The King's Damsel (15 page)

Maria wandered off, approaching one of the queen’s Spanish attendants. As they spoke together in that foreign tongue, I remembered that both of Maria’s parents attended the queen. Comparing the faces of both women, I decided that they were indeed mother and daughter. When their features knit into identical expressions of concern, I began to worry. The feeling flared into panic when Maria returned to my side and I saw the shimmer of unshed tears in her eyes.

“What is wrong?” I hissed at her.

Maria just shook her head and would not answer me.

Impatiently, I waited for Princess Mary’s return. The tension in the chamber was almost palpable. I disliked feeling uncertain and was even more irritated because I did not know
why
I felt so on edge.

As my searching gaze flitted from face to unguarded face, I recognized bewilderment on some, sorrow on others, anger on one, and on a few, satisfaction. I was not well enough acquainted with the queen’s ladies to put names to most of them, but there was one maid of honor with whom I had spoken previously—Mistress Anne Boleyn. She was nowhere to be seen.

I told myself her absence meant nothing. The queen took only her “riding” household on progress, as did the king and the princess. Excess attendants returned to their homes to visit their families and were recalled when the court returned to one of the larger palaces—Richmond or Greenwich or Windsor Castle. There had been no need to send any of the princess’s maids of honor away. Shortly
before we journeyed to Beaulieu, Cecily Dabridgecourt had married Rhys Mansell and left us.

When Princess Mary finally returned to the privy chamber, she put up a brave façade, but I knew her well. Something had upset her. My conviction was confirmed as soon as we left the queen’s lodgings. Instead of returning to her own apartments, Her Grace turned toward the ornate little chapel on the west side of the main court. Taking no note of her surroundings, either secular or sacred, the princess went straight to the altar and knelt. Head bowed, back rigid, her lips began to move in silent prayer.

As was our duty, Maria and I knelt side by side just behind our mistress, but my thoughts were in too much turmoil for true piety. Besides, I did not know what it was I was supposed to pray for. Patience was the only thing that came to mind.

Her Grace neither moved nor spoke for a full quarter of an hour, giving me time for a visual inspection of the entire chapel. In addition to the usual religious paintings, stained glass, and statues, it was decorated with the royal arms. They were carved, colored, and gilded and far outshone the trappings of mother church.

The princess swayed. With a cry of alarm, I stumbled to my feet to catch her before she could fall. Maria did likewise from the other side. Still on her knees, the princess sagged against us, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. She did not try to hide them. We were alone in the chapel and if she could not trust two of her faithful maids of honor, whom could she trust?

What bound us all together was our unswerving loyalty to and genuine affection for this twelve-year-old girl. We’d sworn an oath to protect and serve the princess, but “duty” was only a small part of the devotion I felt toward Mary Tudor. I would do anything in my power to preserve her life and keep her safe. I would slay dragons for her.

At first, I had not taken seriously the demands of loyalty about which the Countess of Salisbury had lectured us. She had repeatedly insisted that we must be willing to lay down our lives to save that of the heir to the throne. But the longer I was part of Princess Mary’s household, as I came to know and love her, the less absurd it seemed to contemplate going to such an extreme.

Maria spoke softly in Spanish to the princess. Her Grace, who had recovered sufficiently to pull away from us and stand unaided, replied in the same language. Maria’s face lost its color at her words.

“What? What is it?” Truly alarmed now, I heard my voice rise and quickly stifled it. The last thing we wanted was to attract the attention of some curious passerby. “What is it?” I repeated in a whisper.

Maria choked out the words. “The queen has given our mistress most distressing news. A little more than a month ago, King Henry asked Her Grace for a formal separation. He wishes to take a new wife, one who can give him sons. His Grace has already sent Cardinal Wolsey to France to negotiate with King Francis for a royal bride.”

My heart went out to the princess. She looked so alone, standing there in the chapel. Hollow-eyed, lower lip trembling, she struggled to come to terms with the devastating confidences her mother had shared with her. In that moment, I did not see her as the king’s daughter, but as a lost child in need of comfort. She was too young to have to bear such a burden by herself. Acting on impulse, casting aside protocol and propriety alike, I reached out to her, taking her hand, squeezing her fingers, offering in that tiny gesture all the reassurance, all the love I could muster.

