‘No, no, no, ma chère! How could I think that?’ In one bound Philippe was at her side and clasping her to him. ‘I love you! I am very sorry for your sister. The King has done her a great wrong, one that would be difficult to avenge. Does your father know of this?’

  ‘I doubt it! Apparently Mary told him only that she went home to escape the King’s attentions, but I know that Father is displeased with her. He probably thought she should have stayed, stood her ground and taken advantage of the place he had secured for her in the Queen’s household. He is very ambitious.’

  ‘I wish you had felt you could tell me about this,’ Philippe said. ‘You should have trusted me, especially since we are to be betrothed.’

  ‘I could not bring myself even to think of it, and as it did not happen to me, it did not occur to me that I should have told you. It was not my secret to share.’

  ‘No, of course,’ he said. But she thought his voice seemed to lack conviction.

  They were back at the entrance to the tower now.

  ‘I must go and tidy myself for dinner,’ Anne said, and sped up the stairs, trying not to cry. Why did she feel as if she had done something wrong? Did Philippe really think her deceitful? Worse still, did he think that Mary was a loose trollop who had not put up a fight when she should have done, or even encouraged the King and regretted it later, and that her sister was cut from the same cloth?

  Staring at her blotchy face in her mirror, Anne pulled herself up. This was silly. Philippe loved her; she had ample evidence of that. He would never think of her in those ways. She was letting her imagination run away with her.

  Tante Antoinette helped herself to a second portion of beef in red wine and tucked in with relish.

  ‘Anne, our families may be related!’ she said.

  Anne was surprised. ‘How could that be?’

  ‘Jacques’ father, the late King’s chamberlain, was married to a lady called Marie de Boulan de la Rochette. With her name being similar to Boleyn, it occurred to me today that there may be a distant connection.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Anne said, thinking it unlikely. ‘The founder of my family was a Norman knight who came to England with William the Conqueror and settled in Norfolk. I suppose he could have had kinsfolk in Normandy or France.’

  ‘It would be nice to think that we are blood kin,’ Tante Antoinette said. ‘Your family is of noble descent, I hear.’

  ‘My father is grandson to the Earl of Ormond and my mother is daughter to the Duke of Norfolk. Both my parents are descended from King Edward I.’

  The old couple looked suitably impressed, but Anne was watching Philippe, who seemed – perhaps she was imagining things again – a little withdrawn tonight. The thought came unbidden that descent and titles counted for nothing against virtue and honesty. But that’s ridiculous! she told herself, trying to elicit a smile from her lover. I am virtuous, and I am honest. Mary’s secret was not mine to divulge. And when it comes to match-making, family counts above all else!

  Philippe roused himself. ‘Shall we ride to Grigny tomorrow?’

  ‘I would love that,’ Anne told him.

  ‘We must be up early,’ he said.

  ‘I will have some food packed for you,’ said Tante Antoinette. ‘God knows if that lazy, misbegotten steward you employ there will have anything ready for you. Anne, you will have your work cut out, pulling the servants into shape!’

  It sounded so normal, so reassuring, as if nothing could threaten the prospect of her marriage to Philippe. And when Philippe laughed, and – or so it seemed to her – the mood lightened, she could have cried for joy.

  Again the old couple retired early to bed; again Philippe took her into his arms, and this time, when he ventured to caress her breasts and her thighs, she did not refuse him, but when he wanted to go further, and have her touch him intimately, she would not.

  He chuckled at that, and let it go. It was only a matter of time, he seemed to be implying. Well, he could think again. She was of a sterner mettle than her sister would ever be.

  The old castle at Grigny wore an air of neglect. Philippe was apologetic.

  ‘I am never here,’ he excused himself, as Anne eyed the cobwebs and the grime with dismay. ‘It needs a woman’s touch.’

  ‘It has one,’ she retorted, glaring at the lazy slattern of a steward’s wife. ‘Mistress, I hope you will ensure that this place is clean and well ordered by the time I come here.’

