The King's Damsel (13 page)

I had learned something of decorum in the princess’s household. I kept my composure and said only, “You flatter me, Sir Lionel.” His compliment was every bit as insincere as it had been when we first met, and he still had that calculating look in his eyes.

“The king noticed, too,” he continued. “Thus am I well pleased with my purchase.”

It took me a moment to realize that he meant the purchase of my wardship. Hidden by my skirts, my fists clenched. It was a struggle to repress the sharp retort I wanted to make. What good would it do to tell him that I was not his property? In all ways that mattered, I was.

I sought to change the subject. “I have had little news of home since joining Princess Mary’s household. Is all well at Hartlake Manor?”

“Your estates flourish,” he assured me.

“And my steward? Does Hugo Wynn still occupy that post?”

“He remains in place . . . for the moment.”

“And the horses?” I asked. “My brother intended to breed Star of Hartlake.”

“I found a better use for him.”

“He’s been sold?” I had been warned Sir Lionel had the right to
dispose of my cattle, but this news still came as a shock. As I struggled to come to grips with an acute sense of loss, I almost missed the import of what Sir Lionel said next.

“The princess will travel with the king and queen for the next few weeks. That should give you ample opportunity to push yourself forward.”

Frowning, I ventured to correct him. “A maid of honor is expected to remain in the background.”

“That has never troubled the
queen’s
damsels.” His smirk offended me, although I was not certain why that should be so. I knew nothing to the detriment of Queen Catherine’s maids of honor. Not then.

“What is it you expect of me?” I demanded.

“That you impress the king as favorably as you have his daughter. Find a way to linger in his memory. Serving the princess is but a stepping-stone. You must contrive to serve the queen. And then, should you be presented with the opportunity, use your wiles to become the king’s damsel as well as his wife’s.”

My stomach twisted in revulsion. The enormity of what he was suggesting left me speechless. I tried to tell myself that I had misunderstood him. He could not be advising me to—I could scarcely put words to the thought. “I am no whore,” I whispered.

“Every woman is a whore,” he said in equally low tones. “And you will do as I tell you or I will marry you off to an elderly beggar afflicted with the pox.” Sir Lionel’s insincere smile had vanished and with it any doubt of his sincerity.

“I . . . I have little opportunity to—”

“You will make your own opportunities and you will use whatever position you attain to my advantage. The king, if he is approached in the right way, can be persuaded to dispense grants of land and
licenses to import or export goods. Annuities, too. I have been able to win some favors. I have been awarded a lucrative post in the West Country. But my duties will require my presence in Cornwall. That leaves you, Thomasine, as my advocate at court. The Princess of Wales will not remain in the Marches much longer, nor will you. Play your cards well, my girl, and we will both prosper.”

W
e were to remain at Langley until the tenth day of September. To my great relief, Sir Lionel left on the fifth. I saw him only in company after that dreadful interview in the courtyard, but although I could avoid close physical contact with him, I found it difficult to stop thinking about what he had said.

I knew when he was to depart and from the concealment of an upper window I watched him ride away. When he at last disappeared from sight, I nearly wept with relief. Leaning against the casement, I rested my forehead against the decorative woodwork.

“He is an appalling creature, that man,” said a voice from behind me.

I turned around so fast that I nearly lost my balance. The queen’s olive-skinned maid of honor stood a foot away. If the knowing look in her dark eyes was any indication, she understood why I had wished to confirm that Sir Lionel was truly gone. The hint of a smile curved her unusually wide mouth, as if she was pleased to have rattled my composure.

By that time, I had learned her name. She was Mistress Anne Boleyn, daughter of Thomas Boleyn, Viscount Rochford. Rumors
abounded at court that Rochford owed the acquisition of his title to his older daughter, Mary, the wife of William Carey. Until the previous year, Mistress Carey had been the king’s mistress.

“Sir Lionel Daggett will find little favor at court,” Mistress Anne said, “in spite of his open purse. Everyone was surprised to hear he’d been able to place his ward in the princess’s household.” Her disconcerting gaze swept over me, as if she was searching for whatever elusive quality had made me suitable to serve Princess Mary.

