La Petite Boulain

by G Lawrence

Perhaps I should have felt disappointed with my father; perhaps I was, a little. But the reality of life at court was that the ambitious man must be ready to do anything to advance himself. And what difference was there really, between a father bartering for the best price for his daughter, within wedlock, or doing so without?

  Women were for sale, that was the way of the world, and our father was a most worldly man.

  As we walked back to the English camp and I left Mary and the rest of my family that evening, I was thoughtful. I did not want to be a mistress to anyone… on that I was clear. But what if someday my father should insist I became one? If Mary had resisted, would our father have insisted that she bed the King? I had always thought that our father would insist on my marriage rather than anything else, but clearly he was not adverse to the idea of selling his daughters in other ways. Should I have the courage within myself to hold true to my values and refuse if such a situation occurred in my life? It was a difficult thought.

  My head was most full that night. I served Claude distractedly and she smiled at me, perhaps thinking my head was caught up with the excitement of the event.

  But both my head and my heart were spilling over with emotions and thoughts that they were ill-prepared to reconcile. I was awash with sensation.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  1520

  The Field of the Cloth of Gold

  As part of the celebrations of The Field of the Cloth of Gold, the Kings of each nation took turns to dine with the wives of their opposites. I had some doubts that Katherine, Queen of England would have delighted overly in her duties for her blood was of Spain, and now her husband was uniting with France against her own nephew, the Emperor Charles. But the lot of a queen is to obey the will of her husband, and so she had little choice but to entertain François and enter into the activities of The Field of the Cloth of Gold with as much dignity and graciousness as she could manage. Katherine was a skilled courtier and Queen, she did her offices well.

  It was on these occasions, during the meetings of the Kings and Queens that each set of ladies on the French and English sides would try their hardest to outdo the other nation. Just as the knights riding in the joust sought to better each other with feats of arms, so we ladies of each court were set against one another too. In many ways the summit meeting was like a war rather than a peace, as each tournament and each festivity was a trial by courtly graces; we ladies fought each other not with the sword or the lance as the knights did, but with wit, with beauty, with dancing, with song and fine clothing.

  Henry of England came to dine in Claude’s tent several times. On the first night we, her ladies, danced for him dressed as the servants of the Gods of Love. We were the servants of Cupid and Aphrodite. We dressed in long robes made from cloth of silver, styled like the ancients, and before the King we danced a difficult dance symbolising how Love might create Peace from War. It was a beautiful dance and Henry watched our slow, controlled movements avidly. The dance and our dresses were designed so that some small, sudden glimpses of our thighs and legs showed very briefly as we moved; tantalising flashes of creamy skin beneath silver cloth.

  It was cleverly choreographed; just as the watcher thought he had imagined this discreet flash of skin, there! There was another… as swift and pretty as if it had been done by accident. But nothing was ever done by accident in the French Court. It was done to entice and refuse, to show and conceal. And this unusual, elegant and discreet sexuality had the great King breathing fast and shallow as we danced, slowly and prettily, in front of his table.

  Each lady was masked; our masks were the gentle faces of feminine love, but my brilliant eyes shone through the mask like no other’s and caught his eye. My figure was long and slim, my breasts were full but not large; I had a fine and slender figure and I was skilled in the dance. He looked on me on that night as the candle-light danced over the enticing glimpses of bare, pale skin. He stared at me; my eyes shining like gems, and the movements of my willowy body sensual. I felt his attention bearing down on me and that attention encouraged my dancing to its finest.

  He was as handsome as I remembered.

  Once more, I envied my sister.

  But on this night, I was merely a beauty behind a mask that bowed and exited when the music was finished, leaving the first of the court dancers to enter and start the entertainment in earnest. When we ladies of the pageant had changed into our fine dresses and returned to the entertainment, he was dancing with another. I danced that night with courtiers. Once, in the crowd, I saw him look over at me, his eyes narrowed to try and see me properly, but quickly the dancers moved on and in the swirl of people he was gone. Later I saw him dancing with another in Claude’s retinue and his eyes were taken up with her pretty eyes and pretty face.

  I knew not what it was that drove me to long for his glance upon my face. Perhaps it was that lingering sense of girlish desire that he had awakened in me so many years ago. Perhaps it was because he was a great king who built such wonders. Perhaps it was the jealousy of one sister for another sister in seeing her ability to bring such a man to her bed. I knew not… but I wanted to be seen by him. I longed for it, in the secret places of my heart.

  There were others at The Field of the Cloth of Gold who had their own wishes, and wills to prove. Emboldened by fine Gascon wine one night, Henry challenged François to a wrestling match, King against King, before all of their courtiers. I do not know how it was that Henry’s ambassadors had not informed him that the King of France was, in fact, an expert wrestler; but either Henry did not know this, or he assumed that he was better than François could ever be. I can’t imagine that Henry would have made such a challenge, if he did not think he could win.

