Struck With the Dart of Love

by Sandra Vasoli

  On Tuesday 25 October, I anxiously stood, along with my ladies, at a vantage point along the route which would be travelled by the English and French Kings upon their joyous return into Calais. Just inside the Mile Gate thronged soldiers of the garrison and the entire remaining English force; on their toes, necks craned, to gain the first glimpse of the glittering parade of French and English nobility soon to arrive. With soldiers lining one side of the street, brightly clad in crimson, blue and yellow uniforms, and the English serving staff on the other, in coats of French tawny, we made quite a welcoming sight. Every man present wore an identical cap of jaunty scarlet, with a white feather waving in the breeze. I shifted nervously from one foot to the other, feeling as if I could not wait another second to see my Henry come into view. Suddenly, a deafening roar of cannon and the stinging smell of gunpowder filled the air, and when the smoke cleared, there he was, riding majestically at the front of the brigade, with François by his side, both dressed in gleaming white. He was gorgeous – grand beyond description! And I was enraptured. Despite having been so curious to see François again, at that moment, I had eyes only for Henry. He spotted me; our glances met, and I was filled to bursting with pride and happiness.

  Henry and François, with a select group of French nobles including François’ sons, the Dauphin and the Ducs d’Orleans and Angoulême, rode to Staple Hall on the market square, in which lodging had been prepared for them. I knew Henry would be pleased when he toured the housing readied for François and his sons, since I had personally reviewed every detail during the King’s five-day stay in Boulogne. The rooms were lavish; François’ chamber being draped with fantastic fabric of golden damask, embroidered with silver and colourful silks to emulate flowers and vines growing from the floor. His presence chamber was hung with silver tissue, his cloth of estate finely wrought with red roses trimmed in pearls. The privy chamber, grandest of all, was a vision in green and crimson velvet embroidered with branches, flowers of gold bullion, and noble beasts and golden coats of arms. Throughout the room, the drapery was adorned with precious stones and pearls. It was apparent that the call for modesty had been left at the entrance to the royal lodgings! I would not have Henry outdone by the King of France under any circumstance.

  I awaited Henry back in our apartments within the Exchequer, the Staple Inn. When at long last he arrived, he was accompanied by Monsieur Pierre Viole, the Provost of Paris. Monsieur Viole presented me with a gift from his own King.

  The note accompanying the package said, “Madame la Marquise, j’attends notre réunion.”

  Within the perfectly presented gift was an ice-white, impeccable diamond. The largest I had ever seen.

  My wardrobe chamber in the Staple Inn was alive with chatter and laughter that Sunday evening. A select few of my circle and I donned costumes for the masque which was to take place after the grand banquet in François’ honour.

  “Madame Anne, you would decide well not to feast too avidly on the tempting dishes served at the banquet!” As we were being swathed in crimson tinsel satin, I peered over my maid’s head at Lady Lisle. I saw by the teasing look on her face that she likely had a crafty follow-up brewing in that clever head of hers.

  “Why so, Honor?”

  “Well, since your garment is so lustrous, and it hugs your body just so, a large meal would surely be misinterpreted as a baby, boldly showing himself on the evening of his mother’s presumed marriage. Just imagine how quickly the gossip would reach Dover and beyond!” came her pointed reply.

  I let loose with a volley of laughter, hindering the maid’s attempt to swaddle me in silk. I did adore Honor, and only she would be audacious enough to joke so about the persistent rumours that Henry and I had secretly planned our wedding for that Sunday, instead of a masque.

  “You know, I am tempted to pad my stomach so that we might measure the speed of the spoken word.”

  Honor winked at me, and we continued to be adorned with the gossamer silver cloaks which would only partially conceal our crimson undergarments. The diaphanous capes were to be drawn together by a delicate cord of gold, which was woven loosely in a sensual pattern, leaving enough of an opening in the front that the body-tight crimson tinsel could be observed.

