by Diane Haeger
But today there were no revels, no jousts, and no banquets. It was Sunday, and the old king and his new bride were having an argument in plain view of all of her ladies, with nothing to mask it. While his English was poor and heavily accented, the sentiment and the emotion behind it were clear to everyone.
“The English girls must go back,” he repeated in his thick, rheumy baritone marked by his Gallic accent. “You are a French queen now.”
“But they are my support and encouragement here.”
The girls and women sat around the queen like a wall of defense, pretending to sew or play card games.
“There are many French women here who can be the same for you, but you must give them, and my country, a chance.”
“Am I to keep none of my friends about me, then?” the beautiful young queen asked in a defiant tone.
“You may retain a small group without complaint, but only that, so I suggest you choose wisely,” he replied coldly.
Jane, who was sitting a few feet away at a card table along with Mary Boleyn and two older, more established attendants—the Countess of Oxford and Lady Mary Norris—tried her best not to stare once she saw tears begin to glisten in the young queen’s eyes. So this homesickness and loneliness did not become easier to bear with time and experience, apparently, she thought. Even a beautiful royal was susceptible to it.
A moment later, the old king, dressed this morning in a pale blue surcoat lined with ermine, leaned over to kiss his new wife on top of her head as though she were a petulant child in need of patience. The move brought a fit of rheumy coughing, and for a moment he seemed to lose his balance with the exertion. The young queen took a step nearer to him, concern suddenly darkening her flawless expression. As he continued to cough, he waved her away and two of his stewards approached, one providing a cloth for him to place over his mouth as they helped him to leave the room.
“That was wretched.”
Jane heard the catty whispered voice from the table beside her and realized it was Mary’s sister, Anne, who she had not noticed was nearby until now.
Knowing enough not to implicate herself in gossip, Jane kept her gaze impassive and faced forward, trained on the queen as Mother Guildford bent down by her side to speak privately. Jane watched the young queen’s pretty eyes fill with tears before she surrendered her face to her hands and shook her head.
Mother Guildford put a maternal hand on the queen’s shoulder, which at the moment was racked by sobs. Mother Guildford then looked across the room at the large collection of English ladies and girls, who sat in stunned silence.
“Her Majesty requires some fresh air. A selection of you shall attend her.”
The aide began to scan the sea of suddenly hopeful expressions. “Lady Norris, Lady Oxford, Mistress Mary Boleyn, and…Mistress Seymour.”
Jane heard Anne Boleyn huff angrily behind her.
It was Jane’s first opportunity since she had come here to be in such close proximity to the queen. She felt the excitement even as her fear flared. This was a pivotal moment for her. She could not say or do anything wrong right now. But she was still so proud to have finally, after ten days, found this moment when she might actually make an impression with the queen.
Jane heard indecipherable grumblings behind her as Mary stood. Jane drew in a breath, straightened her skirts, and moved to rise, too. But as she did, she felt a firm tug on the linen fall of her headdress. As she turned to see if it had perhaps caught on the chair, she felt another tug just before her beaded hood clattered to the floor, leaving her head and her chopped hair exposed to everyone, including the young queen.
Jane heard her own horrified gasp, but it felt as if it had come from some other place, as if she was not quite connected to the moment or the sound. She knew what she must look like to them. She could see it on their faces, a sea of cruelly competitive little smiles, as she stood there, exposed and humiliated. When she glanced back, she saw Anne smiling innocently, her fingers steepled.
“Shall I go in Jane’s place while she collects herself, Mother Guildford?” Anne asked so sweetly that Jane felt too utterly humiliated to counter the question.
Anne Boleyn was a force with which to be reckoned.
Jane readied herself to walk from the room in a dignified manner, at least to escape before the tears came. But then she felt a foot slyly move forward and catch on her toe, causing her to stumble and nearly lose her balance. Only then did Jane abandon all decorum and break into an ungainly sprint, feeling a first sob rush its way up her throat.
“My, what an awkward little girl,” she heard Anne murmur cruelly as Jane brushed past her.
Out in the corridor, safe from view, Jane clung to a pillar, the choking sobs and the stress taking over as she folded in on herself and wept. A little girl lost. Alone, far from home. Humiliated. She was relieved that Mother Guildford had not come after her, since she was certain to face criticism for her unladylike exit; just now she could not bear another bit of harshness.
“I want to go home,” she whispered to herself in a futile sob, holding her headdress in her trembling hand.
“’Twill do you no good. You must be strengthened by it, not undone, if you are to survive here.”
To her surprise, the voice behind her belonged to William Dormer. She had seen him only at a distance since they had arrived in France, and yet now, as in Savernake Forest, he simply appeared before her.
“I do not want to survive here. I want to go home!” Jane countered through quivering lips as she brushed tears away with the back of her hand, trying vainly to steady herself. “People here are ruthless and cold and not at all what they seem.”
“Then learn from that. While you must be here, why not make it count for something?”
He was older and probably a little wiser, but what he was saying made no sense to her. It was then that she saw him staring at her butchered hair, still free from her hood. “What happened?” he gasped.
