Philippa (41 page)

“Guy-Paul,” the earl said, coming to greet their guest. “And I am no longer in the cardinal’s service, but my wife is one of the queen’s women.”

“Wife? You have taken a wife, Crispin?”

“Do you not think it was about time, Guy-Paul? Philippa, this is my cousin, Guy-Paul St. Claire, the comte de Renard. Cousin, my wife.”

Philippa held out her hand to the count. “Monsieur le comte,” she said politely.

“Madame la comtesse,” he said, his blue eyes sweeping over her. He kissed her hand and then, taking her by the shoulders, kissed both of her cheeks. Then setting her back he said admiringly,
“Mon
cher Crispin, you have a most beautiful wife.”

“How charming of you to say it, though it be not true, monsieur le comte,” Philippa quickly spoke up for herself. “I will admit to being a pretty woman, but nothing more.” She smiled at him, moving back just slightly. “However, you will find among our court several great beauties.”

Guy-Paul St. Claire looked slightly surprised by her words, but then he grinned. “I can see, madame la comtesse, that I shall not win you over with my charm.”

“Only a little bit,” Philippa returned. “Please, will you not sit?” She turned to her husband. “I will fetch wine, my lord.” She moved away to a table along the side of the tent where a tray with decanters and goblets had been set up.

The two men sat, and the Frenchman asked, “How long have you had this wife, cousin? I do not remember you having a wife the last time we met.”

“We were wed the last day of April,” came the answer.

“She is rich?” The question was blunt, but fair.

“She had a piece of property I desired, and came with a good-sized dowry as well,” the earl replied.

“But not of a noble family,” the comte said.

The earl shook his head. “She was an excellent bargain nonetheless, and her connections cannot be faulted. Her mother is a friend of the queen, and Philippa has been in service to Katherine for four years. The queen is most fond of my wife.”

Guy-Paul St. Claire nodded. “It is good every few generations to wed a woman from a slightly lower class. It strengthens the blood,” he observed. “I must consider it myself one of these days. The family is becoming most demanding, I fear. My sister says I shall have no seed for sons left if I keep having bastards.” He chuckled.

“How many now?” his cousin inquired.

The comte considered thoughtfully. “I think it is eight sons, and four daughters.”

“You have always been a man to do things in the grand manner,” the earl responded. “But it is time, Guy-Paul, to take a wife. I recommend it. And you are two years older than I am, after all.”

“Wine, my lords,” Philippa said, holding out a tray. She had listened carefully, and overheard everything the two men had said.

“Sit down and join us,
chérie,”
the comte invited her, and she did.

“I was not aware my husband had relations in France,” she murmured, and sipped at her own wine. There was so much she didn’t know about Crispin, other than the fact they had a great deal of enjoyment from each other in their bedsport.

“The common ancestor had two sons,” the comte told her. “The eldest, of course, was his heir. The younger went with Duke William of Normandy when he claimed England. He was rewarded for his service with lands there.”

“But,” the earl took up the tale, “the two branches of the family have never grown apart. We have fought on opposite sides against one another in the service of our kings. We have fought side by side on crusade. I spent two summers as a boy here in France with the St. Claires, and Guy-Paul spent two summers in England with me. Our women have married their cousins now and again. Each generation corresponds.”

Philippa nodded. “I like that your families have always kept in contact with each other. Once my mother’s family had a similar situation, but they did not remain close. Only a fortunate coincidence brought us back together again.”

“You are one of the queen’s women, Crispin tells me,” the comte said.

“I have been a maid of honor for four years,” Philippa responded. “When we return to England, however, the queen has said she is dismissing me so I may do my duty as my husband’s wife, and give him heirs. She did not do so sooner because she knows how very much I wanted to come to France with her, and how I will miss my service.”

“Then you like this court of your King Henry,” he replied.

“It is the finest court in all the world!” Philippa said enthusiastically.

“How shall you bear not being a part of it?” he asked slyly.

“I cannot, but I will,” Philippa responded. “My father was in service to the Tudors from the time he was six years of age. My mother has husbanded a large estate, and made it more profitable since she was three years of age. Duty, monsieur le comte, has been bred into me. While I shall miss being with the queen, my duty now is to my husband, and I have never failed in my duty.”

