La Petite Boulain

by G Lawrence

  “They have taught you well, then.” It was a statement and not a question. “You have become an accomplished lady, so Margaret tells me. The Archduchess was most displeased to lose you from her household, which pleases me… It means that you have learnt well. Let us hope that some of that can rub off on your sister,” his face darkened slightly.

  I knew what my father meant. Beautiful she might be, but Mary was not likely to become a great courtier, as I was perhaps destined to be. I felt pride swelling in my heart and then I was suddenly ashamed of it. I was determined never to crow over my sweet sister as my heart had urged me to then; those feelings were not only un-Christian, but they were also not the attributes of the person I wanted to be.

  “What of your music and singing?” my father asked, going back to business. “I heard one performance of your voice, which was pleasing. What of your knowledge of the lute and other instruments?”

  Our short meeting was comprised mainly of my stating and briefly performing my varied accomplishments for him. I understood why; he wanted to know how he could use me in our family’s advancement. Even if we brought nothing else, Mary and I should attain husbands that were cultured and wealthy. But I am sure our father hoped that we would also bring other uses to him. Having two daughters at the Court of France could be useful, as secret ambassadors, as gatherers of information for English interests, or to bring new contacts and friends to the family. He wanted us married well, but that could wait a while, until he had found the matches he thought were the best we might achieve. In the meantime, he wanted us to reflect glory onto our house and his name. Although I understood all his ambitions, I could not help but feel a little like a horse at market during that brief reunion with my father.

  Chapter Eighteen

  1514

  France

  The Court of France was much changed with the arrival of Mary Tudor. She was not one for quiet needle-work and devotions, although she performed those duties with suitable well-played aplomb when they were required of her. She loved more to ride and hunt in the forests by day and to dance through the nights. She was young and beautiful, and as fresh as the spring. The court felt as though it had suddenly had a great jolt from its sleepy existence and now was in a high bustle of activity and excitement. As though some wind had swept through the halls and chambers of the palaces, and swept out all the old ways along with the dust. King Louis did his best to keep up with this young bride who had turned his life upside down, but it was clear from his drawn face at the dances, and his pale visage by days, that this wife was draining the very life from him.

  This was, perhaps, just what she intended.

  It is hard to blame her, for she was forced to spend the night with this old and smelly man for whom she held no desire. She had to subject herself to the debt of marriage whenever the gouty Louis was able to manage it; hardly a task to strike passion into the heart of a young girl. We maids giggled to see him present her with jewel after jewel to win her favour and affections; each gem was more fabulous than the last. We tittered heartlessly into our sleeves to see Mary prance and twirl with the other men of the court as Louis sat in his chair, unable to dance due to his swollen limbs and crumbling bones. Mary Tudor was exhausting his already tired strength day after day and after a while we all wondered, how long can he last? Does she really seek to tire him out, so that she might be free to marry where her heart led her?

  There was a rumour that Mary Tudor had forced a promise from her brother King Henry before she wed Louis; that she would marry dutifully where her brother and King dictated this time, but the next time she married, her husband would be of her own choosing. Clearly, Mary Tudor did not believe her first husband would be her last, or her only. I could imagine that our passionate princess was more than capable of making such demands; she had more spirit than many women I had met. Whether her brother had agreed to her terms, or intended to keep any promises he made to her, would have to be seen.

  It was an exciting time to join the court. My sister, Mary and I were busy most days helping the Queen, performing the many tasks that were made for the waiting women. We helped her to dress, bathe, and tend to her complexion, we kept her company, attending Mass and prayers with her, dancing with her in her royal chambers, or playing at cards. We were her constant companions on the hunt, or riding in the forests. We were her entourage for court dances, her servers at feasts, and her confidants in privacy. We sewed, made, embroidered and mended parts of her fabulous dresses, admiring the soft and expensive fabrics that Louis had bought for her. We helped her at her toilet and took turns to sleep in her chambers at night so that she was always guarded. We fetched and carried, tidied and cleansed. We were her hands in all the tasks she wished to accomplish. This is the place of a servant to a queen.

  As ladies-in-waiting, we had been given shared apartments at first. At Mechelen, I had shared a room with seventeen other filles and in the first days in France, our sleeping arrangements were much the same. But I was fortunate enough to be eventually placed in a chamber with just my sister Mary, when we were not called on to stay with the Queen in her chamber. Our standing was higher than mine had been at Mechelen, and with that standing came certain benefits. Sharing a room with many others had not been abhorrent, but it is pleasing to have more privacy. It was a rare thing at court, to ever be truly alone. Mary and I could talk each night of the court, as we rested upon our beds, and we grew closer at this time.

  This was also how I knew that my sister was not always in her bed when she should have been.

