The Lady in the Tower

by Виктория Холт

  I knew why, of course. I had heard George talking to Thomas Wyatt. We did not have to look far back into the family history to see what great progress we had made. Our great-grandfather, the founder of our fortunes, had been a mere merchant trading in silk and wool cloth. It was true he was a very special merchant, for he had acquired a title and become Lord Mayor of London. His greatest cleverness, though, was in his marriage, for his wife was the daughter of Lord Hoo—and her father's heiress at that. They had a son, William, my grandfather, who had married the daughter of the Earl of Ormond; hence more blue blood was injected into the Boleyn circulation. My father had done best of all, for he had married Elizabeth Howard, daughter of the Earl of Surrey, who in due course became the Duke of Norfolk; and the Dukes of Norfolk considered themselves—most dangerously—more royal than the Tudors.

  That was the pattern, said George, and our father planned for us all to continue with it. Therefore his children must receive a special education. They must be prepared to stand equal with the highest in the land. They should therefore not only learn the social graces but have the education which was generally reserved for royal children.

  Our governess, Simonette, was aware of this. She was a worldly woman with the fatalism and realism of her race. I was her favorite, which was strange because Mary was more lovable as well as being out-standingly pretty. She was hopeless with her lessons, because she would not—or could not—give her mind to them. So I supposed that was why Simonette favored me.

  I must dance as the French danced, walk as they walked in France, and I must speak French as it was spoken in that country. I was fond of her because she admired me and I had always yearned to be admired. I was very conscious of being less pretty than Mary and I confessed this to Simonette.

  “No, no, no,” she cried. “You have the grace. You have the charm. You will be the one, little Anne. Mary…oh yes…very pretty…loved for a while because she is giving …too giving… and that can pall. Oh, mon amour, I should want to see you older…a little older, yes. Those eyes… they are magnifique …yes, magnifique. And I tell you this: you know how to use them. It is something you are born with… for I have not taught you… They will allure, those eyes.”

  I studied them critically. They were large, making the rest of my face small in comparison. They and my thick dark hair were compensation for the mole on the front of my neck and the beginning of a nail on the side of my little finger which made me think that God had intended to give me a sixth finger and changed his mind, leaving me with only the nail.

  I hated it. I could not understand it. I found myself staring, fascinated, at other people's hands.

  My brother George said: “Never mind. It makes you different. Who wants to be the same as everyone else?”

  “I do,” I said vehemently.

  Simonette also tried to comfort me. “Sometimes it is more chic to have a little imperfection…more human…more exciting…more fascinating. You will see.”

  Then came that summer's day when we were all in the gardens. I remember so well that feeling of impending doom. I knew that something fearful was going to happen. The household was subdued. Even George and Thomas Wyatt were quiet. Mary was trying to fight off the evil as she always would by pretending that it did not exist.

  But we knew that all was not well, for they had sent to my father, bringing him home from the Court, and that would be something no one would dare do unless it was very important.

  My mother was dying. This was not just another of those yearly illnesses which beset her. This was not what they called “another disappointment.” This went beyond that. The doctors were there with the midwife.

  I thought of her. She was tender and loving to us children, but we had seen little of her. When she was well she accompanied our father to Court and it was only when he was on embassies abroad that she returned to her family. When she grew heavy with child she would be with us. Then would come the confinement and the brief rest before she joined our father. It was a pattern which seemed to go on forever.

  Neither George nor Thomas Wyatt could talk as usual on that day. We had been silent, glancing every now and then at the house, waiting.

  It was Simonette who came to tell us. I knew as soon as I saw her walking across the grass as though reluctant to reach us.

  To lose one's mother when one is not quite six years old is not only a tragic but an illuminating experience. It teaches one that life is not as pleasantly predictable as one had thought it to be. There comes a terrible sense of aloneness and the alarming knowledge that nothing will ever be the same as it was before.

  Our father went away on a mission to the Netherlands and was absent for a whole year, and when he came back there was more change in our household. He was clearly rather pleased with himself. George told us that he had had to conclude a treaty with Margaret of Savoy, Archduchess of Austria, by which the Emperor Maximilian, Pope Julius and Ferdinand of Spain should, with England, make war on France. This was the treaty which was soon to founder; but at that time my father believed that its conclusion was a great success for him. There was something else which was equally pleasing to him. My sister Mary was to go to the Court in Brussels over which Margaret reigned as Regent of the Netherlands.

  George said: “This is what our father always wanted—to get his children into royal circles.”

  So I lost Mary and as George was soon to go to Cambridge—and Thomas Wyatt with him—our little group was much diminished and Mary Wyatt and I did our best to console each other.

  I remember well the long summer day at Hever or riding over to Allington, feeding the pigeons with Mary Wyatt. I was fascinated by the pigeons; they had light brown feathers, different from the ordinary gray ones. I thought the reason why they were there was so romantic. I had first heard it from Thomas, who told it so beautifully—as he did everything.

