Philippa (45 page)

“Your husband said there were three,” the cardinal interrupted.

“There were, but only two spoke. And when I first heard them I could not see them through the dust,” Philippa replied. She looked directly at the cardinal. He was a fat man with a long nose. He was dressed in his red cardinal’s robes, but the sleeves that showed from beneath his robes were black.

He looked back at her from beneath his hooded eyelids. “Continue, madame.”

She did, reciting her tale once more, and when she had finished he nodded at her.

“You are certain they are in the service of the dowager of France?” he asked.

“Aye, and they said she would protect them if they were caught. Your grace, I somehow believe this plot is of their own making in an effort to ingratiate themselves with their mistress. Although she could have said something in an unguarded moment that they misunderstood, or mistook, I cannot believe a great lady like Louise of Savoy would devise such a conspiracy.”

“For a girl at court for four years, madame, you remain singularly innocent of the evils that men do. I suppose it is the queen’s influence upon you,” the cardinal noted dryly. “Frankly it matters not to me if the French dowager is personally involved. What is important is that we find a way to foil this plot. Except for these three fools, anyone else implicated will escape retribution, especially the higher one looks up the ladder. But when will they attempt this perfidy? That is the puzzle we must solve.”

“They said it was a time when you would all be together,” Philippa said.

The cardinal appeared to be deep in thought. His elegant fingers drummed softly upon the wooden arm of the chair in which he sat. His mouth was pursed. His eyes closed. And then they opened. “Of course!” he exclaimed. “It is the perfect time!”

“My lord?” the earl said.

“The last event of this great flummery is a mass at which I will personally preside,” the cardinal said. “Everyone will be there. Both royal houses, both courts, and as many of their servants as can crowd into the chapel that will be erected over the tiltyard. What better place for an assassination to take place? King Henry and his queen will be up front, as will the dowager of France, King Francois, and his queen. And I will be there.” He fixed his gaze upon Philippa. “Would you recognize these three men, madame, if you saw them again? Did you get a good enough look at their faces in your fright?”

“I was frightened, your grace, but I was not blinded by that fear,” Philippa told him. “I can recognize those three without any difficulty.”

“Excellent, madame,” the cardinal said.

“What of the salamander that is to be the signal?” Philippa boldly queried him.

The cardinal shrugged. “I have no idea what it might mean, but the important thing is that you are able to identify these men among the queen dowager’s servants.”

“Surely you cannot demand that Louise of Savoy make her servants line themselves up for your inspection,” the earl said.

The cardinal barked a small laugh. “Nay, my dear Crispin, it would be too easy for our conspirators to avoid such an event, and frankly I doubt the dowager could identify the faces of all of her servants. How often do we actually observe those who serve us, my lord? They matter not. Only that they do their duty to us.”

“Then you plan to wait until the mass itself,” the earl said. “Is that not dangerous, your grace? Will there be time at that moment to stop these assassinations?”

“There is no other way,” the cardinal said calmly. “God will protect us.” Then he arose from the chair where he had been ensconced. “I must return to my own quarters before it is realized that I have not yet come back from the banquet. Madame, I thank you for your cleverness, and your sharp ears. I did not know your father personally, but I do know from what has been said of him that he would be proud of you this day.” He held out his hand to her once again, and Philippa kissed it. The cardinal then looked to the earl. “You are to be commended in your choice of a wife, Crispin.” The hand was once more extended, and the earl kissed it. “Good night to you both,” the powerful cleric said, and then sweeping past them, he departed the pavilion of the earl and countess of Witton.

“In all my time at court I never before met him,” Philippa said softly. “I find him both compelling and frightening.”

The earl laughed. “He is indeed both, little one.”

“Will he indeed make no effort to find the assassins before the mass?” Philippa asked her husband. “If we walked about the French camp, especially near the dowager’s pavilion, we might spot them.”

