Among the lesser things that France taught Anne was how to dress. Beneath her mistress’s amused, indulgent eye Anne began to experiment. Cautiously, with small details, at first. Intriguing little gold bells tinkling at the points of her velvet cape, so that everywhere men’s eyes followed her. Or a headdress of plaited gauze, costing more in ingenuity than in money. A headdress which looked like a gossamer halo above her shining dark hair, and drove richer women with heavier features to distraction.
And then, becoming more daring, she discovered that a graceful girl can wear anything, and that fashionable women are but sheep.
A pert French girl, grudging her an admirer, had remarked too audibly that it was amazing how a man of breeding could desire to kiss a foreigner with a deformed hand and an ugly mole upon her neck. Actually, Anne’s mole was small; but her sensitiveness was great. Floods of tears soaked her pillow that night, but not for worlds would she have let her rivals see her mortification. After much thought she rose and went to her duties and, while putting away the Queen’s jewels, asked humbly if she might borrow a deep pearled collar that Mary seldom wore. The pearls were set on tiny bands of black velvet and it suited Anne’s long, slender neck to perfection, making her look more mature and adding to the lustre of her eyes. Quite effectively, it hid the offending mole and deprived quite a number of other French girls of their dance partners. And then two important duchesses began to grace the Palace in high, jewelled collars, and half the Court followed suit. “Why, Nan, you have set the fashion with my poor little trinket! You had better keep it,” laughed her mistress generously.
With such encouragement, Anne’s courage soared. At last she dared to do what she had always wanted to. With the help of her sewing woman she designed a full, hanging sleeve which afforded cover for her blemished left hand. Lined with silver taffeta, such sleeves were immensely effective against her gown of midnight blue. Burning with self-consciousness, she took her place at supper and braved the barrage of her rivals’ titters. And it was that night the Dauphin Francis asked her to lead the dance with him. And because Anne was as skilled in the dance as she was about clothes, a new French fashion was born. The Boleyn sleeve.
Anne would have been scarcely human had she not been elated. Even the Queen complimented her, and right from girlhood Wyatt’s polished love-making had accustomed her to lap up adulation. Oddly enough, it was her father who was not so pleased. He drew her aside and warned her, gently, to be careful. “We want no breath of scandal to touch you here. Who knows but what it might spoil your chances hereafter in England?” he said. And Anne wondered what was in his farseeing mind. She had supposed that he was waiting to see what matrimonial chances offered for her in France, where she had already met several men who could stir her senses, but as yet none who could touch her heart. But she rejoiced that she was still free. Free to distribute her favours lightly, to read fine French poetry, to learn to play a variety of musical instruments, and to invent new dance steps for her friends.
In the froth of light flirtations, Anne had almost forgotten the splendid lover of girlhood’s dreams. Life was so glittering, so gay.
And then, suddenly, Louis of France died. Quite effortlessly, it seemed, like a withered leaf falling into its bright parterre of perfumed flowers.
Instantly, all the colours and the music ceased. The Court became a world of sombre black. Dirges and requiems were the only sounds. Le roi est mort. And with the sad words, Mary ceased to be Queen of France. She was just a widow. A widow with real tears in her eyes. For it was impossible for one so affectionate not to feel gratitude for her husband’s many kindnesses, and not least, perhaps, for the last boon of all.
“Louis was always kind. And, after all, it wasn’t very long,” she said.
“Shall we be going home?” asked Anne. Now that all the dancing was done, Hever was beginning to tear at her heart again.
“Sir Thomas tells me that if we do my brother will be sending milord of Suffolk to fetch me thither,” answered the comely dowager Queen, with a little secret smile.
Her women were assisting at her levée after the week of strict mourning during which etiquette required a royal widow to keep her bed; but when they had changed her white weeds for unbecoming black ones, she sent them all away except Anne. “It is rumoured that some of the French Council are urging Francis to marry me,” she said. “The Dauphin! The new King, I mean!”
