Greenwich, England. 3rd of June, 1522.
The clinking of the silverware and the careful steps of the maids around them were the only sounds filling the small antechamber of Queen Catherine as Her Majesty and her nephew dined together. It was a private dinner, without the ogling eyes of the courtiers, or the King’s presence, and there was a pleased smile on Catherine of Aragon’s face. It seemed clear how happy she was to have Charles there with her, since she loved him as if he were a son for her, in name as well as in her heart.
Her ladies-in-waiting fluttered over them, serving them wine and pieces of a cooked pheasant. Charles had brought some favored grooms with him to Germany and they serve him as well on his return to Spain, effortlessly moving around the English ladies. A high golden canopy hung over their heads, showcasing the high rank of the two, and a couple of musicians, a lute, and a flute player, were seated by the corner. They produced a piece of pleasant music to calm the mood and there was an air of familiarity and close kinship in the room, brought about by the relaxed atmosphere.
The only formality seemed to be emanating from the maids and the grooms. Serving the royals was a ceremony as well as a duty and to be given the privilege of even topping their cups with wine was a high honor. A position highly coveted amongst the Queen’s maids of honor. And so it made sense that Charles of Austria them a degree of attention, watching their pales faces for a sign of obedience, or boldness. Something that shows him who will rise higher from the others, something to pass the time.
They all curtsied to him, whispering, “Your Imperial Majesty,” as they served his aunt. There was a sense of sameness to them. They wore dresses of similar fabrics in tones of red, green, and blue. Over their heads, most wore gable hoods, a type of headdress common amongst the English ladies, that cover the entire hair and back of the neck with a thick black veil. It seemed to him that Catherine had the same woman serving her, only her personality was repeated tenfold, as they all looked and behaved the same way.
But there was one that stands out. Short, where others were tall. Svelte, where others were voluptuous. Dark, where others were light. She had clearly come from France, as seen by the style of her pink dress. The hood over her head, curved and bejeweled, showcased the front of her dark hair and he knew even without understanding this court that she would be both a scandal and a delight, depending on your views. She was either a newcomer or a longtime courtier. On her neck, there was a pearl necklace with a golden B hooked to three tear-shaped pearls. The lady had perfect poise and behavior, lowering her eyes as she filled his aunt’s cup with more wine and handed the Queen a cloth with a perfectly curved arm.
Charles adjusted his stance, trying to see her better. There was something familiar about her, despite the fact that he had just thought about her uniqueness. She had an olive complexion and her eyes were a shade of dark brown that seemed to draw him in. She looked at him for a second, her face perfectly visible and he saw a long nose, a soft chin, and round cheeks. To him, she was both an old acquaintance and a stranger. It was fascinating.
“Aunt,” said Charles when she stepped away, low enough that she would not hear him, “Who is that lady? The one with the pink dress.” Catherine of Aragon twisted her lips. She thought he was lusting after her lady, the lovely Anne Boleyn, who was religious and clever. She did not like that. Although she loved her nephew, Catherine would be lying if she said she didn’t know about the bastards he had in Burgundy. Men were all the same, “She seems familiar, that is all.”
Catherine sighed, “She is Mistress Boleyn. Anne Boleyn,” The Queen forced herself to smooth down her lips. Charles had only asked an honest question. There was no reason to be upset, “She served under your aunt, Margaret, for some months in 1513, when she was just ten years old. I believe you must have met her then, did you not?”
“Yes, that is right,” Charles said. He remembered her now. La petite Boulin, his aunt called her. He didn’t see her much, only once or twice a month, when he visited the Dowager Duchess and paid his respects to her as a loving son. Margaret called her pleasant and well-spoken. She was very upset when Anne moved to France in 1514.
The last letter they had received from her was when she was still living at the court of Francis. She was to marry the heir to an earldom to settle a minor dispute over the inheritance, something that much pleased his aunt. It had been many years since that announcement, however. Could the marriage have gone ahead already? Because of her small frame, she seemed younger than what must have been nineteen years of age, and some men enjoyed waiting for wives to mature before they were thrust into an endless cycle of pregnancies and labor. For some reason he could not understand, Charles almost wished she was not yet a Countess. For her health, of course.
He knew Margaret of Austria would enjoy having more news of her delightful former ward, though, and would be pleased if he took any information about Anna when he returned to Flanders. That is what he tells himself when he decides to seek her out later.
