The Lady in the Tower (2 page)

I should never have become involved with him. I should have escaped while there was time. I should have married Henry Percy. I should have died of the Sweat. Then this would never have come to pass.

Somewhere along the years the fault lay with me. Where? I would seek it. It would occupy me in my prison. It would keep my thoughts in the past, away from contemplation of the fearful future.

I would go back to those happy days at Blickling and Hever, to the glitter of the Court of France, my return to England—a young girl knowledgeable beyond her years, brought up in the most sophisticated and elegant Court in the world. That was what had made me what I was, and what I was had brought me to my present state. I wanted to recall it in detail… and while I waited here in my prison I would do so.

THE FIRST TIME I SAW THE KING was in the cavalcade on the way to Dover where his sister, the Princess Mary, was to embark for France and her marriage to the King of that country. To my surprise I was a member—though a very humble one—of that glorious assembly. This was the most exciting experience of my young life so far and I was in a state of constant apprehension lest I should act without due propriety and be sent home before we embarked because of some deficiency discovered in me—my youth, my inexperience or because I did not know how to behave with due decorum in the presence of the great. True, I had been assiduously schooled by my governess, Simonette, and I spoke French with a fair fluency; but I was realizing that the cocoon of safety which had enclosed me at Blickling and Hever was no longer there. I had left my childhood behind me forever.

And there I was in close proximity to the King himself. He was big— surely the biggest man I had ever seen, which was as a king should be. He was twenty-three years old then. His hair shone golden in the September sunshine and he wore it short and straight in a fashion which had come from France where, Simonette told me, all the best fashions came from. There would have been no need for any to be told that he was the King; all would have known just to look at him. He glittered. The jewels in his garments were dazzling; he laughed and joked as he rode along and the laughter of those about him seemed to punctuate every remark he made.

On one side of him rode the Queen and on the other the Princess Mary. Beside him the Queen looked almost somber—a peahen beside a glorious peacock. She had a serious, kindly face and the cross she wore about her neck called attention to that piety which we all knew was hers.

The Princess Mary bore a strong resemblance to her brother; she was strikingly beautiful, but at this time she wore a sullen expression which indicated that, however much others might be delighted by her marriage, she was not.

I thought how alarming it must be to be dispatched off to a husband whom one had never seen and who had already had two wives—the last one recently dead and the first put away because she was hump-backed, ill-favored and could not bear children. I knew this because Simonette had thought it necessary for me to know what was going on in the world about me, and as I was called precocious and Simonette said I was wise beyond my years, I listened to what I was told and remembered it.

The marriage had been arranged to indicate friendship between France and England, who had until recently been at war with each other. England's allies had been the Emperor Maximilian and Ferdinand of Spain; but Maximilian and Ferdinand had been uncertain allies and Louis of France was a wise man who saw the futility of war and sought to end it. This he did, breaking up the alliance by offering his daughter Renée as a bride for Maximilian's grandson Charles and to Ferdinand he offered Navarre on which Ferdinand had long cast covetous eyes. That left England to fight France alone; but Louis was prepared for that. Why not a friendship sealed by his marriage to Henry's sister? It must have been hard for our King to turn away such a glittering prize. His sister to be Queen of France! So, smarting from the humiliation inflicted on him by the perfidy of Maximilian and Ferdinand and knowing a good bargain when he saw one, he agreed. It was too good to be resisted, so Princess Mary was being led most reluctantly to the altar. It was small wonder that she looked sullen.

As we came into Dover the fierce wind was rising and a feeling of apprehension swept through the company. None of us looked forward to crossing that strip of water which separated us from the Continent of Europe. Storms blew up suddenly and I had heard people talk with horror of what had to be endured on a storm-tossed ship.

So we came to the castle where we should stay until the sea was calm enough for us to set out.

The great fortress loomed before us, its casements dug into the solid rock. It was known as the Gateway to England—a formidable building which could house two thousand soldiers and which had stood for centuries overlooking the sea. It was said that King Arthur of legend had inhabited the castle and that William the Conqueror had had difficulty in taking it. Of course it had changed since those days; it had been restored and added to, to make it the great fortress it was today; and here we must stay to await the King's pleasure and that of the sea.

As I lay in bed listening to the wind buffeting the walls of the castle I thought of how my life had changed so quickly. It had begun with the death of my mother two years before.

I believed I would never forget that day at Blickling. The Wyatts— Thomas and Mary—were with my own sister Mary, my brother George and myself in the garden. We saw a great deal of the Wyatts because our father and theirs had been appointed joint Constables of Norwich Castle, and when we were in Kent—they at Allington and we at Hever—we were close neighbors. We were great friends. I found Thomas exciting to be with and Mary a comfort.

Thomas was a vital person. He wrote poetry and he used to read it to us. Sometimes it made us laugh; sometimes it made us think. I was always happy to see Thomas; and his sister Mary was a girl who never said an unkind word about anyone; she was serious and quite clever. I think I liked Thomas more than anyone except my brother George, who was also a poet and a great talker. I loved to be with them both although I was expected to listen; and I was not allowed to speak for long, they being so much older than I was.