  The woman bobbed a resentful curtsey.

  ‘Her idea of clean and mine are probably very different things,’ Anne muttered as they moved into the next chamber, which smelt damp. What a pity they could not live at Briis! No wonder Philippe was always there.

  On the ride back Anne spoke of the improvements she wanted to make at Grigny. ‘It needs some bright hangings and cushions, and fresh rush matting on the floors, like they have at court. We can make it a cheerful place.’

  Philippe shrugged. ‘We will hardly be there. Is it worth it?’

  ‘It will be our home, your seat as the seigneur!’ Anne cried.

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather be at court?’

  ‘To speak the truth, I’d prefer to live at Briis. I love it there. But of course it is not yours.’

  ‘I wish it was. I think my uncle and aunt would like nothing better than to have us live with them, but it’s not practical, and they are further from Paris.’

  ‘I am growing to love them,’ Anne said, resolving not to let her disappointment show.

  Philippe smiled. ‘Who could not?’

  As day followed day, Anne could not rid herself of the impression that Philippe was distancing himself from her. Sometimes when they were together he seemed distracted, and he did not initiate love play as often as before. She shrank from the thought that his ardour might be diminishing, for she now loved him so much that her very life depended on it, and she was longing to be his wife and give rein to the desires that she was only with difficulty holding in check.

  He still wanted her, that much was clear. Three days ago they had climbed the hill behind Briis and sat together watching the sunset, with not a soul in sight, and he had pulled up her skirts and exposed her, and she had not stopped him. Instead she had arched in pleasure as his expert fingers taught her how exquisite desire could be when brought to its shattering fulfilment. She had known, as she lay on the grass, breathless and quivering with joy, that it was for this moment that she had been born. He must love her, to give her such a gift.

  And then he was unlacing the points of his hose, and she was seeing for the first time what happened to a man when his passion was aroused, and timidly she laid her hand on him and did what he asked, grasping and squeezing hard until she felt him convulse again and again and her fingers were covered in something wet and warm.

  She had thought he would let flow his feelings for her after such magnificent intimacy, but he’d simply kissed her, tidied his clothes and helped her up.

  ‘Come, or we’ll be late for supper,’ he said, grinning, and they set off down the hill.

  At table, she had felt like a Jezebel, and that it must be writ large on her face what she had done. But the du Moulins were acting as if nothing was amiss, and Philippe chatted amiably, never betraying by look or gesture any hint of the great passion he had shared with Anne. It was as if nothing had happened.

  There had as yet been no word from Father about the jointure, and Philippe had said no more of the wedding. When his aunt and uncle brought up the subject, eagerly making plans, he merely smiled and nodded. Had they noticed anything amiss? She thought not, for surely they would not raise the subject, and they would be uncomfortable in her presence, if they knew that Philippe was cooling towards her. They were honest people, and too kind to deceive her easily. So maybe she was imagining it all, and should learn to understand Philippe’s better.

  Anne was praying that Father would write soon, because once the financial settlements were agreed, her betrothal could go ahead, and all would be well. So when Philippe said that they must return to court, and that he had sent for the dowager to accompany them, she could have wept because any letter from Father would be sent to Briis, of course, which would mean another agonising delay while it was forwarded on to wherever the court was.

  Her mirror told her that she was losing weight. Her skin looked more sallow than ever, and her eyes were dark pools of anxiety. But Philippe did not seem to notice. By night, he was still an ardent lover; by day, he was a different person. She wondered if this was the way of men – that, once they had taken their pleasure, they retreated. She was still a virgin – on that she would not budge – but since that time on the hill she had allowed Philippe to come as close as she dared let him. These last two nights she had waited for Gabrielle to fall asleep and then stolen up to his chamber, where she had let him undress her completely and do – almost – what he would with her. Letting him love her like this brought them close. She needed it, as she needed air to breathe and food to eat. In bed he was hers, and she could reassure herself that he always would be.

