Windsor, England. 13th of June, 1522.
The night sky was full of stars but no moon, as it was hidden away by the clouds floating over them. The cold air breezed around her, and Anne Boleyn wrapped her arms around herself, trying to gather some warmth. She felt silly by standing there, waiting for him, but something kept her grounded and stopped her from walking away. Anne held his note in her hand, his scrawny handwriting marking the page that asked her to meet him by the gardens at midnight. She looked at it every other moment as if the words might change and she could return to her rooms with her reputation still intact. The darkness made it almost impossible for her to make out what was written, but she knew his words by heart, as she had read it many times.
Why was she there? She ought to have ignored his requests, to have told him that she was no woman to come at the calling of men. She ought to turn around at that very moment, before he arrived, and pray no one had seen her.
She ought to do many things, but she did nothing. Instead, Anne sat on a nearby bench and sighed, placing her hands on her lap. She looked around and saw a rustling on the bushes and the tall figure that was Charles V coming her way.
“Madame Boullan,” he said when she stood up, “Forgive me for my tardiness.”
Anne said nothing. For the first time in her life, she didn’t know what to say, and so, she sat again, looking away from him as she feared she would not be brave enough if she looked in his eyes. He did the same, sitting by her side on the small stone bench, and attempted to smile, though his nervous shyness prevented him from relaxing.
“Anne,” he murmured, placing a hand over hers, “It’s very good to see you.”
She thought her name had never sounded more lovely than it did on his lips. Anne blushed despite herself and smiled as well. “It’s good to see you too, Your Majesty.”
Charles’ smile waned, but he took a deep breath and stilled himself, “Charles,” he said.
“What?” Anne frowned.
“If I can call you Anne, you must call me Charles,” he answered, smiling widely.
“Very well,
Charles,” she said, tilting her head.
He was eager to have intimacy between them, a sense of familiarity that would surely get them both to relax. Charles was so nervous and he didn’t understand why. He had done this before. This seduction game, the kind words and warm touches that would get a lady to want him back, even if just for a night. He had many mistresses before and had two unacknowledged bastards with another on the way.
But this was different. Anne was different. Since they had met at the church, he could not stop thinking about her. Matters of state were ignored in favor of pondering about her intellect, which he knew from asking his aunt and the other courtiers to be incredible. More than once, had Charles mused about her time in France, neglecting the discussions about the war.
He believed himself to now be an expert about her. She could speak French and Latin, besides her native English. She had spent seven years serving Queen Claude of France and came home with honors, as she was one of few women to have left the court of Francis I with their reputation intact. Her piety was well known, as was her virtue. Although he was not a peer, her father was amongst the highest-ranking noblemen in England and was trusted by King Henry VIII. Her brother was named George and her sister, Mary. She was the middle child.
He wondered why he cared so much about her. He had been ecstatic to know she was still unmarried and every sight of her made his heart jump in his chest. How could one woman make him feel this way? Was it because they had known each other during their childhood? She was not the most beautiful woman in court, as many liked to point out, but there was something about her poise and etiquette that was completely charming and entrancing.
“How is your aunt?” she asked, “The Dowager Duchess was always good to me.”
Charles smiled. Yes, this was good. This was comfortable, “She is well. I saw her just before I left Burgundy and I know she will be very happy to know I’ve seen you. She was always fond of her petite Boulin.”
Anne smiled. This was going well, she thought. It could have been much worse. He could have been much worse.
She had to admit that the memory of the blonde boy in Mechelen did not match the image of the dark-haired man before her. Charles, Duke of Burgundy was a solemn figure, the weight of his father’s death and his mother’s distant life in Tordesillas making him quieter than most. Anne remembered that the maids of honor of Margaret had to pay him every respect and could not be his friends’, even though many of the girls were of an age with him. She had seen Charles only once without the Duchess, on his birthday in 1514.
To him, they must have met in the gardens by accident, though Anne had followed him there, as she believed herself to be in love with him. After saying their greetings, she gave him a piece of embroidery that she had done to celebrate the occasion, with the coat of arms of Charles before his ascendancy to the Imperial and Spanish thrones. It was not a good work, as it resembled more a lumpy handkerchief than a miniature banner and she would be ashamed now to give it to anyone, let alone a high-ranking ruler. Charles had smiled though and told her it was the best present he ever had.
That had felt so romantic, back when Anne was just a small child with no knowledge of the world. But she was foolish and naive. She thought he would soon announce his intentions to marry her, though she knew better now. Charles would never marry an English noblewoman. He would marry a Princess, such as Mary Tudor, or one of the daughters of King Francis I. Maybe even his Portuguese cousin. He would never choose her, no matter his feelings about her little embroidery.
But still. When Anne had to leave for the French court in October, she cried for three days straight. Her little heart was broken and only the intense work of serving Queen Claude made her forget him.
“Perhaps we should go to my rooms,” Charles said, breaking her daydreams, “For privacy.”
Anne blushed. She could not believe what he was saying. She was both insulted and upset, for believing for even just one second he was different from the rest, that he actually cared about her. She shook her head and said, “Your Majesty, I can't be your mistress.”
Then, she stood up and left.