“Have to get her used to her new life among people, people who walk about or who ride horses,” Peter said. “It must be a strange thing for birds, eh? And always there’s to be a reward for her. If you don’t give her a reward, she won’t work for you. You can’t force her to hunt for you — she’ll fly away and never come back. But you must not reward her too much. When her crop is full and she has no appetite, then she won’t hunt for you. She’ll do best when she’s a bit lean — not starving, mind, but beginning to think keenly of her next meal — that’s when you take her out. If you’ve trained her right, she’ll come back to you when you whistle.”
It took me days to learn the particular whistle that would bring Noisette to my glove. Once I made the mistake of practising the three quick notes when I was supposed to be studying Latin grammar, and Master Vives bashed his walking stick so hard on my desk that the silver fox head was thereafter cocked at a quizzical angle.
FINALLY NOISETTE and I were ready. Mounted on my white Spanish pony, I squinted up at the brilliant sky. On my left hand I wore my leather glove, thick enough to resist the talons of a hawk. High overhead Noisette swung lazily as though suspended by a string. I could make out the shape of her graceful wings as a dark blur against the cloudless blue sky.
Several of my ladies had ridden out with me. All but Lady Susan straggled behind, gossiping and laughing among themselves, while Susan and I trotted on ahead. Beside us rode the pompous Lord Ellington, the royal falconer. I leaned back in my saddle, searching for Peter. He saw me and grinned.
I had become fond of Peter during the weeks of training. He had big ears and his eyes were set too close together. Unlike my weak eyes that could see next to nothing at a distance, Peter’s seemed to be as been as those of the hawks he worked with. I much admired his way with birds. He was patient and firm, unlike Master Vives, who was neither.
I took such pleasure in Peter’s company that I had sometimes wondered if it might be possible to marry him. He would surely make a fine companion, and he would let me rule England just as he let me do whatever else I wanted. But I knew that was impossible. I could no more choose my own husband than fly like Noisette.
Noisette circled slowly overhead. I gazed up at her, thrilled; for a moment I imagined that I was that merlin, flying free and wild and solitary — alone! I was never alone. Salisbury slept beside my bed and two servant girls lay on pallets near the door to my chamber. From the moment I arose in the morning until I said amen to my nightly prayers, I moved through the day surrounded by servants, courtiers, councillors, priests and confessors, tutors, ladies-in-waiting.
Suddenly Noisette spotted her prey. She tucked in her wings and dived, dropping straight down and snatching a lark out of the air. Not only did I envy Noisette's freedom and her solitude but also her deadly power. I whistled, and Noisette came to my fist with the lark clutched in her talons. The falconer reached for the lark and slipped it into the game bag. I presented Noisette with her reward, a bit of meat from the falconer’s supply.
Riding home at the end of the day, my game bag half-full, I wondered if my father knew I was learning one of his favourite sports. I thought of my father far more often, it seemed, than he thought of me. Although my mother wrote nearly every week, it had been months since I had had so much as a word from the king. Any message he had for me was sent through Wolsey.
“Why does he not come to visit me?” I asked Susan days later as she accompanied me for a walk. The weather had turned foul, and Susan was the only one of my ladies who did not mind going out in the rain. “Deer hunting is one of his favourite pastimes and the deer parks here exist for his pleasure. Why then do I hear nothing from him?”
“They say that the king has taken up falconry again,” Susan replied cryptically, pulling her cloak up over her head.
“Then he could come and hunt with me! He could bring my mother as well. Why does he not bring the queen here, so that I may see them both?”
“His hunting companion is not the queen,” Susan said in a voice so low that I scarcely heard it. “It is my cousin Anne Boleyn.”
Her words took away my breath. “Lady Anne? But why?”
“It is said that the king is in love with Anne,” Susan replied, head down, avoiding my eyes.
“What lies are you telling me?” I demanded furiously.
“Sadly, madam, it is the truth. The king makes no secret of his passion. My father speaks of it proudly: King Henry is seen everywhere with Lady Anne by his side. Queen Catherine appears with him only at large public occasions.”
“I don’t believe you!” I cried. I turned and splashed back to my chambers through the pelting rain, leaving Lady Susan to walk a little way behind.
As a servant girl helped me off with my wet cloak and sodden shoes, I spied the letter on my table. It bore the thick wax seal of Cardinal Wolsey. His letters seldom brought me good news — was I to move again? — and so I waited until I had changed into dry clothes to break the seal and read the letter.
It bore a message from the king, commanding me to come to Greenwich for Yuletide. At last I had been invited to the palace, to spend Christmas with my father and mother. My mood lifted at once. But then a darker shadow passed over: Anne Boleyn would surely be there.
I remembered well the way my father had looked at Anne as we danced for the French king. And now Lady Susan claimed that my father was in love with Anne! I vowed that I would not believe these hurtful rumours until I saw proof with my own eyes. I would have that opportunity at Yuletide, still several weeks away.
Day after day for the next month, my eyes burned, my head throbbed, my body ached with fatigue, My lessons seemed longer, more wearisome, and duller than ever. All I could think about was what I would find when I travelled to Greenwich for Christmas.
I was studying Utopia, a book written by my father’s friend Sir Thomas More, and I found the work hard going. I was forbidden to read idle books of chivalry and romance for entertainment. Meanwhile my ladies-in-waiting played cards and rolled dice to amuse themselves. I longed to join them, but I was not allowed trifling pastimes.
The hours crawled by. All day long tutors in mathematics, geography, French, Italian, and music took their turns. In some of these subjects Lady Susan, Lady Winifred, and a few other court ladies participated, but usually I studied alone. My eyelids would begin to droop, my head to sag, and Master Vives would shriek in my ear, “Pay attention! Think not to avoid the task!”
Only after the formal lessons were over and the prayers finished for the night did Salisbury, beloved Salisbury, teach me what I needed most to know.
One November night as a storm rattled the windows of the bedchamber and the flame of a single candle guttered and died, my governess commenced a long story.
“Mary, you know some of this story,” she began, “but perhaps you have not understood what it means. You must understand it now, because I believe that grave changes lie ahead and you must be prepared.”
I lay absolutely still under the thick satin coverlet. “Go on, I beg you.”
“Under your grandfather’s rule, England prospered, and the royal treasury filled with wealth. He intended for his older son, Arthur, to