  To add a final and vitally important touch to my costume, I ducked into my suite and retrieved from a chest a single piece of jewellery. As I placed it around my neck and saw my reflection in the mirror, I smiled wickedly to myself. Just for this evening, I planned to indulge in a personal act of revenge. I stepped back out to join the other ladies and was met by wide-eyed stares. Hanging prominently between my breasts was the Occitan cross which had been Catherine’s favourite jewel from the Queen’s collection. It was made of heavy gold, with dark rubies in the centre and on each of its four points, and suspended from three of those points were large, pear-shaped pearls. The piece was not at all to my personal liking, much too heavy and ornate, but it was instantly recognizable as the royal jewel Katherine wore constantly. I smiled coolly back at my ladies – and swept from the chamber with a flourish.

  While we waited outside the doors of the banquet hall, my sister Mary; Agnes, Lady Darby; Margaret, Lady Fitzwalter; Jane, my sister-in-law; Elizabeth Harleston; Lady Wallop; Honor Grenville, Lady Lisle, and I completed our costumes by raising glittering masks to our faces, and having them fastened behind our heads with satin riband. The masks had been specially made by a master craftsman in Venice and were indeed a sight to behold. Covered in gemstones and exotic feathers, they completely disguised all distinguishing features of the wearer save the eyes, creating an alluring air of mystery, particularly when combined with our daring and enticing costumes.

  At a signal, we slid into the banquet chamber to the plaintive beat of a single tambour. All conversation stopped abruptly; every eye fixed upon us as we sinuously wound our way about the head table. From the notable guests there, we each selected a partner and silently motioned for him to join us on the dance floor. The Kings were bewitched, and every man who was selected as a dance partner grinned blissfully as he came side to side with his mysterious lady. I, of course, beckoned to François, who was only too happy to oblige, and who wound his arm snugly around my waist. Agnes chose the King of Navarre, and Honor selected the English King - my English King, the cheeky little strumpet!

  Barely had we completed one galliard, when Henry, filled with exuberance, danced over to me and whisked the mask from my face, revealing my identity to François. Following his lead, the other dancers removed their masks as well, and Henry crowed, “Voilà mon frere François! Stunning feminine beauty is not the sole dominion of the Frenchman!’

  With that, he pointedly traced my cheek with the back of his forefinger, and with one last, lingering look, released me back into François’s company.

  François took my arm and guided me to a small adjacent chamber for some privacy, where, relaxing on thickly padded chairs and sipping cups of spiced wine, we laughed and conversed in French for over an hour. While we spoke, I watched him assess me thoroughly. There was no question but that he found me pleasing, and I knew, were it not for Henry and the recommitted brotherhood between them, François’ attentions would have been distinctly more purposeful than he presently allowed. Eventually, our discourse turned serious, and I was gratified beyond measure to hear, quite directly, that he not only understood Henry’s desire and need for a new wife, but that he believed me to be a superlative choice. François, too, operated under the belief that, as monarch, he was absolute ruler of his realm; that his decisions were irreproachable. Not an advocate of Pope Clement, his religious views leaned decidedly in the same direction as Henry’s. This was anything but a surprise, I thought, since he was a compatriot of some of the finest minds promoting the reform of the Catholic Church. And if their writings were not enough to persuade him, he was certainly subject to the lecturing of his sister, Marguerite. I asked after her health, and told him how much I had missed se
eing her, and François expressed his appreciation, advising me that it seemed she fared better and had thankfully escaped the plague. For that glad news, I was greatly relieved.

  The exhilaration I felt on that glorious evening was just what I needed. For the time, I had vanquished my rival Katherine and had been the object of desire of two kings.

  Late that night, after the entertainment had concluded and the house had at last grown quiet, we took to our marvellous bedchamber together. I lay abed with Henry, and having told him every scrap of my conversation with François, continued to prattle on about the events of the day, till I heard him yawn hugely. I grew quiet, and he pulled me to him, curling his strong body securely around mine. I sighed in absolute happiness. My thoughts drifted pleasantly, occasionally broken by Henry’s snore, and I wondered if it was possible to be more content than I felt at that very moment. Queen or no queen, I was nestled next to the man I adored, held in esteem by the two greatest monarchs alive, and had the entire world at my feet.

