“It is in perpetual memory of her husband, the Duke of Savoy. He died nine years ago.”
Anne had seen a portrait of him hanging in the palace, a romantic young man with the face of an angel framed with long fair hair. It must have been terrible to lose so beautiful a husband so early. The Regent was only thirty-three.
In the weeks after her arrival, Anne had been surprised to hear Margaret of Austria speak freely to her women of her past. “Do you know, I was given in marriage three times?” she said to Anne just two days after the conversation with Gerda. They were sewing in her tapestry-hung chamber, the other filles d’honneur ranged about, heads bent over their needles. “I was married in childhood to the Dauphin, and was brought up at the court of France, but when I was eleven they found a better match for him, and so I was annulled and sent home. I was more angry than sad.” She smiled at the memory. “Then I was married, to Juan, Prince of Asturias, the heir to King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain. He was young and handsome, and I was happy, but he died just months after we were wed, leaving me with child.” A shadow clouded her normally cheerful countenance. “My little girl died at birth. I had to leave her in Spain when I returned to the Netherlands.”
“I am sorry, madame,” Anne commiserated.
“She is with God,” the Regent said, her voice suddenly brisk. “He has her safe in His keeping. And I found love again, with my Philibert. He adored me. I helped him rule his duchy of Savoy. I made myself respected throughout Christendom. Alas, we had but two years together—such a short time to be happy. And then he went hunting boar in the sweltering sunshine, got overheated and drank cup after cup of iced water. He died in agony.” She laid down her needlework and gazed into the distance, as if seeing the man who had been lost to her. “And that, la petite Boleyn, is why I have vowed never to remarry. Wherever one loves, one risks loss. Never forget it.”
—
Erasmus was just one of many guests who enjoyed the Regent’s famed hospitality. Often she was joined at table by the artists, men of letters, philosophers, and musicians whom she patronized. The evenings were enlivened by concerts of the polyphonic music she loved, or her guests would be treated to a personal tour of her prized collection of paintings by the great master Jan van Eyck—paintings of exceptional richness, color, and beauty. Anne was often present on these occasions, captivated by the sparkling conversation, the exchanges of ideas, the soaring harmonies, and the glorious works of art. It was a world she could never have conjured up in her wildest dreams, and it was entrancing to be a part of it. She did not miss her home and family at all—apart, of course, from Mother and George, who wrote to her frequently, lamenting her absence.
Her life was not all ceremony and study. The Regent threw feasts and banquets; she hosted soirées and dances; she loved hunting; she presided over tournaments; and she positively encouraged the play of what she called courtly love.
“It is an essential aspect of chivalry,” she told her filles d’honneur. “You are all of an age to start finding men attractive. One of the reasons your parents placed you at my court is that they hope I will find you good husbands.” Anne could sense a frisson rippling through her companions, and her own excitement building. At twelve years old—old enough now to be wed—she was becoming aware of her budding figure and the admiring glances of the young men of the Regent’s court. Already she was learning how to flash her dark eyes, swish her skirt or sway her hips to effect, and beginning to understand the infinite possibilities of dalliance.
She listened avidly as the Regent explained about courtly love.
“It is quite permissible for gentlemen, even married ones, to pay their addresses to you,” she said. “They may express their devotion and even their passion. It is for you to have mastery over them, and in that sense the title of mistress is an honorable one. But it is never permissible for you to allow any man to go beyond the bounds of propriety. And you must keep your suitor guessing, and at arm’s length, for men do not value what is easily obtained. Even the lightest kiss is a great favor, you understand. The greatest jewel you possess is your honor, and no husband wants a wife whose reputation has been besmirched in any way, however fair a face or rich a dowry she has. Never forget it, young ladies!”
“At least we’re allowed to kiss them,” a pert girl on Anne’s left murmured.
The Regent had heard her. “No, Etiennette de la Baume, it is up to you when—or if—you allow them to kiss you. A gentlewoman must at all times take care not to forget who she is, or the honor of her family, or their hopes for her future. And it is up to us ladies to rein in and civilize the lusts of men.” She hid a smile at their smothered giggles. “You may flirt, you may encourage, you may even bestow favors—to a point—but the ultimate prize is your virtue, which is the greatest gift you will bring to your husband.”
Anne had read much of love in the poems and romances she had devoured, but she had never received such salutary and sensible advice. She had thought that men were omnipotent in matters of love and marriage—certainly Father thought he was—but now it seemed that women could be in control, even of men’s lusts—a subject of which she knew little. The prospect of enjoying mastery over the opposite sex excited her. All of a sudden she realized that she had unsuspected power within her grasp.
The next time a court gallant bowed and paid her a compliment, she smiled sweetly and turned away, as if it did not matter—although it did, for the young man was handsome. When, later, he engaged her in conversation and then led her out to the dance floor, she looked up from under her dark eyelashes and regarded him as if pearls of wisdom were tumbling from his lips—and then made sure that she danced the next time with someone else. Her evasions seemed to work. The Regent was right—always the gentlemen came back, more ardent than before.
She did not look for more than flirtations. She was not yet thirteen, after all. It was just a highly enjoyable and novel game, far removed from the strictures of her father and the dull round of life at Hever. The world was opening out to her, abundant with new ideas and unexpected delights.