Philippa (4 page)

“You are jealous, Millicent,” Anne Chambers said. “Philippa’s father was Sir Owein Meredith, a simple knight ’tis true, but one who stood in great favor with the king, and the king’s father, for his deep and abiding loyalty to the house of Tudor. He was a Welshman, and served the Tudors since his childhood.”

“But her mother is a peasant!” Millicent persisted.

Anne laughed. “Her mother was the heiress to a great estate. She is hardly a peasant. And the gossip goes that she did the queen a great kindness at her own expense many years ago. The lady of Friarsgate spent part of her youth here at court in the company of two queens, both of whom call her friend, Millicent. You would be wise to consider these facts. Philippa Meredith is most popular among our companions. I know of no one who dislikes her, or says ill of her but you. Beware lest you be sent home in disgrace. The queen does not like those who are mean of spirit.”

“I shall be leaving soon anyway,” Millicent huffed.

“Is your marriage agreement then set?” Anne inquired.

“Well, almost,” Millicent replied. “There are a few trifling matters that my father insists be settled before he will sign the betrothal contracts.” She brushed her white-blond hair slowly. “He does not say what these matters are.”

“I have heard it said,” Jane Hawkins chimed in, “that Sir Walter wants more gold in your dower than your father has offered, and your father has had to go to the goldsmiths to borrow that gold. He is obviously anxious enough to be rid of you to put himself into debt, Millicent.”

“Oh, is that it?” Anne Chambers said innocently. “I had heard something about several bastards Sir Walter fathered, and one of them on the daughter of a London merchant who will have remuneration for his daughter’s lost virtue, support for his grandchild, and Sir Walter’s name for the lad.”

“That is an evil untruth!” Millicent cried. “Sir Walter is the most honorable and virtuous of men. He would never even look upon another girl now that he is to be betrothed to me. As for any women he may have approached in his youth, they are guilty and culpable whores who are no better than they ought to be. Do not dare to repeat such slander, or I shall complain to our mistress, the queen.”

Anne and Jane moved off giggling. They were more than aware of Philippa’s plan for Sir Walter, a pompous gentleman known for a lustful nature that he attempted to conceal. They had deliberately baited Millicent Langholme, knowing that she would be closely watching Sir Walter, and that she would be able to do nothing but fume when he succumbed to Philippa’s blandishments, which they were certain he would. None of Philippa’s friends had ever considered that she might do something like this, but she was changing before their very eyes. It was, of course, the result of her hurt feelings over Giles FitzHugh. But Millicent deserved what she was about to get.

Philippa had dressed carefully this afternoon. She was more fortunate than most of the maids of honor in that she had her uncle Thomas’s London house in which she might store a larger than usual wardrobe for herself, as the queen’s maids had but minimal space for their possessions, which had to be packed up at a moment’s notice and moved to the next royal dwelling in which Katherine would take up residence. Philippa was generous enough to share this luxury with her friends, Cecily, Maggie Radcliffe, Jane Hawkins, and Anne Chambers. Her own tiring woman, Lucy, would be sent to fetch whatever was needed when it was needed.

Philippa had chosen to wear a pale peach-colored silk brocade gown. It had a low square neckline edged with a band of gold embroidery, and a bell-shaped skirt. The upper sleeves of the gown were fitted; the lower sleeve was a wide, deep cuff of peach satin, lined in the peach-colored silk brocade, and beneath which could be seen a full false undersleeve of the sheerest natural-colored silk with a ruffled cuff at the wrist. From Philippa’s waist a little silk brocade purse hung on a long gold cord. On her head Philippa wore a little French hood, of the style made popular by Mary Tudor, edged in pearls, with a small sheer veil that hung down her back. Her long auburn hair was visible beneath the veil, and was so long it actually hung below it. About her neck Philippa wore a fine gold chain with a pendant made from the diamond and emerald brooch the king’s grandmother had sent her when she had been born.

“You are not wearing a high-necked chemise,” Cecily noted, seeing no contrasting fabric beneath her friend’s gown.

“No,” Philippa said with a mischievous smile. “I am not.”

“But your breasts are quite visible,” Cecily continued nervously.

“I need bait sufficient if I am going hunting,” Philippa returned wickedly.

