Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (35 page)

I was not altogether satisfied with this explanation, but in the end it had to suffice. The queen’s new pregnancy was a difficult one. She kept all her attendants fully occupied in the months that followed the progress…right up until the birth of a daughter the king named Mary, after his sister.

The Duke and Duchess of Suffolk had been forgiven for their clandestine marriage. King Henry now directed all his anger at
King François instead. He had been even more furious when he heard that his rival had won a great military victory at Marignano, near Milan. The French, taking advantage of the peace with England and Spain, had invaded Italy.

On the twenty-first day of February, the three-day-old princess was christened. I did not attend the ceremony. Instead I traveled to Suffolk Place in Southwark, where Mary had taken up residence to await the birth of her own child. The mansion faced the Thames and had its own private quay, but the winter had been a brutal one and the river had once again frozen solid. I rode across the ice, then made my way to the house on foot, passing two gardens and a maze en route.

I entered the great hall by way of a goodly porch of timberwork hung with cloth of arras without and cloth-of-gold within. The hall boasted fireplaces in every corner and twenty-four torches in wall sconces—I counted them. But only three were lit and the hearths were cold. I shivered in spite of my fur-lined cloak and three wool underskirts.

Mary Tudor awaited me in her bedchamber, where a cheerful fire blazed in the hearth. Great with child, she sat on a cushioned window seat, warmly wrapped in furs against the draft.

“How does my new niece?” she demanded as soon as she saw me.

“Even now she is being carried to the font, the silver one brought from Canterbury.”

Mary’s hand drifted to her swollen belly. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, but I could not tell if the high color came from fever or excitement. Her child was due in less than a month. “Tell me what she looks like.”

“The princess is but three days old. She looks like most other infants at that age.”

“Charles says her hair is red.”

“That is true, but what other color could it be, given her parentage?”

We shared a smile, and Mary reached up to touch one of her own red-gold locks. “Will my child take after me, I wonder, or have dark hair? Oh, it does not matter. I will love him either way, but I do wish he would hurry up and be born!”

“You must be patient.”

“You were always better at that than I,” she lamented.

If only she knew! Ever since the king’s refusal to let me visit France, I’d behaved as ever I had, joining in the dancing and revelry, waiting on my royal mistress, passing the rest of the time with card games and dice and fancy needlework. But beneath my calm demeanor my frustration had built to the screaming point.

“I find little pleasure these days in planning wardrobes or listening to music,” I said, “or even in helping Harry and Master Gibson with the disguisings.”

“I would be happy to be able to join in any of those pastimes.” Mary’s peevish tone reminded me that, in spite of her avowed desire for my friendship, she had no wish to listen to anyone else’s troubles, not even mine.

“Forgive me. I am out of sorts.” I stared out the window behind her at the Thames, striving for calm. Boats being useless on ice, people had taken their horses and carts out onto the frozen river. A few enterprising souls had even set up booths to sell food, and dozens of children had bound animal shinbones to their shoes with leather thongs to go sliding on the ice. Some used iron-shod poles to help them stay upright.

“Has there been any further news from France?” Mary asked.

“Nothing.” I had learned that the duc de Longueville had fought at the great battle of Marignano, but I had received no direct word from Guy or of him. Had he survived the tournament only to be
slain in a French war? I could only pray that he had not been one of the five thousand Frenchmen who had lost their lives to achieve King François’s great victory.

“What word at court of my sister?”

“Nothing new. Queen Margaret is still in Northumberland.”

The queen of Scotland had been obliged to flee from that country the previous September after unwisely choosing a second husband for herself. Her marriage to the Earl of Angus, a Scot with dynastic ambitions, had turned the other noblemen of Scotland against her. They’d taken away her regency and her children and had been keeping her a virtual prisoner in Edinburgh until she’d managed to escape.

“I heard Margaret almost died giving birth to a daughter.”

“So I am told, but she is recovering. She has sent word to your brother that she wishes to come to court.”

“And will he allow it?”

