by Mary Lide
In any case, unable to change or alter her brother’s mind, and perhaps unwilling to reveal her true anxiety, instead the princess let her disappointment show in many petty ways, like a spoilt child herself. She fussed over her menagerie, insisting that it be cared for first, obliging pages to run to and fro with yapping dogs tucked underneath their arms. She had her own ladies trail up and down, using them like menials, packing and unpacking her boxes of jewels, while sweating grooms stuffed carts with loads of gear, with dusty tapestries, pillows and bed linens, with plate and clothing, as if Richmond were a desert, lacking all comforts. By the time the oxcarts had been loaded to the rims, and the barge had been brought to await her embarking, she had exhausted everyone.
But once the barge was under way the princess brightened. ‘Come sit with me,’ she cried to Philippa, patting the seat under an awning, as for a favourite hound. ‘A river trip is what we need to clear the mind. See how the people shout and point. This is the largest barge in the world. Look at those swans in our wake, they belong to us.’ And she leaned back and closed her eyes, letting the sun warm her face. ‘When we reach Richmond you shall dance and feast with us as if at home,’ she whispered. ‘And one other thing. ’ She smiled cunningly. ‘When my brother returns, so will the duke. And he will bring your young man with him.’
It seemed to Philippa that a monarch, off to war, would have scant time for feasts or balls, nor, remembering the last interview with the duke, did she have great hopes of his bringing Richard with him, but she held her tongue. And indeed, when the city walls were left behind and the barge glided on in glittering triumph, the meadows that stretched as far as the eye could see, the small villages dotted about, the rich dairy farms, all suggested a land of milk and honey, brought to prosperity and peace by its king.
Only one incident marred their passage through this fair-seeming countryside. At a place where the river narrowed and was lined with trees, so low-growing that the oarsmen were obliged to ship their oars and pull themselves along by the fronds, a small stone bridge spanned the stream. There was a sudden loud clattering. A group of horsemen was making for the bridge and, seeing them, the princess leapt to her feet and began to wave her scarf, the scarf that Philippa had returned. On the bridge itself one of the horsemen paused. He was dressed in hunting gear (as were the other men, all richly accoutred), and mounted on the black horse that Philippa recognized. Another man rode beside him, equally tall and broad, big-boned, his chestnut hair only partly covered by his flat-brimmed cap. This second man did not stop, drove his grey horse forward as if time was too precious to waste. Philippa caught a quick glimpse of dark eyes, like the princess’s, only smaller and close set, a full red mouth pursed to pout, and cheeks that were broad and flat where the princess’s were thin. Then he was gone, his men spurring after him. And although the princess still waved, neither he nor the duke acknowledged her and never turned back. After a while the rowers bent to their task; the barge slid under the arch, and, in disappointed silence, the princess and her retinue continued on, through a countryside that no longer seemed so fair.
CHAPTER 6
——
The princess had talked non-stop about Richmond, in her effort to make it seem a paradise. ‘It was rebuilt,’ she had explained. ‘The old palace was called Shene but it was burnt to the ground when I was a little girl. Richmond is a Tudor name, you know, a title my grandfather held. My brother has spent a fortune building it.’ She gave her little giggle. ‘The joke is,’ she said, ‘that my father was a miser. And when he died my brother opened his coffers wide and let all that gold spill out. Ambassadors from other lands visit us sometimes. They come to sneer, pretending that nothing in England is worth their interest, but they stay to admire. As you will. And Richmond is only one of the royal residences! My brother owns fourteen. But Richmond is his favourite. And when he returns you will see how he makes himself at home, like any other country gentleman, no airs or graces for him.’
She pattered on. But nothing could have prepared Philippa for the sight of Richmond. From the white scoured planks, stretched end to end along the bank so that the ladies could disembark without muddying their shoes, to the high brick walls, tall windows and gate towers with their token battlements, it had the air of a royal residence, befitting a Renaissance prince.
