by Mary Lide
All this last came out in a rush, the words tumbling over themselves; no wonder he sat his horse as if upon a prickle bush. No wonder the queen snatched at her rosary and held it to her lips, uncertain whether to thank God or to ask for compassion for her sister-in-law. The princess herself cried out in disbelief, as did all her other ladies, their cheers suddenly turned to mockery. Philippa, equally bemused by this reversal of plans, had sense to notice how the messenger backed away, relief and regret written upon his face. The title of royal messenger is a favour few men resist but for the first time it occurred to her that a messenger’s fate is not always a pleasant one, dependent upon the way his message is received. Philippa thought, perhaps this news benefits the king, but it brings sorrow for the rest of us. It will break the princess’s heart. Pray God it breaks not mine.
CHAPTER 8
——
After the princess had been led away in hysterics and the courtiers had trailed behind her, openly mulling over these tidings, Philippa broke away from them, determined to seek out the messenger herself. She found the young man seated in the main hall, drinking wine, his fair hair plastered to his head with sweat, his fair skin still flushed. Off duty, he looked what he was, a country lad, more used to barrack life than courts, at a loss dealing with ladies of high-born delicacy. He was in his shirt sleeves. His embroidered coat, his spurs, his belt and gear lay scattered around him like autumn leaves, although had an enemy appeared he could have snapped them up quick enough. He flushed again on seeing her, mistaking her for one of those ladies who had terrified him, and her direct query took him aback.
‘Lord love us,’ he cried, fumbling ineffectually for his belt, his brown eyes bulging with alarm, resembling some nocturnal animal startled from its den. ‘Know Lord Montacune! Why there’s not a maid from here to France who has not heard of Dick.’ A remark which, even as it left his mouth, he realized was unfortunate. His good-natured face grew deep red and he cursed beneath his breath. He himself knew Richard well, as one does who serves with another in the same company. He had helped bind up his wounds, had kept watch with him after the ambush at Westminster. He also knew there was some breach between Richard and the duke, although Richard himself had never spoken of it. On seeing Philippa, he guessed at once this was the lady who had caused the quarrel, and he looked at her curiously. He saw a young slender girl who showed nothing of that tendency to hysterics which had so unnerved him today and who revealed her feelings only by the intensity of her look and by the nervous twisting of her fingers behind her back. Her expression however was resolute, reminding him of some raw recruit facing his first battle charge and he felt a sudden rush of sympathy. ‘Christ’s mercy,’ he went on, feigning a smoothness that surprised himself, ‘all the world has heard of Richard Montacune. I count myself fortune to have fought with him.’
He shot a quick glance at her under his fair eyebrows, and watched how her dark eyes glowed as if a flame had lit their blue depths. ‘Aye mistress,’ he continued, taking in her simple style of dress, her simple speech, with its west-country lilt, all of which appealed to him more than the other ladies’ elegance. ‘He lives, the king has rewarded him. He was the hero of the campaign.’
He saw her pale, her skin like alabaster beneath its normal colouring. ‘Both of us are made envoys to his majesty,’ he began to explain. ‘I here; he in France. He often spoke of you, mistress; he has bid me say he thinks of you. I am to greet you in his name’ (not altogether true of course. Richard had been careful in what he said and the greetings had been implied rather than actual). Yet, seeing how the pink crept back to her cheeks and how her tautness slackened, he could not help but feel the deception was justified. He took another gulp of wine, running a finger round the inside of his shirt as if the collar was too tight. But being a simple soul himself (although not always at ease with the opposite sex), and at heart glad to do an absent friend a good turn, he began to tell her all the things he had suppressed, speaking more openly than was his custom, with an enthusiasm not altogether feigned. ‘My name is Edmund Bryce,’ he began. ‘Like Dick, I belong to the duke’s guard, and like, him, fought in the war. It is true that, if I live to enjoy success, it is thanks to Richard Montacune.’ And, encouraged by her obvious interest, he explained how at the Battle of Spurs the duke’s cavalry had routed eight thousand French, gaining so many prisoners that ransom money seemed to sprout on trees. And how, too, at the siege of Tournai, those same men had won the town for the king.
