The King's Damsel (25 page)

That moment was the brightest spot in an otherwise dismal Yuletide. In spite of the concubine’s best efforts, the atmosphere at court was too tense for true mirth and merriment. More and more, in spite of the risk, the king’s subjects had begun to speak out against his plan to set aside Queen Catherine. Even Lady Anne’s own aunt by marriage, the Duchess of Norfolk, had left the court rather than be obliged to see her niece in the queen’s place.

King Henry presented his lady love with a matching set of hangings for her bed and chamber. They were made of cloth of gold, cloth of silver, and crimson satin, the latter richly embroidered in heraldic designs. The concubine gifted His Grace with a set
of intricately decorated Pyrenean boar spears, an exotic gift that pleased him mightily.

The king was less pleased when an expensive gold cup was delivered to him as a gift from Queen Catherine. His Grace had given orders that no one at court was to send gifts to the queen this Yuletide, or to any of her ladies, and he had not sent any himself. His exasperation, and his angry words to the hapless yeoman who tried to present the queen’s cup to him, soured the day for everyone.

T
he following February I found myself at Hampton Court, another of the great houses the king had acquired from Cardinal Wolsey. Work had recently been completed on a new private lodging there for the king called the Bayne Tower. On the ground floor were offices and a strong room. The top level contained a two-room library and the king’s jewel house. But it took its name from the placement, on the middle of the three floors, of a bath room adjacent to King Henry’s private bedchamber and study.

That room was the talk of the court. It was said to house a large, permanent tub with two taps, one that ran with cold water and the other with hot. I should have liked to see such a thing but as a woman, and a mere chamberer at that, I had no business going anywhere near the place, not even into the new gallery that connected the Bayne Tower to the king’s privy chamber in the older part of the palace.

I had access to almost everyplace else. No one noticed just another liveried servant when there were some two thousand people
in residence. At my first opportunity, I went in search of Master Thomas Cromwell, having heard that he had an office on the premises.

I had not seen the lawyer since our brief interview at Windsor. In all the time since, I’d had no news of Hartlake Manor, not from Sir Jasper and not from Master Cromwell, who had promised me, in Lady Mary Rochford’s hearing, that he would investigate Sir Lionel Daggett’s dealings and that suspicious paper I had signed just after I’d turned sixteen. In but a few days’ time, I would reach my twentieth year. In a bit more than twelve months, I would be entitled to take full possession of my inheritance . . . if I had any inheritance left.

Master Cromwell did not recognize me until I jogged his memory. “Ah, yes,” he said with a rueful grimace, “you are heir to Hartlake Manor and other estates in Somersetshire and Gloucestershire. I sent a man to investigate.”

“And has he returned?” It was a struggle to keep my voice even. I found Master Cromwell’s condescension most annoying.

“A moment.”

I expected the lawyer to search through the tall stacks of paper that littered his writing table. Some of them were so high that they threatened to spill over at any second. Instead, he closed his eyes. I could see movement behind his eyelids. It made me think of a clerk flipping over one page after another in a ledger, searching for the proper account. After a minute or two of this intense cogitation, his eyes flew open.

“Have you had any word of late from your stepmother?” he asked.

A dart of alarm pierced me and I clutched the edge of the table for support. “Blanche? Has something happened to her?”

Moving more rapidly than I’d have thought possible for such a heavyset man, he rounded the table, shoved a heavy law book off a
stool, and plunked me down in its place. “Sit. I will not have hysterics. Lady Lodge is not dead, if that is what you fear.”

“Then what? Why did you ask if I’d heard from her?” My first panic past, I was swamped by guilt. I had scarce given Blanche a thought in a very long time. Even when I did think of her, I pictured her living in her dower house in Bristol, placid and content.

Master Cromwell returned to his chair and sat contemplating me, his elbows on the table and his palms together. The fingers on one hand tapped against those on the other for a moment or two before he announced, “Sir Lionel Daggett married your stepmother a month ago.”

