The King's Damsel (18 page)

We passed ships anchored in the Thames and a shoreline filled with warehouses, tall buildings, and church spires to dock at Paul’s Wharf. Although we had but a short distance to travel on land, there were horses waiting. I rode on a pillion behind Master Kent. Edyth was mounted behind one of the yeomen. The other, clad in the princess’s blue and green livery, walked ahead of us to forge a path through the narrow, crowded streets.

The Great Wardrobe consisted of a large town house, several smaller houses, and a number of shops. Within these buildings were both storage rooms and offices. Master Kent escorted me, with Edyth in tow, to one of the latter and told me to wait there for Mistress Pinckney.

The office was sparsely furnished, containing only a table heaped
with ledgers and several storage chests. It had but one window, opening onto a courtyard. I passed the time watching men unload bales of material that had just been delivered, but I could not see them very clearly through the thick, wavy window glass.

Behind me, the door opened. I turned with a smile on my face, prepared to greet the silkwoman, and found myself instead confronting her son.

Rafe Pinckney had filled out in the year since I had last seen him. His shoulders seemed broader, his arms and chest more muscular. I felt certain that he noticed the changes in me, as well.

Although I was still uncommon tall for a woman, the shape I had grown into was now abundantly womanly. I did not look at all like my father’s aunts. I fought a blush as Rafe’s deep brown eyes devoured the increased lushness of my body.

I cleared my throat. “I was expecting to meet with Mistress Pinckney.”

“She sent me instead.”

I hesitated. I was not certain how to address him. He was not a gentleman, so “Master Pinckney” was not appropriate. “Silkman Pinckney” did not sound quite right, either, nor was it correct, for I was sure he had not yet completed his apprenticeship. Rafe might not be the humble servant I’d first thought him, but neither was he a merchant trading in his own right.

If the silkwoman’s son noticed that I did not greet him by name, he made no mention of it. Instead, he suggested a tour of the silk store at the Great Wardrobe and I agreed. With Edyth trailing after us, eyes wide and mouth agape at the wonders rising on high shelves all around us, he displayed bolt upon bolt of the expensive fabric. It came in every color imaginable, as did spools of silk thread. At last we reached a storage rack that held a dozen varieties of silk ribbon, the sort of thing his mother supplied to the court.

“Most of this is imported. That is cullen ribbon.” The disdain in his voice as he indicated one particular bolt made it clear that he thought this product far inferior to ribbons made in England.

“Cullen?” It looked very fine to me.

“From Cologne. It is used to make girdles and key bands.” He jabbed a finger at another sample of ribbon on the rack, sneering as he identified it. “That is called towers ribbon. From Tours. It is a fine silk used to make decorative roses.”

We moved on. Rafe made derogatory remarks about every sample of imported silk goods we encountered. After a bit, his superior attitude began to amuse me.

“I suppose your mother is the only one in the whole wide world who is truly skilled at making trimmings of silk,” I said, thinking to tease him.

“No one can produce a better hair-lacing ribbon.” He turned, a challenge in his deep brown eyes.

His intent gaze fell upon my face. I stared back at him, transfixed. For a moment, I forgot to breathe. Then he reached out and lightly touched my cheek. His fingers—ungloved again!—feathered across my skin to tuck an errant lock of my hair back into place beneath my headdress.

I shied away from him, my face flaming. “You are bold, sirrah!”

He grinned at me. “A trait I come by honestly.”

“Never tell me you are descended from pirates!”

He laughed. “Some might say a merchant adventurer and a pirate have much in common.”

I bristled, thinking for a moment that he knew my grandfather and great-grandfather had been merchant adventurers of Bristol, but Rafe was speaking of London men . . . and women.

“Did you know that the profession of silkwoman is the only one that London wives are permitted to pursue without their husbands’
permission? My mother trades as a
femme sole
. She purchases imported silk goods on her own and has negotiated contracts with all the most prominent Italian silk merchants in the city.”

Hearing the pride in his voice, my irritation with him faded. And
what
he said intrigued me. “Is Mistress Pinckney permitted to keep her profits? Or does your father claim them?”

