The Lady Anne

by G Lawrence

  Although the French had, at first, been caught unawares by the invasion of the Imperialist troops, they fought back with great strength, and at first it seemed as though the battle would be won by François… But as he and his men-at-arms charged again and again at the Spanish troops, they were shot at through the cover of the forests by arquebusiers, carrying new-style weapons with a great range. The French were bewildered by these new tactics, and more and more of them fell. They did not have time to reconsider their strategy at the height of this battle. They simply kept coming, and wave after wave of men were blasted back by the new weapons of the Spanish. Many drowned in the River Ticino. Their numbers diminished. In the resulting slaughter, the flower of French nobility was cut down. Many couriers and military heroes were killed. Amongst the dead was Richard de la Pole. François’ horse was shot from beneath him, yet he rose to fight on, on foot, a figure resplendent in a surcoat of silver… But he could not last. First his face was wounded, then his arm and hand, and at last he was struck to the ground, falling beneath the swords of his enemies. Not realizing that this was the King of France, the Imperial soldiers were about to kill him, until one of François’ own men called out “mercy for the King!” François was taken as a captive; his sword taken as a trophy, his forces destroyed and his pride in ruins. I, who knew him well, could imagine his humiliation and shame.

  The Battle of Pavia was over in less than two hours. In those two hours, more than eight thousand French troops fell to the guns, swords and pikes of the Holy Roman Emperor. Only seven hundred Imperialist troops were killed. The French were now in the hands of Charles of Spain and his allies.

  I mourned for the destruction of the French troops, and worried for the sake of François, whom I had admired and been charmed by in my time at the French Court. He was a man of great pride, and no doubt he felt the stain of his disgrace and defeat keenly. I worried, too, for his sister, Marguerite, and for Françoise. I knew how precious François was to them, and how sorely they would fear for him now. How I wanted to write to them! To offer the solace of friendship at such a time! But I could not. To write to the Princess of France, or the mistress of the King of France when our countries were at war was a thing impossible, for I would be held as a traitor if it were ever discovered. How I wished that they could feel the strain of my heart in wishing to comfort them! I prayed often for my friends of France in those cold days… and hoped that they would feel the love I had for them, even as I hoped God would listen to my prayers for their comfort and safety.

  When Charles heard of the Battle of Pavia, and of François’ capture, he apparently little rejoiced, but went instead to pray in his chambers. When Henry heard of it, he leapt from his bed, praising God and all the saints, and called for wine and celebration. He was overjoyed to hear that Richard de la Pole had been cut down in battle, for it removed another potential rival for the Tudor line on the English throne. But Henry had other reasons to celebrate. He now hoped that the lands that had been promised to him in the original treaty between Spain and England would finally be granted. With the removal of English troops, however, from France to Flanders the year before, after the failed invasion of Paris, many wondered if the Emperor would indeed keep his word and honour the original treaty… In time, we would see that the slippery Emperor would not keep his promises to England.

  France passed into the hands of Louise of Savoy, François’ mother, as Madame Regent. She negotiated with Charles, and with the Pope, for her son’s safe release. Attempts were made to release François both through negotiation and duplicity, but he remained in the Emperor’s hands, and was taken to the tower of the Alcazar, in Madrid. François was given but one small room, with space for a bed, a table and a chair, but no more. Poor noble François, who had spent most of his life in the most opulent of chambers in the most opulent of palaces! Who had delighted in building and architecture! He was now imprisoned in a tower that was over one hundred feet tall, with but one small window to look from. Later, François would write of his captivity, saying “Le corps vaincu, le Coeur reste vainqueur” or “The body is conquered, the heart remains the victor.” He fell ill within that dismal tower, and ran a fever that many thought would bring him death. Marguerite herself travelled to Spain, and was allowed to tend upon her brother. Such was the love between them that she could not allow him to languish in that awful tower alone. They heard Mass together, and François’ fever broke. It was viewed as a miracle, and proclaimed about France.

