by G Lawrence
He was cultured also; at night, before the dances would begin, he read aloud of the poetry he had written and although some of the praise was meted out for his position, some of the praise was also for the talented poet that he was. There was a certain naivety about his verse that fitted well with the games of Margaret’s court; an honesty and a truth that fitted well. You could tell that he really did believe he was a knight of old; a protector of virtue and of love, or at least, he wanted to be. There was a story I heard later of the English King which spoke well of his attachment to courtly behaviour and love of the ancient ways of knights. One day, whilst travelling on a barge to Greenwich Castle, apparently to visit a lady with whom he was enamoured, King Henry challenged one of his men, Sir Andrew Flammock, to take up a verse which he would begin, and complete it. The King spoke the words:
Within this tower
There lieth a flower
That hath my heart…
To which, obviously in the throes of mischief, Sir Andrew continued:
Within this hour
She pissed full sour
And let out a fart.
The King was so offended by this, that he shouted at his man, “begone, varlet!” and ordered him from his sight. Henry adored the old ways of chivalry and courtly love; he did not like coarse language or impolite ways. This reflected in the manner in which he chose to approach women of the court, and the words of his own, more cultured verse. One of his poems, I remember well:
Though some say that youth rules me,
I trust in age to tarry.
God and my right and my duty,
From them I shall never vary,
Though some say that youth rules me.
I pray you all that aged be
How well did you your youth carry?
I think in some worse of each degree.
Therein a wager lay dare I,
Though some say that youth rules me.
Pastime of youth some time among –
None can say but necessary.
I hurt no man, I do no wrong,
I love true where I did marry,
Though some say that youth rules me.
Then soon discuss that hence we must
Pray we to God and St Mary
That all amend, and here an end.
Thus says the King, the eighth Harry,
Though some say that youth rules me.
As a youth myself, I felt I understood his words well, and when he spoke them, smiling slightly in the light of the torches and candles at night before the court, I felt my blood swim within my head, for I felt as though he spoke to me alone. Such was the magnetism of Henry; he could speak to an entire assembly of people, and yet leave you feeling as though you had been his only care.
At night I dreamt of him and would awaken with that same ache in my thighs that I had felt when first I saw him. I longed for his touch, longed for his gaze to rest upon me. I thought of what his lips might feel like against mine. Sometimes I was distracted during the day, drifting into daydreams, imagining his body and his hands moving against my skin, although in reality I knew nothing of love-making. But I could imagine kissing and caresses, and I imagined them well… and often. He was the first man for whom I had ever felt the stirrings of desire, the first lord for whom I ever felt I might have lost my heart. None knew it, of course, for I was careful with my feelings. But I loved Henry of England truly before he ever knew who I was, and before I knew him at all. I loved him as so many of the young love; I loved an ideal, a wish, a paradigm. I thought him all that was good, because I had fallen for his handsome face and charismatic ways.
I performed for him within in a group of filles when he was at court. On the last night of Henry’s visit, after a great feast, Margaret called for her group of filles to sing, and asked me to take the premier role in the song. I flushed instantly, thinking that perhaps the King might recognise my face from the balcony when we filles had been almost caught watching him, but of course he had seen nothing but many maids rushing off, obscured by the glaring sun’s light, and I was but one amongst them. I was just one tiny member of a huge and glittering court. I was but one more face in a sea of so many people. I was nothing to him… then.
He looked over us as we stepped up beside the lute player; his eyes roamed our young figures discreetly, but noticeably. I saw him enjoy the flush upon our cheeks that this intimate attention caused. My flush was added to by the intense rush of passion I felt for this handsome prince. I was embarrassed, and aroused in public. I steeled my heart to behave itself.
I went to close my eyes as usual, to block out the court as I sang, and dispel my nerves, but this time I saw Henry’s eyes, clear and blue, watching me. He was watching all of us, but his eyes came back to me more than once. Boldly, I kept my eyes open and turned them to him from time to time through the song, catching his gaze and holding it. Margaret was pleased with us. Her smile gave me courage and I sang well; my sweet high voice turned the corners of the song and lifted the melody of the lute with ease. The others joined and our voices reached to the ceilings; reverberating keenly around the great hall, caressing the stones of the walls and lifting the company. Our subtle voices blended together in harmony; we were careful and had practised often. We didn’t miss a note. We were haunting and lovely, sweet and smooth in our song of love and valour.
When I finished my part, I saw that the King’s eyes were closed, and his hand poised where he had beat the tune softly on the table. Music was a great pleasure to him, and I knew by the way his sparkling eyes caught mine as I walked off to stand beside Margaret once more, that our song had moved him.
As we walked from before the court, our hands clasped before us in maidenly poise, I looked over at my father who was standing nearby watching. He gave one brief nod to me, and I felt a little pride enter my heart. It was the closest thing I had had akin to praise from him.
