by G Lawrence
“This Cardinal is King”… a fitting thing to say of such a man.
This man, I thought as I looked upon him, embodies everything in the Church so desperately requiring change. How can a man with golden stirrups and coffers overflowing with money possibly be in communion with Christ; he who rode on a mule in sack-cloth and gave up his life for the salvation of his people? How can this man standing before me with such pride on his face, have a better understanding of God than I? Should he, a man of God, not give those stirrups up to feed the poor of his parish, or to better educate scholars? How can he hold a good relationship with God and help his people understand God when he spends all his time ruling in the stead of the King? He is supposed to be a man of God, to lead by example, in virtue and reason, and yet if we were to follow the example of Wolsey, perhaps we would all be rich as kings, caring nothing for the souls of others.
It was as I mused on these thoughts that a frightful event took place. We were only part way through the ceremony when a fearsome crash came from the skies above us. It was as though a thunder storm had broken, but there were no clouds in the pale sky that morning. Then, from above us, like some giant monster of old, there came a creature, hurtling through the skies… a great dragon! I saw it rear its head and seem to laugh at the Mass of the treaty of universal peace. I stared at it in frozen terror. All about me there was screaming and shouting as people pointed to the skies at the terrible creature flying above.
Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone, and there was nothing but grey and black smoke billowing in the air. I looked around in wonder, fearing what such an omen may mean. I was not the only one; men, their swords half-drawn in their hands, looked around themselves in wonder at the dissipating smoke. Women, faces drawn with fear, clutched books of devotion in shaking hands. I heard the Kings of England and France talking to each other in animated voices; it seemed that each suspected the other of deceit.
But, as it turned out, it was an accident. Someone had accidentally let off a great firework, made to explode in the form of a salamander, King François’ own personal badge. It was supposed to be ignited later, during the evening celebrations, to impress the English. It was a trick gone awry, although at the time, it seemed like an almighty omen of doom to us.
The company was settled by the guards and the reassurance of the Kings, and the Mass continued, although many people continued to glance suspiciously about themselves. Everyone tried to bring back the feeling of brotherly camaraderie, but it had been tainted by the strange events of the Mass.
I was furious when at the end of the Mass, a papal indulgence was given to all those present, allowing reduced sentences in purgatory. Time spent in purgatory was in the hands of God, not of the cardinals or the Pope; the Pope and his minions could not give souls time off from purgatory if we deserved that fate. There were other disapproving faces around me; my father’s face looked somehow both blank and disgusted at the same time; but all were silent as we received this blessing. None spoke out, even if they did not agree. I saw Marguerite shrug in disappointment.
Change was in the air. The Cardinal may have been unaware of it, but it was on the move. There were many in that educated company who disapproved of the supposed blessing given to us by the Cardinal on us that day.
As we left the great Mass, I briefly joined my father and mother, who were standing with a handsome hawk-faced man and a proud-faced woman. I was introduced to Lord and Lady Morley, and their daughter, Jane. It took me a moment to remember that this pretty, green-eyed young woman before me was the same child that I had seen and felt so sorry for at the funeral of little Prince Henry so many years ago. Those green eyes, which I remembered so well filled with tears, were now bright, set in almond-shaped sockets of the attractive woman before me. Jane was now middling tall and slim, with the figure of a girl teetering on the edge of maturing into a beauty. I remembered her well, although the courtly smile she turned on me held no flicker of remembrance.
It was a brief meeting, and as we walked away, my father nodded to George in such a way as to make me suspect that this was no chance meeting. Instead, the meeting seemed to hold great significance for George; a potential bride perhaps? George nodded back to father in a nonchalant manner that held no real excitement. My brother was a young and handsome courtier; his wife would be, as so many are to their husbands, his wife, and nothing more. His would continue to choose his loves from the volley of attractive young women at court, with whom he was already popular. George was, it seemed, quite successful in convincing young ladies to abandon their reserve to him; he had already made his way through a fair few experienced mistresses of the English Court, so he told me. Men who find easy conquests usually tire of them with time… George was already reaching such a stage in his life. A wife, who was bound to obey and serve him whenever he wished, was unlikely to hold his interest long. I don’t think he had any real inclination for a wife, but would marry where our father and his account books dictated. Once again, I found myself feeling rather sorry for green-eyed Jane, who walked away from us looking back slyly behind her for a further glance at my handsome brother. It seemed that if they were to marry, she, at least would be happy about it, for a time at least. George, it seemed, would match her interest with equal disinterest. A wife held no challenge for him, and therefore no interest.
Soon enough the events of The Field of the Cloth of Gold drew to an end. In no time at all those great tents were dismantled and flung to the floor like the skirts of great female titans dressing for bed. The jousting grounds and tilt yards became but dusty scraps of ground; the cook fires and banqueting tents could be found only by patches of heat-scoured earth and food debris; the places where we had danced through the night became but wisps of flattened ground on the horizon.