The banks were lined with people. Philippa soon realized that although they welcomed the princess and cheered, their real purpose was to advance their own cause. Some had engaged acrobats to amuse her. Others had hired a troop of musicians to play her favourite madrigals, while yet a third group, disguised as nymphs, had perched themselves unsteadily upon a raft which floated down towards the landing stage. The princess was used to such excess. She smiled distantly, but there was no doubt that this welcome pleased her and she allowed the courtiers responsible to kiss her hand. Such is the power of flattery that even Philippa felt it. But she also noticed how many people there were; surely among these crowds one could be lost. This lack of identity had exasperated Richard Montacune but it gave Philippa confidence. She felt more secure in the heartland of her father’s enemy than at any time since she had left home; although not for long.
This boisterous welcome restored the princess’s good spirits. She prepared to dine with the queen, alone, since the king was not expected until nightfall, and as she dressed she took time to give a commentary on the treasures that the palace contained, from the great four-poster beds to the new-fangled Italian tables and stools and the very rugs upon the floor, imported from some Venice warehouse. She also gave all the gossip, suddenly brisk and efficient, as if this was a task she liked. ‘The queen is Spanish,’ she explained. ‘And since my mother’s death she relies on me to keep things straight. Her Spanish ladies are stiff and dour, and speak only Spanish with her so she trusts me to choose the English ones. I am good at that. I told you my brother prefers smiles to sour looks, and so he too likes my choice. And if you smile he is bound to like you.’
She let that thought sink in. ‘Queen Catherine is older than he is,’ she confided, ‘and he married her to keep his word.’ She looked at Philippa as if to say, See, I told you he was kind. ‘She was married first to Arthur, my older brother who was heir,’ she continued. ‘And when Arthur died my father would not let her go back to Spain but kept her prisoner, neither maid nor wife.’ For a moment her smile faltered, not a happy example for a princess who wanted to show her family in a good light. But recovering, she went on, ‘God’s will be done. My younger brother, Henry, took my older brother’s place, and married his wife, so she became Queen of England after all. Her lands and revenues in Spain were too valuable to let slip, and now they still belong to us. And Spain has become our friend. In the same way, when I wed, the lands and riches of Charles, the emperor-to-be, will be assured to us, and he too will be an ally.’
But when night came the king still had not returned. His queen, who, in fact, was in mourning for her last stillborn child, retired to her chambers to weep and spent the night in prayer. She was a small, sallow-skinned woman with pale lips and a furrowed brow that was hidden by the close-fitting caps she wore, a complete contrast to her vivacious sister-in-law. ‘We Tudors are different,’ the princess rattled on. ‘We prefer to have fun. But then, I would not like to have been kept here, far from home, if my husband had died.’ And she shivered as if for a moment the reality of grief cast a shadow on her.
The morning brought the king back. But a furious black-browed king, spurring a tired horse, riding alone. The court was soon abuzz with rumour, the king’s ill-humour of concern to everyone. Gone in an instant was that jovial giant, that golden boy, that chestnut-haired youth whom everyone admired. What had caused his gloom was never clear and seeped out only gradually after his companions had returned. Among these was the great duke, who looked crestfallen himself, trailing in the king’s wake, with the other courtiers, to the disappointment of the princess who, by turns, was alarmed and angry that her ‘fun’ was curtailed.
Even to Philippa it was obvious that the king was miserable. Instead of hunts and jousts, he went alone, sulking along the palace drives or riding furiously, as if the devils in hell were chasing him. When he was not on horseback it was said he devoted long hours to prayer, and after Mass was heard, often remained on his knees, with his queen, in their private chapel. What the royal couple prayed for was God’s to know, but a living son must have been high upon the list. And if the king prayed for guidance in this French invasion, or for victory, he did not say so. Nor did he discuss his meeting with the Nun of Kent with his friends; he certainly never mentioned her to his family, and his family suffered with him. Especially the pleasure-loving princess.
