by G Lawrence
Cloth of gold do not despise
Though thou be matched with cloth of frieze;
Cloth of frieze be not too bold
Though thou be matched with cloth of gold.
Mary seemed to think she could charm her brother into forgiveness for her rebellious act. The King of England, however, was simply furious to find that his sister, a precious bargaining chip in any foreign relations, had been married in secret to his best friend. Many of his councillors, particularly those of my family, the Howards, urged the King to have the Duke arrested and executed for treason. But Cardinal Wolsey, the King’s greatest advisor, intervened for the couple, and thanks to this and to Henry’s love for his sister and friend, they were forgiven… though not without a price. They had to pay the King a massive fine for marrying without permission, one that had to be paid in instalments, for it was so vast. Mary had to surrender to her brother all the jewels and plate she had accumulated in her marriage to Louis, and Brandon had to give up a rich ward to the King. When all this was agreed, the couple were allowed home to England, and were re-married once more before the English Court. François was not very happy when he asked Mary to return the ‘Mirror of Naples’, the hereditary property of the French Queens, and found that the wily Princess had sent it to her livid brother to help mitigate his fury. Henry would not return the jewel, and to the anger of his French counter-part, wore it openly on many state occasions.
When the time came for them to sail for home, Mary’s face wore the expression of a satisfied cat at a fish market. Brandon’s face, however, had a faintly puzzled look about it, as though he had put something down and forgotten where he placed it. All that had happened in the short time he had been in France had clearly been too fast for the Duke. I laughed to see the game that Mary had played with him; I thought Brandon a complete fool then, even more so than I had thought when he was at the Court of Burgundy, and my opinion of him did not get much better later on, either.
Whilst the marriage of Mary and Brandon might not have started auspiciously, theirs was a happy marriage, as marriages go. They had children and seemed to enjoy each other’s company. Brandon took mistresses as most men do, but Mary ignored them, knowing her place was never at risk from his petty liaisons. In many ways, because she married beneath her station in life, she was always his social superior. When they were allowed to return to the English Court, she was always titled “The Dowager Queen of France” whereas Brandon would only ever be Duke of Suffolk. It must have been soothing to her pride to remember she outranked him. As the little verse said, she would always be the ‘cloth of gold’ to Brandon’s ‘cloth of frieze’.
Later in life, Mary Tudor came to despise me as an upstart, much to the appeal of irony, since she herself had married one; but in those days when I was her lady she was a kind enough mistress. Our troubles with each other came later. It can be unnerving for those in power to see others start lower than they and rise higher. It makes them uncomfortable and afraid.
But I am running ahead of myself, for there were other events in those first months of François’ reign that shook me much more than the games of my mistress the Queen Dowager and her attainment of a husband.
These events concerned my sister.
It was during the time of François’ ascension to the throne; Mary Tudor was at this time still voluntarily imprisoned in her mourning chambers, and my sister Mary and I were waiting upon her daily with her other attendants. One of our primary duties to her in those days of mourning was to keep her entertained. It is very dull waiting out months of official mourning in seclusion. If she had actually grieved for Louis then it would have been different; those months would have been spent with her heart aching for his loss and her mind finding ways to carry on without him. But she had not loved him, and therefore the waiting was dull, heavy and tedious.
We could not dance. We must wear insipid, plain colours. We played cards although strictly we were not supposed to, and we sewed altar clothes and clothes for the poor. I loved needle-work and was good at it; there is a certain type of concentration that the art requires which is soothing to the soul. I was, however, almost fifteen now, and although needle-work was one of my duties and not wholly unpleasant in itself, after weeks of it I was quite prepared to never lift another needle or measure another thread.
Life was becoming dull for us just when the rest of the court was becoming lively. François was a young, virile and engaging king; he loved to dance and to hunt, he loved art and music. Although François, too, was meant to be mourning Louis, there were suddenly a lot more entertainments occurring at court, and we were not in attendance. Mary and I found it most frustrating.
Hovering over us was also the question of what would now become of our positions when Mary Tudor returned home. My sister longed for England, but I still hoped that I might return to Mechelen. Although I had been away from England and the rest of my family for over two years now, I felt no desire to return. The Court of Burgundy was more familiar to me, it felt more like home. The Court of England could not be as grand as those I had seen now on the continent, and I was still learning so much. I did not want to return to that grey land over the waters, I wanted to see more of the world.
The new queen, Claude of France, came on occasion to Mary’s mourning rooms. Claude was about the same age as I, a little older perhaps, and she had married François about a year before the death of her father. Claude was already pregnant, to François’ delight, and her great belly swelled before her, making her rather ungainly. Claude was a plain-looking, rather stout young woman; she walked with a slight limp that had been with her since birth, and her body was twisted slightly, which meant she was unable to ride much or to hunt or dance. Claude was quiet and modest and seemed to have made up for her physical plainness by being especially attractive in character. She did many good works, she loved art and sculpture, she carried out her duties as the Queen and, later, as a mother, with dignity, love and grace. She turned a blind eye to all of François’ affairs and was civil and attentive to his mistresses and to those courtiers to whom he showed favour. Claude was every inch a queen, raised to be one, born to be one. The people loved her, loved her for her deformities as much as for her kindness to them. Both my sister and Mary Tudor thought her awfully dull, but I rather liked her; she needed no one’s approval although many were happy to give it, and she seemed as though she regarded the schemes of the courtiers as the innocent games of children. She appeared much older than my mistress Mary Tudor, and far older than I, even though we were almost of an age.