Offended, I blurted out a tart response. “I must suppose that a great heiress can always find a welcome.”

She laughed. The sound of that low, throaty chuckle made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Much later, when I knew more of the world, I would realize that Mistress Anne’s laugh could have a pronounced effect on gentlemen, too, although not quite the same as the one I experienced.

“You are bold,” she said. “I admire boldness. The meek inherit nothing.”

I did not know what to say to that, so I said nothing. After studying me intently for a few moments more, she turned away. I supposed she had to return to her duties with the queen.

“Wait!” I called. “What more do you know of Sir Lionel?”

“Are you certain you wish to hear the story?” Once again I had the feeling she found me amusing.

“Not at all, but I believe I should.” I hurried after her, wrinkling my nose when I was engulfed in the strong, sweet smell of her perfume. I recognized the scent as that of meadowsweet flowers, also called bridewort because it was the herb most often strewn at weddings. It seemed an odd choice, both too cloying and too ordinary for an exotic creature like Mistress Anne.

Side by side we resumed walking at a slower pace. We would
have little time to be private. The moment we entered the great hall, we would be surrounded by courtiers.

“The tale is well-known among the queen’s ladies,” she began. “It was a great scandal at the time. That was some seven years past. Sir Lionel Daggett kidnapped an heiress and forced her to marry him.”

I barely suppressed a gasp.

“The marriage was allowed to stand because by the time the matter came before a court of law the bride, doubtless intimidated by her husband, insisted that she was content with the match. Still, the king was much displeased and Sir Lionel had to pay a huge fine.”

“Why was such a man allowed to purchase my wardship?” Outrage made my voice louder than I’d intended. A nearby yeoman of the guard shot a suspicious look our way.

Mistress Anne laughed again. “Why, because it brought money into the royal coffers. Sir Lionel also paid well for his new post in Cornwall, but he will have to be more generous still if he expects an appointment at court. King Henry does not like the fellow.”

This was the best news I could have heard. I took my leave of the queen’s maid of honor with a lighter heart. I was grateful for her intelligence about the wicked man who controlled my inheritance. I would not aid him in any way, I vowed. I would do nothing to help his advancement at court. And if he tried to marry me off, as he had threatened, I would appeal directly to the king to save me.

A
t Ampthill in Bedfordshire, on the first of October, the princess’s entourage broke away from the king’s and returned to Hartlebury. Once back in the Marches of Wales, with our second winter there coming on, we resumed our dull routine. I was prevailed upon to provide entertainment for the household and told stories old and new to the princess and her maids of honor. When the older ladies-in-waiting were not present to stop us, we also passed the time with card games, setting aside our needlework to gamble. By February, when the Princess of Wales was summoned to join the king and queen at Windsor Castle, I had won several of Her Grace’s vouchers and an assortment of trinkets from my friends.

Not all of the princess’s household—more than three hundred people—accompanied her to Windsor Castle. Lady Catherine left to rejoin her husband, Sir Matthew Craddock, at Swansea, where he had built himself a fine new house. And, the negotiations finally complete, Anne Rede married Sir Giles Greville and left Her Grace’s service. Sir Giles himself had been replaced as controller the
previous year so that he might assume other duties in the government of South Wales.

“I do not see why I cannot remain with the princess,” Anne complained as her trunks and boxes were loaded into a cart for the journey to her husband. In another part of the courtyard, similar conveyances stood waiting, filled with Princess Mary’s possessions and those of her remaining attendants.

“You will be too busy,” Cecily teased her. “By spring, you will be breeding, you mark my words.”

Cecily herself was now happily betrothed to Sir Rhys Mansell and expected to marry him later in the year. We all wondered who would replace Anne and Cecily in the ranks of the maids of honor. Shortly after we reached Windsor Castle, we had a part of the answer. No one arrived, nor was expected, to fill the vacancy Anne Rede had left.

A reduced household was necessary, I soon realized, if Princess Mary was to remain at her father’s court. With both the king and queen in residence at Windsor, the castle had been overflowing with courtiers even before we arrived. When we moved on to Richmond Palace in March, the overcrowding was even worse. More of the princess’s Welsh servants were sent away. They were told to remain ready to resume their duties in the Marches, but I doubted Her Grace would ever return there. More likely was a journey to France, for negotiations had been resumed for her marriage to a French prince.

