Royal Inheritance (6 page)

I burst into speech, hoping to avert trouble. “I will be a very good student. When I learned to cipher, my teacher said I was quick with my numbers.”

Distracted, King Henry inquired further into what instruction I had been given. Satisfied that it was adequate, His Grace was about to depart when he remembered Mistress Yerdeley and recalled that her inattention had left me free to wander about the palace alone.

“We will also find a reliable woman servant to wait upon you,” the king decreed. “One vigilant enough not to let you out of her sight when you visit our court.”

T
hink you’re a fine lady, do you?” Bridget’s taunt was delivered in a whisper but it stung nevertheless.

“I am the same as you.” I kept my head bent. Pocket, who lay curled up in my lap, licked my fingers.

“Then why does Father pay for lessons for you and not for the rest of us?”

“It is not Father who hired him,” I muttered, refusing to so much as glance at the cadaverous figure hovering near the doorway in deep discussion with Mother Anne. Afflicted with the improbable name of Dionysus Petre, he had introduced himself as my dancing master. His arrival at the house in Watling Street a short time ago had thrown the entire household into an uproar, but it was his flat refusal to teach anyone but me that had provoked my sister’s ire.

“What do you mean?” she demanded. “Who else would be so generous? Besides, we all know you are Father’s favorite.”

“I am not!” Although I denied her claim, I thought she might have the right of it, but simple common sense prevented me from boasting of such a thing. “And it is the
king
who pays.”

The angry expression on her face changed to one of disbelief.

“Ask
him
.”

Hearing the agitation in my voice and seeing me gesture in his direction, Master Petre gave a start. The sight of Bridget, fire in her eyes, stalking in his direction, had him stammering an apology, although what reason he should have to beg her forgiveness eluded me.

Bridget came to a halt a mere foot in front of him, her stance wide and her hands on her hips. “Is she telling the truth? Does King Henry employ you?”

“I cannot say, young mistress.” The poor man squeaked like a terrified mouse. In an attempt to avoid meeting her eyes, his gaze dropped lower, landing on her bosom. That seemed to fluster him even more.

“Cannot or will not?” Bridget took a step closer.

Her prey threw both arms up in front of his face and backed away, nearly tumbling down the stairs that led to the shop in his attempt to escape.

I felt sorry for the dancing master. He was twice Bridget’s age and no doubt the younger son of a gentle but impoverished family, forced to earn his living by giving lessons. Even more than an artificer like Father, he had, of necessity, to bend his will to that of his clients.

“Bridget, leave him be.” I set Pocket on the floor, crossed the room, and positioned myself between my sister and the dancing master. “I have already told you that it is King Henry who pays him.”

“First a dog. Now a dancing master. Why should
you
be so favored?” Bridget turned the full force of her outrage on me, giving Master Petre time to recover his wits. “It is not
fair
. I am older than you are.”

“And Elizabeth is older than us both. Perhaps Master Petre should give
her
lessons instead.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “I cannot—” He broke off, eyes wide, when we both turned to glare at him.

It was perhaps fortunate that Elizabeth and Muriel entered through the other door at that moment. They had been to the fishmongers and Elizabeth still carried her shopping basket.

“Whatever is going on?” she asked. “We could hear raised voices all the way to Master Scutt’s house.”

Mother Anne, who was inclined to let Bridget have her way, now stepped in. “It will not do to have the entire neighborhood privy to our business. You will say no more, Bridget.”

With a snarl, Bridget whirled around and stalked to the window that overlooked the street. From that vantage point she had a fine view of the back of the Cordwainers’ Hall, but I doubted she saw it. All her thoughts were turned inward. A visible tremor made her entire body vibrate as she seethed with frustration.

“Master Petre,” Mother Anne said in the firm voice she used to correct the servants and apprentices, “I believe a compromise is in order.”

She drew him deeper into the room and settled him in the Glastonbury chair that was Father’s favorite. Marking his flushed face and continued inability to string more than two words together at a time, she called for Ticey, another of the maids, and sent her to the kitchen for a soothing posset.

