Royal Inheritance (8 page)

Hester grinned up at her. “Can you not tell me a story about them both?”

E
very year, King Henry celebrated May Day. His Grace was surpassing fond of pageantry, everything from tournaments to disguisings. In the spring after I began my lessons with Jack Harington—I still addressed him as Master Harington, although I already thought of him as Jack—there was a great tournament held in the tiltyard in Westminster. King Henry and Queen Anne watched the jousting from a newly built gatehouse at Whitehall. It was a grand spectacle, or so everyone said.

“All the young noblemen of the court participated and some of the gentlemen, too,” Jack told me as, with Father’s blessing and Edith in tow, he escorted me to the riverside stairs and hailed a two-oared wherry, “but only those who are the king’s favorites.” He sounded wistful.

“I am glad you were not one of them!” I exclaimed. “I’d not want you to be injured.” This was a very forward thing to say and provoked a mutter of disapproval from Edith.

“No chance of that! A mere chorister has other duties. But I was able to watch most of the contests. Tom Culpeper, one of the
gentlemen of the privy chamber, was unhorsed in a most undignified fashion.” Jack’s satisfied smile told me Master Culpeper, whoever he might be, was no friend to my music tutor.

The waterman, leaning on his oars, waited impatiently while we settled ourselves in his craft. “West or east?” he demanded, and spat into the murky waters of the Thames.

“Durham House, if you please,” Jack told him, and handed over a coin.

“Your father thinks you are going to court,” Edith said in a whisper as the little boat caught the tide and began to move swiftly westward. Gulls and seabirds wheeled overhead, filling the air with their raucous cries. “What business have you going to Durham House?”

Overhearing, Jack chuckled. “You need not be concerned for your charge’s virtue, Edith. Today the whole court is at Durham House. That is where those bold knights who excelled in the lists are to be awarded their prizes—gifts of money and grants of houses. The king will be there, and the queen, and all the courtiers you could wish for.”

Durham House sits in the middle of the curve of the Thames. Just beyond it, on the land side, the city of Westminster begins. I had noticed its gardens before, when passing by en route to the royal palace of Whitehall. They are planted in three descending terraces on the London side of the mansion. The house itself is built close to the river, allowing easy access by way of a water gate that is part of a two-storied galleried range that flanks the great hall. A screens passage leads into that high and stately chamber. That day we could have located the hall by the level of noise alone.

Jack veered off just short of the entrance to lead us up a narrow flight of stairs to the musicians’ gallery. Only three of the musicians were playing. The trio produced exquisite sounds that could scarcely
be heard over the hubbub below, but the other members of their company were a more appreciative audience.

“The Bassano brothers,” Jack said. “Newly arrived from Italy. They make my poor skills seem little more than an amateur effort by an untalented child.”

Taking the comparison as a criticism of my own ability, I shrank back, but Jack was the noticing sort. It took him only a moment to realize how I had misinterpreted his words.

“You are naturally gifted,” he assured me. “You have inherent talent. Why else should I have brought you here today? I have a surprise for you.”

Mollified, I demanded to know what it was.

“All in good time, Mistress Audrey. All in good time.”

Jack showed me to a place by the rail and then left me to exchange greetings with some of the other royal musicians. They were not gentlemen of the Chapel Royal but rather the king’s secular musicians. Some twenty-five of them, many foreign born, played for His Grace at masques and for dancing.

I peered at the crowd below, and was glad I was not down there among them to be jostled and buffeted. Spectators seemed to fill every inch of space, vying for the best position from which to see the king and his bride of barely five months. Anne of Cleves was a very plain woman but she had a kind smile. As I watched, Her Grace handed out arms and expensive robes and silver vessels to that day’s champions.

Edith, having settled herself with much grumbling, suddenly gave a little cry of pleasure. “Only look, Mistress Audrey! There is the Countess of Surrey.”

She indicated a young woman in her early twenties in close attendance on Queen Anne. Lady Surrey had wide-spaced eyes, a
broad nose, and a strained expression on her pale face. She did not appear to be enjoying the festivities.

