Though born without great beauty, wealth, or title, Anne Boleyn blossomed into a captivating woman. She used her wiles to win the heart of England's most powerful man, King Henry VIII, and persuade him to defy everyone--including his own wife—to make her his new queen. But Anne's ambition was her fatal flaw. This is the true story of the girl everyone loved to hate. Carolyn Meyer's engrossing third novel in the award-winning Young Royals series tells Anne's fascinating story in her own voice—from her life as an awkward girl to the dramatic moments before her death. "Masterful."-- VOYA Carolyn Meyer  is the acclaimed author of more than fifty books for young people. Her many award-winning novels include Mary, Bloody Mary, an ABA Pick of the Lists, an NCSS-CBC Notable Children's Trade Book in the Field of Social Studies, and an ALA Best Book for Young Adults; Anastasia: The Last Grand Duchess , a New York Times bestseller; White Lilacs , an ALA Best Book for Young Adults, an NYPL Best Book for the Teen Age, and an IRA Young Adults' Choice; and  Marie, Dancing, a BookSense Pick .  Ms. Meyer lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Visit her website at www.readcarolyn.com. Doomed Queen Anne A Young Royals Book By Carolyn Meyer Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company Copyright © 2002 Carolyn Meyer All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-0-15-205086-3 CHAPTER 1 The Grand Rendezvous 1520 Somewhere in that enormous throng was my hateful sister, and I resolved to find her. It had been three years since Mary went home to England. Now she'd come back to France, and I wished to show her how much I had changed. She would see that I was no longer the ill-favored child she'd once taunted. I was now a fine young lady of the court! But first I had to find her. Permission to go in search of my sister would never have been granted by the mother of the maids, the squint-eyed Madame Mathilde, and so I determined to go without asking. I dressed in one of my prettiest gowns and restlessly awaited my chance to slip away. The moment Madame Mathilde was distracted, I gathered my courage and my skirts and hurried out of the French royal encampment. Plunging into the noisy tumult, I was swept up in the colorful jostling of lords and ladies, knights and priests, tradesmen and servants, horses and dogs. Surely, with such a crowd, my absence would not be noticed. Then I saw a one-eyed man watching me. Had he been set to spying by the mother of the maids? His look chilled me, and with racing heart I ran toward the English camp. I had just passed my thirteenth birthday in June of the year 1520 and was part of the great entourage that accompanied François, king of France, to meet with Henry VIII, king of England. The entire French court had made the five-day journey north from Paris and King Henry and his great entourage — including my sister — had sailed across the English Channel so that the two powerful rulers could pledge their mutual friendship. Their grand rendezvous was to be an event of unrivaled splendor. Thousands of artisans and workmen had labored for months to transform this dusty plain into two royal encampments. Hundreds of tents fashioned of cloth of gold and silk in brilliant colors shimmered in the late afternoon sun. No wonder it was called the Field of Cloth of Gold. What excitement! Butchers hurried by with hogs suspended from poles; bakers carried great wooden trays stacked high with manchets made of the finest wheaten flour. Musicians played upon their pipes, and I stopped to watch a trained bear dance while his master drummed. But then I thought I saw the one-eyed man again, and I hurried on. Once I reached the English camp, hardly anyone took notice of me, a small, dark-haired girl, asking for Lady Mary Bullen or Marie Boleyn (our father had changed the spelling of our family name from Bullen to the more fashionably French-sounding Boleyn). Everyone seemed to know who she was. She had once been a blazing star in the French court, and it was no surprise that she had managed to attract the same sort of attention in England as well. I was directed to a sumptuous tent of yellow silk. Suddenly I felt uneasy. How would my sister receive me? What if she laughed at me! Cautiously I pushed aside the curtain and peered inside. My sister rested upon an embroidered pillow, sipping from a silver goblet. She was full-breasted and narrow-waisted, her hair as thick and rich as honey, her fair complexion touched with pink, her eyes the color of spring violets. Her brows were delicately arched, her rosy lips pleasingly bow shaped. She shone with the special radiance of one well pleased with herself. The moment I found her, I regretted it. The refinements I had acquired — the elegant wardrobe, the refined manners, the excellent French, the graceful dancing — all meant nothing. My sister had become a great beauty, and I knew at once that I was still the ill-favored child. At the sight of me, she set down the goble