The Lady in the Tower

A Visit To Hever

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.”

“And what of Will?”

“Oh, the King likes him well enough. He is such a complaisant husband.”

“George, I find it… shameful.”

“No, sweet sister. Such goings-on are only shameful among the undistinguished. To be the mistress of a peasant is disgrace indeed, but to be the mistress of a King…well, that is a great honor.”

“Don't be cynical, George. This is our sister, and after what happened to her at the Court of France one would have thought she would have been wise enough to see that it did not happen again.”

“The Court of England is not the Court of France. Here there is a high moral tone. Amours are not flaunted here. François's affairs were too numerous for the people not to be aware of them. Our King is different. He would be a saint…if his nature would let him. François is more realistic. He knows he can never be a saint, even if he wanted to be… which he doesn't. He loves the world too well. So does Henry, but between you and me, Anne, he knows how to deceive himself. He feels very saintly since he wrote his book against Martin Luther, Assertio Septem Sacramentorum. It has earned him the title of Defender of the Faith. Mind you— again entre nous— Wolsey had a hand in it and Thomas More is responsible for a goodly part of it; but it is put forth as the King's work, and it shows him to be an upholder of the Church. You see, he wants to show the world that he is a good man. Half of him is…but we are all complex characters…you and I… and even His Grace the King. So … he tells himself that he is faithful to his Queen…in thought, he is…it is only these little forays on the side. And our Mary is at the center of one.”

“How long has it been going on?”

“Almost since she went to Court. He noticed her at once. Mary is like that, you know. Her appeal is immediate. It is not beauty…it is promise. I think that is the answer. That in some cases is the essence of the attraction between the sexes. I am ready. That is what Mary says: I am as eager as you. I want nothing but our union. It is only the satisfaction I can give you and you can give me, that I crave. There you have it, Anne— the secret of Mary's appeal to all men. Who could resist it? Certainly not the King.”

“She has learned nothing from what happened in France!”

“This is different from France. There, when the King threw her aside, she took lovers…anyone… openly. Men boasted that they shared the King's mistress. But there were so many of them that it became the talk of the Court. That was considered crude by the French. Not good manners… not polite behavior. That is the real sin over there. Mary is in her natural environment here. I don't see why she should not last quite a long time with the King.” He laughed at me. “Don't fret,” he went on. “You need never worry about Mary. She will always come up smiling. It is her nature.”

“So our sister is the King's mistress. What does our father say?”

“He says, ‘Well done, Mary.’ He is getting along well at Court. The King favors him. He has made a success of his embassies and more than that he has begotten a daughter who pleases the King.”

“I would he had earned his success in some other way.”

“The path to success is a thorny one, and the way is steep. There are many pitfalls. It is a fool who does not take advantage of a helping hand when it is offered.”

“Oh, George, it is good to be with you and listen to your talk. I have often thought of it all. Do you remember the gardens with the Wyatts?”

“I remember.”

“Why have they brought me home? Do you know?”

“They have a bridegroom for you.”

“Who?”

“Well…you probably didn't hear that a few years ago our great-grandfather, the Earl of Ormond, died. He left, in addition to his title, vast estates in Ireland. The inheritance was expected to come to the families of his two daughters—one of them our grandmother. Our father has long been expecting this. However, the Earl's second cousin, Sir Piers Butler, is claiming the estate.”

“How can he do that? He is not on the direct line.”

“It is rather complicated. It is an Irish peerage. The Earl took up his residence in England because he was tired of the continual conflict reigning in Ireland. Sir Piers is something of a brigand. He is suspected of having murdered another member of the family who might have a claim, so his intentions are obvious. He had been taking care of the Irish property and is one of the few lords there who can be trusted to work for the English against these tiresome people who have always—and always will—created trouble and mischief. So Sir Piers is in high favor at Court. In his will the Earl rewarded Sir Piers for his services but left his estates to his daughters’ heirs. The case was brought forward and Sir Piers was commanded to come to England and state his claims before a court of law. His reply was that he was too busy fighting the King's wars. This was true and as Ireland was—as usual—on the verge of rebellion and Sir Piers was one of the few men on whom Henry could rely, the King was loath to offend him. As a result, the case has hung fire while Sir Piers continues to use the land and revenues as though they belonged to him.”

