“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.