The King's Damsel (12 page)

“He’s called the
Duke of Richmond
. King Henry gave him that title more than a year ago.” Dr. Butts made an odd little sound, somewhere between a snort and a laugh. “Dubbed him Duke of Somerset, too, and Earl of Nottingham. Grand titles for a lad barely seven years old.”

“He’s Bessie Blount’s bastard,” Lady Butts insisted. “No more than that.”

“My dear, I know you are loyal to the queen and the princess, as am I, but you must face facts. The king’s intentions have been clear ever since he set up a separate household for the boy at Sheriff Hutton Castle in Yorkshire. If His Grace has no legitimate son, he will find a way to make the Duke of Richmond his heir.”

Although I was caught unaware by this news that the king had an illegitimate son, I could not say that I was surprised. Men took mistresses and babies were the result. I had only to remember Lady Catherine’s comments about Sir Ralph Egerton. Dr. Butts’s prediction that Henry Fitzroy might one day rule England, however, came as a shock. That a bastard could deprive a legitimate child of her inheritance was a terrifying notion.

“Princess Mary is heir to this kingdom,” Lady Butts insisted. “And do not tell me that a woman cannot rule. Look at Isabella of Castile, Queen Catherine’s mother. Isabella not only ruled Castile in her own right, and left it to her eldest daughter, Joanna, but she drove the Moors and the Jews out of all of Spain. She was a
warrior
queen.”

Silently, I applauded the idea that a woman could rule. Had I not said so once myself? But I did not think the opinion of a physician’s wife or a princess’s maid of honor would carry much weight with
King Henry. Moving as silently as I could, I backed away from the bower and fled from the garden.

Back in Princess Mary’s presence chamber, I pondered what to do with my newly acquired knowledge. Should I tell Her Grace what I had learned? I remembered well what she had said when she’d heard Lady Catherine’s story—that it was better to know than to live in ignorance. But the princess, for all her grown-up ways, was still only ten years old. And the king and queen might yet have a legitimate son.

I debated with myself for two days, unable to decide what to do. It was only when I was alone with the princess, with no one else save Maria Vittorio, in the relative privacy of the stool chamber, that I finally made up my mind. As I approached Her Grace with a bowl of warm washing water scented with chamomile flowers boiled in orange peel, I said in an urgent whisper, “Your Grace, there is something you should know.”

She dipped her hands into the bowl. “Speak.”

I told her what I had overheard, although without naming Dr. Butts or his wife. Maria dried the princess’s hands with a towel, her lips pursed tightly together in disapproval. I could not tell if she was wroth with me or with the king.

Her Grace absorbed the news with seeming equanimity, although her pale complexion went a trifle whiter and her fingers shook a little as she freed them from the towel. Princess Mary had an uncanny ability, even at that young age, to affect calmness.

When her steady, unsettling stare came to rest on my face, I feared my days in her household were numbered. I lowered my eyes and waited for the ax to fall. Nearby, I could hear Maria’s quiet breathing, but she did not speak.

“I value honesty above all else,” Princess Mary said after a lengthy, nerve-racking pause, “even when it distresses me. You have done me good service this day, Tamsin Lodge. I will not forget it.”

F
rom Oakley Park, the princess’s household moved on to Worcester, where it remained for nearly two weeks. We left there in late August to journey to Evesham Abbey, but Evesham was only a stop on the way to Langley in Oxfordshire. The princess was as impatient as I had ever seen her, and no wonder, for at Langley we were to join the king’s annual progress. For the first time in over a year, Princess Mary would be reunited with her parents.

I confess I envied her. I had not seen my stepmother in all that time, either. There were days when I even had difficulty remembering what Blanche looked like. I had always been my father’s pet, spending long hours in his company. The last few years of his life, Blanche had been there, too, but well in the background. By the time our first year apart had passed, I rarely thought of her at all. I had become part of a new family. Instead of parents, I had sisters, all of them as dear to me as my own kith and kin.