“Who is to say? King Henry is not happy about her marriage. He talks of having it set aside.”

Mary started to speak, then fell silent. If her sister’s marriage could be annulled, even after the birth of a child to that union, then so could her own. It was a fear that must always haunt her.

14

I
n his role as Master of Revels, Harry Guildford brought together his usual lieutenants to plan Queen Margaret’s entertainment. Officially, Master Gibson was his second in command but, as he had so often in the past, Harry asked for my suggestions. Once again, I was to play an active, if unacknowledged part in the proceedings.

“We have until the first of May,” Harry Guildford announced one morning several weeks after my visit to the Duchess of Suffolk. “Queen Margaret will not travel south until then. When she does, her brother wishes to give visible proof of his affection and forgiveness. I am inclined toward gentlemen dressed in Turkey fashion and carrying scimitars.”

“It is already early March,” I reminded him, “and surely King Henry will want something original.” This presented a problem. There was very little that had not been done before. Neither
the Fortress Dangerous nor the Rich Mount were novelties any longer.

“Build a bigger castle,” Master Gibson suggested, “one twenty feet square and fifty feet high. The ladies within will be the object of an entire tournament instead of a simple mock combat.”

“We should need to stage such a thing out of doors,” Harry mused.

“And why not?” Gibson’s eyes gleamed. “The ladies would be delighted by such a spectacle, would they not, Mistress Popyncourt?”

“Must it always be ladies hidden within a mountain or a castle?” I ran my hand over a sample of velvet Gibson had brought with him. “Do you remember the pageants when the queen married Prince Arthur? There was a pageant wagon in the shape of a castle with four towers, but instead of ladies, each one contained a singing child.”

“There must be beautiful women somewhere,” Harry objected. “The king expects it.”

“As does every other gentleman at court,” Gibson agreed, “and the more outrageously clad, the better.”

Harry laughed. “Eight damsels, I think, in a castle, drawn in on a wagon pulled by eight burly, costumed servants. Two will be garbed as a golden lion, two as a silver lion, the third pair as a hart with gilt horns, and the fourth team as an ibex.”

“What if we add a second pageant wagon?” Master Gibson suggested. “It will carry a ship in full sail manned by eight gentlemen dressed as knights. It will drop anchor near the castle and the knights will descend by means of a ladder and approach the ladies.”

“Still nothing new.” I grew tired of their debate. I had lost my enthusiasm for pageantry.

They ignored my comment. “The audience will think this is all
that is in store for them. Some will even begin to chatter among themselves as the knights try to gain access to the ladies. Flattery will fail. So will the threat of force. But then, just as everyone expects the knights to storm the castle, a third pageant wagon will be pulled into the room.”

“The mountain?” I intended sarcasm but was not really surprised when Master Gibson nodded.

“I can paint it a bright Kendall green this time and adorn it with banners. It will open to reveal yet another band of knights. They will fight with the knights from the ship. After the battle, the winners will compel the ladies to surrender, descend from the castle, and dance.”

They were still sketching out ideas when I slipped quietly away. Neither noticed my departure.

Halfway back to my lodgings, I caught sight of a familiar face and my heart stuttered. “Ivo?”

It was plainly Ivo Jumelle, Longueville’s page, only he had finally grown into his feet. He was taller than I was now, and his chest and arms had filled out, giving the impression of considerable strength.

“Mistress Popyncourt,” he greeted me after an awkward moment when he seemed torn between acknowledging me and taking flight. “You look well.”

“And you, Ivo. I did not think to see you again, at least not in England.”

“I have a place in the retinue of the new envoy,” he said with no little pride in his voice. “We have come from King François with gifts for the baby princess.”

I walked with him toward the royal apartments. “Did any of the duke’s other servants come back with you?” I held my breath.

“No, mistress. I have not seen them since the duke left to fight at Marignano.”

“Did…did Guy Dunois cross the Alps with him?”

“I…I suppose you would not hear.”

