The Lady in the Tower

by Виктория Холт

  He was rocking on his heels, keeping me kneeling before him. I wondered what punishment he was going to inflict. But the little light of lust was still in his eyes.

  I heard voices. People were coming this way. They were very likely looking for him. I said: “I must go. They must not find me here.”

  He put out a hand and caught a strand of my hair.

  But I was up and away.

  I sped out of the garden. I hid myself among the shrubs. A party, led by my father, came into sight. They were obviously looking for the King.

  I ran to my room. I looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were sparkling; my cheeks had an unusual faint color; my hair was untidy.

  What had I done? What had led me to behave in such a way? I had been in a strange mood. I was so angry about the Butler affair and determined to show the world that I was not, like other girls of noble houses, to be pushed this way and that. But to become involved in such an exchange with the King was sheer madness.

  I wondered what action he would take. He would not let the matter rest, I was sure. He had been really angry at some points; but there had been something in my looks which had touched him in some way. Although I was a virgin, I was not ignorant of the ways of men; I knew of those animal desires which were somehow unpredictable but when they came could obliterate all else. François and the gentlemen of his Court were mostly young and lusty and they pursued women as they did the deer. They only had to see one and they were off. One knew exactly the meaning in their glances. With Henry it was a little different. I remembered what George had said of him. He did not flaunt his love affairs and they were not numerous like those of the King of France. There was definitely in Henry a certain moral and sentimental streak. I had sensed a touch of cruelty too—such as had not played a part in the character of François. François would have been amused by my effrontery; I was not sure of Henry.

  There would be a great feast tonight, with my father straining every effort to entertain the King in accordance with the custom of those noblemen whose houses he visited during his journeys through the country. As the daughter of the house I should be called upon to show my talents…to sing, to play the lute; and he would watch me and think: She is comely enough for the night here. She is doubtless a little like her sister. And Mary had been pleasing him for some time. She had lasted longer with the King of England than she had with the King of France.

  I could not go down there tonight. I could not bear it. I would not submit to these people. I would not be like my sister Mary.

  Then what could I do?

  I took off my dress and slipped into a nightgown. I lay in my bed, listening to the bustle in the castle. There were voices below my window. I knew by the sycophantic laughter that he was there. My father's voice sounded unctuous. Was he begging the King to forgive his wayward daughter or hoping that his humble home would not displease His Grace?

  Someone was scratching on the door. It was my stepmother. She looked horrified to see me in bed.

  “But Anne,” she cried, “the King is here! You must come and be presented to him. Oh dear, I'm in such a flurry. I know not which way to turn. I am terrified. He is even more grand than I thought. Anne, what are you doing in bed?”

  “I am ill,” I said. “I cannot leave my bed.”

  She was all concern and I felt very tender toward her.

  “What is wrong? What can be wrong?”

  “I have a cold. I think I have a fever. I could not come down. The King would never forgive us if he caught something from someone in our household.”

  “I must get you a posset.”

  “No…no…Do not worry…I…I had these turns in France.” It was a lie but it served. “All I have to do is rest and in a day or so I am well. I need no posset. You go and do not worry about me. I shall not be missed.”

  “Your father…”

  “Tell him of my illness, he would not want me down there in this state.”

  I closed my eyes and tried to look ill.

  My poor stepmother! I was sorry for her. I knew I was unnaturally flushed and that alarmed her. I should have been down there to help her. But I dared not be. He would still be smarting from some of the things I had said. But it was not that which alarmed me so much as the look in his eyes. I had seen the same look in those of François. But Marguerite had understood about that and had helped me. This was different; every instinct I possessed told me that I must not see the King again while he was at Hever.

  My stepmother leaned over the bed. She touched my forehead.

  “You are rather hot,” she said.

  I nodded feebly.

  “Oh dear God, that it should happen now!”

  “Don't worry. Just forget it. The King will like you. I am sure there is kindness in him for all his splendor.”

  Then I closed my eyes once more and she went out.

  Shortly afterward my father came in. He stood by the bed glaring down at me. I was afraid that he would order me to get up, dress and join the party.

  I said in a small faltering voice: “I'm sorry, Father. My head is so heavy… and I am rather hot.”

  “At such a time!” he cried.

  He stood for a few seconds and then went out.

  I breathed a sigh of relief and told myself that in future I must curb my impetuous nature. The urge to tease him had come and I had given way to it. But it was as well that I had, for if he had seen me at the banquet and heard me sing and play the lute, he might have expected further entertainment from me.