Gradually however Henry came to learn two lessons which his peace-loving churchmen had not known about, although his councillors could have told him so. One was that once war preparations have been put in motion they tend to acquire a life of their own; the second, that it is easier to prevent a war before it starts, than stop it once it has begun. Hourly it seemed, messages arrived, with news of musterings of troops, with lists of armaments, with demands for provisions. The royal fleet had already been ordered to prepare; should it stand to off shore, or return to port; how many horses should be commandeered, how many guns? All these were questions which the king, as commander of the troops, had to decide but which he had left unsettled. In short, the courtiers whispered among themselves, the king had put a machine to work, and, like a wheel that runs downhill, nothing could hold it back, unless he himself put a brake to that wheel. And that he still was undecided about.
‘You see,’ the princess tried to explain, for in truth like everyone else she was puzzled by the king, never having seen him in this mood before, ‘Wolsey and the churchmen want Henry to make peace with France, not because they believe in peace, but because they want to make France their friend. France is a large and powerful country, and they are afraid of it. Wolsey even has his ministers preach peace sermons in London. But the duke says the war is necessary. We Tudors have a claim to the throne of France and my brother should make good his claim. Besides, France defeated us last time.’ All these were arguments that Philippa had heard before, although in truth not one made sense. But she too had learned enough to keep that thought to herself.
In the end Henry made up his mind for himself. He steeled his conscience against the church (for he was a devout man as his sister had explained) and had the church serve him. ‘Very well,’ he cried. ‘Wolsey is a great organizer of his affairs. Now let him organize mine.’ He sent a message ordering him to become his master of supplies, which the courtiers thought a great joke. He sent his envoys thundering out of the palace gates, with lists of musterings, with times and dates; he himself ordered out his stables and paraded his Flemish steeds, selecting those he would take with him. When neighbouring villagers appeared, armed with pitchforks and scythes, he inspected their ranks as gravely as if they were the flower of his guard, commenting loudly to his friends that any English peasant was worth ten French lords. And when he had ordered bread and ale for them and thanked them for their support, he had his court prepare a feast, more than a feast, a banquet, of some twenty courses, to whet his appetite, and to celebrate his victory in advance. More to the point, after the feast, his queen was to arrange a masked ball with songs and dance, in honour of their parting. Once assured that Wolsey was committed to his cause, Henry prepared to amuse himself.
The court blossomed in the excitement. Gone in a flash were those secret tears and prayers. The queen set her women stitching new frivolities, putting aside the flags and banners which they had been working on. To give her her due, when her husband was in good spirits and attentive to her she tried to match his mood. She determined now that she and her ladies would outdo themselves to please. At great expense and effort she had elaborate masks made, decorated with long pink plumes, in honour of the Tudor pink rose which mixed both red and white. The colour enhanced the queen’s olive complexion, giving it a glow it lacked (although less becoming to Princess Mary, whose red hair clashed). But the princess professed to be delighted. ‘Shall we not look elegant?’ she cried. ‘All of us alike, a garden of pink.’ And she had laughed, her lisping laugh, confident, of course, that everyone would know her, mask or not, for the costumes were flimsy enough for the royal ladies to be sure their royalty would not be ignored.
Masked balls were new to Philippa, as indeed were all dances and feasts (why would her stepfather have spent her money to please her?). She would have been content to have remained a spectator, had not the princess conceived another thought.
She pulled Philippa aside and began to whisper to her. In the past days the princess had paid her scant attention. Now, seeing her interest, Philippa was on her guard. ‘You cannot refuse,’ the princess was coaxing, at her most ingenuous. ‘The scarf saved you, so you should return it. Say it comes with my prayers; no, better still, let him guess. That will add to the joke.’