Since Yuletide, I had received only one letter from my stepmother. She had dictated it to a hired scribe. It had told me little except that Blanche now spent all her time in her dower house
in Bristol. She had not visited Hartlake Manor since Sir Lionel Daggett came into our lives.

I had spared a thought or two for my estates during this same period of time, but as there was nothing I could do to override any decisions Sir Lionel made concerning them—not until I attained my majority—I’d soon turned my mind to more immediate concerns. Foremost among these had been the need to keep coming up with stories to tell. Although the princess liked to hear her favorites again and again, fresh material was always welcome. I soon taught myself how to elaborate upon the framework of an existing tale. I even created a new story or two out of whole cloth.

At Langley, I expected to enjoy a respite from providing entertainment to the princess and her ladies. King Henry and Queen Catherine went on progress every summer, traveling to various parts of the kingdom to be seen by their subjects. They took with them their fools and musicians and their hosts provided other diversions along the way.

Going on a progress was also a good way to avoid being in London and its environs during the months those heavily populated areas were most likely to be visited by outbreaks of the plague and other vile sicknesses.

Langley was located a mile from Burford, right on the edge of Wychwood Forest. It was a beautiful spot, but when we first arrived there I had little interest in the scenery. Like the princess, I was eager for my first glimpse of King Henry VIII of England.

His Grace was the tallest man I had ever seen. That was my initial impression. In the months I had been with the princess, I had myself shot up in height, but King Henry towered over me. Everyone around him seemed small and insignificant in comparison.

The second thing I noticed about the king was the flash of jewels. Every article of his clothing glittered, calling attention to his
face and form. Above a richly ornamented doublet rose a striking countenance. He was clean-shaven, as were most of the men at court, which displayed a forceful chin. His hair was burnished copper. Although his complexion was fair for a man and his features were almost delicate, there was nothing feminine about him. He had the physique of an avid jouster, which he was. His arms and chest were well muscled and his legs strong. He exuded masculinity and good cheer and he seemed genuinely pleased to be reunited with his daughter.

Princess Mary made her obeisance, her smile stretched wide. Had she been an ordinary girl and he just another father, I am sure she would have flung herself into his arms. Court protocol discouraged any such display.

“By St. George, Mary!” King Henry exclaimed. “You have grown apace in your time away from us.”

“Yes, Father. I have been very well cared for.”

The king gave a booming laugh that echoed off the rafters of the great hall at Langley. “Well and good, my girl. Well and good.”

Queen Catherine, who had gone almost unnoticed in her husband’s presence, now stepped forward to greet her daughter. Her Grace was some years older than the king. Repeated pregnancies had left her stooped and stout. What little I could see of her hair beneath an enormous gable headdress appeared to be a faded reddish gold shot through with gray. She was also extremely short. Princess Mary, for all that she was on the small and dainty side, already surpassed her mother in height.

A bevy of the queen’s maids of honor hovered nearby. They were all younger and more physically attractive than Her Grace. Their presence made Queen Catherine seem even older and more worn out than she really was. Some of these young women appeared to be close to my own years, while others were clearly older, but almost
all of them had pink and white complexions and a tendency toward plumpness.

There was one exception, a slender woman whose skin was almost olive-hued. She had eyes so large and dark that they appeared to be black. These characteristics should have made her ugly, but she had an elegance about her, and an air of self-confidence. I found myself staring at her, studying the high cheekbones, the strong nose, and the wide mouth, all set into a long oval of a face. She was no beauty, but her countenance suggested a forceful personality that might well make up for her lack of conventional prettiness.

When my wandering attention returned to Queen Catherine and Princess Mary, they had finished exchanging formal greetings and the princess had begun to tell her parents about her sojourn in the Marches of Wales. The queen listened with avid attention to every word, but His Grace soon grew bored.

King Henry’s interest shifted to his daughter’s assembled ladies. He narrowed his blue-gray eyes when his gaze fixed on me. Disconcerted, I quickly sank into a curtsey, but I still felt the king’s hard stare boring into the top of my head. The sensation seemed to continue for a very long time, although I suppose it lasted less than a minute. Only when I was certain he had lost interest did I dare look up.