  His father, Sir Henry, had been the prisoner of Richard III because he had not supported his accession to the throne, and on account of this had been thrown into the Tower. There he was severely tortured and when he had fainted with the agony, mustard and vinegar had been forced down his throat to revive him. When he refused to give way, he was put into a cell and left to starve.

  Sir Henry had thought his end was near but one day he saw a cat on the windowsill. He staggered to the window, delighted to have contact with some living thing; he put his hand through the bars to stroke the cat's fur. Instead of repulsing him the cat had purred. He felt the better for it. The cat went away but shortly afterward came back with a pigeon it had caught and killed. The pigeon was for Sir Henry. It was food and he was almost dead of starvation. He ate the pigeon.

  The next day, the cat appeared again with another pigeon, and thus did that cat keep Sir Henry alive all through the time of his captivity. So he lived to see the defeat of Richard at Bosworth Field and the arrival of Henry Tudor, who, wishing to reward him for his fidelity to the House of Lancaster, immediately freed him and restored his estate to him.

  Sir Henry never forgot. Whenever I saw him at Allington it was with a cat… not the same one which had kept him alive, but a descendant of that cat; his cat was like a faithful hound; it followed him wherever he went, slept on his bed and was constantly in his company; and to remind himself of how he had been saved, he had pigeons brought to Allington and he said they would be there as long as there were Wyatts in the castle. And the strange thing was that the cat and the pigeons of Allington were friends. They lived together amicably in the castle—symbols of Sir Henry's survival to serve with loyalty the Tudor Kings.

  So Mary Wyatt and I were often together at Allington or Hever until I heard that I was to go to France in the service of the King's sister.

  So here I was about to embark on this great adventure.

  * * *

  When we arrived at Dover Castle a gale was sweeping in from the sea and white horses were flinging themselves against the white cliffs in an abandon of fury that sent a shiver of alarm through me.

/>   Lady Guildford, who was in charge of us, came to the apartment to which we had been taken and told us that we should not be embarking yet but that we must be prepared to leave as soon as the sea grew calm, which, she stressed, could be at any time.

  Seeing us settled in our apartment, she went back to the Princess and I was left with the other ladies who were inclined to look down their aristocratic noses at me. I was considered to be the outsider by my companions, Anne and Elizabeth Grey, the two sisters of the Marquis of Dorset, the sister of Lord Grey and the daughter of Lord Dacre. Who are these Boleyns? they were saying. True, I was the granddaughter of the Duke of Norfolk—he who considered himself more royal than the Tudors—and he had actually been in the cavalcade with his son, the Earl of Surrey, but they had pointedly ignored my father as though to disclaim the family connection; and I supposed these ladies took their cue from the Duke. I had always known that he deplored my mother's marriage into a family which had its roots in trade. So I was of little account—and not only because of my youth.

  They talked over my head as though they were quite unaware of my existence. This infuriated me. Who were they? I asked myself. The Greys were descended from Elizabeth Woodville, and who was she before the King married her? I had always liked the story of how he came across her in the forest and had fallen in love with her and secretly married her, and when it was a fait accompli he had confronted his ministers with what he had done. This was the glorious Edward IV, grandfather to our present King, and, as some said, the two were very much alike.

  Edward had triumphed in the Wars of the Roses but he was known to be the most profligate man in England, and his mistresses were legion. Our King had not had the same success in battle and he was, I had heard Tom Wyatt say, moderately faithful to his Queen. So perhaps it was only in appearance that they were similar.

  I listened avidly to the talk around me.

  “I am sorry for the Princess. She is so angry,” said Anne Grey.

  “Who would not be, buffeted about like a shuttlecock…fi rst betrothed to one, then to another. And the Princess of all people. We know her temper.”

  “I thought the King might relent right at the last moment. He is very indulgent with her.”

  “But this is politics. It has to be. I think she is a little glad to escape from Charles. By all accounts he would not have been the bridegroom for her.”

  There was laughter. “And you think poor old Louis is?”

  “Hush. Lèse majesté. You are speaking of the King of France.”

  “Well, even so, everyone knows he is all of fifty-two. Just think of our beautiful Mary with that old man.”

  “She will make him dance to her tune.”

  “Of course she will. But how angry she is…and how she longs for Suffolk!”

  “I was sure at one time the King would give way to her.”

  “Oh no… not even to his beloved sister. It is all part of the treaty. That is what royal marriages are about.”

  “I long to know what she will do when she sees him.”

  “You will. She will let us know. She will let everyone know.”

  “When her temper flares out…”

  “As it will.”

  “But the King loves her well. That is why he is waiting here to say goodbye to her.”

  “Perhaps,” said Elizabeth Grey, “he fears that if he does not see her off she will come back to Court … or run off with Suffolk.”

  “How she would like to do that!”

  “And knowing her, do you think she might attempt it?”

  “And so they continued to talk while we were in our beds but I was so tired that I was soon fast asleep.