Anne stared aghast. “But you are—”
“His aunt by marriage? Yes.” The little humorous dimple dented Mary’s cheek. “And not really old enough to be that!”
“You mean they want it because it would continue the alliance?”
“I suppose so.”
“But it would be almost incest!”
Mary Tudor shrugged dolefully. “If the Pope granted a dispensation when King Henry had to marry our elder brother’s widow, in all likelihood his Holiness could be persuaded about this. Particularly now we have an English Cardinal.”
“But the King promised that you should choose. That day at Dover—”
“Yes, the King promised. I must pin my faith to that.” Mary got up from her dressing stool and began pacing the room, drawing a dismal trail of black draperies behind her. “Oh, if only I knew! If only I could see Henry.”
“At least you will see milord the Duke,” Anne reminded her. She, herself, had no particular desire to see him; but if it comforted her mistress—Anne put down on a chair again all the scattered garments she had so absent-mindedly gathered up. Automatically she went to fetch Mary’s jewel coffer, her mind searching for further comfort as she went. “Madame, I remember one evening when the Dauphin did me the honour to dance with me,” she began impulsively, carrying the richly inlaid box across the room. “That is, when he was urging me to—to be more kind—” She stopped abruptly, with burning cheeks.
Mary watched the girl’s reflection in her mirror. “Yes, Nan? I can imagine he did. You know you can speak quite openly,” she encouraged, smiling a little.
Anne set down the jewels before her. “I expect he was trying to make me sorry for him,” she explained apologetically. “He told me he supposed he would soon have to marry King Louis’ daughter. His sex-dry, sanctimonious cousin Claude, he called her. For his sins, he said, and to strengthen the succession.”
Mary could so easily imagine Francis saying it. In spite of her own anxieties, she had to laugh. “I hope it may prove true,” she said, selecting the earrings she wanted and clipping them on. She jerked up her russet head, so that they swung like defiant stars. “But whether it be true or not, I will not marry him!” she declared.
Girls often talked like that in the privacy of their own rooms; and then meekly obeyed their menfolk. “But if King Henry insists?” murmured Anne, regarding her with admiration.
Mary sprang up, closing her jewel case with a snap. “Am I not a Tudor, too?” she boasted. “And quicker, being a woman?” In this whirlwind mood she was a small replica of her brother, and even in her unbecoming weeds she managed to look most inappropriately radiant—a ripe woman with all her warm capacity for love running riot. “After all,” she excused herself, half laughing, “he shouldn’t be such a fool as to put temptation in my way!”
Full comprehension of her words left Anne breathless. It had not occurred to her that a woman could really disobey about marriage. “You mean that you will marry the Duke when he comes? Without waiting for permission? Here in Paris?”
Chapter Five
When the Duke and temptation came, it was to take Mary back to England. Beyond that, Henry had said nothing. And it was not for a commoner, hankering after a Princess of the royal blood, to ask. Probably Henry had never even thought of him as a suitor, or perceived the danger of sending him. The Brandons were nouveaux riches, even more so than the usurping Tudors. No royal favour could make Charles’ lineage like that of the Duke of Norfolk, Anne’s maternal uncle, whose f
amily had often intermarried with the Plantagenets and whose quarterings were prouder than the King’s.
Out of respect for Louis, Mary lived in seclusion for some weeks. She and Suffolk rode and hawked together in the parklands whenever they dared. But all too soon came a letter from England full of welcome and brotherly affection; and an envoy primed with instructions regarding their return.
It was the following morning that Anne was summoned early from her bed. She shivered as she drew her fur-lined cape about her and hurried through deserted, draughty passages. Although none of the other women had been roused, she found her mistress already dressed, and Suffolk standing by the window in her bedroom. Mary had discarded her black and put on rose brocade. They both looked bright-eyed and pale, almost like children bent on some unlawful enterprise, and the Duke was snapping his long loose fingers as he always did in moments of stress. Beyond them, through a low arch, Anne could see a priest moving about in the little private oratory.
