Fortune's Wheel

by Rhoda Edwards

  On her second day at Amboise a great deal occurred, none of which helped to increase Anne’s estimation of herself. After dinner, she happened to be walking along a corridor when she looked out of the window. It faced onto a small courtyard, paved with white stones, which seemed to throb with heat. An elderly hound was walking slowly round the outer wall, where a narrow rim of shade still lingered. All was quiet; she could hear the shuffle of its leathery old paws, and the click of its toenails. It headed into a shady archway and flopped, blocking the passageway to humans.

  On the other side of the yard, a kennel man was examining the foot of another hound. He was squatting like a frog, the dog wedged between his thighs, the top of its head held back against his chest; one hand grasped its jaws together, the other probed the big squashy pads. The fingers found what they wanted, a thorn or splinter, which had caused the dog distress. The man gave a satisfied grunt, released the animal, which struggled to its feet, looked round in amazement, gave his hands many lavish licks and bounded off.

  As the man got stiffly to his feet, he noticed for the first time the girl leaning far out of the window. He had been unaware of an audience. He was a shortish man of peculiar shape, thickset in the shoulders, long in the arm, and inadequate in the legs, which were short, spindly and very bandy. He walked across the burning white paving stones, his shadow bobbing grotesquely in front, his wooden beads knocking against the hunting knife at his belt, the sun dazzling down on his wide brimmed hat, which was as big as a meat dish. With that bow-legged gait, he looked like some of the grooms at home, Anne thought with a pang, then saw his walnut dark skin, the black and pewter hair and dog-brown eyes, and decided that he was not an Englishman. His manners were quite unlike a servant’s, too. He rolled right up to Anne’s window and stood with arms akimbo, staring straight into her face. It was not an insolent stare, merely one of intense, candid curiosity. The deep-set, treacle-coloured eyes were the sharpest she had ever seen; in the first moment she was sure he had noted and appraised every hair of her head. The black eyebrows lifted, the long mouth curled itself into a smile, revealing a few discoloured teeth, and he politely took off his hat. Anne, acutely discomfited by his scrutiny, felt as if the heat from the stones had risen to her face, and was about to withdraw herself hastily when the man spoke quickly and amiably.

  ‘My lord of Warwick’s little one is comfortable at Amboise?’ he asked, in French.

  Too astonished for speech, Anne stood gaping at this ugly man. No servant would speak to her like that or have known who she was. Unprepossessing as his looks might be, his clothes were worse. He wore a jacket of rough cottage-spun grey wool, on which the white hairs of the hound had left a thick fur. It was bunched in carelessly at the middle by a huntsman’s belt. A plain linen shirt showed at the neck very white and worn from many boilings. He was hairy all the way up to where his chin was shaven, which showed the strong shadow of the swarthy, and now his head was uncovered, she saw that he was bald, except for a fringe all round. His hose were coarse black cloth, baggy at the knees. His boots, sagging at the ankles, unfashionable in the blunt toes, cobbled like a peasant’s, were rubbed greasy with wear. All three garments appeared to be splashed with fresh bird droppings. At these close quarters, Anne was fairly sure that there was dog shit on his boot soles, which was scarcely surprising in this castle.

  As they stood there, staring at each other, a fly brushed the man’s nose, making him raise a hand to scratch it. A hand thick-fingered, ringless, the dog’s lick not yet dry on its back — but the nose! Anne felt the blush flood back into her face, as unbelieving realization of whom she stared at so rudely dawned on her. The nose did it — a truly remarkable nose, hugely long, hooked over and drooping at the end, where black hairs sprouted from the nostrils … She had been told that the King of France dressed like a peasant and was always surrounded by swarming dogs. If she had taken more notice of his face the day before, this embarrassing encounter would not have happened. There he stood, the Most Christian King of France, Louis XI, King of Kings, who held her future, and her father’s, in his dog-slobbered hands. King Louis had been described to her as un-kingly in his behaviour, but she had not expected anyone as odd as this. King Edward had casual manners, but he would have looked gorgeous even if disguised as a peasant, an unmistakable king. Anne’s heart pounded with fright and annoyance at seeming so foolish. She could not curtsy to Louis, because to do so would remover her entirely from his sight below the window sill. For once her voice sounded nervous and strange, speaking French. ‘Majesty, forgive my rudeness…’ Then, in delayed answer to his question. ‘Yes, her Grace Queen Charlotte has been so kind…’

