The King's Damsel (17 page)

Mistress Anne’s audacity astounded me. One did not touch the king so familiarly in the presence of others. Not even his wife did so.

Then an image formed in my mind, born of my personal dislike of riding apillion, and I choked back a laugh. “I should have liked to see the lady trying to shoot an arrow from that position.”

Edyth made a snorting sound. I’d have taken it for amusement if her expression had not remained so grim. “I do not think she was in Windsor Forest to hunt for deer.”

W
e were still at Greenwich in the middle of June when the sweating sickness broke out in London. Within a day, two thousand people fell ill in the city. Then the disease spread to the court. Rose, Mistress Anne Boleyn’s maidservant, was the first to be struck down.

The following day, the king left Greenwich for Waltham Abbey in Essex, twelve miles distant. The removal of his court to that smaller house had been planned for some time, but originally the king, the queen, the princess, and Mistress Anne were all to travel together. Fear of infection now outweighed King Henry’s desire to keep his concubine nearby. Mistress Anne and her ailing maid were left behind in Greenwich.

“She must be furious,” I remarked as Edyth brushed off my travel-stained skirts in the lodgings allotted to the princess’s maids of honor in our new abode. The chamber was small and cramped, with only one bed for the four of us. Our tiring maids were in even less salubrious accommodations, for they were obliged to sleep in tents erected in the gardens.

“Frightened, more like,” Mary Dannett said, overhearing.

It was no longer any secret that Mistress Anne hoped to marry the king, or that His Grace must have given his mistress reason to think such a thing might be possible. And yet King Henry carried on in public as if nothing had changed. The queen sat in her accustomed place at court functions. Her husband still spent several evenings a week in her company. They dined together and afterward His Grace played his lute while Her Grace embroidered.

Or so I’d heard. The princess’s household was separate from those of her parents. Like everyone else, I relied upon my gossips for information.

“We should all be frightened,” Edyth muttered.

At once, I felt ashamed of myself. Edyth and Mistress Anne’s Rose had been on friendly terms for a long time and Rose, poor thing, was likely dead by now. Few survived the sweat. Anne Boleyn might be angry that she’d been deprived of the king’s company, but since someone in her own household had contracted the dread disease, her very life was in danger.

The sweating sickness came on without warning. The sufferer felt pain in the back or shoulder, and then in the liver and the stomach, the head and the heart. A profuse sweating began, followed by delirium and palpitations. There was no cure. Within a few hours, you lived or died by God’s will alone.

Mary Dannett, Mary Fitzherbert, and I, together with our maids, were still in our quarters at Waltham Abbey when Maria rushed in. She had made the journey from Greenwich in the company of her parents, since her mother was one of the queen’s women and her father, Fernando Vittorio, was a royal physician.

“It followed us here!” she blurted out. “Two of the king’s ushers and two of his grooms of the chamber have fallen ill, and so has Mistress Anne’s brother, George Boleyn.”

I hastily crossed myself, as did everyone else in the room.

Mary Fitzherbert seized Maria’s arm. “Is there nothing we can do? No preventive tonic we can swallow?”

Thanks to her father’s profession, Maria had a more extensive knowledge of herbs and their healing properties than most gentlewomen, even though we’d all received some instruction in the stillroom.

“I have heard that the king takes a medicinal powder to ward off infection,” I put in, “but I suppose the cost of such a thing is too dear for any commoner to afford.”

“My father says His Grace sets great store by pills of Rhazis,” Maria said. “Rhazis was a famous Arab physician.”

“My old nurse,” said Mary Dannett, “claims that her life was saved the last time the sweat broke out, ten years ago, by a mixture of endive, sowthistle, marigold, mercury, and nightshade.”

Maria gaped at her. “That combination would be as likely to kill you as save you. Nightshade is a deadly poison.”

“Three large spoonfuls of dragon’s water and a half nutshell of unicorn’s horn,” I murmured, remembering a cure I’d heard somewhere, probably in one of the old legends I collected. I managed a weak smile. “It seems unlikely we can locate either ingredient.”