I gasped. That Blanche and Sir Lionel might truly care for one another never crossed my mind. He’d married her for her fortune and to keep control of my property . . . and to control me. It made perfect sense. Having changed his mind about claiming
me
as his bride, he’d moved on to an alternate plan. A wife was entirely in her husband’s power. Sir Lionel had taken a hostage against my good behavior. He counted on my affection for my stepmother to keep me from challenging his authority.

“Naturally,” Master Cromwell continued, confirming my conclusions, “as you are not yet twenty-one, you will allow your new stepfather to continue to manage your estates while you remain at court.”

“Have I no legal recourse?” I asked.

He narrowed his eyes at me. “You should be glad to have that good gentleman to look after your interests.”

Swallowing a protest, I thanked Master Cromwell for his advice and fled. My tangled emotions overcame me only a few steps from his door. Tears blinding me, I stumbled on, nearly plowing into a passing yeoman of the guard. He righted me with a laugh and went on his way toward the kitchen court. I stood where he left
me, in the middle of a passageway, shaking with a combination of despair, frustration, and anger. I had never felt so much like a pawn in a game of chess as I did at that moment. On all sides, there were people who wished to use me, and none of them cared a fig about what I thought.

I had no doubt but that Sir Lionel had bribed Master Cromwell to let matters stand as they were. What other explanation could there be for his attitude?

I could do nothing to help Blanche, and although I might still be able to find another lawyer to help me reclaim my lands, that would require that I leave court and return to Hartlake Manor. Leaving Lady Anne’s household was the one thing I could not do, not now that I’d finally begun to make some headway in persuading the concubine to trust me. Ever since I’d given Lady Anne those playing cards, she had softened toward me. If I did not stay, it would be a betrayal of my vow to serve and protect Princess Mary.

A few days later, I received a letter from Sir Lionel. Within moments, I understood why my stepmother’s favorite chaplain had never replied to my plea for help. Sir Jasper had died in November.

When I read through to the end, I crumpled the paper in my fist, barely repressing the urge to curse aloud. Somehow, after Sir Jasper’s death, my letter to him had come into Sir Lionel’s hands. Sir Lionel did not say so straight out, but his meaning was clear enough. My questions to Sir Jasper and the inquiries made by Master Cromwell’s man—the beginnings of an investigation into Sir Lionel’s stewardship of my estate—had prompted Sir Lionel to coerce my stepmother into marrying him. It was all my fault that Blanche was now his to do with as he pleased. He could beat her, lock her in her chamber, starve her—no one would say a word to stop a husband from disciplining his wife. And he
would
do all that, his letter implied, if I caused him any trouble.

With exaggerated care, I smoothed out the page and reread one particular sentence. Sir Lionel had been careful in his choice of words, but his meaning was as clear as a stock pond on a calm summer’s day: “Your stepmother and your lands will be safe in my keeping so long as you remain my advocate at court.”

T
he only event of note during the next few months was the April wedding of the Earl of Surrey and Lady Frances de Vere, the Earl of Oxford’s daughter. Surrey’s mother, the Duchess of Norfolk, objected to the match on the grounds that Lady Frances had no fortune. Lady Anne, however, favored their union, and so it came to pass. The new Countess of Surrey then joined the concubine’s household.

In July, the court went on progress, leaving Hampton Court for Woodstock and Abingdon, heading toward Nottingham. The new French ambassador, Gilles de la Pommeraye, went along as the king’s honored guest. Hunting, as usual, was the most frequent pastime, both shooting at deer with crossbows and coursing, but travel between stopping places was not so pleasant as it had been in the past. The crowds that gathered along the way to see their king were so hostile to Lady Anne that they greeted every glimpse of her with hissing and hooting and, sometimes, shouted insults. As there were too many malcontents to arrest them all, the king was forced to ignore the catcalls.

His Grace was already out of sorts, suffering from a toothache. I do not know where the progress might have gone that summer had Lady Anne’s appearance been met with the shouts of joy that should have welcomed a future queen, but in August we turned back the way we had come. When we reached the manor of Hanworth in Middlesex, not far from Hampton Court, we were informed that the king and Lady Anne would remain there for the rest of the summer.

