The King's Damsel (10 page)

I
n a rare departure from the austerity of the princess’s household, we were allowed to celebrate Valentine’s Day. It had nothing to do with that date, the fourteenth of February, marking the beginning of my fourteenth year. No one at Battenhall Manor was aware of that fact and they would not have cared if they had been. Except for the king, hardly anyone celebrated their birthday. I had no cause to rejoice in any case. It was a bittersweet accomplishment to have attained, too late, the age that would have kept me out of wardship after my father and brother died.

Copying the manner Valentine’s Day was observed at King Henry’s court, gentlemen’s names were written on slips of paper and placed in a gilded bowl. Then each of the ladies and gentlewomen in attendance on Mary Tudor took a turn to pull one out. Princess Mary, who would enter her tenth year in a few more days, was the first to take her turn. She drew the name of Sir Ralph Egerton, her treasurer of the household.

Anne Rede and I exchanged an amused look and Anne had to
turn away to hide her laughter. Sir Ralph was very likely the oldest man in the princess’s retinue. His short hair was grizzled, his face was deeply lined, and his shoulders were stooped. I could not think of anyone more unsuited to be Her Grace’s partner for the day.

At least Sir Ralph’s clothing was grand enough for his role. He had a love of rich fabrics and bright colors. He most often wore a gown and jacket of tawny velvet, pearled with gold and lined with black satin, but he also had a very fine jacket made of cloth of silver and blue and russet velvet. In honor of Valentine’s Day, he wore a green velvet gown lined with green sarcenet and guarded with cloth of gold.

Princess Mary gave every evidence of being delighted with the luck of the draw. “Sir Ralph, for today you are my husband
adoptif
and I am your pretend wife.” She cried as she sank into a deep court curtsey.

He bowed in response, but his eyes widened at her declaration.

The drawing continued. Anne picked Thomas Pereston, the princess’s apothecary. She read out his name and when he came to stand at her side, she was polite to him, but the moment he looked away, her face crinkled up in distaste. Master Pereston carried the stink of his medicines with him. It permeated his clothing. Even his hands reeked, in spite of frequent washings.

When it was my turn, I found myself unaccountably nervous. I was not accustomed to spending much time with gentlemen, even though there were always several of them present in the princess’s chambers. I’d never had to make conversation with one of them.

The name I drew was that of Sir Giles Greville, controller of the household. He was almost as important as Sir Ralph Egerton, and formidable-looking besides, being one of those men who always
stand very stiffly, back straight and chin up. When I read his name aloud, Anne caught my arm and pulled me closer.

“Oh, that we could trade ‘husbands,’ Tamsin,” she lamented in a low wail. “Above all men, I find Sir Giles most appealing.”

At first I thought she was jesting, but the expression on her face conveyed nothing but genuine admiration for the older man. He was not so ancient as Sir Ralph, but neither was Sir Giles blessed with youth. I had heard he had a grown daughter, already married.

“He sent me a token of his esteem,” Anne confided as the drawing continued.

“A locket with his portrait in miniature?” I guessed, although I thought that unlikely.

Anne pinched me, hard, between the stays of my body-stitchet where the material of my bodice was thinnest. When I jerked away from her, she lifted the pomander ball that hung from the belt at her waist. It was a pretty thing, latticed to allow the sweet-scented herbs that filled it to waft out. Only then did I realize that it had replaced the more ordinary-looking one she usually wore.

It was a gift of some value and made me wonder how Anne and Sir Giles had contrived to meet in private. He had not given her such a costly bauble when any of the other maids of honor were present to witness it. Did Lady Salisbury know that a courtship was in progress beneath her very nose? I doubted it. She would not approve. She did not approve of much of anything.

Sir Giles joined me, a fixed smile on his grizzled countenance. He bowed to all the maids of honor, since we stood together in a group, but his gaze went straight to Anne. He could not seem to keep his eyes off her.

When all the princess’s women had picked their valentines, Her Grace called for the dancing to begin. She had only one official
musician, but two of her gentlemen waiters had previously been lute players in the king’s household and regularly accompanied the Welshman. They played a variety of instruments, from viol and rebec to virginals and tambor.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” Sir Ralph said, “but I am unable to execute even the simplest steps. You must choose another gallant to partner you.”

