Moth To The Flame

by Angela Warwick

  One evening, whilst performing in a play before the whole court, it being one of the rare occasions when the two intermingled, Anne became aware of Francis and his sister watching her closely, inclining their heads to speak together without taking their eyes from her. Therefore once the play was finished and the players had taken their applause, she was not surprised when Francis intercepted her on her way back to the Queen.

  “Dearest Anne” Francis pressed her hand to his lips and gazed deeply into her eyes, as was his way. “How would you like to escape my dear wife’s tedious little court and go into service with my sister?”

  It was the chance for which Anne had been hoping, but she knew that to seize the opportunity with unbecoming eagerness was not what Francis expected of her. She did not disappoint him. Instead of following her impulse to shout yes, yes gladly! She flashed him a flirtatious little look from her talking eyes and answered demurely “The Queen is an excellent mistress, Sire, devout and kind”.

  Francis’s eyes twinkled; he was enjoying the game hugely. He said nothing and she continued “Yes, Queen Claude is a great lady” then moving her head closer to his and lowering her voice murmured “But oh so very dull”. She raised her eyes to his, a smile playing about her lips, and then they laughed together as Francis led her by the hand to meet his beloved sister.

  Within hours a rapport had sprung up between the Duchess Marguerite and Anne Boleyn. With Marguerite, Anne was able to drop the pretentious court manners, except in public, and be herself.

  Soon after meeting, Marguerite who was always direct, sometimes painfully so, told Anne that many considered her beautiful but felt that her complexion was marred by the small mole upon her neck. Before Anne had time to retort or take offence, Marguerite produced the ultimate disguise, one of her own pearl encrusted chokers.

  Anne received it gratefully and by the time she had worn it but a few times, a number of other ladies noticing how well it became her, had similar collars made to emulate the little Boleyn, who was becoming something of a leader of fashion. Together in private, Marguerite and Anne laughed, for something that had been utilised to hide a small fault had quickly become an essential accessory for fashion-conscious ladies.

  Another day Marguerite decided that at almost fourteen years of age, it was time little Anne discarded her velvet cap and tiny veil in favour of a hood, so she produced for Anne several of the French style hoods which she told the girl would suit her oval face with its determined chin far more than the cumbersome gable hood customarily worn by English ladies.

  There was however one tiny remaining fault which in Anne’s eyes constituted a major disfigurement. This she could not bear to reveal to anyone, even Marguerite. It was a tiny deformity on the little finger of her left hand; at the extreme outside edge, the nail was split, forming a small horny growth. When she had been younger her brother had teased her that it was the beginnings of a sixth finger and that she would grow up to be a witch.

  She had grown up to be nothing of the kind but the tiny growth bothered her and she was always afraid it would be noticed and commented upon. Frequently she clipped it off, for the scrap of nail covering it grew at the same rate as its larger neighbour, but it only grew back and to her anxious eyes seemed bigger and more unsightly each time.

  So, with her keen eye for fashion developing all the time, she devised something to draw the eye away and also to partly disguise her problem; an ingenious hanging sleeve which turned back from an under cuff at the wrist and fell almost to the floor. She immediately had this design made in several colours to co-ordinate or match with all her gowns and the Boleyn sleeve, as it became known, was an instant success and every lady copied it.

  Anne’s supreme moment of glory came one day when Marguerite herself appeared at a state occasion wearing the fashion created by her young maid of honour.

  As she approached her fifteenth birthday it was common knowledge that the Anglo-French relations which had been so good two years earlier at the Field of Cloth of Gold, were fast decaying. Within months the clouds of war were looming and France prepared to go into conflict against England.

  Minor skirmishes had been taking place for some weeks when Anne received a letter from her father informing her that due to the state of relations between the two countries, he had been instructed by King Henry to withdraw her from the French court. George was on his way to France and would escort her back to England.

  Anne was stunned by the news. The thought of uprooting from the country where she had been so happy and had learned so much, appalled her. She took the letter to both Francis and Marguerite but they told that regretfully there was nothing they could do. King Henry was recalling all English nationals.

  All too soon Anne found herself standing one morning with her brother on the deck of an English ship, watching as the coastline of her beloved France receded into the mist. George, looking down at her white, strained face, turned her to face him. Pulling the folds of her woollen cloak more closely about her he asked gently “What ails you Nan?”

  Her eyes turned again to the French coast before she looked into her brother’s face. “I suppose I am afraid George” she said frankly. “It is just like all those years ago when I left England for France. I was leaving home and going to live in a foreign country. That is how I feel now; it is France which I consider as home and England is the foreign land”.

  She moved away from him and stood, her hands on the rail, staring back at the land she loved whilst the angry wind pulled her headdress awry and played havoc with her long hair.

  George moved to stand behind her and putting his hands on her shoulders whispered “Let us go below now sister. I swear I shall repeat so many hilarious tales of the English court that you will not be able to wait to get there and see it all for yourself”.