“Is your mother here, too?”

“Oh, no, Mistress Audrey. She will be at Surrey House in Norwich with the countess’s children. They are too young yet to be brought to court. The fourth, another boy, was born less than three months past.”

No wonder the countess lacked enthusiasm!

“Do you recognize anyone else among the ladies attending Her Grace?”

“That is the countess’s sister-in-law.” Edith pointed out a compactly made, richly dressed young woman who kept her eyes downcast, almost as if she was lost in her own thoughts. “She was born Lady Mary Howard, the Duke of Norfolk’s only daughter, but she’s Duchess of Richmond now. Poor creature. She was married to the king’s bastard.”

I must have given a little start of surprise because Edith looked at me and then away, as if she’d said too much. I poked her.

“Go on. Tell me all. I did not know the king had a son other than Prince Edward.”

Curiously, in spite of the noise and laughter all around us, private conversation was possible. We were hidden from the view of those below and seated in a little well of relative quiet.

“Henry FitzRoy, he was called. Before Prince Edward was born, the king made him a duke. Some said His Grace meant the boy to be king after him, bastard or no, so it was a fine marriage for Lady Mary. But then the boy died and she was left a widow before she was ever truly a wife.”

I made a sympathetic sound, but my thoughts had strayed.
I did not often remember that I was a bastard myself. Even Bridget did not taunt me about it. But it had never before occurred to me that a
child born on the wrong side of the blanket could rise so high. I supposed it made a difference when your father was the king.

“Oh, there is Mistress Catherine Howard.” Edith gestured toward a pretty girl with golden hair. She did not look much older than I was. “She is a cousin to the Duchess of Richmond and the Earl of Surrey and serves as one of the queen’s maids of honor.”

Jack joined us then, putting an end to Edith’s confidences. I was content to watch the spectacle at his side, observing in silence as the defenders and the challengers from the tournament were rewarded first with gifts and then with food.

A space had been left for tables, and dozens of platters overflowing with steaming dishes were carried in—roasted meats and sauces and sweets of all sorts. Each new course was announced with a thunderous fanfare provided by military drummers. Softer sounds filled the air at other times.

The only person Jack pointed out to me was the Earl of Surrey. “The earl was Queen Anne’s ‘Chief Defender’ in the lists,” he explained. “He led twenty-nine brave men and true into mock battle. He ran eight successful courses each of the first two days of the tournament without ever being unhorsed and was just as successful when they fought with swords instead of lances.”

Boisterous and full of good cheer, Surrey slapped one of his fellows on the back and embraced another. I could make out little of his appearance from my perch, only a full head of auburn hair and a rather scraggly beard of the same color.

The official festivities ended when the king and queen departed. The rest of the company began to disperse as well. When Jack led me out of the musicians’ gallery, I expected to return to the water gate, but the passageway he chose took us instead into an antechamber containing another narrow flight of stairs. Edith and I followed Jack up, and up, and up, until the steps ended in
a little turret room. Its windows looked down into and out over the Thames.

“You should not be here with him,” Edith hissed at me, alarmed by the remoteness and privacy of the chamber.

“I am in no danger,” I whispered back. In truth, I wished there
were
some hope that Jack Harington might look upon me as a young woman he’d like to steal away and marry. I adored my music master, but he still looked upon me as a child. That I
was
a child—not quite twelve years old—was something I preferred to ignore.

“Put aside your foolish daydreams,” Edith snapped. “That young gentleman is up to no good.”

Jack was, in fact, arranging cushions on the floor and setting out beakers and cups.

Edith was still trying to push me toward the door when two very finely dressed courtiers entered through it.

“Jack!” the man exclaimed. “Well met! And this must be the lass they call ‘Harington’s pet.’ ” He looked straight at me when he said it, a friendly smile on his darkly tanned face.

“Tom! Mind your manners!” His female companion smacked his forearm with a closed fan, but she was laughing.

Edith bent to speak into my ear. “That fellow is Thomas Clere, squire to the Earl of Surrey.”

