The King's Damsel (27 page)

On the twenty-fifth of October, the two kings rode into Calais. Everyone turned out to welcome them, from serving men in tawny livery and red caps to soldiers in red and blue. The king of England outdid himself in the grandeur of his dress—a cloth of gold gown over a slashed doublet ornamented with rubies and diamonds. Three thousand guns sounded a deafening salute as the cavalcade entered the town. The French king, who did not look nearly as impressive as King Henry, was taken to the Staple Inn, on the main square of Calais, where he was to lodge.

That evening, King Francis sent the Provost of Paris to the lady marquess with a gift, a costly diamond. She was well pleased with this token of his esteem, although nothing would make up for the fact that no French noblewoman had ever been found to accompany her king to Calais. Protocol thus required any women in the English king’s party to remain in the background.

On Sunday the twenty-seventh, King Henry planned a great banquet at the Exchequer. His Grace visited his lady’s rooms before the arrival of his brother monarch. She laughed when she saw him.

“Is that the famous Black Prince’s ruby?” She indicated a huge red stone the size of a goose’s egg. It hung suspended from a collar that was itself bulging with large rubies, perfectly matched pearls, and glittering diamonds. Its splendor almost overshadowed the king’s gown of purple cloth of gold.

“It is,” said King Henry in an amiable voice.

I watched His Grace while he spent a few minutes speaking quietly with his mistress. Had he not been king, I thought, he would still command the attention and admiration of all who met him. He was the perfect image of all the golden knights in the tales of
chivalry I told, the incarnation of splendor and refinement, of power and majesty. I admit it. In common with every other woman at court, I was a little in love with His Grace.

As soon as the king left the chamber, everyone sprang into action. Elaborate costumes had been prepared and were near at hand, loose gowns of cloth of gold held together with gold laces. Over these went crimson satin sashes decorated with patterns in cloth of silver. One outfit was for the lady marquess. The others went to the six ladies-in-waiting specifically recruited for this trip to Calais.

The Countess of Derby was Lady Dorothy Howard, daughter of the concubine’s grandfather, a duke, by his second wife. She was married to an earl. Lady Lisle was married to a viscount, Arthur Plantagenet, the bastard son of King Edward IV. Viscountess Rochford was George Boleyn’s wife and the daughter of a baron. Lady Fitzwalter was Lady Derby’s sister, married to a baron who was heir to an earldom. Lady Mary Rochford was the daughter of an earl. The sixth lady was Elizabeth Wallop. Her father, like mine, was no more than a humble knight, but her husband was the English ambassador to France.

Since such grand ladies could not go anywhere unescorted, four maids of honor had been chosen to portray the four damsels who accompanied them. My costume was made of crimson satin. Over it I wore a tabard made of cypress lawn.

We were ready in good time. We had to wait until the two kings had supped before we could make our entrance. One hundred and seventy different dishes had been prepared for the occasion, so it was some while before the signal came.

When the music began, we entered the banqueting hall holding jeweled visors in front of our faces to conceal our identities. The huge chamber was bright as day. I counted twenty silver candelabra holding at least a hundred wax tapers. They illuminated walls hung
with cloth of silver. Gold wreaths were encrusted with precious stones and pearls.

An abrupt silence fell at the sight of us, but there were exclamations of pleasure as soon as the seven ladies began to dance. King Henry beamed. He had been privy to his mistress’s plans. King Francis merely looked bemused.

Once the performance was over, the lady marquess stepped boldly up to the dais and asked King Francis, in flawless French, to come down and dance with her. The other ladies chose partners from among the royals and noblemen at the high table while the damsels singled out gentlemen of lesser estate. I chose a Frenchman at random. I never did learn his name, but he was an excellent dancer. I enjoyed myself so much that I nearly forgot the purpose behind the disguising.

We had performed two pavanes and a cinquepace before King Henry, as if on impulse, whisked off the concubine’s visor and revealed her identity to King Francis. The French king pretended to be surprised, but I felt certain he had already guessed who she was. Perhaps he even recognized her, since both Boleyn sisters had spent time at the French court.

