I only had to think of that for my anger to rise against my father, and against all men who humiliated women.

So the game was not going to end yet.

“I like not the French,” he said.

“I found so many of them charming.”

“Perfidious… cheats…breakers of promises…,” he muttered.

“Oh, my lord, they could say the same of the English.”

“You are a bold chit,” he said. “Are you not afraid that I might carry your words to the King?”

“I would not care if you did.”

“Do you think he would be pleased to hear your praise of our enemies?”

“I hope he would be wise enough to see these enemies as they really are.”

“I think, Mistress, that you should have a care.”

“We should all have care. But sometimes it is more fun to be a little rash. Do you not agree, my lord?”

He tapped his knees and said: “It may be so.” Then he turned to me and laid a hand on my arm. He gripped it firmly. “I will give you a word of advice. Watch your tongue, sweetheart.”

“Please do not address me so. I am not your sweetheart.”

“If you were,” he retorted, “I would teach you a lesson.”

“If that impossibility should be, I might teach you one.”

He laughed then and moved closer to me, but I shifted my position away from him.

“What do you do here all day?” he asked.

“I read. I sing. I play the lute. I ride. I walk. I write a little. When I was with Madame d'Alençon, I used to read with her. Have you heard of the Decameron, my lord?”

“I have.”

“And not read it, I dareswear.”

“Why should you so dareswear?”

“Because gallants like you spend all their time adorning themselves in their pretty clothes and making love to ladies.”

“You are, forsooth, a saucy wench.”

“I speak as I find.”

“So that was how it was at the French Court?”

“With some.”

“With the King?”

“All know of his amours. There will always be some who think it an honor to be a king's mistress.”

“And you would not be of such an opinion?”

“Indeed, sir, I should not sell my honor so cheaply.”

“Cheaply! I'll swear the ladies in question did not feel their honor had been lost in such case.”

“Why so?”

“You should know it is an honor to be honored by the King.”

“Think you so? I have been led to believe that a woman should save herself for her husband.”

“A lady gains dignity by being favored by the King.”

“Dignity? Worldly goods, do you mean, sir?” I felt angry, thinking of Mary. “A lady's honor is beyond price. I would never demean myself by being anyone's mistress… not even a king's.”

He stood up, glaring at me. He was now angry. I had gone too far. I had been carried away by Mary's humiliation at the Court of France. He was going to forget his designs on my virtue. I had been too sure of myself. After all, most women would be ready to succumb to him at a moment's notice. Who was I to play childish games with this mighty monarch? But it had been hard to suppress my desire to tease him and I was drawn to him a little because in spite of his royal presence there was a certain innocence about him. That love of childish games…it was the pursuit of someone who had not quite grown up. I was beginning to forgive him for his love affair with Mary. After all, Mary was anyone's for the taking. Why should I be so resentful?

“I asked you, my lord, if you had read the Decameron. Have you? Please tell me,” I said quickly.

“I have, and if you were an innocent maid you would not have done so.”

“I have always thought it a mistake to shut one's ears and eyes to what goes on. How does one ever learn anything if one does? The Duchess and I read it together. She herself is writing a similar book. She showed it to me. I was fascinated.” I quoted some of the poetry I had learned from Marguerite.

He listened intently.

I looked sideways at him and said: “This one is set to music. It is a haunting tune.”

I started to sing it. There was a glazed look in his eyes. Music affected him deeply.

He said: “You have a pleasant voice.”

“It needs the lute to help it along.”

“It is good to hear even without it. You must sing for me again.”

“I might…if our paths cross.”

“It might be arranged that they should. Tell me more about this Court for which you have such a high regard. I'll warrant you I can cap your stories with what happens in ours.”

So I described some of the masques, the exquisite dancing and singing, the wit. “The French you know set a great store by wit,” I said. “It has to be light as thistle down and sharp as a rapier. The King of France loves art. Did you know he brought Leonardo da Vinci to France?”

“Filched from the Italians. Aye, and tried for Raphael! That one loved his country well enough to refuse the bribe.”

“Once he said that men can make kings but only God can make an artist.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I do, for it is true, is it not? Have you seen Raphael's St. Michael? There was a ceremony when it arrived in France. The King himself unveiled it. Surely only God can give a talent like that. As for kings…it is certainly men who make them … and unmake them. Think back over history…a battle here…a victory there… and that decides a king and a line of kings.”

Oh, this was dangerous ground! Was he thinking back to Bosworth Field and how easily it might have gone the other way? What of Henry Tudor then?

I was surprising myself. I had been brought up close to the King of France but Henry of England was of a very different caliber. I was foolishly putting myself in danger. My father would be beside himself with fear and fury if he could overhear this conversation. If it had not been for the glint of desire which kept showing itself in the little Tudor eyes I might have been terrified myself. But instinct told me that would save me. I could go a long way before his wrath would be irreconcilable.

He was silent, glowering.