  Marguerite could not stay with François for the whole time of his captivity, but she left him a small dog, who leapt into his bed every morning, which seemed to bring him some happiness. All through that year, the French King, captured and held prisoner, but still refusing to give in to the demands of the Emperor, refused to sign the treaties put before him, and refused to abdicate his throne. François was a man of iron under the charming light of his character… He would not give in to Charles, even though he was his prisoner.

  How I admired such mettle within the French King’s spirit! Here was a man who, even in defeat, would not be defeated. I was cheered to hear that Marguerite had gone to François, and touched by the strength of their sibling love. I knew that if such a situation had ever happened to my own brother that I too would have flown to his side. And my heart was happy to hear of François’ unbroken spirit. Silently, I cursed at the Spanish, for in their victory they had seen the humiliation of the French, the country I adored. But at least all the world could see what a man the King of France was, and even in the height of their humiliation, the French could lift their chins at the spirit of their ruler, and say “Such a man, such a king as this, is ours.”

  The wars that had raged about Europe seemed, with the capture of François, to be on the decline, and Henry of England waited for the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles of Spain to grant him the lands and titles that had been promised. Henry wanted to rule France as well as England. He wanted to take back that hereditary title, so beloved to the English since the heady days of Agincourt…. But he would wait that summer in vain for Charles’ promises to become truth. The Holy Roman Emperor, it seemed, had no intention of holding to the terms of his treaty with England. Henry grew suspicious of Charles’ intentions, and started to send dispatches to his prior enemy, France, in the hopes of a new treaty with them. It seemed strange to think so soon after engaging in war against the French, that we could become their friends again, but the French were willing and happy to enter into talks, hoping to gain support against Charles. Henry did not break with Spain, as yet, but he was happy to play both sides of the conflict, to see what came of it for his own gain. Wolsey was most busy that summer, trying to bring about the promises made by the Emperor, whilst also dancing attendance upon France when the Spanish were not looking… The slippery eel was gifted at such delicate proceedings, and the King trusted Wolsey without question to always work for his gain.

  And so, as the wars of Europe closed for another chapter, we at court put aside military thoughts and started to think on the pleasures of the coming summer. Spring days melted away, and a fresh scent could be smelt on the wind. As though something was coming, something new, something interesting…

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Richmond Palace

  1525

  The court was a lively place to be that year; entertainments were frequent, as were tournaments, and on good days we often went out to watch Henry playing his men at tennis in the courts. The King was a truly gifted tennis player, and could ricochet the hard ball like no other about the walls of the courts, usually catching his opponent entirely off-guard. We placed wagers on the matches, but you were a fool if you did not bet on the King when he was playing. I won many wagers due to Henry’s swift stroke and keen eye. When we were not about the court, the Queen’s ladies were kept increasingly busy with the good works that Katherine wanted us to undertake. It was of some relief when I found that I could take an hour’s rest, one afternoon, and leave the dismal space of Katherine’
s chambers, to escape into the gardens.

  It was an early summer’s afternoon when I stepped from the confines of the palace and out, into the glorious gardens. I lifted my head and caught the keen scent of rosemary stalks being plucked from their hard centre by the able hands of a kitchen maid in the near distance. Winged stalks of flowing fennel danced merrily in the light breeze, and bright yellow flowers of water-flag shone happily in the sunshine. I breathed in a sigh of relief, and of pleasure, to have the sun on my skin, and feel the clean air in my chest.

  Lately, it seemed, Katherine had us so busy sewing altar cloths and clothes for the poor that I had hardly a moment to myself between morn and dusk. It seemed that we were to dance in her chambers no more, nor were we to play on the virginals or clavichord, or sing to pass the hours.

