The Lady Anne

by G Lawrence

  Mary turned the conversation away from the subject, but I went to bed that night with a more troubled heart than I had had when I arrived at Hever. To be taken to live in Ireland! To be snatched away from all that I had just found pleasing to my heart in England! Oh, how I wished I was back in France then! How I longed for the merry eyes of Marguerite and the soft consolation of Claude! My friends in France would have been appalled as I was, to think of me being taken to a wilderness such as Ireland! Unhappy thoughts of bogs and savage people filled my mind as I tried to sleep that night. I tossed and turned, thinking of ways to extract myself from such a match. Being fair to the country of Ireland and its people, I knew nothing of it; but it seemed to me a foreign and uncouth place… and I had no wish to marry into a family whose seat was within its lands.

  I awoke with a sore head and a heart full of fears. I questioned my mother on the match in the morning, and she looked at me rather sadly. I gathered that she was not enamoured of the idea either. George saw my troubled visage and furrowed brow as we walked out to ride through the lands of Hever that morning, and tried to reassure me, musing aloud that it was an unlikely match.

  “I think our father is most unwilling for the match to actually go ahead, Anne,” George comforted. “After all, our father knows that the Earldom of Ormond is ours by rights and should not have to be secured on his heirs by marriage. And he would much rather have the title conferred on him, now, rather than on the children of a match between the Butler lad and you. However, it is often politic to enter into these kinds of talks and see where they lead. He could not disobey the King or Wolsey in bringing you home to meet with James Butler, but I doubt it will go any further.” He looked over my pale and worried face and smiled, reaching out to take my hand. “Fear not, sister,” he said gently. “I doubt our father is likely to waste his one unwed daughter in marriage to this Butler; with your talents and our rising fortunes, we may be able to secure a greater marriage for you… one that will keep you near us and the court, where you belong.”

  I nodded to him and smiled, but I continued to worry. It was not the state of marriage that I feared; part of me wanted to marry. Mary was married, and there was a bride for George emerging on the horizon in the person of Mistress Jane Parker, so I had heard. One day I wanted to have sons and daughters of my own. I was of an age to marry… but I did not want to be wedded and then taken to Ireland, even if we would occasionally visit the court and my family here. I had just been wrenched from France, from a life and from people that I loved. To arrive back and to find friends and family so warming and sweet to my heart had been a great pleasure, but then to find that I might soon be taken from all this too? Was I to be tossed from one place to another like a piece of seaweed caught in the tide? And to go to Ireland? It was a lawless and dangerous place. Rebellion lifted its ugly head time and time again against the Crown. The lords who governed there, placed in Ireland by the English King were, by necessity, hard men, taught to rule and quash the population with a mighty fist. How was that a place for me? A life where I should be kept alone much of the time, having baby after baby in solitude and never seeing the court again? That was not a life for me, surely.

  Over and over I wished myself back in France. Over and over I wondered on the uselessness of my education abroad. If all I was destined for was a life as a country lady, kept within a castle in the wilds of Ireland, then I might as well have passed my youth at Hever. Perhaps then, I would not have the imagination to think so long and hard on my present fate…

  During that time at home, I worried greatly about my proposed marriage. But fortunately, not all the time. Distractions from my worries came with the joy of rediscovering my family, and Tom Wyatt kept his promise to visit, and visit often. Tom came riding over to Hever almost every day after George and Mary had left for the court, and as I missed them, I filled the hole they left in my heart with Tom’s conversation and companionship. Sometimes he brought his sister, Margaret, to visit with us, and I was delighted to find that the wry humour of the Wyatt’s bred as true in her blood as in Tom’s.

