8

Princess Marguerite

One more person at the betrothal of Anne Tudor, who had only been in England a matter of weeks herself, was Princess Marguerite de Valois, Edward's future bride.

She had come to England not long after Michelmas, along with her retinue of 150 French Maids of Honour and Ladies-in-Waiting, and had had the ordeal of meeting her future parents in public, whilst they were dining.

Poor girl. She was pretty and confident, yes, she had been trained to appear in public as soon as she could walk, it was true, and yes, she had known the meeting was coming, but even so, it was an ordeal that no 11 year old should have to go through.

I remember it as though it were yesterday.

The fish course had just been served to us, and I had taken a fillet of freshly poached salmon, my favourite dish, when, all of a sudden, the herald blew into a great gilt trumpet, startling us all with the blast.

Every eye, including the King's, flicked to the door, as he announced "Her Royal Highness Princess Marguerite of Valois, Princess of Wales and Duchess of Cornwall."

As if at some discreet signal, Marguerite started forward, her travelling cloak of grey wool swirling around her, effectively accentuating her slim, healthy figure, and her pale blue dress of velvet.

Her beautiful, slightly curling ginger hair hung loose over her shoulders like a virgin's, though it was held in place by a wide strip of deep blue velvet ribbon and a jewelled clip set with sapphires,

Halfway down the hall, she seemed to tremble. She was wavering, losing her nerve.

I longed to help her, to comfort her and set her at ease, but I was too far away. All I could do was hold my breath, and begin to chant a fervent, silent prayer for someone else to help her. Thankfully, someone did. Katherine Neville nee Carey. The young 19 year old woman, who now had two children of her own, one of whom couldn't have been that much younger than Marguerite, sprang swiftly to her slender feet, and ran down to the Princess's side. She took her arm tenderly, and, whispering words of advice and comfort into her ear, led her to the dais, where they sank into matching, respectful, graceful curtsies before the King, and waited for His Majesty's response.

"Welcome, Marguerite, my daughter. Katherine, you have my thanks. Return to your husband now."

"Sire" Katherine replied, curtsying and retreating, even as Marguerite shot an anguished glance, a plea for help and reassurance towards her. When none came, Marguerite breathed in deeply, summoned up all her courage, and turned to face her new father, lowering her eyes in fearful, almost sheepish respect.

I gazed at her with new respect, allowing myself the luxury of a smile at her actions. Though Marguerite had only been in England a matter of days, she already knew how best to play our King (though thinking about it, I suppose Katherine Carey might have told her to do it).

My father, too, seemed much pleased by her manners, as he leant forward to study her more closely, saying warmly "Well, little Marguerite -"

"Margot" she whispered, showing us all a quick glimpse of the fiery spirit which was to become her trademark when she was Queen.

My father looked taken aback, for no-one, save perhaps Anne Boleyn, ever corrected him, and especially not in public like Marguerite just had.

"Pardon, miss? Speak up a little, and repeat yourself. I could not hear."

Margot lifted her head, and stared him in the eye, as if daring him to say that her next words were not true. "Margot, Sire. I am called Margot by my brothers."

The King held her gaze for several long moments as the Court held its breath, and waited to see what would happen. Had Marguerite been too bold, too daring? Would the King be angry?

No. He threw back his head and laughed, and the Court, utterly relieved on Margot's behalf, followed his example.

"Bold little maid, aren't you, Margot?" the King asked, when he could speak again, for his laughter had turned into a drawn-out, raspy cough.

"So my mother and governesses say, Sire," she replied innocently.

Queen Anne laughed this time, reaching out a hand to Margot.

"Just what my mother used to say about me when I was your age! Come, sit up here beside me. I can tell we're going to get on very well indeed! Would you like something to drink?"

"No thank you, Madam, though you are very kind to offer."

"Oh, come, you must be thirsty. I know I always am, after riding a horse for any length of time."

Queen Anne's pretty French rang through the hall, and Margot accepted her offer with visible pleasure.

The King held up a hand to halt her, however, as she began to rise.

"Just one moment more, Margot,"

"Sire?" she turned to him, eyes wide with innocence and unasked questions, hair rich, soft, and curling down past her waist, a hint of a becoming rosy blush creeping up into her cheeks.

"Jeanne of Navarre promised to do England proud, as any new daughter should. Do you also promise such a thing?"

"I do hereby solemnly promise." Margot answered steadily, dipping down into a curtsey, and placing before him a token, a ring carved from rose gold.

He studied it carefully, and then nodded for her to rise and join his wife at the High Table, under the cloth of estate.

"Freshly pressed apple juice spiced with ginger for Her Highness." Queen Anne told the servers, and it was duly brought.

Those words were also the signal for the rest of us to return to our rapidly cooling supper, which we promptly did.

****

After they had dined together, the King, Queen Anne and Princess Margot retired to their private chambers, though not for long, for as soon as Margot had changed into a gown of russet satin, and had had her hair brushed and set beneath a jewelled hood, Katherine Neville, Marie de Guise, (a second cousin of the Princess and her favourite Lady-in-Waiting), and I accompanied her to Princess Elizabeth's rooms, where all four of the Royal Children had dined together, and were now awaiting their new sister.