She was speaking of the silken scarf the duke had returned, and since she had recognized it at once, Philippa presumed the duke would too. It was true that the princess had had no chance of returning it herself; the king’s preoccupations had kept him and his companions apart and there had been no time for casual meetings as in the past. But the princess’s idea rang false. On the surface, it appeared harmless, a joke that would appeal to a child, but underneath was a lack of decorum, a rashness, which could be misconstrued. But when Philippa tried to explain her misgivings; pointing out that this ‘joke’ could bring hurt to the princess, to say nothing of the duke, the princess laughed.
‘Pooh,’ she said. She cocked her head on one side. You talk of difficulties because you are afraid.’ She began to pout, drawing her bottom lip over those small protruding teeth. ‘When the feasting is done and we ladies retire to arrange our dress, you are to seek the duke out. You remember him.’ And when Philippa hesitated, more sharply still, ‘He would be shocked to learn what an ingrate you are, after all I have done for you. And after all he did.’ She gave her little moue, as if to say, ‘Of course I do not know the details, but I could always find them out.’
Put that way, with the familiar flicker of ambiguity, quibbling seemed ill-advised. Actually it was the princess’s last argument that persuaded most. ‘You would not want the duke to leave for war without some gift from me,’ she coaxed. ‘I want him to have it to bring good luck.’ That appeal touched Philippa’s kind heart and so reluctantly she agreed.
In the normal way she would not have dined in royal company, for the king, like most men, chose to eat with his family and close friends, and even the banqueting hall at Richmond could not seat everyone. Only at the feasting’s end, when the dancing began, would all the courtiers join in, all, that is, who could squeeze and push inside. Before that, the ladies would withdraw while the gentlemen, like men everywhere, would remain to talk or drink or play at chance. So while the ladies tried on their masks, not without much giggling from the maids who helped them, Philippa donned a mask of her own and waited for the princess to tell her what to do.
The princess had dressed in haste. She threw a pink cloak over Philippa’s gown, tied the fastenings with her own hands, and, making sure that the mask was in place pulled her towards the hall door. ‘Now,’ she said. She thrust a little package at Philippa and opened the door, one hand to her mouth, either to stifle her own giggles or doubly to ensure she was not recognized.
Philippa found herself at the entrance of the largest hall she had ever seen. She was the only lady there, for behind her the princess kept her hand upon the latch so no one else could enter. By now the menials had begun their work: most of the tables had been stacked, the benches removed; scraps of food had been piled in baskets for the poor, only the floor underfoot was still ankle deep in straw and refuse. The candles had almost guttered out, needing to be replaced, but the dim light was an unexpected blessing.
The king was seated at the main table with his drinking friends. Tonight he had
drunk well. His face was flushed, and he himself was boisterous, over-talkative, making up for those previous days of silence. His arm was round one of his companions, while both bawled out an indecent love ditty. Between him and the rest of his courtiers were the ladies’ empty seats, and at the other end of the table, closer to the door, the duke was engaged in conversation with his friends, laughing at some joke.
Philippa hesitated. The duke was not alone, yet she sensed she would never have a better opportunity. So while the servants continued to sweep the floor and the stewards circulated the wine, she tiptoed towards him, her slippered feet making no sound. It should have taken only a moment to lay the little package in front of him, and it would have done, had not the king chosen the same moment to hiccough. The royal chorus missed a beat, faltered out of tune. In the ensuing silence, the duke’s exclamation of surprise rang out over-loud.
The king swung round. Wheezing for breath, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he did not miss a thing. ‘What’s wrong?’ he cried. ‘What makes Charles start like a hunting hound?’
He hiccoughed again, watching with his small dark eyes that suddenly took on the look of an animal, by turns furtive or aggressive, hesitating between retreat and attack. He gave a beady grin. ‘And who is the lady there with him?’
When the duke did not reply, he grinned again, looking round him as if to say, ‘There, I have him trapped.’ But as the silence lengthened, so did his face start to darken ominously. Philippa felt her heart begin to thud. She sensed danger in the air, breathing down at her. A cloak of velvet, a mask of silk, the dim candlelight, suddenly these things seemed too flimsy for disguise, and the little package felt as large and heavy as a case lined with lead.