The Lady in the Tower

The French Court

SO HE WAS KING AT LAST.

He came to see Mary at Clugny. There was a subtle difference in him; his anxious days were over, he was safe on the throne.

I wondered what he would have to say to Mary, whether he would reproach her for the trick she had played on him, withholding the good news from him for several weeks and moreover putting him into a fever of despair.

He was with her for some time and when he left she sent for me. She was very pensive and, I think, alarmed, so I thought he must have expressed his displeasure.

But later I learned this was not so. François's sense of gallantry would never allow him to upbraid a beautiful woman.

Mary could not keep her anxieties to herself and I was the only one to whom she could safely unburden herself.

She said to me: “It shall not be. I have endured all this, have I not? And was it not on the understanding that, having married once for state reasons, the next time it would be for my own? That silly little Prince of Castile. That his name should be Charles is an outrage. I'll not have it. I will not.”

I stood by silently. She put the brush in my hands and signed for me to brush her hair. It soothed her in some way. She turned and looked at me. “My brother is negotiating a marriage for me with the Prince of Castile.”

“Your Grace will not submit…”

“Not I!”

“And the King of France?”

She laughed. “He was amused by the trick I played…so was his sister. Madame of Savoy less so. I think she would like to punish me very severely… and she would, if she could.”

“Oh no, Your Grace.”

“Yes, she would, but she cannot, can she? She would be afraid of offending my brother if they harmed me in any way. She will content herself by seeing me off… right away… out of France forever. But the King of France has other plans for me. Do you think I am very beautiful, little one?”

“Oh yes, Madame.”

“So does he. Oh, what elegant phrases! I wish I could understand them better. I shall be glad to speak English again. That is what is so pleasant with you. We can talk together… sensibly. It seems that between them the King of England and the King of France have decided my future. Just as though I were a piece of baggage. Shall we send her to the Prince of Castile or shall we keep her here for the King of France? I'll not have it. I told François so. He is greatly enamored of me. The trick I played has not changed the feelings he had for me from the moment he saw me. Rather has it enhanced them. He likes women of spirit. We laughed together over the padding. I told him that you were the only one in on the secret. He said, ‘Oh, the little one with the big dark eyes.’ What do you think of that?”

“I…I am surprised that he should have noticed me.”

“Oh, he sees all women. Just as he notices a painting or a building … but especially he notices women… and although you are but a child you are a woman, too. He says he is madly in love with me and will be desolate if I leave France. He plans that I shall marry here. He has even selected my bridegroom. He thinks the Duc de Savoy… another Charles if you please. He will be a complaisant husband, and François and I can embark on an idyllic love affair, which we were meant to do from the moment our paths crossed. It is a pity, he says, that he cannot make me his Queen. It would have been following the pattern set by my late husband with Anne of Brittany. But alas he is already married to Claude. But Claude is the most obliging of wives. Who would not be obliging to the handsome, charming, witty King of France? That is how matters are arranged in France. But there is one who will not fall in with these charmingly expressed arrangements. I think he was a little taken aback. He is not accustomed to refusals… and I made myself very clear to him.”

She was silent for a few seconds. Then she went on: “I told him there was a reason why I was not in love with him. I had already given my heart to another. I said there could only be that reason, for I, like the rest of the world, could not be unaware of the charm of the most attractive man in France. Oh, I was on dangerous ground, was I not? But I had a certain pleasure in treading it. He was so charming, he expressed himself envious of my Charles. He said something about bartering his crown to be in his place, which made me want to laugh. Did he really think I would believe that? But he was kind. He had to live up to his reputation for chivalry. He said that, since I had so honored this man by loving him, then he must be his friend. Nothing else would do… and if he could do aught to persuade my brother to give way to my will, he would do so. What think you of that?”

“That it is indeed good of him.”

“The point is, little one, does he mean it? Often there is something hidden behind these flowery phrases. But I really think he wishes me well… that is, if my good can bring no harm to him. One thing I am determined on: I shall never take that sniveling little boy from Castile.”

She dismissed me soon after that, and when I saw her again she was radiant. She could not stop herself giving me the news. Her brother, hearing of Louis's death, was sending an embassy to France to offer condolences and talk with the new King; and at the head of that embassy was to be Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk.

She would see him soon. “And this time,” she vowed, “I shall not let him go until we are married.”

During all this time I was anxious about my own future. I had seen how cursorily her maids of honor had been dismissed in the days after her marriage. I only had remained and that was on account of my youth and unimportance. I was wondering what would happen to me if she married Charles Brandon. Should I be sent home? The thought of returning to the life at Hever or Blickling was a little depressing. I had grown accustomed to the French Court. I liked listening to the chatter, picking up pieces of gossip and scandal; I liked very much the dresses. I was interested in fashion and enjoyed helping the Queen to dress. She said I had a feeling for color and often she would say to me: “Should I wear this, little Boleyn? What think you?” She would pretend that the question was merely rhetorical, but she sometimes took notice of what I said.

I was growing up fast. If I had been precocious when I arrived, I was more so now. I missed little. I knew when men and women were lovers, though many of them thought they carried on their intrigues secretly. Now and then I plucked up courage to bring a scrap of scandal to the Queen's ear which greatly amused her.

I was changing. I was no longer the innocent child. Such an environment was a forcing ground. The ladies of the Court took little notice of me. I was a child to them and they often behaved as though I were not there; that was when I gleaned my scraps of gossip. They did not realize that I understood their language better than I spoke it—although I was doing that more fluently every day.

I was enormously interested in everything that went on around me, and my great fear was that any day I might hear the dreaded news that I was to leave this colorful scene and return to England.

The Queen did not talk to me as much now. Her thoughts were on one subject: her meeting with her lover. She was silent often and would sit staring into space with a beautiful smile on her lovely face; I knew then that she was dreaming of the meeting.

François was naturally very eager to be crowned King of France. No monarch feels that his position is secure until he has been crowned. But he was in a dilemma. To hurry on the coronation would seem like disrespect to the late King; and yet he could not bear to remain uncrowned.

François compromised. Much as he would have loved a glittering spectacle of a coronation, he decided it would be better to have a simple one if he could have that without delay. It was usual for Kings of France to be crowned at Rheims. But the people would have expected a very grand occasion if he had followed that tradition. So to Rheims he went but that was just for the ceremony of the “sacring,” which meant the anointing with the sainte ampoule which was performed in the Cathedral St. Rémi. This took place of night and afterward he went to St. Denis— where before this, only the Queens of France had been crowned—to complete the coronation with as little fuss as possible.

So François was the crowned King of France.

At this time we heard that the English embassy had arrived in France. François had had a meeting with the Duke of Suffolk and I heard afterward that Suffolk had thanked François on behalf of King Henry for the comfort he had given his poor widowed sister; and François replied that he hoped the Queen would let her brother know how lovingly he had behaved toward her. He was not, of course, referring to the dishonorable overtures he had made to her, but if I knew the Queen, her brother would hear of that in due course. He told Suffolk that he had hoped the King's happy marriage would have been of long endurance. I could imagine his sardonic smile as he uttered such a blatant falsehood.

The meeting had taken place at Noyon; and when it was over the English party made its way to Paris, where it was to witness the ceremonial entry of the King into his capital.

If the coronation ceremony could be called a little subdued, this did not apply to the celebrations which followed.

The coronation had taken place on 25 January—just over three weeks after the death of Louis; but François did delay his entrance into the capital until 13 February. By this time the Queen had just completed her six weeks’ retirement and, although still in mourning, she could emerge— although she could not take part in the celebrations, she could watch them from a window as they passed.

I was, of course, beside her.

There was no doubt that the French welcomed their new King. Louis might have been good for the country but he had sadly lacked that glittering presence, those handsome looks, the young and sparkling vitality which could not fail to fill the people with admiration and hope for the future under such a magnificent creature.

The streets had been hung with damask and tapestry and the people were out in their thousands. Recklessly they climbed to the highest points of buildings to get a better view, and they refused to be dislodged.

And what a splendid sight he was! François was dressed in white satin and silver damask; over this he wore a cloak of silver edged with silver fringe. His white velvet hat glittered with gems and sported a plume of white feathers.

There was a hush as he appeared. I was sure none of these people had ever seen anyone like him. Very tall, athletic, yet perfectly graceful, he must have seemed like a god. He was indeed the supreme specimen of manhood—and most royal personages of the past had been small, sickly and even deformed in some way. The French habit of tightly swaddling their babies probably accounted for a certain stunted growth which I had noticed was rather prevalent. Following Louis with his swollen neck and protruding eyes, François was a glorious contrast. Louise must have made sure that her Caesar was not tightly swaddled in his babyhood; his limbs must have been free to expand as nature intended them to. In any case he was a magnificent figure. He had a natural elegance, as had quite a number of the noblemen who attended him. This was something I missed later in England where there was a decided lack of that quality and where people adorned themselves with dazzling jewels instead of using them with discretion as François and the members of his Court did. I learned to follow the French modes and that I think was one of the things which set me apart later on.

The cheers for the King, the music from the trumpets, sambucas and hautbois were quite deafening and not always harmonious but one could not fail to be caught up in the excitement.

The officers of the Crown in their cloth of gold and damask, the nobility in crimson and gold, the ladies in their litters, all passed below us. I saw Louise seated with little Renée, the late King's daughter; and in another litter was Marguerite d'Alençon with old Madame de Bourbon, who was the daughter of Louis XI.

All this was to be the beginning of six weeks of festivities. François wanted the people to know that under him there would be no cheeseparing. His reign must be heralded by this indication of the good times he was going to give them.

There was no doubt of their appreciation.

During the procession Mary sat beside me, tense, waiting.