  François took the challenge and the two Kings moved to the centre of the throng of guests and dignitaries. Claude and her ladies were not amongst those present, so I did not see the event myself, but my brother and father were both present to see the humiliation of the English King at the hands of the French.

  For François was truly an expert wrestler. He threw the English King to the floor in the first minute of the match. Although Henry of England was tall and strong, although his legs were sturdier than François’, there was great skill and wiry strength in François. He moved like a dancer and could throw a man like the Giant Antaeus of old.

  What a humiliation for such a proud king!

  Henry declared he would have a re-match, and challenged François again. But the French King declined, not wishing to cause further hurt to the pride of his brother and ally. Henry went back to his great chair red-faced and embarrassed. François was gracious in his victory, but I was sure that this was one event the King of England never forgot.

  Although he later made both peace and war with the French for political reasons, Henry would always resent François for those moments when he lay on the floor, winded in the dirt; his eyes snapping like those of an angry child, helpless at the feet of the King of France, with all the court looking on. Always, he would remember that humiliation and burn because of it. His temper was always resentful, and he could remain angry for longer than anyone else I have ever known

  That short wrestling match did more to confirm Henry’s feelings towards François than did any treaty or pact of everlasting peace that the slippery Cardinal Wolsey could concoct. From that day forth, in Henry’s mind at least, he and the King of France were to be above all else, forever rivals.

  For François, I think the occasion was amusing and rewarding, but I don’t know that he would have had any idea that the cultured and sophisticated King lying at his feet could have been such a child inside. François could separate political and personal lives; Henry could not. François would leave old grudges where they lay; Henry would nurture them and carry them with him wherever he went.

  This was not so obvious when Henry was a young man, but it became more so as he grew older. I, who came to know him so well, sensed this of him even then. Henry and I were alike in many ways; humiliati
on was not something that was easily borne by either of us. My heart was sore for his pride when I heard that story. My brother told me of it, laughing, as he whispered the tale to me. Although I smiled at my brother’s story, I felt sorry for the wounded dignity of Henry.

  Within hours, however, it seemed that no one in the English camp had any memory of the event occurring. Although the French were laughing into their sleeves about the English ‘King of the Dirt’, the English seemed totally unaware that anything had happened. The event was never recorded in the English accounts of The Field of the Cloth of Gold either, although it was recorded with relish and zeal by the French.

  Such is the nature of politics and advancement; we see, hear and speak of only what is advantageous. That which is dangerous to survival is forgotten… it never happened. The English King could not bear to remember his mortification and so his courtiers made it as though it had never happened. Only for a king would such a thing be done.

  It teaches us all a good lesson; that the word of but one man should always be checked against the word of another. The truth may be found somewhere in between their accounts.

  But then, it was the same for the French; the beautiful tent of King François made from gold brocade and decorated with silver stars was dismantled after four days, completely ruined by the weather. And yet it seemed that no one remembered that event at all on the French side. The English, with their magnificent and stable, purpose-built, false castle chortled loudly about it for the French to hear whenever they could.

  So you see, even on the greatest of occasions and in the most genteel company, all men are still as children seeking to outdo and ridicule each other.

  The morning after the wrestling match, we were to hear a strange tale. The King of France had risen early and against the advice of his men, who always suspected the English may harm their King, rode to Henry’s wooden castle. Here, he had entered Henry’s chamber before the English King had risen, surprising him whilst still abed. François had laughed at the astounded and somewhat suspicious expression on King Henry’s face, explaining that he was there to but help his brother dress for the morning. Henry was so overcome by this overt display of brotherly affection that he declared, “Brother, you have played me the best trick ever played, and shown me the trust I should have given you. From now on, I am your prisoner.”

  François then performed the duties of a servant for Henry in the name of friendship; holding a bowl of scented water, that Henry might wash himself, and helping him to dress. The two Kings exchanged presents of fine jewels and embraced each other, coming out of Henry’s chambers laughing and jesting.

  What a display of brotherly love! The story roamed through the camps and was reported by all ambassadors who heard of it. But how much of this fine show was real affection? Afterwards, a Venetian ambassador was said to have commented, “These sovereigns are not at peace. They hate each other cordially” which to my mind was an apt description of the attitude that the two Kings held towards one another.

  On the last occasion that Henry came to Claude’s tents to dine, the Queen had sought to create a more intimate affair. We ladies of the court waited on Claude, Henry and his men, and served them whilst dressed our gowns of Italian style. The King was happy and laughed greatly when Claude jested gently with him. Claude was very good at handling people, whoever they were. They often came to speak of her with great affection, and none of that praise was due to the crown upon her head.

