by Mary Lide
‘Wolsey’s wolves,’ after a moment she cried in an excited voice. ‘Six of them, see them in their red coats. Three on horseback, one afoot, two dead. Who is the man they fight?’
Again not bothering for a response, ‘Brawling beneath my walls,’ she cried. ‘I’ll not have that.’ Then, with a display of energy typical of the Tudor line, as if drawing a sword and exhorting an army on a battle field, ‘Get rid of them. I’ll not have them skulking around my private yard.’
Her guards had been hanging on every word. They eyed each other expectantly and on the instant were gone, snatching swords and pikes from wall-racks, clattering over each other on the stairs. ‘Now,’ said the Tudor princess complacently, ‘we shall see what we shall see. One against four is not just. Let Wolsey’s men cope when the odds are turned.’
She tucked up her voluminous skirts, making room for Philippa, and beckoned to her ladies to approach (which they did eagerly, chattering with each other vivaciously, casting sly glances at the newcomer when they thought themselves unobserved; they might have been gazing from a balcony down on a stage, so much they cared, their comments more suitable for a play than real life).
Philippa ran after them and peered down. From this high angle she had a clear view, and the reds and blue were so bright, the figures so distinct that they might have been painted miniatures. Richard Montacune had been driven from his first vantage post, where ambush had given him the edge of surprise. Now, he was backed against the portico, ringed by the remaining horsemen, while the one on foot was trying to crawl under the arches behind him. He had not given up although he was surrounded. His sword danced in and out as if it had a life of its own, and even as Philippa watched he parried a blow, charging out and pivoting back, forcing the others to withdraw. The blow was such that only superb swordsmanship had deflected it, and taking advantage of the lull that followed he wheeled round to drive back the creeping enemy who was trying to hamstring his horse. But he obviously could not keep up the pace and already Wolsey ’s men were calculating counter-moves to draw him into the open where they could break through his guard. And seeing again what the end must be, Philippa cave a cry of anguish.
He could not have heard, but he pushed his helmet up as if he did, catching breath. As he wheeled once more she caught a glimpse of his face, almost indistinguishable beneath the mask of dirt and blood. She at least could recognize the straight hard look, the determined set of the chin, the level gaze, that looked through danger to its outcome. Then he rammed the helmet down, levelled his sword like a lance, and settled down in the saddle, leaning forward in his distinctive way. She heard his cry, perhaps the battle cry of his northern forefathers when they prepared to attack. And hearing it, his enemies raised up a cry of their own, and began to spread out, waiting for him to charge. They had him caught, nothing but a miracle could save him now, and their shout turned to a howl of triumph. A third cry made both sides halt in their tracks.
The princess’s men came at a trot, stamping along the portico, either issuing from the door that Philippa had used or from some other one not visible from where she stood. They held their pikes at a slant, treading down the crawling figure as they came, sweeping round to circle the rest of Wolsey’s men. Their green and white uniforms made a cool contrast to the red coats, and when they had hemmed the three horsemen in, they stood with their pikes raised like a hedge bristling with spikes. Seeing such opposition, even Wolsey’s wolves drew back, in turn bunching against a wall, arguing uncertainly among themselves. Left outside that spear wall, Richard must have realized he had his miracle.
Wolsey’s men were within the hedge; the princess’s men had their backs to him; the way out was clear at last. Seeing his chance, he took it. But before he left he glanced up once, perhaps to ensure Philippa was gone, perhaps out of curiosity, made aware that he was being overlooked by some change of light, some darkening of the window panes. His coat was ripped, the blue doublet hanging in strips, the breastplate straps were severed and a slash ran red along one arm but he was not so hurt he could not throw up his sword by the hilt, as if in salute.
Then he too was gone, making for the gap in a swirl of dust, leaping his fallen enemies in a flurry of hooves.
‘Bravo, bravo,’ the princess crowed, sitting back and clapping her hands. ‘My guards will hold the others at bay until he has had time to get clear away. When they are sure he has escaped, they will let Wolsey’s men leave. The Duke of Suffolk will take good care of him; just as the duke expects me to take care of you.’
