Philippa (40 page)

Philippa curtseyed low, her deep blue and silver skirts belling out as she did so.

“I have written to you of the kindness of Rosamund Bolton, Carlos,” the queen began. “This is her eldest daughter, Philippa, countess of Witton. She has served me loyally for the past four years but will retire after the summer progress, for she is newly married, and her duty now is to give her husband’s family heirs. Philippa, my child, may I present the emperor to you.”

Philippa curtseyed once again. “Your majesty,” she said softly.

“Your madre is well, countess?” the emperor asked politely.

“She is, your majesty, and will be honored that you asked,” Philippa responded.

“She is from the north of this country?” the emperor queried.

“Aye, your majesty. She is a landowner and along with Lord Cambridge, a relation, involved in the merchant trade with the Low Countries. Perhaps you have heard of our Friarsgate Blue wool. It is the finest cloth,” Philippa found herself saying.

“It is a very difficult commodity to obtain,” the emperor surprised her by saying. “I have had complaints about that, for it is much in demand, countess.”

“Aye, they control its distribution in order to keep the price high,” Philippa returned. He knew of her mother’s wool. Wait until she told them that at Friarsgate come the autumn!

“Your mother, it would appear, is a clever woman,” the emperor said.

“She is indeed, Carlos,” the queen agreed. Then she said to Philippa in a gentle gesture of dismissal, “I think I see the earl, your husband, seeking for you, my child.”

Philippa curtseyed once more. “Thank you, your highness. Your majesty.” And then she backed away, finally turning about to look for Crispin. She was suddenly aware of her new status. She was no longer plain Mistress Meredith, the queen’s maid of honor. She was the countess of Witton, worthy of being introduced to an emperor. It was quite a revelation.

And then Crispin was at her elbow. “You met the emperor,” he said, and she heard the pride in his voice.

“Aye,” she said, looking up at him. “He knew about my mother’s famous wool. He said he had had complaints from the merchants in the Low Countries of its scarcity. Imagine, Crispin! The Holy Roman Emperor and king of Spain knew about Friarsgate Blue wool. I am astounded.”

“He is young,” the earl answered her, “but I suspect he will be a great man one day, little one. Nothing, it would seem, escapes his notice. Not even Friarsgate Blue.” He chuckled. “It has been quite an evening for you. You danced with the king, and you were introduced to and held a conversation with an emperor.”

“I have danced with the king before,” she said. “He is very demanding, and will only dance with the best dancers.”

“If he dances with you in France you will certainly catch the eye of King Francois,” her husband told her. “Then I shall have to be jealous.”

“Would you? Would you really be jealous?” Philippa demanded, eyes sparkling.

“Aye!” he replied without hesitation. “I should be insanely jealous.”

“Then I shall have to arrange it,” she teased him.

“Be careful, little one,” he warned her. “No lady, it is said, remains chaste at the French court. Tom Boleyn’s daughter, Mary, has been there for several years, and is said to have become a most accomplished whore. King Francois calls her his English Mare, and claims to have ridden her innumerable times to his pleasure.”

“What a terrible thing to claim of the earl of Wiltshire’s daughter!” Philippa cried.

“It would not be said of her were it not so, little one. So be cautious in your dealings with the noblemen of France,” he cautioned her. “I should not like to have to fight a duel over your honor. Not, at least, until you have given me a son or two.”

“Do you think you would not win?” she asked innocently, but her mouth was twitching with amusement.

“Vixen! Would you put some poor Frenchman in danger simply to amuse yourself? I see I may have to correct your behavior one of these days soon.”

“Correct my behavior?” She looked surprised. “How?”

“Have you never been spanked, madame?” he murmured.

“Crispin, you would not dare!” she exclaimed.

“You do not want to try my patience, madame,” he warned her.

“Not today at least,” she teased him.

“Unless you have a good reason for remaining here,” he told her, “we should return to the inn. Did you get enough to eat? It seemed to me that those of us not at the high board or the tables directly below it tonight were stinted.”

