The King's Damsel (19 page)

“The wedding to Arthur was nearly thirty years ago,” I reminded
them, “and only the queen knows for certain what happened in the marriage bed.” And she, I thought to myself, would most certainly lie about those long-ago events, if she thought it would preserve her daughter’s right to inherit England’s throne.

Queen Catherine’s first husband, Arthur Tudor, Prince of Wales, had died shortly after they were wed. She had languished in England for years afterward, until King Henry succeeded his father and married her himself. It had been a love match, or so I’d always heard. It was sobering to realize that people could fall out of love as well as into it.

“I do not understand how it is possible for a man, even a king, to set aside his wife,” Mary Fitzherbert said. “A marriage is supposed to last until one or the other of the couple dies. What difference does it make if she did lie with his brother first?”

“That is just an excuse. What truly troubles His Grace is that the queen is too old to have more children. If the king wants a legitimate son, he has to take a new wife.” Mary Dannett, who had recently acquired a suitor, considered herself an expert on such matters, especially since George Medley, the man who was courting her, was the son, by her first marriage, of the Marchioness of Dorset. The marquess, George’s stepfather, was the king’s cousin and a close friend of His Grace, although he held no important post at court. Through such tangled relationships much information could be gleaned.

“His Grace would never have thought to put aside Queen Catherine if not for Mistress Anne,” Maria said. She looked as if she wanted to strike someone. Her hands were already curled into fists.

“I wish there were something we could do to break the concubine’s hold on the king.” I bit into a sugared comfit and found that it tasted bitter on my tongue.

“His Grace wants to marry her,” said Mary Dannett, “and even
some members of Queen Catherine’s household must think that will happen. Several ladies have already abandoned the queen to join the concubine’s retinue.”

The phrase “rats deserting a sinking ship” passed through my mind but I did not give voice to it. Maria had gone very still, a pensive look on her face.

“What if one of us were to do the same?” she asked.

“I would never be so disloyal!” Mary Fitzherbert exclaimed.

“Nor I,” said Mary Dannett.

I peered more closely at Maria’s shadowed countenance. Only the light of one candle illuminated the darkness. We’d pulled the curtains closed around the bed, sealing the four of us inside a snug little tent. “What is it you are suggesting?”

A slow smile crept over her features. “If one of us were to enter Anne Boleyn’s service, that one would be in a perfect position to cause difficulties for the concubine. More than that, she could gather information and pass it on to those in the queen’s camp.”

For a moment, the idea was tempting. Then common sense reasserted itself. “Your plan has a fatal flaw, Maria,” I said. “Our devotion to Princess Mary is too well known and Mistress Anne is no fool. She would never trust any one of us.”

A
t the end of Yuletide, the princess left court. Our lives went on much as they always had, filled with lessons, hours of prayer, shirts that had to be hemmed for the poor, and altar cloths that needed embroidering. I spent hours practicing my penmanship, even though I had no one to write letters to, and I continued to amuse the princess and the other maids of honor by telling stories.

One or two of the princess’s gentlemen showed a flattering interest in me from time to time, but I felt no answering spark and I was wary of being courted for my inheritance. It occurred to me to wonder why Sir Lionel had not arranged a match for me, but I could think of two good reasons for him to delay any marriage plans. Once I wed, I could no longer be a maid of honor. Like Anne Rede and Cecily Dabridgecourt, I’d have to leave the princess’s service. Then I’d be of no more use to Sir Lionel . . . not that I’d done him much good so far. But more than that, he would also have to cede control of my lands, chattel, and household stuff to a husband. That was the more likely explanation for him to leave matters as they were.

Whatever my guardian’s rationale, it accorded well with my own wishes. The princess’s household was home to me. I looked on Her Grace as the little sister I’d never had. My stepmother, for all that I had missed her when I first left Glastonbury, had faded in my memory. I had known, even at the start of my journey to Thornbury, that I might never see her again.

In May 1529, legal proceedings for the annulment of the king’s marriage began at Blackfriars. We did not hear of this until some time later, in a letter from Maria’s father. He wrote that Queen Catherine refused to acknowledge the authority of an English court. She insisted that they had no right to decide the validity of her marriage and that only the pope could rule on the issue. The pope seemed disinclined to do so.

