The Lady in the Tower Page 13

  I was expecting to be given instructions as to what I must do and was amazed when there was no mention of this—until I understood the reason.

  There was one thought in his mind at that time and he could give no attention to anything else. The King was doing us the great honor of paying a visit to Hever Castle. It was for this reason my father had come home. He wanted to supervise preparations. We must all realize what an important occasion this was. There was so much to be done. It was one of the greatest honors which could be bestowed upon a subject. It was an indication of the rising fortunes of Thomas Boleyn.

  He greeted me in an absent-minded fashion. I had seen him once or twice during my stay in France when he had been on embassies there and he had no doubt thought that he must spare a little time to see his daughter; but those visits had been of a perfunctory nature. I had been too young to interest him then; it was only when his daughters were of marriageable age that he took notice of them.

  I was surprised to see the affection between him and my stepmother. It set me wondering about the strangeness of human nature. Somewhere in that granite-like exterior was a softness, and my humble countrified stepmother had somehow managed to find it.

  I felt a little kinder toward him, though not much—considering his plans for me.

  My stepmother was in a flurry of dismay.

  She came to my bedroom to talk to me, for we had become good friends by this time.

  “The King…here… What will he think of me?”

  “He will think what we all do… that you are good, sweet, kind and gentle… and he will like you for that.”

  “Oh, Anne, you seek to comfort me. Never did I think…What shall we give him to eat? How shall we entertain him? How can we compare with the Court?”

  “We don't have to. He is escaping from the Court. For that is what kings do on these peregrinations. I am sure he will never have tasted food better than that which you prepare. You are so clever with food. We never ate so well before you were in charge of the kitchens.”

  “I…I shall have to be there… the hostess… beside your father.”

  “Just be yourself and remember that he may be the King but he is only a man after all.”

  “How can you say such a thing!”

  “With conviction. I was at the Court of France, remember. I knew the King of France well. He was even more elegant than this King… and he was only a man.”

  “You comfort me.”

  “All you have to do, my lady, is be yourself.”

  “I shall be so nervous.”

  “He will see that and love you for it.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Because, from what I know of him, he will enjoy seeing you in awe of him. He will be very gracious. He will like your manners. I can swear to this… because I know the ways of royalty.”

  “Bless you, my dear. I am so happy that you are here.”

  What a bustle there was in the kitchens. The smell of roasting filled the castle. Beef, mutton, suckling pigs, boars’ heads, fish of all kinds, fruits, enormous pies which were to be made into fantastic shapes and all adorned with Tudor roses.

  We did not know when the King would arrive. He would be hunting on the way and it seemed one could never be sure. My stepmother was in despair. When should the pastry be made to ensure perfection? My father, too, was nervous. Everything must be in order. No expense must be spared. I had heard that noblemen throughout the country, while they craved the honor, dreaded it because it almost ruined them.

  I refused to allow myself to be caught up in all the excitement. I had caught a glimpse of the King at Guines and I had had a close view of him when he had dined with Queen Claude and I was in attendance. He had actually spoken to me then. Accustomed to being with Marguerite, who had talked so much about her brother, had brought me into very close contact with royalty, and I had ceased to be overawed. Therefore I was not as excited about this visit as the rest of the household seemed to be. As two days passed without the royal arrival, it occurred to me that the King might have decided not to come after all—which I knew was what my father feared and my stepmother hoped.

  I had made up my mind that this must be so. In any case my thoughts were filled with the Butler affair.

  My father had taken little notice of me since his arrival, which, in the circumstances, was understandable, but I was sure that when the King's visit was over I should be informed of what was expected of me. I wanted to prepare myself for that. It was a greater matter of concern to me than the King's visit.

  There was a small enclosed rose garden at Hever—a favorite spot of mine. There I felt at peace. I would sit there for hours and think of the past and wonder about the future and how my father would act when he realized I was set in my determination not to be forced into marriage.

  On this afternoon I went there. It was a warm spring day, I remember, and quite windless in the garden. I sat on the wooden seat contemplating the pond with the little figure of Hermès poised above the water, trying to rehearse what I would say when my father brought up the subject of James Butler.

  And as I sat there I heard a footfall, and through the gap in the hedge there came a figure. I gasped and felt my heart begin to beat very fast. There could be no mistaking him. He seemed bigger than I remembered. Perhaps he was a little more corpulent than when I had last seen him. His padded coat, reaching only to his knees, so that the well-formed calves of which he was so proud were displayed in all their glory, was puffed and barred with elaborate appliqué so that it made him look very wide. It was of deep purple velvet, his waistcoat of purple satin, and there was a design of roses—Tudor, of course—embroidered on it; on his head was a hat with a curled feather of pale yellow. I could see the jewels glinting on his garments. He was a scintillating and splendid figure.

  I myself was most simply clad. My father would have been most put out if he could have seen me thus. I was wearing a red gown, open from the waist to the hem to show a satin petticoat of a lighter shade of red which toned perfectly. My hair was loose about my shoulders. Apart from the long hanging sleeves which I always wore and which gave a certain style to my gown, I might have been a simple country girl.

