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several languages, that I’m adept at conversation, full of witty anecdotes, delightful stories of the French Court. These are compliments, to be sure, from a gentleman to a lady but they hold a draught of Truth. In deed Wyatt, gift in hand, had found me in the tiny day room set aside for Queen Katherine’s waiting women, quite alone and sitting at the writing table quill in hand, a letter to my Mother almost done.
    I turned to see him, smiled an honest smile. For Wyatt is a great man among men. A writer, in deed the finest poet in Henrys English Court, handsome in the extreme, very tall and vital. He is said to be, save royal blood, Henrys equal and is in fact the Tudor King’s good and constant companion. Since my cold and miserable homecoming from the French King’s Court this gentleman has singled me from other ladies, showering me with more favors even than my fair Sister Mary. He flatters me boldly in his poems which are the cause of much admiration and some jealousy. But even this had not prepared me for so unusual a gift.
    “Few men and fewer ladies still, commit their words in such a way,” said he. “But in my mind there is none I know whose thoughts and dreams, whose wit and history should better grace these pages.” He said he found this courtly life too close and gregarious for easy fostering of solitary thoughts, but bade me remember that we are always alone, even in the midst of others. And then he said, “If you find a way to write with open heart to Diary, a friend with Truth, no detail spared, your tome like Petrarch’s works will contain the scattered fragments of your soul.”
    I was clean amazed. Thomas Wyatt, clever man, had offered up like some Yuletide walnut pressed within the soft sweet flesh of a date, an arch challenge hid within the kindest compliment. I knew then that despite small opportunity in a waiting ladies life for such work, that /
must write
and coupled with a careful plan, conceal my act of privacy. The carven chest I carried home from France has lock and key and there my journal intime shall find its safe repose.
    Wait! I hear the laughter of approaching Queen and ladies echoing down the passage. They come returning from some amusement, so I must end and join amongst them. Till then I shall remain
    Yours faithfully,
    Anne
    15 January 1522
    Diary,
    I’ve feigned a head ache and stayed behind, the others gone to see the bear baiting in the castle yard. I sit just near the window in my tiny room with quill in hand and think upon my daily life to find that Time has little changed my gloomy mood. Since my return from France to Henry’s dull provincial Court I wait upon his pious Queen, carrying her woollen sleeves or soiled linen thro dark and narrow passages, the grey damp rock walls chilled by English mists that rise up from the Thames. They chill my heart as well and I find my self adrift in longing.
    Had Father not been called home from France, all cordial diplomacy with them in ruins, then I should be, as in my dreams still am, dancing nightly in Francis’ glittering Court.
There
was glamour, brilliance, beauty and there was wild and wicked amour. That devilish King (though to be fair Henry’s person compares in size and majesty and virile handsomeness) has a thing of which our Sovereign never dreamt or wished to have — bawdy, splendid love of lust which he does grant to each and every member of his elegant entourage.
    ‘Twas in France I spent my youth and education from early nursery days, close companion to the little lame Princess Renee. High arched windows of the royal palace welcomed in a kind of crystal light that made blaze each color to most extreme brightness. Every wall was hung, every nook was stuffed, every floor inlaid with priceless treasures — tapestries, paintings, statues and metalwork to tease and please the senses. Great philosophers, writers, scholars flocked there from every port. We would dine in the company of the great poet Marot, gaze for