Unmasked, we resumed dancing, all but the lady marquess. Instead, she retreated with King Francis to a window seat where they sat talking together for nearly an hour. She seemed to enjoy his company a great deal. Her distinctive laugh rang out more than once. Each time, King Henry’s expression grew darker. He finally interrupted them with the pointed suggestion that it was time for the French monarch to return to his own lodgings at the Staple Inn. King Henry escorted him there to ensure that he went.

That the king could be jealous surprised me, but I suppose it should not have. His reaction pleased the concubine beyond all measure.

Back in her own suite of rooms, I helped her out of her costume and into her black satin nightgown. She had dismissed the rest of her servants. Only her sister and I remained.

“We will play cards to pass the time,” the lady marquess announced.

I took off my tabard, leaving me in crimson satin. Lady Mary retained her glittering costume of cloth of gold. During the next hour I lost more than I could afford to playing Pope July and ended up forfeiting my next quarter’s wages.

“Is she one with us?” the lady marquess asked her sister as she shuffled the cards for yet another hand.

I felt my heart stutter in my chest. Did she suspect my loyalty? I had been careful, but the tiniest slip might have betrayed me. It was not until Lady Mary nodded that I breathed freely again.

“I do not doubt Tamsin’s sincerity, Anne. You may trust her to keep your secrets.”

“Good.” Abruptly abandoning the cards, the lady marquess stood and stretched with the sinuous grace of a cat. “On your oath, Tamsin, you must never speak of what you see and hear in this room tonight, not unless I order you to break your silence. Do you swear?”

What else could I do? I nodded, lied through my teeth, and vowed to keep all that transpired a sacred secret.

A short time later, the king joined us, entering the room through the connecting door to his bedchamber. His Grace went straight to Lady Anne and embraced her.

“My love,” he murmured.

The passion that flared between them was so intense that I felt my face heat. Had I not been ordered to remain, I would have retreated to the outer chamber. In Lady Mary’s expression, I found a reflection of my own embarrassment, but in her case the look was
tinged with something more. After a moment, I realized that it was envy. If the rumors were true, at one time all that passion, all that intensity, had been directed at her.

“Are you ready to speak your vows?” the king asked, causing me to start and blanch.

The concubine smiled up at her lover and nodded.

“Then here and now, I take you, Anne, to be my lawfully wedded wife,” said the king of England.

“And I take you, Henry,” she replied, “to be my lawfully wedded husband.”

The king’s booming laugh rang out. “There. It is done. We are espoused,
per verba de praesenti
and before witnesses. Once we consummate our marriage, you will be mine until death do us part. Neither God’s law nor man’s will ever pull us asunder.”

Lady Mary and I were not called upon to witness the consummation. Numb with shock, I let her lead me away. Neither His Grace nor his new wife paid any attention to our departure.

The king had married her. I had borne witness and I still could scarcely believe it. Trying to come to grips with the reality of what had just transpired, I started toward the room assigned to the maids of honor.

Lady Mary caught my arm and pulled me aside, out of the hearing of those members of the entourage who were not yet abed. “I have vouched for your loyalty, Tamsin,” she reminded me. “Do not make me regret doing so. If one word of this leaks out, Anne will know whom to blame.”

“I will never speak of it,” I promised. I did not even want to
think
about what I had just witnessed.

The king had married his concubine, as he had long promised to do. But until he took this final step, the hope had remained,
however faint, that he might tire of Anne Boleyn, and perhaps even return to Queen Catherine.

That possibility was now gone. Although clandestine, the ceremony was just as binding as a wedding performed by a priest.

And I had helped to make it so.

My loyalty to the new queen might no longer be in question, but to achieve that state, I had betrayed Princess Mary in the most unforgivable way imaginable.

T
wo days later, King Henry accompanied King Francis back to the border of France. We should have sailed home to England then, but violent storms prevented a crossing. We were forced to remain in Calais until the weather improved.

Although nothing was said of their secret marriage, the king and his new wife did not try to hide their delight in each other. In spite of the rain and wind, they were full of smiles and laughter and disappeared for long hours together, even in the middle of the day.

“So, she’s let him tup her at last,” I heard one disgruntled courtier mutter after he’d watched the loving couple pass by.