Guy-Paul St. Claire was slightly taken aback by Philippa’s statement. She looked so young. So delicious. So female. To learn she was of far sterner stuff than she appeared was quite surprising. More interesting, his cousin looked happy and pleased by his young wife’s words. “Madame, I salute you,” he said, “and Crispin, I believe I shall envy you, which I have certainly never done before.”

Philippa arose from her chair. “My lords,” she said, “I shall leave you to renew your acquaintance. I am quite fatigued with all our travels. Lucy, attend me,” she called to her tiring woman. Then she curtseyed to the two men and moved through the brocade curtain that separated the two halves of the pavilion.

“She is so young, but so fierce,” the Frenchman noted. “Is she as fierce in your bed, cousin? If you answer
oui
I shall indeed be envious.” He grinned.

“Oui,”
the earl said, returning the grin.

The comte de Renard looked pained. “It is intolerable,” he said. “Tell me how you gained such a lovely little treasure, cousin.”

The earl explained, and when he had finished his relative shook his head, but Crispin St. Claire only chuckled. “If you would seek among the wealthy bourgeois you could probably find just such a wife, Guy-Paul, but I suspect you are too lazy to even try. Still you will have to eventually, mon cousin.”

“Perhaps after this spectacle has run its course,
mon
chou,” the comte replied. “I have no duties other than to be amusing, which is why I am here. Francois has brought half the people your king has. I suppose being the superior, he feels he need not try as hard as your king Henry.”

The earl laughed. “Do not say such a thing aloud again, Guy-Paul. Any other Englishman hearing you would take umbrage and challenge you to a duel, which you would, of course, win, and then there would be merry hell to pay. All my king has done he has done in order to impress upon your king and the French that he is the superior one. Remember that one day his daughter will be France’s queen.”

The comte de Renard shrugged. “I wonder if that will indeed happen, or if the English queen will get her way to see her daughter wed to Spain. These betrothals are but pieces on a game board, cousin, and you know it as well as I do.”

“Indeed, but for now the princess Mary and the young Dauphin are matched,” the earl noted. “England and France are lovers.”

“With Spain waiting eagerly in the wings,” the comte said.

“Charles must wed long before our little princess is ready for marriage,” the earl responded. “His responsibilities are great.”

The two men continued to speak back and forth for some time before they finally parted, agreeing to meet again. The meeting of the two kings, which was the summer’s first great event, would not occur for another two days. It was a choreographed event that had been carefully planned. The two kings spoke through their messengers. Cardinal Wolsey was the king’s emissary. Each time he rode out he was accompanied by fifty mounted gentlemen in crimson velvet with fifty ushers bearing gold maces. His gold cross with its bejeweled crucifix went ahead of Cardinal Wolsey, who rode upon a magnificently caparisoned mule, surrounded by his priests. One hundred mounted archers brought up the rear of his train. The cardinal’s great entourage was much talked about.

Though the French had attempted to prevent and discourage it, many spectators came to drink the English king’s wine and to gawk at the great assemblage of royalty and its two courts. Beggars and peddlers appeared at the tents of the courtiers. The earl’s Peter had to hire two young men from the nearby village to guard his master’s belongings. He was not pleased, for he could not be certain that they would not steal from the earl and his wife in the end.

Finally the day of the first meeting came. It was June seventh, the feast of Corpus Christi. Artificial hills had been erected at either end of the entrances to the
val d’ore
, or golden valley, as it was called. In late afternoon the trumpets sounded. The English rode out from their encampment, the French from theirs. Each king was accompanied by a party of his courtiers. Henry wore cloth of gold and silver. It was heavily bejeweled. He had a black feathered bonnet and his Order of the Garter collar. His bay stallion was hung with golden bells that tinkled, and he was attended by his Yeomen of the Guard. The French king, not to be outdone, was as splendid in jewel-encrusted cloth of gold and silver. He wore white boots on his large feet, and a black cap. The French monarch was escorted by his Swiss Guards.