King Henry had already made a present of this house and its land to Lady Anne. Pommeraye stayed on as her honored guest, no doubt so that the king could complete his “secret” plans to visit France.

Hanworth, a redbrick manor house surrounded by a moat, was a pleasant place. It had been rebuilt by the king’s father and refurbished by His Grace before he gave it to the concubine. Among the king’s additions were terracotta roundels on the gatehouse, brought from Hampton Court, and new furniture for the great chamber, including a table for use by Lady Anne’s gentlewomen.

The grounds were delightful. Bridges connected the house to the gardens, which were famous for their strawberries. Farther afield were an aviary, an orchard with a park beyond, and a series of fish ponds. I spent as much time as I could out of doors, but for the most part I was confined to the interior, trapped in a world full of heavy perfumes, pretended gaiety, and an aura of intrigue and danger. Whether the latter was real or imagined I could not tell.

Although I fancied that I had made myself useful to Lady Anne, I had as yet found no way to make my services seem indispensable to her. Each day began in her bedchamber, where she was dressed for the day. On one particular morning in mid-August, I stood nearby during this process, waiting to take charge of the green damask nightgown the king had given her. It was not so fine as the one
made of black satin, lined with black taffeta and edged with velvet, but was more practical for everyday use.

At first I paid little attention when Lady Anne began to complain to her sister of the shortcomings of the French ambassador. Many things displeased Lady Anne and she had never been shy about voicing her opinions in the privacy of her chambers.

“I have already given the fellow one of my own prize greyhounds,” Lady Anne muttered, “as well as a huntsman’s coat, a hat, and a horn. And yet he still maintains that Marguerite d’Angoulême is not well enough to accompany her brother, King Francis, to Calais. If no French noblewoman of suitable rank is present, then I will not be permitted to attend the meetings, either.”

“She cannot help it if she is ill,” Lady Mary said in a soothing tone of voice.

“She is not sick. She is showing her disapproval of Henry’s intention to marry me.”

“They will find someone else.”

“Who? The queen of France is out of the question. She is Catherine’s niece.”

Lady Mary handed me the nightgown. As its soft folds filled my arms, I inhaled the musky scent Lady Anne now preferred.

“Perhaps the Duchesse de Vendôme?” the concubine’s sister suggested.

I should have taken the garment and carried it away at once. Instead I lingered, curiosity taking precedence over common sense. Lady Anne had been known to box a servant’s ears for being slow. I had no reason to think she would spare me if I displeased her. And yet, there I stayed, watching Lady Anne’s face go red with fury and hearing her voice rise until it was as shrill as a fishwife’s.

“That whore? Do you think I want people to compare me to her?
It is essential that everything about this visit to France be conducted with the utmost propriety!”

“Perhaps it would be best, then, if no ladies were officially present on either side.” Lady Mary’s tart remark earned her a glower. “Think, Anne,” her sister hastened to add. “If that is the way of it, you can still accompany King Henry to Calais and King Francis can visit you when he arrives there,
after
their first meetings have taken place on French soil.”

“It is not enough. I deserve to be acknowledged as the future queen of England. There must be more I can do to make that toad of an ambassador sweet.”

She reached into the comfit box kept on a nearby table, scooping out a handful of almonds coated with sugar to pop into her mouth. All the ladies at court were fond of these candies and I was no exception, but I could rarely afford to buy such an expensive treat for myself.

I gathered up my courage and offered a suggestion. “You might make him a gift of a fine horse, my lady, to go with the greyhound.” Even kings could be swayed by good horseflesh, as I had reason to know, and Lady Anne had a fine stable. She bought her horses from Ireland.

She turned dark, luminous eyes on me, her gaze so piercing that it chilled me to the bone. But she was an astute woman when she kept control of her temper. After a moment, her expression turned thoughtful. “Perhaps that
would
work,” she murmured. Then, sneering slightly, she cocked an eyebrow at me and asked, “Have you any other suggestions, Mistress Lodge?”

I spoke without taking the time to consider what impact my words might have. “You could ask the king to grant you a title in your own right, my lady. That way you would truly be the equal of any great lady of France, and of England, too.”