  We would walk together through the physic gardens where my mother grew medicinal and sweet tasting herbs for the table or for the still-room, through her rose gardens which were stark and fragile in the winter’s light. We rode out through the silver-frosted forests, racing each other through the land on our horses, or played at cards and dice when the rains kept us indoors. Tom seemed to have taken a long leave of absence from court, which somehow coincided with my arrival at his door on that rainy night of our first meeting. Although he said nothing of his diligent and attentive appearances at my side, I believed that he had become a little infatuated with me. And perhaps I had come to see him in a similar light. It was a heady experience to have such a man court me. But I would only be his mistress in the games of courtly love, I told myself sternly. Tom was married, and however much he was a pleasure to me, he could be nothing more.

  I believe I could have lost my heart to Tom Wyatt, if I had let myself. He excited me; he was a fine man, cultured and witty, full of humour and jest, but also strong and robust. He loved games and riddles, and we spent much time devising such diversions for each other that winter. He had an impish quality about him, and loved mischief, but there were deep feelings hidden under the glare he put forth to disguise such. I found him quite intriguing. He was the type of man that any woman would find hard to resist. And from what I gathered from my sister, who always knew more about these things than I, he had quite a reputation with the ladies of the court.

  “No lady can resist Master Wyatt when he turns his fine charm upon them.” Mary told me with a smile on one of her short visits to Hever. She and the King used nearby Penshurst Place as a rendezvous for their private meetings at times, and she would sometimes take a few days to come and see me as well. I lifted my eyebrows at Mary’s words and shook my head resolutely. I would prove to be the exception to this rule that no lady could resist the allure of young Master Wyatt.

  But even if it could be nothing other than friendship, or the office of a courtly admirer, it was exciting to have Tom around. It was also flattering and reassuring that I had an admirer already in this new land where I was still trying to find my feet. I knew well enough that if someone had proposed a match of marriage between Tom Wyatt and myself, and had he been free to marry, I should have been most happy to consider it. We would have made a good match in terms of our characters. But such dreams were not reality. Tom was taken. He was married, and I would be no man’s mistress, even one such as Tom, for whom I had such admiration and affection. Yes, I could have loved him, but I would not let myself. My heart would remain enclosed from harm, from falling for him, by the warnings of my mind. I was no foolish girl likely to break her heart for a man who could never be hers in truth. Tom and I were good friends, I told myself, and I was fortunate to have such a friend.

  Perhaps you will think me cruel, for at the time I thought not of the other heart in this matter. But it is not the place of any one person to be the master of the feelings of another. I could speak only for my own heart, and it could not be allowed to break itself for a love that could never be.

  Margaret Wyatt and I grew close quickly too; she told me of the household of the Queen, and of what my duties would entail. Margaret was an attractive woman with pale skin, soft brown hair and a small, pointed nose, but it was her humour which drew me to her, much like her brother’s. She was quite open in her admiration for me; seeming to think that I was far more sophisticated than any other she had ever met, which pleased me. When she returned to court, a little before I was due to leave, I missed her company, but looked forward to seeing her once more at court. It was nice to think there would be a friendly face there.

  Soon enough those languid, pleasurable days wintering at Hever were called to an end as our father wrote to command me to court. After a month or so in the country, I was more than ready to go once more to the life and vitality of a royal court. I was eager to see th
e English Court, and perhaps learn more of this match, and how I was to stop myself from being caught in it.

  My father wrote from Mechelen, ordering me to the English Court at Greenwich. It was like the summons of a general, calling his soldiers to war.

  Chapter Five

  Greenwich Palace

  1522

  In late February, I entered the court that I was to call home for the rest of my life. The storms of winter had died down a little, but the air was damper and felt much colder in England than in France. I had to line my clothing with furs and layers of good English wool to ward off the cold.

  My father released money for new garments, and I was given family jewels to enhance my already sophisticated appearance. New furs and thick velvet cloth graced my chests of new clothes, but I took with me also most of the gowns, sleeves, kirtles and hoods I had made myself in France. My sister had warned me that the styles of the England were different to those of France and that I should look out of place in my own gowns, styled to suit my form and shape. I cared little for her opinion on this matter, though; I knew what suited me best and I should not wear the dull garments that my sister flung on herself rather than the beautiful, elegant gowns that I was known for in France. I was going to make an impression here, just as I had everywhere else I went, and no one was going to tell me how to do that. As Marguerite had once said to me, sometimes it is better to keep one’s own counsel and to trust one’s own instincts.