“Hear what, Ivo?” I felt cold all over, as if the life was slowly draining out of me. I stopped him at the top of a staircase, catching his arm and tugging until he turned to face me. He tried to avoid my eyes, but I would not allow it. “What have I not heard?”

“I do not know that it was Guy, mistress.” He squirmed in my grasp and looked everywhere but at my face. “I only heard that it was one of the duke’s brothers. It could have been Jacques.”

“What happened!” I had both hands on his arms now. I’d have shaken the information out of him had he not been too big for me to move.

“He was killed!” Ivo’s voice broke. “The duke lost a brother in the Battle of Marignano! Not his full brother, who is a priest. It was one of his father’s bastards, but I do not know which one.”

“I must find out,” I said, half to myself. “If need be, I will go to France without the king’s permission.”

I was standing at the top of the stairs when I suddenly lost my footing. I felt myself falling and heard the horrendous crack of a bone breaking as my arm struck the stone steps. A moment later, everything went black.

When I regained consciousness, I was lying on my own bed. Worried faces hovered over me—Bessie, Harry, and Will Compton.

“According to the king’s surgeon, you are most fortunate,” Bessie said. “You broke your arm when you fell, but the bone has been bound tight and he says it will likely heal in time.”

I looked down at my arm. Lead plates had been tied around it to keep everything in place. It throbbed with pain. So did my head. Gingerly, I lifted my good arm to feel the lump beneath my hair.

“He used the large hollow root of comfrey as a bonesetter and packed it around the straightened bone,” Bessie continued. “He said you must not try to lift anything for at least two months.”

I did not want to think very far ahead. “Did he leave anything for the pain?” I asked.

Harry produced a vial of poppy juice, and when I had swallowed a dose, I sank back into pain-free oblivion. While I slept, Bessie, Harry, and Will sent word of my accident to Suffolk Place.

The Duchess of Suffolk did not respond at once. On the eleventh day of March she gave birth to a son. As soon as she was advised of my condition, however, she asked Queen Catherine if she could spare me and, with unflattering speed, I was transported from Greenwich to Southwark.

As I began to recover, I realized that I had been gifted with an opportunity I should not waste. I was no longer at court. No one would notice if I also left Suffolk Place. At first I thought I might manage to travel all the way to France, but I soon realized I would not be able to leave the country without a passport, not unless I could afford a hefty bribe. That it was still March was a further deterrent. For a safe crossing, I should delay at least until May.

I would find a way to go there. I was determined upon it, and not only to discover more about my mother. I had to find out what had happened to Guy. I did not want to believe he was dead. I prayed it had been his brother Jacques who had been killed in battle.

Frustrated in my desire to cross the Narrow Seas, I soon conceived an alternate plan. Whether I succeeded in finding my way to France or not, I doubted I would ever have a better opportunity to take another journey. This was my best chance to visit my uncle, the one person my mother was most likely to have confided in when she first came to England.

“What better medicine than to be reunited with my only remaining family member?” I argued when Mary reminded me that I was not yet fully healed.

“But Sir Rowland is in
Wales,
” she objected. “The journey there is long and arduous even for someone in the best of health.”

“I am not ill, Mary, only afflicted with a bulky set of bandages, and since it is my left arm that is broken, I can still control a horse.”

“You’d do better in a litter.”

“A litter requires too much fuss and too many men and horses and is both slower and more uncomfortable than traveling on horseback. I am a good rider.” I had learned to manage a horse at Eltham and had since ridden in processions, on progresses, and to hunt.

“The roads are frozen,” Mary protested, “where they can still be found at all beneath the snow.”

“And when spring comes in earnest, the roads will be even worse, a quagmire.”

Throwing up her hands in defeat, she insisted that I take along four sturdy Suffolk retainers as protection.

I
SET OUT
for Wales in late March. Little can be said of the journey itself except that it was unpleasant. We rarely managed to travel more than ten miles a day and were obliged to stay in the guesthouses provided by priories and monasteries along the way, there being few reputable inns. Nearly two weeks after leaving Southwark, I reached the island of Anglesey in North Wales.