“I imagine she is rather like Queen Claude.”
Mary nodded.
“She is very much the daughter of the King and Queen of Spain… and never forgets it. And she is very religious. There will be a great deal of praying. Your knees may get sore.”
“And you, Mary?”
She laughed. “I do very well.”
“And what of Will?”
“He does very well, too.”
“Of course I know about you and the King.”
She laughed in that carefree way of hers and dimpled prettily. I thought how strange it was that I should have such a sister. There could scarcely be two people less alike than Mary and myself.
“The King is very kind to me.”
“Mary…do you love him?”
“Of course.”
“And Will?”
“Will is my husband. Of course I love him.”
I could see that it was impossible to come to any understanding about these matters with Mary. She loved everyone…particularly men. She could see no harm in coupling, I gathered. How could there be anything wrong in giving pleasure? She pleased the King; she pleased her husband. Of course, Will had to accept the fact that the King liked her. This he did with good grace, for being Will, he had not the strength to do anything else. He was a Squire of the Body. It was as good a post as Will could expect; and neither he nor Mary thought of asking for special privileges.
It was true that our father had profited from the relationship and was rising high in the King’s favor. He was a good ambassador, a loyal and faithful subject, but he was rewarded also because he had a beautiful daughter who pleased the King very much indeed.
I said to Mary: “Has the King ever said anything to you about the visit he paid to Hever?”
“Yes, he did mention it. He said our stepmother had talked to him of recipes, and he attributed the excellence of the table to her good work.”
“Was that all?”
“He thought it a pleasant spot. I can think of nothing more.”
So he had not thought of me after that strange interview. But perhaps he cared for Mary too much to bother her with an account of her sister’s deplorable behavior.
I was greatly impressed by the Queen when she received me, which she did with the utmost grace. Regality sat naturally upon her. One was immediately struck by her calmness. She had an oval face with rather heavy features. I noticed at once her high forehead. Her figure was rather squat and solid; she had endured much childbearing, although the only royal child so far was the Princess Mary, who must have been some six or seven years old at this time. If Queen Katharine had been beautiful once, she was no longer so. She was dressed in very dark blue velvet which was almost black; her straight sleeves were ruffled and slashed at the wrists and a great crucifix hung about her neck. She had no need to proclaim her piety; it was obvious. Moreover we all knew that she fasted on Fridays, Saturdays and all saints’ days. She was with her confessor twice a week at least, although what sins she had to confess it was hard to imagine; and she received the eucharist every Sunday. Each day one of her attendants read to her for two hours after dinner from a book of devotions—a task which often fell to me, for she said I had a musical voice.
I had a great respect for her but she was not the sort of person to whom one could get close. I think she always felt she was in an alien land.
Maria de Salinas, who had accompanied her as a maid of honor, when she came to England from Spain, and who was married to Lord Willoughby d’Eresby, was one of the few women friends she had. For the rest of us she showed a rather gentle tolerance. But she was always considerate of us and kindly toward us. We liked her but it was hard to feel that affection which I had had for Queen Claude or the deeper feeling I had cherished for Marguerite.
I knew her story, and in a way it seemed rather a tragic one. She had been only sixteen when she had come to England to marry Prince Arthur, who was fourteen at the time. I could imagine her childhood and the rigorous upbringing in the Spanish household. There would have been a lack of warmth, a formality which must have been rather frightening to a young child. Yet she had had a passionate adoration for her mother, Queen Isabella. Her father, Ferdinand, had shown a rather cynical disregard for his daughter after her mother had died. So, as an innocent girl of sixteen, she had been married to Prince Arthur, who had died a few months after the ceremony. The marriage had never been consummated because they had all been afraid for Arthur’s health and they thought that exertion and excitement, to which he was unaccustomed, might kill him. Poor boy, he had died without that excitement, and there had followed for Katharine, the virgin widow, a time of great anxiety. Her mother, whom she adored, and who would have brought her back to Spain, had died and the poor little widow was left bereft in an alien land where her only worth seemed to be through her dowry, over which King Henry VII and Ferdinand of Spain were haggling for a long time. Consequently for eight years she lived wretchedly in England with very little money, until the old King died and the new King, eighteen-year-old Henry VIII, came to the throne and, flushed with romantic chivalry and having a certain fancy for the daughter of Spanish kings, married her.
From then on Katharine should have reached a haven of happiness, but ill luck was hers. Desperately the King wanted a son, but for some reason, although the Queen was fruitful, disappointment after disappointment followed.
Within a year of her marriage, she had raised her husband’s and the country’s hopes by giving birth to a child. A daughter, it was true, but stillborn. The next year there was a son, who brought great joy just for one month before he died. Two years later there was another son, born dead, and a year later a premature delivery. After that a healthy child, but a girl. The Princess Mary, the only one who had lived. More miscarriages followed and the King, in his despair, had been heard to say that some evil fate was working against him.
I was sure that this caused the Queen great unhappiness. But at least she had the Princess Mary on whom she doted.
