by G Lawrence
Françoise was correct in her assumption that men would start to notice me. As was often the way, as the pursuit of Françoise by François became more obvious at court, courtiers began to ape the King in their own appetites. François’ appreciation of the dark Françoise sparked a new interest; gallants began to fall in love with and court the dark-haired and dark-eyed women of the court. The general appreciation of beauty at that time had long been for women like my sister Mary, and like Mary Tudor; the sparkling fair hair, the wide set blue eyes and the full figure with ample breasts. But with the King’s appreciation of Françoise, however, it suddenly became most sophisticated to court a dark-haired beauty, following the King’s avid appreciation. Almost overnight, I found I had a volley of courtly appreciators all apparently desperate for my love and for my attentions. It was also considered rather intelligent, suddenly, for a man to prefer the mysterious dark beauty to her obvious fair counterpart. To the vexation and disgust of all the blonde beauties at court, we dark nymphs were suddenly most desirable. I was most pleased; the blonde beauties were not.
Françoise taught me well; I had retained the cold aloofness to men that I had learnt at Margaret’s court, and it had built up within me in fear after my father’s attack on Mary. I had felt that this coolness with men acted as a protective device, but Françoise assured me that this would not help me forever, and would act as a deterrent to marriage suitors, which would help my career at court not a jolt. I wanted to advance myself and my family; there were ways of dealing with men that I must learn. To master men, after all, was the only way that a woman could gain power or influence in this world. Men ruled the world, but if we could rule them, then we held power all our own. I must learn to attract myself a husband at some stage. If I wanted to have any influence in the life of the family I would eventually be mother to, I must learn how to work men, how to bend their wills to mine without their realising it. I learnt well from a consummate master, adding her skills to those I had learned in the games of courtly love at Mechelen.
The trick to dealing with men at court was to give them hope, but to refuse them at the same time. The promise of capture is always there, but it is dependent on being convinced of the worth of his words. That way, men of the court are encouraged to pursue a woman, but to never catch her.
The best way that a woman could keep her power was to refuse her love, in the physical sense at least, and thereby, retain control of the game. The game of courtly love meant that we women trod a thin line between flirtation and modesty, between the promise of affection and the withholding of that last critical barrier between us and men. It perhaps sounds cruel, but the men who played the game with us understood the rules as we did. Many of them did not truly love us. They could show their accomplishments through us, and we could advance in recognition through them.
There were great advancements too to be made by these artists and young talents by securing the patronage of a great lady such as Claude or Françoise. Such women had power, they had money; they had the ear of the King. They could hand out rich rewards to those they deemed worthy. And what better way to convince such a woman, but by playing the game the best, by showering her in verse and music, jousting for her in the lists, picking her out of the crowds of women and making her feel special? Courtly love made the Court of France sparkle. It was a brilliant and fascinating world to move in; a cultured and learned world. My love for France and all things French came from my time moving amongst the brilliant players and the wondrous creations that were brought about through the games of love.
Françoise and I would read the poetry of our admirers to each other. Since her primary admirer was the King, and he was a talented man, verses written to her would be of a much higher standard than those lines offered to me. But my admirers were not without talent. I started to pen my own poetry at this point. I showed it only to Françoise, who said I had some talent with words.
I learnt to use my skills at court to impress; I danced beautifully and carefully, played the lute and sang well, and this, as well as my growing, striking looks gained me more admirers. The ladies of the French Court began to ape my style in dress; copying the long-hanging sleeves of my dresses and little bands of jewelled velvet I wore about my long neck. As my collection of admirers grew, so did the number of people claiming to be my friends. Suddenly I had more influence at court. This was how one advanced. It was all a show, all a dance, all a game.
Françoise was the author of much of this; she was brilliant at court, she shone in her abilities. She spoke Italian, and Italian was seen as the height of sophistication at the French Court. She would read Latin from the Bible for Claude and Claude’s other ladies, with her low-toned and husky voice. Her dancing was of the first degree; to see her measured and delicate steps, her body poised and held in elegant poses as she danced the basses dances or pavannes, was to see an artist at work. There was such passion and style in Françoise the dancer that I was ashamed to put my feet near her steps. But in this, too, she taught me all she knew and was not stinting in her advice. Many women may have been; wishing to retain their high positions by refusing to help another advance, but not Françoise. For one thing, she was so sure in her position now as François’ Mistress en Titre that she feared no competition.
The dancing of the French Court advanced much whilst I was there, and went on to brilliance after I left. The few dances and entertainments of Louis’ court had been lacking imagination and style. With the arrival of François, his accomplished sister Marguerite, and Françoise, the court started as though from a deep sleep into the wholehearted enjoyment of entertainments which forever after, would define the French Court as one of the greatest in the world.