“Your court is full of the finest of musicians,” I heard the King say to Margaret later. “I only wish that my court was so blessed.”
“One day, my lord, it may well be,” Margaret said, her eyes gleaming with his praise. “One of my song-birds is one of your own subjects; the granddaughter of your general Howard, daughter of Sir Thomas Boleyn who is within your company now. I call her ma Petite Boulain. One day it may well be that I will have to give her up to grace your court, but I hope you will be gallant and leave her with me some time yet.”
When she explained which one of her ladies she meant he asked, “the little… dark one? I never should have known; she seemed like a French-woman born.”
And that was all he said of me. But it was good enough to send me hugging my arms about my body for happiness when I was alone. To be thought to be a “French-woman born” meant that I was considered sophisticated and graceful. I treasured such short words and repeated them to myself each night before I slept.
Soon Henry and his friends rode away with their entourage and went back to their war. He would have more victory in France with the aid of his friends and advisor Cardinal Wolsey, although not as much as he would have wished for. We met up with his party once more, at Tournai, after another battle near that region, and there were more entertainments and diversions there.
My father came to see me, again, briefly, before the party of the King left Tournai. His instructions were concise; that I was to maintain a high level of pleasing and modest behaviour, to continue in my instruction in the French language, and to honour the opportunity he had gained for me by learning all I could. I agreed to do all he wished, gave him letters for my mother, and for Mary and George, and then my father left again. Were it not for the slight feeling of wariness which remained with me for days after his leaving, I would hardly have remembered meeting him again at all.
We went back to life at court as it had been before the English visit. Although the entertainments and daily life were no less than they had been before the King’s party arrived, it now felt duller at Margaret’s court, reduced. It
was as though this king had taken the sun with him when he left.
I went back to my lessons in the school rooms and in the court; I went back to learning how to be a good court lady. I still dreamed of him at night and would sometimes awaken, moaning in half-asleep desire for the feel of his hands upon my young body.
But soon enough, this dream started to leave me and in a few months, with the cold-hearted resilience of the young, I barely thought of him.
At this time, after all, I had little idea that I should ever see him much again.
Chapter Sixteen
1514
Mechelen
It was August of the year 1514, when I received word from my father that he wished me to leave Margaret’s court. I was to join the wedding party of Henry’s sister, the Princess Mary Tudor of England. Mary was to wed the aged King of France, Louis XII, and she required ladies-in-waiting with a good command of the French language to help her as she settled into her new life as Queen of France. My father had put my name forward, extolling my proficiency in the French language, and it had been accepted.
Louis was the King who had come to the French throne after Margaret’s intended suitor Charles had died. Louis of France had been married twice already; his first wife, Jeanne de France, was a poor cripple whom he had placed in a religious order when she was unable to give him an heir. Jeanne had agreed humbly to her retirement from the position of Queen of France, and the Pope had issued a dissolution of the marriage contract between them. Louis’ second wife had been Anne of Brittany; the self-same bride for whom Louis’ predecessor, Charles, had rejected Margaret. Their marriage had largely been one of respect and love, a rare enough thing for arranged marriages between royalty. Anne of Brittany had died, leaving Louis free once again to marry. Anne bore Louis two royal daughters, Renee and Claude, but no sons. I think he was hoping Mary Tudor would help him with that matter. Due to Salic Law, the throne of France could not pass to a woman, and so if he had no son, then his throne would pass to the nearest prince of the blood royal, François de Valois, a man whom it was rumoured that Louis held no love for.
Mary Tudor, Princess of England, was reputed to be the most beautiful princess in Christendom. I am sure Louis thought he had made a fortunate match to be married, at his great age, to her.
My father wrote to tell me that my name had been accepted because of his position at court, and for my fluency in the French language observed on his visit to Lille and Tournai, but there was another reason that he wanted me to leave Mechelen. The wars between the French and the English were now over; the two countries were uniting together and cementing that alliance with this marriage. This meant that the Hapsburgs were not as strongly allied now with the English as the French were. Indeed, the marriage between old Louis and the fresh young Princess Mary, had only come about by Henry VIII breaking Mary’s previous engagement with Margaret’s nephew Charles. Margaret was already outraged that her previous ally Henry would so quickly break the future match between her nephew and his sister, for the chance at making his sister a queen, now.
Relations were therefore growing frosty between England and the Hapsburgs; it was only a matter of time before that chill would spread. In such circumstances, it would be improper for an English lady such as I was, to stay at Margaret’s court. If I left now, before diplomatic relations suffered further, then I would be in a position to link our family with the new power in France. I was to leave this great and romantic court that I loved so well, and travel to another that I had never seen… all for the whim of politics.