  King Louis grunted dismissively. The fly came by again, determined to land on the massive promontory of his nose. ‘Pouff!’ went the King, blowing it off course. Then he scratched his balding head. Anne thought he looked like a bailiff buying wethers at a fair.

  ‘You like dogs, my little mouse? And hawks?’ he asked.

  Anne nodded; there was nothing else she could do and, in any case, it was the truth.

  ‘Viens,’ King Louis said.

  A little alarmed, Anne went along the corridor and out through the small door at its end. The King was coming towards her on his bandy legs, his hat on again.

  ‘We’ll go to the kennels. My hounds at Amboise are the best in Christendom.’ He would send a man to the ends of the earth for a hound. ‘Have you seen a spotted cat, that rides on a horse’s rump and can run down the fastest deer? Or birds, all scarlet and green, from the lands of Prester John?’

  Anne shook her head dumbly and followed him. King Louis was curiously irresistible. He talked non-stop, his eyebrows waggling, his bright eyes darting, his broad hands gesticulating. Anne did not need to say much, because he left her no time to answer questions, or to ask them. She was glad that her French was fluent, but even she lost the thread when the King’s words tumbled over one another. She could not remember half of what he talked about; there were a great many sharp comments on events and other people, mostly French nobles, but he did not say an unkind word to her, and he had nothing but good things to say about her father.

  After they had gone only a little way, King Louis opened a door in a wall and peered through. What he saw seemed to give him satisfaction, for he grinned and stepped through, beckoning Anne to follow him. The door led into a garden, laid out with gravel walks, low hedges, roses and fruit trees. In the garden were several women in a group and, a little distance from them, two or three men. At the sound of the closing door, they all looked round and, at the sight of King Louis, made the proper obeisances. The King marched straight up to the group of women. They had been chattering, but now fell silent.

  ‘Madame,’ King Louis said, ‘I have here Monseigneur de Warwick’s daughter. I should like you to greet her, now that she has been at Amboise two days.’

  One of the group turned to face the King. She was plainly dressed, without jewels, but Anne knew instantly whom she confronted, and became very frightened, sliding into a wobbly kneed curtsy, from which she did not immediately rise.

  Margaret of Anjou, once Queen of England, stared down at the girl she had never seen, and who had been imposed upon her son, against her wishes. It had been easier to ignore the betrothal before the girl was forced in person on her attention. She did not at once acknowledge Anne. Instead, she met the sharp, sardonic eyes of her Valois cousin, who in his way had just delivered his rebuke to her. ‘Your Majesty has me at a disadvantage. If I had been informed that you desired a meeting with me, Louis, I would have been more ready to receive you.’

  Louis, who had intended to catch her unawares, grinned again, and said amiably, ‘But I am delighted to find you here, Marguerite — and my lord Prince… Mon cher Edouard,’ he yelled, as if on the other side of a hunting field, ‘Viens ici!’ He looked at Margaret. ‘It is he who must receive his betrothed, ma chère Reine, sooner, I think rather than later!’

  As Margaret had not yet deigned to n
otice Anne, one of her women, knowing the situation, bent and whispered not unkindly, ‘Get up, child.’ When she had done so, Anne saw that Queen Margaret was staring at her. She had never seen the Queen before or if she had done so had been too young to know of it, and was quite ready, on account of rumour, to find her dressed in men’s clothes, or something equally outrageous and formidable. But this woman was entirely feminine, neither tall nor strapping. Indeed, if it were not for her arrogant manner, she would have been beautiful. She had one of those faces in which the bones look just as handsome even when age has tightened the skin over them. That skin was fair, with only the lightest of lines and a tautness under the jawline, to show that she was forty. Her mouth was very red and her underlip very full, like her father’s and brother’s, and as ready as theirs to show moodiness. Even with that Medusa’s glare in them, her eyes were strikingly beautiful, huge and hazel-brown, with lashes that could have fluttered like a courtesan’s, if Margaret had ever chosen to use them in this way, which she had not.