Slowly, Master Petre regained his composure. After he had drained the goblet Ticey brought him—steeped chamomile with a few other herbs mixed in—Mother Anne informed him that he would be teaching
all
the daughters of the house.

By that time, he had lost the will to argue.

When my tiring maid arrived later that same day, Bridget’s wrath found a new target. Her name was Edith Barnard, a plump young woman who looked down her nose at the other servants in the household, especially Lucy.

“You will also serve me,” Bridget informed her.

Edith regarded my sister through heavy-lidded eyes that were most effective at hiding her thoughts, but she made no effort to adjust her implacable attitude. “I am here to serve Mistress Audrey,” she said, and thereafter ignored Bridget as if she had no more substance than an annoying bug.

A quarter of an hour of such treatment and Bridget, fuming, went away. I heard her flounce down the stairs to the tailor shop. With any luck, flirting with the apprentices would put her in a better mood.

“Your bedchamber is passing small,” Edith said when we were alone. She had already begun to reorganize my belongings, separating them from my sisters’ possessions.

Light on her feet, Edith moved with an efficiency and sense of purpose I could not help but admire. At the same time, I found her self-confidence daunting. I had never met a maidservant who put on such airs, and it was not as if she had obvious cause to think so well of herself. She was no more than twenty years old and was afflicted with a splotchy complexion.

“Lucy, poor thing, is slow-witted,” I ventured as Edith inspected my shifts and folded each one neatly before tucking it into a drawer in the wardrobe chest. I sat atop another of the storage chests we used for clothing, with Pocket once again nestled on my lap. It soothed me to stroke his soft fur. “We are obliged to repeat orders two or three times before she understands what it is we want. It would be a great help if you could assist her in her duties. My sisters—”

“Indeed, I cannot, Mistress Audrey. I have been sent here to serve you and you alone.”

That had a familiar ring to it, but Mother Anne had prevailed upon Master Petre to change his tune. I was certain I could reason with Edith.

“What if I order you to serve them?”

She shook her head, which was so thoroughly covered by a white coif that I could not tell what color her hair was, or even if she
had
any hair. She sent me a pitying look that said, plain as day, that she thought me slow-witted, too.

“If you are here to serve me,” I said, trying again, “that means you
must
obey me.”

“I must attend to your needs. And look out for you when you go to court. That is not the same thing.”

My lessons had not extended to exercises in logic, but even at that young age I knew there was something peculiar about Edith’s attitude. She behaved as if she were the equal of anyone in the household . . . and superior to most!

“Who did you serve before you came to me?” I asked.

For just a moment, her self-assured manner faltered. I gave her a hard look. She avoided meeting my eyes.

“Am I your first mistress?” I was astonished by the thought, but her reaction made me believe I was right. “It is true! You have no previous experience as a tiring maid.”

Edith’s chin went up. “I have been well instructed in all the skills necessary to care for a young woman’s clothes and person.”

“And I am fully capable of dressing myself, and of choosing what to wear. I have no need of my own tiring maid.”

“But you do require someone to watch over you at court, and I am ideally suited for that task.”

“Why?” She seemed a little less formidable now that I knew she
was on the defensive. I patted the space next to me on the chest. “Come and sit down and tell me all.”

For a moment I thought she would refuse. Then, with a sigh, she obliged me. Pocket nuzzled her hand. That seemed to soften her further.

“When she was younger, my mother served in the Earl of Oxford’s household.”

“Is he a very great lord?”

“Of middling importance. Dukes have more consequence. But Mother is devoted to the family, the de Veres. Her first post was as a nursemaid to the earl’s daughter, Lady Frances de Vere. When Lady Frances went to court, Mother went with her, and she was allowed to bring me along.”

“Is your mother still at court?”

Edith shook her head. “Not now. Not until King Henry marries again and we have a new queen. But Lady Frances went on to marry Henry Howard, the Earl of Surrey, becoming a countess. When she started having babies, she asked Mother to come to her to look after them. There are three children in her nursery now.”

