by G Lawrence
“You have never seen such a thing before?” he asked slowly and then shrugged. “But, why would you, of course?” He seemed to be asking this of himself rather than answering me, but I waited patiently for an answer.
Claude looked down at me kindly. “They are not blinded, Mistress Anna, only seeled. Their eyes are sewn with one small stitch, so that when they travel they will not panic to see all the people and the things around them. They see nothing and therefore they are calm. Were they to travel without being seeled, then they would panic at every new sight, do damage to themselves or fly away, and lose good coin from the purses of these men who would have to replace them. This is how such birds are moved from their native lands to the homes of nobles, like your father, for use in hunting. They are well treated, fear not for them. The birds sense and see no danger, so they are calm and placid in the hands of their masters.”
I shivered. I understood what he meant, and that he meant to reassure me but I liked it not. The birds could see nothing of the vast world around them. They could not see danger should it arise through the sewn lids of their eyes. They were at the mercy of those that bore them from town to town. These birds were capable of such freedom, flying into the winds of the world with their graceful bodies. And yet, here, they were captives in truth, at the mercy of others, unable to sense or see for themselves.
“I would rather see,” I said to Claude and he smiled.
“But you, my lady, are a person. Not a flighty bird. God has given you different gifts. This is better for them; they are well cared for, I promise you.”
Bouton nodded to the men who guarded the birds, and they smiled at me, bowing their heads and touching their forelocks. I nodded, but still felt sorrow in my heart for the birds with ugly stitches covering their beautiful, noble eyes. I would not like to be treated that way.
As we travelled, I saw poor peasants and townspeople. They were much like the people in our village at Hever, they dressed the same, although to my mind many of them looked a lot hungrier. My family, my mother in particular, was generous with the leavings of our table and the giving of alms to the poor at Mass. Some of the common people I saw on my way to Mechelen were in far more desperate straits that the people who lived in the lands of the Boleyns. But I learned that other masters were less generous to their tenants and farmers than my mother was, and the people suffered for it. I had been given money of my own for the journey and for use at the court of Margaret of Austria, but what I had been given to dispense as alms for the poor, I gave. There was little more that I could do, but on that journey I found within myself the first small threads of what it meant to give Christian charity to others, what my small coins could buy a family to eat. And although I had been told many times that God chose where to place his children in the order of the world, I could not help but think there had to be a duty to care for those who were less fortunate than others. My mother believed this, and so now I came to understand why she insisted so on ensuring the bellies of our people were fed. It seemed that not all lords were as keen to preserve Christian values as my mother was.
We stayed in inns on occasion on that long journey, but more often at abbeys and at the houses of nobles along the way. My father had arranged a great many families for us to stay with along the road to Mechelen. Sending his daughter, even one as young as I, was a good way to start a friendship with other courtiers. I had become an ambassador for the Boleyn family it seemed. I ate with many noble families and made sure I did not disgrace my family with my conversation or table manners. My father was never a man to waste an opportunity to advance the Boleyns. I felt also as though I was being tested somewhat by him. In some ways, I always felt as though I was being tested by him. It was his way. But I was learning much. This first trip also prepared me for the constant travelling of the courts at which I later lived. Both the French Court and the English were forever on the move; I learnt to find a home wherever I was, and to converse easily with strangers. These were good things to learn early in life.
And soon, we came to Mechelen…
The Hapsburg Court of Burgundy was, at that time, one of the most cultured and romantic courts in Christendom. We arrived after perhaps a month of travel, for it seemed my father had arranged for me to meet and dine with every noble house from Hever to Mechelen, and so our pace had hardly been ferocious. My eyes and my mouth were struck dumb with awe and wonder when we arrived into the gracious buildings of the court. There was never such a place as grand as this in all the world, I thought. If the saints themselves and all the apostles had arrived to greet me I could not have been more amazed, or more humbled. There were so many people and so many buildings. The main court itself resided in the palace of Mechelen, but there were outside buildings, vast sprawling estates and structures that had other functions that were kept separate from the court.
The kitchens, for example, were one of these. Kitchens were always so noisy and full with the smells of cooking that it is sensible to keep them apart from the living areas; one likes the smell of delicious cooking on the table, but not on one’s clothing, after all. There was also of course a risk of fire. So distantly, there were the delicious smells of pottages simmering, meats roasting and sugared, spiced pies baking, but only distantly, to encourage hunger but not advance the lingering bad smells that cooks often have around them.
Mechelen was a beautiful palace; tall elegant towers of white-washed plaster reached up to the blue Hapsburg skies. The Regent Margaret was at that time still building and adding to her beautiful palace, but what later became known as the southern range, and the Palace of Margaret of York, the present regent’s grandmother, was where we filles d’honneur came to live.
Mechelen had long galleries, some with comfortable window seats open to the fresh outside airs, which lined the upper floors of the palace, providing a beautiful place to walk or converse, and a sheltered place to sit in bad weather. There were gardens, done in knot styles where flowers stood to attention in neat and formalised rows and hedges were clipped into forms of fantastical beasts. Moss-covered seats of stone sat in merry cherry-tree groves filled with blossom, and the soft sound of water, falling over stones and from statues of cupids and ancient gods lingered in the background like music. The sounds of tree leaves brushing against each other in the gentle winds mingled with the sounds of voices raised reciting poetry and singing songs. These gardens were made, structured and constructed as an extension of the glory of the court.
