I had heard from these visitors from time to time about the wars in which we were engaged. We were now allies of the Pope and the Emperor. My father's reward from the latter had been due to his services in helping to strengthen the bond between him and King Henry.

I often thought of that time at Ardres and Guines when the two Kings had so falsely made their pact of friendship… the jousting, the wrestling… all the pomp and show. What a pitiful waste it had been! How much better it might have been if the money had been spent for the good of their countries instead of bolstering up the arrogance and egoism of the sovereigns.

And now they were enemies.

So I was always interested when my father's friends came with news of what was happening.

We were seated at supper, I remember, in the great hall, and my step-mother was flushed with her efforts to provide my father's friends with a meal worthy of his state. As we talked, I could see that her eyes were on the serving men and women, and I guessed that her thoughts were in the kitchen.

And then came the news. “The King of France is now the Emperor's prisoner.”

“King François!” I cried.

“Exactly, Mistress Anne. He was deserted by the Constable de Bourbon. The papal troops had driven the French out of Italy, and our soldiers, with those of the Emperor, were invading the north of France. The King of France had put up a good fight on all fronts on which he was being attacked and for a while had some success. But in February the Emperor's troops completely routed the French at Pavia and the result is that François is the Emperor's prisoner. He is kept in Madrid.”

I felt very sad when I thought of him …his gallantry, his wit, his love of beauty, his self-assurance. A prisoner! Surely not François! “He will have to give up a good many of his conquests, I doubt not,” I said.

Then I wanted to hear more about the situation. In a way, I regarded France as partly my country since I had been brought up there. These people were not just names to me. I wondered what Louise was feeling now that her Caesar was the Emperor's prisoner; but most of all I was sorry for Marguerite. She would be beside herself with grief.

Later I heard that he had become very ill in his prison and would have died but for the fact that Marguerite had gone to Spain to nurse him. There was something very beautiful about the bond between those two, although people tried to besmirch it and accuse them of incest. I had never believed that. I could understand relationships that did not have a physical nature. Many people could not. I think they were apt to judge what their conduct would be in certain situations and imagine that others would act in exactly the same manner.

I thought about François and Marguerite a great deal and tried to get news of them. But soon after this my own life began to change, and my thoughts were all of my own affairs.

My father came to Hever. He seemed a little more interested in me and was quite affable. Prosperity suited him. Viscount Rochford was even more pleased with life than Sir Thomas Boleyn had been.

He said to me: “We cannot have you living like a country wench forever.”

I thought: Now it is coming. I shall be presented with some country gentleman and must be ready to listen to his virtues and how he would make an adequate husband for one who cannot expect better, having disgraced herself at Court.

But this was not so.

“It is possible,” he said, “that I might find a place for you in the Queen's household.”

Great excitement possessed me. I should be there. Thomas would be there. George would be there. Mary, too… and my father.

So I was to go. My sins were forgotten. I was no longer the outcast.

The Pursuit Begins

I WAS NINETEEN in that year of 1526 when I returned to Court. I had gleaned some wisdom from my years of exile. I was no longer the guileless girl who had fallen in love with Henry Percy and believed in the easy road to happiness. I was hardened by experience, and I made up my mind never to be hurt like that again.

I should be guilty of false modesty if I denied that my coming to Court created a sensation. From the first moment I appeared, I was noticed. I had a natural flair for dress, and my apprenticeship at the Court of France had enhanced this, for while my gowns called immediate attention to me, there was nothing flamboyant about them. It was the style—and the manner in which I wore them. I favored the long hanging sleeves—which became known as the Boleyn Sleeves—not out of choice but because they hid that sixth nail. I wore a band of velvet about my neck on which was set a small diamond; this hid the mole which had caused me so much distress. It was not long before the fashion was for long hanging sleeves and a band about the neck, but no one else achieved quite the same effect. I had designed these sleeves for myself and they were mine alone. They never looked quite the same on anyone else. Moreover, those who favored the neckband forgot that I had a longer and more slender neck than is usual, and the band was most becoming to this. For some reason, though they copied me, they never looked quite like me.

