The King's Damsel (21 page)

He went on to enumerate them—clammy skin, dizziness, burning in the throat, vomiting, the bloody flux. Convulsions and unconsciousness were the heralds of imminent death. I felt rather ill myself by the time he came to the end of the list.

“Is there a cure?”

“Death comes quickly, Mistress Lodge. There is rarely time to attempt treatment.”

“What if there
were
time?” I persisted. “Or if the victim had ingested very little of the substance?”

I sensed his growing impatience. Or perhaps it was nervousness. His gaze darted here and there as if he feared someone might be listening to our exchange.

“I have heard that patients who vomit up the poison and then drink large quantities of milk may survive even a large dose of the poison,” he blurted out, “but I have no firsthand knowledge of anyone successfully brought back to health by that cure.”

With that, Master Pereston bade me farewell, clearly disinclined to answer any more questions about poisons.

The physicians attending the princess, including one specifically called in to consult, studied their books, their astrological charts, and a sample of the princess’s urine. They concluded that Her Grace was suffering from a disturbance of the mother and that this had caused hysteria. They delivered this verdict to the Countess of Salisbury, along with the opinion that the condition could prove fatal should internal swelling cause Her Grace to have difficulty breathing.

“Heaving of the lights,” Lady Salisbury informed the maids of honor and ladies-in-waiting a short time later, using the layman’s term for this condition. “It occurs when the lungs give out. The patient suffocates.”

Although the countess was now quite aged, and walked with great effort because her joints pained her, she was still in charge of the princess’s household. She had called us all together not only to report on the princess’s condition but also to give new orders.

“There are to be at least four female attendants with Princess Mary at all times,” she decreed, “to watch Her Grace closely for signs of greater contagion from the mother.”

“What
is
‘the mother’?” I whispered to Maria.

“The uterus,” Maria said, and frowned. “There are various roots—foalfoot, licorice, enula campana, and marshmallow—that can help alleviate this condition. And parts of other herbs can be useful, too, like maidenhair and hyssop.”

She might have ventured to suggest these remedies to the countess had not a sudden anguished cry from Princess Mary’s bedchamber sent us all rushing to Her Grace’s side. Tumbling through the doorway, I stopped, stunned into immobility by the tableau before me. The princess stood between her bed and the close stool that had
been moved out of the stool chamber for her convenience during her illness. Her Grace was staring in horror and disbelief at the bed she had just left. The bedsheets were stained red with blood.

“I am bleeding,” Princess Mary whispered. “Am I about to die?”

Lady Salisbury, wavering between embarrassment and relief, hobbled forward. “Indeed you are not, Your Grace, and we have, at last, an explanation for Your Grace’s pain. You have begun your monthly courses.”

The princess was older than most girls for her first flowers. She had passed her fifteenth birthday a few months earlier, in February. But she had always been small for her age, thin and frail. And, it appeared, none of her senior ladies had ever troubled to explain to her what would happen at the onset of womanhood. Blanche had provided me with a surfeit of information and advice well in advance of my need for either.

Although it was clear that the princess continued to feel considerable discomfort from cramps, she was smiling when her lady mistress had remedied this oversight in her education. Her Grace was well pleased to have reached a natural and much to be desired milestone. She accepted that her pain, like the pain of childbirth, was a woman’s lot, punishment for the sin of Eve.

Maria, however, saw no reason for Princess Mary to suffer. She urged Her Grace to drink crushed angelica in rose water to relieve the cramping. Lady Salisbury looked disapproving but did not stop her from administering the remedy. The countess then instructed her royal charge to rest and dismissed all the maids of honor in order that Her Grace could do so.

“We had no cause for alarm, after all,” I said as the four of us made our way toward the maidens’ dormitory for the night. Maria and I lagged a bit behind the other two.

“Not this time,” Maria agreed. “My fears were groundless. But
that does not mean that there is no danger. Only think of it—if the king were to lose his one legitimate child, would that not make him even more determined to take a new wife in order to get himself an heir?”