  The first night I discovered this, I awoke having had a bad dream; there was a room in which I sat that overlooked a great palace. The palace had seemed beautiful at first, with great white turrets and gracious gardens, but as I looked closer I saw that the walls were running with bright red blood. Deep, dark red globules of blood gathered in pools around the windows. The walls shone crimson in the sun with the sheen of blood. I cried out and clutched my hand to my face, clawing at my skin and eyes to make the horror disappear. But instead, my clawing fingers tore delicate, paper-like skin from my face. I screamed; turning to a mirror I saw in the place of my own face a skull staring back at me. I fell to the cold floor, crying, hysterical, grasping at the bits of skin that I had torn from my face as they floated away from me on a light breeze. The walls of the room were now running with my own blood, seeming to come forth from my veins without show of injury, just flowing from my skin. I tried to stick my skin back on my face, but it would not stay. I tried to stop the flow of blood from my skin but I could not. As I fainted to the ground, my head bounced off the hard stone floor.

  In my dream I heard the laugh of a woman, shrill and shrieking, sound about me, as I passed into unconsciousness.

  I awoke with a start from that terrible dream to find my sister sneaking into the chamber. Her gown was awry, her hood in her hands and her face was flushed. There were red marks on her pale skin about her shoulders and neck. My first thought was that she had been attacked, and I rushed out of bed to her side. Then I saw the look of sated pleasure on her face and smelt the smell of sweat and something sour I did not recognise on her body, and her breath. She smiled languidly at me, and pressed a finger to her lips. It was then I knew that she had been with a lover.

  “Where have you been?” I cried, my voice not under control, mostly due to the dream I had just had, but partly because I was shocked to see her thus.

  “Shush!” she said, looking about her with fear in her voice. Then she giggled softly and ruffled her shoulders at me. “I have been out dealing with important matters of state.” Mary smiled again. Her sensual lips curled up at one side and her loose hair fell over her face; she was very attractive in this dissembled manner. “Or, at least,” she said saucily, “dealing with one important matter of state.”

  Mary began climbing into bed and winced visibly as she closed her legs together. She turned her head to me and smiled again… Her lover had obviously been rough with her, but it did not se
em as though she was unhappy with this. She sighed happily once she was comfortable.

  “Who?” I asked, my voice full of shock.

  “Why? So you can run and tell our father?” she asked, laughing. “Not a sinner’s chance in hell do you have of me telling you this, Anne. I saw the prudish way you looked at me just then, and if you don’t want to join in the diversions of court then leave me to enjoy them.”

  She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, smiling softly. I climbed back into bed; the chamber was not warm enough to stand around in one’s nightgown.

  “What if you are found out? What if there is a child?” I whispered.

  She sighed, my questions taking her from her memories of her lover. “There are ways and means around all things, little sister. You think you have all the learning from your stay at Mechelen, but there are things that I have learnt too, like how to prevent a babe being born when one is not wanted. The offices of Mistress Rue and Juniper are not only those our mother taught to us, you know. Now,” she said with purpose. She leant over in bed and propped her chin on her hand as she spoke to me.

  “Our father needs to know nothing of this; eventually I shall marry like a good daughter to provide him with noble grandchildren and many means of furthering our family. I shall be dutiful and obedient. I shall be a humble and good wife to whomsoever he chooses to buy my hand. But before I am sold off to the highest bidder, I mean to have a little life, a little excitement before I must settle and marry where I am ordered. There are plenty at this court who do as I do; men and women alike. As long as father does not know, then it does not matter. Do you not wish for a little diversion too? Just look around you, everyone is doing it. There is no reason why we should not each have a little excitement here, is there?” She eyed me speculatively with a wanton face; she looked beautiful and somewhat dangerous to me.

  “I can think of reasons,” I said, feeling my heart sink as she talked, and feeling anger at her. Partly I think I was jealous of her wild recklessness, but partly I was also shocked that she would stray so far from all that I had been taught was right by Margaret in Mechelen. I could feel disaster threatening my sister, and she would do nothing to stop it. Keeping something like this quiet and out of the ears of our father, I was sure, would not be as easy as my sister thought. I sat up too and looked at her.

  “You do as you wish Mary; our father shall hear nothing from me, but leave me from any hint of inclusion in your pleasures. This is not the way I have been taught to behave. The risks are so great, Mary! Too great! I do not wish to give birth to a bastard, to be sent home in disgrace, to have all men know me for an idle plaything, to have my chances at a high match in marriage damaged for an hour’s idle pleasure. You do as you wish, but I shall do as I wish also. My honour will remain intact until I marry.”

  Mary laughed at me. “Your honour shall remain intact?” she mocked. “Do you think that any truly have their honour intact when they come to the bed of their spouse? If there are any who come so, they are few and far between. Come, sister, do not be so naïve. Life is for taking pleasure where one can find it. Who knows what your husband might be like? If our father has his way then we shall find ourselves married to very old, very rich men. And most likely our father will choose a succession of old rich men for us to marry, who we will have to submit to and then outlive. The wealth and treasures of our dowager lands will flow into our father’s coffers, as he sells us off to another and another, bearing children for as many as we are able before we come to our deaths at last. If you do not take pleasure in life now, then you may never have another chance.”