I breathed a sigh of relief. His Grace had engaged his cousin, the Countess of Salisbury, in low-voiced conversation. I told myself I was being fanciful. The king had no reason to take any notice of me.

The king, the queen, and the princess soon adjourned to a more private chamber to continue their reunion. The rest of us were left to our own devices. I was examining a particularly fine tapestry in the presence chamber assigned to Princess Mary when I was ordered to present myself to Their Graces.

The king and queen were seated in comfortable chairs with a
table between them. The princess, her legs curled beneath her, sat on a cushion at her mother’s feet. There were at least a dozen courtiers and servants in the chamber, but they stayed well in the background.

“You are Daggett’s girl, are you not?” the king asked when I rose from yet another curtsey.

His abrupt question caught me off guard. I wanted to deny that the odious Sir Lionel had any connection to me, but in the sense His Grace meant, I
was
his “girl.”

“Sir Lionel Daggett is my guardian, Your Majesty.” Together with all the princess’s ladies, I had been forewarned by Lady Catherine that King Henry preferred this form of address to “Your Highness” or “Your Grace.”

“Has he arranged a marriage for you?”

“If he has, Sire, he has not told me of it.” I could not quite keep the tartness out of my reply but, to my relief, the king only smiled.

“I would not wish to lose Mistress Lodge from my service, Father,” Princess Mary said. “She tells the most wonderful stories and entertains us better than any bard.”

Queen Catherine frowned. “These are improving tales, I trust?”

Because the king and queen sat behind their daughter, they could not see the twinkle in the young princess’s eyes. “Oh, yes, Madre. Tamsin comes from Glastonbury. She knows all about the holy relics that are kept there.”

I remained silent, for I doubted that the queen would approve of some of the stories I’d related to her daughter. My father had been widely read and had seen no reason to censor the tales he told me. I’d repeated these as closely as I could remember them, and I had a very good memory. In doing so, I had never considered their content. Faced with the princess’s protective mother, I now had belated second thoughts.
The Squire of Low Degree,
in which a king’s
daughter falls in love with a lowly squire, was unlikely to meet with Queen Catherine’s approval. Even worse was
William of Palerne,
a tale featuring an evil queen of Spain as the villain—she turns the hero into a werewolf by the use of sorcery.

“We must hear one of these stories someday,” the king said.

Then he dismissed me.

Feeling a trifle dazed and most certainly dazzled, I backed out of the chamber. It was my intention to retire to the tent that had been set up in the garden as temporary housing for the princess’s maids of honor, since Langley was a simple manor house that did not have indoor accommodation for everyone who’d accompanied the king and queen, and now the princess, on their summer progress.

I got no farther than the outer chamber.

A man emerged from among the crowd of men and women, local people and courtiers alike, who were awaiting their opportunity to present petitions to the king. It had been a little more than a year since I’d last seen Sir Lionel Daggett, but I had no difficulty recognizing him. I stopped dead and stared, an unreasoning dread rendering my limbs incapable of movement.

He made me only the most cursory of bows. “Mistress Thomasine. You are well, I trust.”

I dropped into an equally brief curtsey. “Sir Lionel.” His name came out as a croak. “I am as you see me.”

He smiled, but the expression did not reach his eyes. “Come aside with me awhile, Thomasine.”

He gave me no choice in the matter, seizing my arm in a painful grip. Anne Rede was watching us from the other side of the presence chamber, a look of alarm on her face. I smiled at her to let her know I did not need help, but I also took comfort in knowing that someone had seen me leave the chamber in the company of my guardian.

I do not know what I expected. I did not think he was likely to try to take liberties with my person, but I grew more and more uneasy as our distance from the protection of the crowd increased. He did not slow down until we reached a quiet corner of the courtyard where, by standing in front of me, his bigger body blocked mine from view. No casual passerby would even know I was there.

“You have blossomed in the last months, Thomasine,” he said in his raspy voice. As usual, that alone set my teeth on edge. “You have indeed lived up to your promise. You have become almost as pretty as your stepmother.”