Maria looked thoughtful. “I have heard that a philosopher’s egg is a sovereign remedy for almost any ailment. That is a crushed egg, its white blown out and mixed shell and all with saffron, mustard seed, herbs, and . . .”

“What?” I prompted when her voice trailed off.

She looked sheepish. “Unicorn’s horn.”

We all laughed, but the outburst did not last long.

“Any one of us could be in perfect health at dawn and dead by nightfall,” said Mary Fitzherbert, her voice mournful and her face a picture of gloom.

“Sooner, in truth.” Maria shrugged. “Some die of the sweat in as little as two hours after the onset of the symptoms.”

In fascinated horror, I listened as she relayed still more of the information she’d learned from her physician father.

“If you fall ill, you must go at once to bed in a closed room with a fire. Cover yourself completely. It can be fatal to expose any part of your body during the crucial twenty-four hours after you sicken, assuming you live past the first few. Father said that he heard of one case where a hand, extended from beneath the bedclothes, became as stiff as a pane of glass and stayed that way, even though the patient lived.”

“My mother,” said Mary Fitzherbert, “swears by treacle and water imperial for fever and setwell for the stomach.”

“Little help that would be,” Maria said with a sniff, “but we might set out onions. They will absorb the evil in the air.”

For the next month, the maidens’ dormitory reeked of raw onion. We added braids of garlic, too, since that plant was said to have protective powers.

Those weeks were fraught with anxiety. Thousands more died in London and throughout the country. In an attempt to stay ahead of the rapidly spreading infection, the king and his court changed houses almost daily. From Waltham we went to Hunsdon, six miles east of Hertford, the royal residence in which Princess Mary’s household so often lodged. The familiar redbrick manor house was a welcome sight, but its walls held no promise of safety.

I was returning from a visit to the stables on our first day there—a weakness of mine that I indulged whenever I could—when a messenger in Lord Rochford’s livery rode into the yard. My mind was still on the gentle palfrey who’d been taking carrots from my hand, but something about the man made me take a second look at him, and then a third. His mien was somber, his expression terrified.
Combined with the lathered condition of his horse, it was not difficult to guess that he brought bad news.

But bad news for some could be the best news of all to others. If Mistress Anne Boleyn, Lord Rochford’s daughter, had been taken by the sweat, then there would be rejoicing in both the queen’s household and that of the princess.

I followed the rider inside. No one noticed me. I was just one more dark-clad young woman going about her business. By the time the messenger reached the king’s presence chamber, I was only a few feet behind him and in good time to hear King Henry demand to hear what news he brought from Hever Castle, the Boleyn family seat in Kent. Mistress Anne, I surmised, had fled to that place after the king abandoned her at court.

“Lord Rochford has fallen ill,” the messenger announced, “as has his younger daughter, Mistress Anne Boleyn.”

All the color drained out of the king’s usually florid face. He turned to one of his gentlemen and ordered him to fetch Dr. Butts. I remained where I was, almost invisible in a shadowy corner, fingering the rosary the princess had given me. Was it wrong to pray for someone to die? I knew it was, but still I hoped for that outcome.

When Dr. Butts arrived, the king dispatched him at once to Hever. “Save her,” His Grace commanded.

“I will do all I can,” the physician promised.

During the next few days, all but one of the gentlemen of the king’s privy chamber contracted the dread disease. Leaving each one behind in turn, His Grace changed houses again and again. We did not stay anywhere for more than a single night at a time until we reached Tyttenhanger, near St. Albans, one of the many houses owned by Cardinal Wolsey.

In advance of our arrival, the king had ordered the entire place cleansed, first by burning fires in every room and then by scrubbing
every surface with vinegar. As a further precaution, everyone at court was ordered to carry wads of linen soaked in a mixture of vinegar, wormwood, rose water, and crumbs of brown bread.

“At least this smell is an improvement over the stink of onions and garlic,” I muttered, lifting the dampened cloth toward my nose. We’d been instructed to sniff it, as if it were a pomander.

Carelessly, I brought the preventive in contact with my face. With a sharp cry, I dropped the ball of linen. My skin stung and my eyes streamed. I was more cautious after that, remembering Maria’s warning that some remedies could be as deadly as the disease they purported to cure.