“Father lets well enough alone. He says running her own business keeps her busy and out of trouble.”

We resumed our perambulation through the warehouse. “What does she do with the silk after she buys it? Does she dye it?”

Rafe shook his head. “Most raw silk is already dyed. A silkwoman is first a throwster, making the silk into thread, and secondly a corseweaver. She and the women she employs make the silk into small items like points and fringe. But you know all that already.”

“Then tell me something I do not know,” I challenged him.

We wandered deeper into the storage facility. The high shelves rising on all sides created an illusion of privacy. When we turned a corner, we lost sight of Edyth, who had stopped to gape at a basket of gold trim.

“Something you do not know,” Rafe repeated. Then he chuckled. “Shall I tell you what men talk of in London these days? Perhaps I should not. You chided me for repeating rumors the last time we met.”

I was astonished that he remembered what we’d talked of, even though I could still recall every word of that conversation. “I enjoy hearing a good story,” I quipped, “even when the tale is untrue.”

He looked offended. “I do not need to make up stories. What I observe around me every day far surpasses any fancies a poet could conceive of in his imagination.”

I stood with my head cocked expectantly, silently waiting for him to give me an example.

“The princess is at Greenwich, is she not?”

I nodded.

“And her mother, the queen, is there also?”

“Yes. The king will join them soon. He, in case you did not know it, is currently residing at Bridewell Palace, just outside London’s wall.” Bridewell was, in fact, only a short distance from where we stood.

“I am well aware of where the king spends his days . . . and his nights.” Rafe snapped out his words. His mouth turned down in disapproval and his tone was grim when he added, “So is all of London.”

After a cautious glance to each side of us, he placed one hand on my upper arm and drew me close enough to smell the hint of sandalwood that clung to his clothing. Even through many layers of fabric, I felt the imprint of his fingers on my skin. I shivered, but I did not try to free myself.

He spoke in a low voice. “Before Queen Catherine left for Greenwich, she was at Bridewell with the king. There is no chapel there. Anyone who wishes to hear Mass must cross the River Fleet by way of a gallery that leads to the friary on the other side.”

“Blackfriars,” I murmured, still distracted by the pleasant warmth of the hand wrapped around my arm. “The Dominican friars who live there wear black mantles over their white habits, hence the name.”

He rolled his eyes. “Pay attention, Mistress Lodge. This gallery is well over two hundred feet long. Anyone who stands in the street below has a fine view of those who cross it. When the queen was in residence, her loyal supporters among the citizens of London gathered daily to watch for her. Every time she appeared, they shouted words of encouragement.”

“Encouragement?” I knew the queen was popular, but Rafe’s choice of that particular word confused me.

Again he surveyed our surroundings, clearly wishing to make certain we would not be overheard. Edyth had reappeared, but was examining a bolt of sky blue cloth and she was not near enough to cause him any concern. No one else was in sight.

“They called out ‘May you win your case!’ and ‘You must have victory, else England itself will go to ruin!’ and other sentiments of the same sort.”

My eyes widened. “Your Londoners are either very brave or very foolish.”

“The people of London love Queen Catherine, and they do not approve of the concubine.”

I did not have to ask whom he meant, but I frowned. “Mistress Anne Boleyn never rejoined the queen’s household after she recovered from the sweat.”

“Did you imagine that illness checked her ambition? Or her spite toward Queen Catherine and her daughter? When the king and queen returned to London in August, the concubine moved into Durham House. It is a goodly mansion with terraced lawns that run clear down to the riverbank, but Mistress Anne did not think it grand enough for her.” He grinned suddenly, but it was not with amusement. “Or perhaps she did not feel safe there, for all that it possesses a strongly fortified gatehouse on the land side. The noisy mobs that gathered outside Bridewell cheered for the queen, but those that assembled on the Strand in front of Durham House made it clear they did not want the king’s mistress living there. She moved to Suffolk House in Southwark and then, in early September, she retreated all the way back to Hever.”

Sensing there was more to the tale, I asked, “What happened then?”