In September, the king, the queen, and the princess set out on their usual hunting progress, moving slowly and stopping at Waltham Abbey, Barnet, Tyttenhanger, Windsor, Reading, Woodstock, Langley, Buckingham, and the king’s new palace at Grafton in Northamptonshire. The building at Grafton had been completed only three years earlier and it was a fine, large house, big enough to also accommodate Mistress Anne and her entourage. They accompanied the royal riding household, part of the court and yet separate from it.

Queen Catherine dealt with her rival’s presence by ignoring her.

Princess Mary tried to imitate her mother. One day at Grafton, when she was taking her daily constitutional, accompanied by Maria and myself, she caught sight of the king and the concubine on the far side of the garden. “My father has had mistresses before,” she announced, “and eventually he lost interest in each and every one of them.”

As she resumed her perambulation, Maria and I exchanged a look, but we did not contradict Her Grace.

In December, Mistress Anne Boleyn’s father, Lord Rochford, was created Earl of Wiltshire. Afterward, outside of usual custom, the king decreed that all three of the new earl’s children be addressed by what was now the earl’s lesser title, that of Rochford. Thus, overnight, plain Mistress Anne became not just Lady Anne, but Lady Anne Rochford.

Once again, Yuletide was spent at Greenwich, but this year I was not dispatched to London to select silk ribbons and fringe for the dances and disguisings. Mistress Pinckney was sent for. All the maids of honor and at least half the princess’s ladies-in-waiting crowded into the privy chamber when the silkwoman arrived to display her wares.

Rafe was with her, but in the presence of so many gentlewomen, he took care to efface himself. I could contrive no opportunity for a moment’s private speech with him, and found myself strangely disappointed that I was denied the chance to question him.

I wanted to know how the citizens of London felt about the concubine now. No more than that. Or so I told myself.

Several hours later, as I was hurrying along a passageway on my way to fetch the princess’s muff, forgotten in her bedchamber when we set out to attend Mass, a dark figure stepped out from a shadowy alcove to confront me. I gasped, then laughed nervously as I inhaled cinnamon and sandalwood and recognized the silkwoman’s apprentice.

“You gave me a terrible start. You should not jump out at people like that.”

His lips twitched. “I do beg your pardon, Mistress Lodge, but I have been waiting here in the hope of seeing you.”

“Have you some new rumor to impart?” I blurted out.

His brow knit in puzzlement and I felt heat rise into my face. We had no arrangement that called for him to provide me with
intelligence every Yuletide. It had just worked out that way. Was it possible he had not even been aware of passing on information of importance?

Feeling more awkward by the moment, I waited for him to speak again. He must have had some reason to lie in wait for me and I hoped he would hurry up and reveal it. My absence from the chapel would be noted if I took much longer to return with the princess’s muff.

Instead of saying anything, he withdrew a small parcel from inside his cloak and thrust it toward me.

I stepped back, putting my hands behind me. “What is this?”

“It is a New Year’s gift. I know it is early yet, but I doubt I will see you again before then.” When he stopped mumbling and lifted his gaze from the stone floor, he saw my confusion. “It is for
you,
Mistress Thomasine Lodge.”

“Oh.” I did not know what else to say. I had nothing to give him in return.

“Take it,” Rafe insisted, shoving the small parcel toward me yet again.

Certain he would let it fall if I did not, I accepted the gift. “This is most kind of you,” I murmured.

He looked as ill at ease as I felt, shuffling his feet and avoiding my eyes. Just as I was forming the words to thank him again, he bolted.

“I must return to London,” he called over his shoulder, “but I will see you again next Yuletide.”

Then he was gone. Bemused, I continued on my way to the princess’s lodgings, detouring only long enough to place the mysterious parcel in my trunk in the maidens’ dormitory.

I intended to wait until New Year’s Day to open the gift. My
resolve had faltered by supper time. Inside the box was a delicate, burgundy-colored hair ribbon. I wondered if he had fashioned the pretty thing himself, and imagined his strong, long-fingered hands working the expensive silk threads.

The image was oddly unsettling.

