by G Lawrence
I was sad for Françoise, and her letter rang within my head in warning. I had thought that her officially recognised position as François’ mistress was untouchable. And yet, as another woman had danced before his eyes, he had turned from Françoise, banishing her from court and from his heart. For me, as Henry was hotly pursuing me, it seemed like a timely warning on the frailty of the promises of men. If Françoise, with all her allure, all her power and spirit, could fall from the favour of the King of France, then why should the same not be true for me if I allowed Henry of England to become my lover in truth? Would he not, one day, lose the love he had for me and cast me off for another? If I became his mistress, as I knew he wanted, would he not one day simply abandon me for another… as he had done with Mary? As the French King had done with Françoise? I wanted to believe Henry’s love was true, but how could I know? Françoise had believed that François loved her… and I had believed this also. I had no way of knowing if Henry’s love was true and lasting, or if it would dissolve with time. There was no security in the position of a mistress, I had known this before, and I knew it all the better now. Poor Françoise! I knew that her temper and fire had been the reason for her banishment, but what woman of any spirit would do otherwise, when they saw their love stolen by another? And yet, I still could not reconcile my feelings for Henry. It was a situation without an answer, as far as I could see; for I feared to be used and cast off, and yet he would not leave me alone… And I did not want him to. And so, our games went on; me refusing any post other than that of the courtly mistress of his heart, and Henry pleading with me to give him everything.
Not long after writing her letter to me, Françoise’ husband Jean all-but imprisoned her in their home at Chateaubriant. Since she was not welcome at court, Françoise had nowhere to go and no longer had a powerful lover and friend to protect her from her husband. There were dark rumours that Jean de Laval was a brutal man, and exacted a heavy price from his wife for her years as the lover of the King of France. I wrote to her often, but I do not know if she ever received my letters. I worried for her, I feared for her, but I could do nothing. She was the property of her husband now that François had abandoned her. There was nothing anyone could do to intervene. I never heard from her again.
In March, we received news at court that the Emperor Charles had married an Infanta of Portugal, Isabella. The eldest daughter of Manuel I of Portugal and Maria of Aragon, Isabella had been named after her maternal grandmother, Isabella I of Castile, Katherine’s own mother. Charles and Isabella were first cousins, but received dispensation for the match from the Pope. It was an arranged marriage, but apparently turned out to be a love-match also. She brought a huge dowry to the Spanish King and was noted for her beauty but also her intelligence. Charles was immediately taken with his new bride, and it was said that even when they were surrounded by others, they had eyes and ears for no one but each other.
However charmed Charles was with his marriage, Henry of England was not. The King was furious that Charles had gone against the terms of their supposedly secret treaty; the Emperor had been promised to his daughter Mary! The insult was vast, but it seemed the Emperor had not wished to wait for the young princess to grow into a woman; and the dowry, and person, of Isabella was a great deal more tempting to him than our English Princess. Adding further insult to the pride of the King of England, Isabella fell pregnant almost immediately, and later the next year, bore a healthy, handsome son for her Emperor. They named him Phillip.
Henry cursed Charles of Spain, saying that he had refused to honour his promises in many ways, and he would not deal with Spain again. Katherine kept quiet on the matter, but all of her servants could see her disappointment. She had thought of her nephew almost as her own son, and had longed to see him joined with her daughter. To have her beloved Mary cast aside for the Portuguese Princess was almost unbearable for her, and to lose the Emperor as a surrogate son, was perhaps just as painful. Katherine’s slight but ever-present frown deepened that year, and she looked older and more harried than ever. She ceased to come to many of the court entertainments, and it was rumoured that a great rift had opened between the King and her, as a result of his annoyance at the Emperor, and all things Spanish.
That year a young page came to the court. At just fifteen, he was almost an infant to me then, but he resolutely made his way into our circle. His name was Francis Weston, and Bridget in particular found him sweet company.
“He is such a child,” she giggled to me, “he reminds me of my own boy Henry… but one day I am sure Francis will be a handsome gallant. Look how he tries to ape Tom and your brother so, and he admires you greatly, Anne, you should hear how he talks of you… as though you are Diana of the forests!”
I smiled. It was pleasing to have more admirers, even if this one was little more than a child in truth.
That spring, a servant came to my chambers with another gift from Henry. This time there was no written message. The servant handed me the bundle, wrapped in beautiful yellow silks. “The King sends you these and requests that you keep them, without prejudice and without fear,” he said. “He asks that you keep them, as nothing is desired in return for them.”
I nodded. “Tell His Majesty, if that is indeed the case, then I will accept them gladly.” I gestured for the man to go.
Inside my rooms, I opened the parcel to find four beautiful gold brooches of the most delicate workmanship. The gold winked at me in the sunlight of my chamber. There were four separate designs engraved on them; Henry’s message, it seemed, was upon the brooches themselves. One of the brooches was intricately carved with an image of Venus and Cupid embracing; one depicted a lady with a heart in her hands; one showed a man laying in a woman’s lap, and the last was of a lady holding a crown. The symbolism was not hard to read. I was the mistress of his heart and the power rested with me.