“A most peculiar thing. King Henry summoned the Lord Mayor
and the aldermen of London, along with an assortment of noblemen, judges, and other important people, to come to him in the great chamber at Bridewell. He . . . lectured them. As if they were schoolchildren who had failed to understand an earlier lesson. He explained that his conscience had troubled him for some time concerning his marriage to Queen Catherine. She was once married to his brother Arthur and His Grace said he feared that he and the queen had therefore been living together, most abominably and detestably, in open sin. There is a passage in the Bible that forbids any man, even a king, to uncover the nakedness of his brother’s wife.”

“Oh, no,” I murmured. Did the king truly believe that his marriage was invalid? If he did, then matters were far worse than I had imagined.

Rafe’s grip on my arm tightened to the point of pain. “King Henry insisted that he only began nullity proceedings to set his conscience at rest. He even claimed that, were he free to choose again, and were there no impediments to the match, he would take Catherine of Aragon as his wife above all others.”

“Did his listeners believe him?” Wincing, I tried to pry Rafe’s fingers loose.

Abruptly, he released me. I rubbed the spot he’d been holding, wondering if he’d left a bruise.

“The citizens of London are not fools,” he said angrily, oblivious to the fact that he’d hurt me. “What they believed was the warning beneath the king’s words. For anyone to voice support for the queen after hearing the king’s explanation would be an act of madness. And no one now has any doubt but that His Grace intends to proceed with the divorce. He will set his wife aside and take a new bride.”

“But surely not Mistress Anne! A foreign princess—”

“Yes, Mistress Anne. King Henry sent the queen to Greenwich alone and within the week the concubine was back in London. His Grace has installed her in Bridewell Palace in the apartments adjacent to his own, where she now lives in royal state, just as if she were already queen of England!”

H
e’s a toothsome lad, that Rafe Pinckney,” Edyth remarked when we boarded the barge for our return trip to Greenwich.

“He’s a silkwoman’s son.”

“If you don’t want him, I’ll take him!”

For some reason, Edyth’s playful suggestion annoyed me. “Since neither of us will see him again, he’s best forgotten.”

But I could not forget the intelligence Rafe had shared with me. The king’s statement boded ill for his daughter, and for all of us who served her. That Lady Anne had moved into Bridewell had been even less welcome news.

“You look troubled,” Maria said a few hours later, after she had admired the ribbons, laces, and other trimmings I’d brought back with me.

Under cover of showing her a particularly pretty piece of fringe, I repeated all that Rafe Pinckney had told me. “Do you think we should warn the princess?”

Maria’s hand clenched around the lace. “The king will leave
Bridewell shortly for Greenwich. His Grace always comes here for Yuletide. Do you suppose he will bring his mistress with him?”

“He is the king. He can do whatever he chooses.”

In the end I did not tell Princess Mary what I had learned in London. I should have. It might have been less of a shock to Her Grace when Mistress Anne Boleyn not only took up residence in her own wing at Greenwich Palace, but dared hold her own Yuletide revels. Although Queen Catherine still presided over all the formal celebrations of the season, courtiers flocked to this rival court, anxious to ingratiate themselves with the woman who had the most influence with the king.

Princess Mary was almost thirteen years old. She was naïve in many ways, for she had been sheltered all her life, but it was not long before even she had heard about Mistress Anne. She hid her feelings well for one of her tender years. Only those of us who were close to her knew how much she resented the favor that king and courtiers alike showed to her mother’s former maid of honor.

At night in the maidens’ dormitory, we speculated about the queen’s claim that the king had no grounds to annul their marriage.

“Do you think the queen is telling the truth?” Mary Fitzherbert wondered aloud as the four of us gathered on the bed Maria and I shared. “She was old enough to consummate the marriage when she wed the king’s older brother, and it is said he boasted afterward that he had been in Spain the night before.” The annulment hinged upon this point. If Catherine of Aragon had never truly been a wife to Prince Arthur, then there was no impediment to her marriage to his brother.

Mary Dannett giggled. “All men boast of their conquests.” She helped herself to a dried and sugared orange slice from the box of comfits she’d brought with her, then passed it around.