As for my sister Mary, she admitted that she never listened to what they said. Her mind would be flitting off on lighter matters such as what ribbon she would wear in her hair or whether her dress should be blue or pink. That was Mary—not so much stupid as having a lack of concentration. But she was good-hearted and we all loved her.

I was not quite six years old but I seemed much older, perhaps because my father had insisted that Mary and I should be given a better education than most girls of our station, and I profited from it, even if Mary did not. Daughters of minor aristocracy were usually sent away from home at an early age to some noble household where they would learn to read and write, to sing, to dance and play the lute, to ride side-saddle, to curtsy, to wash their hands before and after a meal, to handle a knife with grace and to dip it into the salt bowl, take a delicate portion and never pick it up with the fingers. That was not good enough for my father. So we were kept at home until the right place could be found for us, which was not easy, for his aims were high and opportunities had to be waited for.

I knew why, of course. I had heard George talking to Thomas Wyatt. We did not have to look far back into the family history to see what great progress we had made. Our great-grandfather, the founder of our fortunes, had been a mere merchant trading in silk and wool cloth. It was true he was a very special merchant, for he had acquired a title and
become Lord Mayor of London. His greatest cleverness, though, was in his marriage, for his wife was the daughter of Lord Hoo—and her father's heiress at that. They had a son, William, my grandfather, who had married the daughter of the Earl of Ormond; hence more blue blood was injected into the Boleyn circulation. My father had done best of all, for he had married Elizabeth Howard, daughter of the Earl of Surrey, who in due course became the Duke of Norfolk; and the Dukes of Norfolk considered themselves—most dangerously—more royal than the Tudors.

That was the pattern, said George, and our father planned for us all to continue with it. Therefore his children must receive a special education. They must be prepared to stand equal with the highest in the land. They should therefore not only learn the social graces but have the education which was generally reserved for royal children.

Our governess, Simonette, was aware of this. She was a worldly woman with the fatalism and realism of her race. I was her favorite, which was strange because Mary was more lovable as well as being out-standingly pretty. She was hopeless with her lessons, because she would not—or could not—give her mind to them. So I supposed that was why Simonette favored me.

I must dance as the French danced, walk as they walked in France, and I must speak French as it was spoken in that country. I was fond of her because she admired me and I had always yearned to be admired. I was very conscious of being less pretty than Mary and I confessed this to Simonette.

“No, no, no,” she cried. “You have the grace. You have the charm. You will be the one, little Anne. Mary…oh yes…very pretty…loved for a while because she is giving …too giving… and that can pall. Oh,
mon amour
, I should want to see you older…a little older, yes. Those eyes… they are
magnifique
…yes,
magnifique
. And I tell you this: you know how to use them. It is something you are born with… for I have not taught you… They will allure, those eyes.”

I studied them critically. They were large, making the rest of my face small in comparison. They and my thick dark hair were compensation for the mole on the front of my neck and the beginning of a nail on the side of my little finger which made me think that God had intended to give me a sixth finger and changed his mind, leaving me with only the nail.

I hated it. I could not understand it. I found myself staring, fascinated, at other people's hands.

My brother George said: “Never mind. It makes you different. Who wants to be the same as everyone else?”

“I do,” I said vehemently.

Simonette also tried to comfort me. “Sometimes it is more
chic
to have a little imperfection…more human…more exciting…more fascinating. You will see.”

Then came that summer's day when we were all in the gardens. I remember so well that feeling of impending doom. I knew that something fearful was going to happen. The household was subdued. Even George and Thomas Wyatt were quiet. Mary was trying to fight off the evil as she always would by pretending that it did not exist.

But we knew that all was not well, for they had sent to my father, bringing him home from the Court, and that would be something no one would dare do unless it was very important.

My mother was dying. This was not just another of those yearly illnesses which beset her. This was not what they called “another disappointment.” This went beyond that. The doctors were there with the midwife.

I thought of her. She was tender and loving to us children, but we had seen little of her. When she was well she accompanied our father to Court and it was only when he was on embassies abroad that she returned to her family. When she grew heavy with child she would be with us. Then would come the confinement and the brief rest before she joined our father. It was a pattern which seemed to go on forever.

Neither George nor Thomas Wyatt could talk as usual on that day. We had been silent, glancing every now and then at the house, waiting.

It was Simonette who came to tell us. I knew as soon as I saw her walking across the grass as though reluctant to reach us.

To lose one's mother when one is not quite six years old is not only a tragic but an illuminating experience. It teaches one that life is not as pleasantly predictable as one had thought it to be. There comes a terrible sense of aloneness and the alarming knowledge that nothing will ever be the same as it was before.

Our father went away on a mission to the Netherlands and was absent for a whole year, and when he came back there was more change in our household. He was clearly rather pleased with himself. George told us that he had had to conclude a treaty with Margaret of Savoy, Archduchess of Austria, by which the Emperor Maximilian, Pope Julius and Ferdinand of Spain should, with England, make war on France. This was the treaty which was soon to founder; but at that time my father believed that its conclusion was a great success for him. There was something else which was equally pleasing to him. My sister Mary was to go to the Court in Brussels over which Margaret reigned as Regent of the Netherlands.