Margaret was not pleased at all that I was going to leave her for France, for the very court that had so rejected her, and to go to attend on the Princess who was supposed to be marrying her own nephew! She was also aggrieved, I think, to lose one of her favourite song-birds, so she called us. She stalled my leaving for as long as possible, telling my father in correspondence that she could not do without her Petite Boulain and wished to keep me with her until the last possible time that she could. I flatter myself that much of this was born of natural affection for me rather than just for my voice, for she had grown fond of me and happy to have me ornament her glittering court.
To own the truth, whilst I understood my father’s reasons for extracting me from Margaret’s court, I was deeply unhappy to think of leaving. Even though the prospect of joining Mary Tudor’s wedding party was certainly exciting, and I had never seen the French Court, despite hearing much of it, I still felt my heart wrench inside me whenever I thought of leaving Mechelen. It had become more to me than a palace of rich and varied pleasures; it had become my home.
At the time, however, I reasoned that once my duties were done in France, and once political relations had become warmer with the Hapsburgs, then perhaps I could return to Mechelen. The friendships between kings and countries were as fleeting and transitory as the weather along the English coast; they could change at a moment’s notice. Perhaps in time, I could come home once more, to Margaret.
Margaret delayed for as long as she could, but she could not keep me against the wishes of my father forever. Eventually, she gave me permission to go. Before I left, Margaret took my hands in hers and bade me promise to return to her one day.
“I will follow news of you when I have it, ma Petite Boulain,” she said warmly, releasing my hands from her grip. I took her hand and kissed it, looking up at her with eyes shining with tears.
“Thank you for all you have done for me, Your Majesty,” I said, “and all that you have taught me. I will never be able to repay such beneficence.”
“Come back, ma Petite Boulain, and sing for me,” she smiled. “Then you will repay my kindness to you.”
“Whenever my father allows, Madame,” I said, “I will return to your side.”
Margaret nodded to me, and I left her presence.
Margaret’s court had been everything to me. I had grown in body and in mind under her tutelage. Leaving Mechelen was even more painful than leaving Hever had been, and in the nights that led up to my leaving, I cried often into my pillow in the shared dormitory of Margaret’s filles. But there were other thoughts which lessened the sadness somewhat. My father wrote to me that he would be in the wedding party as an ambassador to the French Court, and my sister Mary would also be there, as she was now a lady-in-waiting to Princess Mary Tudor. I was happy to think of seeing my sister, but I could not help but raise an eyebrow when I read that; my father’s plan had come to fruition as all his plans seemed to. Mary had done as had been expected of her and moved from the household of Elizabeth, wife of our uncle Howard, to serve the Princess of England. How did he seem to know what would happen, with the right person positioned in just the right place? It was a gift.
So it came that one day, feeling both excited and sad in equal measures, I rode out from Mechelen to join the wedding party in France. My belongings were brought by cart and I was given a guard to take me safely to the Court of France. I thought fondly of returning to Mechelen after my duties to my father were done; but this was to prove an idle fantasy. I had not realised that the treaty made between England and France, and the turning nature of Fate, would prevent me from returning to Margaret’s court. I never saw the Court of Burgundy again, but I always remembered it with love in my heart.
Chapter Seventeen
1514
France
The Princess Mary Tudor of England was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Erasmus himself had described her as “a nymph from heaven” adding that “nature never formed anything more beautiful” than her, and I could not disagree with this report of her beauty. Her face was lovely, her eyes large, dark blue and doe-like, and her lips pretty and dusky pink. Her skin was clear and creamy like new milk. Her figure was perfect; just the right amount of breast and flesh to it without ever looking too ample or too spare. She was eighteen and her hair was the same hue as her brother’s, golden and red. There was dragon-fire in the Welsh blood of the Tudors and it shone through in their ha
ir and in their spirit.
She was also the most singularly unhappy bride I have ever seen, and at the various courts I came to live in, I saw many.
Louis XII was fifty-two, an old man by the standards of our time, and he looked old and smelt old. He had lived a quiet life of near retirement with his previous wives. His court, although beautiful and rich, was nothing to the splendour and sophistication of Mechelen. Courts tend to reflect the personality of their ruler; Louis’ court was good, and rather dull. The French might be the leaders in style, but this was not brought about by the example of their King. The once-greatness of the French Court seemed to have dulled in the twilight years of his reign, and I wondered to myself how anyone could have thought that this court compared in any way to Margaret’s in Burgundy.
The common people loved Louis, partly because of his frugality. To his people, Louis was “La Pere de France” as he imposed few taxes on them and did not waste the money he did take from them. His nobles hated that quality in him, feeling that a king should make more show of his magnificence, not only to his own people, but to the world. It was the way rulers imposed on other rulers how superior they, and their countries, were, after all… For the nobles, a king should be easy to find in a crowd; he should be the richest and the most noticeable of men. Louis often seemed more like one of the servants than a true son of France. He went to bed early and rose early, he was careful with his money, staid in his appearance. He was not fond of dancing or hunting and preferred his books to the companionship of his nobles. He was, in short, an old man, already retiring from the world.
