The King's Damsel (3 page)
Authors: Kate Emerson
Who Was Who at the Court of Henry VIII 1525–1535
BOLEYN AND HOWARD FAMILIES
August 1525
S
tar of Hartlake sensed my troubled spirit. He turned his massive head toward me and nickered close to my ear as I curried his long, thin mane with a hedgehog skin brush. It was all I could do not to bury my face against his warm neck and weep.
“Do you know?” I asked him. “Do horses sense it when their owners have died?”
Star had been my father’s favorite, the mount he invariably chose, even when we were only riding out for pleasure. My brother used to chide Father for that, saying that Star of Hartlake was too valuable an animal for everyday use. He was a courser, bred for warfare. He had the stately appearance of his breed, all black except for the star-shaped blaze on his forehead, with a broad breast, a long, arched neck, small upright ears, and large black eyes.
Father’s answer to Stephen had always been the same. He’d laugh and ask what sense it made to own such a marvelous beast and not enjoy him.
They were both gone now, Father and Stephen, and I missed them more each day.
My father was Sir Arthur Lodge. It still seemed impossible to me that he could be dead. He had always been a strong and vigorous man. But three months ago, he fell ill of a fever. The most learned physicians in Bristol and Glastonbury were consulted, but none of them could do anything for him. After two weeks of suffering, he died.
My older brother, Stephen, inherited everything but the widow’s third that went to my stepmother, Blanche, and my marriage portion of four hundred marks. As we three grieved together, Stephen assured Blanche that he intended to make no drastic changes. She did not need to move into her dower house unless she wished to. I was to have the run of all the properties that now belonged to Stephen. It had not occurred to me until he told me this that matters might have been otherwise.
I was thirteen years old when Father died and not yet betrothed to anyone. That made arranging my future marriage Stephen’s responsibility. He said he was in no hurry to find me a husband, nor was he in any rush to be one himself. Stephen was only ten years my senior and had inherited our father’s zest for life. He soon resumed his normal round of activities. A few weeks after Father died, Stephen lost his own life in a hunting accident. Of a sudden, I found myself sole heir to the wealth amassed by three generations of the Lodge family.
I sighed deeply and resumed my steady, rhythmic stroking of Star of Hartlake’s mane. I should not have been in the stable at all, let alone performing such a menial task, but it soothed me to be with the horses. Father had taught me to ride when I was barely old enough to walk. We’d gone out together on horseback at every opportunity, sometimes to visit tenants, other times simply to explore. I knew the rugged Mendip Hills north of Glastonbury almost as well as the cottagers who lived there.
Both a love of hearth and home and a yen for new experiences ran in my blood. My grandfather and great-grandfather had been among the most successful merchant adventurers of Bristol. As a young man, Grandfather had sailed all the way to the New World across the Western Sea and brought back captive savages to present to the king. My father, on the other hand, had been the first in his family to acquire land instead of trade goods. He bought estates in Somersetshire and Gloucestershire and a town house in Glastonbury. All those properties, as well as his chattel, were mine now. I’d have relinquished every one of them—even Star of Hartlake—to have my father and brother back again.
At the sound of footfalls on the planked floor behind me, I turned. I expected to see one of the grooms, although I’d given them permission to retire to their room above the stable and had imagined them passing their time gaming with dice or cards.
Instead of Peter or Barnaby, it was Blanche who appeared. She looked as ill at ease as I’d ever seen her. I hurriedly put away my brush and my wisp and returned Star to his stall. My stepmother had always been uncomfortable around horses. Born and bred in a town, she’d had little to do with large animals and had never learned to ride.
Blanche wrinkled her nose at the smell of soiled hay. The scent did not bother me, but I took her arm and led her out into the cobbled courtyard. It was there, in the brightness of full sunlight, that I finally saw why she had braved the stable to seek me out. In one plump hand, she held a letter. She was clutching it so tightly that she’d cracked the seal.
Father had, on occasion, received written communications, but I could think of no reason why anyone would correspond with his widow. She never exchanged missives with friends. Like most women, she had never been taught to read or write.
“Who sent it?” I asked as we continued across the courtyard toward the house.
“That is what you must tell me, Tamsin. The boy who brought it from Glastonbury said it was delivered to the town house, but he knew no more than that.” She thrust the letter at me and put her hands behind her back the moment I took it, as if she feared I’d try to return it to her.
Curious, I looked first at the mangled seal. It was a blob of plain red wax. No signet ring had been pressed into it to tell me the sender’s identity.
I wish I could say that I felt a deep sense of foreboding as I unfolded that piece of paper, but I had no warning of what was to come as I stood there on that warm summer afternoon, a light breeze riffling my long brown hair, loosely held back from my face in a net, the air redolent with the smell of new-mown hay from the surrounding fields. All unsuspecting, I began to read.
“It is from someone called Sir Lionel Daggett,” I announced.
I was proud of my ability to read. I had been taught by the nuns of Minchin Barrow. Another of our manor houses lay close enough to the priory at Barrow Gurney for me to have been sent there for lessons. For more than a year, I had gone every day to be taught by Sister Maud and Sister Berengaria. The sisters were, in fact, my father’s aunts.
“I do not know the name.” Rather than go inside, where the servants could overhear our conversation, Blanche seated herself on the stone bench beside the door. She arranged her voluminous black skirts with great care before she patted the seat beside her in invitation for me to join her.
I barely noticed the gesture. I had come upon my own name—Mistress Thomasine Lodge—in the letter from the mysterious Sir Lionel. I felt my brow furrow and heard my breath hitch as I
continued to read. Then I blinked and focused again on the astonishing words on the page before me. They did not change.
“I do not understand,” I said aloud, at last sinking down onto the bench at my stepmother’s side. “Sir Lionel claims that I am his ward. He writes that he is coming to Glastonbury to take up his duties as my legal guardian.”
Beside me, Blanche went very still. “That cannot be. Your father entrusted your care to me.” But worry creased her face, leaving my confidence shaken.
My stepmother was a gentle soul. She had been born Blanche Good, the youngest daughter of a Bristol clothier. “Good her name and good her nature,” my father had been wont to say of her. She was plump, sweet-faced, and even-tempered, with thick golden hair—hidden now beneath the gable headdress she wore—and dark blue eyes that were very nearly the color of violets. As she’d been Father’s second wife, they’d married for love.
“If this man is a fraud,” I said, “we will have him seized by the constable and whipped for his effrontery.” I spoke with the brashness of youth and ignorance and my bold words did little to reassure my stepmother.
“We must consult with someone wiser than we are. A man of law, perhaps, or one of the learned scholars who visit the abbey. We will go to Glastonbury.”
“But that is where Sir Lionel will be,” I objected. “He writes that he will meet with us at the town house in four days’ time.” The demand that we present ourselves there at his convenience displayed an alarming arrogance. Even more disturbing was his apparent confidence that we would obey.
