by Mary Lide
The duke was quick. Years at court now stood him in good stead. He clasped her arm and spun her about so she was facing the king. From the side of his lips, she heard him hiss, ‘Be still,’ as he bowed to the king, free hand on hip, seeming completely at ease. And showing the careless disregard which his friends called bravery and his enemies foolhardiness, he began to unfold the length of silk, deliberately making sure that the king saw what it was, although he was careful to keep its colours and texture concealed, as the dimness of the hall allowed.
He actually beckoned to a page to bind the scarf round his sleeve; then shook his arm vigorously to make sure the knot would hold, nodding meanwhile to the other courtiers as if to say, ‘What a fuss over a scrap of cloth.’
His frank smile made a favourable contrast to Henry’s shifty one. And, to top his performance, when all eyes were still on him, he drawled an answer to the king’s question. ‘A gracious lady, my liege, whose gracious gift I mean to wear to war, as I have ever done in peace.’ The smile was calculated perhaps but then, what had he hidden or attempted to hide, only a lady’s favour, presented in person by a lady to a lady’s man.
Afterwards, with a sudden spring, he leapt onto the table top and beckoned to the servants to bring more wine. ‘A toast,’ he shouted impulsively. ‘Lords all, I drink to victory.’ The epitome of gallantry, he hoisted up his goblet, and one by one the other courtiers hastened to follow suit. ‘To our great king,’ he cried, ‘the lord of war, who leads us at the charge as he ever leads us here at home. Health and long life to him; God grant him a safe and joyous return.’
Fine words these, obliging everyone to repeat the same toast, an old courtier’s clever trick, saying all, revealing naught, evading the real issue.
Henry, drunk as he was, may have decided not to push too hard. After all, on the brink of war he could not alienate his chief general. He gave a royal snort, either of disappointment or relief, and snapped his fingers for another round of wine. Having failed to embarrass his friend, the king turned his attention to the next best thing. ‘Tell your ladies we need prayers,’ he hiccoughed. ‘Victory lies with God, not in ribbons. But you still have not presented the lady to us.’ And he pointed to Philippa.
While the duke had so cleverly captured all men’s attention, he had, perforce, let go of Philippa and she had seen her chance to withdraw. The guards let her pass, smiling good-humouredly themselves (for the duke’s amorousness was well known and there was no reason to suppose that, having changed his name, he had also changed his habits). She had her hand upon the latch before she realized that someone held it firm on the outside. And before she could break the hold, the king’s remark turned all attention on her again.
For an instant the duke’s own poise deserted him. Then he sprang down as quickly as he had sprung up and, approaching Philippa with easy stride, caught hold of her, digging his fingers in hard, as warning. ‘Here my lord,’ he said. ‘See for yourself.’ And laughing lightly, as if without a care in the world, he drew her towards the king, and then stood back, arms crossed on his chest, a handsome wanton, whose only fault was his liking for the ladies.
Close to the king Philippa could see what her mask and the natural dimness of the room hitherto had blurred. She recognized the height of him, and the wide expanse of embroidered shirt, for he had thrown off his doublet and over-gown, preparatory to dancing. He was sweating heavily. His chestnut hair hung in lank curls, and when he stretched out his thick hairy hand, she was surprised at the calluses on the palm, like a peasant’s. She expected him to rip off her mask, but instead, with a smile that was almost the copy of the princess’s, he fumbled on the table for his own, a black, heavy contraption of cloth which hid his face, from scanty beard to the roots of that flaming hair.
‘Now mistress,’ he said, words coming out hollowly, ‘we both are strangers, concealed from each other, and from the world. If you hide behind a mask, so can I. When you uncover, so will I.’
He spoke in courtly style, although he swayed upon his feet, rocking back and forth on his heels, leaning all his drunken weight on Philippa’s shoulders, so that she bent under him. But, with unconscious imitation of the duke’s strength (or perhaps intent on matching it), he leapt onto the dance floor, dragging her as his partner. Trampling over the mounds of debris, he swung her round, holding her by the waist. The dance was a French one he was fond of, the steps fast and elaborate, and, lacking music at first, he sang the air aloud in a hearty baritone.
