by Jean Plaidy
He used to read his poetry to me; some of it spoke of love and those sentiments were directed toward me. I basked in his admiration. It soothed me. But my temperament was as different from my sister Mary's as it could be. She was as ready as her lovers to reach the climax of such encounters; I was determined they should never arrive.
I suppose I was sexually cold. I had not felt so with Henry Percy; but even with him there could have been no consummation of our love until after marriage. Mary's adventures had had a marked effect on me, and I should never forget the humiliation of her banishment from the French Court.
So I basked in the love of charming Thomas Wyatt with the avowed determination never to give way to his pleas. But those days helped me. I began to feel there was a life other than one of brooding sorrow and loneliness at Hever.
My stepmother was delighted to see the change in me, but at the same time she was a little fearful. She was aware—as all must be—of Thomas's almost irresistible charm, and she knew, of course, how I had suffered. I felt very tender toward her; her disinterested love for me amazed me for it was something I had not had from my natural parents, and it seemed strange that it should come from a stepmother.
“Do not fear for me, dear Mother,” I said to her, for in the closeness of our relationship I had dropped the word “step”; and I think that, for her, that was a reward for all the kindness she had shown me. “I have had such example that I shall always know how to take care of myself.”
And I meant that.
When Thomas went back to Court, I was desolate. I re-read Luther's books but it was frustrating to discover points for discussion and have no one with whom to discuss them. Mary Wyatt was not always at Allington, and much as I loved my stepmother, such matters were beyond her understanding; nor would she have wished to know of them.
There came a time when an even greater honor was bestowed on my father. My stepmother had to go to Court for the ceremony. She was very nervous and wished that I could accompany her; I found myself joining in that wish. But I had been exiled and there had been no invitation for me to return. So I must remain at Hever.
When she returned I heard what had happened.
It had been most impressive. She was so proud of her husband. He was certainly a very great man, she said, and now he had been made Viscount Rochford, a peer of the realm.
The ceremony had taken place in the great hall at Bridewell. Such beautiful tapestries had been hung on the walls, and Thomas had been led up to the dais on which stood the King himself under a canopy of gold.
“Your father is extremely pleased,” she told me. “He has worked hard for this. He told me that the Emperor Charles is so delighted with his services to his country and ours that he is giving him a pension.”
“Yes,” I said, “my father has come far. Did you see Mary?”
“Yes. She is very well and happy. All seems to go well with her.”
“I'll swear my father is very grateful to her.”
“Your father has earned his success through his loyal service to the King,” she replied with a hint of reproach; and I did not take the matter further, not wishing to upset her.
She told me later that there had been some gossip about the newly created Duke of Richmond. He was the son of Lady Talboys, who had been Elizabeth Blount, and the people seemed to think it was significant that he had been given the title.
“He is the King's son,” I said.
“Oh yes. There does not seem to be any doubt of that. I heard that the King is very proud of him. There is a great deal of talk about the King's sadness because the Queen cannot get sons.”
“There was always such talk. The boy was called Henry Fitzroy and that is clear enough. The King never denied he was his son. In fact, from what I heard, he seems proud of it. It is proof that he can get sons even if the Queen cannot.”
“Well, he has made him Duke of Richmond, and some seem to think he is going to have a very special place at Court.”
“He is not very old, is he?”
“About six years old, I should say. But there was a great deal of talk about it. They say the Queen was not very happy.”
“I should think not, poor lady. It is like a reproach to her.”
“As if she could be blamed! Such matters are in God's hands.”
“Well, I can see you have enjoyed your little excursion.”
“It was not as bad as I thought it might be. You know how I fret about these things. I was not cut out to be the wife of an important man.”
“I hope he appreciates you,” I said.
And so my father continued in his rise.
We had visitors often at Hever. People came from the Court at my father's invitation. Not that he accompanied them, but if they were traveling in the vicinity of Hever, he told them there would always be a welcome there. I was happy to help my stepmother entertain them. It was a pleasant way of keeping in touch with events for I found it irksome to be shut away in a little backwater, knowing nothing of the world except what I learned through others. I felt that I could not continue in this way of life much longer. I did not, in fact, believe it would be expected of me. It was inevitable that a husband would be found for me… perhaps some obscure country gentleman who, after my disgrace at Court, would be considered, providing he was wealthy enough to meet my father's demands.
I had heard from these visitors from time to time about the wars in which we were engaged. We were now allies of the Pope and the Emperor. My father's reward from the latter had been due to his services in helping to strengthen the bond between him and King Henry.
I often thought of that time at Ardres and Guines when the two Kings had so falsely made their pact of friendship… the jousting, the wrestling… all the pomp and show. What a pitiful waste it had been! How much better it might have been if the money had been spent for the good of their countries instead of bolstering up the arrogance and egoism of the sovereigns.
And now they were enemies.
So I was always interested when my father's friends came with news of what was happening.
