess to feeling the need to rest more than I did.”

Mary went on: “She was in a panic. I thought at any moment she was going to shake me. Oh dear, the Trinity is suffering, I can tell you. And what is so amusing is that, if I am with child, whose it is—the King's or François's? It is clear that he wanted to be my lover and his devoted mother and sister do not believe that anyone could resist him. Oh, it is an amusing situation. I wish you were older… then you could understand how amusing.”

I wanted to say that I did understand. I knew how children were born; I had learned a great deal at the French Court. There was always gossip; I had picked up the language and could understand most that was said; and I really was knowledgeable beyond my years.

The game amused her; and the visits of Louise and Marguerite were frequent. She was always very merry when they had gone and would at times talk to me and at others remain silent. But being Mary she played the game to excess. Her bulk increased too rapidly. She made me pad her with quilting. I was the only one in on the secret.

The result was that one day the Duchess called and while Mary was talking to her, the quilting slipped. Completely sure of herself now as the mother of the King, Louise actually laid hands on the Queen and shook her until the padding dropped out.

The game was over.

It was one of those occasions when she could not keep to herself what had happened. Almost hysterical with laughter she described the scene to me.

“The Duchess was infuriated. Oh, little Boleyn, you are wicked. You did not fix me well enough. The padding fell below my knees. She pounced on it. She even shook me. She said in a thunderous voice: ‘You have deceived us.’ It would have been horrifying—if it had not been so amusing. Then Marguerite laughed. But Madame Louise does not forgive so easily. I had to think quickly. How to extricate myself from such a delicate situation? It was not going to be easy. She was right. I had deceived them—and in that moment they realized what very important people they had become. I said: ‘Madame, I know now and so do you that I am not to bear the King's child. Vive François Premier! ’ There! You see how important it is to choose the right words. Remember it when you are in a difficult situation. There I was—exposed. I had tricked them for weeks and now we were facing the truth. But those were the magic words she had been waiting to hear for twenty years; and she could not be anything but pleased to hear them spoken with such conviction. And I, with all my wickedness exposed, was forgiven because I said ‘Vive François Premier.’ ”