  So while the sounds of feasting and music went on in the castle, I lay in bed. I thought of the future and what would happen when I was presented to James Butler. I knew that I had some special attraction for the opposite sex—even as my sister Mary had. Someone had once explained Mary's allure as Promise. That was possibly true because it was obvious, merely by looking at her to see that she enjoyed sexual encounters and that the preliminaries of courtship could be curtailed and the conclusion quickly reached. How different I was! I was cold toward them; I did not feel a vestige of desire for them. I should hate to be submitted to the humiliation Mary suffered in France. Why then did I see desire in men's eyes for me? Was it because I was different from other women? There was something distinctive about me…apart from my sixth fingernail. Thomas Wyatt loved me—or was ready to; François had had designs on me; and now I had seen something which I feared in the eyes of the King of England. Who would have dared speak to him as I had this afternoon? Only one who was desired. I liked the power this gave me over men. I felt that I wanted that power. But I could see that it would not be easy to hold it once one had surrendered.

  I was in a state of apprehension, cowering behind my pretense of illness; and I was afraid of the outcome of this day.

  It was midnight and still the revelries went on. I hoped the King was pleased with the hospitality of Hever and did not report to his host the ill behavior of the daughter of the house.

  I slept little that night, and when my stepmother came into the room next morning she was alarmed at the sight of me.

  I was sorry to give her this concern and tried to reassure her. I knew these attacks well, I told her. They soon passed. “Tell me,” I said. “How was it last night?”

  “All went well,” she told me. “The servants excelled themselves and there were no mishaps in the kitchen. I had given them their orders—but of course I must be sitting on the right hand of His Grace, and I was in such a state that I was shaking like one of my jellies. He noticed it and patted my arm. He said: ‘You must not be afraid of us. We do no harm to gentle ladies.’ Then he was laughing and I was laughing and everything seemed well. He was so splendid and he liked well the suckling pig. I told him it was a recipe I had brought with me from my home—and he did not seem to mind my nervousness at all.”

  “He liked you for it,” I said. “It indicated how much you were in awe of him and that you were overwhelmed by his greatness.”

  She was not listening. She was smil
ing, thinking of the evening.

  “The tumblers were very good and so were the minstrels. Your father had thoughtfully arranged for them to sing one of the King's songs, which pleased him mightily.”

  “It would,” I said.

  “And do you know … he asked about you.”

  I felt a tremor of alarm. “What did he say…of me?”

  “ ‘Your daughter Mary is at my Court,’ he said. ‘Your son, too. But I believe there is another…a younger…’ I said to him, ‘Your Grace, that is Anne. She is laid low in her bed. She is not well.’ ‘Oh,’ he answered, ‘What ails the wench?’ ‘It is nothing much, she assures me,’ I replied. ‘A headache… and a little fever.’ ‘I should have liked to see her,’ he said. ‘Is it true that she plays on the lute?’ I told him how beautifully you played and sang and how you have put us all to shame with your grace and your fine clothes and that you have been in France. I don't think he liked that very much for he said, ‘It would be well if she forgot she has lived in France and took up with our English ways.’ I said quickly that I knew you soon would. Then he said, ‘Headache, eh? Tell her she must have lingered too long in the rays of the sun.’”

  “Did he really say that!”

  “Yes—exactly that. I was about to say that the sun was not very strong just yet but felt that might sound like contradicting him.”

  “Is that all he said…of me?”

  “Yes, that was all, for the dancing had begun. You should see him dance. He leaps higher than any. You would know that he was the King if nobody told you. What a pity that you had this attack…now.”

  “When is the party leaving?” I asked.

  “Today. Your father will be going with them. How quiet it will seem when they have gone!”

  “And peaceful,” I said.

  “Now rest, my dear. I will send up some broth… something soothing. You must try to take it.”

  “I will try,” I said feebly…“ to please you, dearest Stepmother.”

  They had gone. When I heard the clatter of departure, I sat up in my bed and laughed.

  It had been quite an adventure and I had rescued myself very cleverly, I thought. Now that it was over, I did not regret anything. He had obviously been displeased. He had spoken figuratively when he had remarked that I had stayed too long in the rays of the sun. Did he believe in my sudden illness? I wondered. But he would no doubt have forgotten the incident by now. I was just a saucy wench who had played a little trick on royalty; but wenches did not play such tricks, particularly those with ambitious fathers.

  Oh well, it was over now.

  It was strange that my father had not mentioned James Butler. I supposed it was because he had been so taken up with the King's visit, which was certainly enough to make him forget anything else; still, there might have been a reference to such an important matter.

  At first I reveled in those peaceful days. I sat often in the rose garden and went over that scene again…word by word, and laughed at it. How daring I had been! But all was well. He had forgotten all about me by now. He probably dismissed me as a foolish girl. I thought perhaps he might speak to my father about me, but if he had, I should surely have heard.

  George and Mary were at Court and so was Thomas Wyatt. I saw Mary Wyatt often, and our friendship carried on where it had left off in our childhood. I became more and more attached to my stepmother, but her interests were in the herb garden and the kitchens; she was a perfect housewife, and I was quite different from that. I did feel the lack of stimulating conversation; I often thought of those days in France with Marguerite and I became very nostalgic.

  Every day I expected to hear that James Butler was on his way to Hever and I was to meet him. But nothing happened.

  I used to sit with my stepmother while she worked on her embroidery, for in accordance with her housewifely excellence she was very clever with her needle; and she would tell me of her humble life in the country and how she was at last fitting into our castle ways.

