by Jean Plaidy
“She was never that. She had numerous lovers…yes… but she gave all the time. She never asked for payment.”
“I know. And you think that since you are her sister it might be assumed that you resemble her.”
“Yes, I believe that is so.”
“My dear Anne, nobody could think you resemble your sister. You are a person in your own right. I cannot have you disturbed. I am not surprised that the King is attracted to you. How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
“It is a charming age. And you have never had a lover?”
I drew back in horror.
She laughed and said: “You have answered.” She took my hand. “Yes, you are indeed different from so many girls of your age. You have a dignity and respect for yourself. That is it. I shall speak to the King.”
I became alarmed.
“Oh, don't be afraid. You know of this special bond there is between us. We can talk intimately on any subject. It has always been so. I it was who taught him to read. We used to sit under the trees at Cognac and I would tell him stories I invented for him. He was such a beautiful child… clever too. We adored him, my mother and I. I would have done anything for him. I must tell you this little story about our childhood, and then you will learn something special about him. I was six years old; François was four. I had put away my dolls long before. François liked to look at them and he asked me why I no longer wanted to play with them. I said it was because I was too old. He replied that I wanted a real baby not a doll. Then he said he wanted one too…I to be the mother, he the father. You look shocked. It is hard to imagine François innocent, but he was then. He thought that babies just arrived when people wanted them. He already knew that he was the precious one—my mother called him Precious and my King, my Caesar, even at that age. So he believed if he wanted a baby, he would have one.”
I murmured: “How you love him!”
“He is my life,” she said. “Nothing else means the same to me. I want all the best for him now as I did then. Outside the château there was a cottage, and before it a baby was playing on the grass. François said: “There is our baby.” So we picked up the child and took it into the château. We washed it because it was not very clean and I found some of François's garments. They were rather big but we dressed the baby in them. The child was soon missed and traced to the château, and when they wanted to take it home, François was so unhappy. He pleaded to keep it. It was his, he said. He was its father, I was its mother. It was our baby. The result was that the parents—who were very poor—realized what a good life the child could have at the château; and in the end we were allowed to keep her. We had nurses for her and we called her Françoise, which was the nearest we could get to François's name.”
“What a charming story,” I said. “What happened to the girl?”
“She was brought up in the château, and when she was a little older a home was found for her with some worthy people. That is not the end of the story. There was a very strange sequel. It is one of those coincidences in life which often bewilder us but which happen now and then. François liked to go about incognito, and he favored the dress of a student. One day he went to church in this guise and saw there a beautiful young girl and was immediately enamored of her. She was gentle, obviously not wealthy but of good breeding. He followed her to her home—a very pleasant house but quite humble, of course, compared with what he was accustomed to. He did not speak to her immediately but watched her. It was an exciting game to him. Finally she became aware of him and he spoke to her. He said he wished to be her friend but she replied that there could not be friendship between a humble girl and the Dauphin. You see, she knew him. Then she told him who she was. She was our baby Françoise. She insisted that there could be no love between them because she was a virtuous girl and could not be any man's mistress. François was desolate. He came to me as he always did when disturbed. I felt rather indignant with the girl for refusing him. It was always my desire to give François what he wanted—and I thought then that she should be proud to be loved by the Dauphin.”
She paused, smiling.
“I suggested that he should have her abducted and brought to him. When he had seduced her, she would forget her scruples. He was well versed in the arts of love. He would know how to please her. He was delighted. He embraced me and told me that I had always had an answer to his problems.”
I said in a shocked voice: “You could tell him that!”
“I did. You see, I believed that she must be happy and proud to be loved by François. I thought she just had bourgeois scruples which would be swept away by her delight in him. It would be such a beautiful ending to our story. It would make the whole thing full of meaning.”
“So you would abduct the young woman as you did the child.”
“I know you are thinking that I assume royalty has special privileges. Well, has it not?”
“People's lives are their own. They should decide what to do with them.” I spoke boldly, for Marguerite had always encouraged me to say what I thought.
“Sometimes they need a little guidance, a little push in the right direction. Shall I tell you the rest of the story?”
“Please do, Madame.”
“She was brought to him, and he told her he had fallen in love with her and how delighted he was that she was his Françoise whom he had named and who had given him such delight when he was a little boy. Then he sought to make love to her, to take her by storm. She wept; she entreated; she implored. François, as you know, sets great store by chivalry. He has always been the perfect knight. She declared vehemently that, if he dishonored her, she could not live; she would kill herself. François believed her. He saw that she was not feigning reluctance. He was immediately contrite and assured her that she had nothing to fear from him. He loved her and she should go on her way unmolested by him. She fell on her knees and thanked him. François was very touched. She went away. He has not seen her since, but always he inquires after her; and he will see that she is well looked after all her life.”
