The King's Damsel (30 page)

“There was nothing more you could have done, Tamsin. You cannot slay dragons for Her Grace, no matter how much you might want to.”

In spite of myself, I smiled. I reached up to wipe the tears from my eyes but he was faster. He dabbed at my cheeks with the pad of his thumb. And then, his eyes locked with mine, he lowered his head with excruciating slowness and touched his lips to mine.

I wished that kiss could last forever. It was the sweetest sensation I had ever felt. At the same time, it thrilled me right down to the marrow of my bones. When Rafe started to step back, I clung to him, burying my face in the front of his warm wool cloak. As always, he smelled of sandalwood and cinnamon.

It was cold on the Thames. The wind whipped up whitecaps to make the barge strain at its moorings and rock from side to side. The motion kept us off balance and clinging to each other. Neither of us minded. For a time, we did not speak. Then Rafe lifted my chin with the side of his hand until our eyes met once more.

“Marry me, Tamsin.”

I blinked at him. “What?”

He grinned at my surprise. “You heard me. Marry me. If you truly think there is no more you can do at court, come away with me and be my bride.”

I waited for him to tell me he loved me. When he did not, a niggling little voice in the back of my mind suggested that he was only interested in acquiring the fortune that went with me to the church. Once I wed, full control of all my lands and chattel would fall into my husband’s hands.

“I cannot just
leave,
” I blurted out, using the excuse that came most readily. “I swore an oath to serve at the will and pleasure of Queen Anne.”

“Never say you meant such a vow!”

“My intentions do not come into it. She believes I am hers to command and I am not permitted to leave court without the approval of her Lord Chamberlain. It would make her suspicious indeed, should I suddenly disappear.”

“Then ask her to dismiss you. If you do not think she’ll let you go to marry, then tell her you are ill.”

“Rafe, I cannot.” I was horrified by how much I wanted to. “Besides, Sir Lionel would make it his business to cause trouble if I vanished.”

I had told him a little about my stepfather, but not much.

“We would not be helpless.” His arms tightened around me. “I will hire the best legal minds in London to fight off any challenge to our happiness.”

But you would have to pay them with my fortune, I thought.

“If I ran away with you, I would have to disappear, never to be heard of at court, or at Hartlake Manor again.”

A picture of Sir Lionel as I’d last seen him, wicked and conniving, sprang into my mind. I remembered how he’d looked when he was wrathful. And then I thought of the king. An elopement might well anger His Grace, too. And if he wished it, King Henry had the power to find me and then ruin the entire Pinckney family. Rafe and his mother could not prevail against such odds. Rafe was barely out of his apprenticeship. He did not have the wherewithal to protect himself, let alone a wife.

I pushed myself free of Rafe’s embrace and backed away from him, nearly losing my footing when another wave hit the side of the barge. “I must remain where I am.”

In spite of my determination to sound firm, my voice shook. Rafe started to follow me, then stopped, waiting for me to say more. Once again, tears threatened. I had to blink rapidly to keep them at bay. I would not cry anymore. Crying solved nothing.

I cleared my throat. I had spoken truer than I realized when I voiced my first objection to leaving, but the pledge of loyalty I felt bound to honor was to Princess Mary, not Queen Anne. “Court is the only place where I have a hope of influencing the king to treat his elder daughter with more kindness. My first duty is to her, Rafe. To our future queen.”

Rafe’s face closed up. I felt certain that behind his stoic façade he was as torn by conflicting emotions as I was. He, too, was loyal to the lady we were now required to call the Lady Mary instead of princess. Helping her to survive her father’s marriage to Queen Anne was a sacred trust neither of us could easily forsake, no matter how much we wished to, no matter how much we longed to be together.

“Your loyalty is commendable.” His voice was bitter as aloes.

After a long, strained silence, I said, “We need to devise new codes. Enough of them for me to send a variety of specific warnings.”

He nodded. “As you say.”

The ease that had existed between us had vanished. With stiff formality, we spent the next hour matching silks with messages. Only one would indicate that Rafe should come at once to court. I told myself that would be safer for him. The rest of the messages could be conveyed directly to the princess.