The great palace of Henry VIII of England, that wonderful invention that had so gloried and astounded us all, was chopped up. The glass was sent back to England, the great walls and turrets were burned in the bonfires of the final night’s celebrations. Gone was that palace of pleasures. Gone was that momentous occasion. And gone were we; my horse saddled and my body dressed to ride, I said farewell to my family and they to me. My sister sat pretty and happy on her horse, jesting with her husband, her shoulders covered in a new fur-trimmed cloak, a present from the King of England. My mother, her eyes filled with tears, pressed a small jewelled book of devotions into my hands. My father clasped me to him in a cold hug and informed me of the dates he would next be in France. My brother, my new friend, gave me a ring, a simple golden hoop, which he said would sting the cheek of the next man I hit far less than the ones I wore now. But he said this in a whisper, so that our father would not hear that his daughter had been striking the heir to the family name. I smiled at George and promised him I would keep the ring with me always.
I still wear it now.
My family sailed out on the morning tide with the English convoy. I rode with Claude and her retinue back to the Court of France. There, across the waters, were my family and their lives, and here, I remained in France; in this land was the life that I loved and would continue to lead.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
1520
France
I lived in France for almost another two years in the service of Queen Claude. My days were full, for I served the Queen, and I was much in company with the Princess Marguerite and her circle. More and more, I drifted towards Marguerite’s company, spending less time with Françoise. Although Françoise and I were still great friends, it seemed that we shared less in matters of thought and philosophy than we had before, and she was often busy with the King. My admiration for Marguerite and her circle grew day by day, as did my desire for new learning, for new thought, for reform and for knowledge of God such as Marguerite had. Françoise would often find me reading in some quiet corner alone, and would force me out to practise dancing with her; she would steal my books and run from me, screaming with laughter. She did not know that many of those boo
ks could have had me arrested, had the wrong person found them in my possession.
At court events, François would pay me special attentions. I believe that he wished me to become one of his lesser mistresses, but he had been warned by Marguerite that this position would not be acceptable to me. She told François that I valued my honour highly and did not want to become the mistress of any man. Whilst I think he might not have liked this, he accepted it from his sister and did not push or proposition me for sexual favours, though he still sought my company and hand in the dance.
You might think it odd that a sister and brother would talk in this way, discussing frankly such private matters. But they were very close, François and Marguerite. To Marguerite, it was the union of souls that mattered most in life, above all other loves, and this was the union she had with her brother. They understood each other completely and worked together easily. They were, in fact, like two halves of the same book; it was impossible to truly understand the one without the other. I was grateful that Marguerite talked to François on my behalf; I had no wish to anger the King. I was happy that she had explained my feelings to him, and that she had obviously done it in such a way that François was happy to continue to offer me his attention at court events without expecting that I offer him anything but friendship in return.
There were, unhappily, other men at court who were not as sophisticated as their King. And it took one short and unhappy event for me to understand this fully.
It was one night at a celebration; Claude had given François another healthy child, a daughter named Madeline, and the whole country of France was alive with feasting and celebration. There had been a great tourney during the day and then a masque where all had worn masks and danced together as supposed strangers; the masks had been uncovered and we had eaten well in the great hall. Then there was more dancing. The evening turned into the early hours of the morning and no one noticed or cared.
The wine was flowing freely and I had drunk perhaps too much of it. The Rhenish wines were strong and tasty; their richness flowed down the throat like sweetened water but made the head giddy and the senses dulled. It was then that some of the party, specially invited by François, broke off to take part in a private banquet; a feast of smaller proportions and of sweet fare in one of the secluded banqueting towers in the gardens. Because of my friendship with Marguerite and my position in Claude’s household, I was one of those chosen to attend to the banquet in the gardens.
My dancing partner, for most of the night, had been the same gentleman, a man called Charles, who hailed from Navarre. All night he pestered me to dance with him; he was handsome and a good dancer, so I had enjoyed the flirtation and the attention that he gave to me. I thought little more of it; every day and each event at court was very much the same. We all played around each other, flirted and danced, talked and amused. That was the normal way of the court.
After the banquet of sweets was over, many of the party broke down into smaller groups to wander in the gardens. For most, it was a chance for an intimate moments or a mild indiscretion, or in some cases, just a chance for friends to walk and talk together under the clear moonlight in one of the most beautiful gardens in the world. Charles asked me to walk with him; he had been gentle and attentive all night, and the August night was warm and inviting. I suspected nothing in a gentle walk at the end of an exciting day, to wind down the senses and become ready for sleep. There were plenty of people walking in the gardens. I felt no need to consider my safety.
As we walked, we talked softly of the court and of the newborn daughter of France. Eventually, I realised we had wandered farther from the main body of the banquet party than I had intended, and that were alone in the high hedges of the knot garden.
