Anne Boleyn, a King's Obsession

They were at La Veure, an exquisite turreted palace surrounded by a lake and a vast hunting park, enjoying the summer sunshine and embroidering Etiennette’s beautiful silk wedding gown, when the blow fell.

For some weeks Anne had been hearing talk of a rift between King Henry and his allies, the Emperor and King Ferdinand. She had given it little thought, being more preoccupied with refurbishing her clothes in the latest French style, or discussing love and art with her mistress, or learning the latest dance steps and polishing her French, in which she was now almost fluent.

It did not dawn on her until afterward that preparations for the Archduke’s wedding had come to a standstill. She only realized that something was amiss when Isabeau asked the Regent if the Archduke and his wife would be having their own establishment.

“The Princess is not to come here after all,” Margaret of Austria said, her cheerful face suddenly clouding. “King Henry has broken her betrothal.”

Two dozen needles were stilled or suspended in midair as the ladies and filles d’honneur looked up in surprise.

“Apparently His Grace of England feels that his allies have not kept faith with him, but have betrayed him by making peace with the French. He is to make a new treaty with King Louis.”

Anne resumed her stitching. This had little to do with her. She hoped the Regent would not think badly of her for being the subject of a king who had suddenly become unfriendly to the Emperor her father.

Thankfully Margaret continued to treat her with the same affection and kindness she had always shown her. Despite the difference in their ranks and ages, they had become friends; it was a friendship that Anne prized above almost everything else.

But then came the day when the Regent sent for Anne to attend her in the little gallery overlooking the lake. She had a letter in her hand.

“Mademoiselle Anne, I have heard from your father. He has sent two gentlemen to escort you home to England.”

Home to England? It could not be true!

“No, madame!” Anne cried, horrified. Surely the Regent could make Father understand that her place was here, at her court. But Margaret was raising a hand to silence her.

“Let me finish,” she reproved gently. “Your father has found a new place for you. The Princess Mary is to marry King Louis. Yes, I see you are as shocked as I am. Another young girl being tied to an old husband. Ah, but it is the way of the world, la petite Boleyn! And for compensation, the delightful Mary will be Queen of France. You and your sister are to serve her. She has asked for you both, and naturally your father could not refuse. As for me, I will be deeply sad to lose you. But I think you have benefited from your time here, and been happy. Your French is now excellent, and you have a certain polish about you. Your father will be pleased, I know. It is what he sent you to me for. Now all he desires is that you conduct yourself worthily when you go to the French court, and I have no doubt that you will do that very well.”

It was too much to comprehend at once. All Anne could think of was that she was to leave this brilliant court and the mistress she loved. She knew nothing of the Princess Mary, and had no desire to go to France.

The Regent was regarding her with sympathy.

“I had to leave my homeland three times,” she said. “I was sent to France, to Spain, and then to Savoy. The French court is magnificent. It is famed for its art and its culture. You will like it, I promise you. This is an excellent opportunity for you, being given the chance to serve the Queen of France. Do not despise it. And who knows, maybe one day we will meet again, ma petite.” There were tears in the Regent’s eyes now; it was obvious that she was putting on a brave face to enable Anne to do as she was bid.

“So, I will write to your father,” she continued briskly, “and tell him that his request is granted. Now go and make ready. And you also can send him a letter, telling him how pleased you are at your good fortune.”

Anne dragged her footsteps as she made her way back to the dorter. Everything in her path reminded her that she would soon be leaving the glories and familiar sights of this beautiful palace. Worst of all, she would be cut off from the Regent. She wanted to weep and rage at her father. She did not believe that the Princess Mary would have asked for her; why should she ask for someone she had never met? No, Father had boasted of her—and her sister Mary, although Heaven knew why—and the Princess had been persuaded to appoint them maids of honor.

The dorter was, mercifully, empty, so she threw herself headlong on her bed and gave herself up to a torrent of tears. Later, when she had cried herself out and washed her face, she wrote, with gritted teeth, to Father. It was hard to be civil to him when he had ruined her life. All she could think of was the inevitable parting from the Regent. How hard it would be not to give way to weeping and to conduct herself as courtesy demanded.

But when the time came to leave, it was Margaret of Austria who wept and could not bear to release Anne from her embrace.





1515


Anne finally arrived in Paris on a cold day at the beginning of January, weeks later than planned. The delay had been frustrating—she had arrived back at Hever after an arduous journey to find, to her chagrin, that Mary had long departed for the court—but it had been necessary, for Anne’s budding figure was beginning to outgrow her fine court gowns, and Mother had decided that some should be altered and some replaced, summoning the tailor and setting Mrs. Orchard to work to ensure that her daughter was fittingly attired to serve the Queen of France.

The preparation of her new wardrobe had delayed Anne for a month, and then the bad weather had set in, with storms rendering the English Channel impassable, so she was forced to remain at Hever for Christmas, missing Burgundy, and angry and resentful because her sister was enjoying herself at the French court, having been dispatched from home in time to attend the new Queen Mary’s proxy marriage ceremony at Greenwich, her wedding to King Louis at Abbeville, and her triumphant entry into Paris.

She missed George. She hadn’t seen him or Father, for Sir Thomas had taken George to court for the festivities, in the hope that the King would make the boy one of his pages. And though her older brothers came home for the festive season, back from Penshurst and Oxford, they inhabited worlds too far removed from hers to offer any comfort.

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