“We want you to be a witness to our marriage,” said Mary, without preamble.
Anne felt cold with excitement and fear. “Does my father know?” she asked.
Mary shook her head.
“Better that he be not involved,” said Suffolk courteously. But they all knew that somehow her father would have prevented it.
The candles were lighted and the young priest stood waiting in the archway, his frayed vestments no whiter than his face. He was no celebrated French prelate, fit to marry royalty; only a humble English monk who had done nothing more conspicuous all his life than fear God.
“But now he fears Henry Tudor more,” thought Anne.
The sea might flow between, but Henry Tudor was in the minds of all of them, and his presence seemed to dominate the room. Somehow they all found themselves talking in whispers. Anne turned appealingly to Mary, formalities forgotten. “Wouldn’t it be safer to wait?” she suggested.
As if in answer, Mary went buoyantly to her lover’s side and pushed open a casement. Spring sunshine streamed over her gown and on her eager hands, making her the most romantic thing Anne had ever seen. Outside, the Seine was sparkling through thin morning mists, and the great city was coming to life. Birds were singing in the garden trees, and the heavy scent of lilac caught at one’s senses. “I have waited so long,” breathed Mary, betraying herself to a suspicion that fear of being forced to marry the Dauphin had had nothing to do with it.
Suffolk took her into his arms carefully, as if afraid of crushing her beautiful dress.
Anne realized that in his present situation he must be afraid of a good many things. But mostly, at the moment, her mind was criticizing him as a lover. Had he been her lover, she would not have minded about any rose brocade. Only that the man for whom she risked so much should be ardent. Ardent enough to match her courage, and to satisfy that denied, ravening desire that was hidden in her. Anne felt the flame of it rising, suffocating her, so that she put a hand to her slender throat. On a magic morning like this, while lovers were still young, the fusion of two such forces should indeed have power to jettison fear and tradition and common sense. How right, she thought, to snatch at real love when one met it! To escape the ugly obscenity of bartered sex. How thrilling to be married secretly in Paris, in the spring!
But common sense had a way of outliving sentiment. “W-what will become of me, Madame?” she asked, when that unadorned, brief sacrament was over, the frightened priest gone, and when the thought of what her father would say was very present.
“You know that there will always be a place for you wherever we live,” Mary assured her.
“Will that be in England?” asked Anne.
The Duke himself handed her a glass of wine. “I am afraid not, Mistress Boleyn. Not for awhile, at least,” he said gravely.
“Dear Nan, it may mean hardship and even ignominy,” prophesied Mary, too honest to persuade. “Living quietly away from Court until we hear whether my brother will receive us. My husband,” Mary Tudor smiled at him and blushed adorably. “My husband is going to write to Cardinal Wolsey to plead for us to the King.”
That seemed a very sensible thing to do. Anne conjured up a picture of the rich, scarlet-clad Cardinal who, more than any man in England, had the King’s ear. “Is he kind?” she asked, ingenuously.
“He has always been kind to me,” answered Mary, as simply.
Then surely the King must forgive them. And if he didn’t? Mary, at least, would never suffer at his hands. Living with her might mean giving up for a time all the fun and fashion and flattery of palaces, all the excitement of this newfound power with men, all her success. Anne’s mind ranged regretfully over these hard-won things that had come to mean so much to her. In any other mood the thought of losing them would have swayed her more. But today it was not her head, but her heart, that was involved. The primal part of her that loved Jocunda and stirred to the beauty of a Kentish garden. Anne did not love easily. The circle of her dear ones was small; but she had learned to love with loyalty. And, essentially, she was a gambler. After all, everything might turn out well. Caught in the right mood, Henry might possibly have granted them permission to marry anyway. If one had the courage, it was always worthwhile challenging life. Anne kissed Mary’s hand, made her obeisance to the Duke, and said she would stay.