All this was spoken nonchalantly, as if she were used to having strangers burst into her midst and welcomed such diversions. ‘What if they search for him?’ Philippa’s concern was not readily put to rest. ‘They know at least whom he serves. They must know where to look for him.’
The princess was not offended by such insistence. She smiled, as if pleased at displaying her superiority. She had a strange smile, revealing a line of small teeth which jutted crookedly over her lower lip, a defect that enhanced her apparent frailty. ‘Of course not,’ she cried. What excuse would they use? Fighting is forbidden here at court. My father made that the law, and my brother upholds it. Although all great lords still have their retinues and dress them in their own livery, they do not keep private armies as they once did, and they do not flaunt their numbers as Wolsey does. My brother once cut off a man’s sword arm to keep the peace, and all he had done was unsheathe a sword. So imagine what the penalty is for using one! No, Wolsey is not likely to complain to my brother that he breaks the king’s own law. Nor will his men. They’ll scuttle off, you may be sure, without a word to anyone. So you and your friend,’ she emphasized the word, ‘your rescuer is safe; safe enough for you to tell me who he is. And who you are.’
‘Thank God,’ Philippa found she had been praying aloud, her eyes closed, fists twisted in her lap, all her energy concentrated in that prayer. When she looked up she saw the princess eyeing her speculatively. It occurred to Philippa for the first time that here was Tudor royalty in the flesh, daughter of a king, sister to the reigning sovereign. Philippa’s own safety depended on her good will. She sank into a curtsy, gaze fixed meekly on the ground. ‘Your grace,’ she began, not certain how to address the royal lady the duke had described in such glowing terms, ‘Your majesty . . .’
‘No ceremony, I beg,’ the princess cried, waving her hand patronizingly. ‘Here, all are friends, especially anyone who is a friend of the duke’s.’ Her gesture encompassed the other ladies in the room, who tried to look agreeable although since she soon had them acting like servants, bringing warm water and clean clothes, they could not have been pleased. When she had dismissed them out of earshot, she placed herself in a carved chair, so large she seemed dwarfed by it, like a child playing at judge. ‘Now,’ she said when Philippa’s needs had been taken care of, ‘you are free to speak. Answer my questions, one by one.’
Her attempts to glean information could hardly be called childlike. They were persistent and shrewd. And when Philippa resisted except for her first name, ‘So,’ the princess pouted. ‘If you refuse, so could I. I could say I will not keep you here. I could send you out into the streets for Wolsey’s men.’ She stared at Philippa. She had been running her hands through the folds of the scarf, tying it in bows about her dog’s neck. Now she knotted it and pulled hard, making the poor creature choke. ‘I could call my guards,’ she said. ‘I could have them question you.’
Her change of tone was sudden and alarming, but Philippa’s common sense kept panic down. ‘We did the duke a service,’ she said at last, ‘at least, the young man did. And the duke promised your help in return.’
This reply silenced the princess. Then she gave a little laugh. ‘Very well,’ she said, sounding more pleasant, ‘I shall keep you for a while.’ She laughed again. ‘If you had some evil purpose in mind,’ she went on ingenuously, convincing herself, ‘if you meant harm, I imagine the duke would have discovered it. If he vouches for you, then I accept you a
s you are. Besides,’ with a flinty side glance that showed she was not as simple as she seemed, ‘besides, if you were evil, I think you would look less harmless than you do, and would try to seem more so. And you would flatter me, like these other ladies. You’d not refuse what I asked, now would you! In fact, I like that about you.’ She untied the scarf and flicked Philippa with it. ‘My brother allows me to select my own retinue, so when I marry I will know how to control a household. I shall make you one of the ladies who serve me. When we go to Richmond you come with me.’
She gave her little smile, that might have been childish mischief, or spite. ‘You may not have told me much about yourself,’ she said, ‘nor who that young man is, but your silence gives you away. He means more to you than you admit.’
At Philippa’s blush, ‘Just so,’ she crowed. ‘I know about such things by instinct. Even my brother calls me his queen of hearts.’