“What has this to do with my marriage?”

“A great deal. Sir Piers has a son—James Butler. The King wants Sir Piers to stay working for him in Ireland. Therefore he must keep him happy. He was in a dilemma until our uncle Surrey came up with the suggestion that marriage was the answer to this dispute. Sir Piers has a son; our father has a daughter. If those two were brought together in matrimony, their offspring would naturally inherit the estates. Simple, it seemed to Surrey… and the King. It has been decided and, as Master Wolsey gives his approval to the plan, it is as good as accomplished.”

I was furiously angry. I said: “They have settled it without asking the opinion of those two to whom it means most.”

“It is the way of the world, sister.”

“George, I will not have it. I will not be bartered like this.”

“You will find it hard to stand against it, Anne.”

“I will tell our father when I see him.”

“It is not only our father. It has become a political matter. The King wishes it. Wolsey wishes it.”

“What could they do to me if I refused?”

“I do not think it would be wise to attempt to find out.”

“But I won't have it, George! I won't have it!”

He tried to soothe me. “Some arranged marriages work out very well. One man is very like another. You will make this James dance to your tune, I do not doubt.”

“Among the Irish bogs?”

He laughed. “A far cry from the Court of France, I'll swear.”

“I'll not do it.”

“Don't despair. It may be something will happen. You never know. Often life does not turn out the way it was planned.”

“This is certainly not going to.”

What I had learned had considerably dampened my pleasure in being home, although I had expected to hear something like this. Ireland! I had not thought of that. I could not imagine myself, after having grown accustomed to the elegance of the French Court, exiled into a savage land. I had read somewhere that it was populated by barbaric chiefs who roamed about the country bare-footed, wrapped in saffron-colored robes, making war for no reason at all except that it was a state they reveled in.

I was shocked because my father was profiting from Mary's degradation. I remembered how violently he had spoken against her in France, how he had reviled her for her immoral conduct; now, it seemed, when it suited him, he applauded it.

I thought of all the good that had come to him through his daughter's shame. True, he had been advancing in favor before Mary came along to help him on his way. I remembered hearing how he had been one of the four people to carry the canopy over the Princess Mary when she was christened. That was quite an honor. Soon after that he had been appointed Sheriff of Kent. All this before Mary. He had pleased the King and proved an able ambassador.

I felt I wanted to escape from the cynical attitude to life where an action was deplored only when it did not bring material advantage.

A few days later Thomas Wyatt came riding over from Allington.

I was in the courtyard. He dismounted and, coming toward me, lifted me in his arms and held me, looking up at me.

“Anne! So my lady deigns to return to us at last.”

“You haven't changed, Thomas,” I told him.

“Did you expect me to? I'd always be the same to you.”

He set me down and we stood for a moment regarding each other.

He was tall and, if not exactly handsome, very attractive. Memories came flooding back. I remembered how much I had cared for him.

“As soon as word reached me that you were here, I had to come,” he said.

“How is everyone at Allington? Your sister Mary?”

“Mary is well. You will see her soon. But I was impatient. I had to come at once.” His eyes ranged over me. “So elegant,” he said. “Indeed the Court lady. So this is what the French have done to you.”

“I was a long time there, Thomas.”

“To our loss.” He took my hand—the one with the sixth nail—and kissed it. “Do not leave us again,” he said.

“Come into the house.”

“One moment…Let us be alone… for a while.”

We sat on one of the benches close to the wall where the creeper grew. It was like going back in time to be there with Thomas.

“George is here?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And rejoicing to have his sister home, I doubt not.”