“How do you go about passing on news?” I had no idea if he would send the actual laces, points, and ribbons to spell out my message, or go in person to speak to Princess Mary.

“It is safer that you do not know.” He avoided meeting my eyes.

There was not much left to say to each other after that. I rose
from the bench where I had been sitting and prepared to leave the barge.

“Have a care, Tamsin,” Rafe called after me. He meant much more than to watch my footing as I scrambled across the plank that led to shore.

Plagued by the dismal possibility that I might never see Rafe Pinckney again, I returned to the palace in low spirits. To keep from dwelling on my sense of loss, I threw myself into the celebration of Yuletide.

O
n a sunny day in March, Queen Anne set out to pay a visit to her baby daughter at Hatfield. She took with her only a few of her ladies and the small dog she called Perky. Her Grace was inordinately fond of him and I had to admit to some liking for the little fellow myself.

Perky was different from any other dog at court. Small, sturdy, and playful, he had a curly white coat, round black eyes, a plumed tail that curved over his back, and long ears covered with flowing hair. He stood less than a foot high. Affectionate and inquisitive, he was into everything. That was why, after he had thoroughly disrupted order in Princess Elizabeth’s nursery, I was told to walk him in the garden.

Tucking Perky under one arm, I set out to explore Hatfield, a redbrick palace that had once been the property of the bishops of Ely. Four wings had been built around the sides of a central quadrangle and a gallery led to the adjoining church. I had no difficulty picking out the great hall or the solarium that overlooked one of the gardens. Using these landmarks, I made my way to a prearranged meeting place.

When the princess—I would not, at least in my thoughts, call her the Lady Mary—had been assigned to wait upon her baby sister, she had been told she could bring only two of her women with her to provide services of the most humble sort. One of them came from the lowest ranks of Her Grace’s household and was a maid-of-all-work. The other, voluntarily surrendering her status and privileges, was Maria Vittorio.

Thanks to the coded messages we had exchanged, Maria was on the lookout for me, ready to guide me to the small, cramped single lodging assigned to Princess Elizabeth’s sister at Hatfield.

Upon entering, I made my deepest curtsey to Mary Tudor. She was still my princess, no matter what her father decreed.

It had been nearly three years since I’d last seen her. She had lost weight in the interim, making her look gaunt and unhealthy. But her smile was genuine. Her Grace embraced me, dog and all, and laughed when Perky nuzzled her hand.

“How tiny he is!” she exclaimed.

“He is of a breed much in favor at the French court. Lady Lisle sent him from Calais as a gift. I am told she wishes to place one of her daughters as a maid of honor.”

“No doubt she will be successful. That woman loves all things French.” Never one to blame an animal for its mistress’s sins, she took Perky onto her lap, stroking his soft fur. “How do matters stand at court?”

“She is once again with child.” Queen Anne had announced her condition to the king in January and then told her ladies.

Maria swore in Spanish.

“Your Grace still has many loyal supporters among the courtiers,” I hastened to add. “You must not give up hope that you will one day be restored to your father’s favor.”

“That woman hates me.”

“She
fears
you, Your Grace.”

Maria, who had been guarding the door, interrupted before I could say more. “Someone is coming. You need to be away from here, Tamsin, before you are recognized.”

Her Grace handed me the dog. Maria grasped me by the arm and led me out by a door covered by a wall hanging. I caught a glimpse of a messenger in Queen Anne’s livery as he came in through the main entrance. I tried to free myself, so that I could linger and listen, but Maria refused to loosen her grip. When I glared at her, she pointed to Perky. She was right. If the dog barked, we would be caught.

A quarter of an hour later, after taking Perky into the garden to relieve himself, I returned to the nursery. The same liveried messenger I’d seen enter Princess Mary’s lodging was waiting just outside. I recognized him now. He was a groom of the chamber. Tentatively, I touched his sleeve. “Are you ill, Dickon?”

The expression on his face was more closely akin to terror. Sweat beaded on his forehead, even though the antechamber was cool.

“Oh, Mistress Lodge! No. No. It is just . . . I dread the queen’s anger.”