And at last the moment came, for part of this brilliant cavalcade was the English embassy which had come to visit the King to offer condolences and congratulations and no doubt lay the foundation for further friendship between the two countries.

The Duke of Suffolk rode at the head. He was undoubtedly handsome—tall as the King of France and as fair as François was dark. He did bear a resemblance to Henry VIII, and I could quite understand why Mary had become obsessed with him.

He glanced up at the window as he passed and I saw the looks they gave each other. Mary was radiant. She was breathing deeply and her clasped hands lay in her lap.

I hoped she would be happy. Perhaps she would take me back to England with her into her household. That would not be unusual. Young girls did go into households of noblewomen; and I believed that she did have a fondness for me.

Events moved quickly after that. That very day there was a meeting between Mary and Suffolk. Afterward she was in a state of great excitement—of wild optimism and despair.

They had had such a short time together, she told me; but that was going to change. “That arrangement with Elizabeth Grey is nothing… nothing. And I am free now. I tell you this: nothing is going to stop us.” Then she was sunk in melancholy. “There are so many against us. They know of our feelings for each other.”

I thought: Seeing you, Madame, who could fail to be aware of it?

But I said nothing.

“They hate him. They are jealous of him. Who would not be? That is understandable. They will try to turn my brother against him. I do believe that Henry might agree to this match…if it were not for those people around him. They think he would become too important… married to the King's sister. It is intrigue… intrigue. He loves me…as I love him. He said it might cost him his head if he married me. Wolsey is not against the match… and Wolsey and my brother together…who would dare say nay if they said yes?”

She paced about the room. I wished she would be calmer for I was sure that would be wiser.

“François has spoken to him. Do you know what he said to him? These are his exact words: ‘My Lord Suffolk,’ he said, ‘there is a bruit in this realm that you have come hither to marry the Queen, your master's sister.’ Poor Charles. He was so taken aback, for he did not understand how François could have known about us. But, of course, it was I who told him. François said he would help us if he could for he had a great affection for me and he knew the strength of my feelings. That was good of him. But I don't trust him. I wish I could speak to my brother. I will write to him. That is it. I will remind him that I married once to please him, and for this I was promised that next time I should please myself. I shall warn him of my enemies who surround him and will try to do me ill.”

I brought the writing materials and she wrote.

I shared her tension, for my anxiety regarding my own future was growing. She said nothing about what would become of me; I could understand that there was no room in her mind for anything but her own affairs.

All during those days when the jousting, balls and banquets and rejoicing in the new reign continued, Mary alternated between joy and despair. She did not attend the festivities, of course, for although the six weeks were up, she was still supposed to be mourning the late King.

She had one or two meetings with Suffolk which carried her to the pinnacle of delight; then she would be plunged into melancholy.

“Charles is afraid,” she told me. “He says our love will destroy us. My brother knows of the love between us. He made Charles swear before he left England that he would not persuade me to plight my troth to him, nor take the opportunity which being here he might find.”

“And did he promise, Madame?”

“My brother would insist. Oh, he is bluff and hearty but he can be ruthless if any go against him. I know his temper. I should, because it is very like my own. But as I know him, so should he know me and when I set my heart on something, I shall have it…as he would. There is a strong feeling between us because we are so much alike. We know each other well.”

“But if my Lord Suffolk has promised…”

“I have been promised. My brother has promised me that, if I married for state reasons, the next time I should have freedom of choice.”

I could understand her feelings. She was ready to brave her brother's wrath; she was his beloved sister, but Suffolk, whatever the friendship between himself and the King, was only a subject.

Then something happened which upset her a great deal, not because of what actually took place but because it was an indication of the power of those who were working against her marriage.

Her confessor came to her and told her that a certain Friar Langley had arrived from England and it was imperative that he have speech with her immediately.

I was with her when he was brought in.

I curtsied and was about to leave when she said to me: “No. You may stay.”

The friar looked at me with displeasure but he seemed to come to the conclusion that my presence was of no importance. I had always been allowed to witness a great deal because of my youth.

Mary said haughtily: “What is it you have to say to me?”

“I have come to warn Your Grace.”

“To warn me? Of what?”

“Of one who has come hither in an embassy.”

“I do not understand you, Friar.”

“I have come to tell you the truth about the Duke of Suffolk.”

The color flamed into Mary's face. “What of the Duke of Suffolk?” she asked haughtily.

“I believe Your Grace has been deceived by this man and has shown him much favor. It has been impressed on me that I should come here to warn you that he traffics with the Devil.”

She was seething with rage and controlling it with more success than she usually displayed.

“And who, may I ask, has done this impressing?”

He was evasive, evidently wary of betraying those who had sent him.

“All know that Sir William Compton—a rival with the Duke for the King's favor—suffers from a virulent ulcer of the leg,” he said.

“I fail to see what connection this has with the Duke of Suffolk.”

“The King has made an ointment which is a cure for ulcers. It fails to work on Sir William.”

“Is that so?” Her voice was dangerously calm. I thought: In a moment she will fly at him. Clearly he did not know her temper.

The friar lowered his voice. “The Duke of Suffolk is a friend of Wolsey and it is well known that he is one of the Devil's disciples. How could a butcher's son rise to such greatness?”

“By shrewdness, wit and very special qualities which others have not.”

“No, Madame. Through the Devil.”

“Sir Friar, you should be careful how you speak of my friends.”

“It is because I fear for your safety that I have come here to warn you.”

She went close to him. “Go back to your friends,” she said in a low voice, “and tell them I know their motives well. Tell them this: I shall make sure that when I return to England the King is informed of your perfidy toward those he loves… and if you have any sense in your addled pate, you will get out of my sight at once. I never wish to look on your sly and silly face again. And if you pass on any of these lies which you have uttered to me, I'll have you in the Tower and there they will discover who it was who led you to this act of folly.”

“Madame…”

“Go,” she cried.

He went.

She looked at me and said: “You see, I have my enemies. They will do everything they can to prevent my marriage. They would destroy my happiness…if they could. But they are not going to.”

Nor did they. Fortunately for Mary, François had decided to help. Looking back, I think he was rather pleased to do this—not because of his affection for her. François's feelings toward her were entirely lustful. He might have been piqued because she preferred someone else, but I think he rather admired her tenacity. He was romantic at heart; at least, at times, it pleased him to see himself as such. One could never be sure of François; but I certainly think he took a pleasure in flouting the King of England.

There was a rivalry between them which was intensified because they were of a kind—both young, handsome, both following serious predecessors who had lived without pomp. It must have amused François, who would surmise that Henry would be obliged outwardly to disapprove of the marriage of his sister to a man who had come from a comparatively humble background because it would annoy the great families of England whose favors he could not afford to lose.

So, with François's help, Mary was married with great secrecy in the chapel at the Hôtel de Clugny.

I saw her briefly after the ceremony. Worried as I was about what would now become of me, I could not help but rejoice in her happiness. She was radiant with joy—there in her simple gown, so different from the gloriously appareled young woman who had been married such a short time before in the Hôtel de la Gruthuse.

Only ten people were present in the little chapel, but one of them was the King of France himself.

It was a daring act, but characteristic of Mary. I believed that without her determination it would not have taken place, for Suffolk knew the hostility it would arouse.

The King of England was most displeased and for a time they were afraid to return to England.

But I learned something of the King's nature much later, when I went to England. He was very sentimental and he truly loved his sister. He liked Suffolk, too, and it was not long before a compromise was arranged. For such a flagrant act of disobedience they could not go unpunished, so the King would take possession of Mary's plate and jewels; for he had incurred great expense in sending her to France in the appropriate manner and he wished to be reimbursed for that. They were to pay him yearly installments of £24,000 and naturally they would not be able to come to Court for a while.

It seemed harsh punishment, but Mary did not seem to mind. She was so deliriously happy that I supposed Suffolk was all she had believed him to be.

“We shall be poor,” she said, “living in the country. How I shall love that! I am heartily sick of courts. I shall have my Charles and we shall be a country gentleman and his lady. It is what I have wanted more than anything in the world and now it is mine.”

Queen Claude sent for me.

She was very gentle and kind—not like a queen at all. She was surrounded by ladies just like herself. They spent most of their days doing good works, like sewing for the poor and visiting convents; they prayed a good deal. She was such a contrast to her flamboyant husband that it was amazing that theirs should be—after a fashion—a successful marriage, perhaps due to that realistic view of life which is characteristic of the French.

“Come here, Anne,” she said. “I have some news for you.”

I waited in trepidation, certain that she was going to tell me to prepare to leave for home.

She smiled her very gentle smile and said: “I have had word from your father. He trusts that you have given satisfaction during your stay at our Court. I think Queen Mary would agree that you have, for she has kept you close to her.”

I was silent but my heart was beginning to beat very fast.

“Your father thinks that a stay at our Court is good for you…for your education and all you have to learn besides. He therefore asks me if I can find a place for you here so that you may remain when the Queen-Duchess returns to England, which she will shortly be doing. And I have decided that I will take you into my household.”

I was so delighted that I must have shown it, for she seemed pleased and patted my head.

“One of the ladies will tell you where you will sleep and explain your duties to you. They may be a little different from those you did with the Queen-Duchess.”

“Thank you, Madame.”

She smiled and nodded, and I left her in a daze.

I was reprieved.

So, with the coming of April, I joined Queen Claude's household; and Mary and her husband went back to England.

Life changed a great deal for me. Attendance on Queen Claude was indeed very different from waiting on my previous, volatile mistress. Claude always seemed surrounded by quietness; she was so kind and fundamentally good that while one admired her one felt a certain resentment of such virtues, perhaps because it seemed a reproach to one's own less than perfect nature. I learned how to do the finest embroidery; my French improved; and although I was one of the Queen's attendants, I did know what went on beyond our circle.