Cecily’s eyes widened, and then she giggled nervously. “Oh, please, remember your reputation, Philippa! I know Giles hurt your feelings, but losing your good name is no way to get back at him. I suspect no man is worth a woman’s losing her character.”

“Frankly, from my little talk with Giles I am certain he would not care what happened to me, Cecily. He never loved me at all or he would have treated me with more kindness. If the church means more to him than marriage to me, so be it. But he did not consider the difficult position into which he was thrusting me. He thought only of himself. And that I cannot forgive,” Philippa said. “I have kept myself chaste for marriage. I have never even allowed a boy to kiss me, as you well know, although others have. You have! Soon enough my mother will find some propertied squire, or my stepfather will bring forth the son of one of his Scots friends. I shall have to marry, and I shall have had no fun at all! And worse, I shall have to leave court. So what if I am a little bit naughty now. What matter if I gain a slight reputation for myself. The squire or the Scot will never know. I will retain my virginity for my husband, whoever he may be.”

“Well,” Cecily allowed, “you have really been far better than the rest of us. And now that the king’s minions are out of favor thanks to Cardinal Wolsey, I suppose it is safe to trifle with a few of the young men here at court.”

“Starting with Millicent’s Sir Walter,” Philippa replied. “I shall teach the little bitch to talk behind my back. And the best part is that while she will be angry at Sir Walter, she will still have to wed him, and she will want to for the prestige such a marriage will bring her.” Philippa chuckled.

“Poor Sir Walter,” kindhearted Cecily said. “He is marrying a shrew.”

“I do not feel sorry for him at all,” Philippa responded. “He is in the midst of a negotiation to marry, yet he will be easily tempted by just a glimpse of my breasts. I do not think him an honorable fellow at all. He and Millicent deserve each other. I expect they shall be extremely unhappy together.”

“Have you no pity then?” Cecily asked.

Philippa shook her head. “None. If a man cannot be honorable, then what is there? My father, they say, was an honorable and gentil knight. So is my relation, Lord Cambridge, and my stepfather, Logan Hepburn. I would certainly not settle for anything less in a man.”

“You have become hard,” Cecily responded.

Philippa shook her head. “Nay, I have always been exactly what I am.”

“
C
ome, my girls,” called the assistant mistress of the maids, Lady Brentwood. “The picnic is beginning. The queen has said you may wander at will this afternoon as long as two or three of you remain by her side. You will take turns, of course, to be fair.”

The queen’s maids of honor hurried from the Maidens’ Chamber chattering and laughing. A picnic by the river was a wonderful treat, and the formality of the court was always dispensed with on such an occasion. The day was a beautiful one. The skies were blue, and there was just the tiniest of breezes ruffling the flowers in the gardens. It was much too early to execute her plan, and so Philippa volunteered to remain by the queen for a time. She did not see Sir Walter yet, and she would want him to be just slightly drunk.

“How pretty you look, my child,” the queen told Philippa. “I am quite reminded of your mother when we were girls.” She held her squirming daughter in her lap, for the little princess had been brought forth from her nursery to join the festivities. “Mary, sit still, poppet. Papa will not be pleased.”

“Would you like me to take her for a walk, your highness?” Philippa inquired politely. “And I can play with her for a short time. I always helped mama look after my sisters and little brothers.”

The queen looked relieved. “Oh, Philippa, would you? The French ambassador is coming this afternoon to see her that he may write his master, King Francois, of Mary’s progress. Now that she is betrothed to the Dauphin the French watch her. I should prefer she be wed to my nephew, Charles. Yes, take her away, and try and keep her clean.”

Philippa curtseyed. “I will do my best, madame.” Then she held out her hand to the little princess. “Come, your highness. We shall walk about and admire all the lovely costumes that people are wearing today.”

Mary Tudor, thirty-nine months of age, slipped from her mother’s lap, and dutifully took Philippa Meredith’s outstretched hand. She was a pretty child with auburn hair much like Philippa’s, and serious eyes. She was dressed in a miniature gown that matched her mother’s royal garb. “Your gown is pretty,” she told Philippa. She was extremely intelligent, and despite her youth she could now carry on simple conversations in both English and Latin.

“Thank you, your highness,” Philippa said.

They walked down by the river, and the little girl pointed to the punts. “Go!” she told Philippa. “I want to go in the boat.”