“What a happy ending to what might have been a sad story. I am so glad it happened like that.”
“I tell you this story so that you understand him. You know how I love him. Do you think I would give so much of myself to someone whom I considered unworthy?”
“No, I do not,” I said.
“I will tell him of your fear.” I lifted my head in protest but she waved that aside. “Oh yes, I will tell him. I will explain that you are not like so many ladies at the Court. He will understand. I will remind him of the day we found little Françoise. I will say the little Boleyn is young yet. She is not yet a woman. Because she is wise beyond her years, you think she is. Physically she is immature, though mentally advanced. She knows what she wants. She will always know what she wants; and she is not to be trifled with.”
“You could say this to the King?”
“He is my brother first, my little François—the King second.”
I said: “Thank you. I shall always remember your goodness to me.”
She shook her head. “You interest me. I shall follow your future… wherever you are.”
François's attitude toward me changed after that. He regarded me with an amused glint in his eyes; he talked to me now and then—but I had the idea that he had ceased to pursue me; and I felt a great sense of relief.
The months passed. It was more than a year since the meeting at Ardres and Guines. There was a great deal of uneasiness, for the rivalry between François and the Emperor was growing dangerous. There was talk about King Henry, for much depended on whose side he came down. At this time he was hovering between the two—a very uncertain ally. True, the little Dauphin was betrothed to Henry's daughter, the Princess Mary, but everyone knew how easily such contracts could be broken.
One day the English ambassador came to see me.
He said: “I have word from your father. You probably know that war is imminent.”
“I have h
eard talk of it, and it does seem that France will soon be in conflict with the Emperor Charles.”
“It is more than likely, and for that reason your father thinks it is wise for you to leave the Court of France.”
I was overcome with depression. I had been here seven years. This was my home. It could mean only one thing: England would soon be at war with France.
I stammered: “Leave here…”
“It would seem to be wise. I am sending all the students home. Your father thinks that, now your education has been completed, you should return.”
“When?” I asked.
“It would be advisable to begin preparations at once. You should leave not later than January.”
Of course, I had known it had to come. I thought back over all those years, to my arrival here and how exciting it had been serving Queen Mary; and after she had gone I had settled into the household of Claude. I had learned to love the company of Marguerite. And now I was to be uprooted.
Those days were gone for ever.
I was desolate but there was nothing I could do. I must say goodbye to my friends at the French Court—to kind Queen Claude, to dangerous François and to the one I loved best—my teacher and mentor, Marguerite d'Alençon.
I realized fully then—though perhaps I had always known it—that I, who tried to regard myself as an individual, was nothing more than a pawn to be set on a checkerboard at the spot where I could be most useful to those who commanded me.
I guessed my return might have something to do with a marriage. I was at last being called upon to play my part in the family game.
I was apprehensive and very sad to leave; but there was no escape, and in January of that year 1522 I set sail for England.
IT WAS STRANGE TO RETURN to a home with which I had been so familiar long ago and had not seen for seven years. I had forgotten the feeling of security I had always experienced when I crossed the moat and passed under the portcullis and stepped into the enclosed courtyard. How often had I sat there listening to my brother and Thomas Wyatt! I felt a thrill of pleasure because I must see them soon. How well I knew the buttresses and the embrasures where Mary and I had played hide and seek. A castle was a good setting for such a game.
France seemed far away, and whatever my feelings would be later, I was home.
One of the most pleasant experiences of my homecoming was meeting my stepmother. I took a great liking to her from the first moment I saw her. She was no grand lady but she had a pleasant face and a lovable manner; there was nothing fashionable about her; she was a country woman; I believed she had lived near Blickling and that my father had met her when he was staying there.
That he had recognized her worth and married her endeared him to me; it lifted my spirits to realize that he had made such a disinterested choice. But I was sure she had brought him more than lands and blue blood. Perhaps he was not the cold, ambitious man I had always thought him to be—or at least not in all things.
She was nervous of me, which made me feel protective toward her. I guessed it was not easy to be presented with a family of grown-up children. I put her at ease by calling her Stepmother and showing that I bore her no resentment for taking my mother's place. I could, at all events, remember very little of my mother.
An obvious relief settled on her, and she was too open and frank to hide it.
She said: “Your room is ready. They told me which one it was, and I thought you would wish to have it while you are at Hever.”
I thanked her and said it was what I had hoped.