The Court was, as ever, dominated by François. In every field he distinguished himself. He was always champion of the jousts; he was the most skillful swordsman in the country; in wrestling none could overthrow him. Perhaps royalty came to his aid on one or two occasions but it was never obvious; I do not think he would have resented a rival in those arts but welcomed him. King Henry seemed a boy set side by side with the King of France. François had been born with wisdom, it seemed; but perhaps he had learned that at the side of his sister, who must surely be the cleverest person at Court, male or female. Not only was François the leading sportsman, he was the arbiter of elegance. He set the fashion which always tended to show off his own perfections. He was quite dazzling. It seemed that he had all the outward gifts of sovereignty. The French could not fail to be pleased with their monarch.

His love affairs were numerous. Love was the great theme of the Court at that time. Poets wrote of it; musicians sang of it; courtiers talked of it. François was always gallant and charming; and he gathered about him men of similar tastes. It was said that if a man did not have a mistress he regarded him with suspicion. He liked to talk of women with other men and to hear how their love affairs were progressing; he would press for intimate details, and yet he could get angry if he considered any did not pay due respect to women.

To my mind it was all rather puzzling; but I did realize later how important my upbringing was in making me the sort of person I became.

In spite of his notorious infidelity to my mistress Claude, François was always gallant to her and showed her the respect due to a queen. She was constantly pregnant. I believe he delighted to see her in that condition for then he need not spend his nights with her until after the child was born and the time came for him to father another. It was really very decadent and the greatest offense was not wickedness but vulgarity. It was quite different from the Court of England of which I was to learn so much later.

Queen Claude herself took an interest in my education and very soon I was immersed in my quiet life. Those months which I had spent with Queen Mary seemed very far away. I often thought of her; and I heard that she was indeed living quietly in the country, for the Court was too expensive for her and her husband in view of their debts. I thought the King must soon free her of that obligation, for she would surely add to the brightness of his Court. I did hear also that she was deeply contented and I rejoiced with her. It seemed to be one of the few marriages which were truly happy.

As for myself, perhaps because of my youth, I was able to settle into the new life with the utmost ease. Not long after I joined Queen Claude's household, the King left to go to war. He wanted to prove to his subjects that besides being a handsome gallant he could be a conqueror. I heard these matters discussed and I was alert for what I could discover. Thus I learned that François was determined to bring conquests to France. He was gathering an army together on the pretext that he wished to make Burgundy secure against attacks from the Swiss, but it was believed—and this appeared to be the truth—that he was contemplating an invasion of the Italian States. Ferdinand of Spain was urging the Pope, the Swiss, the Emperor Maximilian and the Duke of Milan, Maximilian Sforza, to join a league for the defense of Italy. The Pope, however, refused to join, declaring himself, as Pope, to be father of them all.

The conquest of Italy had been the policy of the last two Kings of France and François was determined to continue in this. He appointed his mother Regent of France and went to war.

Soon we had news of his great victory at Melegnano over the Swiss. François had done all his country expected of him. In a short engagement he had beaten the Swiss, disconcerted his enemies and entered Milan in triumph. Maximilian Sforza, after taking refuge in the castle there, surrendered and agreed to retire to France with a pension. The Pope, seeing the way in which events had gone, invited François to meet him at Bologna, where they could discuss the future as the good friends the Pope and the Most Christian King must be.

I did not understand all this at the time, but it fell into place later and when I look back I see clearly how these events shaped my future.

François became enchanted by the art of Italy and grew much attached to Pope Leo. Leo was a most cultivated man, which might be expected of the son of Lorenzo the Magnificent. Intellectual, witty in conversation, astute in matters of state and a patron of the arts, he had all the gifts which would appeal to François. He was fond of music and enchanted by theatrical performances; he encouraged writers and artists as his father had done. It was small wonder that François was only too ready to dally at the Papal Court; he was in his element surrounded by works of art; and he found the women of Italy beautiful and gave his rapt attention to all.

Ferdinand of Spain had control of Naples, on which François had set his heart. Ferdinand was getting old and was ailing, Leo pointed out. He could not live long, so would it not be wise to postpone the attempt to take it and wait a while for Ferdinand's death, when it might be quite easy for François to attain his desire without going to war?

Having proved his military skill, François was ready to take that advice; and when he returned to France, he brought the great artist Leonardo da Vinci with him; he was so enamored of his work that he wanted him to work for him. He gave Leonardo the Château Cloux in Touraine, near Amboise, as his home. Unfortunately the great man did not enjoy it for long and died four years later in 1519, which was perhaps not unexpected as he was in his sixty-seventh year. François had the utmost respect for artists of all kinds. Once he said: “Men can make kings, but only God can make an artist.”

During the years that followed, I became so much a part of the French Court that I forgot I was English. I was growing up and very different from the seven-year-old who had arrived. I enjoyed looking on at the Court without being an actual part of it. It was like watching through a window. I was rather relieved about this in a way. I could see how easy it would be to be caught up in actions which might prove detrimental to one's dignity. I was very much aware of dignity. But perhaps I came to that state later, after what happened to my sister Mary. Looking back, it is not always easy to remember when one began to change.

I really enjoyed my role of observer. I felt I was being prepared for the day when I must emerge and take part in the scene. The King's favorite mistress at that time was Françoise de Foix, one of the most beautiful women I ever saw. Many envied her her place at Court; they said François was her slave and he certainly acted as though he adored her; but he was not faithful to her and it all seemed to me like a masque without reality. I thought I would not care to be Françoise de Foix for all the adulation which came her way. Tomorrow it would all be gone. It all depended on the fickle King and he was playing a game most of the time. But it was interesting to watch.

François had come to the throne in a haze of glory; he had appeared to have all the kingly qualities, but his extravagances had to be paid for, and the time must come when the people realized that a monarch who was as handsome as a god and amused them with his outrageous adventures might not bring them so much comfort as a sick old man who had the welfare of his people at heart. Under Louis life might have been dull for the citizens of Paris, but the streets were quiet; following the example of the King, the people had retired early, and if any had reason to be out late, they went without fear. That had changed. Bands of roistering young men roamed the streets. It had long been the law that anyone out after dark should carry a little hand-lantern, and these were maliciously knocked out of their owners’ hands; dissolute young men humiliated the women, taking liberties with them during these drunken brawls. There had been occasions when the mischief-makers were revealed and seen among them were noblemen; and there had been seen the most familiar face of all—the long-nosed, handsome, sardonic features of the Most Christian King.

The sober citizens were shocked; they were disillusioned; they began to talk nostalgically of the good old days.

A party of players had roamed the country, amusing the people with their comedies; and in the past they had often performed their little playlets at Court. A feature of these was the satirizing of well-known figures. The late Louis had often watched them and been amused to see himself portrayed not always flatteringly, counting his money, the parsimonious monarch who liked to keep the Treasury at a high level—for they all knew that this was not for himself but for the country's needs.

Now they were bringing into the sketches a new monarch—a figure of elegance to whom the cut of a coat was of the utmost importance, who flitted from one amour to another; it could only be a parody of François. But it was not the portrayal of François which was so disconcerting as that of his mother, the Duchess Louise. The people had to have a scape-goat and François, being young and charming, could be forgiven for his foibles. “High spirits. Youth,” said the people indulgently. The extravagances necessary to placate these high spirits were laid at the door of the Duchess Louise, who had taken charge of affairs to such a great extent since her regency that the people complained that she ruled the country. In the play she was Mère Sotte and was seen plundering the Treasury and leading her youthful son astray.

François might have shrugged this off—not so Louise. She was incensed. The criticism was directed against her and she wanted revenge. This was a blatant example of lèse majesté and, she declared, punishable by law.

Consequently the players were arrested and taken to Blois, where they were kept in dungeons.

I think they would probably have been left there to perish had it not been for Queen Claude. She was really distressed about the incident. I thought that, in her quiet way, she was very wise, although there had been times when I had been inclined to despise her for her meek acceptance of her lot. After all, she was a king's daughter. Had I been in her place, I should have insisted on being treated with more respect. I should have refused to feign indifference to François's love affairs, for it must be feigned. She must care. She must feel humiliated. And when the time came, she just meekly accepted his return to the marriage bed, remaining calm and continuing with her good works.

She asked a great many questions about the players and thought it was quite wrong to imprison them for what they had done with impunity in the previous reign. “The people will not like it,” she said. “I must speak to the King.”

And she did. She was like many people who appear weak; she was indifferent enough over matters which seemed of no great moment to her but when she really felt strongly she could stand very firm.

François admired her—if not physically—for her character. The people loved her. Although they were amused by the King, they respected those who led saintly lives; and they respected Claude.

I could imagine the scene, although, of course, I did not witness it. Claude would clearly state that she thought the players ought to be set free. She would explain her reason, and clever François would see the logic of it. He knew his mother would be furious if he gave them their liberty and he hated to offend her, but he could see that Claude was right. Graciously and gallantly, he said that he could not refuse his wife's request; and for once Louise was impotent to act. I was sure she raged in private and must have wondered if Françoise de Foix was loosening the bonds between her and Caesar.

However, the players were released unconditionally, to the satisfaction of all except Louise.

François was too intelligent not to realize that his grip on the people's affections was slackening and he knew that it was always wise to give the people some lavish entertainment. The Romans had realized this and they instituted their circuses. François, so well read, so well versed in history, decided to do the same.

Queen Claude, more popular than ever over the matter of the players, had never been crowned. That honor must be given her and at the same time it would give the people something to think about other than their growing dissatisfaction with the new reign.

The preparations threw our circle into a state of great activity. I was to be in the procession and we were fitted with new gowns of rich velvet and we were to wear hats made of cloth of gold in the shape of crowns.

