The Lady in the Tower (10 page)

Soon we had news of his great victory at Melegnano over the Swiss. François had done all his country expected of him. In a short engagement he had beaten the Swiss, disconcerted his enemies and entered Milan in triumph. Maximilian Sforza, after taking refuge in the castle there, surrendered and agreed to retire to France with a pension. The Pope, seeing the way in which events had gone, invited François to meet him at Bologna, where they could discuss the future as the good friends the Pope and the Most Christian King must be.

I did not understand all this at the time, but it fell into place later and when I look back I see clearly how these events shaped my future.

François became enchanted by the art of Italy and grew much attached to Pope Leo. Leo was a most cultivated man, which might be expected of the son of Lorenzo the Magnificent. Intellectual, witty in conversation, astute in matters of state and a patron of the arts, he had all the gifts which would appeal to François. He was fond of music and enchanted by theatrical performances; he encouraged writers and artists as his father had done. It was small wonder that François was only too ready to dally at the Papal Court; he was in his element surrounded by works of art; and he found the women of Italy beautiful and gave his rapt attention to all.

Ferdinand of Spain had control of Naples, on which François had set his heart. Ferdinand was getting old and was ailing, Leo pointed out. He could not live long, so would it not be wise to postpone the attempt to take it and wait a while for Ferdinand's death, when it might be quite easy for François to attain his desire without going to war?

Having proved his military skill, François was ready to take that advice; and when he returned to France, he brought the great artist Leonardo da Vinci with him; he was so enamored of his work that he wanted him to work for him. He gave Leonardo the Château Cloux in Touraine, near Amboise, as his home. Unfortunately the great man did not enjoy it for long and died four years later in 1519, which was perhaps not unexpected as he was in his sixty-seventh year. François had the utmost respect for artists of all kinds. Once he said: “Men can make kings, but only God can make an artist.”

During the years that followed, I became so much a part of the French Court that I forgot I was English. I was growing up and very different from the seven-year-old who had arrived. I enjoyed looking on at the Court without being an actual part of it. It was like watching through a window. I was rather relieved about this in a way. I could see how easy it would be to be caught up in actions which might prove detrimental to one's dignity. I was very much aware of dignity. But perhaps I came to that state later, after what happened to my sister Mary. Looking back, it is not always easy to remember when one began to change.

I really enjoyed my role of observer. I felt I was being prepared for the day when I must emerge and take part in the scene. The King's favorite mistress at that time was Françoise de Foix, one of the most beautiful women I ever saw. Many envied her her place at Court; they said François was her slave and he certainly acted as though he adored her; but he was not faithful to her and it all seemed to me like a masque without reality. I thought I would not care to be Françoise de Foix for all the adulation which came her way. Tomorrow it would all be gone. It all depended on the fickle King and he was playing a game most of the time. But it was interesting to watch.

François had come to the throne in a haze of glory; he had appeared to have all the kingly qualities, but his extravagances had to be paid for, and the time must come when the people realized that a monarch who was as handsome as a god and amused them with his outrageous adventures might not bring them so much comfort as a sick old man who had the welfare of his people at heart. Under Louis life might have been dull for the citizens of Paris, but the streets were quiet; following the example of the King, the people had retired early, and if any had reason to be out late, they went without fear. That had changed. Bands of roistering young men roamed the streets. It had long been the law that anyone out after dark should carry a little hand-lantern, and these were maliciously knocked out of their owners’ hands; dissolute young men humiliated the women, taking liberties with them during these drunken brawls. There had been occasions when the mischief-makers were revealed and seen among them were noblemen; and there had been seen the most familiar face of all—the long-nosed, handsome, sardonic features of the Most Christian King.

The sober citizens were shocked; they were disillusioned; they began to talk nostalgically of the good old days.

A party of players had roamed the country, amusing the people with their comedies; and in the past they had often performed their little
playlets at Court. A feature of these was the satirizing of well-known figures. The late Louis had often watched them and been amused to see himself portrayed not always flatteringly, counting his money, the parsimonious monarch who liked to keep the Treasury at a high level—for they all knew that this was not for himself but for the country's needs.

Now they were bringing into the sketches a new monarch—a figure of elegance to whom the cut of a coat was of the utmost importance, who flitted from one
amour
to another; it could only be a parody of François. But it was not the portrayal of François which was so disconcerting as that of his mother, the Duchess Louise. The people had to have a scape-goat and François, being young and charming, could be forgiven for his foibles. “High spirits. Youth,” said the people indulgently. The extravagances necessary to placate these high spirits were laid at the door of the Duchess Louise, who had taken charge of affairs to such a great extent since her regency that the people complained that she ruled the country. In the play she was
Mère Sotte
and was seen plundering the Treasury and leading her youthful son astray.

François might have shrugged this off—not so Louise. She was incensed. The criticism was directed against her and she wanted revenge. This was a blatant example of
lèse majesté
and, she declared, punishable by law.

Consequently the players were arrested and taken to Blois, where they were kept in dungeons.

I think they would probably have been left there to perish had it not been for Queen Claude. She was really distressed about the incident. I thought that, in her quiet way, she was very wise, although there had been times when I had been inclined to despise her for her meek acceptance of her lot. After all, she was a king's daughter. Had I been in her place, I should have insisted on being treated with more respect. I should have refused to feign indifference to François's love affairs, for it must be feigned. She must care. She must feel humiliated. And when the time came, she just meekly accepted his return to the marriage bed, remaining calm and continuing with her good works.

She asked a great many questions about the players and thought it was quite wrong to imprison them for what they had done with impunity in the previous reign. “The people will not like it,” she said. “I must speak to the King.”