I looked at the gifts; they had clearly been fashioned for me alone, and with such amazing delicacy and talent. I could not but be impressed and excited. My resolve to refuse any advance that Henry made towards me had not weakened, but I could not but feel exhilaration at the prospect of having such a man, and such a king, chasing me in this way. I felt the strong attraction of power, of my power over the King, and it thrilled me. That sense became a part of my love for him, in those early days. It is a heady thing, to have a king declare love for you; to send you gifts and ask for nothing in return… yes, it pleased me, but it worried me too… for how long was this power to be mine? Could I control Henry? Could I control the ardour of his passion for me, keep him at bay, and retain my honour? I felt a little dizzy with all that had gone on in the last few months.
I picked up the brooch that was engraved with a lady holding a crown, and fastened it to my dress. I took it off again… Then put it on again. I took it off again, and put it on the bed, staring at it. I took it up and pinned it to my breast. I felt like a child. What was I doing?
What if he were to offer me a position of an official mistress? I thought. Perhaps secure me a fine husband first, and then offer me the same place that Françoise had once occupied in France? But no, I thought next, my head swimming. Henry of England is not François of France. Henry of England does not have acknowledged mistresses, only covert ones that hide under the covers when the Queen arrives. And even if he were to offer you that, Anne Boleyn, I said sternly to myself, you would take it after all your resolutions on the high price of your honour? You know there would come a day when his eyes would stray elsewhere and you would be cast off! You could be imprisoned in a castle, like Françoise! You would give in, because he sends you pretty trinkets? You would give up everything so easily?
So distracted was I that I left my chambers with the brooch still attached. I walked straight into my brother George, who did not miss the shining bauble pinned to my dress.
“What’s this?” he asked and then his eyes widened as he saw the imagery of the crown in the woman’s hands. I snatched it back away from him and blushed.
“Tis’ nothing,” I blustered, “a mere trifle that an admirer sent.”
George raised his eyebrows at me. “A trifle?” he asked, smiling. “It is interesting to me what you consider to be a trifle, sister. You must have become fabulously wealthy through some private enterprise to consider such a thing a trifle. Come…” he looked seriously at me as he drew me to a window seat. “Tell me.”
I sighed. “There has been for some time, discussion as to who it is that has replaced our sister in the affections of the King,” I said. “I believe that I know who it is.”
“Yes?” said George.
I pointed at myself and George whistled. “I had suspected,” he admitted. “Does father know?”
“Not as yet, and I beg you, George, to say nothing to him.”
“Are you his mistress then?” he asked, his eyes narrowing at me. I shook my head.
“No?” George said with incredulity.
I shook my head again. “He asked me… and I refused.”
George laughed, but his expression quickly changed from grin to grimace. “You refused the King?”
“Yes.”
“You refused the King?”
“Yes!” I cried with some exasperation. “I said to him that I could not become his wife as he had one already… and that I should not ever play the part of mistress to him, or to any man.”
George whistled backwards, drawing in air through his mouth and letting out an off-key note at the same time. He stared at me and blew out a lungful of air. His face was pale. “What said the King to that?”
“Well… I think he was surprised,” I said and then laughed. George laughed with me, his face a peculiar mixture of panic and admiration. I was nervous to tell George to own the truth. I worried that his ambition, much like our father’s, might over-run his loyalty to me as a sister. But I was also glad to tell someone… to tell someone finally! I hoped that I could prevail upon him, for the love he had for me, to protect my secret.
“Sister, you should have been born a man for all the courage in you!” he exclaimed.
“Had I been born a man, I should not be in this trouble now,” I countered dryly.
George became serious again. “What do you mean to do?”
“I know not,” I sighed. “But I will not succumb to him. Think you that I wish to take the place that Mary has just left warm in his bed? No, soon enough this will pass and he will find another to dally with. It is nothing in truth, I am sure.”
I was not sure. Not sure at all. Not sure of anything. I wanted to believe that Henry loved me, but I did not know if it was love in truth, or if he merely wanted to convince me of such so that he could bed me. It was difficult, and my feelings ran up and down and hot and cold… When I was with Henry, I believed he loved me in truth. When we were apart, I doubted.
I tried to dismiss Henry’s interest in me as nothing to my brother; in truth, I felt awkward discussing it with my brother. Even though I trusted George, there was still much of our father in him. I did not want this to become a tool they could use to further their end… I did not want to become a tool… I remembered when Mary and I had talked about my engagement to Henry Percy, and father’s order to me to pursue him as a husband… ‘Whatever it takes,’ father had said. He had said those words to Mary, too, when Henry first noted her. I did not want to hear those words spoken to me now. I did not want to be ordered to give up what I had long held dear.
There was conviction in my voice, but George looked unsure. “How long has it been?”
