I liked to talk with her and really it was great condescension on her part to notice me. She made me read with her and insisted on correcting a slightly imperfect accent. She insisted that I learn to do very fine embroidery and petit point, which I quite enjoyed. She was very gentle and I could not help being fond of her.

But she was not as interesting as François's sister. There was a woman who amazed me. She was very beautiful and extremely well educated. She was noted for her cleverness; she wrote verses and was interested in every new idea which was presented to her. I saw her often with her brother, their arms entwined. In fact, one would have thought she was his wife. They loved each other with a fierce passion. The Queen told me that if anyone said a word against François Marguerite would be ready to slay that person. “Of course,” she added, “no one ever does say a word against François…except the King, and even Marguerite could not slay him. The King is really worried about François. Not so much now but he thinks of what will happen after he has gone. You know how the King cares for the people. He does not want them to be subjected to taxation and hardship, nor to be involved in wars. I heard him say to one of his ministers the other day, ‘We are laboring in vain, the Big Boy will spoil everything when I am gone.’ The Big Boy, of course, is François. Marguerite did not hear that or she would have stormed into the royal chamber to castigate the King.”

Marguerite had noticed me even as Claude had.

She said: “You are young to be in a foreign Court,” just as Claude had. She questioned me and she must have been pleased with my answers for she gave me a book to read.

I read it avidly and when I returned it she questioned me about it. I felt gratified because I could see that I had impressed her with my intelligence.

She was twenty-two years old at the time—two years older than François. At the age of seventeen she had been married to the Duc d'Alençon; but it was clear to everyone that her feelings for him fell far short of those she cherished for her brother. Everyone paid homage to her—not only because of her wit, learning and beauty but because she was the sister of the man they expected shortly to be King and when he was in that supreme position, she would be his chief adviser; in fact, she would rule beside him.

The other who aroused my interest was Louise of Savoy. She had always ignored me; in fact, I do not think she was even aware of my existence. She was a very grand lady, very much aware of her royal connections. She had married Charles, the son of Jean d'Angoulême whose grandfather had been Charles V—hence François's claim to the throne.

Louise doted on François with the same idolatry which was bestowed on him by Marguerite. Mother, daughter and son were irreverently referred to as “the Holy Trinity.” And thus it was. From the date of François's birth Louise had been hoping for him to ascend the throne. It was said that she had refused all offers of marriage after she became a widow, because she wanted to give her entire attention to her son.

When he was a little boy, the possibility of his ascending the throne must have been remote and it would have seemed to Louise like a miracle when King Charles VIII, on his way to watch a game of tennis with his Queen Anne, had struck his head against a stone archway and died as a result. Consequently Louis d'Orléans became Louis XII and Louis was at that time married to crippled Jeanne who had no hope of bearing a child. That was why he had decided to rid himself of her and had done so with the help of the Borgia Pope; and then he married the late King's widow, Anne of Brittany.

Having seen what I had of Louise of Savoy, I could imagine her rejoicing. She was the sort of woman who would let nothing stand in the way of ambition and that ambition was for her son, her Caesar, as she called him. To her he was perfect; all his rash acts, his daring exploits, his love affairs, his infidelity to his wife, they were all regarded with indulgence by the devoted mother and sister. It was indeed a trinity—if not a holy one.

I was amused—and I knew the Queen was, too—to see the anxiety of this haughty lady now that the King had married a young wife; and so deeply were her hopes and ambitions involved that she could not hide her feelings.

The Queen said to me: “She fears I may be pregnant. Oh, what if I were! What if I bore the King's son? What of François's hopes then? I think it would kill his mother.”

“Is it…?” I was rash enough to begin.

She looked at me and taking my cheek between her finger and thumb pinched it hard.

“You must not take liberties, little Boleyn. Just because I show you favor.”

I cast down my eyes; and it occurred to me that it was not easy to tread safely when dealing with royalty.

But I was completely enthralled by life at Court and what I dreaded most was to be sent away.