Jane tried to flatten the chopped strands with her hands and tuck them behind her ears, as if she could make the reality of her appearance disappear with so futile a gesture. It was a nervous, pointless attempt. “It matters not.”
“It matters to me,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because we come from the same place. We are bound by that.”
“You only visit one of your homes in Wiltshire. One of the smaller ones, from what I hear. Your life is nothing like mine.”
“Our parents will stop at nothing to inch into the world of the English court, and we are both here because of that. We do have that in common.”
Jane had not thought of it like that. She tipped her head and considered. There was something engagingly sincere about him. Something she felt she could almost trust. If she were not so afraid to trust anyone. She told him of what happened after that day in Savernake Forest and watched him cringe with compassion.
“I do not like that Boleyn girl. She is dangerous,” she angrily admitted after her story.
“More dangerous than Lucy Hill?”
“Lucy is not so bad, actually,” Jane replied, remembering their conversation and the vulnerability she had seen in Lucy’s eyes before she left Wiltshire. Anne Boleyn did not have any softness at all. Her heart seemed as hard as her dark, fathomless eyes, and Jane vowed to stay as far away from her as she could for as long as they were in France. Soon enough she would go home, and the name Anne Boleyn would fade from her life and eventually her memories. Jane was counting on that, even as she was distracted by the pierce-your-soul blue eyes that she was sure were the deepest, most beautiful eyes in the world.
It was an odd feeling, caring for another person. It was a feeling to which William Dormer was certainly unaccustomed at the age of thirteen. He had recently come to realize that he was the only son of parents who had put everything into him except their emotions. Thus, he had grown to feel more important than loved, more needed than wanted. Caring for people had never seemed worth the risk.
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br /> Whatever it was he was feeling for the young Seymour girl, it was certainly different. It must be a protective instinct, he told himself.
Jane’s life certainly seemed similar to his. As he walked, just having left her to return to her duties, William cringed again at her explanation of what had happened to her hair after that day he had met her in the forest. She seemed vulnerable. Life was going to be difficult for her. Plain faced, pale, soft-spoken. The confidence of the other girls made it worse for her. He was old enough to see that.
And yet, he thought, there was still a spark, the promise of something more that made her different, though what it was exactly, he could not tell. As he watched her a moment ago, rubbing at the jagged ends of her shorn hair as if the movement could undo the past, something awakened in his blood. It made him want to protect her, and it was powerful. He had never felt like that in his life.
“Ho, what are you doing there, lad?”
The man who seemed suddenly to appear like an apparition before William was imposing—a grand and dark, sweeping tower of a man dressed in black velvet edged in luxurious fur. William jumped and the man reacted with a restrained smile as if he enjoyed frightening people.
“So out with it. Why were you loitering around the queen’s apartments? The French king needs no more reasons to rid himself of our train of attendants. You are obviously an English lad. I can tell by the rough cut of your tow-headed hair.”
“Yes, I am English, my lord. I am William Dormer.”
“I know not that name.” The big man sniffed unpleasantly, then rolled his dark eyes. “Another position bought and paid for, no doubt.”
William would have defended his family then if it had not been the truth. He knew perfectly well the strings his ambitious mother had pulled, the endless stream of costly gifts she had sent to court. Silver plate, a jeweled goblet, brandied cherries, a barrel of costly Spanish wine, a case of quail, and another filled with doves. But the bribery had certainly worked, since he was here, after all.
“Mind, next time stay where you are meant to, Master Dormer,” the imposing man ordered as he went unceremoniously around a corner and disappeared in the same sweep of black velvet in which he had appeared.
Another voice came from behind. “You are a fortunate lad, indeed, that he did not see you straight out of France before you could make your mark. Do you know who that was? I see by your expression that you do not.”
William turned to find a handsome, auburn-haired young man with wide-set brown eyes and an impressively strong jaw. His puffed satin sleeves were full of pearls that shimmered.
“Forgive me, my lord, but I know not who anyone here is, save the French queen herself, and the girl I was just speaking to, who is my neighbor at home in Wiltshire.”
“Well, be aware that I am Francis Bryan and that was Sir Thomas Howard, the most powerful Lord High Admiral, son of the Duke of Norfolk, a great politician at court and the man who heads this entire delegation here. I trust you know the name, if not the face.”
“I do of course, my lord Bryan.” William bowed awkwardly then, seeing the expression of expectation before him.
“That at least is something.” Francis Bryan shrugged in a manner that said he found William of no consequence beyond this moment. “You shall be gone in a day or two anyway, so no matter, really. What did you say your name was?”
“Dormer, my lord. William Dormer.”
“Forgettable.” Francis sniffed unkindly, glancing around. “See if you can do something to change that.”
As he walked away, William thought how right Sir Francis Bryan was. He was out of place at the court of France, able to utter barely a few words in French. At home in England, he felt confident and driven toward a life of comfortable local prominence.
William did not like it here, but he did feel somewhat protective of the awkward little Seymour girl from Wiltshire. It was a new sensation, having come from a world where his mother was the only female he truly knew. The domineering Lady Dormer certainly did not need to depend on anyone. Or at least that was the impression he’d had in his life so far.