All day she went about with a vast sense of importance and primly sealed lips. But all this romantic pother had made her forget that staying or going did not rest with her.
After supper her father sent for her. It was rarely that she saw him in the sombre panelled room where he worked and talked with important people about international affairs. “It is known all over Paris that the Duke of Suffolk has abused the trust our master placed in him, so it is time I made other plans for you,” he said, still writing the last sentence of his dispatches.
In this setting he seemed like some stranger, and Anne tried to speak as if she were at ease. “I know about it. I was there,” she admitted. “And I have promised to stay in milady’s household.”
“Don’t talk like a fool, Anne!” he said, without looking up.
She stared down at his neat, greying head in dismay. She knew that he only called her Anne on formal occasions, or when he was very much displeased. “You mean you will not let me?”
Sir Thomas appeared to be reading over what he had written. “Mary Tudor is no longer Queen of France,” he observed.
Anne stood before him feeling very young and unsure of herself. “No. I suppose she is just the Duchess of Suffolk now, but I know how much she has always wanted to be Charles Brandon’s wife. And when a woman—”
“She may not long be anybody’s wife,” interrupted Sir Thomas grimly. “She may be widowed again.”
“Then the Duke is a very brave man,” said Anne, grudgingly.
“Or plays for very high stakes. Without the King’s mercy this sudden lunacy could be accounted treason.”
She remembered how unimpassioned he had been, and that any children of the union would stand very near the succession. Traitors who coveted the crown were beheaded on the block. For the first time a faint impact of tragedy impinged upon Anne’s carefree life. The possibility of it for someone she had actually spoken to—someone she knew. And thinking of the morning’s ecstasy, she realized what a different degree of widowhood such tragic loss would mean to Mary. Anne’s new-born selflessness made a last desperate flutter. “But do you not see, sir, she would want me all the more. It has always been, ‘Nan, Nan, the Queen has need of you!’”
“You did well in her service,” conceded her father, more mildly. “But we must wait and see whether the King will pardon them.”
Anne watched him seal and roll his parchments. “Is it true that they would have made her marry the new French king?” she asked.
“No. There was a minority for it in the Council. But he is going to marry his cousin Claude.”
Sir Thomas dismissed the matter as irrelevant, and Anne felt sure that Mary had seized upon the scare as an excuse. She sat down slowly by the hearth. It had all been rather a shock, and her father had never insisted upon his children standing upon ceremony.
He came now and stood with a hand on the back of her chair. “My dear Nan, it is not like you to be unreasonable. We are all devoted to her Grace. But surely you don’t suppose I would risk offending the King for a matter of womanish sentiment? I have your brother’s career to consider. And then there is my claim to your great-grandfather’s estates and the earldom of Ormonde which is still in dispute. We must all move cautiously until we know how the King takes this outrage.”
Anne began to feel afraid. She wished he hadn’t talked about treason. It was a terrible word. “Do you think, sir, that he will hold it against me that I was a witness at their marriage?” she asked.
Sir Thomas Boleyn fingered his gold chain of office consideringly. “You are very young, and I shall do my best to persuade him that being in the Princess’ service you had no option but to obey. But if you go on doing such impulsively foolish things I shall begin to think that, after all, the admirable Simonette did not quite finish your education.” He went back to a final sorting of the dispatches on his table. “And in that case, there are plenty of good convents in France,” he added.
It was the usual threat to insubordination—the accepted retreat from any family impasse. And Anne had no desire for la vie religieuse. “What do you propose doing with me, sir?” she enquired docilely.
“I see no reason to change my original plans for the present,” said her father, suavely. “You have always wished to be in the household of the Queen of France.”
Anne sprang up. “You mean Claude?” All that Francis had said about his cousin came back to her. “But she is so strict!”
“She is a very God-fearing woman.”
Brief Gaudy Hour Page 4