  On the night before they were due to depart, as they lay together in the darkness, all desire sated, Philippe spoke.

  ‘We don’t need to get a betrothal ring, Anne, do we?’

  It was as if he had slapped her. She could not speak.

  ‘After all, we are almost as good as wed,’ he went on.

  ‘Am I not worthy of one?’ she whispered. ‘I have never heard of a betrothal without a ring.’

  ‘I am still waiting to hear from your father about your jointure. Then we can discuss our betrothal.’ He spoke as if he was discussing a transaction at market.

  Her spirits sank. It was as plain as day. Love, it was agonisingly clear, no longer drove him. Thanks to her foolishness, he had had as much of her as he needed, and clearly did not think it worth pursuing marriage for what little she had left to give him.

  And yet, she could not bring herself to believe that his feelings for her had died. How could a man lie with a woman and show himself so ardent if he did not love her?

  She turned her back to him and tried to sleep, but the tears came unchecked, and soon her pillow was saturated.

  ‘Anne?’ he said, pulling her round to face him. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she lied. ‘I am just sad at the thought of leaving here. I have grown to love this place, and your aunt and uncle.’

  ‘I think they have grown to love you,’ he said, and his voice was wistful. ‘Try to sleep now. We have a long ride ahead of us.’

  In the morning Tante Antoinette was ready with great panniers of food for the journey.

  ‘God bless you, my lamb,’ she said, hugging Anne. ‘Come back and see us soon. I will write to you, and I hope you will write back.’

  ‘Oh, I will!’ Anne promised. ‘Thank you for everything.’

  ‘The next time we see you, you will be a bride!’ Oncle Jacques said, beaming.

  Anne was choked. Maybe all would come well in the end. God send she was just imagining that something was wrong.

  Their little party rode away, up the hill and over its crest, leaving Briis behind, a poignant memory that she knew she would always cherish in her heart. The long journey back to Amboise passed uneventfully, but at the inns and guest houses, and even when they stopped again by the ruined chapel, Philippe did not contrive to see Anne alone. And when they were back at court it would be difficult, she knew.

  As they neared Amboise she grew desperate. She had wanted the idyll at Briis to go on for ever. She did not want to return to normal life. She needed Philippe to tell her that he loved her – he had not said it for some days now – and to speak of marriage. But he did neither. Their conversation had become general; they did not touch on their feelings or the future. At Amboise he insisted on escorting her to the door to the Queen’s apartments, and there he bowed formally and kissed her hand.

  ‘I will see you soon, Anne,’ he told her, then pressed the ring she had given him – in another age – into her hand and walked away, leaving her in pieces in the gallery.

  How was she to hold herself together in the presence of the Queen? What was she to say when Claude and her maids and ladies asked her about her forthcoming marriage? And what, above all, would Father say? Would he come storming across the Channel, like an avenging angel, and demand that Philippe honour his promises?

  Yet there had been no promises. They had not been formally betrothed. He had asked her to marry him, it was true, but there had been no vows and no witnesses to make them binding. No one, not even Father, could hold Philippe to anything.

  A letter arrived from Hever. Father was wondering why he had not heard from Philippe. What was going on? He demanded to be told.

  She would not cry. She had her pride, the pride of ranks of noble ancestors. She would not let Philippe treat her like this. She would seek him out at the earliest opportunity and end it. But for now she must remember her duty to the Queen. With a heart like lead, she opened the door.

  Her moment came when Claude, who was pregnant again, was sleeping one afternoon. Anne was not the only maid-of-honour to snatch an hour away from her duties. At least two others had disappeared, no doubt for clandestine meetings with their sweethearts. Once, that would have been her. The memory almost choked her. It had been a week now, with no word from Philippe – the worst week of her life. She had spent it fending off all conversation and trying desperately not to cry.