Startled by his outburst of energy, the musicians had been caught unprepared. They had been craning over the gallery, safe out of reach, so free to stare. Now, snatching up their viols and lutes, they began to fiddle for dear life, scraping so hard that the strings snapped. The younger courtiers, equally unnerved, jumped back to give the king space; others ran helter-skelter to haul whatever ladies they could find to partner them. The servants came scurrying with new brooms and pails; taper boys ran to replenish the wall-sconces. Only the wiser, older men stood in little groups and looked ill-at-ease. To start the dancing without the queen was an affront which her Spanish temperament would resent. But there was no way now to stop the king, bent on pleasing himself. Nor any hope of turning it into a jest, unless the queen herself did. And the Princess Mary, her own jest gone astray, stood at the door, her hand still on the latch, her eyes rounded in dismay.
The king danced with gusto, with much stamping and hearty leaps and swirlings of his partner so that her feet left the floor. His hair stood in spikes, and the strings of his shirt had come undone, revealing a white, hairless chest, upon which a gold medallion hung. He was proud of that medal. The Pope had given it to him in honour of his piety and when he caught Philippa to himself the design left an imprint on her cheek, Defender of the Faith, carved in Latin. But Henry was not feeling like defending anyone today, rather he was on the lookout for attack.
Meanwhile the other courtiers had brought more ladies back into the hall, in an effort to minimize the king’s indiscretion. The musicians continued to thump and screech; the new candles flared as the boys relighted them, the shadows of the dancers crossed and crisscrossed, a swirl of black and pink, the effect being all the queen had hoped, although she was not there to enjoy it. Philippa of course had never seen such a spectacle. The thought that she was dancing with the man who held all of England in his hand, who held life and death over her, made her lose her footing and stumble. But the king merely tightened his hold, as if all this energy had sweated drunkenness out of him. He certainly was sober when, with great stealth and skill, he began to steer her out of the press towards the darkest part of the hall where the candles were still unlit. A low archway led into an obscure alcove, and there he paused, twirling her about one last time so he could thrust her in. Sure that they were alone he let the bulk of his body block the arch.
She came to a standstill against the wall. Violent movement had tumbled her dress and the pink cloak was ripped; worse, the mask had begun to slip, held in place only by its feathered plumes. The king himself stood athwart the arch and observed her from behind his mask. If exercise had worn off his drunkenness it had not diminished his curiosity; quite the opposite, he was really curious now, but in a different way. Where before he had wanted to test the duke, now he genuinely was interested in her. He had seen enough to make his senses race, and he tightened his thick fingers about her waist, giving warning of his intent.
Pressed as she was against that wide expanse of chest, Philippa could smell the wine upon his breath, and see his fleshy lips, feel the excitement mounting in him. ‘By St George,’ he was breathing, ‘no wonder Charles tried to hide you from me.’ And he shifted his bulk closer, so that her curls brushed against his chin, and her body was folded against his.
‘Who are you?’ The king was nuzzling her hair, touching her here and there, moving, shifting, like a greedy child with a new toy. ‘You must have a name. Give me it or I die.’ He groaned, in a parody of courtly love, all the while pressing her with his
hard muscles, hard chest, hard groin.
In an effort to keep him at a distance and break his embrace without his noticing Philippa kept her body rigid, drawn back from him as far as she could. She wanted to cry out or push him away but she knew instinctively that to insult a king in his lechery would be an offence, which he assuredly would not forget. Better to endure it than offend. So when he held her against him like a doll, when he rubbed himself upon her, like a horse scratching itself, she tried to detach herself from his indignities. She knew what loving meant perhaps, but little of violence and carnal needs. And there was no disguising the king’s desire, nor his greed.
He thrust one knee between hers; felt for her breasts with his large hands; stroked her down from neck to navel as if he owned her. ‘By Christ,’ he said, ‘those eyes are blue as a summer storm. I would see them plain; strip off and reveal yourself to me.’
