The King's Damsel (23 page)

And that document? Authorization, no doubt, for him to continue running my estates.

My sense of guilt was so intense that I trembled with it. I should have done more to look after what had been built by my father and
my grandfather and his father before him. I should have been in correspondence with Hugo Wynn from the start, asking after the horses and the home farm. Were there any horses left? There might not be. Sir Lionel had been quick to dispose of Star of Hartlake.

Instead, I had selfishly immersed myself in my new life in the princess’s household, reveling in the attention I received for telling stories and in the new friendships I formed. Bound together by that friendship and by our devotion to Princess Mary, we had all been content to be cut off from the outside world . . . until the outside world forced itself upon us.

I looked up, startled, as a figure all in black stopped in front of me. “You must not mind my sister,” Lady Mary Rochford said. “She has a peculiar sense of humor.”

I slid over to make room for her on the window seat. When she had settled there and rearranged her skirts, she reached out one plump hand to squeeze mine. “Do you wish to speak with a man of law, my dear? If your guardian has deceived you, I am certain there are measures that can be taken to protect what is yours by right.”

I started to say yes and stopped. “There was a paper all in Latin,” I confessed. “Sir Lionel had me sign it just after I entered my sixteenth year. I think I must have given him control over my estates.” Tears filled my eyes. I had not been just foolish, but stupidly so!

“You may still have legal recourse,” Lady Mary said. “It would not hurt to inquire.”

I sniffled. “At least I cannot have given my inheritance away forever. Lady Anne said I had to be twenty-one to do that.”

Lady Mary’s sympathy soothed me. I let her persuade me to talk to a lawyer she knew, although I did not have much confidence that anything would change. Only one thought gave me ease: In two more years, I would reach my majority. Then there would be a reckoning.

D
uring the next few days, I heard a few hastily stifled chuckles whenever Lady Anne’s gentlewomen caught sight of me, but other than that, no one paid me any particular attention. I was not ridiculed, nor was I regarded with suspicion because I’d come to Lady Anne from Princess Mary’s household. Everyone, from Lady Anne herself down to the lowliest kitchen boy, assumed that my motivation was the same as their own—the desire to be at the center of court life. Personal advancement, to their minds, took precedence over loyalty.

Lady Anne had never made any secret of her dislike for the king’s daughter. She seemed to consider Princess Mary, rather than the queen, her foremost rival for His Grace’s affections. She did not know how little attention King Henry paid the princess.

“Tell me about your former mistress,” she commanded during my second week in her service. “I have heard she is not strong—that she is a weak, puling girl who often takes to her bed.”

“She was ill for much of the month of May,” I said cautiously.
It had taken a full three weeks for her earliest symptoms to resolve themselves into her first flowers.

There had been no attempt to poison Princess Mary by Lady Anne or anyone else. Her Grace was simply one of those unfortunate women who were cursed with terrible pain when their monthly courses came upon them. Even so, I remembered Maria’s story about what had happened in the Bishop of Rochester’s household. Since I could readily believe that Lady Anne Rochford would order the deaths of her enemies, I remained wary of my new mistress.

“Why does the girl continue to annoy her father with her constant petitions to visit his court?” Lady Anne demanded.

I knew of only one such request, and that one had been made in the desperate days when the princess thought she might be dying.

“Her mother is just as bad,” Lady Anne continued without waiting for an answer. “She is always begging the king to invite the girl here to live.”

I struggled against a nearly overpowering urge to berate Lady Anne for her coldhearted attitude. I wanted to defend my former mistress
and
her mother the queen. I came very close to blurting out my true feelings and caught myself only just in time. Instead I murmured something unintelligible, hoping the concubine would take it as assent.

I had come to court to gain Lady Anne’s trust, I reminded myself. To do so, I must tell her what she wanted to hear. Silently asking God’s forgiveness for my lies, I put my storytelling abilities to work and invented several incidents that made Princess Mary sound like the worst sort of spoiled brat. I emphasized her poor health, her lack of beauty, and her tendency, in imitation of her mother the queen, to spend far too many hours fasting and in prayer.