“He says so.”

“We were a pleasant company, were we not? I often think of the old days in Kent and Norfolk.”

“It seemed like fate that our two families should be together in the two counties… almost as though it had been arranged.”

“Whoever arranged it grew careless… sending you to France. You must never go away again.”

“They are planning to send me away now. I won't have it. Do you know about this Butler affair?”

He nodded. “It is not just a family affair. It's political. The King wants the Butlers to fight for him in Ireland.”

“Therefore I and this poor young man have been chosen to unite the warring factions.”

“It's an old story, Anne.”

“It may be but I do not intend to be taken up and used to bring it to the required ending.”

“If your sister had not married, she would have been the one.”

“Perhaps Mary would not have minded,” I said bitterly. “This James Butler is a man… that is all she would ask.”

“Well, Mary has gone her way and that leaves you. But Ireland! It is a wild and savage place.”

“I have made up my mind not to go.”

“Your father will insist, I fear.”

“And so shall I.”

“They will force you, Anne.”

“Can people be forced to take marriage vows?”

“It has been known. What of all the princesses who have been brought to their stranger bridegrooms and all the young men who have been presented with their brides. It is the penalty of position. It is one of the burdens which families like ours are called upon to bear.”

“I will not bear it.”

“Have you seen your prospective bridegroom?”

“Oh, they did not think it necessary that I should! They plighted my troth in my absence.”

He turned to me and taking my chin in his hands looked searchingly into my eyes. “There is no one like you,” he said. “So perhaps you will succeed where others have failed.” Then he kissed me on the forehead. “Anne, why did you not come back sooner?”

“To be thrust into marriage at an earlier age?”

“No. That I might have shown the same spirit as you will. Now that you have come back, I remember so much. When I came, whom did I look for first? It was always Anne with the serious probing eyes and the wild black hair. George and I were the blustering braves, were we not? We looked down on our little girls… but my heart was always lifted at the sight of you… and so will it always be.”

“I think I looked for you, too. I admired you… and George, of course. You were the heroes—we girls your minions. I loved your sister Mary. She was comforting to be with…but the excitement came from you and George.”

“If they had not sent you away…it would not have happened. I should have stood out against it. It was advantageous, you see. My father thought it an ideal match. I was careless, forgetful …I thought it had to happen some day. What I am trying to tell you, Anne, is that I have a wife.”

“Thomas! You!”

He nodded somberly.

“When?” I asked. “And who?”

“Just over a year ago. She is Elizabeth, daughter of Thomas Brooke, Lord Cobham.”

“Congratulations. A worthy match.”

“My family considers it to be.”

“And you…are happy?”

He looked at me sadly and said: “There is only one who could make me happy… completely.”

I did not answer. I was rather moved by Thomas; I was certain that I could easily have fallen in love with him and I felt a bitter disappointment that he was married. If it had not been for the political elements in this Butler affair, Thomas Wyatt might have been considered a worthy husband for me. I pictured weeks of exhilarating courtship—Thomas would ride over from Allington to woo me. But my father had risen beyond Sir Henry Wyatt in the King's favor and would, no doubt, in accordance with Boleyn tradition have wished for a greater marriage for his daughter even though the Wyatts were old friends, good neighbors and of excellent family. But what was the use of thinking thus? Thomas was married and I was destined for Sir James Butler.

He repeated then: “Oh, why did you not come back earlier?”

“Where are you living now?” I asked. “At Allington?”

“I am mostly at Court. I have a post there.”

“What post is that?”

“I am one of the Esquires of the King's Body.”

“Then you know Will Carey well?”

“I do.”

“And you must see my sister frequently.”

He nodded.

“You know, of course.”

“That she is the King's mistress? Everyone knows, but no one refers to it. The King likes to keep his little peccadillos secret and as you know we must all bow to his wishes.”

“Life is lived more simply in the country,” I said.

