Виктория Холт - The Lady in the Tower

Of course I saw him only from a distance, but I did realize how he doted on his beautiful young Queen. He often looked pale and fatigued; his eyes seemed to have grown more prominent, his neck more swollen. In the evenings at the revelries—which I was sometimes allowed to attend—he looked as though he needed nothing so much as sleep. But the Queen would be there dancing—often with François, laughing and coquetting. I thought it was not very kind; but I knew from those monologues at the dressing table how she yearned for her Charles, and that her one idea was to get to him. I could understand that need in her but it did occur to me that she planned these feasts and revels with the great idea of tiring her husband so that he would be too weary for anything but sleep in the big canopied bed decorated with the fleurs-de-lys… and perhaps to hasten his end.

There were three women at Court who interested me. Perhaps it was because of their connection with François, who himself was the most interesting as well as the most attractive man at Court. These three were François's wife, Claude, his sister, Marguerite d'Alençon, and his mother, Louise of Savoy.

Claude was good and kind. She was like her father in that she tired easily; she was delicate in health and walking exhausted her because of her limp.

She took notice of me because I was so young and she thought that it was wrong for a child of my age to be sent away from her country to live with foreigners. I told her that I was very happy to be here and to serve the Queen.

“Ah, the Queen,” she sighed. “What a beautiful and healthy lady she is!”

There was no malice in her, but she must have hated to see the way in which her husband danced attendance on the Queen. I wondered what she felt like being married to such a man. She accepted her husband's infidelities as a matter of course. She had no doubt been brought up by the excellent Anne of Brittany to do her duty whatever it was, and as the daughter of the reigning King it was her duty to marry the heir presumptive to the throne—and this she had done.

They were hardly ever together; he was usually beside some dazzling beauty. He treated her with courtesy. François's exquisite manners would not have allowed him to do anything else, but at the same time it must have been very hard for her.

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.