And she did. She was like many people who appear weak; she was indifferent enough over matters which seemed of no great moment to her but when she really felt strongly she could stand very firm.

François admired her—if not physically—for her character. The people loved her. Although they were amused by the King, they respected those who led saintly lives; and they respected Claude.

I could imagine the scene, although, of course, I did not witness it. Claude would clearly state that she thought the players ought to be set free. She would explain her reason, and clever François would see the logic of it. He knew his mother would be furious if he gave them their liberty and he hated to offend her, but he could see that Claude was right. Graciously and gallantly, he said that he could not refuse his wife's request; and for once Louise was impotent to act. I was sure she raged in private and must have wondered if Françoise de Foix was loosening the bonds between her and Caesar.

However, the players were released unconditionally, to the satisfaction of all except Louise.

François was too intelligent not to realize that his grip on the people's affections was slackening and he knew that it was always wise to give the people some lavish entertainment. The Romans had realized this and they instituted their circuses. François, so well read, so well versed in history, decided to do the same.

Queen Claude, more popular than ever over the matter of the players, had never been crowned. That honor must be given her and at the same time it would give the people something to think about other than their growing dissatisfaction with the new reign.

The preparations threw our circle into a state of great activity. I was to be in the procession and we were fitted with new gowns of rich velvet and we were to wear hats made of cloth of gold in the shape of crowns.

So we rode to St. Denis on elaborately caparisoned mules.

Even Claude looked beautiful, accepting all the acclaim as calmly as she had the neglect. The people cheered her wildly, calling her St. Claude. They remembered she was the daughter of the King whom they had failed to appreciate when he was alive, but they now knew his worth; and her mother had been the great Anne of Brittany whom they had all respected and loved.

I was pleased to see her appreciated.

Then there were the entertainments which always followed these occasions, during which the King had a chance of winning back some of his lost esteem by performing with grace and skill at the jousts.

It was after the activities were over that the Queen sent for me.

She bade me be seated and then she said: “I have some news for you. I have received letters from your father.”

My heart sank. I was going to be sent home. But she went on: “He is very happy that you are here and I have sent him a good account of your behavior.”

“Oh, thank you, Madame.”

She nodded. “You are a good child, and you have talents. Your speech has improved greatly since you came to me and your needlework is good.”

I thanked her again.

“He has been a little anxious of late about your sister—Mary, I believe.”

“Yes, Madame. Mary.”

“He has asked me if I can find a place for her here…with you.”

I looked at her in astonishment. She was smiling her gentle, sweet smile.

“I have written to tell him that I am willing to have her here. So, Anne, you will soon be seeing your sister. She is, in fact, on her way to us now.”

I was amazed. So Mary was coming to France! It was so long since I had seen her and those days with my brother George and the Wyatts in the gardens of Blickling and Hever seemed far in the past.

It would be wonderful to see Mary. I smiled and the Queen gave me one of her benign looks of approval.

I murmured: “Thank you, Madame.”

Mary and I were emotional when we met. It was quite four years since we had been parted; and at first we did not recognize each other. She had changed considerably from the little girl who had been sent to Brussels; she was plumper, more voluptuous. She must be twelve years old but she looked older.

She told me how glad she was to come to the French Court. That of Brussels had been quite dull and she had heard that, since the reign of the new King of France, life here was very amusing.

Her eyes sparkled at the prospect, but I quickly disillusioned her. We were in attendance on Queen Claude and that was a little circle apart.

She pouted and said that perhaps there were ways of breaking out of the circle.

She laughed a good deal. I asked her about affairs in Brussels but all she could tell me was what the people were wearing; and when I explained about King François going to war and his meeting with the Pope, she looked at me blankly and I could see that her attention was wandering. She had not changed; she was the same girl who had sat with
us in the gardens and not listened to a word of those interesting conversations between George and Thomas Wyatt.

She was easy-going, happy-go-lucky, and I noticed, in a few days, that she was more interested in the men than the women. When she caught a glimpse of François she was overwhelmed with admiration.

“Surely,” she said, “there has never been anyone like him.”

“I imagine he is unique,” I said.

“I think he smiled at me.”

“He smiles at all females.”

“Oh…I thought he smiled specially at me.”

I began to think she was inclined to be foolish, but it was pleasant to have someone of my own family near me; I was amazed by what a joy it was to be able to converse in English.

After a while she settled in, as Mary always would, I supposed.

An important event occurred soon after her arrival. There was a great deal of talk about it, and the King's sister, Marguerite d'Alençon, showed a lively interest.

Some said it was an attack on the Church and struck at the very roots of religion; but Marguerite said that every new theory must be given attention.

The fact was that a priest called Martin Luther was so incensed by the sale of indulgences—which meant that by paying a sum of money, men and women could be forgiven their sins—that he drew up ninety-five theses on the subject and nailed them on the church door at Wittenberg. This had caused consternation throughout the Catholic world. The chief offender in Martin Luther's eyes was a Dominican friar named John Tetzel who had established himself at Jüterbog, where he carried out what Luther called “this shameful traffic.” “God willing, I will beat a hole in his drum,” declared Martin Luther. At one time Luther would have been seized and no more heard of him, but times were changing. Luther had his supporters and Tetzel was forced to retire to Frankfurt. This caused quite a stir in Court circles, and people thought that Martin Luther was striking a direct blow against the established Church.

Who was this upstart monk? people were asking. He should be taught a lesson.

But Marguerite insisted that the question was worth studying. The man had certainly raised some interesting points and it was nonsense to say that the Church could not profit from improvements.