“Is that so very awful?” Anne asked him. “I imagine that King Henry changes his mind whenever policy requires him to do so; the Cardinal likewise. You could say that you have thought more on the matter and decided that it is not the best solution. Say you want the earldom for yourself. That would make far better sense, sir.” She thought her words might sound less hectoring if she added the “sir.”
To her surprise, Father was now regarding her with something that looked like respect. She realized that she had probably touched a sensitive spot. He did want the earldom for himself.
“I will think on this,” he said finally. “This meeting comes to an end tomorrow, thank God! It cost a king’s ransom and all it has proved is that these sovereigns cordially hate each other. If I get a chance to discuss the matter with your grandsire, I will do so. I doubt it will be easy to gain a moment with the Cardinal. Now mark my words, Anne: if I decide that this marriage must go ahead, and the King agrees, then go ahead it will. But I hear what you say, and will do what is best.”
She left him, light of heart and step. Of course, the decision to withdraw from the negotiations must be his; on no account would he admit that she had swayed him. But she felt confident that the decision he made would be the right one.
—
At last the great pageant came to an end. After Cardinal Wolsey had celebrated High Mass in the open air before the two courts, and there had been a final farewell feast, there was a magnificent display of fireworks, and all was over. Whether the two kings would stay outward friends was anyone’s guess, but they said their farewells warmly enough, and then the splendid sprawling camp broke up, as the royal retinues got down to packing and making their way homeward.
Anne was going back to Paris with Marguerite’s household. She had hoped that Father would have some good news for her before she bade farewell, but when the time came for parting, he told her that Cardinal Wolsey had been too busy to see him, so the matter of her marriage would have to be deferred until he returned to England.
“But you think it will be all right?” she asked.
“It will all depend on what the King says,” he replied.
“But you will make a case for me?”
“I am still considering,” he said. He would never admit defeat.
1522
Serving Madame Marguerite was never dull. Apart from the sparkling conversations and engrossing debates that took place in her sumptuous suites within the King’s palaces, there was so much else in which to immerse oneself most satisfyingly. Anne came to like her new mistress enormously: she could see the self-doubt beneath the forceful views, and glimpse the emotional woman behind the witty facade. She understood Marguerite’s devotion to her brother, and why people misjudged it. It seemed inconceivable that the Duchesse could feel such adoration for a man whom she admitted would not have lifted a finger to avenge her rape. But Anne knew that she herself would forgive George, if she were in the same position—not that he would ever behave so callously.
She still corresponded often with her brother. He was nineteen and a man now, which was hard to imagine, and hoped for preferment soon. Through Father’s good offices and influence, he would surely get it. Anne missed him still. She wondered if he had changed greatly, but in his letters he sounded the same as ever. She hoped that one day he would visit her in Paris.
She had leisure these days to pursue her love of poetry and literature. Marguerite took pleasure in sharing with her ladies the poems, plays, and racy short stories she wrote, and encouraged them to emulate her. Anne was impressed to learn that she patronized humanist scholars and was a great admirer of Erasmus.
“It is wonderful that he is translating the Scriptures,” the Duchesse marveled. “He sets a brave example. As I have said to you many times, ladies, the Church is greatly in need of reform.”
Anne was listening avidly. If wise and learned women like Marguerite and the Archduchess Margaret held these views, they should be respected.
“The Church is corrupt!” Marguerite declared. “There should be more study of the Bible and a return to the pure doctrines of the early Christians. What we need are evangelicals who will spread the word.”
Anne spoke up. “Madame, a Church that encourages people to buy salvation through the sale of indulgences by greedy priests should be reformed. How can the princes of that Church—aye, and the Pope himself—justify their wealth and magnificence when they are meant to be emulating our Lord, who was a humble carpenter?”
Marguerite smiled at her approvingly. “You speak a great truth, mademoiselle. Together we ladies shall change the world!”
—
In her letters to George, Anne shared her views on reform, and found that he was of the same mind. Maybe more people than she realized were disillusioned with the Church. She wondered if she dared mention it to Father.
He wrote rarely. For over a year he kept Anne waiting for a decision on her marriage. Then, just as she thought she would go mad from not knowing, and was beginning desperately to cast her eye about the court for any young man who might be thought a more suitable match, she received the worst possible news. The Cardinal had told Father that the King was insisting on her marriage taking place. Crushing the letter and throwing it to the floor, Anne erupted in fury against King Henry. How could he justify ruining her future? How dare he treat her as a commodity to be disposed of at his whim?
But England and France were on the brink of war again. Maybe James Butler would cross the Channel to fight and be killed. Perhaps King Henry would be killed, or be so absorbed in the war that he forgot about her marriage. Or maybe she should hurry up and take matters into her own hands, and choose a husband herself. She did not lack for suitors.
She was desperate. As always, she went to consult Marguerite.
“Madame, if you approve a match for me, then surely my father and King Henry must accept it.”