Charles turned to me and clasped my hand. “Now that we are away from everyone else, I can tell you; I have long thought you to be the most beautiful woman of the court, the most beautiful lady I have ever seen.”
I smiled and inclined my head distantly; I was used to such over-blown phrases as these. It was all in the act of the courtier and all in a day’s work for a lady of the court. Although I was flattered by these words that I often heard, I knew that in reality, they meant little.
“Ah!” he cried. “You shrug… but you must believe it to be true.” He moved towards me and encircled my waist with his strong arm. “Come,” he murmured, his voice husky and his wine-soaked breath suddenly very close to my mouth. “I shall show you how it is between us.”
Suddenly his mouth bore down on mine and his arm became like a vice around my waist. Startled, I did nothing for a moment, and then, fearing the pressure of his body against mine and the sudden urgency of his desire, I flailed my hands against his face and shoulders, and when he would not let go, I bit the tongue that he rammed inside my mouth.
“Bitch!” he exclaimed, pulling his head back. Brutally he shoved a hand over my mouth, preventing me from screaming and almost from breathing. His other hand proceeded to try to lift my skirts up, even as he shoved me backwards. I staggered under the pressure of his strength, shouting against the hand that muffled my calls for help. My hands, all my strength, felt useless against him.
He is going to rape you, I thought. A strange, clear voice seemed to speak in my head that was somehow far, far away from the girl that was struggling with all her might against the strength of this man.
He is going to rape you and you are not strong enough to stop him.
He was forcing me backwards into an arbour where there was a seat. His eyes, so close to my face, were bloodshot, and his breath stunk as he pressed his mouth against my skin. I tried to call out, but his fingers were pushing into my open mouth and making me gag. How could I have thought him handsome? This was a beast, not a man. Tears sprung from my eyes. Wild, strange, deep noises came from my throat as his hand bore down on my mouth even stronger than before. He held me, struggling against him, under him, trying to undo his codpiece. I threw every part of my body into movement, struggling against his hold. I had never truly known fear until this moment.
His codpiece was unhooked and now he fought with his britches as well as with me. Swearing, and unable to complete his task with me flailing against him, he loosened one hand to try and avail himself. I could feel him, against my leg, hard as rock beneath his clothing. The feeling of his urgency was revolting, terrifying. Choked sounds of rage and terror sprung from beneath those fingers on my mouth. I was petrified. I felt both powerless and enraged.
But suddenly, the pressure of his hands upon me was lessened as he tried to get the drawstrings of his britches undone. One of my hands broke free from under his. With a strength that was not my own, I lashed out, my fingers like the claws of a lioness, and I scratched at his cheek and eyes with all the force I could exert. My clawed fingers went into his eye and I felt the soft flesh of his eyeball scrape under the nails of my fingers. He screamed, sounding more like a harpy than a man, and flung himself backwards from me, grabbing at his eye, allowing me the moment that I needed to fling my foot upwards, into the middle of his legs as hard as I could. As I ran from that arbour, skidding and stumbling, I heard, with terrified satisfaction, the soft grunt of him hitting the floor in pain.
I tumbled, heedless and petrified, from that arbour and stumbled headlong into another man. I reeled backwards, afraid that another man might do the same to me. I went to run in the opposite direction, but a hand, gentle and firm, caught hold of my arm and propped me back up to a standing position.
“Mistress Boleyn?” the voice was polished, somewhat amused, and familiar. I looked up into the eyes of François the King of France, and relief swept over me. Almost fainting, I burst into tears and threw myself to the floor before him. On my knees, I held out my hands to him and croaked, “Please help me, Your Majesty.”
The amused expression that had touched his features when first I tumbled into his path turned to confusion and then darkened with anger as he saw the swearing shape of Charles begin to emerge from the arb
our behind me. My dishevelled appearance, my white face and the tears of fear running down my face were enough to tell the King what had occurred here. He offered his arm to me and I rose, trembling. He guided me to his side, looked into my eyes and nodded at me. I had his protection. I could have fainted with relief. Looking behind him, he nodded to his companions to leave, and they wandered away, thankfully not witnessing me in the pitiable state to which I was reduced.
“Charles!” François said sharply to the humbled nobleman who stood glowering at me from the darkness.
“Your Majesty,” Charles answered, attempting to bow, and doing so with little grace due to the pain coursing through his manhood.
“You appear to have drunk too freely of the wine, and you have fallen and hurt yourself,” said François smoothly. “I believe it would be best if you go to your apartments and partake in no more moonlit strolls, where it is so easy to fall and do mischief to yourself.”
François looked at me. “I shall see your walking partner safely to her chambers. I do not think that you should accompany Mistress Boleyn on such walks anymore; she is rather different to many court ladies and, as such, I should like to see her remain.” He raised one eyebrow at Charles. “If… you understand me clearly?”