With a piteous sob, Mary Tudor flung herself into my arms.

W
hen the royal progress left Beaulieu, eventually to return to Greenwich, Princess Mary’s household went its own way, visiting various country manors farther from London. We had little contact with the court for more than two months.

Letters to the princess from her mother were full of admonishments to be diligent in her studies. They did not report on the progress of what had already been dubbed “the king’s great matter.” The princess’s senior ladies, particularly the Countess of Salisbury, no doubt received news of the outside world, and on occasion even ventured into it themselves, but as one of Her Grace’s four remaining maids of honor, I lived almost as isolated as the princess herself.

The routine of prayers and lessons and healthful exercise resumed. The only change was that I was given responsibility for supervising the care of the princess’s clothing. I soon learned that it was a constant battle to remove dust and grime from fabric, especially when we traveled. Although garments were packed in individual cloth bags and placed inside wooden coffers covered with leather, it was difficult to keep them clean. When they were
worn, kirtles and gowns quickly acquired spots of grease, mud, and other even less salubrious stains. Fabric rubbed thin where jewels were attached for decoration. Sleeves caught on splinters and hems snagged on nails, or became worn simply because they dragged on the ground. Even applying a brush with too much vigor could damage the more delicate fabrics.

Fortunately, garments could be sent to the wardrobe of robes for repair. This office was located beneath Princess Mary’s privy chamber and staffed by a yeoman, a groom, a page who did the hemming, and a clerk. Her Grace’s clothing was stored there, along with supplies of material for making more.

The yeoman of the wardrobe of robes, Jenkin Kent, a short, stocky man with a ready smile, allocated cloth from his stores to artificers. A tailor was employed full-time to alter, reline, replace, and repair clothing, as well as make new garments. The princess also kept her own skinner and embroiderer. I came to know them all well during those weeks in the country.

In late October, we journeyed to Greenwich Palace to celebrate with King Henry when he received the French Order of St. Michael. The princess’s lodgings were near her father’s, but she rarely saw him and never alone. Determined to capture His Grace’s attention, Princess Mary devised a plan whereby she and her ladies would play a role in the revels surrounding this event. This required costumes, and for that purpose I was sent to meet with Mistress Pinckney, a silkwoman from London, to discuss the items we would need.

Armed with a list, I descended to the wardrobe of robes. Although this room was in the same location at Greenwich as at other royal residences, it was much larger, crowded and humming with activity. Everywhere I looked, men were sewing hems or brushing skirts or cutting fabric to be stitched into clothing. The scent of sweet powder filled the air and, beneath it, the smell of smoke from
the coal fires. These not only provided heat but also “aired” the stored garments.

I had no difficulty locating Mistress Pinckney. She was the only woman present. Tall and slender, dressed like a merchant’s wife, she stood talking to Master Kent. He had to look up to meet her eyes.

Standing beside Mistress Pinckney, his attention clearly wandering, was a boy a year or two older than I was. In his thin arms he held a large wicker basket covered with leather and bound with iron. As I approached, eyes of the deepest brown I had ever seen shifted to me. A slow grin spread over his face when I came to an abrupt halt halfway to the little group of three, as if he knew that I found his stare disconcerting.

Frowning, I continued on. Conceited oaf! He likely thought himself passing toothsome, just because he had wavy black hair and an aquiline nose and sculpted features.

“Mistress Lodge is to make the selections,” Master Kent told Mistress Pinckney. Relieved to be quit of this task himself, he made haste to return to other duties. I was left alone with the silkwoman and the boy I assumed was her apprentice.

“Display our wares, if you will, Rafe,” Mistress Pinckney ordered.

The boy set down his basket and opened it. It was lined with yellow cloth and contained an assortment of silk products, everything from ribbons, braids, and points to buttons and loops to thread for embroidery. Mistress Pinckney lifted out a tray, revealing laces made from intertwining silk threads in various patterns. Other silken treasures lay beneath.