“Nonsense, Sir Ralph.” Princess Mary’s voice was that of a young girl but nonetheless carried authority. “As your pretend wife, I am duty bound to stay true to you.”

“I am an old man afflicted with the gout, Your Grace. I cannot dance.” Sir Ralph’s quandary was apparent to all. He did not wish to insult the princess, but his pain was quite real. “I . . . er . . . that is, my wife of many years . . . my real wife . . . does not demand so much of me, Your Grace.”

“I can scarce believe that the gout would prevent a good husband from showing his love to his wife.” The young princess was completely innocent of any double meaning to her words, but the rest of us had to stifle our laughter.

“There are other ways than dancing, Your Grace.” His eyes brightened as inspiration struck. “A good husband gives instruction to his wife.”

“He means he orders her about,” Mary Fitzherbert whispered, sounding disgruntled. Her tone made me think her father must be a tyrant, but I had no time to ponder the matter. My attention swung back to the unlikely couple on the dais.

“Well, then,” said the princess, “I beg you to teach me what a good husband ought to teach his wife. You may begin with the definition of love.”

“Love, Your Grace?” Sir Ralph sounded as if he were choking on his own question.

“Yes. Talk to me of the ideals of courtly love.”

Sir Ralph sagged in relief. “As you wish, Your Grace.” He launched into a long and convoluted lecture about loyalty, worship from afar, and the satisfaction of performing well in a tournament while carrying a lady’s favor.

I heard nothing new in what he said. Although we’d had little chance to put our knowledge into practice, we were all familiar with the favorite pastime of courtiers and ladies at the royal courts of Europe. A courtier picked out one lady in particular to be his “mistress,” wooed her with gifts, wrote poems to her, serenaded her with song, and vowed to be faithful only to her. If she accepted him as her “lover,” he was allowed to joust in her honor and she, especially if she was older than he or superior to him in birth, advanced his career at court. This flirtation, which might even include passionate declarations of love, was all a game. Most of the time, both “mistress” and “lover” were married, although never to each other.

“The perfect knight honors his beloved, ofttimes from afar,” Sir Ralph concluded, “and so I shall worship you, Your Grace, as I watch you dance with another.”

Once the elderly knight had persuaded Princess Mary to choose a different partner, a young gentleman waiter, the music began. We all joined in the dancing. I was pleased to discover that Sir Giles knew all the steps and executed them with precision. Even better, he was uninterested in conversation. His attention strayed with the least provocation to my friend Anne Rede, and when the first dance was succeeded by a second, abruptly abandoned me to partner her.

I evaded Master Pereston before he could offer himself in Sir Giles’s place. After that, I tried to make myself invisible. It was not all that difficult to blend into the shadows at the side of the chamber. I sought a window alcove where I could observe without being seen.

It was already occupied by Lady Catherine.

“I beg your pardon, my lady. I will—”

“Stay, Tamsin. There is room for us both.” She slid over on the window seat and patted the cushion beside her. The princess had given permission for those of her ladies who were not dancing to sit in her presence.

I could not, in politeness, refuse, but I felt awkward perched there at her side. Sensing how ill at ease I was, she sent a reassuring smile in my direction. “Shall I tell you a tale for a change?” she asked.

“I am always interested in hearing stories.”

I wondered if she would speak of herself. I had observed, from time to time, a sadness in Lady Catherine that hinted at an intriguing past. It was, however, Sir Ralph Egerton’s history that she recounted. Or rather, that of his wife.

“She was born Margaret Bassett, daughter of Ralph Bassett of Blore, Staffordshire, and her first husband was an important Leicestershire sergeant-at-law named Thomas Kebell. He was a very rich man, and after his death, because she was a wealthy heiress, she was abducted from Blore Hall by a band of men brandishing swords. It is said there were a hundred and twenty in the raiding party and it was led by Roger Vernon, son of Sir Henry Vernon of Haddon Hall in Derbyshire. Roger wanted to marry Margaret, even though she was already planning to wed Ralph Egerton of Ridley. In fact, at the very time Margaret was kidnapped, Ralph—he was not yet
Sir
Ralph then—was staying at Blore with his father to celebrate their upcoming betrothal.”