  I could not fathom anything but joy ahead.

  On All Hallows’ Eve, the two Kings rode from Calais to Sandingfield, where they shared refreshment and final conversation. They bid each other the warmest of farewells, deeming the meeting a success, and parted at the border of the French-English Pale.

  There was well-nigh as much commotion created by the packing and moving of goods for departure as when we prepared for the trip. Henry and I, however, intended to remain in Calais at the Exchequer for a while yet, with a greatly diminished staff.

  I savoured the thought.

  Picking my way through a tangle of crates, coffers, trunks and busy stewards, I was on my way to the long gallery to seek respite from the din and confusion. Glancing up, I found myself unexpectedly face to face with one of Henry’s premier ambassadors in Rome. Gregorio Casali was an important advisor to Stephen Gardiner and Edward Foxe, as they laboured to convince Clement to grant Henry an annulment. Signore Casali was knowledgeable in the conventions of the Curia at the Vatican, and the instruction he provided to Foxe and Gardiner, combined with his personal efforts, had been intended to secure the long-desired outcome. To date, of course, his contribution, however conscientious it may have been, was not marked by any movement at all in Clement’s opinion. I had met Casali at court on those occasions when he returned to England, but most of his time was spent either in Rome or in meeting with individuals elsewhere who might advance Henry’s cause.

  Plainly taken aback at our chance encounter, he bowed low, saying, “Bonjour, Madame la Marquise. C’est mon plaisir de vous voir aujourd’hui!” in his heavily accented French. His native language was Italian, and his English was poor. Although I had witnessed conversations between Henry and him in Latin, he mostly spoke French at the English Court. It took me a mere second to recall that I had little liking for Signore Casali, whose nervous glance darted to and fro, and never came confidently to rest on the person with whom he was conversing. Inherently, I did not trust him.

  “And to what do we owe this great honour, Signore? I have not seen you for some long while. Nor …” I added with a healthy dose of sarcasm, “… have we heard much from you, or about you. I presume you are here in Calais to provide His Majesty with wonderful news - the news he has sought from you for, oh … several years?”

  Casali’s bearded chin twitched, and his eyes narrowed and rapidly scanned the room – landing anywhere but on my face. The man knew he had confronted the wrong personage by accident as he went about his errand. Others in the vicinity pretended to work at their tasks, but they had caught the tone of my voice and were curious, so they lingered, waiting to hear what would next happen.

  “Madame, I come seeking an audience with His Royal Majesty. I have been greatly concerned. I have not had any communication from him in over four months. I became anxious that he might not be in good health.”

  “Well, well - how kind of you, Signore.” My voice dripped with disdain and grew louder. Anger bubbled as I thought of the money, the privilege, and the trust Henry had placed with this little man in the hope that his case would be successfully represented. And all for naught. “His Majesty is quite well. Quite well indeed. In fact, his well-being grows greater by the day, thank you. I believe his pleasant state of mind is because he will no longer require the Pope’s approval for aught that he does. And, just consider, if you will, this curious and interesting concept, Signore – if His Grace no longer needs the Pope or the Pope’s approval, then should it not follow that he no longer needs you? Would you not agree with my simple logic?”

  My gaze was direct and unsparing.

  “Madame, truly, progress in the Great Matter is being made, even at this very moment! I merely need to speak with His Majesty to convey the detail and acquire one further small payment with which to persuade those few cardinals who remain obstinate. Thereafter, I promise you, the news I will bear to the King will be joyous.”

  “Spare yourself the effort, Signore Casali. It is a matter of too little, too late. You have failed in your assignment.”

  Seething, I paused, “…and I shall not forget it!”

  Brushing past him I continued on my way.