The Queen was growing restive. December had come and, although the King often looked fatigued, he still attended the masques and entertainments which Marguerite and François devised. I believed that they, like the Queen, were anxious to tire him out.

Poor man, I thought. In a way it is a gentle sort of murder. How dreadful that people should want to be rid of you so much that they are prepared to kill you…even gently. But what goals these people had! For the Trinity there was the crown; for the Queen there was Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk.

I wondered if Louis knew. He was a very astute man, so it might have occurred to him.

I think he was longing for the Queen to be pregnant so that he could foil François's hopes. If what I heard was true, he was apprehensive about leaving the crown to François. He was a good king who cared about his country. I wished that I knew more about French history. I did know that there had been a hundred years’ war which the English had lost and that one of the Charleses—Charles VII, I believe—had been crowned because of the success of Joan of Arc who had been burned as a witch. But it was the present in which everyone was interested now and it seemed as eventful as anything that had gone before.

As the weeks passed the tension seemed to be rising. The Queen was aware of it and did all she could to intensify it. She liked to tease. I had quickly realized that. I had seen her when in the presence of the Duchess Louise, being aware of how closely the older woman watched her, giving some little sign which might mean that she was enceinte.

She used to laugh about it. “Well, why not?” she said. “Let us give the lady some excitement. Did you see her eyes on me? She would like to bore through me. Is she? Is she not? I can see the question in her eyes. And if she is… mon dieu, mon François …my god, my Caesar… deprived of the crown. The good God cannot be so cruel. What a king he will make! And that poor, feeble old man struggles on when there is my incomparable François…”

She gave a good imitation of the Duchess which made me laugh.

I think she was beginning to feel that we were reaching some climax, for she talked more frankly now. Charles! It was always Charles. I would not have thought such a mercurial creature could have been so faithful, so single-minded. But however much she flitted from one enthusiasm to another, she was always true to Charles.

“I would be happier in a little house… right away from everyone…if Charles were in it with me,” she told me wistfully. “These fine clothes, these jewels… this flattery… this homage…I would give it all for a quiet life with Charles.”

I was not sure that I believed her. She seemed to have been born for her position, just as her brother seemed to be for his.

She was talking more and more of Charles. I would brush her hair and she would close her eyes. I heard her murmur once: “How much longer?”

I almost said: It is only eight weeks since we came, Madame. But I had learned my lesson. It was unwise for me to comment; and at times she was really talking to herself.

Sometimes she seemed depressed and then she would talk of Charles to me, how he had first come to Court with little hope of promotion save for one thing.

“His father was the standard-bearer to my father at the battle of Bosworth Field. His father died defending mine. We Tudors remember our friends… and our enemies. When my father was declared the rightful King and the usurper Richard was dead, he remembered the faithful standard-bearer and sent a message to his widow to tell her that if his son came to Court there would be a place for him. And that was how Charles came to Court. He was put into the house of the Duke of York. Perhaps he would have preferred to be in that of the Prince of Wales. But fate works strangely, does it not? For the Prince of Wales married Katharine of Aragon and very soon he was dead and his brother, Henry, Duke of York, became Henry, Prince of Wales…and now he is the King instead of going into the Church as they intended him to. Every time I think of Henry as a Cardinal, I want to laugh. Well, it was the crown for him, and much more suitable, too. And Katharine did not lose by it. She was Arthur's widow but now she is Henry's wife. So you see, Charles was in the right place after all.”

She was silent for a while, musing.

“They are alike. So tall… both of them … my brother and the man I love. I love them both, of course. Henry is very dear to me but there is no one like Charles. Charles is six years older than my brother…so my love is not a silly, beardless boy.”

“He is indeed a man,” I said, feeling the need to say something.

“Such a man! There was never one like him. At Court he learned to joust and ride and fence… and being Charles he could do it all better than anyone else. He and my brother became the closest friends. They are so like each other. They might be brothers…so tall, so fair… both of them, and excelling in all sport. You cannot be surprised that I love him.”