Marguerite shook her head. “Alas, I cannot. You are an English subject, Anne, for all that you are almost one of us. And…I was about to speak to you anyway. Ma chère, I am sorry to tell you that you are to leave us. These regrettable hostilities are escalating. Your father has written most apologetically. Apparently, English subjects living in France have been advised to return home as soon as possible. Your parents do not think it fit for you to stay here any longer.”
This was the second time that England’s politics had forced Anne to leave a place where she had been happy. It was cruel, cruel!
“No, madame!” she protested. “I cannot leave France! I love it here. Please write to my father and tell him you command me to stay. He will listen to you.”
Marguerite regarded her sadly. “I cannot, alas. Staying will place you in a difficult situation. You must leave. I wish it were otherwise, truly.”
There was no point in arguing further. Fighting off tears, Anne went to pack her belongings. She had acquired a lot of clothes during her years at the French court, and there was much to transport home. Father had arranged for her to be escorted back to England by a party of Kentish merchants who were leaving Paris, accompanied by their wives.
“Be strong,” Marguerite said when she bade her farewell. “And be true to yourself.”
Even King François came to bid her goodbye. “You have served my wife and my sister well,” he told her. “I am grateful. It seems strange that you are going home, and that this war is dividing friends. I wish you well. Maybe you will return to France someday. You will always be welcome.” She curtseyed. He was the one thing in France she would not miss.
—
After the great palaces of Paris and the Loire, Hever Castle looked very small and very provincial in the weak February sunlight. But there was George, racing across the drawbridge to greet her and swinging her down from her horse.
“Anne!”
“Oh, my dear George! How good it is to see you!” She could not take her eyes off this tall, bearded stranger. Her grown-up brother was an Adonis, beautiful in face, musc
ular and elegant.
“You are become a Frenchwoman!” he exclaimed, twirling her round and admiring her attire, as Mother emerged through the gatehouse arch.
“Welcome home!” she cried, hugging Anne tightly. “Come in, come in, and have something to eat. You must be tired after your long journey.” She sent grooms and ostlers flying to take care of the baggage cart and the horses, as Mrs. Orchard hurried forward to clasp her former charge to her ample bosom.
It was so strange to be home, after nine years away. Anne realized, hearing English voices all around her, that she now spoke her native tongue with a French accent. The servants, insular Kentish folk, kept staring at her clothes. Of course, they must look exotic to country people used to sober English fashions.
“Your father is at court,” Mother said, leading them into the parlor, which now seemed small and old-fashioned, “but he has sent excellent news. He has secured you a place as a maid of honor in Queen Katherine’s household. You are to go to the court at Greenwich with all speed.”
“That’s wonderful news!” Anne cried.
“And I am sent to escort you,” George said, as they seated themselves at the polished oak table and wine and little cakes were brought. Again she was struck by her brother’s good looks. No wonder the maids were ogling him.
Going to the English court was some compensation for being banished from the French one, even if it was to serve the sad Spanish Queen. The prospect of being rusticated at Hever had appalled her, after those wonderful years in France, which she could hardly bear to think about right now. It would also be good to spend time with George. She felt cheated at having missed out on the years of their separation.
“What is Queen Katherine like?” she asked.
“Charming, and very kind,” Mother said. “She is a most pious lady, and good to her servants. Of course, she has suffered tragic losses. Six children she has borne, and only the Princess Mary lives. She dotes on her, as you can imagine. But the King needs a son to succeed him, and there’s been no sign of another pregnancy for about four years.”
“Why should the Princess Mary not succeed?” Anne asked.
“Because she is a woman, dear sister,” George replied, pouring more wine. “Women are not fit to rule—most are emotional, weak creatures.” He ducked as Anne picked up a cushion and swung it in his direction. “Help!”
“You are being unnecessarily provocative, dear,” Mother said.
“What of Isabella of Spain?” Anne asked. “What of the Regent Margaret? Wise, successful rulers, both of them. You are behind the times, brother. Give me one good reason why a woman cannot rule.”
“They throw cushions,” George said, smirking. Anne punched him.
“Now stop it, the two of you,” Mother ordered. “There is much to discuss. Anne, I need to know how well equipped you are for the court. You have sufficient gowns of black or white? No other colors are permitted for those who serve the Queen.”
—
There was really no time in which to feel homesick for France. No sooner had Anne arrived home than she was packing to leave again. At last all was carefully stowed away in her chests, and she and George were on their way to Greenwich, leaving Mother waving them off wistfully from the drawbridge.
The sprawling red-brick turreted palace nestling by the River Thames reminded Anne of the palaces of the Regent. It blatantly emulated them, having been built for pleasure and display. Over all towered the mighty donjon that housed the royal apartments, and surrounding the palace were lovely gardens.
“The King was born here,” George said, as they rode into the stables’ courtyard. “He loves this place.”
Inside, the galleries and rooms were light, thanks to the tall oriel windows that afforded views of the river. The ceiling of the great hall was painted yellow, in keeping with the rest of the brightly colored decor, which seemed gaudy to eyes used to the sophisticated classical schemes of the French royal chateaux. But the walls were adorned with magnificent tapestries or painted with imposing murals. Fine furniture graced all the chambers, and there were costly Turkey carpets on the rush-matted floors.