Princess Mary’s first betrothal had been to the French Dauphin. When that match was broken off, she’d been betrothed to her cousin, Holy Roman Emperor Charles V. He ruled over the Low Countries, the German city-states, eastern Burgundy, Savoy, and much of the northern part of Italy . . . or at least, he tried to. France laid claim to some of those same territories. When Charles ended
his betrothal to Princess Mary, King Henry once more wished to ally himself with Francis I of France. Marriage being the traditional way to seal a treaty, a French delegation had been sent to inspect the prospective bride.

We traveled to Greenwich for St. George’s Day and there Princess Mary received the Viscount of Turenne and his companions. In her own presence chamber, Her Grace sat on a chair of estate under a canopy. She was now eleven years old and greeted the ambassador with aplomb, speaking to him in Latin first, and then in French. Later she played the virginals for him.

Watching from my post a little behind and to one side of the princess, I had a clear view of the viscount’s face. For the most part, he smiled and nodded, but there was a troubled look in his eyes.

When the audience was nearing its end, I slipped away from my companions. Since the floors were covered with rush matting from wall to wall, my steps made no sound as I scurried into hiding. I concealed myself in an alcove hidden behind a tapestry showing a scene from the Trojan War. I knew that the French delegation would pass by the spot after they left the princess’s lodgings. From my vantage point, I could overhear bits of their conversation. I understood French quite well, having shared the princess’s lessons in that language. As soon as the delegates moved out of earshot, I hastened to report to my mistress.

Maria, who had seen me leave, suspected where it was I had gone. “Well?” she asked when I reappeared. “What did they say?”

It would have been futile to deny that I had spied on the Frenchmen, but for a brief moment I considered lying about what I had heard. I glanced at the princess. I could tell her that they’d said nothing of importance. Princess Mary was an intelligent girl, but she was also more naïve than most. It was my duty to protect her from unpleasantness and to preserve her innocence. That said, my own
inclination was toward honesty, and Her Grace had made clear that she preferred knowledge over ignorance.

In this instance, I decided there was no harm in forewarning her. “The French viscount thinks Your Grace is too physically immature to marry for at least three years.”

The princess grimaced and sent her rueful gaze slanting down along her small frame. She was healthy, but exceedingly thin.

For myself, I was glad Her Grace was likely to remain in England longer. Soon enough, she would have to go and live in her husband’s land, wherever that might turn out to be. Most of her English ladies would be left behind.

I might be sent back into Sir Lionel’s keeping.

For the next week, negotiations raged. In the princess’s lodgings we heard few details, even though she was the one most affected by the outcome. We could not even be certain who her betrothed would be, although the leading candidate seemed to be King Francis’s second son, Henri, Duke of Orléans.

“If Her Grace becomes his wife,” Maria confided one night after we’d retired to our bed, “my father says he will one day rule England as Mary Tudor’s consort.”

Maria’s father, I remembered, was Queen Catherine’s Spanish physician.

But the very next day we heard that King Henry had proposed that his daughter marry King Francis himself, since Francis was a widower. King Francis’s mother, Louise of Savoy, backed her grandson’s suit and suggested that the ceremony take place in Calais in August, after which the bride could return to England until she was old enough to consummate the marriage. King Henry did not care for that plan, but he did want France’s help in making war on Charles V. The alliance that was finally agreed upon contained
ambiguous terms. The princess would wed either Francis or his son at some as-yet-to-be-decided future date.

The successful completion of these negotiations resulted in the “Treaty of Eternal Peace,” signed at Greenwich on May 5, 1527. This signing was followed by celebrations. The next afternoon there was a tournament. Afterward, the king hosted a lavish banquet in his newly built banqueting house. It had been constructed at one end of the tiltyard gallery. At the other end was a purpose-built disguising house. It was to this second structure that the king and his guests adjourned for a post-banquet recital by the singers of the Chapel Royal, a concert that was to be followed by a masque.