I glanced nervously over my shoulder in unconscious imitation of Master Pereston, hoping that no one was near enough to overhear. Talking of poison was dangerous enough. What Maria had just said came perilous close to speculating about the king’s future. To do that, in these tumultuous times, could easily be misconstrued as treason.

W
e were still at Beaulieu in June. I had been for a walk in the gardens, enjoying an hour of solitude, and had stopped on a little footbridge to watch the fish in the artificial stream that ran beneath it when I noticed a man in a riding cloak watching me from the gate that led to the orchard. At first I did not recognize him. When I did, my heart sank.

Sir Lionel Daggett, a parody of a smile twisting his lips, stalked toward me along the graveled path. When he joined me on the footbridge, he doffed his feathered bonnet. It was a meaningless gesture. He’d never had any respect for me, nor any liking, either.

“Mistress Thomasine, you appear to be in excellent health.”

I quickly curtseyed, which allowed me to hide my face from him. I was afraid my expression would give away my dismay at seeing him again and this odious man was still my guardian.

It had been more than three years since I’d last seen him. His raspy voice was the same, but he had continued to put on weight. He now had triple chins, and the veins in his nose bulged, a sure indication that he overindulged in drink as well as food.

When he extended a hand to help me rise, I was obliged to take it. Even with the two layers of our leather gloves between us, his touch made my skin crawl.

He wasted no time on preliminaries. Gripping my hand more tightly, he said, “You have been little help to me, Thomasine.”

“You cannot blame me for failing to advance your political career,” I objected. “How was I to win you an appointment at the king’s court when his daughter so rarely sees him?”

Long service in the hinterlands had not improved Sir Lionel’s temperament. He snarled. “A clever puss would have found a way. But it no longer matters. I’ve another use for you. My wife died some time ago. I am in the market for a new bride.”

A terrible sense of foreboding came over me. I took a step back, but there was nowhere to run. I bumped up against the railing of the bridge. Over the thundering of my heart, I managed to croak out a response: “What has that to do with me, Sir Lionel?”

“Why everything, my dear. I propose to marry
you
.”

The horrifying words hung in the still air between us. Bile rose in my throat. My innards clenched in dread. For a long moment, I simply stared at him. Then I blurted out the first objection I could think of that might have a prayer of convincing him to change his mind: “The princess must give her permission.”

He laughed. “Your young mistress has no say in this matter. Nor does Lady Salisbury, if you are thinking you can persuade the old countess to stand against me. It is none of her concern.”

“But . . . but I have an obligation to the princess.” I turned away from him, gripping the railing with both hands. I stared down into the shining water below. For one mad moment, I considered flinging myself in.
Anything
would be better than being forced to marry Sir Lionel.

Seizing my upper arm in a painful grip, he tugged me off the bridge and toward a nearby grassy knoll surmounted by a wooden
bench. He shoved me down onto the seat and lifted one booted foot to rest beside me, pinning the side of my kirtle. He leaned closer, until I could smell the cloves he’d been chewing on his breath. The scent made my stomach turn.

“There is no longer any benefit to me in leaving you in Princess Mary’s household,” Sir Lionel said. “A fool could see which way the wind blows and I am no fool.”

A scream of frustration was bubbling up inside me, but I dared not let it out. My thoughts raced in frantic circles, seeking an argument that would persuade him to change his mind, but every avenue of escape was neatly blocked. He was my guardian. As such, he had the right to arrange my marriage, even if it was to himself. The powerful Duke of Suffolk, who had once been married to the king’s younger sister, had acquired a girl’s wardship to wed her to his son, but when his wife died, he’d married her himself. She’d been but fourteen at the time.

A girl could, I’d heard, refuse a match that was offensive to her. But I had also heard of brides beaten into submission by their parents when they attempted to do so. In lieu of a father, a guardian could likewise take up a switch, or a rod, or even use his fists on his ward. He could strike her with impunity until she agreed to do his bidding . . . or was dead.