“Why should Her Grace be wroth with you?”

Such was Dickon’s consternation that he responded to my sympathetic manner. “Her Grace sent me to the Lady Mary with a message. Queen Anne offered to welcome her back to court if she would acknowledge her father’s marriage and Her Grace’s right to be queen of England.”

“And?”

He swallowed convulsively. “Her Grace will not be pleased with the answer I bring her. The Lady Mary said that she knows no queen but her own mother.”

I sighed. “A stubborn reply, but not unexpected.”

“There is more. The Lady Mary added that if the king’s
mistress
would intercede for her with her father, she would be most grateful.”

“Oh, no.”

“That is what she said, Mistress Lodge, and now I must repeat her words to the queen.”

“Must you? Perhaps you could omit the last part.”

But Dickon knew his duty. Helpless to change anything, I waited with him until Queen Anne left the nursery. I handed her the dog, hoping that holding Perky would keep Her Grace more calm.

“Well?” she demanded.

Dickon relayed the princess’s answer. All of it.

Queen Anne’s dark eyes glittered with a hatred so intense that I was surprised she did not order her stepdaughter beaten for her effrontery. I’d not have put it past Her Grace, in a fit of temper, to take a switch to Princess Mary herself.

To my amazement, she regained control of her anger. Still carrying Perky, she gave a haughty sniff and stalked out of the antechamber.

At the end of that month, Parliament having already declared that King Henry was supreme head of the church in England, the king signed into law the Act of Succession. It nullified “the Lady Mary’s” claim to the throne and required that all of King Henry’s subjects take an oath to support the legitimacy of Anne Boleyn’s offspring. To refuse to do so was treason, punishable by death.

I took the oath.

A
few months later, Princess Elizabeth’s household moved to Eltham. The court was at Greenwich, only a few miles distant. On impulse, Queen Anne decided to make the short journey and spend a few hours playing with her child. While the queen visited her baby daughter, I slipped away from the nursery.

A few judicious inquiries led me to the chapel, where Princess Mary had gone to pray. The new chapel at Eltham had been built close to the hall, with two spiral staircases that led up to private closets, one each for the king and the queen. Her Grace knelt in the body of the chapel. She did not look up at my approach, not even when I sank down onto my knees beside her. I said a quick prayer, asking God to guide my speech.

The king’s daughter had inherited a full measure of her father’s stubbornness. I admired her principles, but of late she seemed determined to court martyrdom. I had found it surprisingly easy to lie when I swore to support the acts of Parliament that had made King Henry supreme head of the church in England and deprived the princess of her place in the succession. So, I suspected, had many
others, especially when faced with the death penalty for refusing. Surely the person most affected by these statutes could force herself to follow my example, especially when her disobedience made her father so angry.

Infuriated by her refusal to do as he ordered, he had cut off all communication with her mother. “The Lady Mary” and Queen Catherine, who was now supposed to be called “the Princess Dowager,” were already forbidden to meet. Now, until Mary took the oath, she was not permitted to correspond with her mother, either.

“Your Grace,” I murmured in a low voice, “you must think of your future. You cannot help yourself or your mother if you do not moderate your behavior toward the concubine. It would not take much to restore you to the king’s favor.”

“I cannot acknowledge a bastard as heir, nor agree to my own illegitimacy. Nor can I put my father above the pope.”

“An oath taken under duress is not binding,” I argued, although the only precedent I knew of involved that long-ago kidnapping and forced marriage of the woman Sir Richard Egerton had later wed.

The princess continued to pray.

“Another baby is on the way. If this one is a boy, no matter how irregular his parents’ marriage may be, he will at birth become heir to the throne of England ahead of either of King Henry’s daughters.”

Once again, the king was certain that the child would be male. He had already ordered an elaborate silver cradle from his goldsmith. I had seen the drawings that Master Holbein, the king’s painter, had made for it. The pillars were decorated with Tudor roses and precious stones and more gems were set in a gold border around the rim. There were also golden figures of Adam and Eve in the design. To go with this cradle, Queen Anne had demanded gold-embroidered bedding and cloth-of-gold baby clothes.