  I would have enjoyed a backward glance to witness his embarrassment, but would not allow him to think I had reconsidered.

  In the span of only a few days since the final meeting between Henry and François, the previously humming household at the Exchequer became almost abandoned. Most of Henry’s retinue had packed up and left to sail back to Dover. Cromwell had been sent home, with instructions by Henry to attend to what matters he could, and defer to Norfolk and Suffolk when needed – and only to contact him if the situation became dire. Remaining were a scant few of Henry’s closest companions and members of his privy chamber, and to attend me, Anne Gainsford, Lady Margaret Fitzwalter, and two of my most trusted chambermaids, Lucy Holbrook, and Emma Potter.

  On the first of November, as if on cue, the previously mild, sunny coastal weather took a vicious turn with the approach of a storm which blew in from the northwest. The temperature dropped precipitously; a cold rain fell unceasingly, and the wind keened day and night. We were told that those who had set sail for Dover were driven back into Calais harbour, and some were blown off course as far as the coast of Flanders. I pitied the men and women who had no choice but to remain aboard ship, docked in the harbour and in great peril, waiting for the storm to subside. It continued for days, raining and gusting. The winds swept townsfolk off the streets of Calais, and the cracking and booming thunder made all but the most stouthearted among us anxious.

  As for me - it was quite extraordinary- the worse the weather became, the more appealing I found my situation, ensconced as we were in the cosy lodging, secure within the sturdy town walls, with few others. Removed from the garrulous court, the politics and diplomacy of the previous two weeks and the worries of everyday life back in England, I basked in the contentment of being house-bound with my love. Finally! I found myself, quite literally, to be at home with Henry, who had, after all, become my long-desired port in the storm. I was never happier in my life than during those wet and wild days in Calais.

  We were never bored or discontent. We walked in the long gallery and watched, enthralled, through the windows overlooking the gardens as the winds bent mighty trees till they near snapped in two. In the evenings, we feasted on the delicious local pheasant, cheeses, grapes and pears, then retired to our inner chamber, where, before a warming fire, we played endless games of Pope Julius with Francis Bryan, Francis Weston, and Anne Gainsford. We were completely absorbed in this newest card game, and I became quite skilled, often taking the purse to the grumblings of Bryan and the King.

  Once the evening’s entertainment had drawn to a close, Henry and I were left blissfully alone in our bedchamber. With the wind wailing about the eaves and the windows rattling in their leaded frames, we exulted in sleeping together and loving each other, naked under
the silken sheets and soft, thick coverlets.

  Henry and I were so besotted with each other that rarely were we apart. But by the tenth day of November, we reluctantly readied for our journey home. We were drunk with love and grateful to our Almighty Father that he had given us, finally, the opportunity to be together after so many years of patient waiting. We determined to show our thanks by generously giving alms on our way back to London, and we provided money and medicine to the poor folk who waited just outside the town walls. Henry also generously rewarded all of those who had enabled his travel.

  Sunday the tenth dawned fair and still, and we sent forth most of our belongings, hoping to set sail before sundown. As the afternoon wore on, though, a mist folded in from the sea, until it became so thick that one could not see a hand in front of one’s face. So we remained, fogged in for yet another day, until on Tuesday 12 November, we boarded ship just before midnight.

  This time, though, the crossing was not so pleasant as it had been some weeks before. I huddled within that creaking, noisome carcass, smelling the foul air beneath deck, and with every roll of the ship, I thought I would die. I hid from view, keeping my sickness to myself, and vomited until there was nothing left inside me … and then vomited again. My head ached unmercifully. Vaguely, I wondered if my sickness could have been brought on, or made worse by pregnancy, but I was too wracked with nausea to ponder the thought for long.

  The voyage took what seemed an eternity. I finally ceased heaving, and was able to rest, though fitfully. I somehow pieced myself back together to disembark and make our way to Dover Castle, where we were able to stay for a night on blessedly firm ground.