I breathed in. I could not lie, but I also could not quite meet George’s gaze as I told him what I had been keeping from him, from everyone, for so long. “Since first he sent me jewels, I think it is a little less than a year.”
“Since first he sent you jewels?” George gaped at me. “What happened to those jewels?”
“I sent them back,” I admitted.
George’s eyes bulged.
“Do not tell me that I should have taken them when he was still bedding our sister!” I cried, my voice and body rising. George hushed me and pulled me back to the seat.
“It is just… no one has ever done such as you,” he whispered. “Most women come gladly when the King beckons them. And to own the truth, he is hardly prolific in his affairs. He tends to favour women who are like gentle does… like our sister. To return jewels and refuse his attentions is… unprecedented.” George looked wonderingly at me. “But then,” he said, “I have never heard of the King retaining interest in anyone without gratification for so long. A year since first he expressed interest?” I nodded. “That is interesting.”
“George, promise me, for the love you bear me that you will speak none of this to our father,” I pleaded, my words rushing over themselves. How I wanted to trust George! He was my brother and my friend, but would he keep my confidences in the face of our father? “I believe he will crucify me.”
George laughed, but agreed to remain silent. “As long as you do not keep secrets from me,” he said, “for I want to know all about this affair with the King As long as you promise that, I shall remain your secret keeper.”
I agreed. It was a relief to be able to talk to someone of it, after all.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Greenwich Palace
1526
It was at Shrovetide when the first indication came publicly that the King had a new love. Henry had arranged the usual tournament in celebration of Easter, and the court was housed at Greenwich. My brother and father were to ride in the joust amongst other members of the court. All courtiers were excited as we thronged together, standing in the early Easter chill, watching the arrival of the knights on their great horses.
The grand procession into the tourney grounds began; the marshals of the joust entered first, followed by the footmen, then the drummers pounding out the slow beat of the march, and the trumpeters ringing out the glorious progression as though it were a battlefield. Tudor colours of green and white sang in the sunshine, fluttering from the stalls and stands. Then came the lords and knights, following on two by two in their rich and glittering costumes. The metal of their armour glittered and their great horses snorted clouds of mist into the cold air. Then the pages appeared, then the jousters themselves, mounted on their war-like chargers. It seemed as though the Knights of the Round Table had risen from their earthly graves to seek glory once more. I heard the ladies around me gasp in admiration; for nothing and no man looked as well as one of these knights as they guided their horses through the cheering crowds.
Finally, and to the most applause, the King himself appeared in the procession. There was a great ringing on the trumpets and the drummers pounded the triumphant beat that echoed through the ground and through our bodies as we watched him arrive. The Queen stood in her royal stand to watch the arrival of her Coyer Loyal, her Sir Loyal Heart who had ridden for her favours so often and so gallantly. Her tired face was shining with love as she watched his arrival. I could see her chest rising and falling rapidly with all the excitement of a maiden waiting for her lover.
How disappointed she was to become.
A great murmuring started as the King arrived in the lists. On his jousting costume of gold and silver cloth, there was emblazoned on his chest a motto: Declare je nos, or, in English, ‘Declare I dare not’. The picture above the motto was of a man’s heart engulfed in flames made of red silk and gold cloth. It was evident that the King was proclaiming that he had a new mistress, a new love, and all the court were wondering… Who could it be?
There was great muttering in the stalls as people looked around as if thinking that they should be able to tell who the woman was merely by glancing. I kept my face a mask of astonishment like everyone else, but I could see Margaret and Bridget looking at me. I had told them nothing, but perhaps they had guessed at something. When I glanced at the Queen I saw that she had sat down again, her face impassive. Although few would have been able to tell that she was in any way disturbed by this
public display of probable infidelity on her husband’s part, I could see a small twitch of grief enter her face. Its bright happiness had fallen away, and she looked so tired and old in the dismal light of her disappointment. Gone was the shining face that had re-lived memories of her early life with Henry as he rode for her alone in the joust. Gone was the excitement, the pleasure of the day, and instead, there was the face of the consummate Queen she was. No one but those who knew her well would have been able to tell that she was grievously hurt. She was the master of her emotions and of her public face. I felt a twinge of guilt, for I knew well enough who her husband’s new love was. Katherine clapped her hands with everyone else as Henry, his athletic and muscular body ever at home on the hoof, rode into the grounds for the commencement of the tournament.
My father was lately returned from a diplomatic mission to France. I could see his fox-like eyes surveying the crowds for some sign about the identity of this new mistress that he had somehow missed. He looked at me directly, and although he made no outward sign, I knew there would be a meeting of our family later, to discuss this news. I gathered myself for the storm that was to follow. I could perhaps conceal some things from him, but if I were asked directly, I should have to answer truthfully; he was my father and I owed him my obedience and duty. For now, as I had no husband and no other titles but those which were due from him, I was as much in my father’s possession as any of the jewels he wore, or the clothes on his back. I feared what he might ask of me when he heard that I was the woman the King desired.