Perhaps the failure to produce the children for whom the King so longed had made her more pious than ever. I was aware that she derived little pleasure from the masques and banquets which so delighted her husband; but she certainly found great comfort in prayer and books of devotions.
She was interested in serious discourse, and people like Sir Thomas More, a man of great wit, charm and erudition, was a great favorite of hers. I had occasionally heard her laughing with him over some witticism; but it was obvious she could not share wholeheartedly in the festivities of the Court, and although she tried hard to fall in with the spirit of these things, she could not express the required surprise when the King emerged from his disguises to show himself as the monarch.
She did not show any rancor toward my sister Mary. It might have been that she realized that if the King must have a mistress it was better she should be a girl like Mary than some grasping female who would make all sorts of demands. Mary at least did not flaunt her position; she was just there, smiling placidly, available when required and, when she was not, quite contentedly giving herself the pleasure of warming her husband’s bed.
I believed that Elizabeth Blount had been less retiring, though her day was over before I came on the scene. She had a son by the King of whom he was very proud, because he was a boy and had survived. In his heart, I believed he had feared that the inability to produce a healthy boy might lie with him—but this boy of Elizabeth Blount’s proved that the fault lay with Katharine.
Having been in such close contact with Marguerite and listened to her discourse, I had come to realize how important affairs of the country were to individuals; and I was very interested in what was happening politically.
Our ally was now the Emperor Charles—a fact which greatly delighted the Queen because she was his aunt. It must have been very distressing for her when Henry and François were courting each other. Yet she had successfully hidden her feelings at Guines and Ardres. I realized now what she must have
been suffering to know of the plotting which was going on against her nephew.
Now, however, Charles was our friend and François our foe. The Princess Mary was no longer affianced to the Dauphin—that betrothal which had been made at the Field of the Cloth of Gold; and to the Queen’s delight there was talk of an alliance with the Emperor, even though the poor child was only seven and he was twenty-three.
But the man who was most talked of, whom people most feared and who was said to have the King’s ear in all matters, was the great Cardinal Wolsey.
I was interested to learn how a man of humble origins could have risen so high as to dominate not only the Court but the King himself. Of course he was a man of great and rare intellect, of immense purpose and a certain charm, which he exerted with the utmost success over the King. I wished I could have discussed him with Marguerite. I was sure she would have found the secret of his success. That he was exceptionally clever was obvious—but it was more than that.
I learned all I could about him—and there were plenty to tell of his origins. “A butcher’s son. His father had a shop in Ipswich,” they jeered. Such a man would inevitably engender envy which I was beginning to recognize as the most deadly of the seven deadly sins as well as the most prevalent. Let them sneer at him for his humble origins; it seemed to me that all the more credit was due to him for his spectacular rise. He must be almost twenty years older than the King, and it was said that Henry looked upon him as a father. Every problem which arose was taken to Wolsey and it was rarely that the King did not take his advice.
I think the butcher must have been a man of some means; he probably owned land on which he grazed his cattle. However, Thomas Wolsey was destined for the Church and, as was to be expected, once he had taken Holy Orders, made rapid strides in his chosen profession. Before he was forty he had been promoted to an archbishopric; he had graduated and was a B.A. at the age of fifteen and was known as “the Bachelor”; there followed his M.A. and eventually he became chaplain to Sir Richard Nanfan, Deputy of Calais, who, amazed at his brilliance, spoke of him to King Henry VII.
That was the big step Wolsey had been looking for. Henry VII was too astute to be affected by a man’s origins, and Wolsey was soon in his confidence. Men of influence began to notice him, and one of these was Richard Fox, Bishop of Winchester. Wolsey was climbing high to the pinnacle of his ambition which was clearly the Papal Crown.
There is a story that Henry VII decided to try him out as a diplomat and sent him on a mission to the Emperor Maximilian in Flanders. The matter was urgent, said the King, and he wished Wolsey to act with all speed. Three days later the King, looking from a window, saw Wolsey making his way toward the palace of Richmond. He sent for him to come to him at once; he was preparing to reprove him for delaying so long before setting out, but Wolsey replied that he had been to Flanders, completed the mission and was about to present himself to the King to report on this when he had been summoned to his presence. That he could have acted so quickly and successfully surprised the King and he realized from that moment that he had a very rare servant in Thomas Wolsey.
There were many stories about him—his brilliance, his determination, his ambition, his love of ostentation. His houses were as grand as palaces; he had as much power as the King. He became Dean of Lincoln and, when Henry VII died, his son made Wolsey his Almoner and began to shower honors on him. In the year 1515 Pope Leo sent Wolsey his cardinal’s hat with a very valuable ring, and there was a great gathering of bishops when the hat was placed on Wolsey’s head in the Abbey. He had become the most interesting and important man at Court.