She suddenly looked at Philippa in a shrewd way that belied her silly chattering and made her knowing and hard. ‘Why are you afraid?’ she asked suddenly. ‘You have a look in your eyes as if you are trying to hide. It makes me wonder what it is, or what you are. For what is there to fear here, unless you bring it in with you.’
She seized Philippa by the hand, and made her turn round on a scene as domestic as that in her own home when her mother was alive: the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows, the little dogs stretched before the fire, for all that the day was warm, the cages of bright coloured birds chirping along the walls, even the guards, recently returned, lounging unharmed and gossiping with the ladies, everything tranquil and harmonious. ‘At Richmond,’ the princess coaxed, ‘no one would know you, and Wolsey would never think of searching for you. Besides, the court is so jam-packed with people, looking for a stranger is like hunting for a needle in a hayrick. And life there is never dull. Sometimes my brother and his friend, the Duke of Suffolk, play at tennis and we watch. Or they joust. I gave the duke this scarf at a jousting match.’ She flicked the scarf again in Philippa’s face just as she had done to her little lap dog. ‘And the duke wore it, preferring it to any that his own wife gave. His wife is old and sick,’ she said, ‘but the duke is a valiant gentleman, like a knight of olden times. Once,’ her eyes grew round, a trick she had, as if a child remembering a nameday treat, ‘at my betrothal feast, my brother and he challenged a hundred men, and outfought every one.’ She clapped her hands, as if delighted by Philippa’s surprise. ‘You did not know that I was to be wed,’ she cried. ‘Where do you live? I thought all the world knew. One day I shall be married, to another Charles, who will become an emperor. I shall be his empress, better than a mere queen. But I think that now my Charles, Charles Brandon that is, has been made a duke, he will be the equal of an emperor. Wolsey will have his work cut out to best him now.’ She grimaced. ‘Wolsey is only a butcher’s son,’ she pouted, ‘with a long grim face and yellow teeth, just like a wolf, a wolfs head on a priest’s body. One could be frightened of him.’
She cast another look, her prattle suddenly taking on another meaning. ‘If people say we Tudors are vindictive,’ she cried, ‘I say that Wolsey is worse. He hates everyone who is higher born than he is.’ She gave a little giggle. ‘And that means practically everyone. But we keep a lady at Richmond, whose husband was executed for treachery. He led a rebellion for the throne, pretending to be the real heir and his poor wife thought he was a prince. We gave her a free pardon, though, and she lives there freely, as merry as the rest of us. And then there is another rebel, whom my father treated equally kindly, making him a scullion although he could have cut off his head.’
She took Philippa by the wrist, as if to caress her, as if petting a lap dog, which must be alternately hugged and pinched, smiling at her all the while as if pretending her words could not have more sinister meanings. Or was it that she was listening for a quickened heart beat as a sign of guilt? Philippa felt her colour rise. It seemed clear that this little lady was no fool, although sometimes she wanted to appear so, and her discourse, although often shallow, a random mixture of importance and trivia, hid deeper levels than she wished to show.
One other thing was obvious too. She did not mean to let Philippa go. Philippa never knew why—because it pleased her royal whim; because she liked to collect strays, stray cats, stray dogs, birds with broken wings, and wanted to add a human to her collection; or because she wanted to please the duke. No matter that the guest was reluctant and the other ladies felt aggrieved, the princess persisted in her attentions, perhaps all the more so because of that reluctance, which was new to her.
She had Philippa dine at her right hand, sharing titbits from her plate like one of her pets; she lodged her in a small ante-room close to the royal bedchamber; worst of all, she used Richmond as a bribe. But when she slept the other women-folk seized the chance to point out her fickleness, as only other women could. Their scandal spared no one, ranging from criticism of Philippa’s country dress, to whispers of the duke’s liaisons. They certainly showed little loyalty for their mistress, revealing her as thoughtless, perhaps cruel, and certainly self-centred, like all the Tudors, although she tried to hide it.
No wonder Philippa tossed and turned all night, fearing she had exchanged one trap for another.