“Or they might spot us, and realize that you had indeed understood every foul word that they had uttered,” the earl said. “Nay, little one. While the cardinal’s plan may seem simple, perhaps even dangerous, he always seems to know just what to do.” He put an arm about her and kissed the top of her head.

Unable to help herself, Philippa leaned against her husband as a feeling of total happiness seemed to sweep over her. I love him, she thought once again. If only he could love me, but then as kind as he has been since our wedding, he only wed me for the lands he wanted. It is unlikely to ever be anything more. And yet ... She sighed.

On the following day gifts were exchanged between England and France. They were lavish to the point of excess, but illustrated the amity that seemed to exist between the two sovereigns. But even though Henry and Francois had exhibited great cordiality towards one another, it was not genuine. Beneath the civilized veneer the old enmity still existed. Yet there had been no breaches of etiquette between any of the participants at the Field of the Cloth of Gold as the courtiers and their servants followed in the footsteps of their masters.

The French king presented his English counterpart with two magnificent horses. One was a sorrel mare named Mantellino who was prized for her great ability on the jousting field. The other, the dappled Mozaurcha, was equally famed. Henry gave the French king a jeweled collar with an enormous ruby pendant in the shape of a heart, as well as several horses. The Mantuan ambassador, however, was heard to remark that the French horses were the better bargain. Queen Claude gifted Queen Katherine with a beautiful litter complete with mules to pull it, and several pages. Queen Katherine gave Queen Claude four splendidly trapped riding horses. The cardinal received from the French king two gold vases. In return he offered Francois an illuminated Book of the Hours that had been made for King Louis who was called saint. Louise of Savoy gave Wolsey a jeweled crucifix. He gave her a relic of the true cross that had been placed in a jeweled setting.

After almost a month of feasting and jousting and general sociability, the Field of the Cloth of Gold was drawing to a close. On the day of the gifts the jousting field was empty of combatants. Instead it was filled with carpenters and joiners, glaziers and tilers, all busily erecting a temporary chapel. The two kings swore that a church, Our Lady of Friendship, would one day rise on the spot, and that they would return to pray and socialize in the years to come. It was planned that Cardinal Wolsey lay the foundation stone of the new church after the final mass.

The court crowded into the chapel, Philippa making certain she was near the queen with her husband. The choir from the Chapel Royal would sing the mass. The candlesticks from Westminster Abbey adorned the altar, sitting upon an altar cloth brought from the Notre Dame cathedral in Paris. The chalices came from both cathedrals. The cardinal in his scarlet robes was attended by both English and French priests.

And then Philippa saw him. The man who had remained silent the day she had heard the conspirators. For a moment she could not believe her eyes, but then she leaned over and whispered softly to her husband. “Crispin, one of the three is on the altar with the cardinal. My God! Is he a priest? This is terrible!”

“Which one?” the earl whispered back, signaling discreetly to one of the English priests he knew who stood with the queen even as he asked the question.

“The red-haired man. He wore a cap that day, and the dust obscured his hair color, but it is he. There are just two elderly priests between him and the cardinal,” Philippa said nervously.

“My lord?” The priest was at his side.

“The red-haired man near Wolsey is an assassin, father. Wolsey was expecting it, but did not know the identity of the man. We have only just identified him. Can you reach the cardinal?” the earl of Witton asked.

The priest nodded. He recognized the earl as a man once in the king’s service who took his orders through the cardinal. He recognized his pale-faced young wife as a devoted servant of the queen. Quietly he slipped into the choir, moving past the choristers in the rear row until he was at the far end on the altar. He murmured to another priest, and together the two men eased themselves nearer the red-haired priest until they were on either side of him.

“You will come with us, father,” the queen’s man said softly. “Your plot has been discovered, and the cardinal will want to speak with you after the mass.”

The French priest looked startled, but then allowed himself to be escorted off without making any disturbance. They took him through a side door out into the field. The earl was already there, and a quick search of the prisoner revealed a rather nasty-looking dagger. Its tip was darker than the rest of the blade.