Chapter Twenty-Two
1518
France
In 1518, a special entertainment was arranged to engage ambassadors of England. It was to be a great state feast at the castle of the Bastille to celebrate the coming of English ambassadors who were to negotiate for marriage between the Dauphin, who had been born in 1517, and the sole Princess of England, Mary, born to Henry VIII and Katherine of Aragon in 1516. Although both children were, as yet, infants, it was a perfect opportunity to ally England with France, and both kings were keen to take political advantage of their newly-born children.
I was chosen as one of the ladies to be in attendance. Claude was proud of me in her retinue, and, under the guidance of Françoise, I had come far in attracting attention to myself at court, in the right way. Even the King had started to cast admiring glances in my direction, but I was not interested in becoming the second Boleyn brought to his bed. Although I admired him, my sister’s treatment at his hands still rankled with me. I was careful, never allowing myself to become into a vulnerable position with men, especially at feasts or the more intimate banquets that followed, when the wine flowed freely. There was danger in some of the men that made up François’ retinue. Fortunately, the position of a lady-in-waiting to the Queen afforded some protection from this, but there was always the possibility that a man might forget his courtly veneer, and so a keen and watchful eye was important.
The King’s wandering, admiring eye was also useful to me. François allowed me to partner him in dances, when he was not dancing with Françoise, and this attention allowed me to rise at court. I was enjoying my fledgling rise into prominence.
Amongst the English ambassadors to France was my own father. I was to be in the party that greeted and entertained him and the other lords of England. My talent for languages was one of the reasons I was picked, along with my rising prominence at court. I was more than a little nervous to see my father again; although his presence often brought up such feelings within me, they were now especially so because of the violent encounter that had taken place after Mary’s disgrace. But despite some hours of worry on the idea, I should not have been so anxious; in the end, my father mentioned little of my sister at all, preferring perhaps to sweep old troubles from the door of his house, and not think on them aga
in unless he had to.
The Bastille was a great castle; the state banqueting rooms were high up in the rooftops and could hold hundreds of people. The courtyard had been draped with an awning of dark blue cloth, on which was painted all the stars and heavenly bodies of the night’s sky. Inside, long tables were set out around the hall, and musicians held a place in one corner. All the rich golden and silver plate of the royal family were put on display in cabinets around the hall, so that the guests could admire the ostentatiously displayed wealth of France as they ate. Gold and silver cups, plates, servers, and ornate salt cellars lined every wall in huge cabinets, winking at the guests in the torchlight. Venetian porcelain and rows of intricate glasswork, too, were displayed, with carpets of white and orange cloth lining the floors. True wealth was marked by a gentleman’s ability to host a feast and use none of the plate he had on display, and for the royal house of France of course, there was plenty to both display and use.
As usual, there was to be a little twist in the play of this feast; this time it was to almost dispense with the rules of seating by rank, and instead to alternate the men and the women so that each man had a court beauty sitting at either side of him, to give an appearance of informality. The ladies, however, were consciously picked for their positions, so that their titles reflected those of the men they surrounded. So that is why I say rank was almost forgotten; it was never truly forgotten.
We ladies served the dishes of the feast to our companions on the stroke of midnight after much dancing. We gave the beautiful sallats the prime place on the table with their sugared flowers and peppery leaves. We put the ornate salt cellars near to the richest men we served, for their convenience. Then we took our places and began to spoon out delicate portions of almond milk and spice pottage, rich venison or spicy boar to the guests. Mushrooms swam, bobbing in deep sauces of ale and stock, salmon and pike lay roasted and garnished with herbs, tiny eggs and peppery capons set the taste buds on fire even before they met with the mouth. Apple pies, alive with hot ginger and nutmeg warmed the belly, and wine, rich with spices, flowed down the throat like nectar. Later, golden custard and rose water puddings glistened on the tables, along with huge subtleties of sugar, crafted into castles, knights and fair maidens. We even had goblets made of sugar paste to drink our hippocras from with little biscuits at the end of the feast. When you drank from such goblets, the sugar paste melted into the wine, sweetening it and making each sip taste different to the last. The feast was a dance for the senses. France understood the wealth and influence of foods.
As each dish came to the table, we women rose to serve the guests of the house of France like servants. At each serving, the English ambassadors were charmed by this homely appearance of lack of ceremony, and we were well-primed to charm them. We were under strict orders from Louise of Savoy, François’ mother, to bewitch our important guests; and Louise was not a woman to be disobeyed.
François had bought gowns for each of us for the occasion, made in the new Italian fashion; they were simply the most beautiful gowns that the English could have seen, and the secret hope of the French was that the English lords would be quite overwhelmed with French sophistication. François had given us these gowns a few days previously to keep for state occasions. Visiting his wife’s rooms to give us the gowns, he leaned in to me and whispered. “For the little Mistress Boleyn,” he said with a strange twinkle in his eyes, “there is a special adaptation.”
