Petals of the Tower

1520

French Court of Francis I

They say France is a place of light.

Of laughter.

Of beauty so dazzling it blinds the eye and softens the will.

They are not wrong.

But they do not see everything.

I learned that quickly.

When I first arrived at the court of Francis I of France, I thought I had stepped into something out of legend.

Silks that shimmered like water.

Music that never seemed to end.

Voices layered in wit, flirtation, and ambition.

And beneath it all—

Power.

It moves differently here than it does in England.

Less rigid.

More fluid.

More dangerous.

I was not born to this world.

Not truly.

I was sent here.

Placed carefully, as one might place a piece upon a board.

My father—

Thomas Boleyn, 1st Earl of Wiltshire—

understood what France could offer.

Polish.

Influence.

Opportunity.

And so I learned.

At first, I watched.

Always watching.

The women of the court were not like those in England.

They spoke freely.

Laughed boldly.

Challenged men without fear though never without calculation.

I studied their movements.

Their words.

Their silences.

Especially hers.

Claude of France.

She was not the loudest.

Not the most dazzling.

But she was constant.

Steady in a court that shifted like sand.

From her, I learned restraint.

From others—

I learned everything else.

French came easily to me.

Soon, I spoke it as though it had always been mine.

“Tu apprends vite,” one lady told me with a smile.

(You learn quickly.)

“I must,” I replied. “Or I will be forgotten.”

She laughed.

But I did not.

Because I understood something even then:

To be forgotten is to be nothing.

Music filled the halls daily.

Lutes.

Voices.

The delicate rise and fall of song.

I learned to dance not as a duty, but as an art.

To move not just with grace, but with intention.

Every step a statement.

Every turn a choice.

“Encore,” my instructor would say.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Until my body moved without thought.

Until I became something more than I had been.

But it was not only courtly arts I learned.

There were other lessons.

Quieter ones.

Hidden ones.

Not taught openly.

Not spoken of in daylight.

I first heard whispers in the chambers of the ladies.

Soft voices.

Half-laughter.

Half-warning.

“Elle sait des choses…”

(She knows things…)

I asked no questions.

Not at first.

But curiosity is a dangerous companion.

And I have never been one to ignore it.

Her name was never spoken plainly.

But I found her.

Not in the great halls.

Not among silk and gold.

But in a quieter place.

A chamber set apart.

Candles burned low, their light unsteady.

The air carried the scent of herbs I could not name.

She looked at me as though she had expected me.

“You are not like the others,” she said.

I did not deny it.

“Neither are you,” I answered.

A small smile.

“Good,” she said. “Then you may learn.”

I should have left.

I knew that even then.

But something within me—

Something that had always been there—

leaned forward instead of turning away.

“What do you teach?” I asked.

She stepped closer, her gaze steady.

“Power,” she said simply.

Not the power of crowns.

Not the power of titles.

Something quieter.

Something older.

Understanding.

Influence.

The unseen threads that bind people to desire, to fear, to belief.

She spoke of nature.

Of the way the world moves beneath what we see.

Of symbols.

Of intention.

Of will.

“People think power is given,” she said. “It is not. It is taken by those who understand how.”

I listened.

I learned.

Not spells, as children’s tales would have it.

Not the foolish tricks whispered about by those who fear what they do not understand.

But something far more dangerous.

How to watch.

How to wait.

How to speak in a way that lingers.

How to become—

Unforgettable.

At court, nothing changed.

And yet—

Everything did.

I moved differently.

Spoke differently.

Men noticed.

Women watched.

I saw how attention could be drawn.

Held.

Denied.

How desire could be shaped.

I did not yet know where this path would lead.

But I knew one thing with absolute certainty:

I would not return to England as I had left it.

I would return—

Transformed.

One evening, beneath a sky streaked with gold and fading light, I stood among the ladies as music drifted across the gardens.

“Do you miss England?” one of them asked me.

I considered the question.

Then I smiled.

“I miss nothing that cannot be remade.”

And in that moment—

Though I did not yet see the full shape of it—

My future had already begun to unfold.

Not as fate.