“Beware!” the earl cried. “The tip is poison!”

“You may have saved your cardinal, but shortly your king and your queen will be dead. There is nothing you can do to save them,” the priest snarled.

The earl of Witton grasped the French priest about the neck, the tip of the poisoned dagger close, but not yet touching his throat. “I want the location and names of the other two in this nefarious plot,” he said.

“Go to the devil!” the priest replied venomously.

“Are you really ready to give up your life in this ridiculous hope that having murdered England’s monarchs in order to steal their child, France will rule England? There are still men in England whose blood makes them legitimate heirs to its throne. The duke of Buckingham for one. Only their acquiescence to the Tudors has allowed that family to rule, but if the Tudors were gone these men would rise up to claim what is their right.” He moved the dagger closer to the priest’s skin.

The priest was silent, but they could see he was considering the earl’s words very carefully. “What will become of us?” he finally asked nervously.

“Give me the names of the others, and where they stand. I will return you all to your mistress. What she does with you is her business. We do not want to destroy the amity that has existed in this month between our nations. Tell me now, or as God is my witness I will prick you with this blade, and leave you to die unshriven! Will you go to your maker, priest, with this sin on your soul?”

“Pierre and Michel, serving men of the dowager queen. They stand with her now in the chapel. Pierre is taller than any other there but your own king. Michel stands to his right,” the priest cried. “Take the blade from my neck, I beg you!”

The earl shoved the man to the ground and handed the dagger to the queen’s priest. “Watch him carefully, and do not permit him off his knees until the Swiss Guard come for him, good fathers. If he attempts to escape you, blood him with the dagger.”

Then the earl hurried back into the chapel, quickly speaking with the captain of the king’s own Yeomen. Quietly the men-at-arms moved to where the two men they sought stood among the French dowager queen’s servants. Discreetly they hustled the two from the chapel even before they might protest. Few noticed, for the courtiers were caught up in the sumptuous beauty and magnificence of the mass. Most there recognized that this was the close of a most historic event. They wanted to absorb it all so they might tell their children and their grandchildren one day. Even Louise of Savoy ignored the small to-do.

Outside, the three conspirators were now on their knees, their arms bound behind them, the yeomen watching over them. The two English priests had disappeared back into the chapel.

“Take them somewhere where they will not be seen by the kings or the courts,” the earl said to the captain of the guard. “I will speak with his grace after the mass, and he will decide what is to be done with them.”

“Aye, my lord,” came the response.

Suddenly down the field there came a shouting. “The Salamander! The Salamander!” There was the smell of gunpowder and a whine in the sky.

“What is it?” the captain of the yeomen asked.

“It would appear,” the earl said, “that one of the fireworks for the festivities later was exploded prematurely. I will go and check.” And when he did, the earl learned that he was correct in his assumption. The Salamander, which was the French king’s own personal sign, had been accidentally lit by a young boy, those in charge of the fireworks told the earl. A local lad hired to help.

“Clumsy brat!” the fireworks artisan said angrily. “Any other piece I could have tolerated, but the king’s own symbol! There will be no time to make another.”

“Where is the boy?”

“I beat him, and sent him off,” the man said.

“Do you know who he is?” the earl asked patiently.

“My sister’s worthless son,” came the answer.

“I need to speak with the lad,” the earl told the artisan.

“Piers, you miserable little turd, where are you?” the man shouted. “Get back here or when I catch you I’ll flay the very flesh from your skinny bottom!”

They waited a long moment, and then a boy crept from the shadows of the artisan’s wagon. He was dirty, and looked hungry.

“Come here, brat!” the artisan shouted. “This fine gentleman wishes to speak with you, though why I have no idea.”

“Stay,” the earl said quietly. “Come, lad.” He beckoned the boy in kindly tones.

“Yes, milord?” the boy whispered. He looked frightened.

“Now, lad, you must tell me the truth, and if you do I will reward you. But I will know if you are lying to me. Do you understand?”