George escorted Anne up the stairs of the donjon to the door of the Queen’s apartments, where she gave her name to the usher and was announced.
“Good luck!” her brother whispered, backing away, and then she was on her own.
—
Queen Katherine looked up from her sewing and smiled.
“Welcome, Mistress Anne,” she said, extending her hand to be kissed. She was dressed ornately in rich damask, and her velvet hood was in the traditional gabled English style, with long lappets. It framed a face that was pale, even pasty, and lined with care, but the Queen’s expression was sweetness itself.
As Anne rose from her curtsey, she saw that all the other ladies and maids were wearing English hoods covering their hair. She wondered if the Queen might object to the French hood she herself wore, but Katherine said nothing. She was interested only in courteously presenting Anne to the great ladies of her household, the chief of whom seemed to be the gaunt, aristocratic-looking Countess of Salisbury. Anne soon learned that the Countess and the Queen were great friends.
She quickly settled into the routine of the Queen’s household, but she found, to her initial dismay, that it was more like Queen Claude’s than Marguerite’s. The maids of honor were expected to be punctilious in their devotions and charitable deeds. They spent hours sewing altar frontals, copes, or garments for themselves and the poor. But the Queen also loved music and dancing. She was learned, too, and Anne enjoyed the intellectual discussions in her chamber, although she was aware that her new mistress’s views were strictly orthodox. There could be no mention of controversial subjects like religious reform or the march of women. Yet Katherine’s maids were allowed much more freedom than Claude’s, and the young gentlemen of the King’s household and Cardinal Wolsey’s were even invited into her chamber to make merry with them, all under Katherine’s benevolent eye.
The Queen did not stint on praise. Anne was assigned to look after her wardrobe and personal effects, and everything she did was received with a smile and an appreciative thank-you. She found herself warming to Katherine, whom it was impossible not to admire. And the Princess Mary, who was often with her mother, was the most delightful child, graceful, well-spoken, and entrancing. Within that first week, Anne knew that she had much for which to be grateful in being appointed to the Queen’s household.
The English court was far more sober than the French, and one of the first things Anne noticed was the decorum that was observed. Promiscuity was frowned on, and everyone was expected to follow the virtuous examples of the King and Queen. That license was taken Anne had no doubt, but if so, discretion was the watchword.
She soon realized that she was the focus of attention in the court at large, and supposed it was because she was so very French in every respect: her mode of dress, her manners, her speech, her behavior. Because of it, she stood out among her peers, and inevitably the men came circling, like moths attracted to a flame. But she would not allow her head to be turned.
“They are calling you St. Agnes, for your constant virginity!” Mary giggled as they sat chatting in the lodging in the palace’s outer court, which had been assigned as a privilege to Will Carey, as one of the King’s gentlemen. In these early days, when she knew hardly anyone, Anne often resorted there in her free time, and Mary would serve good wine and marchpane, and tell her all the court gossip. “They say no one would take you for an Englishwoman, but for a Frenchwoman born. Maybe it is not a good idea to appear thus when we are at war with France.”
“It seems to make no difference,” Anne said. “I cannot help being what I am. And I doubt that Father would buy me a new wardrobe in the English style. Anyway, I’ve noticed that some ladies have already copied my gowns.”
Mary shrugged. “Talking of gowns, we might need to get sewing. Will tells me that there are to be revels for the visit of the Imperial ambas
sadors. They are coming to arrange the betrothal of the Princess Mary to the Emperor.”
“But she is a child!” Anne thought back to the court of Burgundy and that cold, heavy-jawed, disdainful boy, the Archduke Charles. He was King of Spain and Holy Roman Emperor now—the most powerful man in the world, and he must be all of twenty-two years old. Her heart bled for the exquisite little Princess, to be shackled to such a miserable man. “He is old enough to be her father! She is only six!”
Yet she understood only too well why the King, who so obviously adored his daughter, could give her in marriage to a man nearly four times her age, luckless little maid. Father would have done the same had an advantageous opportunity arisen.
“She will be empress. It is a glorious marriage for her,” Mary was saying. “And I imagine that the Queen is delighted. The Emperor is her nephew. Anyway, as I was saying, there is to be a pageant performed before the King and Queen and the ambassadors. Cardinal Wolsey is hosting it at York Place. Do you want to take part? I can put in a word for you.”
“I should love that,” Anne smiled, trying not to think of the poor little Princess.
—
Two days later, King Henry came to visit his wife and daughter. He was broader and more solid than ever, a big man with a majestic presence and an easy manner, although Anne could imagine, observing his narrow eyes, red hair, and prim mouth, that he could be dangerous when provoked. Only last year he had sent his cousin, the Duke of Buckingham, to the scaffold, for allegedly plotting to take the throne; and Penshurst, where her brother Thomas had once served the Duke, had been appropriated by the Crown. Father had been made its keeper—another office to add to the many he already held.