A
fter Yuletide, the princess’s household settled in at Beaulieu Palace. By that time, Beaulieu had become Her Grace’s principal residence. As usual, news of the king’s court reached us in fits and starts, but we soon heard of it when the queen retired to Richmond Palace and King Henry, accompanied by Lady Anne, traveled to York Place in the city of Westminster.

Although Edyth was good about repeating what she heard from the other lower servants, her information was unenlightening. Not only was there nothing new to report, but Edyth was distracted. She was being courted by one of the grooms of the stable, a lad from Suffolk. She confided to me that she was trying to rid her suitor of his East Anglia accent, since she had almost entirely eradicated the sounds of Gloucestershire and Somersetshire from her own speech. Only the occasional colorful expression still slipped through.

From Sir Lionel directly, I heard nothing. It was the Countess of Salisbury who told me that his wife had died, but she knew no details of Lady Daggett’s demise.

In the spring, we moved to Richmond Palace so that Beaulieu
could be cleaned and aired. I liked Richmond best of all the king’s great houses. It boasted a wonderful orchard intersected by galleries that ran between the palace and the friary to the south. These galleries offered a splendid view of the gardens from above and also looked down on the tennis play at the northeast corner. The windows in that section were covered with wire mesh to protect spectators from stray tennis balls.

Princess Mary was less pleased to be at Richmond, since her mother had departed before we arrived. In June, however, the king came to spend the day with his daughter. He was about to embark on a four-month-long progress. For the princess, it was a joyous occasion. She basked in her father’s attention and seized upon the opportunity to sing her mother’s praises.

I trailed after them through the gardens, in company with the other maids of honor. From ground level, the patterns of the knots and hedgerows were not as impressive as they were from the gallery, but the scent of the flowers in bloom was lovely. There were a dozen varieties of roses and honeysuckle, too.

Like the princess, I allowed myself to believe all was well. We heard little to contradict that happy misconception in the months that followed.

W
hen Yuletide came around again, I thought at first that matters between the king and queen truly had improved. The concubine was not in residence at Greenwich Palace. Queen Catherine presided over the revels, just as she always had.

I had thought about Rafe from time to time during the year, even dreamed about him once or twice. And I often wore the ribbon he’d given me. I pinned it to my sleeve the day he and his mother were due at the palace to show off their wares. In the noise and confusion created by a dozen women all exclaiming over silk trimmings, we arranged to meet in one of the gardens before he returned to London.

Bundled into my warmest cloak, I hurried toward him along a snow-rimmed path. I had changed from slippers into boots and scarcely felt the cold, especially when he held out both hands to catch hold of mine.

“Have you brought me another gift?” I teased him. I had hemmed and embroidered a handkerchief as a present for him.

“In a way.” His voice sounded odd. It was even deeper than I
remembered it, and he was looking down at me with an intense, almost brooding gaze.

Of a sudden, I felt leery of showing off my embroidery. I had a delicate hand with my stitches, but I was no professional. What had I been thinking, to offer something I had sewn to the son of a silkwoman? He was her apprentice, too. He was doubtless more skilled than I at plying a needle. I was glad the small parcel was hidden in the inner pocket of my cloak. I’d be embarrassed if Rafe saw what I had wrought.

He led me carefully over the icy gravel until we came to an arbor. In summer it was covered with roses. Bare, scraggly branches gave us only a modicum of shelter, but in that quiet spot it was private enough to permit Rafe to speak his mind. He gestured for me to sit on the stone bench beneath the arch. He remained standing.

“I did not think to see you this year,” he said.

“When we parted, you promised we would meet again.”

“Aye, I did. But I was not certain you would wish to see me.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I knew what he must be thinking. I was a gentlewoman, an heiress, and a maid of honor to a royal princess. I was very far above him in station. Rafe, although he was a year or two older than I was, was still an apprentice. I did not know a great deal about the ways of craft guilds, but I suspected that he had even less freedom than I did when it came to courtship and marriage. My actions were governed by a guardian. He was under obligation to a master or, in this case, a mistress. That he was apprenticed to his own mother might mean he would one day inherit her business, but for the nonce he was bound to her in a way that made him more slave than servant.