“This is the Hof van Savoye, the palace of the Regent,” Sir John said, as the guards waved them through. Anne gasped. They were in a vast rectangular courtyard surrounded by splendid facades on all sides, mostly built in the ubiquitous red brick of the Netherlands; there were graceful open arcades at ground level, tall mullioned windows, and a steep pitched roof with dormer rooms.
“The Regent is a great builder.” Sir John pointed to a wing covered in scaffolding and crawling with workmen. “It will be years before this place is finished.”
“I love it!” Anne breathed. “I have never seen anything like it.”
“You certainly wouldn’t in England,” Sir John agreed, as they dismounted.
An officer wearing black and yellow livery was approaching. Sir John made the introductions and Anne was invited to follow the man, who would take her to her lodgings. It was time to bid farewell to Sir John and Mrs. Orchard. Anne was sorry that the moment of parting had come, for she had grown used to Sir John’s merry company and come to appreciate his care for her and his wide knowledge of the world. And while she found her nurse’s fussing irritating, she was fond of her.
Sir John bowed and kissed her hand. “May God keep you, Mistress Anne, and send you joy.”
Mrs. Orchard hugged her; there were tears in her eyes. “Take care, my little mistress,” she enjoined. Then they both mounted their horses, Sir John doffed his hat, and they disappeared through the gatehouse.
“Come!” the man in livery said, in his heavily accented English. He led Anne into the palace, taking her through chambers of breathtaking magnificence. She gaped. Beside such splendor, Hever was a barn. She understood now why her father was so often away at court. She had never imagined great staircases like these, or galleries filled with such paintings, so lifelike and colorful. Gifted artists had brought Madonnas, saints, and angels to life so skillfully that it seemed they might step out of their frames and breathe.
The filles d’honneur were accommodated in a dorter on the second floor, within the steep dormer roof. Save for Gerda, a little Dutch maid who had been assigned to attend her, it was empty when Anne arrived and she thankfully threw off her traveling cloak, sinking down on the bed with red woolen hangings that had been assigned her, one of eighteen that lined the long room end-to-end, like a series of wooden boxes. She had been told that she might rest awhile and unpack her clothes before someone came to present her to the Regent. But she was too excited to rest. As soon as her baggage had been delivered, she opened her chest and pulled out the yellow gown bordered with black silk, which had been made in the Regent’s colors, as a compliment. She had been longing for this moment.
She bade Gerda unlace her traveling gown and help her strip down to her smock. Then she held up her arms so that the square-necked gown could be lifted over her head and laced up at the back. The feel of the silk was sensuous, and she loved the hanging sleeves, and the long court train that from now on would be obligatory. Her hair she left loose, falling to her hips. Now she was ready! She sat there fidgeting, waiting for the summons to her new mistress.
—
The Archduchess Margaret of Austria, Dowager Duchess of Savoy and Regent of the Netherlands, was entirely unlike the beautiful princess gowned in cloth of gold and laden with jewels Anne had envisaged. As she rose from her curtsey, she was astonished to see that the chair of estate beneath the rich velvet canopy was occupied by a little woman in black swathed in a white widow’s wimple and chin barbe—and that this daughter of the mighty Emperor Maximilian had a face that could only be called homely, with unusually full lips and a heavy, pointed jaw.
Those lips were smiling, however, and the next thing that struck Anne was the warmth the Regent exuded.
“Welcome to my court, Mademoiselle Boleyn,” she said, speaking in French, and Anne did her best to reply in the same language, tripping over her tongue as she answered polite questions about her journey and whether she was comfortable in her lodging.
“Admirable!” twinkled the Regent. “And I am honored by the colors of your pretty gown. But I think that Monsieur Semmonet will have his work cut out. It is he who will be teaching you how to speak French properly.” Anne blushed as Margaret indicated a middle-aged bearded gentleman in scholar’s robes, who bowed when he heard his name.
“Consider my court your home, child,” the Regent went on, still smiling. “I hope I will treat you in such a way that you shall be quite satisfied with me. Now you may join your fellow filles d’honneur.”
Touched and reassured by the warm welcome, Anne went to sit on the floor with the seventeen other fortunate young ladies—many from the greatest families in the land—who had been singled out for the high honor of serving at the court of Burgundy. They were all in their early teens, and all expensively dressed. Some smiled at her, some stared at her gown; a few—she felt—looked haughtily down their noses.
In the dorter that night, they clustered around, gabbling excitedly and indicating that she open her chest and pull out her clothes for their inspection. Some, she was gratified to see, were impressed—others, to her dismay, dismissive.
“C’est provinciale!” sneered a tall girl, fingering the crimson tissue, which had been cut in the English fashion.
“Non, Marie, c’est jolie!” a blond maiden with rosy cheeks retorted, smiling at Anne. Marie shrugged.
Soon they lost interest and began chattering in rapid French of things about which Anne knew nothing. She realized that, as the only English girl among them, she would always be a little set apart.
Not that it bothered her too greatly, even in her first few days at Mechlin. There were other young ladies ready to be her friend besides the blond girl, whose name was Isabeau, and as she worked hard at her French under the vigilant tutelage of Monsieur Semmonet, and grew more fluent, communicating with her peers was easier and she became more accepted.
The tutor—who seemed to have unlimited talents—also schooled Anne and the other filles d’honneur in deportment and dancing, and instructed them in manners and the art of conversation, a talent much encouraged by the Regent, who deemed it essential for anyone who wanted to succeed at her court. Every day Monsieur Semmonet would choose a different situation they might encounter, and they would act out their responses in the most courteous way. Anne found herself addressing imaginary princes and discoursing with them on music and painting and poetry. She could hardly imagine it happening.