  The next day I came face to face with the Princess herself. She took my chin in her hands and studied me. She was in one of her good moods apparently. “Little Boleyn, is it?” she asked. She added, “Fine eyes you have, child.” And she gave me a little tap on the cheek.

  That, said the ladies, was indeed a mark of approval.

  I said I was amazed that she should have noticed me.

  “Oh, it is only because you are so young,” I was told by Anne Grey. “Lady Guildford is really very put out because you are here. She said did they expect her to look after children.”

  I heard one of them whisper something about Thomas Boleyn always being on the lookout for favors.

  But it did not worry me unduly that I was resented. Everything was so novel to me and to be here in the castle waiting for the wind to change, being ready to embark at short notice, was very exciting.

  The time came at four o'clock on the morning of 2 October. Everyone had been growing more and more uneasy the longer we stayed, for the year was advancing and October was notorious for its gales. We should have waited for the spring, but matters of state have to be concluded, whatever the time.

  I shall never forget that voyage. I thought it was the end of my life and that I should never see France. We had not gone more than a few miles when the storm arose and the fleet was scattered. Never in my wildest imaginings had I thought of anything like this. The ladies were terrified; and Lady Guildford hovered round the Princess, who seemed less concerned than the rest of us.

  I realized then how she must be dreading her marriage for she cried out, laughing rather wildly: “I rejoice for perhaps I shall not be Queen of France after all, Mother Guildford.” She always called Lady Guildford “Mother” because they had been together since the Princess's childhood.

  How unhappy one must be to welcome death! But later I realized that she, who was so full of life, would cling to it with her entire being; it was just her reckless and extravagant way of talking. The Princess Mary could not be quietly sad, she had to be tragically so and let everyone know it.

  So we were flung about—too frightened to feel even the horrible sickness which had begun to affect most of us. We could think only of one thing: death in that angry sea.

  We were making for Boulogne—I heard later that some of the ships put in at Calais and some even went to Flanders—and the ordeal seemed to go on for hours. Then suddenly someone called: “Land!”

  But that was not the end of our troubles. The Captain could not get the ship into the harbor and we ran aground outside it. But at least we felt comparatively safe then, for although we were still surrounded by sea we could see people watching on the shore.

  We were all on deck, drenched to the skin, our hair wildly flying, and soon they were sending out little boats to bring us in. One gallant gentleman waded out and shouted that he would carry the Queen ashore. Mary was lowered into his arms and we watched him take her to dry land.

  Then it was our turn; but no gentlemen came for us. We must, with great difficulty, get into the little rowing boats and ride the waves again.

  But at last the ordeal was over. We had arrived.

  It had been a terrifying experience.

  * * *

  The Princess Mary was in fact already the Queen of France, for the proxy ceremony had taken place at Greenwich (with the Duc de Longueville standing in for the King of France; and in France with the Earl of Worcester incongruously taking the place of Mary) but we had been apt to think of her still as our Princess and should do so until the ceremony had been performed between her and King Louis. This was due to take place in two days’ time.

  The day after our arrival we were to make the journey to Abbeville where the King would be waiting to greet his bride.

  It was amazing how quickly we recovered from our ordeal. Few would have recognized the bedraggled creatures who had come ashore in those rowing boats as the dazzling company who prepared to journey with the new Queen to meet her bridegroom.

  I had thought a great deal about her and how tragic it was for one so beautiful to be sent to a loveless marriage, particularly when—as I had gathered—her love was for someone else. Had I been older, with more knowledge of human nature as I was to come to know it later, I should have felt less sympathy perhaps. It was true that Mary was in love with Suff
olk, and Mary, being a Tudor, was subject to intense emotions, loving and hating more violently than most people; it was true that she was being forced into a marriage with an old man who might be repulsive to her, but Mary's nature was such as would enable her to exploit any situation to her advantage and emerge from it unscathed and with the determination to have her own way in the end. As indeed it proved for her.

  How beautiful she looked in white cloth of silver with a jeweled coif on her lovely hair; her skin was smooth and pink like her brother's. I envied her fairness.

  Our clothes, which had been carefully chosen for this occasion, had been safely brought ashore—for which we were thankful—and our dresses were of crimson velvet. I was glad of this for it was a color which was most becoming to my dark hair and eyes. I noticed one or two ladies glance at me; they said nothing, but I could see by their looks that they were reluctantly admiring me, which pleased me very much.

  The King had sent over horsemen and archers to accompany us—a gentle reminder, no doubt, of our fighting strength, even though, through this marriage, we were the friendliest of neighbors.

  We were just leaving Boulogne when a party of horsemen rode up. At the head of them was one of the most striking looking men I had ever seen. He was tall—as tall as the King of England—and one rarely saw men as tall; but where Henry was dazzlingly fair this man was dark. He was dressed with extreme elegance and here and there a jewel gleamed about his person to suggest good taste rather than ostentation. Oddly enough, the first moment I saw him, I found myself making comparisons with the King of England.