I had blushed a little to be so singled out, and curtseyed, thanking him. When I examined the gown later I found that the sleeves had been altered from the Italian fashion; my gown had the long-hanging sleeves that I designed on all my dresses, the very style which other women at court were starting to copy from me. But no other dresses had been altered in such a way as mine. Françoise’s dress was of much finer materials than mine, but mine was different in design to all the others. It was an honour to be so singled out, but it also made me feel wary of the King’s intentions towards me.
In everything we did in these games of court, we walked fine and delicate lines. It was of benefit to have small and careful feet, used to dancing, such as mine.
You would believe that Françoise might have resented François giving me a special dress. But it was not so. Françoise’s heart was not like that. Françoise and François were so alike in person; as their relationship developed through the years if seemed as though they mirrored each other. If François took other lovers, then Françoise invited other men to her bed in retaliation. Françoise’s protestations that she would take only one other man to her bed were proven untrue in practise, but she only had one love. When she and the King argued they would have the most unbelievable fights, which caused the palaces of the Valois to shake in their foundations. But they would always make up and be more enamoured than ever in each other. Then there would be poetry and laughter. Later, again, the King would be unfaithful, she would retaliate and they would fight again. But this was later. Her position was never threatened at this time; she was the master of his heart, although not the master of his will. They loved each other both with fire and with gentleness. She was never worried that another might truly replace her in his heart.
So, the King was free to show me attention and I was free to receive it, but nothing more. And this was well, for I wanted nothing more of the King. After the feast, there was a grand entertainment where the noble lords of the court took part in a mock melee… twenty-four men on each side, with the King leading one of the teams. There was much cheering and shouting in this raucous match and the ambassadors from England seemed most amused. Once this entertainment was finished, the rooms were set once more for dancing, which lasted long into the night. As the dancing started anew, my father came to talk to me. We had not been placed together at the meal and I had not seen him for some time.
“Your dress is different to the others,” he observed, looking me up and down once our formal greetings were done with. I smiled and looked around me.
The tables had been folded away to make room for the dancing to begin. The candles in their iron cages let out a soft, becoming light, and the wine flowed as freely as it had done during the feast. Music started, and some of the dancers had started to perform. I was softened by the beauty of the night, and happy to see that my father was pleased by me again. His violence towards Mary and disappointment in me had hurt me deeply and I longed to regain his approval. I could see by the manner in which he looked on me that he was satisfied with what he saw.
“The gown?” he asked impatiently, stealing me from my thoughts. I immediately stepped up to answer my father.
“The King showed me special favour,” I said calmly. “He noted the style of gowns that I designed to wear at court, and noted that other ladies copied that style. When choosing the gowns to give as presents, he chose to alter mine to include the sleeves that I have made popular here in France.”
“I take it that his favour is shown in these ways, and no others?” my father asked, raising an eyebrow at me.
I stared him straight in the eyes. “I am a maid,” I replied coolly, “and shall remain so until I give that honour to my husband, when directed so by you, father. No man, King or otherwise, shall make me his whore.”
My father grunted slightly and then looked over the dress again. “It is elegant,” he said. “And it is good that the King notices you. Be sure to use that advantage wisely.”
I nodded and took another draught of the good wine in my cup. I longed to dance as I always did when I heard the music at an entertainment. But I must wait for the invitation of a partner already in the dance.
“There is someone I wish to introduce you to,” my father said.
I raised my eyebrows at him, but he did not explain. My father moved me gently by the elbow through the crowds to the seating area where François’ sister, Marguerite d'Angoulême, was sitting. Although I had seen her often at court, usually with her brother, François, I had never been properly introduced to her. Marguer
ite was a royal princess and one did not simply walk up to royalty and introduce one’s self. My service in Claude’s household had kept us somewhat apart from François’ main court and that was where Marguerite was always to be found.
Marguerite was pretty and witty and shone like a star at the court of her brother. She was learned, and interested in learning, most especially in reform and reformers of the Church. This was not strictly legal; many of those who dared to question the Church were viewed as heretics and could be arrested or executed. But there were genuine questions being raised on the indulgences of the Church, on the morals of the men who taught the word of God, and many thought these questions needed addressing. Marguerite was the King’s adored sister, and therefore she was free to ask many of these questions, and meet with many who asked them, in safety. She was untouchable and beyond reproach, for she enjoyed the King’s favour and absolute love. She was a powerful woman.
My father, I knew, was interested in the religious reforms which were being discussed in the courts of Christendom. Although some thought that any criticism of the Church was heresy, I was interested in this new thought, too. It did not seem un-Christian to me to seek to place ourselves closer to God through better understanding of his words, and better practise of his wishes.