Anne found the sea voyage exhilarating; she stood on the deck, bracing herself against the brisk spring breeze and the choppiness of the waves, and watched the chalk cliffs of Dover receding into the distance. She kept thinking of Father’s last proud embrace, Mother’s tearful kiss, Mary not bothering to hide her jealousy, and George—bless him—struggling not to cry. She had almost cried herself, knowing that she would miss them all, especially Mother and George. She allowed herself a brief moment of sadness, then turned resolutely to Sir John Broughton, a knight of Westmorland with whom her father had become acquainted at court. Sir John was traveling to Bruges on business, and had offered to extend his journey so that he could escort her to Mechlin. He was about thirty, fresh-faced, with curly red hair and a broad northern accent.
“I am honored to have charge of such a charming young lady,” he had said, bowing, then he’d helped Anne and Mrs. Orchard to mount their horses, given instructions to the grooms responsible for the wagon bearing their luggage, and led them over the drawbridge and away to the south. Throughout the journey to the coast he had been the epitome of courtesy and good company, selecting the best inns at which to lodge overnight, demanding the choicest food, and entertaining the two ladies with witty stories. The weather had been fine and they had made excellent progress. At Dover, Sir John had commandeered good cabins for Anne and Mrs. Orchard in the ship that was to take them across the English Channel, and he had accompanied them whenever they took the air on deck.
From her father and Sir John, Anne had learned a great deal about the lady she was soon to serve. Margaret of Austria was the only daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian—a wily old fox if ever there was one, her father had said—by his late wife Mary, the Duchess of Burgundy. It was through their marriage that the Burgundian Netherlands had come to the House of Habsburg. Margaret had once had a brother, the Archduke Philip, a young man of such beauty that he had been known as Philip the Handsome.
“He married the Queen of Castile, but he died young, and Queen Juana, who had loved him fiercely, went mad with grief and was deemed unfit to rule,” Sir John explained as they sat at dinner at the captain’s table in his oak-paneled dining room in the sterncastle. “Her father, King Ferdinand of Aragon, took over the government of Castile in her name, and the Emperor appointed the Archduchess Margaret, Duchess of Savoy, as his regent in Burgundy and the Netherlands, in Philip’s place, and entrusted her with the upbringing of Juana’s children, including her heir, the Infante Charles of Spain, although in Burgundy they call him the Archduke. You will meet them soon, I’m sure.”
“What happened to Queen Juana?” Anne asked, her curiosity piqued by this sad tale.
Sir John frowned. “There are many tales about her. It is said that she refused to give up her husband’s body for burial, dragging it around Spain with her for months and ordering her servants to open the coffin so that she could gaze on the corpse and kiss and embrace it. In the end they forced her to relinquish it so that it could be interred, and she was sent to a convent to be cared for by the nuns.”
Anne shuddered. You would have to be mad to do such horrible things. They were the stuff of nightmares.
“I feel sorry for her children,” she said, sipping her wine. “Do you think she will ever get better?”
Sir John frowned again. “There are reports that she is not even ill, but was shunted aside so that her father could seize power in Castile. With Juana shut away and her son only thirteen, there is no one else to rule that kingdom.”
“But that’s dreadful!” Anne cried. “If she is not mad, then she should be restored to her throne. Surely her own father would not treat her so terribly.”
“When kingdoms are at stake, Mistress Anne, human feelings count for nothing,” Sir John observed. “But Queen Juana might well be mad, as most people think.”
“God send that she is,” Anne said. “It is better for her not to be aware that she has lost her husband, her children, and her crown.”
“She is still queen. When he is of age, her son will become joint monarch with her.”
“How I pity her.” Anne laid down her knife and rose to her feet. She did not want to hear any more about tragic Queen Juana or the ruthlessness of kings.
—
Thanks to the frisky wind, the crossing passed quickly, and soon they were sailing along the Zwin Channel to Bruges. Anne was agog to see the bustling city with its wondrous churches, its soaring belfry in the vast market square, its pretty canals and tall red-brick houses, so unlike the timbered thatched cottages of England. In the busy streets, well-dressed merchants jostled with foreigners of all nations, and there was a general air of prosperity. She was surprised when Sir John told her that Bruges was a dying port.
“The Zwin Channel is silting up. Soon this prosperity will dwindle.”
She stared at him. “What will happen to these people?”
“They are resourceful. They will find a way to preserve their valuable trading links, especially with England. And Bruges is famous for its art—there are many great painters working here. Did you know that William Caxton published the first printed book in this city?”
“Did he?” There were several books from Caxton’s London press at Hever; she had read them all. Not so long ago, Father Davy had told her, all books had been written by hand. It was a marvelous age she lived in, she thought.
Anne would have loved to linger in Bruges, but Sir John quickly completed his business and said they must press on to Ghent. They traveled on horseback across flat country that seemed strange after the sweeping hills of the Weald of Kent and was crisscrossed by canals and dikes and avenues of tall trees. After Ghent they turned eastward, and before long they could see a tall tower in the distance.
“That’s Mechlin,” Sir John said. “The capital of Burgundy. And that tower belongs to St. Rumbold’s Cathedral. You can see it for miles.”
Anne felt a thrill of anticipation. As they drew nearer to the city, myriad spires came into view around the great church, and clusters of red roofs. They were nearly there. In a matter of hours, please God, she would be making her debut at the court of Burgundy and being presented to the Regent.
“I’ll be glad of a rest,” Mrs. Orchard sighed. “We’ve been in the saddle for days, it seems, and now you and I have to go all the way back, Sir John. I hope we find a decent inn tonight, and that Anne gets a fine lodging.” Anne eyed her impatiently. Who wanted to rest when one could be plunging into the pleasures of court life? But then Mrs. Orchard was old—she must be at least thirty—and there was gray in her brown hair.
“The Regent is famous for keeping a good house,” Sir John told them. “You will be well accommodated, Mistress Anne. And you will quickly master French here. It is the language of this court.”
When they had skirted the walls and ridden through the massive gateway of the Winketpoort, Anne saw that Mechlin was much like the other Netherlandish cities she had passed through, with its wide market square, tall houses, and magnificent churches. Presently they were clattering along the Korte Maagdenstraat and drawing to a halt before an imposing archway.