  Gratefully, and with a smile on her face, she turned to him and as they went below deck murmured “You always cheer me up George. Whatever should I do without you?”

  He kept his promise. Soon the mingled laughter of brother and sister could be heard coming from her cabin and as he prophesied, Anne found herself longing for the day when she would take her place amongst her own English people at the court of King Henry VIII.

  Chapter 9 – Home Again

  As Anne and her brother rode along the leafy Kentish lanes on their journey home, she was aware of a great sense of peace. Taking deep breaths of the clean air she turned to George and told him “England smells different to France”.

  He raised his eyebrows cynically “Worse or better?” he enquired.

  Playfully she swished her riding whip at him “You know what I mean George, stop teasing me. Although, on the whole, I do believe that England smells fresher”.

  “Perhaps the English wash themselves more frequently than the French” he suggested, swiping his hand at a diving insect.

  Exasperated she glared at him. He was out of reach of her whip, so she could not give him a sisterly poke in the ribs.

  “Race?” he asked, dropping his horse back into step with hers.

  “Oh yes! Just one little thing though; I don’t remember the way!”

  “No problem sweet sister” he laughed, making ready for the off. “You won’t win anyway, so you can follow me home!” With that, he spurred his horse lightly and galloped off. Indignant at his inference that her horsemanship was inferior to his, she shortened her reins and sped off in his tracks.

  They dismounted at the stables, a short distance from the castle. As the grooms took charge of the horses, Anne, a little stiff from the long ride from Dover, walked awkwardly along the path until she stood in front of her childhood home.

  Enraptured she stood and stared. The mellow honey coloured stone was turning to gold in the softening rays of the setting sun, the mullioned windows sparkled with the dancing reflections from the moat. Carried on the light breeze towards her was the scent of the newly seasoned wood of the drawbridge and portcullis. It was quite unlike anything Anne had seen for many ye
ars. Walking slowly towards it she breathed “I never remembered it to be as beautiful as this. It looks just like a fairy tale castle from a romantic fable”.

  “It could just be that you never appreciated it when you were little” George decided, having slid to a half in front of her amid a flurry of stones. “Anyway, when you have finished gushing over the family seat, how about some refreshment? We’ve been riding for hours and I smell roasting beef!”

  Anne’s elegant little nose sampled the air in consideration. “Brother I do believe you speak truth!” she exclaimed, and together they walked over the little drawbridge, beneath the raised portcullis, through the inner courtyard and into the castle itself, both shivering a little in the chill of the entrance hall.

  During the days which followed, Anne enjoyed spending her time re-acquainting herself with the castle and the surrounding countryside. When the weather was warm and fine she walked in the grounds and rode along the lanes. If the weather was inclement she spent her time in the long gallery; a charming room which boasted window seats overlooking the moat and gardens.

  However, so valuable a commodity was not to be allowed to idle away her time for long. One evening as the family - with the exception of Mary who was at court – were enjoying a quiet supper, Thomas Boleyn announced to his son that he was to return to court on the morrow. “And you” he turned triumphantly to his daughter, “are to go with him. Queen Catherine has graciously accepted you as one of her ladies”.

  Anne dropped her spoon and clapped her hands with delight. Then, clasping her hands beneath her chin and raising her eyes heavenwards, she exclaimed to the ceiling “I am so lucky!”

  The next day, a chill January morning with the sun glinting palely between the clouds, Anne Boleyn left her enchanted castle to grace far larger, grander establishments. As they rode away she turned in her saddle for one last look at Hever. “I shall always feel safe and happy there” she stated gravely to no-one in particular. “Whatever the circumstance”.

  They travelled on horseback for most of the journey, and then completed the final stage by barge. As they glided up to the landing stage, Anne eagerly skipped on to the wooden boards, courteously assisted by her brother. They collected their own light hand baggage then together climbed a flight of stone steps to a large paved terrace. From there, lying across well-kept gardens and stone pathways, brother and sister were treated to an uninterrupted view of Greenwich Palace.

  Used to exotic French architecture, in which she had taken a great interest, Anne regarded Henry’s red bricked T-shaped palace with great appreciation, noting the huge windows gracing the galleries and the impressive courtyards.

  It’s a lovely building” Anne pronounced, as George conducted her through the maze of passageways towards the Queen’s apartments. “Although quite small by French standards”.

  “Don’t let King Henry hear you say that” George warned. “He is extremely sensitive regarding all things French since the war began and quite apart from that, Greenwich is his favourite residence. He was born here”.

  “Oh dear” Anne shrugged her shoulders and spread her hands wide. “If he is against all things French then he won’t like me very much!” As she spoke she glanced down at her French gown with its fashionable hanging sleeves, quite unlike anything seen in England, and put her hand apologetically to her French hood, the perfect frame for her face.