“How terrible!” I felt a deep sympathy for Margaret. Like her I was an heiress. Like her, I had been taken away from my home against my will.

“Margaret’s mother and grandfather and brother set off in pursuit
of the abductors, but they were outnumbered and were unable to rescue her. Roger Vernon forced Margaret to marry him and then sent her to his uncles in Leicestershire and later into the Welsh Marches, to hide her from pursuit. Margaret, however, was a clever young woman and she managed to escape on her own and travel to London.”

The music and the noise of the dancers faded away as I listened, rapt, to Lady Catherine tell the tale. I felt certain there was a happy ending in the offing. “Did Sir Ralph find her there? Were they married at last?”

“In time they were. First the case had to go before the court of the Star Chamber. Do you know what that is?”

I shook my head.

“That is where cases involving rich and important people are settled, sometimes by the king himself. There charges and countercharges were made. The legal wrangling went on for more than seven years but, in the end, Margaret Bassett was allowed to marry Ralph Egerton. Her forced marriage to Master Vernon was declared null and void.”

“And they lived happily ever after,” I concluded, remembering Sir Ralph’s reference to his wife. I sighed in satisfaction.

Lady Catherine chuckled. “They have had as good a marriage as most, although I understand that Sir Ralph has a number of bastard children.”

I frowned, disliking this ambivalent ending to the tale. “What happened to the band of kidnappers?”

“Vernon was fined. Then the king pardoned everyone who was involved in the abduction.”

“I prefer stories where evil is punished.”

Lady Catherine laughed aloud at that, but it was a sound so devoid of humor that I became more convinced than ever that she had
herself lived a life worthy of a
roman
. She had experienced, I was certain, more than her share of sadness. I wanted very badly to ask her why she looked so unhappy. To stop myself from speaking out of turn and offending her, I turned my gaze toward the dancers.

It was only by chance that I noticed the princess slipping away from the crowd. She was alone.

I hastily excused myself and followed Her Grace. Protocol demanded that at least two attendants be with Princess Mary even when she visited the stool chamber, which seemed likely to be her destination. She passed through her bedchamber and on into the smaller room where her close stool was housed. I stopped short when I heard voices. I hesitated on the threshold, suddenly unsure of myself.

It never occurred to me that the princess might be in danger. She was well guarded here in her innermost chambers. No one could gain access who was not already part of the household. Still, there was something strange about the rhythm of the words I overheard, even if I could not quite make them out. When I listened harder, I realized what it was that seemed so peculiar—the princess and her companion were not conversing in English.

Still unsure whether to advance or retreat, I took a step away from the inner door. My foot struck a cushion left carelessly on the floor. It made no sound, but I was so startled by the unexpected contact that I gasped.

An abrupt silence fell on the other side of the door. I longed to creep quietly away, following the distant sounds of lute and viol and the faint ripple of laughter that filtered in from the presence chamber, but I was frozen to the spot. Before I could force my legs to move, Maria Vittorio emerged from the stool chamber.

I sagged in relief. They had been speaking Spanish together. That was all. I had no cause for alarm.

But Maria gave me a long, hard stare and showed no hint of the friendliness I’d come to expect from her. Then she spoke over her shoulder to the princess. “It is only Tamsin, Your Grace.”

With a rustle of brocade, Princess Mary appeared behind her. She smiled, just as she had smiled at Sir Ralph when she’d drawn his name. “I could not hold my water,” she said with a little laugh. But if she was embarrassed by her lack of control, she showed no other sign of it. “I am ready to return to the dancing now.”

That night in our shared bed, neither Maria nor I mentioned the strange little incident. I related the story of Sir Ralph and his Margaret to the other maids of honor and then we all settled ourselves to rest.

For a long time, sleep did not come.

Maria and the princess had been speaking Spanish, a language no one else in the household understood. I could not help but wonder why.