I walked in behind Princess Margot, and so had plenty of time to study each of the children as their attention fixed itself wholeheartedly upon her.

There was Elizabeth, 13 years old, red-haired, self-assured and tempestuous. Every inch a Tudor and beautiful to match, she captivated anyone who clapped eyes on her.

Edward next; dark, handsome and serious. Perhaps he was not the image of his father, but he was a worthy successor nonetheless, for he had a deep sense of justice, a keen mind for politics, and an air about him that made every one of his future subjects feel listened to and respected.

George stood there beside him, George the joker of the pack. The warm one, the passionate one, he clasped little Anne to him tenderly, only releasing her to bow before Margot with all the mock gravity of a statesman.

"Your Highness, it is an honour. Welcome to England." Kissing her hand, he twinkled his eyes up at her, so that she could barely suppress a giggle.

Yet George had Howard in him too, anyone could see that. Behind the laughing blue eyes and the merry golden features, the Tudor features - his father's features – hid a true man of steel. A military man – like his great uncle, Thomas Howard, 3rd Duke of Norfolk. Any enemy would tremble at the sight of him heading the English forces. England was safe with him as her future general, as was Navarre, for he was to be King-Consort there one day, when Jeanne came to the throne.

And Anne. Little Anne Frances Cecily Tudor, Princess of Orange, Duchess of Buckingham and Marquess of Pembroke.

Most likely not the beauty of the family, with her light brown hair streaked with gold, and her dark eyes, which in some lights almost appeared to be made of liquid amber, she was without doubt the most engaging of the children, though Elizabeth was the prettier Tudor sister, and had the quicker mind.

With childish grace, Anne bobbed an indifferent curtsey, keeping her eyes fixed on Margot's almost defiantly

"So. You're our sister." she remarked, gazing at the eleven year old who was almost a full head taller than her with an arrogance born of being the family favourite, who could be denied nothing.

"I am." Margot replied, somewhat cautiously, something Anne was quick to notice, though personally, I could not blame Margot for being wary around this little girl.

Anne sent Margot a withering glance, but Elizabeth, perhaps keen to pour oil on the troubled waters said quickly "Tell me, what it is like in France, Marguerite."

"Margot. I am called Margot by my family," Princess Margot replied a little stiffly, partly due to shyness, partly because she was now on the defensive.

"Margot then. Tell me." Elizabeth pleaded, and Margot reluctantly gave an answer.

"Nice enough I suppose, though of course, I am biased. It is, after all, my native homeland."

"You must be able to tell me something more, surely!" Elizabeth persisted, causing Edward to smack her, disrespectfully, between the shoulder blades.

"Hold your tongue for once, Bess. You fool; can't you see she still needs time to adjust?" To Margot, who glanced at him gratefully, he said "I sincerely apologise for my sister Elizabeth, my lady. She is frightfully like our lady mother the Queen, in that she never knows when to curb that ridiculously blunt tongue of hers."

At once, all Elizabeth's poise left her, and she was just an ordinary teenage girl facing her annoying younger brother.

"I'll get you for that, Edward Robert Henry!" she exclaimed, lunging at her brother. He twisted away, shouting for help, and George and Anne instantly joined in their rough and tumble game, whilst Margot stood to one side, amused and longing to join in, but not quite managing to overcome her great sense of dignity, which her mother, Catherine de Medici, had drummed into her, and which forbade her to join in such an impromptu, rough and tumble like revel.

Suddenly, Anne ran up behind her, and thumped her on the shoulder, in that classic gesture, which for centuries, has, among children, been the symbol which signifies that it is the receiver's turn to chase the others who are playing.

Recognising it for what it was, Margot threw off her thick rabbit fur cape, and fled after the others with the spirit of a Tudor and the endurance of a true Valois.

****

Undignified as their first meeting might have been, it was just as well that Margot was comfortable with her new siblings, for, the following evening, and she and Edward were expected to dance together several times, which they did – a basse dance, a minuet and a couple of country dances were among those for which the two of them took to the floor.

Marguerite, Queen Anne, her namesake, Princess Anne, Mary Stafford nee Boleyn, Katherine Neville, her sister Anne Stafford, and Princess Elizabeth were seven of the most sought after ladies that night.

I was the other.

Besides my husband Edward Seymour, John Paulett, Henry Howard, his brother George, Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, Mark Smeaton (when he could get out of playing his volin), Sir William Breterton, Sir Francis Knollys, Sir Henry Norris and Sir Francis Weston, among others, led me out on to the floor numerous times each that night until I was almost fainting from exhaustion.

Thank God the King called a halt to the festivities the third time his wife danced with Henry Percy and sang "Greensleeves" into his ear as they danced to that very tune.

****

That night, I fell asleep almost before my head felt the soft downy pillow beneath it, but my last thought was of Marguerite in her smoky grey ball dress. Yes, she had done England proud as any new daughter should.

AN: I know this chapter focused more on Marguerite rather than on Anne, but that's just the way it came out when I first wrote it. I hope you enjoyed it anyway. Has anyone spotted the first hints of the drama that will unfold for our favourite Boleyn Queen yet? If not, go back and read the ball scene again. You should pick up on it eventually. R and R, please!