To my eye, though, these gardens, however beautiful, were still nothing to the simple, somewhat wild beauty of my mother’s roses. Sometimes, when I walked amongst those gardens with the other maids, I would think of her and my heart would ache for her presence.
The court itself was huge. When I first came to Mechelen I felt as though the court were a whole city unto itself; swarms of richly, brightly dressed noble men and women filled the halls. Ladies-in-waiting in their beautiful gowns and fashionable French hoods, dark silk streaming over their hair, looked like the many flowers of the gardens. Servants ran this way and that in their various liveries, consumed by the tasks of their masters. There was richness all around me. Everyone wanted to show how much coin and lands they had, and what they were able to do with such possessions. People’s clothing, as I came to realise, was part of the grand show at court… part of expressing who you were, where you came from, and the power you had to wield. It was fascinating and there was so much to see.
Margaret was regent for her nephew, the young Hapsburg King Charles V, who was around the same age as I, and therefore still too young to rule alone. Margaret was the ruler therefore, and the centre of the entire court about which her people fluttered as butterflies to flowers.
The palace itself was dressed splendidly inside as well as out. There were tapestries of many-coloured thread hanging on the walls and marble on the floors. Rushes and sweet smelling herbs, like lavender, thyme and rosemary lined the floors of the palace, so that when you walked upon them, the herbs were c
rushed under your shoes and released their fresh scents. Margaret was fastidious about the changing of the floor mats, after some days they could become befouled with the scent of the dogs and mud and people. So she insisted that the rushes were changed frequently, at great cost. The chambers too were hung with tapestry or painted cloth and dark wood panels in the lesser rooms; there were great sculptures in the walkways, and glass windows in many of the rooms. Carpets were a great luxury, kept only on the floors of Margaret’s own chambers, but the heady scented-rushes did well on all other floors.
When I arrived, I longed to be a part of such glamour and wonder. It was as though all these richly dressed, elegant people were additional decorations to this beautiful work of art that Margaret had created. Everywhere we walked there were the distant sounds of music. Music was a passion of Margaret’s and she encouraged her courtiers to practise this skill. It was a good substitute for some of the activities they could have got up to instead, after all. Music kept the fingers limber and the voice pleasant, the mind occupied and the spirit lifted. One thing I remember the most about the Court of Burgundy was that everywhere I moved, I was followed and haunted by the sweet sounds of the lute and the distant voices combining in harmonies together. It was a world of song and music; a glittering palace of romance and harmony. It was truly a place of magic, especially to the eyes of a young girl who had seen but little of the world.
On that first day, I wandered behind Claude Bouton into the palace with my large eyes bulging from my face. People seemed to teem out of the very walls. Everyone seemed busy and everywhere there was a rush and a flurry of activity. As Claude guided me through the palace, I stared at the people around me, I could not help it. One young man raised his eyebrows at my bad manners, as I stared openly at the furs and shining jewels on his fine coat. I blushed, lowered my eyes and he laughed at my discomfort; turning off down a passage-way with his friend, laughing at the newest naïve addition to the court. I was overcome with shame, thinking that I would have to face him again sometime in the future, but whomsoever he was, I never saw him again. The court was so large and the movement of people through it was so swift, that you might never meet the same person twice if they moved not in your circle. Some people were permanent residents at the Court of Burgundy, courtiers who placed their future on the favours they might win there. Others merely visited, riding in and out for a day or two upon some business. At feasts and on special occasions there were more people than a man could count in a day, and even when the court was somewhat at rest, there still were swarms of people milling the halls and buildings, like a million tiny ants in a nest.
As Claude guided me through the halls, I saw a man swiftly reach out and catch his hand to the underside of a laundry woman’s dress. In one quick motion he clapped his hand on her bottom and laughed, leering at her. She blushed and hurried away, somewhat more frightened than flattered by his lewd attentions. He and his friends laughed, slapping one another on the back, as she scuttled away, looking behind her to see if they were following her. They did not. Feeling well-pleased with themselves, the young men went about another task, heading through the corridors still laughing, but I watched, feeling wary. Even though I was young, I understood that there were some men who were not knights in the romantic sense of the words. My mother had warned me to be careful of such people, and careful I would be.
Claude and I had arrived a little late for dining in the great hall, and so our party were instead shown to a small chamber, and sent some rich pottage made with oats, roasted venison with spices; capons in a wine sauce with lashings of hot pepper; pies stuffed with pork and rice and fine, fluffy manchet bread. The pottage was very fine, much richer than some of the more standard fare we had tasted along the way, and I had not eaten manchet bread before, as it was considered expensive and too rich for children. But I was no longer a child, I realised; I was a courtier, or soon to be one. Courtiers ate manchet and other fine foods. I ate that white bread daintily with my pottage, thinking myself very grand indeed. I had a new jewelled eating knife with a pretty pouch that attached to my waist-band and I was proud to use it for it was most handsome. I ate my first meal at Mechelan most fastidiously; taking care to spoon only what I needed from the shared messes, wiping my fingers carefully on my bread and swallowing my food well before taking any drink, so as not to leave stains on the costly pewter tableware we were given.