So we rode to St. Denis on elaborately caparisoned mules.

Even Claude looked beautiful, accepting all the acclaim as calmly as she had the neglect. The people cheered her wildly, calling her St. Claude. They remembered she was the daughter of the King whom they had failed to appreciate when he was alive, but they now knew his worth; and her mother had been the great Anne of Brittany whom they had all respected and loved.

I was pleased to see her appreciated.

Then there were the entertainments which always followed these occasions, during which the King had a chance of winning back some of his lost esteem by performing with grace and skill at the jousts.

It was after the activities were over that the Queen sent for me.

She bade me be seated and then she said: “I have some news for you. I have received letters from your father.”

My heart sank. I was going to be sent home. But she went on: “He is very happy that you are here and I have sent him a good account of your behavior.”

“Oh, thank you, Madame.”

She nodded. “You are a good child, and you have talents. Your speech has improved greatly since you came to me and your needlework is good.”

I thanked her again.

“He has been a little anxious of late about your sister—Mary, I believe.”

“Yes, Madame. Mary.”

“He has asked me if I can find a place for her here…with you.”

I looked at her in astonishment. She was smiling her gentle, sweet smile.

“I have written to tell him that I am willing to have her here. So, Anne, you will soon be seeing your sister. She is, in fact, on her way to us now.”

I was amazed. So Mary was coming to France! It was so long since I had seen her and those days with my brother George and the Wyatts in the gardens of Blickling and Hever seemed far in the past.

It would be wonderful to see Mary. I smiled and the Queen gave me one of her benign looks of approval.

I murmured: “Thank you, Madame.”

Mary and I were emotional when we met. It was quite four years since we had been parted; and at first we did not recognize each other. She had changed considerably from the little girl who had been sent to Brussels; she was plumper, more voluptuous. She must be twelve years old but she looked older.

She told me how glad she was to come to the French Court. That of Brussels had been quite dull and she had heard that, since the reign of the new King of France, life here was very amusing.

Her eyes sparkled at the prospect, but I quickly disillusioned her. We were in attendance on Queen Claude and that was a little circle apart.

She pouted and said that perhaps there were ways of breaking out of the circle.

She laughed a good deal. I asked her about affairs in Brussels but all she could tell me was what the people were wearing; and when I explained about King François going to war and his meeting with the Pope, she looked at me blankly and I could see that her attention was wandering. She had not changed; she was the same girl who had sat with us in the gardens and not listened to a word of those interesting conversations between George and Thomas Wyatt.

She was easy-going, happy-go-lucky, and I noticed, in a few days, that she was more interested in the men than the women. When she caught a glimpse of François she was overwhelmed with admiration.

“Surely,” she said, “there has never been anyone like him.”

“I imagine he is unique,” I said.

“I think he smiled at me.”

“He smiles at all females.”

“Oh…I thought he smiled specially at me.”

I began to think she was inclined to be foolish, but it was pleasant to have someone of my own family near me; I was amazed by what a joy it was to be able to converse in English.

After a while she settled in, as Mary always would, I supposed.

An important event occurred soon after her arrival. There was a great deal of talk about it, and the King's sister, Marguerite d'Alençon, showed a lively interest.

Some said it was an attack on the Church and struck at the very roots of religion; but Marguerite said that every new theory must be given attention.

The fact was that a priest called Martin Luther was so incensed by the sale of indulgences—which meant that by paying a sum of money, men and women could be forgiven their sins—that he drew up ninety-five theses on the subject and nailed them on the church door at Wittenberg. This had caused consternation throughout the Catholic world. The chief offender in Martin Luther's eyes was a Dominican friar named John Tetzel who had established himself at Jüterbog, where he carried out what Luther called “this shameful traffic.” “God willing, I will beat a hole in his drum,” declared Martin Luther. At one time Luther would have been seized and no more heard of him, but times were changing. Luther had his supporters and Tetzel was forced to retire to Frankfurt. This caused quite a stir in Court circles, and people thought that Martin Luther was striking a direct blow against the established Church.

Who was this upstart monk? people were asking. He should be taught a lesson.

But Marguerite insisted that the question was worth studying. The man had certainly raised some interesting points and it was nonsense to say that the Church could not profit from improvements.

Sometimes she would be walking in the gardens and a little group would gather around her and there would be an interesting discussion. I had been attracted to Marguerite from the moment I saw her. She was very beautiful but it was for her cleverness that she was noted. She and the King were on terms of intimacy such as he shared with no one else, not even his mother. I had heard it whispered that there was an incestuous love between them, but I did not believe that. François might be capable of indulging in it but I did not think Marguerite would be. Her adoration of her brother was not physical, although when one saw them walking in the gardens with their arms about each other one might think so. But although he was the King, it was Marguerite who would decide the nature of their relationship; and I have always believed that that relationship was far stronger and of greater durability because there was no sexual side to it. They were perfect in each other's eyes; and although it was clear that Marguerite had a greater regard for her brother than she had for her husband, I would be ready to swear that physical contact did not play a part in it.

Marguerite had one quality which the other two in the Trinity lacked: modesty. And I think this was due to her greater wisdom. She and François had grown up together; she was his senior by two years; she it was who had taught him to read, who had told him stories of great heroes, who had, in a measure, made him the man he was. To him she was always the elder sister, the greatest love of his life; although his devotion to his mother never wavered, being François, realistic and highly intelligent, he must see the faults in Louise; but he found none in Marguerite.

Marguerite wrote constantly; I had seen her on occasions sitting with the King—just the two of them because François made it clear that at that time he wanted no other company than that of his sister—his arm about her shoulder, while she read her poetry to him; I had seen them in animated conversation or laughing together; I had rarely seen such amity between two people.

I remember a verse she had written in her youth. The translation ran something like this:

Such boon is mine to feel the amity

That God hath putten in our Trinity

Wherein to make a third, I, all unfitted

To be the number's shadow, am admitted.

But to my mind—and perhaps this will be borne out by future generations—it was Marguerite who was the wisest member of the Trinity.

François would have forbidden any approval of Martin Luther in his Court. Was he not, after all, the Most Christian King? But Marguerite was above such laws; she was one who must give her attention to what she considered important, and the King would not dream of forbidding her to do what she thought right. And she certainly considered Martin Luther worthy of her attention.

One day I saw her talking to a group of people and wandering up, I stopped to listen.

She was saying: “The Pope at the moment is inclined to shrug this aside. He thinks Luther a clever priest…interesting… expressing new ideas. But the Cardinals see danger here. They believe Luther is striking at the foundations of the Church. This may well be, but should we go on accepting these old laws and traditions? Should we not take them out of storage and give them a closer look? This is interesting. I do not believe it is the simple matter some people think. There is a good deal to the friar. I'll swear he will be sent for…to Rome, and if he goes, it may be that we will hear no more of Martin Luther, for he is certainly causing disquiet in some circles.”

Everyone listened intently—among them myself—and a few gave their opinions. She must have noticed me for when she stood up to leave she called to me.

“You are Anne Boleyn, I believe,” she said. “The little one who stayed behind with Queen Mary and now serves Queen Claude.”

I told her this was so and she went on: “You were listening to the discourse.”

“Madame, I am sorry…Isaw no harm …”

She laughed. “You have long ears, I believe,” she said and pulled one of them playfully. “Tell me, what do you think of this man Luther?”

“I…I have not seen the theses.”

That amused her. “Many people are giving judgment without seeing them.”

“I…I think one should see them first.”

She bent toward me and said: “We think alike.”

Then she dismissed me, but after that she would speak to me when she saw me; and sometimes she would have a little chat—just the two of us—which I found most exciting.

The attention she bestowed on me had its effect and people were a little more respectful to me than before.

It was about this time that Raphael's masterpiece St. Michael arrived in France. Having persuaded Leonardo da Vinci to take up residence under his shelter, François had tried hard to induce Raphael to do the same. Raphael, however, declined the invitation, but at least François succeeded in having two of his pictures brought to France. St. Michael came and The Holy Family was to follow.

When St. Michael arrived, it was treated with a respect which bordered on idolatry. François had the picture hung in his grandest gallery. It was hidden by a rich velvet curtain and only those who, in François's opinion, could appreciate great art were invited to the unveiling.

“It is sacrilege,” said François, “to display great art to those who do not understand it.”

So it was a great privilege to be at the ceremony.

Marguerite sent for me. Eagerly I went to her. I had lost my awe of her and enjoyed these occasions when I would be seated on a stool close to her and listen to her reading poetry, often her own. She had discovered in me a love of the artistic. I had always been interested in clothes and I was allowed to design my own, which I did in a humble way; I invented a special sleeve which hung over my hand to hide the sixth nail.

Marguerite had admired them and when she knew the reason why, she admired them still more. She had decided that I was worthy to attend the unveiling; and so I was present on that great occasion.

It was thrilling when the curtains were drawn aside and the masterpiece revealed.

Afterward François came to his sister and I heard him say: “Who is your little guest?”

“Anne Boleyn,” she told him.

“A protégée of yours?”

“An interesting child.”

He surveyed me and I cast down my eyes. He took my chin in his hand and turned my face up to his. He stroked my cheek gently.

“Charming,” he said. His smile frightened me a little. Marguerite saw this and laid a hand on my shoulder, drawing me away from him. His smiles were then all for her.

“Her sister has now joined her,” said Marguerite. “Anne has been with us for some time.”

He nodded and seemed to forget me. I was glad of that.

It was soon after that that I became a little anxious.

Mary began to be absent for long stretches of time. There was a change in her. I often saw her smiling to herself as though she found something very amusing.

When I asked her what was happening, she giggled a little. I realized suddenly that others were whispering about her.