I sat looking around my room at the paneled walls and the furniture I remembered so well—the bed, the chairs, the table and the muniment-chest. It seemed smaller than it used to, perhaps because I had become accustomed to the vastness of the palaces of France.
After a while my stepmother came up and asked me if there was anything I wanted. She advanced into the room and stood with her hands on her hips, looking at me tentatively. Her gown was of a brownish color, which was not very becoming, and I immediately thought her dress would not be fit for life at Court. I supposed it was fit enough for the country, but surely she must sometimes accompany my father to Court? But she was at home in the country now and she looked like a country woman—not like the wife of a man who was an associate of the King and advancing fast at Court.
But I liked her looks, her fresh, open face and her obvious desire to do what was right and be liked.
I smiled at her.
“Are you sure you have everything that you wish?” she asked anxiously.
I told her that I had.
She sat on the bed and looked at me. “I have been a little nervous of meeting you,” she said. “I know Mary and George now …”
“I am the youngest,” I said. “You should not stand in awe of me.”
She smiled. “I don't know. But you are…rather grand.”
“Grand?” I laughed. I realized that she was referring to my clothes. “It is how we dressed at the Court of France.”
“You are glad to be home?”
I hesitated. I was not sure. I should see George and Thomas Wyatt. That would certainly make me glad. But I should be apprehensive until I knew for what purpose I had been brought home so suddenly.
I said: “It is a little strange at first. I have been away so long.”
“It will seem quiet here in the country, but I daresay it will not be for long.”
“Do you know what is intended for me?”
“Your father will explain everything. He will be here soon…and your brother and sister, too.”
“They are well?”
“Indeed, yes. Your brother said he would be here almost as soon as you arrived. He is most eager to see you.”
“And I him. And my sister?”
“She is at Court.”
“Mary at Court!”
“Yes.” She lowered her eyes. “Her husband has a post there in the King's household.”
“Oh, I see. And she is well and happy?”
“She is well and seems happy.”
“I am glad. I look forward to seeing them.”
“We must have some talks while you are here. You must tell me about the Court of France. It must have been very interesting.”
I nodded.
She went on: “If there is anything…”
“Thank you. You have been so kind to me.”
She flushed a little and, smiling a little uncertainly, left me.
I thought: Mary at Court! Then she must have recovered from her disgrace. My stepmother knew something and, if I had read her aright, she believed it was not her place to tell me. Well, I must be patient and wait until it was revealed. But I had made up my mind that I would not be forced into a marriage which I did not like.
To my great joy, George arrived next day. I saw him from my window as he rode into the courtyard and my heart leaped with pleasure. My dearest brother, how handsome he was! Tall and distinguished-looking…yet still the same George, whose special favorite I had been in the days of our childhood. I ran down to meet him.
He leaped from his horse and I was in his arms.
I touched his face. I laughed. I was so happy. Whatever happened afterward, this was a moment to savor.
“Let me look at you,” he said, holding me at arms’ length. “Is this elegant lady my little sister?”
“Is this handsome gentleman my brother George?”
Then we laughed and were hugging each other.
“It has been a long time,” I said.
“I have thought of you constantly.”
“And I of you. There is so much to talk of. Let us go in, shall we?”
Our stepmother came running out to meet George. He kissed her affectionately and I could see that he had the same opinion of her as I had.
“I am so glad you are here,” she said. “Anne has been most impatiently awaiting your arrival. Will you have some food now … some refreshment?”
“Later please,” said George. “I
want to talk with my sister first.”
Arm in arm we went up the staircase and into the gallery with its ornamental stucco ceiling, past the embrasures—favorite spots in which to conceal ourselves in our games—to that room where we used to gather with our friends—usually the Wyatts—and sit and talk and listen to Thomas's poems and play the lute.
“There are many things I want to know,” I said. “What are you doing now, George? And Mary… what of Mary? I hear she is at Court.”
“Oh yes. Will Carey has a post there. Esquire to the Body.”
“But after what happened in France…”
“You are thinking of Mary. Oh, Mary is reinstated. She is quite a personage at Court … if Mary could ever be that. No, in spite of everything, she is still the same. She never asks for anything.”
“What do you mean, George?”
“I thought you might have heard. There must have been gossip. Mary has found favor in a high place.”
“You can't mean…”
He nodded. “The highest place of all. The King finds our sister enchanting. He has selected her as his little playmate.”
“Oh… no!”
He nodded. “Sweet little Mary, the friend of Kings! I wonder whether she finds the King of England different from the King of France. One could never get Mary to tell. Not that she would know. Mary is intent on one thing and as long as she gets that she is content.”
