The King's Damsel (14 page)

In Princess Mary’s bedchamber, pandemonium reigned, emotions ranging from hectic gaiety to confusion to excitement to barely contained panic. Sachets and perfumes warred with each other as every one of the princess’s maids and gentlewomen tried to help prepare Her Grace for her first appearance in a disguising. By the time she was attired in her cloth of gold gown and surcoat, the babble of feminine voices had risen to deafening levels and the room was so close that it was difficult to breathe.

I flung open a window. The princess’s lodgings at Greenwich overlooked one of the gardens. Fresh air rushed in, carrying with it the sweet scent of flowers and the pleasant aroma of recently scythed grass.

Her Grace shot me a look of gratitude before lifting her arms, a worried look on her face. “The sleeves of the surcoat are so long that they nearly touch the floor. What if I trip on them?”

“They are not quite
that
long,” I assured her.

“Sir Henry Guildford is the king’s master of revels,” Lady Salisbury put in. “He is a careful man and he hires only the best craftsmen to design costumes and props.”

Maria distracted the princess by scooping Her Grace’s hair into a net. It had already been colored silver by the addition of a fine powder. Cecily set a richly jeweled garland on top of the princess’s head and Mary Fitzherbert added a velvet cap. A small silver mask, covering just Her Grace’s eyes and held in place with silver points tied at the back, completed the ensemble.

I stood back to better admire the effect. So many precious stones adorned the costume that I was nearly blinded by candlelight reflecting off the facets.

“It is almost time,” Mary Dannett said.

We were about to escort Her Grace to the “cave” hidden behind a curtain in the disguising house—from which the “damsels” in the masque would emerge—when Mistress Anne Boleyn, dressed exactly like the princess save she was not wearing her mask, burst into the chamber. Two maidservants trailed after her carrying another cloth of silver costume and all the accessories that went with it.

“Your Grace, I beg your pardon for intruding,” Mistress Anne said, making a hasty obeisance, “but Mistress Knight has eaten something that did not agree with her and is too ill to play her part. The king has asked that one of Your Grace’s maids of honor fill in for her.” She cast her black-eyed gaze over the five of us clustered around the princess. It came to rest on me. “You there. The tall one. Thomasine, is it not? You are closest in size to Mistress Knight. You can be pinned into the costume with the least trouble.”

“But I do not know the steps,” I objected.

“Simply watch what others do and copy them.” She thrust one of the two small silver masks she carried into my hands.

“You dance most gracefully, Tamsin,” Princess Mary said, “and no one will mind if you miss a step, seeing as you are doing everyone a great favor by replacing another performer at the last moment.”

Her Grace’s reassurance bolstered my confidence and it was not
as if I had any choice in the matter. The maids Mistress Anne had brought with her set to work, stripping me down to my shift and then using metal pins half an inch long to shape the cloth of silver skirts over the padded roll they’d tied in place around my waist. They created small flounces at the front and large flattened flounces at the back that fell into a train. Then they pinned lace all around the edge of the low-necked gown and tightened the fit of the bodice anywhere the proper lines were not already achieved with the help of hooks and eyes. The surcoat that went on top of the whole fit very well, but I suddenly understood the princess’s concern about its hanging sleeves. I slid my feet into silver slippers as my hair was hurriedly dressed and stuffed into its net. When the garland and the jaunty little cap were in place, the princess insisted that I admire myself in her looking glass.

My eyes widened in pleasure at the image that stared back at me. The figure in the shining surface seemed older than my fifteen years. I smiled, and suddenly my reflection was a woman grown, a woman confident she could carry off her role in the evening’s disguising.

A short time later, eight identically clad damsels crowded in behind a large piece of wood painted gold and shaped to resemble a cave. This cave sat on a stage behind a proscenium arch at one end of the banqueting house. I started when a trumpet blared, even though I’d expected the sound. It was the signal for the painted curtain that hid the cave from view to be drawn back.

On the audience side, an expectant hush fell over the gathering of courtiers, diplomats, and dignitaries. To the sound of fife and tabor, the princess led us out of the cave and down a few steps until we reached the floor of the stage. I stumbled slightly on the second step, having caught sight of the crowd.