  Her son, Edward of Lancaster, Prince of Wales, had something of her looks and much of her manner. Though she was so frightened of them both, Anne was surprised to find the Prince, whose paternity she had always been taught was in doubt, a princely and good-looking young man. He was well mannered enough to bow to Anne and to kiss her hand. King Louis performed the introduction; the Prince’s mother was standing proudly by as if it did not concern her.

  The Prince was dressed for hunting, in a green short coat, which showed off his long legs, also in skin-tight green. He was not one of those gangling, half-grown-out-of-their-sleeves sixteen-year-olds. His height was between middling and tall, his build very slim, and he stood straight and poised, as if he were ready to leap and run like a deer. His hair was straight, brown and glossy like a bay horse’s coat, trimmed neatly a fraction below his ears, and his skin was beautifully clear and deeply tanned, pink cheeked with health; against it the whites of his hazel eyes looked very bright. His teeth were white also, and his lips very red, like his mother’s. In fact, though Anne did not know it, he most resembled his grandfather, Henry V of England, having the same high cheekbones, long jaw and jutting chin with a deep cleft in it; this was a source of huge satisfaction to him, as his grandfather was his idol. King Louis, to whom the victor of Agincourt had been a lifelong bogey, would have preferred that he favoured his French progenitors, though his mother’s father René of Anjou did not inspire idolatry. His great grandfather Charles VI of France had been mad, and was best forgotten, which was something Louis himself had tried all his life to do. The Prince was his father’s son, not the Duke of Somerset’s, Louis was certain, though he often wondered what circumstances had enabled Henry VI to perform such a miracle.

  ‘I am taking Lady Anne to see my animals,’ Louis announced. ‘My lord Prince, you will join us? Madame?’

  Clearly Margaret disapproved most violently, but was in no position to defy her cousin. The King of France had a way of giving his commands in casual phrases, while expecting them to be carried out to the letter.

  ‘Very well,’ she said, and turned her eyes away from Louis’ grin of triumph. She had still not addressed a word to Anne.

  The Prince was willing enough to obey, because he was full of curiosity at meeting his future wife, though he still looked a little apprehensively at his mother, knowing her disapproval. She had instilled into him that he was marrying only to save his inheritance, and that Warwick’s daughter was an undesirable match.

  ‘Madame — Lady Anne, Monseigneur de Warwick’s daughter. Lady Anne, this is my dearest cousin, who is rightful Queen of England, and who will be your mother.’ King Louis was forcing Margaret to acknowledge Anne.

  Margaret of Anjou extended her hand, and Anne curtsied again, making the gesture of kissing it. A motherly embrace was too much to expect. Anne felt that her fears about the Queen had been entirely justified. The silent hostility was even more hateful to receive than she had imagined. No one in her whole life had dared to treat her as an upstart or an inferior, yet this was clearly how Margaret proposed to treat her.

  On this occasion, however, King Louis had his way, and escorted the boy and girl off to view the animals, though they were fully as interested in viewing each other. He made an unlikely chaperon.

  Amboise was a very large castle, almost a village in itself, and it held more animals than humans. Careless though he might be of his own appearance, the King’s kennels and mews were beautifully ordered. Anne had been in ones more smelly on days less hot. Because she liked dogs and hawks, her interest was captured, and her alarm at her companions lessened. The greater number of the animals were kept in cages; Anne saw many furry small things, some of which looked like monkeys, some more like cats. Other cages seemed to contain only mounds of hay and straw, but the King pointed out that some creatures slept during the day, and were hiding in their beds. Goats and sheep of different markings and different shapes of horns wandered freely, followed by pretty kids and lambs. Big cages built along a sunny wall were full of birds, all sizes and colours, who had built their nests in branches. By the time they had got this far, they had been joined by several dogs, one a big white greyhound the King addressed fondly as Paris; Helene, he said, was occupied with her puppies, which he was sure was the best litter in France.