“Then the French ambassador had the right of it,” Lady Anne remarked.

“My lady?”

She laughed, but it did not come from the heart. The sound was too loud and somehow unnatural. “Do you know what he said of her, all those years ago when she was betrothed to the French prince? He proclaimed that she would never make a breeder. Too thin. Too pale. Too small, he said.”

Again, I held my tongue. It would do me no good and possibly cause much harm should I contradict her. I also resisted the impulse to point out that Princess Mary had been a mere child at the time.

“There will be no marriage to a French prince now,” Lady Anne declared. “King Francis is looking to Italy for a bride for his son. Some Medici girl, or so I hear from the very highest sources.”

Her dark eyes glittered. The concubine derived great pleasure from any opportunity to boast of her intimacy with the king. I hoped he did not share any secrets with her that he did not want repeated.

Lady Mary Rochford looked up from her sewing. She had been a silent witness to our conversation, so quiet and self-effacing that I had all but forgotten she was there. “I am certain there will be other offers,” she said. “The marriage of a princess has great value when it comes to sealing alliances.”

Her sister glared at her. “There
have
been offers, but none of any importance. A son of the Duke of Cleves. The king of Scots. A prince of Transylvania.” Lady Anne laughed again, and again there was something not quite right about the sound. “Send her to Transylvania, I say. That godforsaken principality is far, far away from England.”

Transylvania? The name struck me as familiar and an involuntary shiver ran through me when I remembered why. I hastily crossed myself. People who knew of my ability to tell stories often shared with me their favorite tales and legends. In that way, I had heard of Vlad the Impaler. His story was not one I would ever
repeat, no matter how desperate I was for something to provide an evening’s entertainment. Prince Vlad had been a terrible man . . . if he had
been
a man. My stomach twisted at the thought of sending my gentle, sweet-natured princess into exile in the land that could spawn such a monster.

Distracted by her sister, Lady Anne abandoned her interrogation of me. I fancy that I hid my relief, but it was some time before my breathing steadied and my heart ceased beating so loudly that I feared the sound could be heard at the far side of the chamber.

I watched the concubine closely from the moment I entered her service, and tried to discern what it was about her that the king found so compelling. I soon dismissed the notion that she had bewitched His Grace and bespelled half the court. Anne Boleyn had simply been born with the ability to charm and dazzle.

A few resisted her allure. Bishop Fisher was one and Cardinal Wolsey another. Once, Wolsey had been the most powerful man in England after the king. In February, he had been banished to his archbishopric in York, far to the north. He’d left behind the two magnificent palaces he’d built—York Place and Hampton Court—making a “gift” of them to King Henry.

The concubine made a dangerous enemy. At close quarters, waiting on her in her bedchamber, I saw her moods shift like quicksilver. In an instant she could go from giddy good humor to white-knuckled fury. Time and time again, I saw her rein in her temper before it could explode, but I also sensed the rage still simmering just beneath the surface calm. I did not want to be in the way when all that anger finally burst free.

Almost as frightening was the ease with which Lady Anne succeeded when she set out to charm someone. She had an energy about her that was capable of infecting all those around her with the same high spirits. So often was there nothing but music and gaiety
in her rooms that even I occasionally forgot that the concubine had a darker side.

Living in Lady Anne Rochford’s shadow was a heady experience. It was fortunate that my new duties were so time-consuming, else I might have been tempted to do more than hover at the edges of the bright, gaudy circle of the concubine’s friends and family. They loved music, dancing, and disguisings. They had quick wits and wicked tongues. Lady Anne’s rooms were lively from dawn till well after dusk, and never more so than when the king came to visit.

King Henry and his Anne together were a powerful force. They seemed to feed off each other’s strong personalities, so that each of them grew even more compelling when in the other’s presence. Being with his lady love put His Grace in a jovial mood. He smiled on everyone. It was impossible not to smile back.