  Katherine’s vigour for charity seemed to be a cloak for her sadness. We all knew now that the King no longer came to her bed; she was past childbearing age and was no longer desirable enough to tempt him to bed on her own merits. In her rooms there hung a portrait of the pretty, delicate-featured princess that Katherine had been when she came first to our shores to marry Prince Arthur, Henry’s older brother. Then, she had been a happy young bride, with her all life in front of her. There was little left of that girl now in amongst the figure ruined by unproductive child bearing, there was no rose tint in her pale cheeks. The happiness and sense of hope that radiated from that portrait was absent now from the desperate, sad woman before us. Day after day, hour after hour, she spent in prayer. Her knees were raw and scabbed from kneeling on cold and rough floors begging God to bring a miracle to her empty womb and give her a prince to present to the King. I believe also that in each altar cloth and each rough tunic for the poor that we sewed, there was a desolate prayer for God to remember her, his servant, and to grant her the child she desperately craved. I found Katherine’s constant sadness oppressive. Think badly of me if you will for that, but I was young and bright. To me, the court was a place of enjoyment and entertainments. I wanted little to spend all my days wrapped in the misery of Katherine’s troubles.

  I walked to sit on a large oaken bench by the side of one of the ornamental ponds in the grounds of Richmond. Early dog-roses bloomed pink and pretty by the pond and the slight shade, afforded by a happily placed tree, kept my pale complexion from being burned by the sun. I had a book that I was most interested in that George had brought back from a recent diplomatic mission to France. Peace was being talked of between England and France once again, and my brother and father had been amongst those chosen to enter such talks. George was really accompanying our father to be tutored in the skills an ambassador required, but it was still a high honour. It looked as though we might turn once again to our nearest neighbours for alliance. I was pleased, obviously, for I had rather England be friends with France. George had managed to meet with friends of Marguerite, who had passed on a volume of her work that she had apparently wished to send to me for some time. It was a section from a book of short stories that she was working on. I was most pleased that Marguerite would remember me with enough affection to send me a part of her as yet unfinished work. I personally could not show my poetry or other works to anyone until I was sure they were of a standard I could bear to hear in public without wincing. But then, Marguerite was a braver and more talented woman than I.

  Her book was as yet untitled, but was very much in the style of Boccaccio’s Decameron, or Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales in that it was a collection of stories told by various members of a party. Marguerite’s was, however, somewhat different, as each story was in some way about the relationship between men and women and the various tricks each employ in the game of love… or lust. I had not the whole collection, as it was by no means finished, but I had enough tales to read with pleasure and sometimes with distress.

  Marguerite was a beautiful story-teller and a powerful one. As I sat by that small pond and the fish lapped the top of the waters, I read one tale that brought tears to my eyes. After finishing it, I was sobbing into my hands. It was the fourth tale of the book and it was so familiar as I read it that I could hear Marguerite’s voice ringing out from the past. I felt as though I sat once more before her, dishevelled and disgraced after that whore’s bastard had tried to force himself upon me. In my mind’s eye, I saw Marguerite’s dark eyes glisten with pain as I read the tale before me. It was a story about attempted rape, you see, on a princess who is told by her waiting woman that she cannot pursue revenge for the assault for fear of staining her own reputation.

  Marguerite had drawn from her own experiences and laid her soul bare on the pages spread before me.

  After my own experience in France with a man who would not take no as an answer from a woman, the story cut deep with old memories of sorrow and pain. I felt that night’s fear return to my heart. I heard my own cries as he forced his hand over my mouth, and I felt the terror that only those who have ever been in such a situation can know; the awful feeling of having your own personal power taken from you by another. The humiliation… the abject terror… the pain of feeling someone rip your soul as they seek to take their disgusting satisfaction. Even though he had not succeeded in raping me, that man had taken much from me that night.