But as something I would claim.

Whatever the cost.

1521–1522

French Court of Francis I

There is a moment quiet, almost imperceptible when learning becomes transformation.

By 1521, I no longer feel like a visitor in France.

I belong.

Not by birth.

Not by right.

But by will.

The court of Francis I of France no longer overwhelms me.

It reveals itself.

I see the patterns now.

The alliances that shift like wind.

The glances that carry meaning beneath their surface.

The smiles that conceal more than they offer.

And I move within it—

Not as a girl learning—

But as a woman shaping.

My lessons continue.

In music.

In language.

In dance.

But those are no longer the most important things I study.

It is people who interest me now.

What they want.

What they fear.

What they will risk to gain one and avoid the other.

“Tu observes trop,” one courtier tells me with a half-smile.

(You observe too much.)

I return the smile.

“Et toi, pas assez.”

(And you, not enough.)

He laughs.

But I do not.

Because it is true.

And then—

There are the other lessons.

The hidden ones.

I return often to that quiet chamber, where candles burn low and shadows seem to listen.

She does not ask why I come.

She already knows.

“Show me,” I say one evening.

She studies me for a long moment.

“Power is not shown,” she replies. “It is revealed.”

Still—

She teaches.

Not openly.

Never plainly.

But in fragments.

A sprig of rosemary placed beneath a pillow.

“Memory,” she says. “To bind thought to thought.”

Lavender burned in secret.

“Calm,” she murmurs. “Or the illusion of it.”

A whispered phrase, spoken not for sound but for intention.

“These are not tricks,” she tells me sharply when I ask. “They are tools. The world bends to those who understand how to guide it.”

I listen.

I remember.

And I begin to see how such knowledge might be used.

Not to conjure storms or summon shadows—

But to influence what already exists.

To turn a glance into interest.

A hesitation into desire.

A doubt into certainty.

There are darker lessons, too.

I hesitate at first.

But only briefly.

“Not all power is gentle,” she says, placing a small bundle of herbs before me.

The scent is sharper.

Bitter.

“Some things must be… encouraged to fail.”

I meet her gaze.

“And if they do not deserve it?”

Her answer is simple.

“Then you should not use it.”

I consider that.

And understand something important:

Power is not dangerous because it exists.

It is dangerous because of who wields it.

By 1522, I am no longer the girl who arrived years before.

I have learned too much.

Seen too much.

Understood too much.

And the court sees it too.

I feel it in the way conversations shift when I enter.

In the way eyes follow not openly, but enough.

I am no longer overlooked.

I am noticed.

And that is a beginning.

But France is not my end.

That truth comes quietly.

A letter.

A summons.

My father—

Thomas Boleyn, 1st Earl of Wiltshire—

calls me home.

England.

The word feels strange now.

Distant.

Yet something stirs within me at the thought.

Because I know—

Without fully knowing how—

That what I have become here will not remain hidden there.

On my final evening, I return once more to the chamber of shadows.

She is waiting.

As always.

“You are leaving,” she says.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

I frown slightly.

“You do not wish me to stay?”

She smiles faintly.

“No. You have learned what you need.”

“And what is that?” I ask.

She steps closer.

“That power does not belong to places,” she says. “It belongs to people.”

Her gaze sharpens.

“And you… will carry yours with you.”

I hesitate, then ask the question that has lingered unspoken.

“Will I be remembered?”

Her smile deepens, just slightly.

“Oh, yes,” she says. “But not in the way you think.”

I leave France at dawn.

The sky pale.

The air still.

As the carriage begins to move, I do not look back immediately.

Not because I feel no attachment.

But because I understand something now:

The past is not something to cling to.

It is something to build from.

When I finally do look back, it is only for a moment.

Then I turn forward.

Toward England.

Toward a court I have not seen in years.

Toward a king I have never truly known.

Toward a future that waits—

Not to be given.

But to be taken.

And as the road stretches ahead, I allow myself a small, knowing smile.

Because whatever awaits me there—

I will not meet it as I once would have.

I will meet it as I am now.

And I am no longer a girl who can be forgotten.