One day I said to her: “Mary, what has happened? I know it is something.”

“Happened?” She opened her blue eyes very wide and I could see the laughter behind them. It was a certain gratified laughter.

“Please tell me,” I said. “You seemed very pleased about it. Let me share your pleasure.”

That sent her into fits of laughter.

“You are too young,” she said.

Then, knowing the morals of the Court, I feared the worst. Mary was twelve years old… soon to be thirteen. Girls were often married at that age.

I said: “You have taken a lover.”

“Rather,” she corrected me, “he has taken me.”

“Oh Mary,” I replied, “it will do you no good.”

“But it will. Wait until you know who.”

“Please tell me who.”

“Guess.”

“No, I can't. Tell me.”

“You'll never believe it.”

“I will if you tell me.”

“The King.”

“François?”

“I know of no other King in France.”

“Oh Mary…you fool !”

Mary tried to be angry; it was not easy for her. She was astonished at my stupidity, in not understanding the honor—as she thought—this was. She seemed to think she had gained the greatest possible prize because she had been seduced by the most profligate man in France.

“He is delighted with me.”

“For how long?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you know that he seduces girls as frequently as he sits down to meals?”

“He likes me a great deal. He calls me his little English mare.”

I felt sick with shame. I thought of elegant, witty Françoise de Foix and the other Court ladies who had enchanted him briefly. How long did Mary think she would last?

I said: “You have disgraced the name of Boleyn.”

Then I almost laughed at myself. Who were the Boleyns? Descendants of merchants who had done good trade and married into the aristocracy. But however humble the family, it should keep its honor.

Even now I would rather not dwell on that time. My sister Mary was one of those women—and this quality always remained with her—whose main purpose in life seemed to be to satisfy her sexual desires and those of her partners. I did not know whether she was a virgin when François discovered this…I call it a failing…in her, but he was the kind of man who would be aware of it at once and seek to exploit it.

Mary must have been born with a sexual competence; she would know how to attract and how to satisfy. This was the purpose of her life, I suppose, her raison d’ê tre. It had been present in those early days, only I had not recognized it. Perhaps Mary herself had not.

She amused François for several weeks, which was longer than I expected. Everyone was talking about his new mistress, a girl…very young… but not too young. How long? was the question on everyone's lips.

It was not very long. His ardor waned very quickly, and Mary's visits to the royal bed grew less frequent. This was not to be tolerated by Mary's overwhelming sexuality, and very soon there was a new lover, who no doubt felt himself honored to take that which had delighted the King.

Mary was reckless. She accepted the loss of royal favor with equanimity. There were others—plenty of them.

There was nothing subtle about Mary. She enjoyed her sexual encounters as did those who shared them with her; and in her opinion that should not be the concern of anyone else.

Perhaps it would not have been, if the first to take her up had not been the King.

She was now referred to not as the King's mare but the mare anyone could ride at any time it suited him. This was a very willing little English mare.

Marguerite understood my shame.

“Your sister is a foolish girl,” she said. “She does not understand our ways as you do.”

“I have remonstrated with her,” I replied.

This made Marguerite smile. “Oh, poor little sister. You are so much wiser than she. You will learn from her mistakes. You would never act as she has, I know.”

“Never,” I said fervently.

“Your sister, as I said, does not understand us. She is not exactly wanton. She is innocent, which sounds strange in one who leads such a life. She is like a child who takes too much of what seems to her so good, and does not think of the effects it is having. There are others like her. Do not think she is unique. But where is her discretion? they are asking. How many have ridden the King's mare? Poor child. That is detrimental to her. The King cannot have the morals of his Court so corrupted.”

I looked at her in astonishment and she laughed.

“It is not that she has taken many lovers that is so disastrous; it is her manner of doing so. She blatantly enjoys it. It is almost as though her actions have become a public spectacle. People talk of her ribaldly. That, my brother will not endure. He declares he honors all women and will not have our sex humiliated… and that is what your sister is doing.”

I was bewildered and as always in our encounters Marguerite wanted me to explain my thoughts.

I said: “But it was the King himself who seduced her. He it was who called her his mare.”

“He did all this discreetly. It was only natural that she would find him irresistible and that in time he should have tired of her. Then she could have taken another lover… discreetly. In time the King might have found a husband for her. That often happens in such cases. But Mary could not wait. She must dash into the next available bed. She should have bargained.”

“That seems worse.”

“It is…in a way… but it is etiquette and let me tell you this, Anne, my dear child: it is not what is done in my brother's Court which is important, but the manner in which it is done.”

“But Mary would never barter. She would give.”

“That is true. But to give too freely is not good manners. It is humiliating our sex. You are puzzled, as well you might be. But this is how things are at my brother's Court.”

“Mary is young… she is simple really.”

“Ah, there you have it. She is too simple to be acceptable at the Court of France.”

“What will happen to her?”

“She is to be sent back to England.”

“Sent back in disgrace!”

“Her presence is no longer required at the Court of France.”

I covered my face with my hands. “And I?” I asked.

“My dear child, you are not responsible for your sister. Why, you are even younger than she is. I have grown fond of you. You interest me. My brother has noticed you, too.” She looked at me steadily. “You will always remember your sister and never, never make the mistakes that she has.”

I nodded.

“We wish you to stay at our Court. I am sure your father will agree to that—though your sister must go.”

So Mary went.

My father was horrified that she should be sent home—and for such a reason. I heard later from her that she was made very unhappy for a while. But she had had such an exciting time at the Court of France that she would remember it forever.

My father had married again and Mary was not welcome in the household. She was in disgrace.

But Mary's nature was not to be sad for long, and a year after her banishment I heard that she was married; her husband was a William Carey—a nobleman but poor; he came of a good family from the West Country—not the sort of match my father had anticipated for his daughter. It must have seemed to him that all his efforts on Mary's behalf had been wasted. But Mary was happy; she would always be happy; and perhaps if she were married to a man who pleased her—and she would not look for great riches—she would be contented.

Mary's experiences had a great effect on me—one which I should never forget. I did not know what plans my father had for me, but I guessed there would be plans. I was the only daughter left to keep up the Boleyn tradition of advantageous marriages.

And I was growing up.

I felt I wanted to hold back time. I wanted to go on living in this most elegant Court. I wanted to serve Queen Claude in the cloistered atmosphere of her apartments from which I could escape now and then to the stimulating society of Marguerite d'Alençon. I wanted my girlhood to go on and on.

Never, never must I follow in Mary's humiliating path. Remember it, always, I told myself.

One does not always realize at the time what effect historical events have upon our lives.

In the year 1520 I was thirteen years old, getting dangerously near the time when I should be considered marriageable. It was something I refused to think about.

Momentous events were afoot. The Emperor Maximilian, who had been one of the leading figures in European politics for so long, died. François immediately announced to his rival, Charles of Austria, who was now King of Spain, his claim to the vacant suzerainty. There was a great deal of discussion in Marguerite's circle about this. I heard it mentioned that the King of England believed he also had a claim.

The choice rested with a council of German Princes and Archbishops besides the Duke of Saxony, the Margrave of Brandenburg, the King of Bohemia and the Court Palatine of the Rhine. They were the only ones who could make the choice. Their verdict was a blow to François. He had thought he had a chance, though not an overwhelming one. Charles of Austria and Spain was elected and so became known as the Emperor Charles.

The result of this was to draw the disappointed candidates—France and England—together and it was arranged that a meeting should take place between them.

Much discussion went on between the two countries. Each was determined to show its power and glory to the other. So there was to be this meeting between the two Kings; if I were present with the Court, it would be the second time I had seen the King of England and I was excited at the prospect.

The matter was often discussed in Marguerite's circle, of which I was happy now to be a member. Queen Claude put no obstacles in my way; she thought it an excellent opportunity for me to be received in such intellectual company, which I could not enjoy with her.

I was naturally interested in comments on England. They spoke quite frankly in front of me. I think they had forgotten I was English—so French had I become.

Marguerite used to laugh about King Henry's vanity. We heard many stories about him because ambassadors were constantly coming back to the Court of France after having been to that of England and they liked to gossip. Marguerite encouraged this. We knew that the King of England had a tendency to play boyish games, that he liked appearing at masques in disguise, although it was never difficult to see through those disguises, for he could always be recognized by his height and reddish hair. He took a boyish delight in being treated familiarly and then suddenly revealing himself with: “I am your King.”

There was a great deal of laughter among Marguerite's friends—not always kind. Henry was a little naïve in the manner in which he betrayed his interest in François. They were more or less of the same age and in similar positions. Henry would have heard of François's good looks and elegance. He himself was considered handsome—a fine figure of a king and he wanted to make sure that he was equal to—or, better, excelled— François.

When the Venetian ambassador called at the Court, he had just come from England and he repeated a conversation between himself and Henry which was typical.

Henry wanted to know whether the King of France was as tall as he was. The Venetian ambassador replied that he could not give a definite answer; they were both unusually tall and must be about the same height.

“Is he as stout as I?” asked Henry.

“No,” replied the ambassador. “He is slender.”

“What sort of legs has he?” asked the King of England.

“Very slender.”

“Slender!” cried the King. “Then they cannot be shapely. Look you, man.” He held up his leg. “Look at this calf. Just look at it.”

The ambassador did as he was told and had to admit that the leg of the King of England was very fine indeed.

There was a great deal of laughter. “And what are your legs like?” became a catchphrase throughout the Court for a while.

But the growing power of the Emperor Charles meant that the Kings of France and England, whatever the rivalry between them, would have to watch the Emperor, and it was politic for them to show him that they were good friends, at least outwardly.

These three men stood astride Europe—the Emperor Charles, the King of France and the King of England. They were all young. Henry of England was the eldest, being three years older than François, and François was four years older than the Emperor. They were all eager to prove themselves—all energetically dedicated to the struggle for power.

