Serving Madame Marguerite was never dull. Apart from the sparkling conversations and engrossing debates that took place in her sumptuous suites within the King’s palaces, there was so much else in which to immerse oneself most satisfyingly. Anne came to like her new mistress enormously: she could see the self-doubt beneath the forceful views, and glimpse the emotional woman behind the witty facade. She understood Marguerite’s devotion to her brother, and why people misjudged it. It seemed inconceivable that the Duchesse could feel such adoration for a man whom she admitted would not have lifted a finger to avenge her rape. But Anne knew that she herself would forgive George, if she were in the same position—not that he would ever behave so callously.
She still corresponded often with her brother. He was nineteen and a man now, which was hard to imagine, and hoped for preferment soon. Through Father’s good offices and influence, he would surely get it. Anne missed him still. She wondered if he had changed greatly, but in his letters he sounded the same as ever. She hoped that one day he would visit her in Paris.
She had leisure these days to pursue her love of poetry and literature. Marguerite took pleasure in sharing with her ladies the poems, plays, and racy short stories she wrote, and encouraged them to emulate her. Anne was impressed to learn that she patronized humanist scholars and was a great admirer of Erasmus.
“It is wonderful that he is translating the Scriptures,” the Duchesse marveled. “He sets a brave example. As I have said to you many times, ladies, the Church is greatly in need of reform.”
Anne was listening avidly. If wise and learned women like Marguerite and the Archduchess Margaret held these views, they should be respected.
“The Church is corrupt!” Marguerite declared. “There should be more study of the Bible and a return to the pure doctrines of the early Christians. What we need are evangelicals who will spread the word.”
Anne spoke up. “Madame, a Church that encourages people to buy salvation through the sale of indulgences by greedy priests should be reformed. How can the princes of that Church—aye, and the Pope himself—justify their wealth and magnificence when they are meant to be emulating our Lord, who was a humble carpenter?”
Marguerite smiled at her approvingly. “You speak a great truth, mademoiselle. Together we ladies shall change the world!”
—
In her letters to George, Anne shared her views on reform, and found that he was of the same mind. Maybe more people than she realized were disillusioned with the Church. She wondered if she dared mention it to Father.
He wrote rarely. For over a year he kept Anne waiting for a decision on her marriage. Then, just as she thought she would go mad from not knowing, and was beginning desperately to cast her eye about the court for any young man who might be thought a more suitable match, she received the worst possible news. The Cardinal had told Father that the King was insisting on her marriage taking place. Crushing the letter and throwing it to the floor, Anne erupted in fury against King Henry. How could he justify ruining her future? How dare he treat her as a commodity to be disposed of at his whim?
But England and France were on the brink of war again. Maybe James Butler would cross the Channel to fight and be killed. Perhaps King Henry would be killed, or be so absorbed in the war that he forgot about her marriage. Or maybe she should hurry up and take matters into her own hands, and choose a husband herself. She did not lack for suitors.
She was desperate. As always, she went to consult Marguerite.
“Madame, if you approve a match for me, then surely my father and King Henry must accept it.”
Marguerite shook her head. “Alas, I cannot. You are an English subject, Anne, for all that you are almost one of us. And…I was about to speak to you anyway. Ma chère, I am sorry to tell you that you are to leave us. These regrettable hostilities are escalating. Your father has written most apologetically. Apparently, English subjects living in France have been advised to return home as soon as possible. Your parents do not think it fit for you to stay here any longer.”
This was the second time that England’s politics had forced Anne to leave a place where she had been happy. It was cruel, cruel!
“No, madame!” she protested. “I cannot leave France! I love it here. Please write to my father and tell him you command me to stay. He will listen to you.”
Marguerite regarded her sadly. “I cannot, alas. Staying will place you in a difficult situation. You must leave. I wish it were otherwise, truly.”
There was no point in arguing further. Fighting off tears, Anne went to pack her belongings. She had acquired a lot of clothes during her years at the French court, and there was much to transport home. Father had arranged for her to be escorted back to England by a party of Kentish merchants who were leaving Paris, accompanied by their wives.
“Be strong,” Marguerite said when she bade her farewell. “And be true to yourself.”
Even King Fran?ois came to bid her goodbye. “You have served my wife and my sister well,” he told her. “I am grateful. It seems strange that you are going home, and that this war is dividing friends. I wish you well. Maybe you will return to France someday. You will always be welcome.” She curtseyed. He was the one thing in France she would not miss.
—
After the great palaces of Paris and the Loire, Hever Castle looked very small and very provincial in the weak February sunlight. But there was George, racing across the drawbridge to greet her and swinging her down from her horse.
“Anne!”
“Oh, my dear George! How good it is to see you!” She could not take her eyes off this tall, bearded stranger. Her grown-up brother was an Adonis, beautiful in face, muscular and elegant.
“You are become a Frenchwoman!” he exclaimed, twirling her round and admiring her attire, as Mother emerged through the gatehouse arch.
“Welcome home!” she cried, hugging Anne tightly. “Come in, come in, and have something to eat. You must be tired after your long journey.” She sent grooms and ostlers flying to take care of the baggage cart and the horses, as Mrs. Orchard hurried forward to clasp her former charge to her ample bosom.
It was so strange to be home, after nine years away. Anne realized, hearing English voices all around her, that she now spoke her native tongue with a French accent. The servants, insular Kentish folk, kept staring at her clothes. Of course, they must look exotic to country people used to sober English fashions.
“Your father is at court,” Mother said, leading them into the parlor, which now seemed small and old-fashioned, “but he has sent excellent news. He has secured you a place as a maid of honor in Queen Katherine’s household. You are to go to the court at Greenwich with all speed.”
“That’s wonderful news!” Anne cried.
“And I am sent to escort you,” George said, as they seated themselves at the polished oak table and wine and little cakes were brought. Again she was struck by her brother’s good looks. No wonder the maids were ogling him.
Going to the English court was some compensation for being banished from the French one, even if it was to serve the sad Spanish Queen. The prospect of being rusticated at Hever had appalled her, after those wonderful years in France, which she could hardly bear to think about right now. It would also be good to spend time with George. She felt cheated at having missed out on the years of their separation.