The King's Damsel (4 page)

“Then we must leave here tomorrow at first light,” Blanche said, rising.

“Send for Master Wynn,” I suggested as I followed her inside.
“Perhaps he can make sense of the letter.” As steward, Hugo Wynn managed the lands that were now mine, just as he had for my brother before me and our father before him.

Blanche went straight to the solar, where several large embroidery frames were always set up to hold works in progress. For once, however, she made no move to pick up a needle. I did not understand why she was so upset, but her distress was even more palpable indoors than it had been in the courtyard.

“Do you know more of this matter than you have said?” I asked, dreading her answer.

“I do not, and it is that which alarms me.”

I called for Edyth, one of the maidservants, and ordered her to dispatch a kitchen boy to fetch Master Wynn with all speed and then prepare a reviving posset for my stepmother. Edyth Mells was a big-boned, moonfaced country-bred girl with freckles and a toothy smile. She goggled at Blanche, who appeared to be on the verge of tears, and had to be told twice before she followed my orders.

After Edyth brought the drink, Blanche and I sat side by side on the window seat, close enough that our skirts were touching. One of the dogs sprawled across our feet, as if she knew we were in need of reassurance.

“Hugo will know what to do.” I tried to sound confident but I do not believe I succeeded.

“Will he? I wonder.” Blanche’s features hardened into a grim expression. “I
do
wonder. I wonder if perhaps Hugo knows more about this matter than he should.”

Before she could explain what she meant by this enigmatic statement, Hugo presented himself. I stared at him, searching for anything suspicious in his manner, but he looked the same as he always had. He was short for a man, with a wiry build, and slightly bow-legged. This gave him a rolling gait when he walked. His long,
thin face was unremarkable, save for a bump on the bridge of his nose to show where it had once been broken. I had known him all my life. He and my father, who’d been close in years, had been friends . . . as much as servant and master can be. Hugo had taken it hard when Father died and had been even more distraught over Stephen’s demise.

As soon as Blanche told him about the letter, he asked to read it for himself. A deep frown marred his features even before he reached Sir Lionel’s boldly inscribed signature. Hugo’s naturally florid complexion darkened to an unhealthy red.

“What do you know of this fellow Daggett?” he demanded.

Hugo’s voice was unexpectedly deep for a man of his stature, a rich, rumbling bass. I was accustomed to it, but the barely contained rage beneath the words had me sitting up straighter and staring at him in consternation.

“I know nothing at all,” Blanche replied. “I have never heard his name before today. That being so, how is it possible that he has any right to interfere in Tamsin’s inheritance?”

She had set her goblet aside, the herbal brew it contained untouched. Her hands, clasped tightly together in her lap, betrayed how tense she was. I realized then that she feared to hear what Hugo would say. She suspected that the claim in the letter was true, even if she did not understand how that could be possible.

“If he has the legal papers to back up his claim, then he may have every right.” Hugo snapped out his answer, the words striking like angry lashes of a whip.

“But who could grant him Tamsin’s guardianship?” Blanche asked. “I am certain her father never did.”

“Daggett must have purchased her wardship from the king.”

The ferocious scowl on Hugo’s face would have warned most people not to ask any further questions. I was too astonished to be wary. “The
king
?” King Henry, eighth of that name, lived far away from Hartlake Manor. He’d never even visited Glastonbury or Bristol. All the great royal palaces were nearer to London, a journey of many days to our part of England. “Why should the king take an interest in me?”

“Because you are a considerable heiress, too young as yet to manage your inheritance on your own and lacking a husband to do it for you.” Calmer now, Hugh’s wrath was tempered with bitterness.

“What business is that of the king’s?” I demanded, building up to a fine rage of my own.

“He makes it his business because there is profit in it. Once his high and mighty grace has declared that someone is a royal ward, he can then sell that wardship to line his own pockets. This Sir Lionel Daggett, Mistress Thomasine, has bought the right to manage your estate until you come of age.”

“But I have no need of such a person,” I protested. I had Blanche. And Hugo himself.

