When St. Michael arrived, it was treated with a respect which bordered on idolatry. François had the picture hung in his grandest gallery. It was hidden by a rich velvet curtain and only those who, in François's opinion, could appreciate great art were invited to the unveiling.

“It is sacrilege,” said François, “to display great art to those who do not understand it.”

So it was a great privilege to be at the ceremony.

Marguerite sent for me. Eagerly I went to her. I had lost my awe of her and enjoyed these occasions when I would be seated on a stool close to her and listen to her reading poetry, often her own. She had discovered in me a love of the artistic. I had always been interested in clothes and I was allowed to design my own, which I did in a humble way; I invented a special sleeve which hung over my hand to hide the sixth nail.

Marguerite had admired them and when she knew the reason why, she admired them still more. She had decided that I was worthy to attend the unveiling; and so I was present on that great occasion.

It was thrilling when the curtains were drawn aside and the masterpiece revealed.

Afterward François came to his sister and I heard him say: “Who is your little guest?”

“Anne Boleyn,” she told him.

“A protégée of yours?”

“An interesting child.”

He surveyed me and I cast down my eyes. He took my chin in his hand and turned my face up to his. He stroked my cheek gently.

“Charming,” he said. His smile frightened me a little. Marguerite saw this and laid a hand on my shoulder, drawing me away from him. His smiles were then all for her.

“Her sister has now joined her,” said Marguerite. “Anne has been with us for some time.”

He nodded and seemed to forget me. I was glad of that.

It was soon after that that I became a little anxious.

Mary began to be absent for long stretches of time. There was a change in her. I often saw her smiling to herself as though she found something very amusing.

When I asked her what was happening, she giggled a little. I realized suddenly that others were whispering about her.

One day I said to her: “Mary, what has happened? I know it is something.”

“Happened?” She opened her blue eyes very wide and I could see the laughter behind them. It was a certain gratified laughter.

“Please tell me,” I said. “You seemed very pleased about it. Let me share your pleasure.”

That sent her into fits of laughter.

“You are too young,” she said.

Then, knowing the morals of the Court, I feared the worst. Mary was twelve years old… soon to be thirteen. Girls were often married at that age.

I said: “You have taken a lover.”

“Rather,” she corrected me, “he has taken me.”

“Oh Mary,” I replied, “it will do you no good.”

“But it will. Wait until you know who.”

“Please tell me who.”

“Guess.”

“No, I can't. Tell me.”

“You'll never believe it.”

“I will if you tell me.”

“The King.”

“François?”

“I know of no other King in France.”

“Oh Mary…you fool !”

Mary tried to be angry; it was not easy for her. She was astonished at my stupidity, in not understanding the honor—as she thought—this was. She seemed to think she had gained the greatest possible prize because she had been seduced by the most profligate man in France.

“He is delighted with me.”

“For how long?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you know that he seduces girls as frequently as he sits down to meals?”

“He likes me a great deal. He calls me his little English mare.”

I felt sick with shame. I thought of elegant, witty Françoise de Foix and the other Court ladies who had enchanted him briefly. How long did Mary think she would last?

I said: “You have disgraced the name of Boleyn.”

Then I almost laughed at myself. Who were the Boleyns? Descendants of merchants who had done good trade and married into the aristocracy. But however humble the family, it should keep its honor.

Even now I would rather not dwell on that time. My sister Mary was one of those women—and this quality always remained with her—whose main purpose in life seemed to be to satisfy her sexual desires and those of her partners. I did not know whether she was a virgin when François discovered this…I call it a failing…in her, but he was the kind of man who would be aware of it at once and seek to exploit it.

Mary must have been born with a sexual competence; she would know how to attract and how to satisfy. This was the purpose of her life, I suppose, her raison d’ê tre. It had been present in those early days, only I had not recognized it. Perhaps Mary herself had not.

She amused François for several weeks, which was longer than I expected. Everyone was talking about his new mistress, a girl…very young… but not too young. How long? was the question on everyone's lips.

It was not very long. His ardor waned very quickly, and Mary's visits to the royal bed grew less frequent. This was not to be tolerated by Mary's overwhelming sexuality, and very soon there was a new lover, who no doubt felt himself honored to take that which had delighted the King.

Mary was reckless. She accepted the loss of royal favor with equanimity. There were others—plenty of them.

There was nothing subtle about Mary. She enjoyed her sexual encounters as did those who shared them with her; and in her opinion that should not be the concern of anyone else.

Perhaps it would not have been, if the first to take her up had not been the King.

She was now referred to not as the King's mare but the mare anyone could ride at any time it suited him. This was a very willing little English mare.

Marguerite understood my shame.

“Your sister is a foolish girl,” she said. “She does not understand our ways as you do.”

“I have remonstrated with her,” I replied.

This made Marguerite smile. “Oh, poor little sister. You are so much wiser than she. You will learn from her mistakes. You would never act as she has, I know.”

“Never,” I said fervently.