  “It amazed me,” she said, “that your father should have chosen me.”

  “He is a clever man, my father,” I reminded her.

  “And that he should bring me here… where I have actually met the King! I would not have believed it possible.”

  “I can understand it—and I think it is my father who is the fortunate one.”

  “And such a charming family I inherited! You…who are such an attractive young lady…so worldly in your way… and your beautiful clothes and your manners and playing and singing as you do…to bother to talk to me!”

  I was touched and said: “Dear Stepmother, it is you who honor us.”

  And indeed I felt it was so, for there she was with her goodness— which I felt none of us shared.

  “Your brother George…he is so clever… but always kind to me. And Mary …” Her eyes clouded a little for, affectionate as she was, her strict upbringing would not allow her to approve of Mary.

  I said: “Mary is the King's mistress.”

  “Poor Mary. She will suffer remorse.”

  “Not Mary. She revels… not so much in her position but in the relationship. You know she was also the mistress of the King of France.”

  “That scandal, yes…I do know.”

  “Don't waste your sympathy on Mary. She will always be as she is.”

  “It's a pity… and that nice husband.”

  “He is weak. He just stands by.”

  “He has to, your father says, because of the King.”

  “He should not. If he were a real man, would he?”

  “The King is very powerful.”

  “I do not admire Will Carey,” I said firmly. “And what do you know of James Butler?”

  “I hear he is a very charming young man.”

  “That is what they would tell me. I will not be bartered. They will have to look elsewhere. I am no Will Carey.”

  “Oh dear, I hope there is not going to be trouble.”

  “You have married into an ambitious family, dear Stepmother.”

  “I wish there was less of that in the world.”

  “No one would strive to get on but for ambition. Life would be peaceful… but static, dear Stepmother. I do not think that would be entirely for our good. The point is, passions have to be moderated; they have to be used by us; it is only when they begin to use us that they become dangerous.”

  “You are too clever for me, my dear. But it is nice to hear you talk. I hope beyond all things that you will find a nice husband whom you love and who loves you… and be happy for ever more.”

  I kissed her. I thought she was more like a mother to me than my own had been.

  She made Hever very pleasant during my stay there.

  It did not last very long.

  One day a messenger came from my father. He had found a place for me in the Queen's household. I was to be a maid of honor and should prepare to leave without delay.

  The peaceful time was over. I was not entirely sorry, for peace to one of my nature was not always desirable for long. I found the atmosphere of Hever without my brother and Thomas Wyatt rather boring. And much as I loved my stepmother, she was hardly a stimulating companion.

  So I could not help feeling a sense of expectation and excitement as I prepared to leave Hever.

  Love Affair

  AND SO I CAME TO COURT to be a maid of honor to Queen Katharine.

  I was struck immediately by the difference between the French and English Courts, though oddly enough they were both presided over by a young, forceful, monumental figure of a King and a Queen who was retiring and pious. Manners were gallant at Henry's Court but less affectedly so; there was a lack of that intellectual quality which had been inspired by Marguerite and followed by François; culture was less in evidence here, although the King was a lover of music, poetry and all the fine arts. This was of a more robust nature. The masques were less subtle, the dances more strenuous, given to leaping, bounding and athletic prowess rather than grace. There was a vit
ality in the English Court which replaced the languid elegance of that of France.

  It was very interesting to me and I felt alive as soon as I arrived. I realized, more than I had before, that the country was no place for me.

  I was quickly initiated into my role of maid of honor. I was allowed a servant—a woman, of course—and one dog, which should be a spaniel. I was given a certain allowance of food for myself and my dog, and it was far more than our needs. Food was plentiful at Court, served plain, without the fancy sauces so beloved of the French; my maid, my dog and I breakfasted on bread and beef, and more ale than we could possibly drink was supplied to us. There were hens, pigeons, rabbits and all kinds of pies served for dinner and supper; and on Fridays we had salted eels, plaice, gurnet and whiting… and almost any fish one could think of.

  I had never been interested in food—but it did show a concern for our welfare.

  My sister Mary was one of the first to greet me.

  She was well and happy and showed no sign of any shame, though it was well known what terms she was on with the King. He had been right when he had said it was considered an honor to be chosen by the monarch.

  Mary was looking very pretty and pleased with life. When I came to think of it, she always had. She had not been entirely crestfallen even when she had been expelled from the Court of France. Mary took everything in her philosophical way.

  She embraced me warmly and said how pleased she was to see me at Court.

  “You will find the Queen a little… serious.” She grimaced.

  “I imagine she is rather like Queen Claude.”

  Mary nodded.

  “She is very much the daughter of the King and Queen of Spain… and never forgets it. And she is very religious. There will be a great deal of praying. Your knees may get sore.”

  “And you, Mary?”

  She laughed. “I do very well.”

  “And what of Will?”

  “He does very well, too.”

  “Of course I know about you and the King.”