  Later that evening, we pleased him greatly by singing a new arrangement of a song that Henry had written some years previously. It was called ‘Pastime with Good Company’. It sounded well when sang with many voices, playing both high and low parts of the song. The English version was often heard with great ringing notes of battle in it, with drums and horn blasts, but we played it in a softer and more feminine style, using the lute and our voices to create a siren-like adaptation of his famous song:

  Pastime with good company

  I love and shall unto I die;

  Grudge who list, but done deny,

  So God be pleased thus live will I.

  For my pastance

  Hunt, song and dance.

  My heart is set:

  All goodly sport

  For my comfort

  Who shall me let?

  Youth must have some dalliance,

  Of good or ille some pastance;

  Company me thinks then best

  All thoughts and fancies to dejest:

  For idleness

  Is chief mistress

  Of vices all.

  Then who can say

  But mirth and play

  Is best of all?

  Company with honesty

  Is virtue, vices to flee:

  Company is good and ill

  But every man hath his free will,

  The best ensue,

  The worst eschew,

  My mind shall be

  Virtue to use

  Vice to refuse

  Shall I use me.

  He sat very still when we first started to sing, and he paid close attention. He was a talented musician and this was his song; daring to perform a new interpretation of one of his own works was a risky gamble. To fail would be to bring shame to the Court of France. Louise of Savoy was there watching us; if any of us failed in our rendition of this song, we would be sure to be dismissed from court and never to return.

  So, we were suitably nervous when we came to play the song, although no one would have known this from the poised and controlled manner of our bearing. I took up the lute, speaking silently and harshly to my fingers, telling them not to slip upon the strings. I had long forgotten the nervousness that had plagued me at Mechelen when I had first played before crowds. Now I was practised in this as I did it almost every day at the French Court. But playing for Henry of England was a special circumstance, not only because of the importance of the occasion, but because of my own feelings for him. I did feel my heart quicken in my breast as it used to when I was but a child, as we took up those first lines.

  But I should not have worried so; our performance was beautiful, elegant and feminine. The rendition pleased him. I saw him watch me as I played and sang. My voice was one of the stronger ones, and it was high, sure and beautifully haunting. My performance of his song on the lute was pretty. I saw him looking at me as though he was slightly perplexed, and I knew he was trying to place who I was. Perhaps I reminded him of my sister? That thought made me blush. Perhaps he saw the eyes of the dancer whose legs and eyes had caught his attention before? Or perhaps, in the face of the woman before him, he recalled the features of a child he once heard sing before him at the Court of Burgundy? I knew not, but in my secret heart I hoped that he watched and admired me as I had watched and admired him.

  At the end of the song I looked up from my playing and into his eyes. I could not hold his gaze for long. I blushed and lowered my eyes feeling like a foolish girl.

  His eyes were clear, piercing, and blue as the sea.

  Applause erupted around us as we rose to return to our duties serving the Queen of France and the King of England. The night continued with more songs and more entertainments.

  Afterwards, Claude told me that Henry had asked who each of the ladies were. “He seemed taken with your voice, Anne, in particular,” she said with a smile.

  “Did he ask who I was, Your Majesty?” I asked quietly of my mistress. Claude nodded and smiled again.

  “I told him you were the younger daughter of his own ambassador, Thomas Boleyn,” she said. “And I told him that you had been with my court these past few years, serving me well. He jested then, that I must not seek to steal the beauties of England from his court.” She smiled at me in the mirror as I took her head-dress gently from her hair.

  I smiled at Claude and thanked her for telling me. My heart leapt foolishly to hear Henry had called me a beauty. I longed to ask more, but it would have not been proper to do so, and I was concerned at the idea of anyo
ne knowing I was still infatuated with this King. But whilst I would show it to no other, I could not deny it to myself. I longed for his notice, however impossible, however inappropriate, however foolish.

  I wondered what he had thought when he heard that I was the younger sister of his new sweetheart. The thought of him comparing Mary and me made me flush even in private. Eventually I had to shake myself from these thoughts. There were many beautiful women, many noble girls around him. He had liked my singing and thought me attractive that was all. I was a passing fancy for his eyes, as fleeting as any jewel he looked on that another might wear. He was enamoured of my sister. Nothing was ever going to occur between the King of England and me, so I should get used to that idea.

  He will forget me as easily as he forgets every face here, I thought, willing myself to stop being foolish.

  But I did not know how wrong I was.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  1520

  The Field of the Cloth of Gold

  The Field of the Cloth of Gold went on for weeks. There were endless entertainments; tourneys, dances and jousts, eating, drinking; and from the grunting sounds outside the tents sometimes at night, there was much in the way of other adventuring also for some. But the greatest times for me were the pleasures of being once again with my family.