“But you would not want the simple life. You would soon grow tired of it. The intrigues at Court … the excitement… the fighting for one's position and the even harder battle to keep it… that is what we enjoy. There are the masques which I help to devise… The King loves nothing better than a masque in which we wear disguises. No disguise could hide his identity, of course, but he likes to think it is possible, and he has great delight in revealing himself: ‘It is your King!’ he cries and everyone gasps with feigned astonishment, pretending to try to remember if they had been guilty of lèse majesté … knowing full well they have uttered nothing but what the King wanted most to hear, being aware all the time to whom they were speaking. It is a farce…a game of pretense; but it gives me a chance to hear my verses spoken and sung. You should come to Court, Anne. Your father must find a place for you.”

“He has found a place for me…in Ireland.”

“It must be delayed as long as possible.”

“I fear it will not be. They have brought me home for this, but I shall not let it happen. I will not be told whom I am to marry. When I marry I shall choose my husband.”

“Anne… would you have chosen me?”

I drew back from him. “You chose to marry…so how could I?”

“If you had been here…”

“It is too late to take that view. What does it matter what I should have done if it is not possible for me to do it?”

He shook his head sadly. Then he said: “I have a son, Anne. He is not yet a year old.”

“Again congratulations. That must be very gratifying.”

“I admit to a fondness for the child.”

“I must come to Allington to see him and to meet your wife.”

My brother was coming out into the courtyard.

“Oh, so you are there, Tom,” he said. “What do you think of my sister?”

“A very grand lady with Frenchified airs.”

“Exactly my view. Have you caught up on old times?”

Thomas nodded. “I have been upbraiding her for staying away so long.”

“Come in,” said George. “My stepmother heard your arrival; she has some of her own wine to offer you. Now, Tom, you must let her know you like it. She is proud of her brews.”

And as we went into the house I was thinking of the old days and Thomas and what might have been.

When my father arrived at Hever, I expected the storm to break.

George had gone back to Court and so had Thomas Wyatt. I had been over to Allington and renewed my friendship with Mary Wyatt. I had found a certain peace in our gardens which I had always loved in the past. I rode out quite often. I should have had a groom with me. My stepmother worried about this but I assured her I was quite able to take care of myself, and she was always anxious not to impose her authority upon me.

She used to busy herself in the kitchens. I think she was not yet accustomed to living in a house like ours. She came of good yeoman stock; her father was a landowner, but we had become very grand since my father was doing so well at Court—and, I thought bitterly, since Mary had found such favor in the very highest place.

My stepmother never referred to that aspect of Mary's life, though she had grown fond of her as she had of us all.

From my window I saw my father arrive. He traveled in some state, as became a gentleman of his importance. He was on terms of friendship with both Cardinal Wolsey and the King. He had kept the French wondering which way England was going to turn and he had completed a successful mission at Oudenarde with the Emperor Charles. He was rich; honors had been showered upon him. That made me angry. Could he not forget the Butler revenues for the sake of his daughter's happiness? Apparently not.

When I heard of his successes and his growing wealth, I was more determined than ever to stand firm against his attempt to use me to add to them.

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 might 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.”

“I trust our little games did not displease Your Grace. I know I need not fear that it did. Your Grace has too fine a sense of the ridiculous…I have heard of it, and how well you like these little masquerades.”

He was rocking on his heels, keeping me kneeling before him. I wondered what punishment he was going to inflict. But the little light of lust was still in his eyes.

I heard voices. People were coming this way. They were very likely looking for him. I said: “I must go. They must not find me here.”

He put out a hand and caught a strand of my hair.

But I was up and away.

I sped out of the garden. I hid myself among the shrubs. A party, led by my father, came into sight. They were obviously looking for the King.

I ran to my room. I looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were sparkling; my cheeks had an unusual faint color; my hair was untidy.

What had I done? What had led me to behave in such a way? I had been in a strange mood. I was so angry about the Butler affair and determined to show the world that I was not, like other girls of noble houses, to be pushed this way and that. But to become involved in such an exchange with the King was sheer madness.