I went on quickly, thinking it advisable to call a halt: “But for a battle we might not have the glorious House of Tudor reigning over us now. What a calamity that would have been!”

He did not hear the touch of irony in my voice. He was happy again. There was indeed a childish element in his nature.

“So,” I said, “I make my point.”

He grunted that that was so, but he had had enough.

“You have been talking to me… singing to me… telling me of yourself, and you have not yet asked my name.”

“Well, I will ask it now.”

“It is Henry.”

“Henry! A good English name. And one you share with a great and illustrious personage.”

He had stood up. I remained seated looking up at him. His eyes were narrowed, his legs astride. Some majesty in him made me rise and in doing so I betrayed myself.

“You know who I am!” he cried.

He was angry now. I had gone too far. He would denounce me. Lèse majesté— the crime for which the French players had been thrown into dungeons. This man, I believed, would be more deadly in defense of his royalty than the King of France.

Feverishly I searched for the answer. It came easily.

I fell to my knees, threw back my hair and lifted my eyes to his face. He was looking at me with a kind of wonder and I thought: It can be all right if I find the right words.

They came: “Your Grace, in your presence who could fail to be aware of who you are?”

He was a little mollified.

“So it was a game, eh? You thought you would play a game with me! Well, let me tell you this: you did not deceive me. I let you go on just to see how far you would go.”

“I trust our little games did not displease Your Grace. I know I need not fear that it did. Your Grace has too fine a sense of the ridiculous…I have heard of it, and how well you like these little masquerades.”

He was rocking on his heels, keeping me kneeling before him. I wondered what punishment he was going to inflict. But the little light of lust was still in his eyes.

I heard voices. People were coming this way. They were very likely looking for him. I said: “I must go. They must not find me here.”

He put out a hand and caught a strand of my hair.

But I was up and away.

I sped out of the garden. I hid myself among the shrubs. A party, led by my father, came into sight. They were obviously looking for the King.

I ran to my room. I looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were sparkling; my cheeks had an unusual faint color; my hair was untidy.

What had I done? What had led me to behave in such a way? I had been in a strange mood. I was so angry about the Butler affair and determined to show the world that I was not, like other girls of noble houses, to be pushed this way and that. But to become involved in such an exchange with the King was sheer madness.

I wondered what action he would take. He would not let the matter rest, I was sure. He had been really angry at some points; but there had been something in my looks which had touched him in some way. Although I was a virgin, I was not ignorant of the ways of men; I knew of those animal desires which were somehow unpredictable but when they came could obliterate all else. François and the gentlemen of his Court were mostly young and lusty and they pursued women as they did the deer. They only had to see one and they were off. One knew exactly the meaning in their glances. With Henry it was a little different. I remembered what George had said of him. He did not flaunt his love affairs and they were not numerous like those of the King of France. There was definitely in Henry a certain moral and sentimental streak. I had sensed a touch of cruelty too—such as had not played a part in the character of François. François would have been amused by my effrontery; I was not sure of Henry.

There would be a great feast tonight, with my father straining every effort to entertain the King in accordance with the custom of those noblemen whose houses he visited during his journeys through the country. As the daughter of the house I should be called upon to show my talents…to sing, to play the lute; and he would watch me and think: She is comely enough for the night here. She is doubtless a little like her sister. And Mary had been pleasing him for some time. She had lasted longer with the King of England than she had with the King of France.

I could not go down there tonight. I could not bear it. I would not submit to these people. I would not be like my sister Mary.

Then what could I do?

I took off my dress and slipped into a nightgown. I lay in my bed, listening to the bustle in the castle. There were voices below my window. I knew by the sycophantic laughter that he was there. My father's voice sounded unctuous. Was he begging the King to forgive his wayward daughter or hoping that his humble home would not displease His Grace?

Someone was scratching on the door. It was my stepmother. She looked horrified to see me in bed.

“But Anne,” she cried, “the King is here! You must come and be presented to him. Oh dear, I'm in such a flurry. I know not which way to turn. I am terrified. He is even more grand than I thought. Anne, what are you doing in bed?”

“I am ill,” I said. “I cannot leave my bed.”

She was all concern and I felt very tender toward her.

“What is wrong? What can be wrong?”

“I have a cold. I think I have a fever. I could not come down. The King would never forgive us if he caught something from someone in our household.”

“I must get you a posset.”

“No…no…Do not worry…I…I had these turns in France.” It was a lie but it served. “All I have to do is rest and in a day or so I am well. I need no posset. You go and do not worry about me. I shall not be missed.”

“Your father…”

“Tell him of my illness, he would not want me down there in this state.”

I closed my eyes and tried to look ill.

My poor stepmother! I was sorry for her. I knew I was unnaturally flushed and that alarmed her. I should have been down there to help her. But I dared not be. He would still be smarting from some of the things I had said. But it was not that which alarmed me so much as the look in his eyes. I had seen the same look in those of François. But Marguerite had understood about that and had helped me. This was different; every instinct I possessed told me that I must not see the King again while he was at Hever.