Reaching the top of their respective hillocks at the entrance to the valley, each king stopped. At the sound of trumpets and sackbuts they galloped down the mounts and into the valley towards each other. Taking their caps off with a grand flourish, Henry and Francois embraced each other, still a-horse, although the English bay danced nervously, bringing the embrace to a quick close. Then, dismounting, arm in arm they entered a small pavilion that had been set up for their meeting, thus avoiding the sticky issue of which king should go first. Inside there were chairs, cushions, and refreshments. Once inside, the two kings were joined by Cardinal Wolsey and the French admiral Bonnivet. The articles of the meeting were read out, as were Henry’s titles, including King of France.

Henry Tudor laughed. “I fear that the presence of
mon frère
Francois would invalidate that particular title,” he said, clapping his French counterpart on the back jovially. “And one day our children will make this ancient argument between England and France a moot point, eh?” And he laughed heartily once again.

The two men sat for some time drinking and talking. Finally they arose, went outside once again to the cheers of both parties of onlookers, embraced several more times, and parted, each to return to his own encampment. The sounds of the English oboes and sackbuts and the French flutes and drums filled the air as they went. And for the next few weeks there was feasting and jousting such as few had ever seen.

Philippa barely saw her husband during this time, for her place was with the queen. She hardly slept in their own comfortable pavilion, as she was expected to remain in the queen’s great tent at her mistress’s command. She returned to change her clothes, and among all the English ladies she was the best dressed, according to Guy-Paul St. Claire.

She would have been considered well dressed among the French, he declared gallantly. The English thought the French ladies’ gowns, with their open, low necklines, immodest. The ambassadors from Venice and Mantua thought the French more elegant with few exceptions, but much admired the beautiful gold chains that all of the English ladies seemed to possess. They also remarked that the English ladies drank too much.

On the tenth day of June, the king of France came to pay his respects to Queen Katherine. A banquet was given in his honor, and the choir from the Chapel Royal entertained the guests. Philippa had chosen to wear a gown of green and gold brocade with full sleeves of gold tissue that ended at the wrists in tight bejeweled bands. Her neckline was as fashionable as any French woman’s, and caused some whispering among the other women. The countess of Witton smiled to herself, well pleased. Her hair had been fashioned into a chignon at the nape of her neck, and was decorated with fresh flowers. Not even the French could match her daring style. Upon her head she wore a small gold tissue cap that was sewn with pearls.

The French king had spotted Philippa immediately, and asked among his attendants who she was.

“She is the countess of Witton,” Guy-Paul St. Claire told his master. “She is my English cousin’s new wife, sire.”

“Is she French-born?” Francois asked.

“Non. Indeed she is from the far north of England,” the comte de Renard said.

“Mon Dieu!”
Francois exclaimed. “How did such a lovely girl gain such style?”

“I could not tell you, sire,” the comte answered. “I have only just met her myself.”

“I should like to meet her,” the king said, his black eyes narrowing speculatively.

“I think I could arrange it,” Guy-Paul St. Claire murmured. “I am certain that madame la comtesse would be honored, sire.” Now here was a stroke of good fortune, he thought to himself. He did not believe that Crispin’s wife was foolish enough to allow herself to be seduced by his king, but he could certainly gain a small social credit with the king by introducing them. What happened afterward would happen. And Francois was known to be very persuasive where the ladies were concerned. Mayhap he could seduce her. Whatever transpired, it was unlikely the lady would escape totally unscathed. There were many women eager to be seduced by the king of France. One who refused his king would present a challenge, and the comte de Renard knew Francois loved a challenge. But either way, the king would enjoy himself.

“Do so then,” his master replied; then he turned away to smile at his hostess who was even now saying she should like to present her ladies to him. Francois nodded pleasantly, and greeted each of the one hundred and thirty women brought before him with the traditional French dual kiss. Among those ladies was the lovely countess of Witton who curtseyed deeply, revealing a pair of quite magnificent breasts to his eye as she did so. His hands on her shoulders as he kissed her lingered perhaps just a trifle too long. But he also considered that Anne Chambers, another of the queen’s ladies, was quite lovely.