At Tyttenhanger, the king, the queen, and the princess attended Mass every morning. They confessed their sins every day, too. I followed their example, even admitting to the sin of wishing for Anne Boleyn’s death, for when one was afflicted with the sweat, there was not always time to fetch a priest. My penance was slight. For the next week, I was to pray at each of the canonical hours for Lady Anne’s full recovery.

Every day messengers arrived in a steady stream. They brought word of more deaths among the king’s friends. Mary Boleyn’s husband, William Carey, succumbed to the dread disease. So did Sir William Compton, the king’s longtime groom of the stool.

But sprinkled in among somber tidings came news of miraculous recoveries. George Boleyn, his father, and his sister Anne survived.

W
e were fortunate. No one in Princess Mary’s household fell ill. The king and queen were also spared. Gradually, the fear of infection dissipated. King Henry and Queen Catherine set off on their regular summer progress while the princess and her household returned to Hunsdon.

And Mistress Anne Boleyn? The king’s anxiety about her health had made it all too plain that she occupied a special place in his heart. Would she succeed in her quest for the crown? I told myself it was unlikely. After all, His Grace continued to spend quiet evenings with Queen Catherine, just as he always had. They still attended Mass together. Her Grace sat beside him on state occasions. To all outward appearances, nothing had changed in their marriage.

News from the progress and, later, from Bridewell Palace in London, where the king and queen lodged upon their return, arrived at Hunsdon in erratic spurts. In spite of the fact that the queen herself had warned Princess Mary of the king’s intention to annul their marriage, the princess remained unaware of the extent of her father’s infatuation with Mistress Anne. Her Grace was still an innocent
in many ways. As her devoted ladies, we continued to protect her. What profit was there in repeating rumors that would distress her? The Countess of Salisbury even went so far as to warn the maids of honor against speculating among ourselves, lest the princess accidentally overhear more than she should.

In truth, we did not have much to speculate about, being so far removed from the king’s court. Maria received occasional letters from her father, written in Spanish, but she insisted that they contained only recipes for herbal cures and personal expressions of affection.

The lack of news did not stop me from worrying. I prayed that His Grace had seen the error of his ways, but I feared that he had not. I kept remembering those few occasions when I had encountered Mistress Anne Boleyn. Even my limited acquaintance with her had shown me the effect she had on people. She was not a beautiful woman, but there was something about her that compelled attention. Men, in particular, flocked around her like bees to honey.

At Yuletide, we traveled to Greenwich Palace. The princess bade me meet with Mistress Pinckney, as I had the previous year. But on this occasion, the silkwoman sent word for me to come to the Great Wardrobe in London, so that I might examine the full range of her wares.

The Great Wardrobe was located just east of Blackfriars Priory, that great house of the Dominicans. It was the place where cloth for the use of the king and his court was delivered, measured, and parceled out again, the lengths going to tailors, embroiderers, cappers, hosiers, shoemakers, and skinners. The clerks of the royal wardrobes of robes, like Master Jenkin Kent, went there both to collect the results of artificers’ work and to claim bolts of fabric to make into clothes themselves.

In the three years and four months since I’d left Glastonbury,
this was the first time I had ventured outside the princess’s retinue. Keen anticipation filled me as I was transported upstream on one of the smaller royal barges. The trip took two hours, rowing against the tide.

The wind whipped at my cloak and icy spray dampened the hem of my skirt, but I refused to take shelter in the tiny cabin. I did not want to miss a moment of the experience. I had traveled through London by water before, but in the past I had not been free to sightsee. Princess Mary preferred to remain inside the tiny cabin and her maids of honor perforce stayed with her.

On this occasion, although I was accompanied by Master Kent, two yeomen, and Edyth, I was free to remain in the open air. The tide was at the ebb, allowing the barge to “shoot” London Bridge. I stared up at the closely packed houses in fascination as we approached and at the underside and “starlings” as we passed beneath. At high tide, passengers disembarked on one side of the bridge and walked to meet their watercraft on the other . . . if the barge or boat made it through.