  This was her last card to play. Maybe the prospect of losing her would make Philippe wake up and realise that he loved her after all. But for that ploy to work, she must be strong and show him that she meant what she said.

  She found him in the gardens, watching a game of tennis. When he saw her, a look of dismay fleetingly shadowed his face, but then he recovered himself and bowed.

  ‘Anne,’ he said.

  ‘Tell me!’ she said. ‘Was it the thought of my being sister to a whore that killed your love for me? Was it that I concealed her shame from you? Or was it that my father didn’t offer you enough for me?’

  Philippe had the grace to blench.

  ‘Don’t answer the last question!’ Anne snapped. ‘You never wrote to him about the jointure, did you? He wrote to me, asking why he had not heard from you. I told him that I am no longer interested in marrying you, and that you are not worthy. I came to tell you that, and that I do not want anything more to do with you!’

  Philippe had flushed an angry red, but before he had a chance to answer, Anne walked away, holding her head high.

  Her proud resolution soon wavered. Even before she had reached Claude’s apartments, she was realising that she had lost her love irrevocably, and that, thanks to her determination to be the one to finish it, there was now no chance of putting things right. That broke her. Ignoring the stares of the Queen’s attendants, and Claude calling after her, she fled up to the dorter and collapsed on her bed, crying hopelessly. Of course, they came after her. Claude demanded to know what was wrong, but Anne could not speak, nor stem the tears. She wept for so long that her nose began to bleed, sending her fellow maids running for cloths, water and powdered eggshell, which someone said worked well as a cure. It was an eternity before the bleeding stopped, leaving Anne with an unsightly scab blocking one nostril. She could not have felt more wretched.

  How she stumbled through the days that followed she never knew. She felt like banging her head against the wall to stop the misery. The Queen, thinking she was ill, gave her leave to rest, but that way lay madness. She did not want leisure to think about Philippe and what could have been. It was torment to remember the love they had shared. It had been the most magical time of her life.

  Claude, while kind, rarely noticed how her maids were feeling, but Anne’s misery was too great to ignore. One day, as she was kneeling at Claude’s feet, stitching a torn hem, the Queen reached down a hand and lifted her chin.

  ‘What is the matter, mademoiselle?’

  Anne felt the ready tears welling.

  ‘Madame, I have broken with Philippe du Moulin,’ she whispered. ‘I cannot speak of my reasons, the matter is too raw. I told him I did not wish to marry him, but I do! I do! I love him, God help me – but he no longer loves me.’

  Claude’s eyes were full of concern. ‘He has not done anything dishonourable?’

  ‘Apart from growing cold towards me, no, Madame,’ Anne said, knowing that Claude would have viewed much of Philippe’s behaviour as dishonourable. But she too had been taken in.

  ‘I am sorry to hear this,’ the Queen said. ‘He is a very stupid young man if he lets you go. Maybe he will come to his senses.’

  It was what Anne wanted to hear. She was living on hope, if little else. But as the days passed, that hope began to die a lingering death.

  And then, at a court masque, she was sitting in her place watching the dancing, trying to remember what it had felt like to enjoy herself, and looking enviously at the happy, laughing couples weaving about the floor in their fantastical costumes, when two feet planted themselves before her and she looked up to see Philippe standing there. Her heart lurched.

  ‘Hello, Anne,’ he said, looking nervous, but as handsome as ever. ‘How are you?’

  She could not speak. This was the moment she had longed for!

  ‘I am well,’ she replied, aware that her voice sounded hoarse.

  ‘What have you been doing?’ he asked.

  She could not help herself. ‘Missing you,’ she said. He needed to know that.

  There was a pause.

  ‘I have missed you too,’ he said. Could it be true? Her hopes began to revive.

  ‘This isn’t easy for me either,’ Philippe went on, sitting down beside her and looking straight ahead. ‘We were happy together, and I wanted us to go on like that, but things became complicated.’

 

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