Above all, she desired to emulate the mistress she had come to love and revere. She made the Regent’s tastes and pleasures her own, in the surety that all the knowledge and talents she was so pleasantly acquiring would befit her to grace any court, as Father had wished. Whenever the Regent praised Anne’s dancing skills, the songs she composed, or her skill with a lute, her cup ran over. Above all, she was learning to think independently. Whereas at home she had been expected to accept unquestioningly the wisdom and decrees of her elders, in Mechlin she found that it was permissible, even encouraged, to have ideas of her own, and to think for herself.
She also became aware of the power of display. What you wore sent out important messages to people who mattered, be they princes or suitors. The watchword was magnificence. And so she discovered the joys of further enhancing her limited wardrobe, for new court gowns were dreadfully expensive, which was why Father had provided only six. But with a length of ribbon here and a well-placed jewel there, plus a few strategic stitches to transform the high square neckline into the wider and more revealing French style, which was the height of fashion at the Regent’s court, they could be made to look different and eye-catching. It was the way you wore your clothes that mattered. If you stepped out as if you felt beautiful and elegant, others might just believe it.
It was the same with your looks. Anne was fascinated by people’s faces. She knew that her own long, narrow face with its pointed chin did not conform to the current ideal of beauty, but she was learning that a charming smile and a ready wit, with that sideways gaze under the eyelashes, had in itself the power to attract.
—
Anne shared some of her lessons with the Regent’s nephews and nieces, the orphaned children of Philip the Handsome and Juana the Mad. She had come to know the eldest, the Archduke Charles, a little—but only a little, because he was a reserved, self-contained boy, young for his thirteen years, forever ailing of one complaint or another, but always standing on his dignity.
He was the strangest-looking person Anne had ever seen, for in him the pointed Habsburg jaw was so pronounced that he could not close his mouth properly or eat without difficulty. But no one ever mentioned it. The Regent doted on the boy, and fussed over his education. He had the best tutors, who were turning him, Anne thought, into a pious little despot, but it had to be admitted that he was clever, and brilliant at learning foreign tongues. And he was a very important young man indeed, for he was Archduke of Austria by birth and the heir to the kingdoms of Castile and Aragon. He was also too grand to take much notice of an insignificant English fille d’honneur, until the day came when Monsieur Semmonet instructed him to practice the pavane with her.
Clearly reluctant, but remembering his manners, the awkward youth bowed before Anne and stretched out his hand. As the musicians began playing, she placed hers in his loose, unwilling grip, and they moved forward at the required stately pace, one step to every two beats, and then sideways.
“There is no need to lift your train, Mademoiselle Anne,” the tutor reproved. “This is a dance performed at high court ceremonies and even in nunneries on clothing days. It is slow and dignified.”
The Archduke Charles kept sniffing. Anne was sure that he was conveying his disdain for her. She turned to him, furious.
“Does your Highness have a cold? If so, here is my handkerchief.” And she thrust the delicate square of fine linen at him.
The sagging jaw dropped at her presumption. “I thank you, mademoiselle,” Charles said, in icy tones, taking the handkerchief as if it were a dead rat.
“I pray that your Highness recovers soon,” she replied sweetly. The dance was resumed.
She wondered if he would complain to the Regent of her boldness, yet Margaret of Austria continued to show her as much kindness as was ever her wont. But the Archduke Charles made it clear that he now held Anne in high disfavor, and she saw no point, for her part, in trying to win his friendship—ugly, priggish boy that he was.
—
That summer and autumn Anne heard of the victories that King Henry and his allies, the Emperor Maximilian and King Ferdinand of Aragon, had won over the French. The names of Tournai and Thérouanne, the towns he had taken, were on all lips, and much mirth was had at the expense of King Louis’s troops, who, seeing an English army bearing down on them, had spurred their horses and fled.
“It is aptly called the Battle of the Spurs,” the Regent laughed. “La petite Boleyn, you have every reason to be proud of your King and countrymen.”
“Madame, the glory also belongs to the Emperor, your Highness’s illustrious father,” Anne said.
Margaret of Austria patted her hand. “How very kind. Now, ladies, I have a surprise for you. We are to journey to Lille, to meet the victors.”
Anne joined the others in a chorus of eager approval.
—
Pennants and standards fluttered colorfully in the light October breeze as the Regent’s great cavalcade made its stately way westward from Mechlin to Lille, which could not be far off now. Word had been passed back through the ranks that the Emperor Maximilian and the King of England were waiting to greet Margaret of Austria at Tournai, and would then accompany her to Lille.
The filles d’honneur were seated in two gilded chariots, chattering gaily as they rode in the wake of their mistress and the Archduke Charles. Anne was as excited as the rest at the prospect of setting eyes on King Henry, who by all accounts was an extraordinarily handsome and valiant young man. In the opinion of all the young ladies he was a hero too, for trouncing the hated French. The campaigning season was over now, but everyone was sure that next year would see King Louis finally beaten.
The Regent had generously given all her filles d’honneur bolts of rich fabrics to make gowns for the occasion. Anne’s was a wine-red damask with a raised black velvet pile. She had never owned such a sumptuous gown. Having it made had taken most of her quarter’s wages, but it had been worth the outlay.
The gates of Tournai were in sight, and Anne craned her neck to see a great concourse of people and soldiers awaiting them. As they drew nearer, two imposing figures in front caught the eye: both were tall, both had a kingly carriage, and both were magnificently attired in velvet and cloth of gold. The Emperor was immediately recognizable from the portraits the Regent kept of her father—there was the large, high-bridged nose, the firm chin, the haughty mien, the sparse gray locks. Maximilian had an arresting presence, but he looked decrepit beside the man standing next to him. If an artist had wanted to paint a picture of Youth and Age, he could not have found better subjects. For Henry of England was blooming with vitality.