“Papa!” Mary Tudor cried, laughing as he swept her up into his embrace.
“And how is the most beautiful princess in all the wide world?” the king inquired of his daughter, bussing her heartily upon her rosy cheek.
The child giggled happily even as the king’s eye turned to Philippa.
“You are Rosamund Bolton’s daughter, are you not, mistress?” God’s wounds, how her pretty and innocent face took him back.
“Aye, your majesty, I am.” Philippa did not look directly at him. It was not polite to stare at the king, and he was known to dislike it.
The king reached out, and tipped Philippa’s face up with his index finger. “You are every bit as lovely as your mother was at your age. I knew her then, you know.”
“Aye, your majesty, she has told me.” And then Philippa giggled, unable to help herself. She quickly bit her lip to contain her laughter.
But the king chuckled, a deep, rich sound that rumbled up from the broad chest beneath his rich jewel-encrusted velvet doublet. “Ahhh,” he said, “then you know all. But of course I was a lad then, and filled with mischief.”
“And there was a wager involved as well,” Philippa replied mischievously.
“Ahah! Hah! Hah!” the king chortled. “Indeed there was, Mistress Philippa, and my grandmother collected the ante, which she put in the poor box at Westminster. I learned then never to allow my pride to dictate a wager.” He set his daughter down. “I have heard that Renfrew’s younger son has decided to take holy orders. I am sorry.”
Philippa actually felt the tears welling up in her eyes, and hastily she brushed them away. “It is obviously God’s will,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction, and the king heard it.
“If I can be of help, Mistress Philippa,” Henry Tudor said quietly. “I still count your mother among my friends, for all she married a wild Scot.”
“Thank you, your majesty,” Philippa replied, curtseying. “But I would not have you think ill of my stepfather. Logan Hepburn is a good man.”
The king nodded. “Take my daughter back to her mother now. Then go and join your friends so you may have some fun, Philippa Meredith. That is a royal command!” And he smiled down at her. “I remember your father also, my girl. He, too, was a good man, and as loyal a servant as the house of Tudor ever had. His children have my friendship. Remember that, Philippa Meredith. Now, run along! ’Tis the last of May, and the day is for divertissements.”
“Yes, your majesty,” Philippa responded, and she curtseyed once more. Then taking little Mary’s hand she moved off in the direction of Queen Katherine.
The king watched her go. Was it possible that Rosamund Bolton’s daughter was that old now? Old enough to marry, and have her heart broken. And there were two other Meredith girls, and his sister had said there were sons by her Scotsman. And what did he have? One little daughter, and a wife who was too old to bear him the boys he needed. The queen had lost a child six months ago. When she carried a babe to term it was born dead, or lingered but a few days before dying as they all had but for Mary. Something was very wrong. The physicians said she could have no more children. Was God trying to tell him something? He looked across the lawns to where his wife sat. Her once fine skin was sallow now, and her beautiful hair was faded. She was spending more and more time on her knees in prayer, and less and less time on her back doing her duty. And surrounding herself with such pretty girls did little to make her enticing.
His eyes swept the bevy of maids keeping the queen company. It lingered on Montjoy’s cousin, the delicious Elizabeth Blount. Petite and round where a woman should be round. Blond and blue-eyed. And she was the finest dancer next to his sister, Mary, that he had ever encountered. And she sang like an angel. She was quite a favorite with his closest friends, for she had a quick wit. Yet she was also docile in the face of authority, he remembered Montjoy saying. Bessie, Montjoy once remarked, would make the most perfect wife. The king’s small blue eyes narrowed. Bessie Blount. She would make a wonderful armful, and being an obedient lass by nature if Montjoy was to be believed, she would yield to her sovereign’s passion. Henry Tudor smiled. What a lovely summer lay ahead of them. If, of course, the plague and sweating sickness did not strike again this year. He moved across the lawns greeting his guests jovially.
Philippa returned with the little princess to the queen’s side. “We have had a fine walk, your highness. The princess wanted to go on the river, but I did not think it wise.”
“Nay,” the queen agreed, “you were right, my child.”
“What did the king say when he stopped you?” Millicent Langholme asked meanly. “He engaged you in conversation for some time, Philippa Meredith.”