I wondered what action he would take. He would not let the matter rest, I was sure. He had been really angry at some points; but there had been something in my looks which had touched him in some way. Although I was a virgin, I was not ignorant of the ways of men; I knew of those animal desires which were somehow unpredictable but when they came could obliterate all else. François and the gentlemen of his Court were mostly young and lusty and they pursued women as they did the deer. They only had to see one and they were off. One knew exactly the meaning in their glances. With Henry it was a little different. I remembered what George had said of him. He did not flaunt his love affairs and they were not numerous like those of the King of France. There was definitely in Henry a certain moral and sentimental streak. I had sensed a touch of cruelty too—such as had not played a part in the character of François. François would have been amused by my effrontery; I was not sure of Henry.

There would be a great feast tonight, with my father straining every effort to entertain the King in accordance with the custom of those noblemen whose houses he visited during his journeys through the country. As the daughter of the house I should be called upon to show my talents…to sing, to play the lute; and he would watch me and think: She is comely enough for the night here. She is doubtless a little like her sister. And Mary had been pleasing him for some time. She had lasted longer with the King of England than she had with the King of France.

I could not go down there tonight. I could not bear it. I would not submit to these people. I would not be like my sister Mary.

Then what could I do?

I took off my dress and slipped into a nightgown. I lay in my bed, listening to the bustle in the castle. There were voices below my window. I knew by the sycophantic laughter that he was there. My father's voice sounded unctuous. Was he begging the King to forgive his wayward daughter or hoping that his humble home would not displease His Grace?

Someone was scratching on the door. It was my stepmother. She looked horrified to see me in bed.

“But Anne,” she cried, “the King is here! You must come and be presented to him. Oh dear, I'm in such a flurry. I know not which way to turn. I am terrified. He is even more grand than I thought. Anne, what are you doing in bed?”

“I am ill,” I said. “I cannot leave my bed.”

She was all concern and I felt very tender toward her.

“What is wrong? What can be wrong?”

“I have a cold. I think I have a fever. I could not come down. The King would never forgive us if he caught something from someone in our household.”

“I must get you a posset.”

“No…no…Do not worry…I…I had these turns in France.” It was a lie but it served. “All I have to do is rest and in a day or so I am well. I need no posset. You go and do not worry about me. I shall not be missed.”

“Your father…”

“Tell him of my illness, he would not want me down there in this state.”

I closed my eyes and tried to look ill.

My poor stepmother! I was sorry for her. I knew I was unnaturally flushed and that alarmed her. I should have been down there to help her. But I dared not be. He would still be smarting from some of the things I had said. But it was not that which alarmed me so much as the look in his eyes. I had seen the same look in those of François. But Marguerite had understood about that and had helped me. This was different; every instinct I possessed told me that I must not see the King again while he was at Hever.

My stepmother leaned over the bed. She touched my forehead.

“You are rather hot,” she said.

I nodded feebly.

“Oh dear God, that it should happen now!”

“Don't worry. Just forget it. The King will like you. I am sure there is kindness in him for all his splendor.”

Then I closed my eyes once more and she went out.

Shortly afterward my father came in. He stood by the bed glaring down at me. I was afraid that he would order me to get up, dress and join the party.

I said in a small faltering voice: “I'm sorry, Father. My head is so heavy… and I am rather hot.”

“At such a time!” he cried.

He stood for a few seconds and then went out.

I breathed a sigh of relief and told myself that in future I must curb my impetuous nature. The urge to tease him had come and I had given way to it. But it was as well that I had, for if he had seen me at the banquet and heard me sing and play the lute, he might have expected further entertainment from me.