She indicated the laces. “These can be used for points, for laces to fasten coifs, ruffs, or cloaks, or as purse strings.”

I was more intrigued by the silk cauls made to contain a woman’s hair and the selection of fringe and tassels. There were no larger items, like gowns or kirtles or sleeves among her wares. I knew there
would not be. I had been told by Master Kent that silkwomen specialized in converting imported raw silk into thread. They wove the smaller silk materials—trimmings—but did not deal in larger items or whole cloths.

I lifted out a handful of points made of Spanish silk. They were already tagged—their ends attached to aglets. The quality of the work was very fine. But all the while I was examining them, I was uncomfortably aware of Mistress Pinckney’s apprentice. His steady gaze bored into my back.

I cleared my throat. “Her Grace wishes accessories and trim for costumes for a disguising. Can you also supply ostrich feathers?”

“I will provide whatever Her Grace wishes.”

“Wire for skirt hoops?”

She nodded.

I consulted the list I had brought with me. “We also need thirteen yards of green ribbon and a quantity of flat gold and flat silver woven into fringes.”

“Woven gold and silver costs three pence the ounce,” Mistress Pinckney interrupted.

I hesitated. No one had said anything about paying for the goods. Fortunately, Master Kent was not far away. He overheard and took the silkwoman aside for a muttered discussion of terms. This left me alone with her apprentice.

“So, there is to be disguising.” His voice was low and pleasant and as refined as any courtier’s. “Will you dress as a Saracen maiden? Or will it be a Venetian princess?”

“Venice does not have princesses!” I blurted out.

I felt myself flushing. He pretended an intense interest in the contents of his wicker basket. If he knew anything about Venice, then he had been teasing me. If he did not, then I’d just called attention to his ignorance. Either possibility embarrassed me,
although I was uncertain why that should be so. I turned my back on him to stare at my list, even though I knew every item on it by heart.

The princess wanted red silk cords for the borders of the Italian mantles we would wear for the disguising. And three gross of points to fasten sleeves, cloaks, bonnets, and buskins—not only for the revel but also for every day. Then there were blue silk buttons and silk hairnets woven with gold thread.

“Will the king attend the princess’s entertainment?”

When I did not answer, I expected the apprentice—Rafe—to let the matter drop. After all, I was his better, a maid of honor to a princess while he was in service to a mere merchant. Instead, he persisted with his questions.

“I hear there is to be a tournament. Do you think the queen will preside? Or will it be her replacement who sits beside the king?”

I wheeled around to face him, outraged by the suggestion even as I was horrified to discover that a common servant lad knew more about the rift between the king and queen than their own daughter did. “You had best mind your tongue, sirrah! And remember where you are.”

He should have been abashed, even frightened. There were dire consequences for speculating about King Henry’s private business in public. Instead, he laughed.

It was a nice laugh, not a deep and booming roar like the king’s, nor yet the false chuckle that so many courtiers used to indicate that they shared His Grace’s amusement.

“I say no more than others do, mistress. The king’s pursuit of Mistress Anne Boleyn has been talked of in London for months, as has His Grace’s desire to divorce the queen.”

Was he brave and bold or merely foolish? I narrowed my eyes and stared at him, trying to discern the truth. He grinned back. There
was a distinct twinkle in the depths of his dark eyes. My belly gave an odd quiver. I told myself it was distaste and looked away, determined to focus on anything, anyone else.

That was when I realized that no one was paying any attention to me, or to Rafe. I considered for a moment and then, perhaps rashly, decided to discover what else he knew. When I turned my attention back to him, I took a deliberate step closer and lowered my voice.

“Was it Mistress Anne Boleyn you meant when you spoke of Queen Catherine’s replacement?”

“Who else? Everyone knows she wishes to take her mistress’s place as queen.”

“Everyone?”

I doubted this. Edyth was in the habit of repeating to me the rumors she heard from the other lower servants. She had said nothing about Mistress Anne
marrying
King Henry. Then again, the tidbits Edyth gleaned from her friend Rose, Mistress Anne’s tiring maid, had been few and far between of late. That made me wonder if Rose had been sworn to secrecy . . . or threatened with dismissal if she talked out of turn.