“The king’s care and interest were for his daughter,” Philippa replied quietly. “And he asked after my mother, and her family in Cumbria. They knew each other as children. Why are you interested, Millicent Langholme? Is your own life so uneventful then? But then it would be, wouldn’t it, for Sir Walter has yet to make any decision in the matter of a possible betrothal between you.” And what fun I shall have with the gentleman right beneath your turned-up nose, Millicent, Philippa thought. And you will be able to do naught about it except fume.
The queen smiled silently as the Langholme girl sputtered her outrage but was unable to reply. “How is your mama?” she asked Philippa.
“Well, I believe, for I have not heard otherwise. Do you think, madame, that there might be a place at court for my sister, Banon? She is a charming girl, but could certainly use the polish time in your service would give her. She has her own estates at Otterly.”
“If Millicent Langholme weds, then aye, I would be happy to receive her into my service,” Queen Katherine replied graciously. “Banon. ’Tis an odd name to my ears.”
“It means queen in the Welsh tongue. She is Banon Mary Katherine Meredith, madame. My father wanted her called Banon,” Philippa explained.
“Of course he would honor his own heritage,” the queen said, thinking that Philippa had become quite a creature of the court, even soliciting a place for her sister.
The afternoon began to wane. Some people were dancing the country dances before the platform where the musicians were seated at their instruments. The archery butts were being well-used by several gentlemen who had removed their doublets, and were in their shirt-sleeves. The punts upon the river contained mostly young couples, along with their boatmen. Philippa’s eyes carefully surveyed the gathering. Ahh, there was Sir Walter Lumley. He stood among a group of gentlemen who were dicing. Philippa moved off toward the gathering. She saw Bessie Blount there too, so it would not be so unusual that she joined them.
Bessie smiled as Philippa approached. She was a very good-natured girl who had even less to recommend her in marriage than did Philippa. “Come, and see what luck Tony Deane is having!” she called to Philippa.
“Does Cecily know you have a penchant for the dice?” Philippa teased Sir Anthony Deane, Cecily’s betrothed husband.
He grinned up at her, and shook his head. “But as long as I’m lucky, can she complain?” he asked. Then throwing the bones he made his point once again, to the cheers of the onlookers.
Philippa wedged herself into the group next to Sir Walter. “Do you dice, sir?” she asked him, looking up at him with a small smile.
“On occasion,” he admitted, his eyes going immediately to her shadowed cleavage. And he unconsciously licked his lips approvingly.
“I have never played at dice,” Philippa said innocently, instantly attracting the attention of Sir Walter and several other gentlemen. “Is it hard?”
“Not very,” Sir Walter replied, smiling toothily as she looked up at him, her hazel eyes wide with curiosity. “Would you like me to show you, Mistress Meredith?”
“Oh, would you,” Philippa cooed sweetly. “What shall I wager?” She reached for the little purse that hung from the cord about her waist. “Oh, I hope I have enough.”
Both Bessie Blount and Tony Deane
looked sharply at Philippa. They knew she was not the silly girl she was playing at, but they remained silent, curious to see what would happen.
“Oh, we must not take your precious coin,” Sir Walter said gallantly. “Let us play for a kiss instead, Mistress Meredith.”
“I have never been kissed,” Philippa declared. “Would it not endanger my reputation and my good name to be so bold, sir?”
Sir Walter looked stymied. To tell the girl her character would remain pure if she diced for kisses would be an outright lie. But by God he did want to kiss her now, knowing she was untouched. And fumble those adorable little round breasts she was so boldly displaying.
“I am not of a mind to relinquish the dice when I am on a winning streak,” Tony Deane said finally. “Why not watch how it is done, Philippa. Then later you may try, but wager a ha’penny, and not your good name.”
“Yes, yes,” Sir Walter agreed, “I shall explain it all while Tony plays on, Mistress Meredith.” He put an arm about her narrow waist, and was pleased when she leaned against him rather than pulling away.
“Very well,” Philippa responded. She looked up at him. “I am ever so grateful for your tutelage, Sir Walter. I think you are most kind.” This was better than the archery butts, she considered.