We were seated at supper, I remember, in the great hall, and my step-mother was flushed with her efforts to provide my father's friends with a meal worthy of his state. As we talked, I could see that her eyes were on the serving men and women, and I guessed that her thoughts were in the kitchen.
And then came the news. “The King of France is now the Emperor's prisoner.”
“King François!” I cried.
“Exactly, Mistress Anne. He was deserted by the Constable de Bourbon. The papal troops had driven the French out of Italy, and our soldiers, with those of the Emperor, were invading the north of France. The King of France had put up a good fight on all fronts on which he was being attacked and for a while had some success. But in February the Emperor's troops completely routed the French at Pavia and the result is that François is the Emperor's prisoner. He is kept in Madrid.”
I felt very sad when I thought of him …his gallantry, his wit, his love of beauty, his self-assurance. A prisoner! Surely not François! “He will have to give up a good many of his conquests, I doubt not,” I said.
Then I wanted to hear more about the situation. In a way, I regarded France as partly my country since I had been brought up there. These people were not just names to me. I wondered what Louise was feeling now that her Caesar was the Emperor's prisoner; but most of all I was sorry for Marguerite. She would be beside herself with grief.
Later I heard that he had become very ill in his prison and would have died but for the fact that Marguerite had gone to Spain to nurse him. There was something very beautiful about the bond between those two, although people tried to besmirch it and accuse them of incest. I had never believed that. I could understand relationships that did not have a physical nature. Many people could not. I think they were apt to judge what their conduct would be in certain situations and imagine that others would act in exactly the same manner.
I thought about Fra
nçois and Marguerite a great deal and tried to get news of them. But soon after this my own life began to change, and my thoughts were all of my own affairs.
My father came to Hever. He seemed a little more interested in me and was quite affable. Prosperity suited him. Viscount Rochford was even more pleased with life than Sir Thomas Boleyn had been.
He said to me: “We cannot have you living like a country wench forever.”
I thought: Now it is coming. I shall be presented with some country gentleman and must be ready to listen to his virtues and how he would make an adequate husband for one who cannot expect better, having disgraced herself at Court.
But this was not so.
“It is possible,” he said, “that I might find a place for you in the Queen's household.”
Great excitement possessed me. I should be there. Thomas would be there. George would be there. Mary, too… and my father.
So I was to go. My sins were forgotten. I was no longer the outcast.
I WAS NINETEEN in that year of 1526 when I returned to Court. I had gleaned some wisdom from my years of exile. I was no longer the guileless girl who had fallen in love with Henry Percy and believed in the easy road to happiness. I was hardened by experience, and I made up my mind never to be hurt like that again.
I should be guilty of false modesty if I denied that my coming to Court created a sensation. From the first moment I appeared, I was noticed. I had a natural flair for dress, and my apprenticeship at the Court of France had enhanced this, for while my gowns called immediate attention to me, there was nothing flamboyant about them. It was the style—and the manner in which I wore them. I favored the long hanging sleeves—which became known as the Boleyn Sleeves—not out of choice but because they hid that sixth nail. I wore a band of velvet about my neck on which was set a small diamond; this hid the mole which had caused me so much distress. It was not long before the fashion was for long hanging sleeves and a band about the neck, but no one else achieved quite the same effect. I had designed these sleeves for myself and they were mine alone. They never looked quite the same on anyone else. Moreover, those who favored the neckband forgot that I had a longer and more slender neck than is usual, and the band was most becoming to this. For some reason, though they copied me, they never looked quite like me.
Having been banished from the Court, I felt especial gratification in the effect I had created. George and Thomas Wyatt were constantly at my side. But there were others… mostly men, among them Henry Norris, a very attractive man and a great favorite of the King, who had given him honors, as he was accustomed to do with those whom he especially liked. He was married to Mary Fiennes, the daughter of Lord Dacre, and had one son; but his wife was not at Court and it seemed to be a not very happy marriage, for Sir Henry showed little regret for her absence.
Another in our group was young Francis Weston. He had just been made a page and was a great favorite of the King because he excelled at all games. He was the King's tennis partner and they played bowls and dice together. The King was always good humored when he lost to Weston, and it was said that the boy added greatly to his income through his winnings at games.
Francis used to gaze at me with frank admiration, and I had to admit that I liked that.
It was really very gratifying after being so despised and banished to be received back in this manner. Thomas Wyatt had professed his love for me; Norris's eloquent looks betrayed his feelings for me, and with the youthful devotion of Francis Weston I felt very cherished.
There was always some sort of masque going on at Court, and I, with our little group, was usually at the center of it. Tom Wyatt was by far the best of the poets, though my brother was quite a good versifier, and Norris was inventive in devising scenes and situations. Since we had been together, the entertainments had become more classical; we introduced themes from the Greeks and moved away from that type which the King had so loved— such as a party of travelers arriving from the East, or somewhere exotic—in splendid costumes and dancing among the company until their identity was betrayed and the tall one turned out to be the King. At first we had thought he might not approve but there was a side to him which loved literature and good music and he had a keen mind so that he could follow allusions; consequently our little pieces became favorites of his.