They filled three sides of the building, seated in tiers that rose nearly to the ceiling. And that ceiling was a wonder in itself.
Painted upon it was a depiction of the whole earth surrounded by the sea, like an enormous map. Beneath this hung a transparent cloth painted and gilded with the signs of the zodiac. The stars, planets, and constellations glittered in the light from hundreds of wax tapers held in iron sconces and ornate candelabra. At this stupendous sight, my heart stuttered, but somehow I managed to recover my equilibrium and proceed with my part in the disguising.

From the sides of the proscenium arch, eight masked lords appeared, dressed as Venetian noblemen. We had to pretend not to recognize any of them, but I knew one of them must be the French ambassador and none but the most raw newcomer to court could mistake the king for anyone else.

Aside from his height, Princess Mary’s father was distinguished by a well-proportioned, athletic body—he excelled at riding, hunting, shooting, dancing, wrestling, and casting the bar—and by the priceless gems that decorated his clothing. Even though all the “Venetians” wore bright red silk and velvet doublets with gold chains draped across their shoulders, King Henry’s jewels were the most flawless and his shoulders the broadest. It was not necessary for me to take note of his auburn hair or his laughing blue-gray eyes to confirm his identity. Although he seemed quite old to me then, he was still a fine figure of a man and much to be admired.

The eight “Venetians,” as they had rehearsed, joined the eight damsels already on the small stage. We were to dance for the entertainment of the court. Recorders and flutes joined the fife and tabor to provide the music. A masked gentleman seized hold of me. His face, what I could see of it, was darkly tanned by hours in the sun, but I had no idea who he was.

“You are not Mistress Knight,” he whispered.

“She was taken ill,” I whispered back.

He made a valiant effort to guide me through the intricate steps.
The attempt cost him dearly. Nervousness, and the fact that the floor was carpeted in silk over the rush matting—slippery underfoot for all that it had been embroidered with gold lilies in honor of the French—had me stepping on his feet and, once, kicking him in the shin. To make matters worse, one of the pins holding my gown in at the waist came loose and stabbed into his hand deeply enough to draw blood.

When the dance was over, we removed our masks. Everyone feigned surprise that the king had been one of our company. The ladies curtseyed. The gentlemen bowed.

“Sir Nicholas Carew at your service,” my partner said, dabbing at his bleeding palm with a handkerchief.

Flustered, I told him my name and apologized for his injury.

“Mistress Lodge of Hartlake Manor? Then you are, of course, forgiven. Star of Hartlake is a most excellent piece of horseflesh.”

“You . . . you own my father’s stallion?”

“Not I, mistress. The king. I am but His Grace’s master of the horse. Star of Hartlake was a gift, I believe, from your guardian.”

The king’s booming laugh echoed through the disguising house, causing every eye to turn his way. He was well pleased with his daughter’s performance, but the display His Grace had organized for the benefit of the French ambassador was not yet over. With an affectionate gesture that appeared impulsive but was, in fact, as carefully choreographed as any dance, he removed the princess’s velvet cap. His excuse was that he wished to admire the garland beneath, but he contrived to displace her hairnet in the process. A profusion of silver-gilt tresses tumbled down over Princess Mary’s shoulders. With this unsubtle gesture, the king of England reminded his French guests of his daughter’s virginity . . . and her wealth.

Displays of symbols and cunning conceits were part and parcel of life at court. I might have told tales of knights and ladies during
our sojourn in the Marches of Wales, but here courtiers lived the fantasy. Gentlemen, even the king, wrote poems and sang songs in praise of the ladies to whom they pledged their eternal devotion. These ladies were never their own wives, but neither were they the gentlemen’s mistresses, except in the sense that the gentleman humbled himself and swore to be his lady’s servant.