“Nay,my dear, ’tis nothing at all,” he told her. Her fragrance was delightful.
Philippa had seen the lust in his eyes. What a fool, she thought, but Millicent will take him most firmly in hand, and his life will be hell. He deserved it. Most men did. “It doesn’t look really hard,” she said, looking up at him with limpid eyes.
“Nay, it isn’t at all,” Sir Walter assured her. He was simply unable to take his eyes off of her breasts. The girl he was to wed, Millicent Langholme, had hardly any breasts at all. And she didn’t smell as nice as did Philippa Meredith at all. But she was a good match for him, and he knew it. Her blood was nobler than his, and she was an only child. In all likelihood he could arrange for her father’s baronetcy to pass to him when the old man died one day. Yes, Millicent Langholme was the perfect match for him, but Philippa Meredith was ripe for seduction, and she was such a trusting little country lass. His arm tightened about her supple waist.
Philippa stiffened, and suddenly pulled away from Sir Walter. “Perhaps I should not gamble,” she said. “I really have not the means for it.”
“A wise decision,” Tony Deane said. What mischief was Philippa up to, he wondered? He had never known her to act like such a silly flibbertigibbet.
“I had best rejoin the queen,” Philippa said breathlessly.
“If you have decided not to dice,” Sir Walter purred, “then walk with me by the river, Mistress Philippa. The water is lovely with the reflected sunset.”
“But will that not cause gossip, sir? You are said to be betrothed to Millicent Langholme,” Philippa murmured.
“There is nothing settled yet, Mistress Philippa,” he assured her. “And ’tis no more than a walk in plain view of all the court.”
“Oh, I am not sure,” Philippa wavered. “I would not hurt Millicent’s feelings.”
“Just a short walk,” Sir Walter said, taking her arm, and moving off with her.
Bessie Blount chuckled. “Why, the wicked baggage,” she said, grinning.
“What is she up to?” Tony Deane wondered aloud, gathering his winnings, and leaving the dice to the next player.
“I don’t know,” Bessie said, “but I can assure you that neither she nor Millicent would do the other a kindness. Millicent is always as rude as she dares to be towards Philippa Meredith. But I know who will know. Your betrothed, Cecily FitzHugh. She and Philippa are the best of friends.”
“I think it better I don’t know what mischief is about to transpire,” Tony said. He was a tall young man with ash brown hair and mild blue eyes, with an estate in Oxfordshire.
Bessie laughed. “Well, I for one am perishing from curiosity. I shall go and find Cecily right now.” She hurried off, leaving the young man to his own devices. She came upon Cecily who was now with the queen. Millicent was there too. She sidled up next to Cecily. “What is Philippa Meredith doing?” she murmured softly.
“Getting even,” Cecily said low. And then in a voice heard by all around them, “Millicent, isn’t that Sir Walter walking by the river with Philippa Meredith?”
“It cannot be,” Millicent replied. “What business would he have with her?”
The women about them laughed, and even Queen Katherine smiled.
“Well, it most certainly is Philippa,” Cecily insisted. “And look how close they are, and how he bends down when he speaks with her. Ohhhh! I think he kissed her! No, wait. He didn’t. He is just speaking with her, but my, their lips are very close.”
Millicent glared angrily in the direction of the river. “I do not believe it is Sir Walter at all,” she said, but she knew it was, and worse, everyone else knew it was too. The wretch was embarrassing her before the entire court! How could he? She would tell her father! He would not allow her to marry a cad. But then Millicent thought of Sir Walter’s estates in Kent, and his beautiful house, and the fact that he had a great deal of gold with the London goldsmiths. She knew what her father would say to her. That men needed to sow their wild oats, and a wise woman looked the other way. But how could she look the other way when Philippa Meredith was flirting so outrageously with Sir Walter? She would smack the shameless wench the first opportunity she got. Her eyes went to the riverbank again, and she scowled.
Philippa was laughing up at Sir Walter. “You, sir, are an outrageous flirt. I wonder if your Millicent knows it,” she teased him.
“A man’s entitled to admire beauty, Mistress Philippa,” he said.