There were also some small sallats of delicate leaves with the meal, flavoured with oil, salt and sweet-sour apple vinegar, and afterwards, delicious, hot, moist, spiced and sugared pears and slices of marmalade with crisp, sweet wafers to eat. There was small ale for us to drink and eventually, and to my utmost relief, there was a bed in a shared dormitory of Margaret’s filles d’honneur for me to climb into.
Although I was so tired that I thought I should never waken again if I slept, I laid awake much of that night in my excitement and happiness. I should have been scared, but instead I was thrilled from my little toes to the ends of my long, dark hair. I never wanted to be anywhere else, or go anywhere else, but this breathtaking, sparkling place.
But eventually, there was another reason why I restlessly shifted in my soft feather-stuffed bed in the dormitory where the other handmaidens of the Regent slept peacefully. Fears started to cloud my mind in the darkness of the night. For tomorrow, I was to meet the great Archduchess, the Regent Margaret, and tomorrow I should find out whether I was to be sent straight home in ignominy as an uncouth, badly spoken disgrace to my family, or allowed to stay and bask in the glory of her beautiful court and palace.
Chapter Ten
1512
Mechelen
The first time I was presented to the Archduchess Margaret of Austria, Regent of the Low Countries, I was so scared that I thought I might piss myself like craven men before a great battle.
Although I had been to the privy many times before entering her presence, I still thought I should disgrace myself in more ways than one when I came to her presence. How I wished then for the beauty of my sister Mary to impress the Regent with! How alone I suddenly seemed to be with no father or mother to tell me how to behave in front of this eminent woman and ruler! I felt like a foolish child, but I steeled myself to feel courage, like a warrior. After all, Isabella of Castille had led men into battle; I was merely facing an audience with a great queen… should it be that Mistress Anna Boleyn had no courage in her? I thought not, and I steeled my heart to feel courage even as I shook in my fine new shoes.
Margaret was in her private chambers when I was presented, her ladies all around her like a flock of gorgeous brightly coloured geese. The Archduchess was seated on a sumptuously embroidered, cushioned chair, and they on the floor, on cushions made of brightly coloured silks. They were all older than I and very grand. Their gowns were beautifully fashioned and elegant. Gems glittered from their sleeves where they had been sewn into the plush fabric; some ladies wore fur trims that likewise glittered with jewels. Their dresses shone in shades of scarlet, blue, pinks and gold made from velvets, satins, wools, and cambric, depending on the rank of the wearer. Their necklines were low, exposing the fronts of their chests and showing the fine lace edges of their chemises, but not so low as to appear scandalous. A fine linen lawn lined their gowns and their cuffs, just visible at the edges of their clothing; gold chains with pomanders hung from some of their waists, giving off heady scents of solid perfumes. Precious stones and pearls glittered from the beautiful hoods that caressed their heads and foreheads. Hoods in the French style were worn at Margaret’s court; exposing more of the hair than the gable hood which was so popular in England. Everything here was as the French did, as they were the leaders in style.
French ladies would allow a little hair to show from under their hoods, teasing, sensual, but not scandalous. The hoods themselves were made of silks and velvets, lined with jewels and made stiff inside with bone. There was one lady whose dark hood was lined over the crown of her head in glimmering pearls; that was th
e most beautiful hood I saw that day and I longed for one just like it. The hoods’ linings were made of silk; mostly of black silk, which was the most expensive colour. The black silks streamed over their hair and left them with an elegant sheen of silk richness instead of their actual hair. Although my own hair was covered in a hood, I knew it was not as flattering as their styles were. My hood felt bulky and crass, made in the English gable fashion; it sat far forward on my forehead and seemed to have no subtleties at all. Although, as with Margaret’s ladies, silks streamed down over my thick and lovely hair, I felt that mine did not look as pretty as theirs. I intended to acquire such hoods and clothes as theirs as soon as I was able, for I had some money of my own, from my father, and was to take a small allowance from serving at the court under Margaret. I did not want to always seem as provincial and backwards as I felt now. The ladies in Margaret’s retinue were all pretty creatures, and well-polished in their clothing and manners; I felt like a sack of wool standing before brilliant peacocks.
Most of them sat around Margaret, working on sewing for an altar cloth and talking gently. One lady was reading aloud from the Book of Psalms in Latin. When I was announced and allowed to enter, the reader looked intently at me but she did not stop in her recital until Margaret held her hand up for silence. I learned that was how Margaret was; she needed nothing more than a slight gesture to bring the whole court to her attention. I swept to the floor in the most elegant courtesy I had ever performed until then, and, as my skirts swept the floor gracefully and I held my position, I felt relieved that I had managed my curtsey without falling flat on my face, as I had feared I would in my dark imaginings of the night before.