Mary was a little rueful. She was very frank with me. She told me that she thought the King was no longer interested in her. Her reign had been long but now it appeared to be over.
“Are there any rewards for long service?” I asked.
“I never wanted rewards, Anne,” she replied seriously.
“No. I expect that is why you lasted so long.”
“You are so cynical now. What makes you so, sister?”
“Long experience of life.”
“You have always been rather bitter about me… and the King.”
I turned to her and said: “I hate to see us humiliated. Why should we be picked up and dropped… just as it suits them? We should stand out against it. That is what I feel. And you, Mary, have pandered to it. You have demeaned not only yourself but our sex.”
“I never heard such talk.”
“I don't suppose you have. You have been honored because your partner in adultery was the King. Suppose it had been one of the stablemen, what then?”
“Anne!”
“The principle is the same. Cannot you see that?”
She shook her head. “In any case,” she said, “it is all over now.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded. “He is brooding… absent-minded. The last time I saw him he was simply not aware of me. I was dismissed before I had had a few words with him. I think there is someone else.’
“Who is she?”
“I don't know.”
“We soon shall, I suppose,” I said. “These matters have a way of forcing themselves on the public notice. Everyone knew of you, in spite of all the discretion.”
“Yes. It cannot be hidden long.”
“You don't look brokenhearted.”
“Oh…I'm sorry. It was great fun… but I always knew it would end at some time… and Will is so patient.”
“As becomes a complaisant husband.”
“You shouldn't be scornful of me. Our father has not done too badly. George either.”
“No. There is that. Our father can say, ‘Well done, thou good and faithful daughter.’ I'm sorry, Mary, but I cannot like it.”
I marveled at her. She had that kind of temperament which would enable her to sail comfortably through life. She saw no evil, thought no evil, said no evil… therefore for her, there was no evil. It was the way to live. Perhaps I should have learned from Mary.
I often thought about the Queen. I had noticed a change in her on my return. She had aged considerably. She must long ago have accepted the fact that she could not keep up with her husband. She turned a blind eye on his amorous adventures, just as Claude had with François. But she had not had to face that blatant infidelity as Claude had. At least Henry was, in a manner, discreet; and it was easy for the Queen to make a pretense of not knowing about his amours, whereas it would have been farcical for Claude to have done so.
Queen Katharine was gentle and kind to me. I think she was a little sorry for me because my proposed marriage to Henry Percy had been so ruthlessly prevented, but I could understand that she might not feel very friendly toward our family since Mary was a member of it; yet she showed no rancor to me—nor in fact had she to Mary.
I had my duties in her household, but there was plenty of spare time for Court activities. The Queen had, if that were possible, become more devoted to religion than ever and a great deal of her time was spent with her confessor and in prayer. She seemed to be suffering from some lingering illness which brought her pain and exhaustion. Often she would be unable to attend the evening's entertainment, but that did not mean that we, her ladies, could not; our services were often in demand.
I often think of Katharine now. I
have to confess I did little then. My great pleasure was in my freedom from her somber presence.
I was happy at this time because I realized that I had recovered from my disappointment in my love affair and I had discovered that it was not true, as I had once thought, that I should be wretched forever. In addition I had learned a great deal. I should never be carried away again. I doubted that I should ever love anyone as I had loved Henry Percy; that had been a love which had surprised me for he had been no Adonis, no dashing hero; yet I had loved him for his weakness, and even now I did not blame him, but those who had prevented our marriage. The life I had imagined with him still remained an idealistic dream. I often wondered whether if we had married I should have become that gentle, tender wife—rather like my stepmother—thinking first of him and our children and so going on in peace to the end of my life. Knowing myself, that seemed hardly likely; but sometimes I thought it was not an impossible dream.
And now here I was—experienced, understanding something of human nature, determined never to be hurt again, making sure that always my head should be in command of my heart, perhaps making a brilliant marriage. I was not sure about that. But at last I felt myself no longer vulnerable…I was well warned against the blows of misfortune. I could protect myself and the thought exhilarated me.
Moreover, I had discovered something. I could draw men to me in a rather inexplicable way. Mary's attraction was obvious. Someone had said it was promise. She displayed her delight in sexuality, and that was an immediate magnet. It brought her lovers in plenty—not always constant, but how many lovers were? My brother George was good-looking and had a great fondness for the opposite sex. It was natural that he should have considerable success with them. I was quite different. I had a certain aloofness, a disdain for men. I did not crave a lover; in fact, I was determined that there should be no dallying with me. One would have thought this would act as a deterrent, as I had seen it did in some others; but in me it was like a magnet. I seemed to challenge them. My looks were unusual. I was not pretty like Mary, nor did I have George's good looks. I was like a changeling. Dark, strange… with my Frenchified clothes and manners. But I had learned that what I had drew people to me.