In my duties to the dowager Queen Mary, I often found myself serving Claude, too, and she noted my deftness and ability around the chambers with satisfaction. My sister, however, was less adept at her duties and often incurred a frown from Claude, which was the closest thing she had to anger in her.
But it was displeasure of my sister’s activities from another source that was soon to bring a storm to our little world at the French Court.
Chapter Nineteen
France
1515
It was one afternoon when I was wandering in the gardens, enjoying the few times of exercise that we in the mourning chambers were allowed to take, when a lady-in-waiting to Queen Claude found me. She grabbed my arm with urgency as I was wandering past, and whispered to me that I must attend to my father’s rooms immediately. I had met this lady when Claude had visited Mary. She was generally quite calm and dignified. From the look upon her face this afternoon, however, I gathered that something dreadful was about to happen, or had already happened. My father had a way of terrifying people.
I hurried to his fine chambers in the court circle. He was an ambassador and was kept in good state. Upon being ushered into his chambers by a rather frightened looking page, I found a strange scene before my eyes. My father stood, tall and terrible in the centre of the room; his dark eyes were black mirrors of coldness and his hands were clenched by his sides. There was a feeling in the air that he was figh
ting hard to restrain himself. My father had been a soldier and was an expert jouster; it felt as though he was reining himself in before flying at an opponent in war… As though he meant to kill someone.
Looking around, he saw me enter and his brow furrowed and darkened. I curtseyed to him and he laughed; it was not a pleasant laugh, but one filled with animosity and rage. Mary stood before him, terrified; her hands twitching at her sides, clutching at the folds of her pretty crimson dress. Her face was ugly with tears, and she choked as I walked in the room, looking at me with a horrible, pleading desperation, as though I might have come to save her. Her eyes were wild, and she plucked at her dress as though a hole in it might provide some sort of magical escape route from the menacing man that stood before us. She looked ready to run, like a hind poised at the edge of a forest who sees the coming of the hunters. I had never seen my father angry, not like this. Usually he was cold and distant, controlled. Now he was a mountain of fire waiting to explode. My heart suddenly came to beat hard in my chest as though it meant to burst free from my body. I was scared. I stopped where I was, frightened to move any further into the room.
“Come here,” my father said, with an awful coldness in his voice.
I walked forwards slowly. I was no fool; he knew about Mary’s adventures at night. There could be no other reason for such rage to be within him. We had done nothing else which was capable of arousing such fury in our father. I was cautious, fearing his rage. My feet wanted to run. I made them stay where they were, steeling my heart to find courage.
He turned and gave me a twisted smile. “Did you know that your sister is a great whore?” he asked, noting with satisfaction that Mary flinched as he spoke. His voice was strange; it had a false lightness about it which I did not trust.
“The whole court but I knew of it, apparently,” he continued in an almost conversational tone. “I have heard that she is a pretty mare; swinging her hair, and opening her filthy legs as far as she can, so that anyone and everyone who cares to ride her are able to.”
He turned to me, looking into my eyes. I felt my skin tremble. I felt as though I could not swallow, could not talk. I looked at Mary, my terrified eyes meeting her swollen, tear-filled ones. Mary shook her head at me, behind our father’s back. She must have tried to deny the accusation. I tried to think of what I should say to tame our father’s temper, to diffuse the situation. But words did not come to me easily that day. My mind seemed to have gone blank.
“Did you know that your sister is a great whore?” he repeated coldly to me.
I was unsure of what to say, not wishing to insult my sister and not wishing to further anger my father. My mouth opened and then closed again. I could feel the blood draining from my cheeks.
“Did you know that your sister is a great whore?!” He shouted, advancing on me like a leopard rushing its prey. I stepped back in fright, my hands raised before my face, for I feared he would strike me. Mary sprung forwards, clutching at his arm.
“Please Father, please!” she pleaded, grabbling at him hysterically. I believe that she also thought he was about to strike me, and was seeking to protect me from him. But instead he turned to her. Suddenly, viciously, our father grabbed at Mary’s dress; his hands were like claws as he ripped at her gown, shaking her, slapping at her face. He seemed to have lost all control. He yanked the front of her gown open to reveal her undergarments and her breasts. Mary screamed under the viciousness of his attack, and grappled with him, suddenly looking as though she were fighting for her virtue against one who would rape or kill her. Our father was incoherent with rage, stuttering at Mary in furious anger as he shook her and tore at her clothing.