I was so startled that I almost asked him what he meant by that. In truth, I understood far too well. And I realized, belatedly, as I scurried away from the gentleman, and struggling to control my flushed face, exactly how the concubine had held the king’s attention for so long. She had flirted with him, dallied with him, no doubt allowed him all sorts of liberties with her person, but she had withheld the final consummation of their lust until he pledged himself to her before witnesses.

My guilt at having been a party to that marriage increased tenfold. While the king and future queen spent the two weeks of our weather-enforced stay in Calais in blissful admiration of each other, I sank deeper and deeper into despair.

At last the storms ceased and, although the fog looked treacherous to me, the king’s flotilla set sail at midnight on the twelfth of November. Once we had landed safely in England, we went to Leeds Castle, then visited Stone Manor again, and finally settled in at the king’s palace of Eltham, near Greenwich.

All the while we’d been traveling, I’d tried to think what to do. I wanted to warn the princess that she now had a stepmother, but I did not dare send her a letter for fear it would be intercepted and read. For disloyalty to Lady Anne, I would instantly be dismissed from my post and most likely arrested and flung into a cell in the Tower of London, too. I did not know exactly what the punishment was for betraying a king’s secret, but I had no desire to find out.

Eltham was a dozen miles from London and four miles inland from the Thames, making it more difficult to travel between those two points than it would have been if we were at Greenwich or Richmond or one of the other riverside palaces. It was also more difficult to send a message to Rafe Pinckney, especially when the lady marquess showed no inclination to order new silk trimmings.

After considerable thought, I arranged an accident that damaged all my silk ribbons and points. I asked permission to send to Mistress Wilkinson for replacements. The sooner Princess Mary heard of her father’s marriage, the better prepared she would be to protect herself from her stepmother’s machinations.

Two days later, I was walking for recreation in the gallery when I caught a glimpse of a lone rider. The windows faced west, giving me a spectacular view of the Thames valley toward London. As man and horse drew closer, my heart began to race. I knew Rafe even at
that distance. Before he reached the stone bridge that crossed the moat surrounding Eltham Palace, I was in the wardrobe of robes awaiting his arrival.

“Rafe,” I whispered as he entered the chamber, and frowned when I heard the catch in my voice. In a slightly louder voice, I greeted him as Goodman Pinckney.

“Mistress Lodge,” he replied, carefully formal. “I have brought the ribbons you ordered.”

“I am most grateful. How does your mother?”

“Well, mistress. She sends her greetings, as does Mistress Wilkinson.”

Bored with our stilted conversation, the yeoman of the lady marquess’s wardrobe, soon to be the queen’s wardrobe, wandered away.

“Follow me,” I whispered, and set off at a brisk pace toward a small, unused storage room I had discovered in my explorations of the palace.

Eltham was full of nooks and crannies. I might have led Rafe to any of a dozen deep window alcoves, some of them hidden behind convenient wall hangings, but it was not my intent to sit on his lap and let him steal a kiss. We had serious matters to discuss. When I had closed a solid wooden door behind us and lit a candle to illuminate the windowless closet, I rushed into speech.

“You must send word to the princess. The king has married the concubine.”

“Impossible! No clergyman would dare defy the pope.”

“There was no priest. They said their vows in private, but they did so before witnesses. In a court of law, the marriage will stand. The king himself said so.”

He gaped at me. “You were there?”

“To my sorrow, yes. It seems I have succeeded too well. The concubine trusts me.” I let all the bitterness I felt pour into my voice.

Rafe’s arms came around me. When he pulled me against his broad chest, I could hear the steady thud of his heart beneath the plain wool of his doublet. It felt soft against my cheek and smelled of the familiar scents of sandalwood and cinnamon. Of their own volition, my hands searched for his waist and, finding it, clung. I lifted my face as he lowered his and our lips met.

I had chosen our meeting place well. It was private. Too private. Somehow, my back was up against the door and his long, lean limbs were pressed against mine from top to toe. Although I wanted nothing more than to go on being kissed and kissing him in return, I forced myself to ignore the tingling sensation deep in my womb and lifted my hands to his chest to push him away.