As a result of this situation the King of England sent an embassy to Paris, there to make arrangements for the meeting between the two Kings. It was with some apprehension that I learned that my father was a member of this embassy.

Our meeting was rather a painful one. My father studied me closely. I saw at once that he was not displeased with me but the shadow of Mary's disgrace hung over us.

I curtsied and kept my eyes downcast.

He said: “It is a long time, daughter, since we met.”

“Yes, father.” I was uneasy, wondering whether I should have to return to England with him.

“I have had good reports of you,” he said, and I had the impression that he was pleased with me. I would have given a good deal for a sign of fatherly affection, but that, of course, would have been asking for too much. I found myself wishing that George had been sent instead of my father. What a different meeting that would have been!

I think he did not mean to be unkind, but he did not know how to show affection to us—though when I returned home and saw him with my stepmother, I realized that he could be fond of someone. It was a strange marriage because she was of no great family and by marrying her he had gone against the Boleyn tradition. I was to come to love her in time, for she was a wonderful woman—even though her blood might not be noble; and when I compared her with my cold grandfather, the Duke of Norfolk, and my indifferent uncle, the Earl of Surrey, I was glad my father had for once allowed his affections to get the better of his family pride.

He could not, it seemed, show affection to his children; but I think he must have suffered acutely over Mary.

“You are now a young woman… almost,” he said. “How old are you?”

Odd that he, who had begotten me, could not remember. “I am thirteen years old, father.”

“Growing up. Growing up. They have been good to you at the Court of France?”

“Very good.”

“And I hear that the Duchess d'Alençon has shown some interest in you.”

“She has been very kind to me.”

“You will be returning home…in due course.”

I lowered my eyes. I did not want him to see the apprehension in my face. I dreaded that summons home. It would mean either a life of boredom at Hever or Blickling…or marriage. But perhaps a place at Court? I wondered. Could Mary have disgraced us all so much that that would be impossible?

“I doubt whether I shall be coming with the King's party,” said my father.

I was relieved at that.

“I shall make the arrangements. I have certain discussions with the French foreign minister… and then I shall return home.”

“Yes, father.”

“Is there much talk here…of your sister?”

“She is hardly ever mentioned. It is forgotten, I think.”

“Idiot,” he said. “Well, she is off my hands now. Carey …” he grimaced with contempt. “She was lucky to get even him after her disgraceful conduct.”

“I don't think she realized…”

“I don't know how I could have offended God to be cursed with such a child.”

I knew it was no use trying to explain Mary to him. As far as he was concerned, she was a bitter disappointment, an utter disaster.

I saw him once or twice at Court; he was often hurrying to some meeting. I was relieved when he left.

That meeting between the two Kings, which is often referred to as “the Field of the Cloth of Gold” because of the lavish extravagance which was given to it, is well known in history.

I was old enough to be struck by the falseness of life at Court—and not just the French Court. I supposed that all courts were more or less the same. This meeting had not been devised so that two rulers with similar aims might be together in friendly fashion and talk of the peace of nations. It was an encounter between rivals, each eager to display his wealth and power to the other. While they talked friendship, they planned treachery, and the main object of the meeting was to show their successful rival, the Emperor Charles, that they would stand together against him.

My father had arranged that the two Kings should meet in France. There had been a certain amount of maneuvering about this, for Henry of England thought he might demean himself by crossing the Channel; François no doubt felt the same.

After much argument it had been decided that the meeting should take place in Picardy but that the headquarters of the King of England should be at Guines, which was not far from Calais and in English territory, while those of the King of France should be at Ardres, which belonged to France.

Preparations were extensive. I expected it was the same in England, for each King was determined to outdo the other. There was great consternation when it was learned that the Emperor Charles had landed in England in order to have a conference with Henry before he set sail for France, which made it clear that he must be disturbed to contemplate this show of friendship between the Kings of France and England.

There were always a great many secret missions going on between all countries; visitors arrived constantly at Court who were, I was sure, spies and they brought news of what was happening in England. It appeared that Henry had gone to Dover to meet Charles when he heard he was about to land and the two monarchs had journeyed to Canterbury where they visited the Cathedral and the shrine of St. Thomas àBecket.

The Cathedral was resplendent with all the precious gifts which had been brought to the shrine over the years, and it seemed that Charles was very impressed by such honor done to the saint—an indication, he said, of the piety of the nation.

There was a very disturbing piece of news which I heard Marguerite discussing, and that was that the Emperor Charles had made a friend of Cardinal Wolsey.

Wolsey was a name I had heard frequently whenever my country was mentioned. Wolsey, it was said, had the ear of the King; and Wolsey it was who kept a tight grip on affairs in England. The King honored him; he was a brilliant statesman; when one considered how England would act, one thought of Wolsey.

The Emperor, it seemed, had promised Wolsey that he would help him in his lifelong ambition, which was to become Pope. François had no such bait to offer him.

Everyone was talking about the preparations for the meeting of the Kings. Right from the beginning the rivalry was apparent. Henry had chosen eleven hundred workmen from Flanders and Holland—the most skillful in the world at their particular trade—to build a wooden palace in the shape of a quadrangle. On one side of the entrance was a fountain and in this a statue of Bacchus had been set up. Not water but wine flowed in this fountain. And on it was written in letters of gold: Make Good Cheer Who Will. On the other side of the entrance was a column held up by four lions and on the top a statue of Cupid, arrow poised. As if this were not enough, Henry had had a large statue placed opposite his palace depicting a Herculean figure with the inscription: He Whom I Back Wins.

There could be nothing more likely to arouse feelings of rivalry in the French and they set about scoring over the English, but with good taste to match ostentation.

François had had erected close to the town of Ardres a great tent, the dome of which was covered in cloth of gold. The inside was decorated with blue velvet spattered with stars so that it looked like the night sky. Though I did not see it, I heard that it was magnificent and made Henry's wooden palace seem vulgar.

However, a few days before the meeting was due to take place, a storm arose and the wind, being almost of hurricane force, tore up the tentpegs and ruined the cloth of gold, destroying François's magnificent tent. The superstitious wondered whether it was an omen.

François immediately took possession of a castle near Ardres and made light of the ominous event.

I wish I had seen that meeting of the Kings. It must have been impressive and at the same time a little amusing to see those mighty monarchs, so wary of each other and making such efforts to show what good friends they were—and thereby showing that they were not. There had been a great deal of discussion as to how the meeting should take place. Neither must give way to the other. There must be no sign that one side was the weaker.

They must have looked splendid; they were both head and shoulders above most men, both vain of their appearances and but newly come to kingship—and for neither of them had the possession of the crown been a certainty. Henry had had to take second place to his brother Arthur for years; François had lived in a state of anxiety even after the death of Louis. That must have made the crown doubly precious to them both.

They were to meet in a valley between Ardres and Guines. On the way there Henry's horse stumbled. I can imagine the consternation that ran through the English community. Was it a sign? Henry, however, ignored the incident as François had the destruction of his tent—and went on to meet his friendly foe.

They regarded each other for a moment or two. Knowing Henry so well now, I can imagine his little eyes taking in every detail of that truly elegant figure before him; and knowing François too, I could picture his cool assessment of his rival.

The two Kings greeted each other and embraced before they dismounted; and then arm in arm they walked to the tent where Wolsey and de Bonnivet—François's chief minister—awaited them.

Their words were, of course, recorded by observers and repeated.

“My dear brother and cousin,” François said, “I have come a long way and not without trouble to see you in person. I hope that you hold me for such that I am, ready to give you aid with the kingdoms and lordships that are in my power.”

Henry replied: “It is not your kingdoms or your divers possessions that I regard, but the soundness and loyal observance of the promises set down in treaties between us two. My eyes never beheld a Prince who could be dearer to my heart, and I have crossed the seas at the extreme boundary of my kingdom to come and see you.”

In the tent agreements were drawn up regarding the marriage of the Dauphin and Henry's daughter, Mary, who was just four years old.

It was a good beginning. I learned afterward, when I knew Henry very well indeed, that he had been greatly impressed by François's appearance, and it had depressed him a little because he always wished to shine more brightly than anyone near him, and he was afraid that François might be considered the more attractive. Then he remembered that François's legs were short. He looked at them and rejoiced. Of course François looked well on a horse. His own legs, he believed, were beautifully proportioned and François, being so slender, did not have that rounded calf which the King of England was so proud to possess. He often said much later when referring to François: “He had short legs and big feet. He was not quite perfect.”

Now I can imagine his feelings on that celebrated occasion. The celebrations were to last sixteen days and the time would not be devoted merely to meetings between the monarchs. There would be jousts and tourneys, such entertainments as had never been seen before. Neither King had spared his attempts to impress the other with his wealth and power. It was said that those nobles who had accompanied the Kings to Guines and Ardres carried their lands and houses with them, so had they impoverished themselves in order to make the journey.

But during those magnificent celebrations there was a hint of that tension which we all felt. There was such falseness behind the expressions of good will.

It was arranged that the King of England was to go to Ardres to dine with Queen Claude, and that at the same time François was to go to Guines to be the guest of Queen Katharine.

During the time the Kings were in foreign camps they should be hostages for each other. The suggestion had come from the English, and François laughingly agreed to it.

The next morning François rose very early—which was unusual for him—and, taking only two gentlemen and a page, he rode over to the castle at Guines. The English guards were astonished to see him almost alone in their midst. I suppose the English were far more conscious of security than the French; they were after all in France, and certainly they did not trust the French. It was because he understood their feelings so well that François acted as he did that morning.

He demanded of the guards the way to the chamber of the King of England.

“His Grace is not yet awake,” the guards told him.