Philippa nodded. “The presentation of the dishes was splendid, but I scarce saw a thing upon my plate,” she admitted. “Do you think the innkeeper will have a crust of bread and a rind of cheese he might spare us?” She was smiling.

“Now I can see how you survived at court as a maid of honor,” he said, smiling back. “I think we can do better than a crust and a rind. I was considering a fat capon, strawberries, fresh bread, butter, and a lovely runny Brie cheese, madame.” He escorted her from the hall, and from the bishop’s palace.

She sighed. “It sounds wonderful!” she agreed as they came out onto the streets of the town.

They had walked from the inn earlier, and now they returned the same way. Because of the king’s visit the streets were well lit and patrolled tonight. And they had not far to go. He held her hand, and walking along in the spring night Philippa considered that never before had she strolled hand in hand with a gentleman. Her marriage to Crispin St. Claire was bringing her many new adventures, and she had earlier decided that she liked it. And after tonight she knew that she liked being the countess of Witton. It was much more fun being a countess than just an ordinary girl. Her sisters would simply be pea green with envy when she saw them again and told them. And Banon was only marrying a second son, even if she did love him. And as for Bessie, what could poor Bessie expect with nothing to recommend her but a small dowry? No, it was definitely better to be the countess of Witton.

T
he king would make no treaty excluding France with his wife’s nephew. Henry Tudor preferred to keep all his options open. He did agree to meet again with Charles at Gravelines, which was imperial territory, after his meeting with King Francois. The young emperor left for Sandwich on Tuesday evening, the twenty-ninth of May. The following morning, the king and the court departed for Dover where they embarked in a fleet of twenty-seven vessels led by his majesty’s own personal ship,
Henri Grace à Dieu,
more familiarly known as the
Great Harry.
It took nine hundred sailors to manage the huge vessel, which had been built seven years earlier to the king’s exact specifications by over a hundred carpenters and shipwrights.

Newly refitted for this summer progress, the
Great Harry
had magnificent cloth of gold sails that billowed perfectly in the summer breezes. There was not a mast that did not fly a beautiful banner or exquisite pennant. The king knew the French had nothing like this incredible ship. And while he was sorry his rival king would not be at Calais to see it, he knew that everything about the vessel would be reported in minute detail to Francois. Only his late brother-in-law’s the
Great Michael
could have come close to the sumptuousness of the Great Harry. But James IV of Scotland was dead, and his ship lost but to memory.

Three thousand nine hundred and ninety-seven persons made up the king’s retinue. There were peers and bishops; the king’s personal secretary, Richard Pace; twelve chaplains; and the entire staff of the Chapel Royal. There were heralds, two hundred guards, seventy grooms of the chamber, and two hundred sixty-six household officers, each with their own servants. The queen’s party totaled eleven hundred and seventy-five persons, all of whom traveled with their servants. Philippa and Lucy were counted among them. Cardinal Wolsey had a train of gentlemen, among them the earl of Witton, chaplains, and two hundred thirty-seven servants. The duke of Buckingham and Archbishop Warham were not allowed as many retainers as was Wolsey All in all, five thousand one hundred seventy-two people and two thousand eight hundred sixty-five horses traveled to France.

The great royal summer progress departed Dover just before dawn on the morning of May thirty-first. By noon they had sailed across the gentle seas to arrive at Calais. The earl and countess of Witton had taken with them in their private ship six of the queen’s ladies and their servants. Among them was Thomas Boleyn’s eldest daughter, Mary, who had spent time at the French court when Mary Tudor had been France’s queen. She seemed pleasant enough to Philippa, but Crispin was not pleased to have her aboard his transport.

“She has a bad reputation,” he told his wife.

“The queen asked me to take her,” Philippa answered her husband. “I could not refuse her, could I? She seems a quiet girl, my lord. What do you hear of her?”

“That she whores easily,” he replied.

“I would assume most whores do so easily, else they would not be whores,” Philippa responded. “Was she ever your whore?”

“Damn it, Philippa!” he swore softly. “No! I have never been eager to travel a road so well used.”

