Consequently the players were arrested and taken to Blois, where they were kept in dungeons.
I think they would probably have been left there to perish had it not been for Queen Claude. She was really distressed about the incident. I thought that, in her quiet way, she was very wise, although there had been times when I had been inclined to despise her for her meek acceptance of her lot. After all, she was a king’s daughter. Had I been in her place, I should have insisted on being treated with more respect. I should have refused to feign indifference to François’s love affairs, for it must be feigned. She must care. She must feel humiliated. And when the time came, she just meekly accepted his return to the marriage bed, remaining calm and continuing with her good works.
She asked a great many questions about the players and thought it was quite wrong to imprison them for what they had done with impunity in the previous reign. “The people will not like it,” she said. “I must speak to the King.”
And she did. She was like many people who appear weak; she was indifferent enough over matters which seemed of no great moment to her but when she really felt strongly she could stand very firm.
François admired her—if not physically—for her character. The people loved her. Although they were amused by the King, they respected those who led saintly lives; and they respected Claude.
I could imagine the scene, although, of course, I did not witness it. Claude would clearly state that she thought the players ought to be set free. She would explain her reason, and clever François would see the logic of it. He knew his mother would be furious if he gave them their liberty and he hated to offend her, but he could see that Claude was right. Graciously and gallantly, he said that he could not refuse his wife’s request; and for once Louise was impotent to act. I was sure she raged in private and must have wondered if Françoise de Foix was loosening the bonds between her and Caesar.
However, the players were released unconditionally, to the satisfaction of all except Louise.
François was too intelligent not to realize that his grip on the people’s affections was slackening and he knew that it was always wise to give the people some lavish entertainment. The Romans had realized this and they instituted their circuses. François, so well read, so well versed in history, decided to do the same.
Queen Claude, more popular than ever over the matter of the players, had never been crowned. That honor must be given her and at the same time it would give the people something to think about other than their growing dissatisfaction with the new reign.
The preparations threw our circle into a state of great activity. I was to be in the procession and we were fitted with new gowns of rich velvet and we were to wear hats made of cloth of gold in the shape of crowns.
So we rode to St. Denis on elaborately caparisoned mules.
Even Claude looked beautiful, accepting all the acclaim as calmly as she had the neglect. The people cheered her wildly, calling her St. Claude. They remembered she was the daughter of the King whom they had failed to appreciate when he was alive, but they now knew his worth; and her mother had been the great Anne of Brittany whom they had all respected and loved.
I was pleased to see her appreciated.
Then there were the entertainments which always followed these occasions, during which the King had a chance of winning back some of his lost esteem by performing with grace and skill at the jousts.
It was after the activities were over that the Queen sent for me.
She bade me be seated and then she said: “I have some news for you. I have received letters from your father.”
My heart sank. I was going to be sent home. But she went on: “He is very happy that you are here and I have sent him a good account of your behavior.”
“Oh, thank you, Madame.”
She nodded. “You are a good child, and you have talents. Your speech has improved greatly since you came to me and your needlework is good.”
I thanked her again.
“He has been a little anxious of late about your sister—Mary, I believe.”
“Yes, Madame. Mary.”
“He has asked me if I can find a place for her here…with you.”
I looked at her in astonishment. She was smiling her gentle, sweet smile.
“I have written to tell him that I am willing to have her here. So, Anne, you will soon be seeing your sister. She is, in fact, on her way to us now.”
I was amazed. So Mary was coming to France! It was so long since I had seen her and those days with my brother George and the Wyatts in the gardens of Blickling and Hever seemed far in the past.
It would be wonderful to see Mary. I smiled and the Queen gave me one of her benign looks of approval.
I murmured: “Thank you, Madame.”
Mary and I were emotional when we met. It was quite four years since we had been parted; and at first we did not recognize each other. She had changed considerably from the little girl who had been sent to Brussels; she was plumper, more voluptuous. She must be twelve years old but she looked older.
She told me how glad she was to come to the French Court. That of Brussels had been quite dull and she had heard that, since the reign of the new King of France, life here was very amusing.
Her eyes sparkled at the prospect, but I quickly disillusioned her. We were in attendance on Queen Claude and that was a little circle apart.
She pouted and said that perhaps there were ways of breaking out of the circle.
She laughed a good deal. I asked her about affairs in Brussels but all she could tell me was what the people were wearing; and when I explained about King François going to war and his meeting with the Pope, she looked at me blankly and I could see that her attention was wandering. She had not changed; she was the same girl who had sat with us in the gardens and not listened to a word of those interesting conversations between George and Thomas Wyatt.
She was easy-going, happy-go-lucky, and I noticed, in a few days, that she was more interested in the men than the women. When she caught a glimpse of François she was overwhelmed with admiration.