“You have no say in the matter, mistress.” He still looked as if he wanted to kick something across the room. Before he could give in to the urge, he abruptly excused himself and left us.

I turned to my stepmother, who had finally availed herself of the posset. The faint scent of ginger and herbs calmed me a little, too. I waited until she had drained the goblet.

“There must be some mistake,” I said in as steady a voice as I could manage. “How could I have been made a royal ward and know nothing of it?”

“If Hugo’s rage is any guide, such a thing is very possible, but we will not take his word for it. We will go to Glastonbury. I will consult Sir Jasper.”

Sir Jasper Atwell was Blanche’s favorite priest. Her choice made sense. But something else still puzzled me. “Why do you no longer
trust Master Wynn?” I asked. “Father never complained of his stewardship.”

“Your father had a blind spot where Hugo Wynn was concerned. He relied on him far too much.”

She rubbed at her temples, as if her head ached, and then, as we were alone, she removed her hood and the pleated barbe she wore beneath it to signify her widowhood. The late afternoon sun turned her hair the color of spun gold.

“If there is something I should know about Hugo, you must tell me,” I insisted.

“You are so very young,” she whispered.

“I am old enough to marry,” I reminded her.

Blanche sighed. “Ah, well. My suspicions will bear fruit soon enough, and then there will be no hiding their deceitful scheme.” She began to pull pins from her hair, which had been braided and wound tight around her head. “That you have noticed nothing speaks well of your maidenly innocence, Tamsin, but you cannot remain in ignorance much longer. I believe Hugo’s daughter is with child.”

My eyes widened at this news. “Griselda? But she is not married!”

Blanche gave a short bark of laughter. “No indeed. All her hopes in that direction were dashed when your brother died so unexpectedly. Griselda Wynn will bear Stephen’s bastard, not his heir.”

I had seen them together, I realized, my brother and the daughter of our steward. Griselda kept house for her father, living with him in separate lodgings on the grounds of Hartlake Manor.

I could understand what had drawn Stephen to her. Big brown eyes dominated Griselda’s fine-boned face. Although it was usually covered, she had lovely long dark hair, almost black in color. She was a tiny woman, soft-spoken and delicate in appearance. Only the
way she pursed her lips when she was displeased, so that they formed a hard, thin line, gave away her true nature. She’d never troubled to hide that side of herself from me.

“Hugo pushed his daughter into Stephen’s path after your father’s death,” Blanche said. “He hoped by their marriage to advance himself and his posterity. When Stephen died, he lost his chance, but he still had charge of the estate. Now he fears he will lose even that. If Sir Lionel Daggett truly has control of your inheritance, he has the authority to replace Hugo with a steward of his own choosing.”

“But what Hugo told us
cannot
be right. The king of England is no kin of mine. How can he decide what is to become of me and mine?”

Weary of questions she could not answer, Blanche closed her eyes and rested her head against the window behind her. “I do not know what to tell you, Tamsin. I understand no more of the workings of king and court than you do. I can only pray that we will hear better news tomorrow in Glastonbury.”

T
he church of St. John the Baptist in Glastonbury does not have a vicar. It is staffed with a parochial chaplain and four stipendiary chaplains. One of the latter, Jasper Atwell, called Sir Jasper for courtesy’s sake, had held his post for many years. Blanche trusted him as she did not trust Hugo Wynn. As soon as we arrived at the Glastonbury house, she sent for him. He came within the hour.

In contrast to our steward, Sir Jasper was tall. He was also bald as an egg and thin as a beanpole, with a long, narrow nose, a negligible chin, and a splotchy complexion that was the result of a long-ago bout with the swine pox. He listened to Blanche’s account of events without interrupting and then squinted at Sir Lionel’s letter—he was extremely shortsighted—while Blanche and I once again sat side by side, this time with my right hand clasped tightly in her left.

“Well,” he said, after he handed the letter back to me. “Well.”

“Does Hugo have the right of it?” I demanded. “Must I accept this stranger as my guardian?”

“I fear you are obliged to, Tamsin.” Sir Jasper had a soothing tenor voice, but his words had me springing to my feet in agitation.

