Etiennette’s pretty face was flaming.
“Some hold that love has nothing to do with marriage,” Margaret of Austria said. “Since marriages are often arranged, people do look elsewhere for love. It is proper for a married lady to accept the addresses of a knight or suitor, even someone far below her in rank, and some allow that it is permissible for a married man to acknowledge a lady as his mistress. But neither should go further than compliments, dancing, conversation, and perhaps holding hands. I trust that is understood,” she said, looking at Etiennette.
“Yes, madame,” the girl whispered.
Later, when they were alone in the dorter, she exhaled in relief.
“I could have lost my position!” she told Anne.
“You should have thought of that before,” Anne said. “Letting the King kiss you in public was madness. It’s your reputation that’s at stake, not his.”
“Who do you think you are, Mistress High-and-Mighty?” Etiennette hissed. “I love him, and he loves me, and what we do is none of your business.”
“He loves you? Tomorrow he will be gone from here, back to England, and you will never see him again.”
“I know.” Etiennette crumpled, her eyes brimming with tears. “He told me last night that he would always care for me, and that when I marry I should let him know, and he will send me ten thousand crowns for my dowry.”
“How will you explain that to your husband?” Anne retorted.
Etiennette ignored the question. “I don’t care. I love him.”
There was no reasoning with her. She was a silly, deluded girl.
—
That night, unable to sleep after another day packed with entertainments and a magnificent farewell dinner, Anne became aware of a figure moving stealthily in the gloom of the dorter. Heavens, it looked like a young lad wearing the English King’s livery of green and white, although the room was so dark that it was hard to tell what color it was. Anne concluded that the youth had been smuggled in by one of the filles d’honneur, but then the door clicked open, admitting a shaft of moonlight, and in its beam she could see plainly the face of Etiennette de la Baume, dressed up as a page, and determinedly sneaking away—no doubt to meet her royal lover.
Thank God the King would soon be gone. He was to blame. He had no business trying to seduce a young lady of good family; it was unforgivable, especially in one who enjoyed showing himself to the world as a chivalrous knight. How could anyone esteem such a dishonorable man so highly?
—
“Lord Lisle took a ring from me,” the Regent said, as she preceded her attendants into her bedchamber after yet another banquet. “He would not give it back. I told him he was a thief.”
They stared at her.
“It really does seem that the handsome lord means to marry me,” she went on, her tone unusually flat. “And King Henry is pressing for the match. He has not ceased to remind me of its advantages.”
“But your Highness is not sure?” one of the older women asked.
“No, Jacoba.” Margaret sank down on the bench at the end of her bed. “In truth, I am in turmoil, not knowing what to do. Our ambassadors tell me there is gossip about this marriage all over Europe. It seems that many have us wed already! People are making wagers about it. It’s awful—and embarrassing.”
Anne thought that the Regent should marry the captivating Brandon. They were a well-matched pair, and she had given every appearance of being smitten with him. And it would put an end to the rumors.
“What prevents your Highness from accepting his suit?” asked Jacoba, who was close to their mistress.
“A lot of people do not think it a fit match for me. It is being said that King Henry has made a nobleman out of a stableman. Even Erasmus disapproves—he wrote and told me so. And I do not know what my father the Emperor will say. My marrying an Englishman may preclude my ruling here, and I would not give that up easily.”
“But your Highness loves Lord Lisle?”
Margaret flushed. “I do not know. I like him very much. He has such grace in his person—I have rarely seen any gentleman who can match him. King Henry urges the match, and warns me that I should decide soon, since he fears that my father may force me into marriage with another. I think he dreads my allying myself with one of England’s enemies. But I told him that my father would do no such thing, and promised him only that I would not enter into any other marriage this year. And Lord Lisle has vowed that he will never marry another, but will remain all his life my humble servant. Maybe it was just the play of love; I must not be seduced by words. Now I must to bed. I have much to think about.”
—
Henry of England went home, the Regent continued to speak fondly of Lord Lisle, and Etiennette emerged subdued but unscathed from her midnight liaison. The months that followed passed pleasantly—and quickly—at the palaces of Mechlin, Lille, and the Regent’s summer retreat of La Veure near Brussels.
Speculation continued to rage as to whether or not she would marry Lord Lisle—or my lord the Duke of Suffolk, as he now was, having been ennobled after his return to England. Anne kept hoping that they would make a match of it, for the Duke was a jovial fellow, and with such a man at the helm, life at the court of Burgundy would be even more lively and pleasurable than it was already. And he had many eligible young men in his retinue whom he might bring with him. Not that Anne was in any hurry to be wed—she was too busy enjoying herself—but she did love the innocent flirtations that were now so much a part of her life.
She had no wish to end up like Etiennette, whose father had arranged for her to marry a rich old man of sixty-two. Anne had heard Etiennette weeping at night; she had listened to her fruitless protests to the Regent, who had looked sad, but said that she could not override the will of a father. Anne had watched a tearful Etiennette take up quill and paper and write to King Henry, reminding him of his promise to give her a dowry. She had witnessed the girl droop with disappointment as the weeks passed and no reply came.
There was much talk of weddings in the air. The Archduke Charles was now fourteen, and of an age to be married. For six years he had been betrothed to King Henry’s sister Mary, who was said to be a great beauty. Much joy she will have of him, Anne thought. He looked as happy as if they had been planning his funeral. But he, like Etiennette, had no choice in the matter. His bride would soon be crossing the sea, as sure as doom, and he must do his duty. God pity the poor princess who must endure such a husband.
—