Having assuaged my curiosity, Edith began to question me. She did not seem to find my answers very satisfactory. From her gloomy expression, I concluded that she feared she’d come down in the world.

“I will go to court again soon,” I assured her, “but in the meantime it might be wise to cater to Bridget’s whims. She’ll make your life a misery otherwise.” I considered for a moment and then added, “You’d do well to befriend the other maidservants. They are wise to her tricks.”

That evening, when all the women of the household gathered around the largest of our embroidery frames, Edith did her part,
impressing everyone with the smallness of her stitches. She followed my advice, although I suspected that it pained her to do so.

When Bridget excused herself to visit the privy, I could not help but notice how long she was gone. The door to the external latrine opened out of the west gable wall in the room at the back of the house, so that we could not see it from where we sat in the hall. I feared my sister had taken some petty revenge on Edith for her earlier snub, but all seemed well when my new tiring maid retired for the night. It was only much later, when a faint but persistent sound awoke me, that I discovered Pocket had been locked in the wardrobe chest with my clothing. By then it was too late to salvage my best kirtle. The poor little dog had relieved himself all over the pale blue brocade.

O
ur first week of lessons with the dancing master had scarce concluded when the second of the tutors the king had promised me arrived at the house in Watling Street. I saw him first from an upper window. It extended out from the front of the house above the entrance to Father’s shop and gave those within a clear view of passersby.

Watling Street is a very ancient highway, part of the old Roman road that runs from a spot near Dover all the way to Chester. Within London’s walls, it is inconveniently narrow, with barely room for one cart to pass another without scraping, but it is lined with the houses of wealthy merchants. Our neighbors were all drapers and tailors. Fashionable ladies and gentlemen visited their shops daily, searching for the latest imported fabric or bespeaking a new suit of clothes.

At first I thought the young man in the king’s livery was bent on some similar errand, or that he’d come to collect a fresh supply of garments like the ones he wore. In addition to making the fancy robes and doublets worn by the king and his noblemen, royal
tailors also provide livery for the king’s servants. But this individual stopped beneath my window, considered the house for a long moment, and then, as if he sensed me watching him, tilted his head back until our gazes locked.

Bright noonday sun revealed eyes of a deep, dark brown flecked with amber. The rest of his face was equally appealing—strongly defined features and a ready smile.

I recognized him then. When the king had first said the name John Harington, I’d known which of the gentleman choristers he meant, but I’d only seen Master Harington from a distance. His impact had been muted.

When I continued to stare at him, he doffed his feathered cap, revealing a full head of thick brown curls. Then he bowed in my direction.

Behind me, I heard the rustle of fabric. One of my sisters came up to stand beside me, but I did not look away from the young man below to see which one it was. He, however, took note of her, bowed again, and then passed out of sight beneath the overhang.

“What a toothsome young gentleman!” Bridget leaned far out the window, hoping for a glimpse of the back of him as he entered Father’s shop. “And he wears the king’s livery. Who is he?” She was already heading for the stairs.

Mother Anne’s sharp command prevented her from descending. “Your father does not need your help with a customer, Bridget. Return to your mending, if you please.”

Bridget looked mutinous and would surely have argued, had she not heard the sound of heavy footsteps coming our way. Father entered first but Master Harington was right behind him.

My throat went dry. Close at hand, he was even more pleasing to look at. Indeed, he was the most appealing man I had ever seen. Yes, I know I was not yet twelve years old, but he had barely reached his
eighteenth year. To the mind of a girl on the verge of womanhood, even the king himself, with all his glittering jewels, could not surpass this young and handsome fellow for masculine beauty.

Bridget was no more immune to Master Harington’s charms than I was. Her avid gaze devoured him. Had Mother Anne not caught hold of her arm, she’d have been across the room to his side in a flash.

Father cleared his throat. “Allow me to make known to you Master John Harington, gentleman of the Chapel Royal. He has been sent by the king to give Audrey music lessons.”