Jane lurched forward toward the king. Anne had pushed her. She had not even had time to fully dress. She wore only her cambric shift and beige stockings. She stumbled onto the polished wood floor. The sense of humiliation pushed past the shock as the other ladies attending King Louis and his new English queen began to whisper and chuckle at her. Anne Boleyn cruelly snickered.
“She hasn’t any dress!” the young queen gasped in broken French, fingers touching her lips to press back the sound of shock.
Jane felt blood flood her face in a hot rush. Pulsing. Horrifying. She wanted to run. As fast as she had run into Savernake Forest, she wanted to do so again. She glanced quickly around the vast room, desperate for a safe haven. The laughter rose as all eyes turned judgmentally upon her.
“Elle n’a pas une robe!” someone else echoed in French with a chuckle as Jane felt the heavy press of bodies behind her, an impenetrable wall.
Jane looked back at the new queen sitting on a raised dais beside the king. Suddenly it was not Mary Tudor’s face but Lucy Hill who looked at her with that odd mocking smile that had first frightened her. Lucy with her freckles and wide mouth and huge blue eyes. Oh, those eyes!
“Jane! Jane! Do wake up. You’ve overslept! We shall be late!”
It was not Anne Boleyn pushing at her now but rather Anne’s sister, Mary. “There’s the masque to rehearse in ten minutes’ time! Pray, do not make us late or Mother Guildford shall have both our heads!”
The fog of her horrifying dream began to fade behind Mary’s frantic plea. Praise God, she had not embarrassed herself in public without her dress, nor become the shame of her family. Not yet anyway. She now remembered lying down for only a moment, giving in to the fatigue of another day spent standing motionless for endless hours while the king and queen dined, enjoyed the revels, strolled, and then challenged each other at the lute or primero. Such activities defined her month here in France.
Jane scrambled to her feet, having only a cursory understanding of the workings of a court masque, or what her small place in it would be. Participation in the rehearsal, however, was not optional. Jane and Mary dashed down the tiled corridor then, skirts flying, and Jane investing all of her trust in the hope that Mary knew where they were going.
The vast room into which they scurried, then drew to a halt, skirts flying up, was already full of milling courtiers. The hum of activity was everywhere, massive props on wheels were being moved into place, men were shouting directions, a collection of musicians was practicing a discordant tune in the corner, and ladies of various ages were holding up costumes to compare sizes and styles.
As usual, Jane recognized very few people. They were a sea of lovely but unknown faces moving before her, their titles and positions a mystery, as anonymous to her as she was to them. Some continued to look askance at her after the embarrassing scene when she had lost her headdress and had run tearfully from the room.
As she looked out, however, there was a single face she did recognize. A small perfect oval with wide dark eyes and strikingly long lashes met hers. The girl was gazing up at the tall, powerful Duc d’Orléans. She was smiling with an expression of such innocent adoration that it struck Jane with the force of a blow. This girl seemed entirely changed from the cruel one who had pulled off her headdress and tripped her a fortnight ago. How could anyone so young be two such different people? This girl, little Anne Boleyn, flirting with the grown heir to the French Crown? Yet she saw the absolute picture of childlike innocence. What an odd and frustrating little girl, thought Jane, relieved that soon their paths would never have to cross again. She was going to return home to England with the other unnecessary attendants from the queen’s retinue, as the king wished it.
Jane was actually relieved to feel the cloying nausea of seasickness rise inside her again just over a month after she had come to France. Even as she slumped, weak and tremb
ling, against the polished ship’s railing, she knew it meant that she was going home to Wolf Hall and to the comfort of obscurity there.
True to his word, after a bit of negotiating with the queen, the King of France permitted only a small contingent of English courtiers to remain with the country’s new queen. Jane’s brother Edward was among those chosen. Once the decision was made, Jane and a dozen other children were thrust into litters and herded unceremoniously back to Calais for the return voyage to England.
It was a reminder to her just how insignificant her presence had been in France. Certainly no one would even remember her, or her brief visit. But Jane would remember everything; the court, the infighting, and that nasty-tempered little dark-haired girl named Anne Boleyn, of whom Jane was enormously glad to be free.
“You acquitted yourself well in France,” said William, coming up beside her and gripping fast to the railing as the sea wind battered her hair and cheeks, flushing them.
“It could not be that well, since I am returning to England.”
“As am I. We were never actually meant to remain. And I, for one, am glad of it. I miss home.”
Jane looked into his face and those eyes that stopped her from thinking every time she looked into them, as if they had a power all their own. “I no longer miss it at all.”
“Your family, then?”
“Less than that.”
William pushed out his lower lip, as though he were considering the statement. “Me either, actually.” Then he smiled. “’Twas nice to be free of the structure for a while, though.”
“English structure anyway.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Your parents shall be glad you were there at least. ’Twas quite an honor we both were given.”
“My parents are proud of Edward.”
“I wish I could say that I understand, but I fear I have yet a great deal to learn about the world,” William said.
“After this, I am not certain there is much more I want to know beyond the pages of my books. It seems to me now a rather confounding world.”