  I had been chosen to enter the Queen’s service as a maid of honour and also as a servant of the Royal Wardrobe. It was a high honour, and one which brought much pleasure to me, for the Royal Wardrobe was full of the most gorgeous and expensive materials. I would be helping with the upkeep and cleaning of fabulously glorious materials, gowns, dresses, kirtles, stays… and I would hopefully be called on to counsel the Queen in what items to wear. I longed to see its riches and its splendour; fabric and dress being ever a grand passion of mine. I was not disappointed when I looked on the Royal Wardrobe; it was magnificent.

  The court was at Greenwich Palace when I joined it. It was often situated here, when near London, as Greenwich was the King’s favourite palace of residence. It was also large enough to contain not only most of the legitimate courtiers and statesmen, but also all the hangers-on; people who had no real reason to be at court, but were there anyway. These people were often a nuisance, and a drain on the King’s finances, but there was little that could be done about them. Cardinal Wolsey had tried many and varied ways to reduce the numbers at court in order to preserve more money for the King’s coffers. But even if sent away once, these unofficial courtiers always found ways back in. The court was so large that it was like some mythical beast, a many-headed hydra, made of many different parts of different animals. It was hard to tell who belonged and who did not.

  We came up to London along the river, and then took to horseback on the banks of the Thames just outside of the city. I wanted to see the city. Riding into London for the first time, as an adult, was quite an experience. Although I had seen cities in France and Burgundy, London had an identity all its own. And I smelt it long before I saw it.

  We rode through the outer-lying areas where rickety huts and basic villages sprawled into and up against the walls of the city. Riding into London with George and my family’s servants, there was a smell that was like no other: excrement and piss; baking meat pies and dirty, sweaty pigs; jasmine, lavender, rose and musk perfume; frying spices and human perspiration filled the air. I knew not whether to feel repulsed, rejuvenated or possibly, hungry. But I tell you, it was a heady feeling. The city was marked by its great monuments. Goldsmiths shops lined the street named the Strand to the great Cathedral of St Paul’s. Westminster Abbey stood tall and magnificent, its great towers stretching out above the skyline like fingers reaching up to God. London Bridge was hectic with masses of people and with shops all piled on top of one another in what looked to me to be less architecture and more grand lunacy. The Tower of London, with its great White Tower at the centre of the palace confines shone brilliant white against the light falling rain and grey skies. Around the edge of the Tower of London were the many smaller towers that lined its huge walls; they seemed to stare down on the crowded masses of people thronging through and about the great structure, watching the everyday comings and goings of the streets of London.

  Paris was bigger, but London was saturated with people; it felt as though every person in the realm of England was in those streets. Merchant’s stalls crowded the markets, selling hot meats and cold ale; ample, plump livestock jostled and brayed as they were herded through the streets; bake-houses puffed steam and wood smoke from their chimneys, crafting breads and pies for the houses nearby. There were novice lawyers in dark clothing wandering past and talking earnestly of that day’s lessons; pages running errands for their masters and maids out collecting or delivering laundry, their hands caught up in bundles and baskets of overflowing cloth. Ravens and jackdaws picked at scraps on the streets, flying off, squawking with annoyance when they were shooed away. Banners hung low and long over the streets in front of each shop, each seeking to be more prominent than the other, their bright pennants moved softly in the winds that blew through the streets. Flocks of hundreds of wintering swans flowed along the edges of the Thames like a fine trim of ermine on a cuff. And the noise! Everywhere, it seemed, people were talking, laughing, shouting and whispering as we bright and stylish young nobles rode past them. They scattered before us as we came, our horses and servants cutting swathes through the crowds.