  She smiled, and lay on her bed shaking her head at me. “If the rest of my life is owned by my father, and I end up saddled with a husband I love not, at least in my long evenings by the fire, I might stare into the flames and remember what passion once was mine, what freedom was once mine.” She looked up at my grave, pale face and laughed lightly again. “But by all means, Anne, keep hold of your honour. I am sure when you lie in your marriage bed suffocated under the weight of an old fat man, it will be of great comfort to you to know that you were always honourable.”

  I lay down in the bed and felt anger flow through my veins, for a part of me knew that she was right. Most likely my fate would be to be married off to some old man I had no love for, much like our mistress Mary Tudor. A part of me almost wished to take my sister’s offer, and run wild with the men of the court, too; there was a freedom in Mary that I envied. But at the same time, I did not wish to, no matter how much she made fun of me. I had learned from Margaret that there was great danger in a woman offering herself so lightly. I could not help but believe that all would go wrong for Mary here. And time proved me right.

  Eventually the strain of having the young, vigorous Mary Tudor as a wife, combined the long years that he had lived, overtook Louis, and on the first day of 1515, in the midst of a great storm which battered the royal palace, he left life behind. His wife was not unhappy; I believe she felt some remorse in perhaps being responsible for hastening his end, but in true Tudor style she was more than able to push unpleasant thoughts to the back of her mind. We could already see her thinking on the happy times ahead, when she might be able to marry where she wanted. Before Louis was cool in his bed, I think she had already made her mind up on the subject of her next marriage.

  When Louis died, as was the custom, Mary Tudor entered a world of seclusion in which she was to mourn in a stately fashion for her departed husband. This time was also used to check whether the Queen was carrying the dead King’s heir in her belly. Although we were all quite sure that this was impossible, the rituals of royalty had to be observed. Mary may have hastened his end, but she would give all the show of a woman in the clutches of grief to the world; to do any less would show a terrible and un-Christian lack of respect.

  So Mary entered her secluded world, dressed in purest white, the colour of mourning for French royalty. We, her maids, were allowed out and around the court in a modest fashion if our duties required it, but the Dowager Queen remained in her closed apartments, awaiting the time when she could leave and choose her new husband for herself.

  It was around this time that Charles Brandon came to France. He had been sent by the King of England to negotiate the return of Mary’s dowry; those properties and monies that had accompanied her to France. As a widow, those goods were now entitled to return to her family. Brandon was also sent to escort Mary home safely, once her time of mourning was finished. As it turned out, Mary had plans of her own for Brandon which were not quite as her brother might have imagined.

  Mary was having serious doubts as to the worth of her brother’s promise regarding her next choice in marriage. Stricken with fear upon hearing rumours that Henry intended to marry her off to a prince of the Hapsburgs, she took quick action. Enlisting the help of the new King, François, she laid her plans well.

  Charles Brandon was a man of much physical strength but little wit or sense; Mary needed a husband as quickly as possible, and she had always desired Brandon, loved him even. Though I have not spoken of him very highly, I will tell you he was an attractive man. He was also rather malleable, which might have interested Mary; having a husband she could control was something she clearly had enjoyed in Louis. Mary seemed certain that if she could persuade Brandon to marry her, then eventually Henry would forgive them. Once she was married, there was no way her brother could send her off to another foreign match. She would be safe, and she could remain in the country of her birth, a privilege afforded to few royal women.

  Mary was no fool in the games and arts of allurement, but she had help. François perhaps enjoyed the idea of flummoxing his neighbour King Henry almost as much as the romantic idea of aiding a beautiful princess in distress. He was happy to help the pair. Brandon, so easily led and impressionable, was perhaps already genuinely in love with Mary. He certainly must have been attracted to her, since all men were, but upon his arrival he was beset with an onslaught of her affections and
love, with her weeping for fear of being sent once more to marry where she did not wish to, and their clandestine meetings were obtained in secret with the good will and help of the new French King. The Duke did not stand a chance. Like a knight in a romance, he was convinced to sweep in to rescue the Princess from a life of ugly husbands and loveless marriages… But in truth, if any one person was wearing the armour and carrying a sword in this tale, it was Mary Tudor. She was in control of this match, and she had all others dance to her tune.

  Before he knew it, or had time to think on the dangers of such an imprudent match, Brandon found himself wedded, and bedded, with the slippery little Tudor Princess, thereby making it impossible to separate the pair but by death. As we all watched Mary wrap her beloved around her finger like a pretty ribbon, we took some time to wonder if she would have much time to enjoy that handsome face when they returned to England. King Henry might well have decided to separate the new groom’s head from his shoulders; marrying a member of the royal family without permission from the King was an act of treason. The public feeling of the people of England was no less disapproving, as later, we would come to hear lines of verse which came from England to tickle our amusement concerning the match between Mary, the ‘cloth of gold’, and the upstart Brandon, the ‘cloth of frieze’: