by G Lawrence
François’ voice was all politeness, but underneath it there was iron. Charles nodded and mumbled “Yes, Your Majesty,” before turning and limping away through the gardens.
“I would advise you to be more careful in your choice of walking partner, my lady,” the King said to me, taking my arm gently and walking me, trembling, in the opposite direction. “Some men do not take no for an answer, even from a lady.”
I nodded and fresh tears burst from my eyes, I tried to keep them under control, but the reality of the situation I had just been in hit me with all the might of a cannon ball. I could not stop shaking or crying. I felt weak and foolish. I felt dirty and soiled. There was nothing I could do to stop the shaking in my bones or my head. All I could hear were reprimands from my own self: Why did you walk out there? Why did you walk so far? Why did you not scream when first he put his hands on you? Why did you not run when you first were scared of him? Why are you such a fool Anne Boleyn? Why? Why? Why?
I noticed that François had led me inside the palace and was walking me, stunned and wordless, into the private apartments of the royal family. I stopped and looked at him questioningly, fresh fear flooding into my heart. Surely, after all I had endured this evening he was not expecting me to reward him for saving me, by undertaking the same act I had just almost been forced into?
François saw my expression and shook his head at me. “You need women now,” he said, “not men.” He smiled a small, sad smile at me, and continued to lead me through the halls. Eventually he knocked at a door to a private salon and inside, halfway through taking off her jewels from the night’s entertainments, was Marguerite. She was alone; her servants dismissed to her outer chambers to guard her person yet afford her some privacy. I choked when I saw her, as fresh tears of relief flooded my throat, and I flung myself, heedless of rank and order, into her arms. She caught me, started and off-guard. Her beautiful violet eyes widened as she took in my face.
“Child?” she asked in wonder at my total lack of control. “What is it, Anne? What has happened?”
She looked sharply towards her brother who raised his hands to mimic self-defence. “Not I,” he said to her questioning look, “but there was someone who knew not what a lady means when she says nay.”
He sighed and shook his head at his sister. “I do not think she was hurt, just scared, but I thought that you were the one to care the best for her in her present state.”
He turned as he walked to the door, and he said to me, “I hope you will be well-recovered from this malady, Mistress Boleyn, and that you shall find that not all men are as the one you found yourself in company with this evening.”
With that, François, the King of France and my rescuer, left the room and left me to beat out the hard, dry sobs that rocked my body as I wept into Marguerite’s breast.
She let me cry for a while and then pulled me back away from her. “Did he hurt you? Anne? Listen to me; did this man my brother spoke of achieve his purpose?”
I shook my head and gulped the painful sobs backward into my body as Marguerite breathed a sigh of relief. “Then he did not?” she asked. “You are a maid still?”
I nodded again, unable to speak and she propped me up in a chair and poured a large draught of wine which she made me pour down my throat. The taste for a moment reminded me of the fetid breath of my attacker, and I choked back a wave of nausea.
“You have been lucky, Anne,” Marguerite said. Her face was as pale as mine and her eyes, although looking at me, were lost somewhere in the past. “Do you know why my brother brought you here?” she asked, pouring wine for herself into a fine silver goblet and taking a large gulp as she came again to my side.
“You… have been kind to me, Your Highness,” I said wiping a shuddering hand over my sore and blotched face, red with crying, and white with shock. I was far from the elegant woman of court who had danced with such abandon and energy all night.
“That is one reason, yes,” she nodded. “But my brother, who knows me better than all others in this world, also brought you here because he knew that I could help you where others could not. For I am well placed to understand your feelings at this moment.”
I looked at her, the horror of my own night frozen suddenly by the encroaching feeling of horror for what she was trying to tell to me.
“You see, one night, many years ago, my brother and I were staying at a castle owned by friends. It was late at night and I had retired to bed. My ladies were dismissed to my outer chambers and I was alone; such is the privilege of a princess at times. A young man had broken into my bedchamber, unbeknownst to me, and was hiding under the bed, waiting for me to lie down to sleep. He emerged, much to my horror and surprise, and sought to make love to me. When I refused him, threatening to call my maids and guards, he leapt upon me, and sought to take me by force, violently and with great strength, he sought to take from me what I would not give him freely. He was no stranger. He was a man of the Court, a lord and a noble, in name at least. We had been dancing together all night and he had sought to be my courtly admirer for a long time. I liked him well enough… before that night. He was handsome and he had been gentle towards me. But I am a princess of royal blood and my honour is my greatest virtue. I did not desire him in the way he desired me. I thought that we could enjoy the friendship that can come of courtly love; I thought I was unreachable, that I was secure with my position. But I was not. I screamed and fought him, which he seemed to enjoy… but I did not. I was terrified and outraged. He was so much stronger than me that I suddenly realised that all women, even a princess such as I, are powerless under the fist of a stronger, brutal man. I struggled against his attempts to keep me quiet, I screamed, and my screams brought my ladies to me. He ran from the room. As I recovered from the violence of the encounter, I swore that I would have his head for the insult he had done me, for all that he tried to do to me.”
She looked at me. I was marble, I was ice, frozen solid. Marguerite’s dark eyes did not sparkle as they had done when I first met her. In her eyes was blankness, darkness. “Then one of my women said something to me that I will say now to you. For little as I like it, it is the truth. It is not justice, it is not fair, nor right, but it is the way that the world is.” Marguerite breathed in, steeling herself.
“That woman told me that should I go after the man who attacked me and have him arrested that I may well gain his head in retribution, but I should lose my honour with it. For all had seen us dancing that night, and other nights, all had seen his attentions to me and seen me receiving them with pleasure. Even though it is part of my office as a princess to enter into the games of courtly love, and to be friendly with all I meet, my actions would still be held against me. In this world, there are few who will believe the word of a woman over that of a man, and none who would believe that I had not encouraged him to make love to me. I would be held accountable for him attacking me. I would be the one blamed and censured by the world. If I sought to take revenge on him, I would be the one to suffer.”
She looked straight into my eyes. Her face was bitter, unlike I had ever seen her look before. Her lip curled in distaste. “There were none who would believe that it was not my fault in some way. I should have been ruined if I sought justice against the monster who attacked me. The world would not blame him for having concealed himself in my chambers and attacked me. The world would blame me. For I am a woman, and it seems that in the eyes of the world, women are held to blame for all that men do in matters sexual.”
She took another deep swallow of her wine. “And little I like it, Anne, but that is the truth of the matter. If I had him arrested and the story was spoken, then men and women would have believed me loose of morals. There were none who would have taken my word over his; even being a princess, I would have been held as the one at fault, not him. I learnt that night that wisdom does not always come in easy lessons and justice does not always prevail. I learnt that knowledge is not all to be found in books and that the world is ready
to believe the worst of women and the best of men. I learnt from that harsh lesson, as you must now. I had to see that beast every day at court, knowing every day that he had got away with what he tried to do to me. Every day, I had to steel myself to stop the fear in my heart pounding when I saw him. Every day I had to hold my head up as I passed him and remember my own dignity. And every night, I fought him, over and over, in my dreams.”
She shook her head. “Anne, listen to me… You remain a maid; the man who attacked you, he has hurt you, shaken your trust, but he has not damaged your honour or your name, unless you let him by allowing this event to ruin anything further in your life. You will not speak of this matter, and neither will my brother; nor will I. It will become, as my experience did, something you carry within you, a warning to you, for the rest of your life. But you have been lucky, for he did not achieve his purpose. Do you think you are the first woman this has happened to? You think you will be the last? Through the streets of Paris, through the world, there were many such women as you tonight, some forced in their lawful marriage beds by their husbands, and some pressed to dirty floors by strangers. Those women would look on you and wish they had been in your place, rather than theirs. Men own this world and women do not. Perhaps this will be the only time you will face such a horror in your life, but perhaps not. Being clever or highly born will not protect you; you must be careful and you must have the protection of God and your wits if you are to remain chaste in this world.”
She sat by my side and put a hand to my wrist. “Take from this experience and learn; be cautious in your trust. You must learn to keep a piece of you secret from others in your heart. Do not believe the words of men who prance and prattle, but believe in the counsel of your own mind and that of God. You can trust few in this life, but you should be one amongst those you do trust. Trust your instincts from now on. If you feel that a situation is dangerous then it is, and you should extradite yourself. If you worry that a person is dangerous, then they are, and you should be wary. Do not suppose that your rank or position will ever make you safe, and keep your watch always for those who are your enemies. From now on, trust your instincts and use the lesson you have been given. For now you know that there is no justice for women in such matters; we will always be blamed for the actions and abuses of others against us.”
She put her arms around my shoulders. I had stopped crying. I was staring at my beautiful friend in dazed horror. “You know now that people can wear two faces, Anne,” she said softly. “You must learn to see the one that they do not wish you to know, the face of the beast inside. You must learn to detach yourself from people who are not worthy of your love; for only then shall you be safe. Trust in God and trust in yourself. No more can we ask in life.”
I nodded dully. My mind was swimming with half-thoughts and I felt dirty and tired.
“Come,” she said. “You shall stay with me this evening. I shall send word to Claude. You will be safe with me, but no more midnight walks? Not unless you have another maid with you.”
Marguerite helped me undress as though I were the Princess and she the servant, and then she helped me into a pallet bed of soft feather and down on the floor of the chamber. I was exhausted, but fearful of sleep. When I closed my eyes, the face of Charles flooded my mind. I woke many times that night, starting from the scent of the sour wine on his breath and the feel of his hands pressing painfully on my body. But in the darkness I heard Marguerite breathing quietly in the bed above me and I knew I was safe. She was the kindest friend I had ever known. In the midst of my terror and fear, she had shared something of her own pain with me, and had taught me a terrible, yet valuable, lesson about the world.
I awoke the next morning a changed and altered woman. I bathed myself over and over in a bowl in my chambers. Scrubbing at my flesh until it was pink and raw. I felt as though I might never be clean again. But I was resolved.
From now on, the part of me that was real, the part that could be hurt and damaged, would be hidden behind the mask that was Mistress Anne Boleyn. I was a child no longer. I trusted blindly in the goodness of people no longer. Marguerite was right; I could not call this man to account for what he had tried to do to me, not without damaging my name, and my prospects in life. I would be blamed in some way for the abuse done to me, by him. I had to hide a part of my heart, damaged and broken, from the rest of the world, as I held my head up high before the court, and tried to leave the memories of that night behind me.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
1521
France
That spring we received troubling news from the courts of England. The Duke of Buckingham, that same Duke whom my brother had served as a child, was suddenly arrested, tried, and beheaded for high treason.
The courts of the world were shocked; the Duke held some of the last vestiges of English royal blood outside of the house of Tudor in his veins, and his trial and execution were almost unprecedented in the lands of Christendom. There were whispers of witchcraft, that the Duke had consulted auguries to divine the King of England’s death, and wished to bring it about through the offices of magic. Whether these rumours were indeed true, we knew not, but the Duke had been found guilty of plotting the death of King Henry by mortal means; he had apparently mobilised a great horde of soldiers, perhaps in preparation for taking control of the country by force.
In May, the Duke was arrested, interrogated and then tried. Four days later, the Duke of Buckingham lost his head. Many blamed Wolsey for the downfall of the Duke, for it seemed impossible that the Cardinal could have been uninvolved in the fall of such an eminent member of the court. Many courts around the world were stunned by the news. Buckingham was essentially a prince of England… although not of the family who sat on the throne, his blood was seen as royal as theirs.
Charles V, the young boy with the large chin who I had known from afar at Mechelen had recently become the Emperor of the Hapsburgs. Charles commented that “a butcher’s dog has killed the finest buck in England,” and many others in France and in England too, were quick to lay the blame at Wolsey’s door. But was the Duke brought to early death for rivalling Wolsey’s position at court? Or was the Duke done to death for having within his veins a claim to the throne which many thought more legitimate than that of Henry VIII? Was it the Cardinal who had wanted Buckingham gone, or the King? None could say for sure.
François was shocked and grieved, as he had known the Duke personally. And, I think, he had liked the proud man. Marguerite whispered to me that she believed the Duke had been too close in blood to the throne to remain comfortably near to Henry, and that this was, perhaps, the real reason for his removal.
“Your Tudors are a great family,” she said to me, shaking her head. “But they are new to the throne, new to power. Buckingham was of the old blood, too close to the throne to remain alive. This killing, they say, was done because the Duke was plotting the King’s death. It could be true… it could be a lie. We will never know.” She looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “But what we do know is that he was too close to the throne to stay alive.”
I shivered, despite the warmth of the day. As I reached adulthood it seemed that the world became more and more dangerous; even the blood in your veins could be the author of your death.
My father, however, benefited from the fall of the Duke. Upon Buckingham’s death, his property was divided between the courtiers upon whom the King of England felt he could depend. Although Henry kept the lion’s share for himself, courtiers such as my father received new lands and titles that had once belonged to Buckingham. Penshurst Place, a grand house near our own Boleyn estates at Hever was reserved for the King’s use, and my father became its steward. I wondered if this house was in part reserved for the King of England so that he could meet in secret with my sister whilst she stayed with our parents.
It was also in this year that Henry of England published a scathing attack on the works of Martin Luther, that same author whose banned works I had admired. Henry�
��s book, Asserto Septem Sacramentorum adversus Martinus Lutherus, or A Defence of the Seven Sacraments against Martin Luther, was a virulent attack on Lutheranism, a belief fuelled by Luther’s works and that of others like him. Lutheranism proposed that a man should adopt a more personal approach to faith than that taken by the Catholic Church. Martin Luther’s philosophies and pamphlets were setting all of Christendom afire with talk. Luther espoused that the faithful could pray directly to God Himself, that they needed not the priests or the Pope to intercede. Lutheranism did away with the need for intercessors such as the saints, or Mary, the Mother of Christ. For Lutherans many priestly offices were made redundant, which the Church found threatening and sacrilegious. Luther’s followers had even started to challenge the transubstantiation, the act in which the bread and wine of Mass literally became the body and blood of Christ. Luther taught that this act was merely symbolic and to believe otherwise was to become lost in magic and superstition, rather than in the true light of following the word of God. To the followers of Luther, faith alone was the force that men needed to be good Christians.
It was revolutionary thought, dangerous thought. Martin Luther was excommunicated by the Pope that year, but Luther did not consider the Pope to be the supreme head of the Church any longer, and continued to preach even despite the danger to himself. Many of Luther’s teachings found root in the hearts, minds and souls of people throughout Christendom. I had read Luther’s works, and whilst I did not agree with him on all points, I liked many of his arguments. I was saddened to find that the reaction of the Church was as I had expected it to be. Rather than listen to the arguments of such a radical thinker, rather than think that to reform the Church and practises which had fallen into corruption would be a good thing, they moved against him. They banned and burned his books, as did many monarchs of the world. They moved against the followers of the new thought, and they encouraged attacks on Lutherans. Henry of England’s book was such an attack.