I could not help but remember that Sir Lionel had kidnapped his late wife in order to force her to marry him. He’d no doubt raped her, too. My sense of desperation increased tenfold. The idea of lying in Sir Lionel’s arms, obliged to allow him liberties with my person, sickened me. I could not bear the thought that he would kiss me as Rafe had kissed me. I was on the verge of descending into mindless panic when I began, at last, to
think
.

There
was
a way out of this. All I had to do was persuade Sir Lionel that it was to his advantage to change his mind.

Forcing myself to lift my face to his, I met his eyes. “I can still be of use to you as a maid of honor.”

He sneered at the very idea. “I do not see how.”

“By joining Lady Anne Rochford’s household.”

There! A spark of interest lit his expression. Putting every bit of enthusiasm I could muster into my argument, I sketched out my plan.

“Lady Anne’s entourage grows larger by the day. Some of them formerly served Queen Catherine. The lady would delight in obtaining the services of one of Princess Mary’s attendants. She would see it as a victory for her party.”

I had no idea if that was true, but a calculating look came into Sir Lionel’s eyes. I scarcely dared breathe while he turned my proposal over in his mind, weighing the advantages and searching for flaws.

“If it is possible to install you in that household at all,” he mused, “I will arrange it, but you must first become my wife.”

I knew why he wanted to marry me. In that way he would gain permanent control of my inheritance. On the other hand, so long as I did not wed anyone else, he would remain in charge of my lands until I reached my majority. “The lady’s damsels,” I reminded him, “must remain unmarried. That is the very definition of a maid of honor.”

“Gentlewomen of the privy chamber have husbands.”

“But the maids of honor are the ones closest to their mistress and therefore best able to whisper in her ear.” This statement stretched the truth, but I did not suppose that Sir Lionel knew much about the workings of a woman’s household.

He was silent for an agonizing length of time. Had his extended absence from court, I wondered, left him without influential friends there? I remembered what Lady Anne had told me, back when she was still plain
Mistress
Anne—that the king did not like Sir Lionel.
But money and gifts had bought me a place in the princess’s household. Surely they could achieve similar results now . . .
if
Sir Lionel thought it worth the expense.

Abruptly, he removed his boot from my skirt, leaving a dirty footprint behind, and stepped back. “I will see what I can do,” he said, and left me sitting there.

Barely a week later, word came to Beaulieu that I was to pack my belongings and be ready to depart for Windsor Castle the next morning.

T
he chamberlain of Princess Mary’s household also received notice of my impending departure—authorization for me to leave the princess’s service. He told Lady Salisbury where I was going and she, regarding me with undisguised disgust, thinking me a traitor, announced to Her Grace and all her ladies that I was abandoning them to join the concubine’s household.

I started to object, then hung my head. What could I say? If I told them the truth, it might get back to Lady Anne. I was certain she had spies among the princess’s servants.

In spite of the risk of being exposed, I begged for one final private audience with Her Grace. That meant there were only two yeomen in the chamber, well in the background, together with Her Grace, Maria Vittorio, and Mary Dannett.

Princess Mary turned on me the moment Maria shut the door behind us. “How could you?” Her hands clenched into fists at her sides and her lips formed a hard, thin line, but I could see the hurt in her eyes.

I flung myself to my knees before her. “Your Grace, I am as loyal to you as ever I was. I swear it.”

The whole story tumbled out then, how Sir Lionel had planned to take me away and marry me and how, in my desperation, I had suggested an alternate plan. And now I added the thought that had come to me after he’d agreed.

“Maria once made a suggestion, Your Grace, that one of us should enter the concubine’s household to spy on her. Now, under these circumstances, I believe such a scheme can succeed.”

The princess’s expression mellowed. She reached out a hand to touch my shoulder. “You serve me well, Tamsin.”

Maria said something in Spanish.

The princess nodded. “That woman must be stopped.” Her Grace rarely allowed herself to acknowledge Anne Boleyn’s existence but, when she did, she never referred to Lady Anne by name. She was either “the concubine” or “that woman.”