The true knight placed his lady love on a pedestal and became her willing slave, hers to command in all things. He wooed her with adoration, devotion, and many small gifts, and wore her favor in tournaments. He expected nothing more than her kindness to him in return. Their love was of the heart and spirit, not the body. It was all a grand and gaudy game, and within a few weeks of joining King Henry’s court, all of us who served the princess had begun to practice the art of flirtation, even though we did not have much opportunity to perfect it.

On this balmy May night, the formal entertainment ended with our unmasking, but the festivities were far from over. The king called for his musicians to strike up a pavane. Dancing was one of His Grace’s favorite pastimes.

When I turned to look for Sir Nicholas, I discovered that he had used the distraction to slip away. I could not blame him. I would not have wished to dance with me again, either. But others were not put off by my clumsiness or by the silk floor. I fumbled with the loose pin and removed it so there would be no more bloodletting.

Once the silk became well trampled, the slipping and sliding ceased. The dancing continued until long past midnight. I had no shortage of partners. Some were young and handsome while others were old enough to have sired my father. I enjoyed every step of every passamezzo and saltarello for, in the normal way of things, the princess and her maids of honor did not participate in such
late-night revels. Her Grace’s parents chose to shield her from the rowdier elements of the court.

When at last it came time for the final pavane of the night, King Henry indicated that the French ambassador should partner Princess Mary. The queen, who had been present earlier, had long since retired to her bed and His Grace singled out Mistress Anne Boleyn to dance with him. There was nothing improper about his choice, but as I passed close to them in the pattern of the steps, I could not help but notice the smug and self-satisfied expression on Mistress Anne’s face.

L
ess than two weeks later, I heard a rumor that the king had consulted with certain prominent churchmen about obtaining an annulment of his marriage to Queen Catherine.

“That cannot be true,” I objected when Edyth told me what the lower servants were saying.

“As sure as God’s in Gloucester,” she vowed. Edyth had been making great strides in her attempts to mimic the gentry, but she slipped into an odd mixture of dialect and more refined speech when she was excited. “The truth comed out to do with she—Mistress Anne Boleyn. Rose—”

“Mistress Anne’s tiring maid?” I interrupted.

Edyth nodded. “Happen the king doan’t bed his wife. Not for years.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Mistresses,” Edyth said succinctly.

“It is no great secret that a man may take mistresses. That does not mean the king intends to marry one of them. Or anyone else, either. You must not repeat such things, Edyth, not even to me. Why,
as it concerns the king, such talk is dangerous. Do you want to be accused of treason?”

A mutinous look on her face, Edyth subsided, but what she’d already told me was enough to cause me concern. It was true that Queen Catherine was past her childbearing years, and that there was no son to inherit the throne. Could King Henry really intend to set aside his queen and marry again in the hope of begetting a male heir?

I answered my own question easily enough—he would, if he could get the pope to agree that his marriage was invalid. I had no firsthand experience with such matters, but I had heard of other annulments, especially among the nobility. There had been a king of France, too, I recalled, and not so very long ago, who had set aside a barren wife in order to marry another who could give him children.

But Queen Catherine had not been barren. She had given birth to a living daughter. If the king succeeded in his quest, Princess Mary would be as much a bastard as young Henry Fitzroy. Deeply troubled by this thought, I wished I could discuss the matter with someone older and wiser, but I knew too well the folly of repeating such a rumor. I could lose my post for spreading tittle-tattle.

I said nothing to the princess, either, biding my time, praying that the story would turn out to be the most arrant nonsense and have no foundation in fact. When, in late July, Princess Mary and her parents took up residence together at Beaulieu, near Chelmsford in Essex, proposing to remain there for a month, I took this as a hopeful sign.

Beaulieu, a substantial royal house, had been refaced with red brick and enlarged only a few years earlier to provide sufficient housing for the many courtiers who always accompanied the king, queen, and princess. Among the additions had been four bathing rooms. What luxury!

The princess visited her mother daily, taking two of her maids of honor with her each time. It was when Maria and I took our turn to accompany her to Queen Catherine’s privy chamber that Their Graces withdrew into a small room in the “secret lodgings,” the chambers on the far side of the royal bedchamber where no one entered without an invitation. I thought nothing of this . . . at first.