  “Don’t worry overmuch” George assured. “Just be yourself. The King never could resist a pretty face and a sharp wit, although it may be politic to disguise the French accent a little, if you can”.

  George enquired of a passing page the whereabouts of the court and was told that it was assembled in the great hall, the banquet finished and the dancing under way. On George’s advice, Anne left her cloak and bag in a small ante chamber for later retrieval and readied herself for her entrance.

  “Stay close to me” whispered George. “It will be crowded in there and we must first pay our respects to the King and Queen if we are not to incur instant displeasure!”

  The heavy oak doors swung wide to admit them and immediately Anne’s senses were assailed by the strong odours of food, wine, grease from the torches and five hundred perspiring bodies. She wrinkled her nose, and George, expecting such a reaction whispered reassuringly “Don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to it. Surely even the French have to sweat?”

  “No-one would ever admit to it” Anne laughingly told him. “Even base bodily functions are achieved with a certain elegance and panache in France!”

  For a moment they stood on the threshold at the top of the wide steps gazing down at the colourful capering company. The King and Queen were seated at the far end, on the customary dais; Anne noticed that the Queen looked tired and ill and the King overfed and bored. At once she thought of elegant Marguerite and her select court and sighed regretfully.

  Obediently she followed her brother through the milling throng. Here and there they were forced to pause as someone recognised George and greeted him, or slapped him on the back and called his name. Perceptive Anne noted that many of the young ladies coloured delicately as he passed by. Sister-like she stored the knowledge, to make use of for future jesting.

  At last they broke through the inner ring of courtiers, the type who always hung about persons of importance, and stood before their monarchs.

  “Your Grace” George bowed deeply to the King, then turned to bow to the Queen. “I beg your leave to present my sister Anne”. The King’s piggy eyes flickered over her.

  “Lately arrived from the court of France, Your Grace” she said carefully, only a slight accent betraying her as she sank into her obeisance.

  For a moment Henry’s eyes narrowed as he looked down at her bent head, then as she raised her eyes to his face he broke into a grin and rising from his chair, extended his hand to assist her to her feet.

  “Your Grace is too kind” she said meekly. “I have long awaited this honour”.

  Ever susceptible to flattery, the King’s grin grew wider. He addressed George “Why, your sister has turned into a little French lady” he observed, “for only the French can speak such a pretty compliment and appear to mean every word!” Delighted at his own joke he roared with laughter, slapping his thigh in his merriment. His courtiers obediently tittered.

  Anne became aware of George whispering in her ear “You are obviously going to be able to manage quite well without me”. Then excusing himself to his sovereigns, he turned and melted into the throng.

  Anne watched him go with barely concealed surprise before turning to the King and saying clearly “Evidently my brother believes I can take good care of myself for I have only been at court for five minutes and already he has abandoned me!”

  “Rest assured that your King will not forsake you Mistress Boleyn”. The King stood beside her, offering his arm for the dance. Gracefully she accepted and they took to the floor.

  Eager to try out her powers of attraction on this great bull of a man, Anne was at her most engaging, wasting no time in complimenting the King on his grace and lightness in the dance for so well built a man. The King beamed; he found himself very glad that she had come to court and felt sure that she would bring some sorely needed sparkle into his life. “I well remember you as a child, singing for us at Dover” he told her. “I thought then that maturity would render you into a uniquely talented person of note”.

  Anne inclined her head to acknowledge his compliment, delighted to know that he had not forgotten her court debut. “Your Grace has a remarkable memory” she told him. “It is many years now since I left England to make France my home”.

  “We have you back now, Mistress Anne” the King told her, as they touched hands and circled each other as the dance demanded. “And we wish to keep such as you in our court”.

  The dance ended, she thanked the King for the honour and curtseyed. Gallantly he replied that it was he who should be grateful to her, then chuckling to himself he made his way back to the dais where
his plump Spanish Queen awaited him, looking even more dowdy he decided, beside Mistress Anne’s elegance. Catherine said nothing, but she had watched them both closely, missing not a single smile or gesture.

  The King was barely seated before a young man, speaking Anne’s name, took her hand and bowed. For a moment her brow creased as she tried to place his face, then suddenly she knew. “Tom Wyatt!” she cried delightedly, before placing her hands on his shoulders and kissing him on both cheeks, French style.

  Wyatt, quite overcome by her enthusiastic greeting, glanced sidelong at the dais, aware that the King had straightened his back and was craning his neck over the many heads in order to see just who Mistress Boleyn embraced so gladly.

  The pair danced together for a while, then during a lull in the proceedings he drew her aside in order to talk with her privately. “I have thought about you many times Anne” he told her, pressing her hand ardently, “I have longed for this day”.

  “I too have thought of you Thomas” Anne confided truthfully, “but those days when we were childhood companions seem so long ago now”.

  “Indeed” he agreed sadly. “Did you know that I asked your father for your hand in marriage?”