“Surely,” she said, “there has never been anyone like him.”
“I imagine he is unique,” I said.
“I think he smiled at me.”
“He smiles at all females.”
“Oh…I thought he smiled specially at me.”
I began to think she was inclined to be foolish, but it was pleasant to have someone of my own family near me; I was amazed by what a joy it was to be able to converse in English.
After a while she settled in, as Mary always would, I supposed.
An important event occurred soon after her arrival. There was a great deal of talk about it, and the King’s sister, Marguerite d’Alençon, showed a lively interest.
Some said it was an attack on the Church and struck at the very roots of religion; but Marguerite said that every new theory must be given attention.
The fact was that a priest called Martin Luther was so incensed by the sale of indulgences—which meant that by paying a sum of money, men and women could be forgiven their sins—that he drew up ninety-five theses on the subject and nailed them on the church door at Wittenberg. This had caused consternation throughout the Catholic world. The chief offender in Martin Luther’s eyes was a Dominican friar named John Tetzel who had established himself at Jüterbog, where he carried out what Luther called “this shameful traffic.” “God willing, I will beat a hole in his drum,” declared Martin Luther. At one time Luther would have been seized and no more heard of him, but times were changing. Luther had his supporters and Tetzel was forced to retire to Frankfurt. This caused quite a stir in Court circles, and people thought that Martin Luther was striking a direct blow against the established Church.
Who was this upstart monk? people were asking. He should be taught a lesson.
But Marguerite insisted that the question was worth studying. The man had certainly raised some interesting points and it was nonsense to say
that the Church could not profit from improvements.
Sometimes she would be walking in the gardens and a little group would gather around her and there would be an interesting discussion. I had been attracted to Marguerite from the moment I saw her. She was very beautiful but it was for her cleverness that she was noted. She and the King were on terms of intimacy such as he shared with no one else, not even his mother. I had heard it whispered that there was an incestuous love between them, but I did not believe that. François might be capable of indulging in it but I did not think Marguerite would be. Her adoration of her brother was not physical, although when one saw them walking in the gardens with their arms about each other one might think so. But although he was the King, it was Marguerite who would decide the nature of their relationship; and I have always believed that that relationship was far stronger and of greater durability because there was no sexual side to it. They were perfect in each other’s eyes; and although it was clear that Marguerite had a greater regard for her brother than she had for her husband, I would be ready to swear that physical contact did not play a part in it.
Marguerite had one quality which the other two in the Trinity lacked: modesty. And I think this was due to her greater wisdom. She and François had grown up together; she was his senior by two years; she it was who had taught him to read, who had told him stories of great heroes, who had, in a measure, made him the man he was. To him she was always the elder sister, the greatest love of his life; although his devotion to his mother never wavered, being François, realistic and highly intelligent, he must see the faults in Louise; but he found none in Marguerite.
Marguerite wrote constantly; I had seen her on occasions sitting with the King—just the two of them because François made it clear that at that time he wanted no other company than that of his sister—his arm about her shoulder, while she read her poetry to him; I had seen them in animated conversation or laughing together; I had rarely seen such amity between two people.
I remember a verse she had written in her youth. The translation ran something like this:
Such boon is mine to feel the amity
That God hath putten in our Trinity
Wherein to make a third, I, all unfitted
To be the number’s shadow, am admitted.
But to my mind—and perhaps this will be borne out by future generations—it was Marguerite who was the wisest member of the Trinity.
François would have forbidden any approval of Martin Luther in his Court. Was he not, after all, the Most Christian King? But Marguerite was above such laws; she was one who must give her attention to what she considered important, and the King would not dream of forbidding her to do what she thought right. And she certainly considered Martin Luther worthy of her attention.
One day I saw her talking to a group of people and wandering up, I stopped to listen.
She was saying: “The Pope at the moment is inclined to shrug this aside. He thinks Luther a clever priest…interesting… expressing new ideas. But the Cardinals see danger here. They believe Luther is striking at the foundations of the Church. This may well be, but should we go on accepting these old laws and traditions? Should we not take them out of storage and give them a closer look? This is interesting. I do not believe it is the simple matter some people think. There is a good deal to the friar. I’ll swear he will be sent for…to Rome, and if he goes, it may be that we will hear no more of Martin Luther, for he is certainly causing disquiet in some circles.”
Everyone listened intently—among them myself—and a few gave their opinions. She must have noticed me for when she stood up to leave she called to me.
“You are Anne Boleyn, I believe,” she said. “The little one who stayed behind with Queen Mary and now serves Queen Claude.”
I told her this was so and she went on: “You were listening to the discourse.”
“Madame, I am sorry…Isaw no harm …”
She laughed. “You have long ears, I believe,” she said and pulled one of them playfully. “Tell me, what do you think of this man Luther?”