Yet it was also true that in this strange unlikely way, she was being offered the chance to do what her uncle and his friends had advised, that is to seek out the king, under the protection of the one person who surely might influence him. On the other hand she did not need the other ladies’ warnings to tell her what she could see for herself, that when the princess tired of the novelty there would be the end. Besides, the princess’s inconsistencies bothered her, by turns kind or spiteful, speaking in one breath of her own marriage plans, the next revealing her attraction for a married man whose affairs, to say the least, were notorious. These were things she could not reconcile, nor could she get at the real person underneath. Nor could she trust the princess’s word. And a king who hanged hostages for revenge or cut off men’s arms to ‘keep the peace’ did not seem ‘kind’ to her.
There were other things to remember from this strange long day, things to do with someone else whom she was glad to think about. And if she left the court where would he find her again, how could she find him? Was it only ‘coincidence’ that had brought them together again? When she remembered how he had greeted her her cheeks burned. But afterwards, he had been kind; afterwards he had embraced her as a lover might. She sensed that underneath his jesting ways there ran true feeling. She thought, it is true he is a lord, but he also is an adventurer who has to make his own way as best he can. Perhaps he greets all ladies as he greeted me, but I think not. For I believe he feels some bond with me. She thought, I know the princess is correct, and I feel more for him than I am willing to admit. She thought, I wish next time we meet I could greet him as a lady should, no more lying in the mud like a serf. Mounted on a horse of my own, wearing silks and brocades, would he be proud of me, would not I seem his equal?
By now her thoughts had blended with sleep. And as she slept, it seemed to her that she was riding in a large meadow, along a river bank, surrounded by a group of men. They all wore black, like judges, and they were grimfaced as if judgement sat heavily on them. Richard was riding towards her and he seemed weighted down as well, as if his armour burdened him. He held his sword hilt up. But she could not decide if he were asking for justice or responding to some challenge. The river was in spate. The current flowed so rapidly that it lapped the banks, undermining the verges which fell in clumps. As the water rose it eddied into whirlpools that threatened to sweep her away. And when she awoke, her face was moisture wet, as if she had been weeping for some sorrow all night long.
The next day saw the court prepare to leave, as the princess had promised, an upheavel this, as if Richmond lay ten thousand miles distant. The king himself sent word that since the day was hot, the roads baked to ruts, he had ordered out the royal barge to convey them hence. Thi
s sign of loving courtesy pleased the princess, but the next seemed to plunge her to despair. The king also said that he would not accompany her. He was in need of exercise he said, wearied with sitting all day long; and tired of his councillors who bothered him with advice. Instead, it pleased him to go off hunting with his friends, although apparently those councillors begged him not to leave (something the princess did not quite dare ask), warning him the French war still hung in the balance, and too many details had been left to chance. He laughed their objections aside. ‘Not if I lead the expedition myself,’ he was supposed to have said. ‘Not if I myself go to France. Last time my generals wasted my army and lost me the war. If there is a next time I mean to win. Even if that means risking my own life.’ And he had grinned at the consternation that aroused, shouting for his horse and causing his courtiers to rush about, no time to lose, the best hunting in the world in those Kentish woods. Let the French gnaw their fists, waiting to see which way he would jump.
Now it may have been that the princess had expected that the king would accompany her and was chagrined that he had changed his mind, not liking to share him with anyone. But when rumours of his real intent to visit a Holy Shrine were spread abroad it was never clear exactly what the princess had thought. It could have been that Mary had grown suspicious of her brother’s plans; perhaps the Duke of Suffolk, being privy to the king’s mind, himself had whispered a word of warning in her ear. The duke must have been all for war of course, as became a younger man and a soldier; he might have harboured doubts about this Nun of Kent, fearing the influence of his rival Wolsey in this affair. The princess herself never mentioned any of these things, and most likely, neither he nor Henry ever spoke of them to the little lady whom the king certainly seemed to keep more as a playmate than a confidante. All this too was conjecture. But the more Philippa saw of the princess, the more her own suspicions grew of what the princess really knew, and what the princess really felt.