Philippa shook her head. “Can you swim, your highness?”

“No,” little Mary responded.

“Then you cannot go into the punt. You must be able to swim if you go in the punts,” Philippa explained.

“Can you swim?” The oddly adult eyes looked at her.

“Yes,” Philippa replied with a smile, “I can.”

“Who taught you?” the princess demanded to know.

“A man named Patrick Leslie, who is earl of Glenkirk,” Philippa answered.

“Where?” the child questioned.

“In a lake on my mother’s lands,” Philippa said. “He taught my sisters Banon and Bessie too. We thought our lake cold, but he said the lochs of Scotland were far more chill. I went to Scotland once, but I never swam in a loch.”

“My auntie Meg is the queen of Scotland,” little Mary said.

“Not any longer,” Philippa corrected the princess. “As a widow who has remarried she is now known as the king’s mother. But I visited her court with my mother when she was queen. It was quite a fine court.”

“Better than my papa’s court?” the princess inquired slyly.

“There is no court as grand as King Henry’s,” Philippa quickly answered. “You know very well, your highness, that your papa is the grandest and the handsomest prince in all of Christendom.”

“Such delightful flattery!” the king said, coming up to them.

Philippa curtseyed low, her cheeks pink with her blush.

“Papa!” Mary Tudor cried, laughing as he swept her up into his embrace.

“And how is the most beautiful princess in all the wide world?” the king inquired of his daughter, bussing her heartily upon her rosy cheek.

The child giggled happily even as the king’s eye turned to Philippa.

“You are Rosamund Bolton’s daughter, are you not, mistress?” God’s wounds, how her pretty and innocent face took him back.

“Aye, your majesty, I am.” Philippa did not look directly at him. It was not polite to stare at the king, and he was known to dislike it.

The king reached out, and tipped Philippa’s face up with his index finger. “You are every bit as lovely as your mother was at your age. I knew her then, you know.”

“Aye, your majesty, she has told me.” And then Philippa giggled, unable to help herself. She quickly bit her lip to contain her laughter.

But the king chuckled, a deep, rich sound that rumbled up from the broad chest beneath his rich jewel-encrusted velvet doublet. “Ahhh,” he said, “then you know all. But of course I was a lad then, and filled with mischief.”

“And there was a wager involved as well,” Philippa replied mischievously.

“Ahah! Hah! Hah!” the king chortled. “Indeed there was, Mistress Philippa, and my grandmother collected the ante, which she put in the poor box at Westminster. I learned then never to allow my pride to dictate a wager.” He set his daughter down. “I have heard that Renfrew’s younger son has decided to take holy orders. I am sorry.”

Philippa actually felt the tears welling up in her eyes, and hastily she brushed them away. “It is obviously God’s will,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction, and the king heard it.

“If I can be of help, Mistress Philippa,” Henry Tudor said quietly. “I still count your mother among my friends, for all she married a wild Scot.”

“Thank you, your majesty,” Philippa replied, curtseying. “But I would not have you think ill of my stepfather. Logan Hepburn is a good man.”

The king nodded. “Take my daughter back to her mother now. Then go and join your friends so you may have some fun, Philippa Meredith. That is a royal command!” And he smiled down at her. “I remember your father also, my girl. He, too, was a good man, and as loyal a servant as the house of Tudor ever had. His children have my friendship. Remember that, Philippa Meredith. Now, run along! ’Tis the last of May, and the day is for divertissements.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Philippa responded, and she curtseyed once more. Then taking little Mary’s hand she moved off in the direction of Queen Katherine.

The king watched her go. Was it possible that Rosamund Bolton’s daughter was that old now? Old enough to marry, and have her heart broken. And there were two other Meredith girls, and his sister had said there were sons by her Scotsman. And what did he have? One little daughter, and a wife who was too old to bear him the boys he needed. The queen had lost a child six months ago. When she carried a babe to term it was born dead, or lingered but a few days before dying as they all had but for Mary. Something was very wrong. The physicians said she could have no more children. Was God trying to tell him something? He looked across the lawns to where his wife sat. Her once fine skin was sallow now, and her beautiful hair was faded. She was spending more and more time on her knees in prayer, and less and less time on her back doing her duty. And surrounding herself with such pretty girls did little to make her enticing.