So while the sounds of feasting and music went on in the castle, I lay in bed. I thought of the future and what would happen when I was presented to James Butler. I knew that I had some special attraction for the opposite sex—even as my sister Mary had. Someone had once explained Mary's allure as Promise. That was possibly true because it was obvious, merely by looking at her to see that she enjoyed sexual encounters and that the preliminaries of courtship could be curtailed and the conclusion quickly reached. How different I was! I was cold toward them; I did not feel a vestige of desire for them. I should hate to be submitted to the humiliation Mary suffered in France. Why then did I see desire in men's eyes for me? Was it because I was different from other women? There was something distinctive about me…apart from my sixth fingernail. Thomas Wyatt loved me—or was ready to; François had had designs on me; and now I had seen something which I feared in the eyes of the King of England. Who would have dared speak to him as I had this afternoon? Only one who was desired. I liked the power this gave me over men. I felt that I wanted that power. But I could see that it would not be easy to hold it once one had surrendered.

I was in a state of apprehension, cowering behind my pretense of illness; and I was afraid of the outcome of this day.

It was midnight and still the revelries went on. I hoped the King was pleased with the hospitality of Hever and did not report to his host the ill behavior of the daughter of the house.

I slept little that night, and when my stepmother came into the room next morning she was alarmed at the sight of me.

I was sorry to give her this concern and tried to reassure her. I knew these attacks well, I told her. They soon passed. “Tell me,” I said. “How was it last night?”

“All went well,” she told me. “The servants excelled themselves and there were no mishaps in the kitchen. I had given them their orders—but of course I must be sitting on the right hand of His Grace, and I was in such a state that I was shaking like one of my jellies. He noticed it and patted my arm. He said: ‘You must not be afraid of us. We do no harm to gentle ladies.’ Then he was laughing and I was laughing and everything seemed well. He was so splendid and he liked well the suckling pig. I told him it was a recipe I had brought with me from my home—and he did not seem to mind my nervousness at all.”

“He liked you for it,” I said. “It indicated how much you were in awe of him and that you were overwhelmed by his greatness.”

She was not listening. She was smiling, thinking of the evening.

“The tumblers were very good and so were the minstrels. Your father had thoughtfully arranged for them to sing one of the King's songs, which pleased him mightily.”

“It would,” I said.

“And do you know … he asked about you.”

I felt a tremor of alarm. “What did he say…of me?”

“ ‘Your daughter Mary is at my Court,’ he said. ‘Your son, too. But I believe there is another…a younger…’ I said to him, ‘Your Grace, that is Anne. She is laid low in her bed. She is not well.’ ‘Oh,’ he answered, ‘What ails the wench?’ ‘It is nothing much, she assures me,’ I replied. ‘A headache… and a little fever.’ ‘I should have liked to see her,’ he said. ‘Is it true that she plays on the lute?’ I told him how beautifully you played and sang and how you have put us all to shame with your grace and your fine clothes and that you have been in France. I don't think he liked that very much for he said, ‘It would be well if she forgot she has lived in France and took up with our English ways.’ I said quickly that I knew you soon would. Then he said, ‘Headache, eh? Tell her she must have lingered too long in the rays of the sun.’”

“Did he really say that!”

“Yes—exactly that. I was about to say that the sun was not very strong just yet but felt that might sound like contradicting him.”

“Is that all he said…of me?”

“Yes, that was all, for the dancing had begun. You should see him dance. He leaps higher than any. You would know that he was the King if nobody told you. What a pity that you had this attack…now.”

“When is the party leaving?” I asked.

“Today. Your father will be going with them. How quiet it will seem when they have gone!”

“And peaceful,” I said.

“Now rest, my dear. I will send up some broth… something soothing. You must try to take it.”

“I will try,” I said feebly…“ to please you, dearest Stepmother.”

They had gone. When I heard the clatter of departure, I sat up in my bed and laughed.

It had been quite an adventure and I had rescued myself very cleverly, I thought. Now that it was over, I did not regret anything. He had obviously been displeased. He had spoken figuratively when he had remarked that I had stayed too long in the rays of the sun. Did he believe in my sudden illness? I wondered. But he would no doubt have forgotten the incident by now. I was just a saucy wench who had played a little trick on royalty; but wenches did not play such tricks, particularly those with ambitious fathers.