François laughed and walked straight into the chamber where Henry was in bed.

Henry was dumbfounded. He at once realized that he himself was in no danger, but François had taken a great risk by walking right into the midst of what could have been the enemy.

Henry was immediately aware of the trust which was being shown him.

He said: “Brother, you have done a better turn than any man ever did another. I see what trust I should have in you. I yield myself your prisoner from this moment.”

Henry was wearing a jeweled collar worth fifteen thousand angels; he took it off and begged François to wear it for his sake.

François, guessing something like this would happen and that there would be an exchange of gifts, had brought with him a bracelet which he insisted Henry accept and wear for his sake.

François had judged accurately. The bracelet he bestowed was worth thirty thousand angels. The French must outdo the English in all things. That was a little touch typical of François.

He then said that he would be the King of England's valet and it was he who warmed Henry's shirt and handed it to him.

When François returned to Ardres, his ministers were shocked that he had gone almost unaccompanied into the English stronghold, but François only laughed at them; and when he touched the collar which Henry had given him, and thought of the bracelet which he had given Henry, he was much amused.

There was another incident which did not end up in quite such an amicable way.

This was on the occasion of a wrestling match, when, as in all the tournaments, the excitement was increased by the rivalry of the French and English.

Henry had brought the champions of the sport with him from England, and as soon as the match began, it became clear that the skill of the English was superior to that of the French. I heard many a grumble that the best French wrestlers, who came from Brittany, had not been invited to take part. It was an oversight which was very regrettable to the French but delighted the English, for they won all the prizes.

I could see that François was disconsolate when the winners came to the ladies’ loge to receive the prizes from Queen Claude.

Afterward the Kings went into one of the pavilions to refresh themselves with a drink together. Henry was delighted with the success of the English, and he thought to crown the glory by wrestling with François and overthrowing him.

He turned to him and said: “Brother, I must wrestle with you.” He thereupon seized François and sought to trip him. He must have forgotten—or perhaps he did not know—that François was one of the finest wrestlers in France. In a few seconds Henry was thrown to the ground.

Embarrassed and angry, Henry rose.

“Once again,” he cried. “Once again.”

But the French King's friends reminded him that supper was just about to be served and, as none could start without them, it would be a breach of etiquette to arrive late. The wrestling match would have to be postponed.

I can imagine François looking down his long nose at Henry and laughing inwardly, and Henry's humiliation to have been thrown. Fortunately it was only those close to the Kings who had seen it, but he knew the story would be all around the Court by tomorrow—as it was, and that was how I heard of it.

But although François might have gleaned a momentary satisfaction, the incident did him little good, for after all, he was trying to win Henry to his side in the conflict with the Emperor; and Henry was a man who remembered slights.

I vividly recall the dinner at which Queen Claude entertained the King of England. It was the occasion when François was dining with Queen Katharine. As one of Claude's attendants, I was present, so I had a greater opportunity of observing King Henry than I had ever had before.

He was extremely affable and none could be more charming when he wished. I think the absence of François made him feel more at ease. He was gracious and very attentive to Claude; he had heard much of her saintliness, he said; and that was a quality he most admired in ladies. He was honored to be in the company of a lady of such goodness.

I remember the gown I wore on that occasion. It was red velvet—one of my favorite colors—with a long skirt open in front to show a brocade petticoat. It was drawn in tightly at the waist and my long wide sleeves fell gracefully, well below my hands, hiding that sixth nail which always bothered me.

The King complimented the Queen on the excellent food and wine and afterward he spoke to all of us.

He lingered a little with me—I supposed because I was English. He seemed particularly amused to hear that I was Sir Thomas Boleyn's daughter.

“A good servant, Sir Thomas,” he commented. “And you are an English girl.” He slapped his thigh. “I could have sworn you were French.”

“I have been long at the Court of France, Your Grace.”

He put his big face close to mine and said jovially: “Well then, you must have been nothing but a baby when you came.”

“I was seven years old, Your Grace.”

“Beautiful girls should be where they belong,” he said. “In their own country.”

I smiled and he passed on.

I thought he was very friendly, which was obviously because I was my father's daughter. I knew that he had progressed amazingly at Court during the last years.

The great occasion of the Field of the Cloth of Gold was over by 24 June and I left with the royal party for Abbeville, while King Henry and Queen Katharine led their cavalcade toward Calais where they were to make the crossing to England.

The next day François was furiously angry and that anger seemed to reverberate throughout the Court, for the King of England, instead of going directly to Calais, had gone to Gravelines, where the Emperor Charles, with his brother Ferdinand and his wily minister Chièvres, were waiting to meet him.

So this was what the protestations of brotherly affection and friendship were worth! No sooner had the King of England said goodbye to his friend François than he was meeting the Emperor Charles; and Heaven knew what treaties they would be drawing up together.

One thing was certain though—they would bring no good to the King of France.

That year seemed to flash by. I was fourteen years old. I knew in my heart that I could not go on as I was much longer. There would be plans to get me married. Already I was aware of the glances of young men which seemed to follow me everywhere I went. I smoldered with resentment for I was sure some of them were remembering Mary and judging me by her.

I had a ready wit which was gaining me quite a little reputation. Then I began to enjoy the admiration of the young men—which did not arouse in me any desire whatsoever—because of the opportunity to repulse them. I was so anxious to show them that I was not like Mary that I think I developed into being sexually cold. When I saw some of the women giggling together and recounting their amorous adventures, I felt disgusted. I was so determined not to be like Mary that I made myself so.

Oddly enough, instead of being a deterrent, my studied indifference to the advances of young men seemed to make them more eager to pursue me. I could play the lute very well indeed. I have never believed in false modesty and I would say that few of the ladies could compare with me in that respect. I could sing well and could dance even better. In fact, I had been taught all the social graces and I had learned my lessons well.

I had always been interested in clothes and because I had two defects to hide—my sixth nail and the mole on my neck—I designed my own clothes and I had become good at it. I could mingle colors artistically and I knew exactly what suited me, and that was what I was going to wear, even though I must sometimes snap my fingers at fashion. So well did I succeed in this that my styles had started to become the fashion. Everyone wanted to wear them, but I heard it said that they did not look quite the same on others as they did on the little Boleyn.

Suddenly I had emerged. I was no longer a child. I was a nubile woman. I was fashionable. I had acquired an elegance; and I looked different from other women at Court. There was, after all, a similarity about beautiful women like Françoise de Foix. Big blue eyes, fair curls, straight little noses, red lips and pearly teeth. I was not a beauty, but I was myself. Large, deepset eyes which held some mystery, for nobody understood what I was thinking; long black hair which I liked to wear hanging loose about my shoulders, scorning the elaborate hairstyles; pale skin and slightly prominent upper teeth, oval face and a long, slender neck. People noticed me before they did these beauties. My clothes designed by myself were different and when others copied them I changed my style. Oh yes, I was beginning to be noticed in the Court of France.

My attitude toward my would-be suitors baffled them. They did not know that the shadow of my sister walked constantly beside me—a dreadful warning.

As soon as the festivities of the Field of the Cloth of Gold were over, the Court started its summer season of traveling throughout the realm. This was almost like a repetition of those weeks at Ardres; there was feasting and tournaments at every château where we rested.

François was perhaps a little subdued. He was too clever to deceive himself, and he knew that in the Emperor Charles he had a formidable enemy who seemed to flout him at every turn. It might be that all the expense incurred through the meeting with Henry was wasted, since Charles, lurking at Gravelines and with very little pomp and ceremony, had proceeded to undo all the good François had done. It had been a master stroke to offer to help Wolsey to the Papal crown; nothing could win over that wily statesman more than such an offer. François knew that in spite of his youth the Emperor was more than his match.

But at this time my mind was full of my own affairs.

Little incidents occurred which disturbed me. It was becoming clear to me that François's attention had alighted on me.

When I played the lute, he would compliment me in most fulsome terms; I would find him at my side; he often partnered me in the dance. A great compliment, some thought, but it filled me with apprehension.

I knew that François was not always scrupulous in courtship. On the surface he was the chivalrous knight; but he would employ all kinds of devious means to reach his desires. There was a rumor that his one-time mistress, Françoise de Foix, had been a lady of great virtue, having been brought up in the pious Court of Anne of Brittany; and a marriage had been arranged for her with the Comte de Châteaubriand, which had been a happy one. François had seen her, desired her and urged her to come to Court, but she listened to the entreaties of her husband and remained in the country. François had heard that her husband had a very unusual ring and they had made a pact that, if they were ever parted and he sent this ring to her, she was to come to him at once. François had a copy made of the ring and sent the Comte away on an embassy. Then he sent the ring to Françoise with the instruction that she was to come to Court without delay.

Of course, if Françoise had been a truly virtuous woman, she would have gone straight home when she realized she had been duped and I am sure François would have been too chivalrous to prevent her. But one had to remember that François was a very attractive man—apart from his kingship—and the power which came from that made him irresistible. However, Françoise succumbed. She had three brothers who were hungry for promotion and François could give so much. So that was the end of the virtuous existence of Françoise de Foix.

There were many such stories of François and some may not have been true, but knowing him I guessed they had their roots in fact.

Thus, when I saw his eyes on me, I began to suffer small anxieties.

If I had been different, I might have been willing. After all, he was the King. I should never be like my sister, of course, but without her example might I have fallen into temptation? Should I have enjoyed flaunting my power at Court as the King's mistress? I was not sure.

I was helped a good deal by Marguerite.

She adored her brother and thought him perfect in every way, but that did not mean she could not see other people's points of view.

She used to read to me quite frequently. She was interested in me. In fact, there was a similarity between us. I lacked her erudition and her clever mind, but I found great pleasure in listening to her discourse.