  Half embarrassed to have been caught thus and half amused, I felt more than a little mischievous and I determined to play a trick on him. He liked to disguise himself so that people should not know he was the King until he surprised them with the news. Well, I would pretend I did not know who he was.

  He stared at me and came toward me. I remained seated until he was close. I think he was expecting me to fall on my knees. Instead I said coolly: “Tell me, are you of the Court?”

  He was obviously taken aback for I saw him start. Then his lips twitched slightly. I learned afterward that it was not difficult to judge his moods by his expression. I supposed he usually felt he had no need to cloak his feelings since his will was law. In fact, I was to see a look reduce people to terror.

  He said: “I am.”

  “Ah then,” I went on, “the King must have come.”

  “I believe that to be so.”

  “And you are of his Court? I should say: ‘Welcome to Hever,’ but your late arrival has caused much inconvenience. We had expected you earlier.”

  He was looking at me intently and I felt a rising resentment at the manner in which his little eyes grew brighter as he surveyed me. It was a kind of softness and lustfulness which I had seen in others. I immediately thought of my sister Mary. Did he know who I was? He must. Here I was in my father's house. He would have heard of me through the Butler matter. That was another thing which aggrieved me. I was not so much a person as a means of acquiring a fortune for my father and a warrior for the King. He would not remember our first meeting. Why should he? I had been just a young English girl at the Court of France… almost a child, too young to interest him. But I was older now … as old as Mary probably was when he first noticed her. Anger mingled with resentment. Did he think I was like my sister?

>   “Had I known I should find you here, Mistress,” he said, “I should have spurred on my horse.”

  “You are gallant.”

  “Tell me,” he said. “Are you the daughter of the house?”

  “I am.”

  “Then you are Mistress Anne Boleyn.”

  “Clearly so.”

  “I doubt not that you have been most excited by this visit of the King.”

  I shrugged my shoulders and looked at him from under my lashes. Little angry lights had shot into his eyes. I should be careful. But no. I had seen that other light in the blue eyes. This would do no harm.

  “Not so?” he asked.

  “I have been abroad. I have spent many years in the Court of France which I believe is even more splendid than that of England.”

  “Who tells you this?”

  “None, my lord. It is my own conclusion.”

  He seated himself beside me. He was very close, his splendid brocade breeches against my dress.

  “You are a forward wench,” he said. “What do you know of the King's Court?”

  “I know only the French Court and of that I know a great deal. I was in attendance on the Queen of France. I went with the King's sister on her marriage to King Louis and was with her until she returned home. Then I was with Queen Claude and the Duchesse d'Alençon. Perhaps you did not know that she is reckoned to be the most erudite lady in France—and that may well be in the whole world.”

  “I take it amiss that you, who have not been at the King's Court, should speak of it with such scorn.”

  “I did not speak with scorn, my lord. And if I know nothing of the English Court, what do you know of the French?”

  He shifted in his seat. I thought he was getting angry. He had had enough of the game. Now he wanted to say, ‘I am your King!’ And then in the game I should fall at his feet and beg pardon for my forwardness. He would allow me to plead while his brow would be heavy with displeasure. Then the little blue eyes would twinkle slightly, for I could see that in spite of my simple garb and loose hair—or perhaps because of it—he liked the look of me; he would be remembering that I had a sister with loose morals and probably had the same. Then he would graciously forgive me, perhaps kiss me and expect to be received into my bedroom that night—with my father's consent, of course.

  I only had to think of that for my anger to rise against my father, and against all men who humiliated women.

  So the game was not going to end yet.

  “I like not the French,” he said.

  “I found so many of them charming.”

  “Perfidious… cheats…breakers of promises…,” he muttered.

  “Oh, my lord, they could say the same of the English.”

  “You are a bold chit,” he said. “Are you not afraid that I might carry your words to the King?”

  “I would not care if you did.”

  “Do you think he would be pleased to hear your praise of our enemies?”

  “I hope he would be wise enough to see these enemies as they really are.”

  “I think, Mistress, that you should have a care.”

  “We should all have care. But sometimes it is more fun to be a little rash. Do you not agree, my lord?”

  He tapped his knees and said: “It may be so.” Then he turned to me and laid a hand on my arm. He gripped it firmly. “I will give you a word of advice. Watch your tongue, sweetheart.”

  “Please do not address me so. I am not your sweetheart.”

  “If you were,” he retorted, “I would teach you a lesson.”

  “If that impossibility should be, I might teach you one.”

  He laughed then and moved closer to me, but I shifted my position away from him.

  “What do you do here all day?” he asked.

  “I read. I sing. I play the lute. I ride. I walk. I write a little. When I was with Madame d'Alençon, I used to read with her. Have you heard of the Decameron, my lord?”

  “I have.”

  “And not read it, I dareswear.”

  “Why should you so dareswear?”

