The King's Damsel (33 page)

King Henry knew that I was a maiden. He was careful with me and instructed me in what I should do to please him. I followed these instructions willingly and, to my surprise, my body already seemed to know how to react. I will not say that it was painless when he pushed himself into me. A few tears leaked out through my closed eyelids. But then I found myself distracted by the rest of the procedure. The strange, goodly feeling returned to my nether parts and began to build toward something more, although in my innocence I did not know what that might be. Before I could find out, the king was caught up in his own release. He gave one final gasp and collapsed on top of me.

I frowned. He was heavy, but I did not dare push him away. I wondered if he would fall asleep. One of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting had complained just the previous week that her husband always did so after they coupled. She had been quite put out about it.

Abruptly, King Henry braced himself on his muscular arms and, still panting a little, grinned down at me. Seeing his pleasure, it was not difficult for me to smile back, but I could not help but wince when he rolled away from me and I tried to sit up.

“I believe,” the king said, “that you should have a hot bath. I
am told it eases the twinges that result from the loss of virginity.”

My mind did not have enough time to fully absorb the king’s meaning before His Grace bounded out of bed. Then the only thing I could think about was the sight before my eyes. My face flamed as I stared at him. Stark naked, he boldly eyed my equally unclothed body. My garments having been carelessly tossed outside the curtains, where they had fallen into untidy piles on the foot carpet, out of my reach, I fumbled for a coverlet.

“Delightful!” the king declared. “There is nothing as pretty as a blushing bride! Did you enjoy your initiation into the ways of lovers, my sweet?”

I told myself that what had just happened between us was indeed the same as what any bride endured on her wedding night. In truth, I’d had more of a courtship from the king than most wives enjoyed from their husbands. Marriages were arranged by families. Gentlewomen were as often wed to complete strangers as to men they knew well.

“My sweet?” the king prompted me.

“I . . . I can hardly describe my feelings, Your Grace.”

“Harry,” he said. “When we are in private like this, dearest Tamsin, you must call me Harry.”

And with that, he leaned in between the bed curtains, took away the coverlet I was still attempting to wrap around myself, and once more lifted me into his arms. This time he carried me out of the bedchamber and into a privy passageway that led to a room that contained a bathtub attached to one wall. It was made of wood and lined with linen but, unlike any other tub I’d seen, it had two taps permanently affixed above it. The king turned both and water began to flow into the tub. The stream from one of them was hot enough to steam.

His Grace . . . Harry . . . chuckled at the expression of astonishment on my face. “There is a charcoal-fired stove in the room directly below this one. It is fed from a cistern, filled from the conduit that brings water to the house from a spring some eight hundred feet away. You have no doubt seen the pipes. They run across a series of pillars in the park.”

He held me close enough to the tub to dip my hand in. “It is a wonder . . . Harry. Almost like magic.”

Again, he laughed, as delighted by my obvious pleasure as by my use of his name. Then he eased me gently into the warm water. It was already high enough to cover my lower limbs and feeling it lap at my private parts was sheer bliss. As he’d promised, it soothed away the lingering soreness.

With a sigh of contentment, I reclined against the folded towel that padded the rim of the tub. As the level of the water rose, I let my head fall back, luxuriating in the experience, and found myself staring up at a ceiling decorated with gold battens on a white background.

“Harry” slipped into a bathrobe stored in a cupboard beneath one of the deep window seats. Rather than call for servants, he retrieved two large holland cloth towels and placed them on the chair positioned near the bathtub. He brought me soap scented with sweet bay and turned off the taps, stopping the influx of water just before the tub overflowed.

I glanced over the edge at the floor. It was made of deal boards with little holes for drainage. Then my gaze fell upon the largest article of furniture in the room—a bed.

“Does someone sleep here?” I blurted out.

“That is for reclining after a bath, something the most learned physicians recommend to prevent falling ill.”