It was she who kept me informed of events and one of her great fears at this time was that our countries would go to war. The meeting at Ardres and Guines? She shrugged that aside. It was merely two kings displaying their wealth and power. That was not how treaties were made. Did I think it furthered friendship? It was rivalry all the time. What are tournaments but competitions? When it is between two knights, that is very worthy, even though it engenders jealousy, but when it is between rival countries, then the danger is acute.

“Then why…,” I began.

She shook her head. “Who can say? It was a gesture… while it lasted. If it had been a meeting to discuss ideas…Oh, it was said to be so, but what was important? Who won at the jousts? Who won at the wrestling? Who had the greater strength? The greater power… the greater wealth … And all the time there is that young man… the most powerful man in Europe. He is young in years but in wisdom he is already an old man. I hate the thought of war.” Then she looked at me and said: “But you, Anne, have a distant look of late. Tell me, what is on your mind?”

I hesitated and she urged me to go on. I said: “It is the King.”

“François?”

“He…he looks my way.”

She nodded, smiling. “Ah, he is a lusty boy. He always was. He is strong… such a man. He adores beauty. He is going to build beautiful châteaux all over the country. You know he brought Leonardo da Vinci here. Poor man, his stay was short. Genius should be above mortality. It should be granted eternal life. He tried for Raphael. You see, he would bring all the great painters, writers and architects to France so that his country becomes the center of art. He lives for beauty and he sees that in women. Women are essential to him…as art is. And he has seen something in you which attracts him.”

“I do not want…”

She understood as she always did.

“I know. You are young. You are not of an amorous nature… like your sister.”

I shuddered.

She said: “Yes, I understand, Anne. You felt it deeply. It was a great disgrace and humiliation to you. Of course, she was young and innocent. There are others here who do all that she has done… and more…and yet here they live as respected members of the Court. Your sister was not clever enough; she was not devious; she was too open. She enjoyed sexual encounters so much that she could never resist them. There are some women like that. She became a byword at the Court, and that is what could not be endured. There are women at the Court who could not tell you how many beds they have slept in… they are so numerous. But here they stay while poor innocent little Mary is sent away. And the gentlemen… led by the King…if they have not a mistress, they are regarded with suspicion. Yet your poor little sister is sent away as a prostitute.”

“She was never that. She had numerous lovers…yes… but she gave all the time. She never asked for payment.”

“I know. And you think that since you are her sister it might be assumed that you resemble her.”

“Yes, I believe that is so.”

“My dear Anne, nobody could think you resemble your sister. You are a person in your own right. I cannot have you disturbed. I am not surprised that the King is attracted to you. How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

“It is a charming age. And you have never had a lover?”

I drew back in horror.

She laughed and said: “You have answered.” She took my hand. “Yes, you are indeed different from so many girls of your age. You have a dignity and respect for yourself. That is it. I shall speak to the King.”

I became alarmed.

“Oh, don't be afraid. You know of this special bond there is between us. We can talk intimately on any subject. It has always been so. I it was who taught him to read. We used to sit under the trees at Cognac and I would tell him stories I invented for him. He was such a beautiful child… clever too. We adored him, my mother and I. I would have done anything for him. I must tell you this little story about our childhood, and then you will learn something special about him. I was six years old; François was four. I had put away my dolls long before. François liked to look at them and he asked me why I no longer wanted to play with them. I said it was because I was too old. He replied that I wanted a real baby not a doll. Then he said he wanted one too…I to be the mother, he the father. You look shocked. It is hard to imagine François innocent, but he was then. He thought that babies just arrived when people wanted them. He already knew that he was the precious one—my mother called him Precious and my King, my Caesar, even at that age. So he believed if he wanted a baby, he would have one.”

I murmured: “How you love him!”

“He is my life,” she said. “Nothing else means the same to me. I want all the best for him now as I did then. Outside the château there was a cottage, and before it a baby was playing on the grass. François said: “There is our baby.” So we picked up the child and took it into the château. We washed it because it was not very clean and I found some of François's garments. They were rather big but we dressed the baby in them. The child was soon missed and traced to the château, and when they wanted to take it home, François was so unhappy. He pleaded to keep it. It was his, he said. He was its father, I was its mother. It was our baby. The result was that the parents—who were very poor—realized what a good life the child could have at the château; and in the end we were allowed to keep her. We had nurses for her and we called her Françoise, which was the nearest we could get to François's name.”

“What a charming story,” I said. “What happened to the girl?”

“She was brought up in the château, and when she was a little older a home was found for her with some worthy people. That is not the end of the story. There was a very strange sequel. It is one of those coincidences in life which often bewilder us but which happen now and then. François liked to go about incognito, and he favored the dress of a student. One day he went to church in this guise and saw there a beautiful young girl and was immediately enamored of her. She was gentle, obviously not wealthy but of good breeding. He followed her to her home—a very pleasant house but quite humble, of course, compared with what he was accustomed to. He did not speak to her immediately but watched her. It was an exciting game to him. Finally she became aware of him and he spoke to her. He said he wished to be her friend but she replied that there could not be friendship between a humble girl and the Dauphin. You see, she knew him. Then she told him who she was. She was our baby Françoise. She insisted that there could be no love between them because she was a virtuous girl and could not be any man's mistress. François was desolate. He came to me as he always did when disturbed. I felt rather indignant with the girl for refusing him. It was always my desire to give François what he wanted—and I thought then that she should be proud to be loved by the Dauphin.”

She paused, smiling.

“I suggested that he should have her abducted and brought to him. When he had seduced her, she would forget her scruples. He was well versed in the arts of love. He would know how to please her. He was delighted. He embraced me and told me that I had always had an answer to his problems.”

I said in a shocked voice: “You could tell him that!”

“I did. You see, I believed that she must be happy and proud to be loved by François. I thought she just had bourgeois scruples which would be swept away by her delight in him. It would be such a beautiful ending to our story. It would make the whole thing full of meaning.”

“So you would abduct the young woman as you did the child.”

“I know you are thinking that I assume royalty has special privileges. Well, has it not?”

“People's lives are their own. They should decide what to do with them.” I spoke boldly, for Marguerite had always encouraged me to say what I thought.

“Sometimes they need a little guidance, a little push in the right direction. Shall I tell you the rest of the story?”

“Please do, Madame.”

“She was brought to him, and he told her he had fallen in love with her and how delighted he was that she was his Françoise whom he had named and who had given him such delight when he was a little boy. Then he sought to make love to her, to take her by storm. She wept; she entreated; she implored. François, as you know, sets great store by chivalry. He has always been the perfect knight. She declared vehemently that, if he dishonored her, she could not live; she would kill herself. François believed her. He saw that she was not feigning reluctance. He was immediately contrite and assured her that she had nothing to fear from him. He loved her and she should go on her way unmolested by him. She fell on her knees and thanked him. François was very touched. She went away. He has not seen her since, but always he inquires after her; and he will see that she is well looked after all her life.”

“What a happy ending to what might have been a sad story. I am so glad it happened like that.”

“I tell you this story so that you understand him. You know how I love him. Do you think I would give so much of myself to someone whom I considered unworthy?”

“No, I do not,” I said.

“I will tell him of your fear.” I lifted my head in protest but she waved that aside. “Oh yes, I will tell him. I will explain that you are not like so many ladies at the Court. He will understand. I will remind him of the day we found little Françoise. I will say the little Boleyn is young yet. She is not yet a woman. Because she is wise beyond her years, you think she is. Physically she is immature, though mentally advanced. She knows what she wants. She will always know what she wants; and she is not to be trifled with.”

“You could say this to the King?”

“He is my brother first, my little François—the King second.”

I said: “Thank you. I shall always remember your goodness to me.”

She shook her head. “You interest me. I shall follow your future… wherever you are.”

François's attitude toward me changed after that. He regarded me with an amused glint in his eyes; he talked to me now and then—but I had the idea that he had ceased to pursue me; and I felt a great sense of relief.

The months passed. It was more than a year since the meeting at Ardres and Guines. There was a great deal of uneasiness, for the rivalry between François and the Emperor was growing dangerous. There was talk about King Henry, for much depended on whose side he came down. At this time he was hovering between the two—a very uncertain ally. True, the little Dauphin was betrothed to Henry's daughter, the Princess Mary, but everyone knew how easily such contracts could be broken.

One day the English ambassador came to see me.

He said: “I have word from your father. You probably know that war is imminent.”

“I have heard talk of it, and it does seem that France will soon be in conflict with the Emperor Charles.”

“It is more than likely, and for that reason your father thinks it is wise for you to leave the Court of France.”

I was overcome with depression. I had been here seven years. This was my home. It could mean only one thing: England would soon be at war with France.

I stammered: “Leave here…”

“It would seem to be wise. I am sending all the students home. Your father thinks that, now your education has been completed, you should return.”

“When?” I asked.

“It would be advisable to begin preparations at once. You should leave not later than January.”

Of course, I had known it had to come. I thought back over all those years, to my arrival here and how exciting it had been serving Queen Mary; and after she had gone I had settled into the household of Claude. I had learned to love the company of Marguerite. And now I was to be uprooted.

Those days were gone for ever.

I was desolate but there was nothing I could do. I must say goodbye to my friends at the French Court—to kind Queen Claude, to dangerous François and to the one I loved best—my teacher and mentor, Marguerite d'Alençon.

I realized fully then—though perhaps I had always known it—that I, who tried to regard myself as an individual, was nothing more than a pawn to be set on a checkerboard at the spot where I could be most useful to those who commanded me.

I guessed my return might have something to do with a marriage. I was at last being called upon to play my part in the family game.

I was apprehensive and very sad to leave; but there was no escape, and in January of that year 1522 I set sail for England.