“You would kiss me, wouldn’t you?” Philippa responded provocatively.
“To have the honor of your first kiss would please me,” he agreed.
“I must think on it,” she told him. “I saved that kiss for the man I was to wed, and now he has deserted me for a life of celibacy. Should I not continue to save my kisses for him who will one day be my husband?”
“While I admire your virtue, Mistress Philippa, and I do not believe a comely maid should be free with her lips, a wee bit of experience in the art of kissing cannot be considered wrong, or put you in disrepute. Would you tell me that all of the queen’s maids are as innocent as you are? For I know it not to be true.” He smiled a smile at her that was almost a leer.
“You argue your case well, sir, but now I wonder if kissing a man I know to be soon betrothed a wise thing. Would I not be thought a bold baggage to do that? I must consider carefully the man I will give my first kiss to, Sir Walter.” She smiled at him sweetly and teasingly. “Now I think it wise we return to the others. I should not like any gossip to ensue over this interlude.” And picking up her skirts Philippa ran back up the lawn leaving Sir Walter Lumley alone, and most dissatisfied.
Cecily came forward, and linking her arm through her friend’s they walked together among the others. “Millicent is fuming. I managed to point out that you were strolling with Sir Walter. She denied it was him, but she knew it was.”
“I am deciding if I shall let him kiss me,” Philippa replied. “You know I have never been kissed. I was saving that for your traitorous brother.”
“Oh, don’t let Sir Walter be your first kiss. I have heard he kisses badly. You must let Roger Mildmay be your first kiss. He kisses deliciously,” Cecily said.
“Was he your first kiss?” Philippa asked.
Cecily nodded with a small smile. “He is such a nice fellow too. Ohh, I wonder if he might make a good husband for you, Philippa. His estates are near Tony’s in Oxfordshire. But then I have heard it said he will eventually wed a neighbor’s daughter whose lands match with his. Still, he would be good for a first kiss. Shall I ask him?”
“Cecily!” Philippa was rosy with blushes.
“Well, you had best kiss him, or Sir Walter will not be deterred. You’ve annoyed Millicent enough for one
day. She really isn’t worth your trouble, Philippa.” She took her best friend’s hand. “Come along now, I see Sir Roger Mildmay over there with Tony. I’ll ask him for you.”
Philippa began to laugh. “I am fifteen, and have never been kissed. And now my best friend must ask a man to do the honors? ’Tis pitiful, Ceci, and I shall look the fool.”
“Nay, not with Roger. He is very kind and understanding. He will admire the fact that you were saving yourself for Giles. Come on!” She pulled Philippa along across the green lawns until they finally reached the spot where her betrothed husband, Sir Anthony Deane, and his friend, Sir Roger Mildmay, stood talking. Standing on tiptoes, Cecily whispered something in Sir Roger’s ear. Then she let go of Philippa’s hand, and took Tony’s to lead him off.
Sir Roger Mildmay chuckled softly.
“This is ridiculous,” Philippa said. “What has Ceci said to you?”
. “That if I do not give you your first kiss, Walter Lumley will. Surely you do not fancy him, Mistress Philippa?” Sir Roger was a young man of medium height and stature, with warm brown eyes and sandy hair.
“No,” Philippa said. “I have only been flirting with him in order to make that wretched Millicent Langholme jealous. They will shortly be betrothed.”
“Why have you never been kissed? You have been here at court for three years now, I know, for you came with Cecily FitzHugh. Do you not want to be kissed?”
“I was saving myself for Giles FitzHugh, who was to be my husband,” Philippa said. “Now was I not the fool, sir?”
“How charming of you, and how old-fashioned. You will make the right man a good and faithful wife one day, Mistress Philippa, but you are no longer attached, and therefore you are free to pursue love as all young girls do.” He smiled at her.
“You do not think such behavior loose, sir?” Philippa asked him.
“Aye, if taken to extremes, but a lass’s curiosity should be satisfied to a certain point before she is leg-shackled to a husband,” he told her. “I propose that we keep company, Mistress Philippa, and if the occasion arises I shall kiss you, and you will learn what the mystery is all about. ’Tis said I am an excellent kisser,” he chuckled.
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