In truth, King Henry was the sort of man I would have looked upon with favor even if he had not been my liege lord. In spite of the fact that he was more than twice my age, he still cut a fine figure, being very tall and well muscled from regular practice in the tiltyard and long days of hunting and hawking. He wore his beard neatly trimmed and his hair cropped close to his well-shaped head. When he was amused, his blue-gray eyes twinkled and his laugh boomed out, filling the entire room.

For the most part, His Grace took little notice of anyone but his mistress, but one evening, when I was dispatched to another chamber to fetch Lady Anne’s lute, he regarded me with a look of puzzlement when I returned with it. “Who are you, mistress? Your face is familiar.”

“I am Thomasine Lodge, Your Majesty. Of Hartlake Manor near Glastonbury.”

I wondered if I should add that Sir Lionel had been my guardian. I had done nothing yet about reclaiming my estates save write
a letter to Sir Jasper, asking my stepmother’s favorite priest to discover, if he could, what conditions were at Hartlake Manor and whether Hugo Wynn was still steward there. I had not received a reply.

For a moment I thought Lady Anne might regale her lover with the tale of my ignorance in the matter of my wardship. I was not certain what the result of that would be. The king might be very angry indeed with Sir Lionel. Or he might laugh, as everyone else had.

“Go away, do, Tamsin.” Lady Anne was clearly displeased that His Grace’s attention had strayed to someone besides herself. “You are too tall. It makes my neck hurt to look up at you.”

As an adult, I had acquired a decidedly feminine shape, but I had also inherited my father’s height. I stood a head taller than most of the women at court. I towered over tiny females like Queen Catherine. Although Lady Anne was not as short as the queen, I still had the advantage over her in inches.

I hastily curtseyed and took a few backward steps. Lady Anne began to strum her lute.

“You are a most becoming height, Mistress Lodge,” the king said kindly. His admiring gaze swept over me from head to toe.

When I blushed, he chuckled.

“Now I remember,” he said, turning back to his mistress as I continued my retreat. “The girl’s father raised that magnificent stallion, Star of Hartlake. He made an excellent addition to the Royal Mews.”

“So that was the reason for your interest in her,” Lady Anne replied just before I moved out of earshot. “His coltish daughter reminded you of his horse.”

T
his is Master Thomas Cromwell,” said Lady Mary Rochford, indicating the stocky older man at her elbow. “He will assist you in the matter of your inheritance.”

The fellow was plainly dressed for court, in a riding coat of brown and blue welted with tawny velvet. Leaving Lady Mary behind, I went with him to the small office he used as a member of the king’s Privy Council. Since I had heard nothing from Sir Jasper and did not know what else I might do to untangle the legal intricacies of my situation, I told him everything.

He was careful to make no promises.

“Will you tell the king what Sir Lionel has done?” I asked.

“The king does not concern himself with such minor matters.”

I was not sure why Master Cromwell should, either, other than as a favor to Lady Mary Rochford, but I left his room feeling that I had at last taken the first step toward reclaiming what was mine.

When I returned to Lady Anne’s lodgings, I found everything in a state of confusion. Lady Anne was gone and her attendants,
with Lady Mary in charge, had been ordered to pack their mistress’s belongings.

“But where are we going?” I asked Lady Mary as I slipped one of her sister’s velvet gowns into a protective linen bag designed for just that purpose.

“To Chertsey Abbey for the night. Then on to Woodstock.” Her face wore a troubled frown.

“What is wrong?” I asked.

Her smile looked forced. “Nothing is wrong. On the contrary, all is well. For Anne.”

“I do not understand.”

Lady Mary had no need to answer me. I was supposed to be packing her sister’s possessions, not asking impertinent questions. But she was a kindly soul.

“You know that here at Windsor it has been the king’s habit to ride out to hunt nearly every day?”

I nodded and continued to pack Lady Anne’s garments for transport.

“My sister and a few servants were accustomed to ride with him, but never the queen and yet, because she
is
the queen, King Henry has dined with her at least once a week and several times spent the evening talking to her while she sewed.”

I knew all this. The concubine had complained of it in an aggrieved voice every time His Grace did so.