Oh well, it was over now.

It was strange that my father had not mentioned James Butler. I supposed it was because he had been so taken up with the King's visit, which was certainly enough to make him forget anything else; still, there might have been a reference to such an important matter.

At first I reveled in those peaceful days. I sat often in the rose garden and went over that scene again…word by word, and laughed at it. How daring I had been! But all was well. He had forgotten all about me by now. He probably dismissed me as a foolish girl. I thought perhaps he might speak to my father about me, but if he had, I should surely have heard.

George and Mary were at Court and so was Thomas Wyatt. I saw Mary Wyatt often, and our friendship carried on where it had left off in our childhood. I became more and more attached to my stepmother, but her interests were in the herb garden and the kitchens; she was a perfect housewife, and I was quite different from that. I did feel the lack of stimulating conversation; I often thought of those days in France with Marguerite and I became very nostalgic.

Every day I expected to hear that James Butler was on his way to Hever and I was to meet him. But nothing happened.

I used to sit with my stepmother while she worked on her embroidery, for in accordance with her housewifely excellence she was very clever with her needle; and she would tell me of her humble life in the country and how she was at last fitting into our castle ways.

“It amazed me,” she said, “that your father should have chosen me.”

“He is a clever man, my father,” I reminded her.

“And that he should bring me here… where I have actually met the King! I would not have believed it possible.”

“I can understand it—and I think it is my father who is the fortunate one.”

“And such a charming family I inherited! You…who are such an attractive young lady…so worldly in your way… and your beautiful clothes and your manners and playing and singing as you do…to bother to talk to me!”

I was touched and said: “Dear Stepmother, it is you who honor us.”

And indeed I felt it was so, for there she was with her goodness— which I felt none of us shared.

“Your brother George…he is so clever… but always kind to me. And Mary …” Her eyes clouded a little for, affectionate as she was, her strict upbringing would not allow her to approve of Mary.

I said: “Mary is the King's mistress.”

“Poor Mary. She will suffer remorse.”

“Not Mary. She revels… not so much in her position but in the relationship. You know she was also the mistress of the King of France.”

“That scandal, yes…I do know.”

“Don't waste your sympathy on Mary. She will always be as she is.”

“It's a pity… and that nice husband.”

“He is weak. He just stands by.”

“He has to, your father says, because of the King.”

“He should not. If he were a real man, would he?”

“The King is very powerful.”

“I do not admire Will Carey,” I said firmly. “And what do you know of James Butler?”

“I hear he is a very charming young man.”

“That is what they would tell me. I will not be bartered. They will have to look elsewhere. I am no Will Carey.”

“Oh dear, I hope there is not going to be trouble.”

“You have married into an ambitious family, dear Stepmother.”

“I wish there was less of that in the world.”

“No one would strive to get on but for ambition. Life would be peaceful… but static, dear Stepmother. I do not think that would be entirely for our good. The point is, passions have to be moderated; they have to be used by us; it is only when they begin to use us that they become dangerous.”

“You are too clever for me, my dear. But it is nice to hear you talk. I hope beyond all things that you will find a nice husband whom you love and who loves you… and be happy for ever more.”

I kissed her. I thought she was more like a mother to me than my own had been.

She made Hever very pleasant during my stay there.

It did not last very long.

One day a messenger came from my father. He had found a place for me in the Queen's household. I was to be a maid of honor and should prepare to leave without delay.

The peaceful time was over. I was not entirely sorry, for peace to one of my nature was not always desirable for long. I found the atmosphere of Hever without my brother and Thomas Wyatt rather boring. And much as I loved my stepmother, she was hardly a stimulating companion.

So I could not help feeling a sense of expectation and excitement as I prepared to leave Hever.