The Other Henry VIII

Pulling Strings

Within two weeks of her return to French court, Lady Anne had taken up residence in her usual lavish apartments, assumed her former post as official mistress and supplanted the Queen as first lady of the palace. King Francis could scarcely been seen in the halls without his beloved on one arm, not at banquets without her draped over his side and whispering lewd japes in his ear. Some said she even attended council sessions with him, that she had one mesmerised minister wrapped around each heavily-ringed finger, that she was the true ruler of France.

Such happenings did not bother Margaret. She had never revelled in public attention as her brother did. Lady Anne may be chosen companion, but she did not wear the crown. Nor would she ever regain the influence she had once wielded, for Charlotte's birth had earned Margaret a place in her husband's heart that none could have foreseen. She was his darling, his favourite child, so adored by the King, his children and subjects that not even his living Venus of a mistress could compare.

But Isabel Westover had been at French court for nigh on eighteen years. She had seen men made and undone, women wed and bedded, two queens crowned and buried; and in all that time, she had never found a foe more worthy than Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly. Nor, indeed, a friend like Margaret. So when one of her spies on the Privy Council relayed a note disclosing Francis' intentions to invade a weakened England, Isabel's natural first assumption was that Anne was behind it. What better way to regain control than destroy her rival's native land? She must go and inform the Queen at once. Anne must be coaxed, cautioned — even threatened, if need be.

But as she marched briskly through the opulent main hall, Isabel began to second-guess herself. When had threats ever succeeded before? When had anything, for that matter? This was the woman who had ruled France for six years, who had almost singlehandedly dismantled the King and Queen of England's marriage; words alone could not tame such a fearsome beast. Isabel halted in her tracks, ignoring the puzzled glances of two passing maids-in-waiting. Anne was nothing without her power. She held no title, bore no chains of office. So from whence did that power stem?

And then, Isabel knew what to do.

That evening, she donned her finest burgundy gown and teased a few artful curls out the front of her hood. Diamonds tinkled at her ears, a decade-old gift from the King when she took his fancy once again. Isabel thought it rather cyclical. Over the years, his attentions would shift from one lady to another — although la maîtresse-en-titre would always have his heart — and no matter how far he strayed, he would always return to her. She was still fresh and different, unconquered, a dazzling young unbroken stallion to Lady Anne's comfortable, worn-in mare. And with luck, that novelty would be their saving grace.

She felt the King's eye from the very moment she entered the ballroom. Margaret was abed with a head-cold, thank God, so would not bear witness to this. Despite her guilt, Isabel almost laughed aloud as she made her way to a seat. Few had ever called her handsome, even back in England, and yet here they all were, gawking at her like a roast swan. Francis, of course, wasted no opportunity in securing her first dance.
"Tell me, Lady Isabel," he said in smooth French above the music, "After so many years at my court, why only now do you show your face?"
"Perhaps I have tired of hiding," she replied bluntly.

He raised his hand to meet hers, palm to palm. Isabel nearly bristled as his breath tickled her neck, but stopped herself just in time. She twisted her body around him instead, just a blink shy of the other pairs, and watched those ample skirts fan out behind her with a strange sadness. What a fool she was, not able to meet his gaze. But how could she, with Margaret upstairs and all those gaping faces lining the room like portraits? With the body, one could feign desire, joy, rage pleasure even, but the eyes always told a different story.