“Is the king traveling that road now?” Philippa asked. “Perhaps that is why the queen wanted me to take her. She must put up with much, but even a queen is entitled to a respite now and again. This is a hard trip for her. She prefers her summers at Woodstock these days. She says the quiet there reminds her of a convent, and allows her to concentrate on her prayers.”

“There are rumors, aye,” the earl said. “Now that Bessie Blount is gone, and the queen pronounced barren of future children, he is restless. Mary Boleyn is of easy virtue, and not apt to seek to outshine or insult the queen.”

“How tragic that the king’s only son should be bastard-born,” Philippa remarked.

“The king is young, and can marry again,” the earl said.

“He is married,” Philippa said sharply.

“He will eventually find a way to dispose of his old queen, and take a new, fecund one,” the earl answered quietly. “There is precedent for this, Philippa, and Henry Tudor will have his son. He does not mean the Tudor dynasty his father sought to build to end with him. Any husband Princess Mary takes one day will have to be equal to her in rank. This means a king to her queen. England will not want a foreign-born king ruling them.”

“Such a thing will never happen,” Philippa said firmly.

They remained upon their vessel until June third, when the great train began its departure for Guisnes, where the summit was to be held. Philippa was awestruck by the small city that had been constructed to house the two kings and their retinues. Bishop Fisher, however, was appalled by the abundance of extravagance. He shook his head at the excess, among the few to notice the gathering of beggars surrounding the encampment in hopes of receiving alms.

The French had put up four hundred tents by the side of a river bordering the village of Ardres, while the English pitched two thousand eight hundred tents by the village of Guisnes. The French king had a tent made from cloth of gold. Its canvas roof was painted with astrological signs and stars. Its interior entrance was filled with young trees and pots of ivy. A great gilt statue of Saint Michael sat in the entry’s center, reflecting the sunlight that touched it through the wide opening of the pavilion.

The English king, however, more than equaled his fellow monarch. Six thousand carpenters, masons, brick-layers, and others had spent months building an Italianate palace for Henry Tudor and his guests. It had been fashioned of stone and brick, and was embellished with battlements and crenellations. There was much ornamental tile work, fan-shaped stone and ironwork ornamentations, and life-size statues of famous heroes filling every niche. From the comers of the roofs sprang heraldic animals of stone. From the center of the palace sprang a six-sided cupola topped with more fantastic beasts, and a life-size gilt angel. Long arched windows of glass lined the upper floor of Henry Tudor’s temporary summer palace.

Inside, all the windows were edged in gold inlay. The most precious rugs, tapestries, silk hangings, furniture, and ornaments had been transported to France from Greenwich and Richmond palaces in order to furnish this fairy-tale castle. There was a little chapel with altar cloths of gold tissue embroidered with pearls and other gemstones. The candlesticks and the chalices had been brought from Westminster Abbey for the occasion. There were gold statues of the twelve apostles half the size of a grown man. But most amazing of all were the two fountains in the open planted courtyard of this castle. One poured forth claret, or hippocras, and the other ran with beer or ale for any and all who cared to drink.

The earl and countess of Witton were rather relieved to find their tent set up on the edge of the English area between the queen’s and the cardinal’s sections. Lord Cambridge had arranged a fine canvas tent, with an awning before it where the horses might be sheltered. Inside, the tent was divided into two sections, one for sleeping and the other for eating or entertaining. Lucy would sleep in the main section. Peter would bed with the horses outside so they would not be stolen. The earl’s man had made a small fire outside their pavilion, and set braziers with burning coals in each of the tent’s two rooms to take the dampness and chill from the air inside. There was a table and several chairs in the front of their accommodation, and a pallet for Lucy in the far comer. In the back chamber of the tent their trunks had been set out along with a bed, a chair, and a small table. Peter had cleverly strung a line in this back room, and Lucy was already laying out her mistress’s gowns across it.

They had barely gotten themselves settled when they had a visitor. A gentleman of medium height, dressed in splendid garments, and just faintly resembling Crispin St. Claire, entered their pavilion. He looked about and then, spotting the earl, cried,
“Mon
chou! It is you! I was not certain you were still in service to Monsieur le Cardinal!”