Having been banished from the Court, I felt especial gratification in the effect I had created. George and Thomas Wyatt were constantly at my side. But there were others… mostly men, among them Henry Norris, a very attractive man and a great favorite of the King, who had given him honors, as he was accustomed to do with those whom he especially liked. He was married to Mary Fiennes, the daughter of Lord Dacre, and had one son; but his wife was not at Court and it seemed to be a not very happy marriage, for Sir Henry showed little regret for her absence.

Another in our group was young Francis Weston. He had just been made a page and was a great favorite of the King because he excelled at all games. He was the King's tennis partner and they played bowls and dice together. The King was always good humored when he lost to Weston, and it was said that the boy added greatly to his income through his winnings at games.

Francis used to gaze at me with frank admiration, and I had to admit that I liked that.

It was really very gratifying after being so despised and banished to be received back in this manner. Thomas Wyatt had professed his love for me; Norris's eloquent looks betrayed his feelings for me, and with the youthful devotion of Francis Weston I felt very cherished.

There was always some sort of masque going on at Court, and I, with our little group, was usually at the center of it. Tom Wyatt was by far the best of the poets, though my brother was quite a good versifier, and Norris was inventive in devising scenes and situations. Since we had been together, the entertainments had become more classical; we introduced themes from the Greeks and moved away from that type which the King had so loved— such as a party of travelers arriving from the East, or somewhere exotic—in splendid costumes and dancing among the company until their identity was betrayed and the tall one turned out to be the King. At first we had thought he might not approve but there was a side to him which loved literature and good music and he had a keen mind so that he could follow allusions; consequently our little pieces became favorites of his.

Mary was a little rueful. She was very frank with me. She told me that she thought the King was no longer interested in her. Her reign had been long but now it appeared to be over.

“Are there any rewards for long service?” I asked.

“I never wanted rewards, Anne,” she replied seriously.

“No. I expect that is why you lasted so long.”

“You are so cynical now. What makes you so, sister?”

“Long experience of life.”

“You have always been rather bitter about me… and the King.”

I turned to her and said: “I hate to see us humiliated. Why should we be picked up and dropped… just as it suits them? We should stand out against it. That is what I feel. And you, Mary, have pandered to it. You have demeaned not only yourself but our sex.”

“I never heard such talk.”

“I don't suppose you have. You have been honored because your partner in adultery was the King. Suppose it had been one of the stablemen, what then?”

“Anne!”

“The principle is the same. Cannot you see that?”

She shook her head. “In any case,” she said, “it is all over now.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded. “He is brooding… absent-minded. The last time I saw him he was simply not aware of me. I was dismissed before I had had a few words with him. I think there is someone else.’

“Who is she?”

“I don't know.”

“We soon shall, I suppose,” I said. “These matters have a way of forcing themselves on the public notice. Everyone knew of you, in spite of all the discretion.”

“Yes. It cannot be hidden long.”

“You don't look brokenhearted.”

“Oh…I'm sorry. It was great fun… but I always knew it would end at some time… and Will is so patient.”

“As becomes a complaisant husband.”

“You shouldn't be scornful of me. Our father has not done too badly. George either.”

“No. There is that. Our father can say, ‘Well done, thou good and faithful daughter.’ I'm sorry, Mary, but I cannot like it.”

I marveled at her. She had that kind of temperament which would enable her to sail comfortably through life. She saw no evil, thought no evil, said no evil… therefore for her, there was no evil. It was the way to live. Perhaps I should have learned from Mary.

I often thought about the Queen. I had noticed a change in her on my return. She had aged considerably. She must long ago have accepted the fact that she could not keep up with her husband. She turned a blind eye on his amorous adventures, just as Claude had with François. But she had not had to face that blatant infidelity as Claude had. At least Henry was, in a manner, discreet; and it was easy for the Queen to make a pretense of not knowing about his amours, whereas it would have been farcical for Claude to have done so.