  The King showed off a camel with special pride. This had two humps, and long, yellowish wool. It stood in its stable chewing the cud, which it spat out malevolently in their direction. It smelt extremely rank. Anne supposed it was for riding — after all, Saracens rode camels — and wondered if King Louis had tried to ride it. He would look even odder perched up there, squeezed between the humps. As they left it, they nearly fell over a porcupine, who was trundling about quite freely. He was called Sebastien, because of his quills.

  They visited the King’s spotted hunting cats last. The cats lay on their sides in their cages lazily. They had sleek fur and long legs, and small neat ears close to their heads. They slept in the sun, twitching their long whiskers.

  The Prince said, ‘These are beautiful; they are the best animals here. I should like to take a pair back to England with me.’

  King Louis raised his eyebrows; he was jealous of his hunting animals. ‘Hm,’ he said. ‘If you are a good boy, I might be willing to send you some. I should have to ask the Duke of Milan for another pair to take their place; they are valuable to me. And what would you do with them in England?’ Louis had a low opinion of England, and of the hunting offered there. He snapped his fingers suddenly. ‘If I bring them to England when I come to visit you and your father — and my lord Warwick, of course — you must let me have six couple of the best lymers — the big hounds with long ears — in England. You’ll see he keeps his bargain, won’t you, Lady Anne?’

  Anne nodded shyly, thinking that the King showed amazing optimism. A King of France visiting England was an unheard of thing, especially as King Henry was called King of England and France. The people would probably boo, or worse.

  The Prince, his mind still on spotted cats, said, ‘I’ll hunt the deer in the forest of Windsor, with a cat sitting behind my saddle, with a red leash and a collar with my silver swan badge on it. The cats jump on the back of the deer, hang on with their claws, and break its back, tear its throat. It saves one having to dismount to do it oneself.’ Then, ‘My lord father may have one, too, if he is not too old now for hunting.’

  Henry VI was only two years older than King Louis, who let out a guffaw, and dug the Prince familiarly in the ribs. ‘Hunting,’ he laughed, ‘is the only pleasure left to us old men!’ To Anne, he said, ‘Will you have a spotted cat to sit behind your saddle, little mouse? Be careful, big cats eat little mice!’

  Anne, who liked to follow the hunt, did not much like the idea of the deer being jumped on. The Prince sounded as if he liked bloody kills, She found this distasteful. The cats’ claws were like a hawk’s talons; she watched them kneading in and out, and heard a purring nearly as deep as a growl. Sh
e thought the creatures beautiful but not to be trusted. The Prince was attractive enough to surprise her agreeably, but she shrank from signs of cruelty in people.

  As they walked back into the living quarters of the castle, a big green popinjay flew out and landed plump on the crown of the King’s hat, where it sat swaying and cocking its head on one side. He seemed quite accustomed to its behaviour. It spoke in a human voice, interspersed with fits of laughter uncannily like King Louis’ own. ‘Le Duc Charles est un pedero merdeux!’ it squawked, and descended from the royal hat to the King’s shoulder. He appeared delighted and, grinning away to himself, began feeding the bird sunflower seeds, which it cracked in its wicked-looking beak. Anne was so astonished at what it had said that she blushed and did not look at the Prince, who was laughing his head off.

  ‘Mignonette,’ the King called the bird, unsuitably, ‘talk for father Louis.’ It repeated its offensive remarks about the private inclinations of the Duke of Burgundy, added ‘God save Picardy’, a few whistles and hoots, ‘Long live Louis’, and when he nodded approvingly, it went straight into the Pater Noster. Anne stared with fascination; its beak and the King’s nose were close, and rather alike.

  When he had finished laughing, the Prince said, ‘Majesty, when I am truly Prince of England, I will make war on the Duke of Burgundy with you. He is not good at fighting battles; we will beat him and make him our vassal!’