Whether he meant the mask alone, or wanted her to remove all her clothes, the order was a royal one, and desperately Philippa searched for some way to refuse. Suppose I tell him no, she thought; will he rear back outraged? Will he shout for his guards? Will he do what he wants anyway; who could stop him? Straining now to break away, by sheer good luck she hit upon the one strategy that intrigued him, using his own ruse to pretend she did not recognize him.
‘My lord,’ the ambiguous title came easily to her tongue, as did the flowery speech, ‘tonight, by the king’s command we have all concealed ourselves, and by his law we have placed ourselves under the spell of anonymity. I, for one, would not break that spell, nor flaunt the laws that he has made. Tonight we are not ourselves.’ And she made herself curtsy to him.
He drew back, for a moment surprised and perhaps intrigued that she had not recognized him. Not many women refused him anything. He liked the idea of power, even power in such small demands, but he found he also liked having it challenged by so slight a creature. Her quick response made him feel more quick, as if in some flattering way she was complimenting him. Devious himself, he admired the same quality in her. So for a moment he could stand looking at her with a flash of genuine admiration.
‘You must have a name, girl,’ he said, speaking in more normal tones without hyperbole. He began to tug off his mask. ‘Everyone has a name. Where do you come from?’
‘The country, my lord,’ she began, when he broke in, ‘So far away, I suppose you have never heard of us.’ He started to laugh. ‘If you have kept Charles dangling on a string,’ he said, ‘you must be new to court. Not many women resist him long. We are in the country here, child; where do you think Richmond is?’ She could tell he was grinning. ‘Well, I will make a bargain with you. If I tell you my name, you must tell me yours.’
He was playing with her of course, allowing her her little pretence. And when she did not answer, sensing an indecision in her that made her seem not entirely insensible to him, he leaned towards her to whisper. ‘Suppose I ask as a man, not as a king; suppose Harry Tudor begs.’ He expected of course that she would cry out in alarm or mock surprise; certainly she would not refuse. In actuality, his more honest approach showed him in such a different light that Philippa was almost touched. She felt herself drawn towards him by the force of his personality as before she had been repelled. And he was perhaps equally drawn to her. ‘You tremble like a leaf,’ he said. ‘I shall not hurt you.’ And he put out his hand to remove the remnants of that fragile mask.
He meant things sexual of course and, thinking like a man, may have reckoned she was about to give in, while she was thinking of him in his kinglike role and hoping she could confide in him. Sensing another victory then, he began to grin, and catching her to him in almost a genuine display of affection, he began to turn her around, so that he could slip his hands under the lacings of her gown.
What saved her was a simple thing, or rather a simple shout. The courtiers took up the cry, ‘The queen, the queen’; the music stopped; the dancers floundered midstep. Catherine of Aragon billowed into the room, every inch a queen, her face set, as if it were a mask itself. Had someone warned her what was happening; had someone told her what to expect? Clothed in pale rose, her head high, with a crown of pink feathers in her hair, she swept towards the dais, her maids-in-waiting chattering in Spanish behind her back, resembling a bouquet of flowers, carrying real roses to scent the air. Looking neither left nor right she ascended the dais where two thrones of unequal height had been placed. She seated herself deliberately upon the larger one, all the while keeping up an animated discourse with her friends. And beside them, the Princess Mary seemed more than ever like some butterfly, her attention flitting from one person to the next.
Henry heard the cry. He was not so enraptured that he could not heed a warning, and his drunkenness had passed. Nor was he ready yet publicly to insult his queen. He knew that, despite her eagerness to please, her temper could be harsh if she felt herself abused. After all, she was daughter of an old line of kings, and she was proud. Letting go his hold, he stepped out of the alcove, not even bothering to arrange his clothes, fumbling, as if he had retired to relieve himself. In an instant his chamberlains were at his elbow, whispering earnestly; at a signal, the musicians struck up a new tune, one that the queen preferred. Without further ado, Henry strode towards her, as undisturbed as if he had really been standing in a privy alone.