“Your sister, as I said, does not understand us. She is not exactly wanton. She is innocent, which sounds strange in one who leads such a life. She is like a child who takes too much of what seems to her so good, and does not think of the effects it is having. There are others like her. Do not think she is unique. But where is her discretion? they are asking. How many have ridden the King's mare? Poor child. That is detrimental to her. The King cannot have the morals of his Court so corrupted.”

I looked at her in astonishment and she laughed.

“It is not that she has taken many lovers that is so disastrous; it is her manner of doing so. She blatantly enjoys it. It is almost as though her actions have become a public spectacle. People talk of her ribaldly. That, my brother will not endure. He declares he honors all women and will not have our sex humiliated… and that is what your sister is doing.”

I was bewildered and as always in our encounters Marguerite wanted me to explain my thoughts.

I said: “But it was the King himself who seduced her. He it was who called her his mare.”

“He did all this discreetly. It was only natural that she would find him irresistible and that in time he should have tired of her. Then she could have taken another lover… discreetly. In time the King might have found a husband for her. That often happens in such cases. But Mary could not wait. She must dash into the next available bed. She should have bargained.”

“That seems worse.”

“It is…in a way… but it is etiquette and let me tell you this, Anne, my dear child: it is not what is done in my brother's Court which is important, but the manner in which it is done.”

“But Mary would never barter. She would give.”

“That is true. But to give too freely is not good manners. It is humiliating our sex. You are puzzled, as well you might be. But this is how things are at my brother's Court.”

“Mary is young… she is simple really.”

“Ah, there you have it. She is too simple to be acceptable at the Court of France.”

“What will happen to her?”

“She is to be sent back to England.”

“Sent back in disgrace!”

“Her presence is no longer required at the Court of France.”

I covered my face with my hands. “And I?” I asked.

“My dear child, you are not responsible for your sister. Why, you are even younger than she is. I have grown fond of you. You interest me. My brother has noticed you, too.” She looked at me steadily. “You will always remember your sister and never, never make the mistakes that she has.”

I nodded.

“We wish you to stay at our Court. I am sure your father will agree to that—though your sister must go.”

So Mary went.

My father was horrified that she should be sent home—and for such a reason. I heard later from her that she was made very unhappy for a while. But she had had such an exciting time at the Court of France that she would remember it forever.

My father had married again and Mary was not welcome in the household. She was in disgrace.

But Mary's nature was not to be sad for long, and a year after her banishment I heard that she was married; her husband was a William Carey—a nobleman but poor; he came of a good family from the West Country—not the sort of match my father had anticipated for his daughter. It must have seemed to him that all his efforts on Mary's behalf had been wasted. But Mary was happy; she would always be happy; and perhaps if she were married to a man who pleased her—and she would not look for great riches—she would be contented.

Mary's experiences had a great effect on me—one which I should never forget. I did not know what plans my father had for me, but I guessed there would be plans. I was the only daughter left to keep up the Boleyn tradition of advantageous marriages.

And I was growing up.

I felt I wanted to hold back time. I wanted to go on living in this most elegant Court. I wanted to serve Queen Claude in the cloistered atmosphere of her apartments from which I could escape now and then to the stimulating society of Marguerite d'Alençon. I wanted my girlhood to go on and on.

Never, never must I follow in Mary's humiliating path. Remember it, always, I told myself.

One does not always realize at the time what effect historical events have upon our lives.

In the year 1520 I was thirteen years old, getting dangerously near the time when I should be considered marriageable. It was something I refused to think about.

Momentous events were afoot. The Emperor Maximilian, who had been one of the leading figures in European politics for so long, died. François immediately announced to his rival, Charles of Austria, who was now King of Spain, his claim to the vacant suzerainty. There was a great deal of discussion in Marguerite's circle about this. I heard it mentioned that the King of England believed he also had a claim.

The choice rested with a council of German Princes and Archbishops besides the Duke of Saxony, the Margrave of Brandenburg, the King of Bohemia and the Court Palatine of the Rhine. They were the only ones who could make the choice. Their verdict was a blow to François. He had thought he had a chance, though not an overwhelming one. Charles of Austria and Spain was elected and so became known as the Emperor Charles.

The result of this was to draw the disappointed candidates—France and England—together and it was arranged that a meeting should take place between them.

Much discussion went on between the two countries. Each was determined to show its power and glory to the other. So there was to be this meeting between the two Kings; if I were present with the Court, it would be the second time I had seen the King of England and I was excited at the prospect.

The matter was often discussed in Marguerite's circle, of which I was happy now to be a member. Queen Claude put no obstacles in my way; she thought it an excellent opportunity for me to be received in such intellectual company, which I could not enjoy with her.

I was naturally interested in comments on England. They spoke quite frankly in front of me. I think they had forgotten I was English—so French had I become.

Marguerite used to laugh about King Henry's vanity. We heard many stories about him because ambassadors were constantly coming back to the Court of France after having been to that of England and they liked to gossip. Marguerite encouraged this. We knew that the King of England had a tendency to play boyish games, that he liked appearing at masques in disguise, although it was never difficult to see through those disguises, for he could always be recognized by his height and reddish hair. He took a boyish delight in being treated familiarly and then suddenly revealing himself with: “I am your King.”