  I read the story, but could not continue to read the volume afterwards. I wept with the parchment in my hands, held so softly to prevent it from crumpling. My tears came thick and fast, falling against my cheeks and raining on the ground at my feet. I noted nothing about me, until I heard a footfall directly behind me. Someone had come near whilst I had been occupied in my sorrow, and was standing right behind me. I folded the papers hastily and tucked them into the pockets of my dress folds. I wiped furiously at my eyes. I had not wanted anyone to see me in such a condition. As I stood, turned and curtseyed, I could see nothing before me but the blindness of my tears. The form before me wavered in and out of focus, distorted by the water flowing in my eyes. I made a curtsey, and mumbled something as I tried to leave quickly to recover myself away from the eyes of others.

  “Mistress Boleyn?” It was a man’s voice, soft, gruff with gentleness and concern. I recognised the voice, as all members of his court must. I blinked back heavy tears that flooded my face with their salt water and stumbled to curtsey again to the tall figure of the King standing before me. My cheeks flushed red with chagrin. I did not want to be found, in such a personal moment of sorrow and anguish, by anyone, but certainly not by the King! I swiped at my eyes once more and smiled, lowering them from his worried gaze.

  Unusually, Henry was not escorted by a whole group of men, but by one; Thomas More stood in his habitual dark robes by the King’s looking, as I could see now through my clearing vision, both amused and slightly disapproving of me. Ladies of the court should not be found so; alone and in a state of dishevelment.

  But in Henry’s face there was none of the sanctimonious disapproval of his servant. He nodded to More who noted the gesture and quietly left with a short bow towards me.

  “Mistress Boleyn, are you well?” he asked gently, taking a step towards me and gesturing at the bench from which I had risen as a place to sit again.

  “I…” I began to stutter, but was stopped by his leading me to the bench and sitting me down next to him. His hands were gentle and his expression held nothing but concern for me. I sat next to Henry and felt comfort radiating from him. I could not entirely stem the flow of tears from my eyes now that it had begun, and found my King silently passing a piece of gold-trimmed cloth towards me, with which to wipe my eyes. I was glad suddenly that I was not made a fright to look on by the act of crying as some women are. My pale cheeks picked up colour when I cried and my black eyes shone wildly bright. I blinked back the remaining tears and smiled at the fine-looking man who sat at my side.

  I shall always remember him on that day; his golden hair shone in the sun and the blue waters of the pond were reflected in his piercing eyes. There was such gentleness in his manner that I felt entirely safe, something th
at was all too rare after the experience I had undergone in France. Although I had trusted other men, such as Tom and Percy, there still had been moments when I had felt wary of them. But with the King, with Henry, as I sat there in the sunshine, I felt as though he would allow nothing to harm me. I had never felt so assured of anything in my life before. He wanted nothing from me at this moment but for me to be happy again. I knew that as well as I knew the skies were above me and the earth was below.

  I passed his cloth back to him and took a deep breath. “I am grateful, Your Majesty,” I muttered. “I am sorry to have inconvenienced you.”

  He looked directly into my eyes, and I felt my heart quicken. “You have not inconvenienced me, Mistress Boleyn.” He tucked the little cloth into his sleeve of purple and silver. “But I will discover what knave has made you weep so, and I will make them aware of our displeasure.” He looked at me again and I was amazed to see a faint blush across his cheekbones; whether it was through anger or embarrassment I knew not.

  I smiled at his words, and a little laugh escaped my lips. He lifted his eyebrows and I pulled the sheets of paper from my dress, handing them to him. “I fear that making the person who caused me to cry aware of your displeasure may incur an international incident, Your Majesty.” I showed him the seal of Marguerite on the bundle of papers. “The culprit is the sister of the King of France, the Princess Marguerite, whom I served in France when I served in the household of the late Queen Claude. Since our countries are so lately in talks of peace, the Princess sent me this through mutual friends. It is of little importance to international affairs, but of personal interest to me. It is some stories from her new collection of tales and there was one that chilled my heart and brought forth such tears from me that I knew not that the King of England stood before me.” I showed him the papers, slightly worried that despite my diplomatic words I might be called to account for receiving papers from France. He said nothing on that matter, however. He glanced at them and then at me.