‘Tomorrow we set sail for France,’ he cried in a hearty voice. ‘Tomorrow brings us victory. Tonight we celebrate.’ And, taking a leaf from the duke’s book, he bowed, hand on hip, the perfect Renaissance prince, in a trice transformed back to affectionate husband, dignified king, loyal friend, nothing left of the wine-soaked fumbler in the dark. ‘I drink to you, my queen,’ he cried. ‘To the fortunes of war, and love. If you will so honour us.’
She bowed her head in response; the music swelled, the rose-coloured cloaks swirled like thistledown. Henry led out his Spanish queen, looking at her affably. The Princess Mary swung past, still smiling at everyone; Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, chose his own partner too, and began to dance. Hidden in the alcove, Philippa watched them all go round and round. ‘Are any of them real?’ she thought. ‘How do they survive? And how can I get free from them?’
CHAPTER 7
——
In the end the man who extricated her was the only one she might have longed for, and yet would have avoided (at least at this time). He it was of all the court who had had the foresight to shout out the queen’s name as a warning; as a means, perhaps the only one, of recalling the king to his real duty, without more scandal. It was he who, snatching up a mask of his own, now strode towards the arras and dragged her out, forcing her to dance with him, obliging her to keep time and not to rush, as he skilfully steered her between the couples towards the exit and escape. She knew who he was at once, although he was not dressed in courtier finery, and his spurs (which he had not even had time to unstrap) dragged at her skirts; he must have just arrived, she thought; did he come here to hunt for me? She thought, he is the only man here to know my name; the only one to know who and what I am, and what my real purpose is; and the only one who can misjudge me for the wrong reasons. Why is it, what quirk of fate, what misfortune, that every time we meet, I am obliged to rely on him, he the rescuer, I the victim!
As he drew her out she watched him beneath the remnants of her mask, those masks now rendering them both anonymous amid the swirling crowds. The threat of king, of queen, fear of the princess’s reprisal, shame at the manner of being used, all faded away on recognizing him. I knew he would come when he could, she thought; I knew no barracks or guard room would hold him long. Let the duke laugh and flirt with someone else, avoiding unpleasantness; let the princess ignore us both, pretending innocence, now Lord Montacune has come the world once more is in accord.
But he did not speak. And where once she could not have imagined anything more of delight than to have him hold her, dance with her, suddenly she felt she might have been a stranger to him, and he, like some passing stranger too, was mer
ely taking pity on her. His hand was hard around her waist; his boots tapped out an intricate rhythm like a drum. As hard as steel and as implacable, she felt his animosity towards her, and the tenor of his unspoken thoughts was not that of a lover. How dare you trifle with me, he might have said; and worse, why should I care? Are not all women fickle and vain? Is this what I gave up my career for?
He was dressed in riding gear, and as they came into the light she could see the grime upon his cloak, the layer of dust; she could sense the fatigue. He must have ridden hard, she thought, perhaps bringing reports about the army’s mustering. It suddenly dawned on her how it might seem to him, to approach the court in this way, when he might have been here all the time, at the duke’s side, as one of his trusted equerries. Armed as he was, despite his lack of finery, he did not seem so out of place in these surroundings as she did. Had he found a partner worthy of him, she thought, he would have danced as nimbly as the king. She thought, it must be one of fate's bad jokes that he noticed me, just when the king did. No wonder he begins to regret his lost advancement.
They had reached the door; one last turn, and he spun her through. His mantle flared, the spurs grated again. She thought, in a moment he will be gone, striding along the corridor, out of sight. If we part like this I may never see him again, and all that might have been between us will go with him and be lost. Almost without meaning to, she called out to him as if he already had started to turn away, ‘Wait. I would speak with you.’
And when once more he seemed to move (although in fact he had not moved at all), ‘Wait,’ so loudly that a servant poked his head out to stare, ‘Wait, I have done you no harm. So why should you ignore me? And after all that we have shared; after the way last time we had to part, you owe me speech at least, Lord Montacune.’