I was enjoying my life there. In France I had been aware of my youth until the last year, when my coming to maturity had raised problems with which I had feared I might not be able to deal. It was different here. Now, at sixteen, I was no longer a child and I felt I could take care of myself. Having been brought up in the French Court, I stood out among the others. I found that I attracted attention and I had many admirers, which pleased me. I was not pretty, as many of the girls were, but I knew that I made them appear commonplace. My dark hair and eyes, my choice of clothes, designed by myself, set me apart; and although others tried to imitate my gowns, they could not do it—or the garments did not look the same on them. I could dance better than any of them and play the lute to bring tears to many an eye; and I could sing so as to affect them in like manner. I was a success.
I saw the King on one or two occasions. He did not appear to notice me. I wondered whether he remembered our encounter in the garden at Hever and this was his way of showing disapproval. I did not care if it was.
Being a member of the Queen’s household meant that one was engaged in many duties other than pleasure. I should have liked to take part in the masques more frequently, but there were always certain tasks we had to perform. We had to sit with the Queen at our embroidery while one of us read from a religious book. There were prayers to be attended.
But there were occasions when the Queen and her ladies were expected to attend the revels; and this gave me a chance to shine. I always paid a great deal of attention to the clothes I should wear and I hoped I should not have too many imitators. I loved to dance, and when the King and his friends danced with the ladies, I often wondered whether he would come to me and if so what conversation would pass between us. I half hoped and was afraid that he would do so. I should have to curb my tongue. I had no wish to be banished from Court.
At one of these occasions I saw a new face among the gentlemen—a young man who was quite good looking, perhaps lacking in elegance and with an air of not belonging to the Court.
I could see that he was watching me intently.
In the dance he made his way to my side.
“Mistress Anne Boleyn?” he said. I nodded and he went on: “Your servant, James Butler.”
I felt myself flush and turn cold. This rather gauche but not ill-favored young man, the husband they had chosen for me!
“I think,” he said, “that we should talk.”
He took my hand and looked round.
“Let us leave the dancers,” he said. “We could sit awhile… there.”
I sat down looking at him.
“I think it is time we became acquainted,” he went on, “in view of the plans for our future.”
“I must tell you at once,” I said, “that I have no intention of being hurried into marriage.”
“It has been arranged by our families.”
“I know that well, but I am not of a temper to be forced to go against my will.”
“This is the will of our fathers.”
“I know that.”
“It is also the King’s will.”
I said: “When I marry, it will have to be my will.”
He smiled. “Oh, I know I have not the grace of these Court gallants, but I would be a good husband, I promise you.”
“That may be so, but I fear I should not be a good wife.”
“I would do everything I could to make you happy. I would be ready to wait…to let you get to know me…I myself felt reluctant at first. I said, as you did, I shall not be forced into marriage. But now that I have seen you…”
I said: “We are unfortunate…as so many have been before and no doubt many will be after. I have always believed that men and women should have freedom of choice in what concerns them most.”
The music had stopped. There were no dancers in the great hall. There was a buzz of conversation. The King was seated beside the Queen at the great table, and I saw that he was looking straight at me. For a few seconds I could not take my eyes from his face. It looked thunderous. A little while before he had been smiling, applauding the music; now, having seen me, he must be remembering that scene in the garden and was angry.
I thought: He has recognized me; he has suddenly realized that I am here and he is annoyed that I am a member of his wife’s household.
I lowered my eyes.
James Butler was saying: “Do not be
afraid, Anne. We shall grow to know each other. We shall grow to love each other. We will go to Ireland.”
I shuddered.
“Oh, it is not all bogs and savagery, you know.”
I said: “I would not wish to hide the truth from you, but I would never be forced into marriage.”
He touched my hand gently.
“There is time…,” he said.
I rose and joined the ladies.
I was very disturbed, not so much by James Butler but by the anger I had seen in the King’s eyes.
I waited for dismissal. It did not come. Then I breathed more freely. I supposed it was just a momentary memory. It was too insignificant to occupy his mind for long.
When I saw Mary, I asked if the King had mentioned to her that he knew her sister was at Court.
She looked surprised. “Why should he?”
“I wondered if he had noticed me.”
She laughed aloud. “I know you have admirers, Anne, but I do not think the King is one of them.”
“I did not think he was admiring me. I just wondered if he had said anything to you. After all, I am your sister.”
She shook her head.
I decided I had worried unduly.
“I have met James Butler,” I told her, “he whom they have decided I shall marry.”
“Oh? Is he pleasant?”
“I suppose so.”
“Oh, Anne, I’m glad for you.”
“Then don’t be. I have no intention of marrying him.”
“Why not? It’s what everyone wants.”
“Except me; and I happen to be more involved than anyone.”
“Does James Butler object?”
“Apparently not.”
“It’ll be all right, Anne. You’ll get used to it.”
“Mary, I am not like you.”
“That I know well.”
“I cannot take pleasure in just any man.”
“You must fall in love with him then.”
“Is it as easy as that?”
“Oh, it’s very easy.”
I saw that I could not make Mary understand.
Jean Plaidy - [Queens of England 04] Page 15