“It is not fair! My father’s widow should be my guardian!”

Surely that was what he and Stephen had intended.

“My dear child, you will discover that life is rarely fair.”

Sir Jasper reached out to me but I avoided his touch. I could not meet his eyes, either. I did not want to confirm what I already knew—that he felt sorry for me.

“It is a great pity,” he added, “that you had not yet attained your fourteenth year before your father and brother died.”

“What difference would that make?” Blanche asked.

“All the difference in the world. Under the law, a girl who is fourteen or older when she inherits, so long as she is not yet betrothed, is granted control of her own lands and chattel. She needs no guardian.”

I calculated quickly. I knew the date of my birth. I could remember my mother, who had died when I was eight, telling me that I had been born on St. Valentine’s Day, when birds traditionally choose their mates and all true lovers rejoice. “Then, in six months’ time,” I said, “I will be free of the odious Sir Lionel!”

Even before he spoke, the sadness in Sir Jasper’s expression told me it was not to be that simple. “As matters have fallen out, you must now remain under your guardian’s control until you are of full age to inherit. During that time, he will have complete authority over both your inheritance and your person. Most guardians take their wards to live in their own households. If Sir Lionel has sons, he no doubt intends to marry you to one of them, for by purchasing your wardship from the king’s Court of Wards, he has also acquired the right to choose your husband.”

I stared at him in disbelief, but his solemn countenance and the
tears that sprang into my stepmother’s violet eyes confirmed that he was not likely to be mistaken in what he told us. A sense of utter helplessness gripped me, hard as a fist squeezing my heart. Appalled, I realized that I had more in common with Star of Hartlake than I’d realized. We had both suffered loss and neither of us had any control over what happened to us next.

I
disliked Sir Lionel Daggett intensely from the moment I first saw him striding arrogantly toward us through the garden of the town house in Glastonbury. No, I will use a stronger word—I
despised
my guardian. At that early stage in our acquaintance, I could not have said why. As yet, he had not even announced that he intended to separate me from my stepmother and remove me from all that was familiar to me. For a few more minutes, that was only a possibility, not a fact. And yet, there was something about him that immediately set my teeth on edge.

“You must be pleasant to Sir Lionel, Thomasine,” Blanche warned me in a low voice as we watched him approach. “A smile is more likely to be rewarded with kindness than a frown.”

Seated on one of the two wooden benches beneath the rose arbor, she appeared calm, her hands steady as she embroidered flowers on a sleeve. She never missed a stitch in the intricate design. No lines of worry or care marred the cream-colored smoothness of her brow.

I strove to keep my expression equally impassive as I studied my guardian. At first glance, he was not unattractive. He was lean rather than burly and not at all threatening in any physical way. He had rich blue-black hair that surrounded a deeply tanned face dominated by dark brown eyes.

Very properly, he bowed first to my stepmother and then turned slightly to show me the same courtesy. My bench and the one Blanche occupied were arranged at an angle to each other, so that he had to step back to see both of us at once. The placing was deliberate. We wanted to keep him at a distance.

“A delight, Mistress Thomasine.” His voice was raspy, like one suffering from a catarrh, but the absence of any coughing suggested that this was the way it always sounded, so rough that it flayed the ear.

Because I was seeking flaws, I soon found another. He had a calculating look in his eyes. He answered my bold stare with a slight lift of soot-colored eyebrows.

When he turned again to my stepmother, I saw that, from the side, his face was far less pleasing than in the front view. His features in profile put me in mind of a rat.

“Have you traveled far to reach us?” Blanche asked, in part to be polite and in part because we knew nothing about Sir Lionel, not even where he lived.

“From London,” he answered, which told us nothing. He cut short any further inquisition with a blunt announcement: “I leave Glastonbury at dawn tomorrow. Mistress Thomasine will accompany me. She may bring with her one maidservant.”

Blanche’s needle faltered. Although Sir Jasper had warned us that Sir Lionel might take me away, my stepmother had spent the night on her knees in prayer and come away from her devotions convinced that she could persuade my guardian to let me remain in her custody. “She is too young to leave home.”