  George had been sent to escort me through London to Greenwich. He rode beside me, an expensive pomander of orange oil, frangipani and lavender in his hand that matched my own made of lemon, cloves, sage and spices. It was necessary to move through many of the streets holding something to your nose; otherwise you would be overcome by the variety of smells battering your senses. Sweat and mud and blood and piss; bread and meat, baking pies and perfume. It was an exciting place to be taken within; a hungry, active, assault on the senses.

  As we rode, George pointed out sights to me. I was glad to have a guide to my own country, for it was all so strange to me… and yet it was not so different from France.

  “There,” he said as we rode near to London Bridge. “Look on the mark of a noble.”

  I looked to see what he meant and saw the place where they exhibited the heads of traitors, executed on the orders of the King. Some heads were rotting still upon their spikes, rooks and magpies picking at dark, pink threads of flesh waving gently in the wind. Some were just bare bones; skulls grinning widely in death, their eyes blank hollows. I shuddered and looked away, feeling suddenly cold despite the warm layers of wool under my fine gown of crimson.

  “It is said that the mark of a true noble is to have at least one relative up there on a spike…” George turned and grinned at me, and then, noting my reaction, he added with a more gentle tone. “And there is ours.”

  “Who?” I asked, looking back at the repulsive heads on their spikes; a futile gesture. There was no way I could have told you whose head was whose even if I had known them in life, from the motley collection of bones and flesh residing there.

  “Why… the Duke of Buckingham is right there.” George said, pointing at a skull which gaped at me. “He has been granted prime position! His daughter, Elizabeth, is married to our Howard uncle, Thomas. So, you see, we have our claim to true nobility right there on that spike… A duke, no less!”

  “Speak no more of such things, George,” I shivered. “It is a foul thing to look upon. There are other ways a family may count themselves as noble, without noting the traitors amongst their past.”

  “True enough, sister,” said George. “The King must take swift action in all cases of treason, just as he is a clement master to all those who are loyal to his name.” My brother spoke loudly enough for the servants to hear, as well as any about us, and then smiled sardonically at me, as though apologising for having to make a
point of the righteousness of the sentence of death for treason. There were ears in all places, it seemed, and it was better to always be seen to support the King than to question. I nodded to George, understanding him well.

  “Come, he said, turning his horse from the spectacle of death. “Let us speak of brighter things.”

  We reached Greenwich later that day, and I was allowed a change of gown and a little time to brush and dress my hair before I was called to an audience with the Queen. She preferred to meet her new ladies swiftly, I was told, so that she could ensure that their behaviour was in correlation with her expectations.

  Katherine was seated amongst her ladies in her privy chambers when I was brought to her. The chambers were quite dull to my eyes and dusty to my nose. Katherine’s ladies were used to the gloom. Remaining ensconced in poorly lit chambers helped to preserve their white faces and keep them warm in the chill airs of England. I liked more air and freshness around me. It seemed I would not get that in the service of Katherine. I walked softly into the chamber, my eyes downcast, and made a curtsey, awaiting notice by the Queen.

  One of the ladies was reading aloud in Latin from a book of devotions and the rest were sewing. Katherine had perhaps six or seven ladies of the noble families of England around her and as I entered, they all looked at me. Margaret Wyatt’s eyes were warm and welcoming, but the others looked on me speculatively. I was struck with the resemblance to my first entry to the court of Mechelen, but Katherine, Queen of England was no Margaret of Austria. She looked at me gently and bade me to rise from my humble pose before her. I looked up at her face where I saw a quiet, yet proud reserve, and a steady, thoughtful gaze. She had a somewhat serene sense about her, but Queen Katherine had none of the beauty or understated brilliance of Margaret of Austria. Her clothes were of the finest materials, and her jewels sparkled amongst the gloom of the chamber, but Katherine looked tired, where Margaret had seemed brilliant in her effortless beauty.