While I soaked in the tub, the king fetched my clothing, and when I was done, he toweled me dry. There was a fireplace in the room, generating sufficient heat to keep goose bumps from forming on my skin. Harry helped me dress, too, tying my laces with his own hands. I had begun to think this was all a long, strange, and sensual dream, when he broke the spell. He called for his groom of the stool to escort me back to the maidens’ chamber.

I
went to confession the next morning. The king’s chaplain gave me absolution but, for the first time I could remember, I was not content to accept that a few prayers would suffice to mitigate my sin. I had committed adultery. My penance should be severe.

To my mind, and according to the pope, King Henry was still married to Catherine of Aragon. I had not betrayed my current mistress, but I had wronged the rightful queen. I was no better than any other concubine.

Rafe Pinckney crept into my thoughts despite my best efforts. As the day wore on, I could think of little else. It should have been Rafe to whom I surrendered my virtue. Now that it was too late, I knew that I should have
married
Rafe, even though doing so would have ended any hope of remaining at court.

I paid little attention to my duties. I did not think anyone noticed. We were preparing to leave Woodstock the following day for Grafton in Northamptonshire, another of the king’s hunting
manors, and everyone was busy. I should have known better than to make any such assumption. Queen Anne had spies everywhere.

“I have no more need of your services, Mistress Lodge,” the queen said when she called me before her late in the afternoon. Her words were clipped and her dark eyes burned with ill-concealed hatred. She knew I had been in the king’s bed. “You will leave court at once.”

“Your Grace, I—”

She rose from her chair, fists clenched. Expecting her to strike me, I winced. “You dare talk back to me? You will go!” she screeched. “Now!”

I went. While Edyth packed my belongings, I sought the fresher air of the courtyard. I sat on a stone bench, staring blankly at the bustle around me. The first of the baggage carts was already being loaded for the journey to Grafton.

The scene reminded me of that first day at Thornbury, when I joined the household of the Princess of Wales. Carts and liveried servants. Noise and confusion. Everyone moving with a sense of purpose . . . except for me.

I had been ordered to leave court. After so many years of royal service, the finality of it left me feeling dazed and shaken. I had lost my anchor.

Where was I to go? Hartlake Manor was no refuge, not with Sir Lionel there. After their marriage, he and my stepmother had moved into the manor house. To dispossess him, I would have to go to law and I had no ready access to the money it would take to hire a lawyer.

How much time passed while muddled thoughts churned inside my head, I do not know, but when I looked up, it was to find Bess Holland standing in front of me. “Are you ready to go?” she asked, her voice sharp with impatience.

I laughed without mirth. “Where?”

“To attend the queen while she sups.”

“I have been dismissed, Bess. Her Grace ordered me to leave the court. You were there.” All the maids of honor had been present to witness my disgrace.

“Aye, she did,” Bess said with the flash of a smile. “And King Henry, hearing of it, countermanded the queen’s order.”

“Oh.”

Bess laughed. “It appears His Grace wishes you to continue in your new role as his mistress. Come along. It will seem awkward at first, but you’ll get used to it.” Having been the cause of more than one row between the Duke and Duchess of Norfolk, she had cause to know.

That evening, when the king visited Queen Anne’s rooms, she took him to task for rescinding of my banishment. The first part of their argument was conducted in whispers, but they were passionate people. Everyone in the privy chamber heard him when King Henry raised his voice.

“Your betters, madam, learned to put up with my diversions, and you must, too!”

After that, the queen did her best to ignore me. She never spoke of the fact that the king sent for me later that same night, the last before the court departed for Grafton.

His Grace—Harry—took me to visit the sunken bath at Woodstock.

The chamber contained a green glazed stove, unlit, and something that more closely resembled a cistern than a bathtub. We stood on the lip of it, looking down into a large square hole in the floor that had been lined with lead and filled with water. It was at least three feet on a side and appeared to be several feet deep. The water had a stagnant smell that made me wrinkle my nose.

“It is very . . . large,” I said in a small voice.

“The old Roman baths that still exist in some parts of England look something like this,” the king said, “but I have it in mind to turn this one into a heated steam bath after the manner of the Turks. A suite of six rooms, I think, one just to house a large boiler to heat water.”