  “Because gallants like you spend all their time adorning themselves in their pretty clothes and making love to ladies.”

  “You are, forsooth, a saucy wench.”

  “I speak as I find.”

  “So that was how it was at the French Court?”

  “With some.”

  “With the King?”

  “All know of his amours. There will always be some who think it an honor to be a king's mistress.”

  “And you would not be of such an opinion?”

  “Indeed, sir, I should not sell my honor so cheaply.”

  “Cheaply! I'll swear the ladies in question did not feel their honor had been lost in such case.”

  “Why so?”

  “You should know it is an honor to be honored by the King.”

  “Think you so? I have been led to believe that a woman should save herself for her husband.”

  “A lady gains dignity by being favored by the King.”

  “Dignity? Worldly goods, do you mean, sir?” I felt angry, thinking of Mary. “A lady's honor is beyond price. I would never demean myself by being anyone's mistress… not even a king's.”

  He stood up, glaring at me. He was now angry. I had gone too far. I had been carried away by Mary's humiliation at the Court of France. He was going to forget his designs on my virtue. I had been too sure of myself. After all, most women would be ready to succumb to him at a moment's notice. Who was I to play childish games with this mighty monarch? But it had been hard to suppress my desire to tease him and I was drawn to him a little because in spite of his royal presence there was a certain innocence about him. That love of childish games…it was the pursuit of someone who had not quite grown up. I was beginning to forgive him for his love affair with Mary. After all, Mary was anyone's for the taking. Why should I be so resentful?

  “I asked you, my lord, if you had read the Decameron. Have you? Please tell me,” I said quickly.

  “I have, and if you were an innocent maid you would not have done so.”

  “I have always thought it a mistake to shut one's ears and eyes to what goes on. How does one ever learn anything if one does? The Duchess and I read it together. She herself is writing a similar book. She showed it to me. I was fascinated.” I quoted some of the poetry I had learned from Marguerite.

  He listened intently.

  I looked sideways at him and said: “This one is set to music. It is a haunting tune.”

  I started to sing it. There was a glazed look in his eyes. Music affected him deeply.

  He said: “You have a pleasant voice.”

  “It needs the lute to help it along.”

  “It is good to hear even without it. You must sing for me again.”

  “I might…if our paths cross.”

  “It might be arranged that they should. Tell me more about this Court for which you have such a high regard. I'll warrant you I can cap your stories with what happens in ours.”

  So I described some of the masques, the exquisite dancing and singing, the wit. “The French you know set a great store by wit,” I said. “It has to be light as thistle down and sharp as a rapier. The King of France loves art. Did you know he brought Leonardo da Vinci to France?”

  “Filched from the Italians. Aye, and tried for Raphael! That one loved his country well enough to refuse the bribe.”

  “Once he said that men can make kings but only God can make an artist.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “I do, for it is true, is it not? Have you seen Raphael's St. Michael? There was a ceremony when it arrived in France. The King himself unveiled it. Surely only God can give a talent like that. As for kings…it is certainly men who make them … and unmake them. Think back over history…a battle here…a victory there… and that decides a king and a line of kings.”

  Oh, this was dangerous ground! Was he thinking back to Bosworth Field and how easily it m
ight have gone the other way? What of Henry Tudor then?

  I was surprising myself. I had been brought up close to the King of France but Henry of England was of a very different caliber. I was foolishly putting myself in danger. My father would be beside himself with fear and fury if he could overhear this conversation. If it had not been for the glint of desire which kept showing itself in the little Tudor eyes I might have been terrified myself. But instinct told me that would save me. I could go a long way before his wrath would be irreconcilable.

  He was silent, glowering.

  I went on quickly, thinking it advisable to call a halt: “But for a battle we might not have the glorious House of Tudor reigning over us now. What a calamity that would have been!”

  He did not hear the touch of irony in my voice. He was happy again. There was indeed a childish element in his nature.

  “So,” I said, “I make my point.”

  He grunted that that was so, but he had had enough.

  “You have been talking to me… singing to me… telling me of yourself, and you have not yet asked my name.”

  “Well, I will ask it now.”

  “It is Henry.”

  “Henry! A good English name. And one you share with a great and illustrious personage.”

  He had stood up. I remained seated looking up at him. His eyes were narrowed, his legs astride. Some majesty in him made me rise and in doing so I betrayed myself.

  “You know who I am!” he cried.

  He was angry now. I had gone too far. He would denounce me. Lèse majesté— the crime for which the French players had been thrown into dungeons. This man, I believed, would be more deadly in defense of his royalty than the King of France.

  Feverishly I searched for the answer. It came easily.

  I fell to my knees, threw back my hair and lifted my eyes to his face. He was looking at me with a kind of wonder and I thought: It can be all right if I find the right words.

  They came: “Your Grace, in your presence who could fail to be aware of who you are?”

  He was a little mollified.

  “So it was a game, eh? You thought you would play a game with me! Well, let me tell you this: you did not deceive me. I let you go on just to see how far you would go.”