“I…I have not seen the theses.”
That amused her. “Many people are giving judgment without seeing them.”
“I…I think one should see them first.”
She bent toward me and said: “We think alike.”
Then she dismissed me, but after that she would speak to me when she saw me; and sometimes she would have a little chat—just the two of us—which I found most exciting.
The attention she bestowed on me had its effect and people were a little more respectful to me than before.
It was about this time that Raphael’s masterpiece St. Michael arrived in France. Having persuaded Leonardo da Vinci to take up residence under his shelter, François had tried hard to induce Raphael to do the same. Raphael, however, declined the invitation, but at least François succeeded in having two of his pictures brought to France. St. Michael came and The Holy Family was to follow.
When St. Michael arrived, it was treated with a respect which bordered on idolatry. François had the picture hung in his grandest gallery. It was hidden by a rich velvet curtain and only those who, in François’s opinion, could appreciate great art were invited to the unveiling.
“It is sacrilege,” said François, “to display great art to those who do not understand it.”
So it was a great privilege to be at the ceremony.
Marguerite sent for me. Eagerly I went to her. I had lost my awe of her and enjoyed these occasions when I would be seated on a stool close to her and listen to her reading poetry, often her own. She had discovered in me a love of the artistic. I had always been interested in clothes and I was allowed to design my own, which I did in a humble way; I invented a special sleeve which hung over my hand to hide the sixth nail.
Marguerite had admired them and when she knew the reason why, she admired them still more. She had decided that I was worthy to attend the unveiling; and so I was present on that great occasion.
It was thrilling when the curtains were drawn aside and the masterpiece revealed.
Afterward François came to his sister and I heard him say: “Who is your little guest?”
“Anne Boleyn,” she told him.
“A protégée of yours?”
“An interesting child.”
He surveyed me and I cast down my eyes. He took my chin in his hand and turned my face up to his. He stroked my cheek gently.
“Charming,” he said. His smile frightened me a little. Marguerite saw this and laid a hand on my shoulder, drawing me away from him. His smiles were then all for her.
“Her sister has now joined her,” said Marguerite. “Anne has been with us for some time.”
He nodded and seemed to forget me. I was glad of that.
It was soon after that that I became a little anxious.
Mary began to be absent for long stretches of time. There was a change in her. I often saw her smiling to herself as though she found something very amusing.
When I asked her what was happening, she giggled a little. I realized suddenly that others were whispering about her.
One day I said to her: “Mary, what has happened? I know it is something.”
“Happened?” She opened her blue eyes very wide and I could see the laughter behind them. It was a certain gratified laughter.
“Please tell me,” I said. “You seemed very pleased about it. Let me share your pleasure.”
That sent her into fits of laughter.
“You are too young,” she said.
Then, knowing the morals of the Court, I feared the worst. Mary was twelve years old… soon to be thirteen. Girls were often married at that age.
I said: “You have taken a lover.”
“Rather,” she corrected me, “he has taken me.”
“Oh Mary,” I replied, “it will do you no good.”
“But it will. Wait until you know who.”
“Please tell me who.”
“Guess.�
�
“No, I can’t. Tell me.”
“You’ll never believe it.”
“I will if you tell me.”
“The King.”
“François?”
“I know of no other King in France.”
“Oh Mary…you fool !”
Mary tried to be angry; it was not easy for her. She was astonished at my stupidity, in not understanding the honor—as she thought—this was. She seemed to think she had gained the greatest possible prize because she had been seduced by the most profligate man in France.
“He is delighted with me.”
“For how long?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know that he seduces girls as frequently as he sits down to meals?”
“He likes me a great deal. He calls me his little English mare.”
I felt sick with shame. I thought of elegant, witty Françoise de Foix and the other Court ladies who had enchanted him briefly. How long did Mary think she would last?
I said: “You have disgraced the name of Boleyn.”
Then I almost laughed at myself. Who were the Boleyns? Descendants of merchants who had done good trade and married into the aristocracy. But however humble the family, it should keep its honor.
Even now I would rather not dwell on that time. My sister Mary was one of those women—and this quality always remained with her—whose main purpose in life seemed to be to satisfy her sexual desires and those of her partners. I did not know whether she was a virgin when François discovered this…I call it a failing…in her, but he was the kind of man who would be aware of it at once and seek to exploit it.
Mary must have been born with a sexual competence; she would know how to attract and how to satisfy. This was the purpose of her life, I suppose, her raison d’ê tre. It had been present in those early days, only I had not recognized it. Perhaps Mary herself had not.
She amused François for several weeks, which was longer than I expected. Everyone was talking about his new mistress, a girl…very young… but not too young. How long? was the question on everyone’s lips.
Jean Plaidy - [Queens of England 04] Page 8