As had the other bath chamber at Woodstock, this one contained a bed. I avoided a dip in the cistern but could not elude the king’s amorous embraces.

It was more difficult to yield myself to him the second time than the first. I was burdened with a guilty conscience. His Grace did not notice, nor did he make much effort at seducing me. The encounter was over quickly, for which I could only be grateful.

The next day, when we left Woodstock, I was not surprised to find riding uncomfortable. Bess noticed me shifting in my saddle and took pity on me, suggesting an herbal remedy that could alleviate the soreness. After we settled in at Grafton, she offered me further advice, not only on how to please a lover, but also on how to make conception less likely.

What I had learned from Bess met with the king’s approval. He took me with him when he went hunting and, to my great delight, mounted me on Star of Hartlake.

The horse that had once been my father’s pride and joy had passed his prime, but he was still a magnificent beast. I made certain the king knew how wonderful it was for me to ride him and how fond I had been of him when I was but a girl.

Grafton was one of the smaller royal manors, but like so many of King Henry’s royal residences, it had enjoyed recent refurbishing. The newest addition, of which the king was justly proud, was a bowling alley. It was a substantial building, a brick and stone structure with a flat lead roof built on the north side of the orchard.
As a spectator, I watched from benches placed along the sides for our comfort. I had only ever watched the king bowl once before, at Woking, where the alleys were outside. Here windows and candelabra rather than sunshine lit the scene.

The players assembled in the waiting area at one end of the alley. At the other end servants waited, ready to collect the wooden bowling balls. Then everyone’s attention focused on the king as His Grace stepped up to make the first cast. It was at that moment that Viscountess Rochford, Queen Anne’s sister-in-law, who had seated herself at my right hand, leaned in close to whisper in my ear.

“Whore,” she said, quite calmly. “You do not belong here. Crawl back into the gutter whence you came.”

I turned toward her in astonishment. “My lady, I—”

“You are the worst sort of creature, disloyal and untrue,” her low whisper continued, reminding me of nothing so much as the hiss of a snake. “It would not surprise me if you had been planted here to spy for the Lady Mary.”

I gasped.

Her eyes went wide, and then she laughed. “Have I stumbled upon the truth? How delightful. I cannot wait to tell the queen.”

I grabbed her arm. “You leap to conclusions, my lady. I do not mean the queen any harm.” I spoke, of course, of Queen Catherine, but there was no reason for Lady Rochford to know that.

“Unhand me!” she shrieked, loud enough to have heads turning our way. “You are hurting me!”

Too late, I understood that she had been ordered to pick a fight with me. She’d hoped I would do just what I had done—appear to assault her. She . . . and the queen who’d sent her . . . counted on the king’s displeasure falling on me, so that he would dismiss me from court.

I swallowed hard as I watched Lady Rochford stalk off. There
were strict laws about violence within the verge—the area within a twelve-mile radius of the king’s person. What was intended to prevent courtiers from dueling could be applied with equal force to the queen’s attendants. Had I gone so far as to strike Lady Rochford in the king’s presence, I could have been sentenced to lose the hand I’d used to hit her.

King Henry continued playing at bowls, if for no other reason than that there was heavy wagering on the outcome of the match. He waited until I was escorted to his bedchamber that night to ask for my side of the story.

When he’d heard me out, he banished Lady Rochford from court.

K
ing Henry was still behaving with considerable coolness toward the queen when the royal progress came to an end for that summer. I continued to warm his bed. I became comfortable enough with His Grace to call him Harry in our most intimate moments, but I was never tempted to do so at any other time.

By roundabout means, I broached the subject of his daughter. I told him stories of my time in the Princess of Wales’s household. I strove to make him understand how much Queen Anne’s hatred of her stepdaughter had colored his opinion of a young, innocent, and loving girl, his own flesh and blood.

Toward the middle of October, I asked permission to write a letter to “the Lady Mary,” who was by then living at The Moor in Hertfordshire. She continued to serve as a lady-in-waiting to her younger half sister.