Overhearing, the young man’s head snapped around and he gave my maidservant a frosty stare. It faded as quickly as it had appeared. “Edith, by my spurs! We wondered where you had vanished to.”

He might have said more, had not the Earl of Surrey himself arrived just then. The woman with him was not his wife. She was his sister, the Duchess of Richmond. Without standing on ceremony, they settled themselves on the cushions Jack had arranged. Master Clere and the other woman joined them.

I glanced at Jack, who remained standing, uncertain how to act.
Was this the “surprise” he had promised me? I could not imagine why he would think I’d wish to meet these people, but when he seized my hand and thrust me forward, I went. With a flourish, he presented me to the earl and the duchess first and then to the gentlewoman who had come with Thomas Clere, Mistress Mary Shelton, companion to the duchess.

Up close, I saw that the earl and his sister shared that auburn hair. Both had hazel eyes, but while her fair coloring was untouched by the sun, his skin had a weathered look. Both he and his squire, I surmised, spent many hours out of doors, hunting, hawking, and riding.

Mistress Shelton’s face was not as full as the duchess’s and her nose was longer and more tapering, but she shared that pale complexion. Along with Master Clere, they were all of an age, and it was nearly twice my years. I managed a curtsey and a mumbled greeting, but apart from that I found myself tongue-tied. This was very grand company indeed for a merchant tailor’s daughter.

Several others soon joined us. I cannot now recall which members of the earl’s circle they were. Surrey often held impromptu musical and literary gatherings. Some of those who attended never came again. Others were part of an intimate group always in attendance on the earl or on his sister.

At first the talk was all of the tournament.

“M’lord Surrey was magnificent.” Mistress Shelton addressed this remark to me in a friendly fashion, attempting to draw me out. Edith had retreated to a corner, effacing herself as any good servant must when in the presence of her betters. “He rode onto the field behind an exquisite float depicting the Roman goddess of arms. His pennant and shield had a silver lion emblazoned upon them and other Howard emblems were embroidered all over his white velvet coat.”

“My father may have made that coat,” I ventured, trying to overcome my shyness around these glittering strangers. If Jack was comfortable with them, so should I be.

“Your father?” Confusion had her brow furrowing.

“Master Malte, the royal tailor.” There was no apology in my voice. I was proud of Father’s work.

She gave me a peculiar look, but if she thought I should go join Edith in the corner, she was kind enough not to say so.

By then, the general conversation had turned away from jousting onto poetry. An earnest young woman begged the Earl of Surrey to recite some of his verses.

He stood and declaimed:

Give place, you lovers here before,

that spent your boasts and brags in vain:

my lady’s beauty passeth more the best of yours,

I dare well sayn,

than doth the sun, the candle light,

or brightest day, the darkest night.

“Mary is working on a new poem,” Lady Richmond announced, nudging Mistress Shelton.

“It is not yet ready to be heard,” Mary Shelton protested.

“Let us judge that.” Thomas Clere slung a familiar arm around her shoulders and planted a smacking kiss on her cheek.

She pushed him away, and none too gently, but after a moment she closed her eyes and recited:

And thus be thus
ye may assure yourself of me.

No thing shall make me to deny
that I have promised thee.

“It needs work,” Surrey said.

“It is the worst sort of doggerel,” Mistress Shelton admitted in a rueful voice. “I am a better copyist than I am a poet.”

Jack Harington cleared his throat. “I wish to present to this company a new poet.”

I looked at him expectantly, and then in slowly dawning horror as I realized I was the one he meant. “Oh, I cannot. My verses have no more merit than an amateur artist’s sketches.”

Thanks to Jack’s lessons, I had discovered talents I’d never dreamed I possessed. Not only had I shown an affinity for playing the lute and for singing, but I also had begun to develop the knack of setting words to music. Encouraged by my tutor, I’d tried my hand at composing my own verses, but they were poor, pitiful things.

“Come, Mistress Malte,” Mary Shelton urged me. “Your attempt can be no worse than mine and we are all friends here, united in our poor efforts to emulate the great poets of antiquity.”