“Whore!” he shouted, spitting the words in her face. “Jade! Strumpet! Doxy! Show off your wares, Mary! You don’t want to miss a customer!” He grasped her by the shoulder with one hand, slapping his other palm over and over against her cheek; the noise of his hand on her skin made a great cracking noise through the chamber. Mary screamed and sobbed, but she could not move from his grasp, although she struggled against him, shrieking and crying, her hands flailing in front of her face.
I panicked, not knowing what to do; I threw myself at my father, grabbing at the backs of his arms, trying to pull his hands from Mary. With a strength that Mary and I did not possess, he shook me off, jutting his elbow into my middle and causing my breath to rush painfully from me. I fell to the floor, my arm bouncing painfully from the stone slabs under the scented rushes. I lay on the floor as I struggled to regain my breath. He slapped Mary again about the face, and then flung her, as though she were but a rag-doll, hard across the room. Mary wheeled and skidded on the rush-covered floors of his chamber and hit the fireplace with the side of her head.
She gave a short and soft grunt of surprise as her head cracked against the fireplace, and fell to the floor in a great heap.
Then she was still.
“Mary!” I screamed, my voice hoarse in my throat, scrambling along the floor to her side. I turned her over into my lap. For a moment I thought she was dead. Blood stained the marble of the fireplace and was running in a grotesque stream down her beautiful face. I pawed at my sister desperately, seeking for a sign of life as I cried over her, my tears falling, mingling with her blood. Then she moaned softly, her eyes opening, and relief flooded through me. The side of her face ran with blood and a large, ugly bruise of yellow and purple had started to appear on the delicate skin of her temple beside the red marks where our father had slapped her. She was white as a frozen pond and trembled in my arms as she awoke. Her dress was ripped and her breasts and chest were exposed. She looked down on her dress and flushed with shame; her hands shook as she tried to hold her dress together. She was crying quietly; saliva ran from her mouth where there was a small but deep cut, making her look as though her mouth was twisted in a terrible smile.
It was as though she had been ravaged by some beast. But this was done by our father.
I stared up at my father in horror and saw him staring down at us with nothing but disgust in his face.
“There, in the dirt, is where you belong, Mary,” he said slowly, his characteristic coldness and control once again back in his voice and in his manner. “Why, you are even dressed for whoring now, with your filthy dukkys hanging out.” He sniffed and re-arranged his doublet; Mary and I had pulled at it in the struggle and left him in disarray. “We shall have to get you a yellow cap, Mary, so that you can sell your wares at Southwick and at the Docks; then you’ll turn us a pretty penny.”
His lips curled in disgust as he looked on his crumpled, crying daughter. “Is that how you imagine you will turn the fortunes of this family? Through the pennies thrown at you in the gutters? Shall we shave your head and parade you through the town like you deserve, you dirty little whore?”
Mary flinched at his words as I held my dress to her bleeding head; there was a lot of blood seeping through the fine velvet cloth of my gown. Mary stared slack-jawed at our father as I did. Both of us appeared to have become like the marble statues of the palace. I had never known him to possess such ability for violence, not towards us. He was terrifying in his rage. I knew not what he might do next.
He turned to me. “Did you know that your sister is a great whore?” he asked again. This time it was careful and measured and cold. I nodded dumbly at him and instantly hated myself for betraying my sister, but I was afraid to say other than the truth to our father then. I did not want him to attack either of us again.
He turned his gaze to Mary. “Is your sister a great whore as well?” he asked her.
Mary shook her head and fresh, humiliated tears sprang from her eyes. “No” she croaked, “she is not.”
Our father stared at us. “That had better be the truth,” he said. In unison, Mary and I nodded our heads.
He breathed in, and then released a large sigh through his nose. “At least that is something, although it seems I have two daughters who are liars and one who is a wanton whore.” He went over to
his desk and turned from us.
“This will be the last thing that you ever seek to keep from me, Anne,” he said calmly. “If I ever find you keeping anything from me again, lying to me, or that you have been up to the same tricks as your sister, then I shall do far worse to you than I have done to her, do you understand me? For then you will have betrayed me twice.” He turned around and I nodded at him. Mary was clutching the sleeve of my gown as though I was a raft in a great ocean.
“You, Mary, will be sent back to England with the Dowager Queen Mary. Nothing shall be said of this between us. I believe that your reputation has already been ruined by your whoring, so we will have to act fast to reclaim anything we can of this situation. I shall arrange to marry you off as soon as I can to whatever poor fool will have you. Hopefully he will not know what type of disgusting baggage he is bringing to his bed, nor what foul poxes she may give him from her past career as a mare for all to ride. As for you, Anne…” I looked up at my father feeling my heart freeze within my chest. “You will enter the house of Claude, Queen of France, upon leaving the service of the Dowager. Claude has asked for an English translator to help her in her role as Queen, and has accepted you upon my recommendation. Let us hope that Claude will learn nothing of your sister’s whoring with her husband, or she may feel less generous towards you. To both of you, if you ever disgrace me or this family again, I shall make you pay for it.”