The Tudor Witch Book 1 Mistress

1520 Balinghem, France (Edited)

I am surrounded by some of the most powerful people in the whole of the two realms. They have clearly dressed in their best for the occasion: Rich ruffled clothes, large indulgent jewels, exquisite perfume. Eager guests fill the small tented space—squeezed together—hoping to gain a view of the scene in front.

I dress similarly to the nobility present. Mother has recently gifted me a new gown, especially for this state occasion. I like to think myself free from the sin of pride, but even I can appreciate the expense of it. It had been made to match the newest fashions at the French court.

I smile while admiring the material. It hosts sleeves which are cut long, made from silk damask, in red, the shade as deep as blood, with a mass of small stones scattered across the bodice, making it glisten brightly. The outfit is completed with a beautifully decorated hood, adorned with small pearls of notable worth.

I shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. The corset is tight on my delicate frame, trying to create a bosom where this is none. I try and push it to the back of my mind. It is the price of wealth and beauty; I must try to appear unaffected by the sweltering heat of the tight crowd.

No one sees my discomfort. They are all too focused on the two men in front, whose combined aura has everyone hushed. Although silent, I can almost sense the pressing tension as each courtier presses eagerly forward, trying to see the two Monarchs—King Henry VIII and King Francis—together in one place, embracing hands.

Even from a distance the Monarchs' boisterous talk is loud enough to be heard clear above the soft music and mute gathering. I stand on to the tips of my toes, hoping to catch a glimpse of this foreign King, yet I am only twelve years old and of an average height, and am too small to see above the towering courtiers.

I frown in annoyance. I may be new to the French court, its politics and intricacies, but even I know that this event is of the most importance. It is a chance for two countries to come together in peace, hopefully stopping the trail of wars our countries have shared throughout time. This event will be known later as the Field of the Cloth of Gold.

Two Christian Kings burst into the brim courts. I can feel my mother's hard gaze fall upon me moments before I feel her bony hand on my shoulder. This was a gesture she did frequently, and was often done out of admonishment. But sometimes, I think she does it just to see me flinch.

"Be still." She whispers close behind me, gripping my shoulder tighter.

I take a sharp intake of breath. If I fail to do what is expected, I will be wounded. Mother is an ambitious woman, who has managed to become a confidant—a trusted friend—to Queen Consort Claude of France, and has secured me a position as a maid in waiting. One misplaced word or step, and I will suffer the consequences.

** *

There are to be days and nights of celebrations ahead of us. Diane de Poitiers, the gossiping woman that she is, said that we are all going to host for the English King the first night. By all, she means Queen Claude, but we are all allowed to attend as her ladies.

We were told to be ready—to dress to impress—then we would be escorted to Arde. Most of us are already dressed in our best clothes, so we enter the Queen's chamber, pestering the English ladies who held court with us to tell us everything they knew. They bask in attention, switching from perfect English to French, fluently, and chiding us when we mispronounced a word. I do not listen long.

Arde is the French side of the massive collaboration of courts. It is all peculiar to me, for we are in France, but Mother tells me the English held court in their own territory. She also warned me not to speak of things I did not understand, especially to others. Mother says tonight is important.mI am to be everything a Lady should be: beautiful and elegant, engaging but not loud, delicate in every gesture and dance.

Diane was right in her foretelling. Queen Claude is to host in honor of King Henry while our bonny King Francis is to attend the English Queen, Katherine. I am far behind in the long line of ladies who are admitted into the large marquee. It is only when we are seated that I can see King Henry clearly, seated on the dais next to our Queen.

"He is very handsome, is he not?" Francoise says outwardly, receiving grins and enthusiastic nods from several ladies.

I glance up at the man. I do not see him that way. They say he is young, but to me he is old. He has spent his time conversing with our Queen. She laughs at his jests and looks upon him with interest.

"He can not stop staring out our Queen's rounding figure. Perhaps he is jealous," Madeleine says slightly quieter.

We all glance at him then, and it is true. His eyes fall now and again to our Queen's rounded stomach. At seven months pregnant, she could no longer hide her condition with ruffles. Her dress has been altered, flaunting the sign of a new Prince or Princess.

She continues. "They say his Queen has had six pregnancies, and only one heir, a Princess. Our Queen must appear the opposite boosting such a constant string, one after the other."

"Enough, Madeleine. We can not be insulting, not here," my mother reprimands.

I continue to eat my food and sip my drink, as delicately as I can manage. The king, now that I have seen him, holds no more interest for me. He has found his fancy in some of the ladies of the court and I, with no bosom and new budding curves, am of no interest to the man.

When the music begins its sweet tune, the court starts to dance. We can not help but get caught up in the excitement of it all. It is a fine banquet and we all enjoy the joys of music and dance. The King offers his hand to as many ladies as he can, and those who are not offered his hand dance together.

The King leaves with his attendants early in the evening as arranged, making his way to his own Queen and court as our King would be leaving the English court to return to us. We graciously curtsy the foreign King goodbye, trying not to stumble.

Mother's shadow soon falls upon me. "How did the King find you?" She asks. "Find me? He did not even notice me." I laugh.

"He will be yours one day," she says.

I glance at my mother. Perhaps the wine has gone to her head. He is a King, he already has his Queen.