‘For there we were,’ he said, secure of her attention now, at ease with military talk as he was not with diplomatic, ‘beyond the outer walls.’ He drew the lines of fortifications in the wet rings left by his goblet on the table top. ‘And here were the town folk, withdrawn to the inner walls, after the king’s great guns had battered through those outer ones. Between the outer and inner lines was an empty space, littered with stones and . . . littered,’ he added lamely, stifling all mention of that desolate stretch where the bodies of men and beasts lay sprawled. ‘That space had to be crossed before we reached the inner walls,’ he went on. ‘Most of us wanted to wait until the king moved his cannon up, but not Dick Montacune. “While we wait,” he said, “the enemy strengthen themselves at our expense. I, for one, have done with waiting. I had enough of it last time.” And shouting out his battle cry which would afright any regular Christian, he stormed ahead, alone, although the enemy poured shot down at him. To a man we followed him. And when we came to the inner barbican we clung there under the gates like limpets on a rock while the tide of war raged over our heads. For after the defenders had had their turn at shooting down at us, so did the king’s great guns. The king saw what we had done, you see, and he ordered his guns dragged forward without delay. In this way then, when the gates were burst, we were the first within the town. We were the first to take the city streets and the first to raise the royal flag above the battlements.’
He thumped the table top as if to impress her with that triumph, living it vicariously again through her eyes. ‘And when the king left his tent that evening to ride in victory through those gates, he admitted his debt.’
‘The king and the duke rode side by side,’ he went on. ‘Mounted on those Flemish stallions, they looked like giants. “Who are those men?” the king is supposed to have asked, reining back to look up at us where we leaned from the gate towers. The duke had to acknowledge us, although in truth our mothers might not have known us, we were so plastered with dirt and blood. Nay, lady,’ once more he cursed his tongue. ‘I swear he was not hurt, simple scratches that is all, from where the shot ricocheted off the stones. The duke presented us one by one, giving our names, making sure to point out that he was responsible for our bravery since it was his good judgement that had first picked us out. And that night when he and the king dined in state at a table set up in the main square, we were summoned to attend their graces and dine with them.
‘The order caught us all off guard. We were feasting ourselves, not perhaps in state but well enough, with a good fat goose and a cask of wine.’ He coughed in time to prevent himself from revealing that not one of them had been in condition for royal visiting, Richard Montacune no better than the rest. But he did tell her what Richard had said.
‘After the battle,’ he said, ‘while we went looking for our friends and refought the war, Richard sat by himself. He seemed to want to be alone, and was in no mood for a royal summons. When he did speak, he talked of that first campaign, which had been so disastrous. “Had I died then,” he said suddenly, holding his sword in his hand and rubbing his thumb along its edge, “I’d not expect my friends to mourn me long. But since I live, I mourn them. They were friends of my youth, men from my own estates, my father’s guards, whom I persuaded to come with me, promising them fortune and fame. I swore on that Spanish border where I buried them that they would be avenged, and so, today, they have been. I drink to them.” And he raised a bottle to their ghosts, then tossed it over the ramparts to shatter on the stones.
Only the greatest effort on our part got him tidied up and on his feet, and stuffed into a clean shirt. Off we marched to receive the grateful thanks of our king. His victory pleased him so much that nothing was too good for us. I suppose he forgot that some of us were those same men he would have hanged in defeat.’
This whole incident sounded so like the Richard Philippa knew that had she been in doubt it would have convinced her. Edmund saw her smile break out full strength, and he sighed, partly in relief at having allayed her fears, partly in regret that that smile was not really meant for him, and for a moment he envied his friend. Then a new thought struck him.
‘I will tell you something, mistress,’ he now whispered. ‘It is true Richard remains in France but, mayhap, you can join him sooner than you think.’ He caught her arm, to draw her close, taking care that no one was within earshot. ‘They say,’ he continued in the same confidential tone, ‘that now the princess’s betrothal to the Emperor Charles is done, the king is looking for a French marriage instead.’ He shrugged. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘France was the greatest power in Christendom until we defeated it, and its king, at least, is king, not some youngster waiting for a crown. Besides, the French king has no sons and his heir must marry someday. Why not an English princess? And when she leaves as Queen of France, you could go with her.’
He eyed her complacently, proud of himself. ‘As for that would-be emperor,’ he said. He snapped his fingers to show contempt. ‘On hearing the news, they said he flew into a rage, typical of him. He ordered his falconers to bring him a hawk and began to tear its feathers out, one by one, in a cold and systematic way. When his councillors berated him for cruelty, “They have misused me,” he said, his misshapen Hapsburg chin sticking out like a wedge. “Because I am young, like this hawk, too young to complain, they think to strip me bare. But I shall grow and flourish. Then let them beware. Then let them squawk who think to pluck me of what is mine.’” Once more Edmund Bryce paused to look around to ensure that they were still alone. ‘But all those of us who fought for the Tudors there at Tournai think that a Tudor princess deserves better than him. And a Tudor duke deserves better than an Austrian duchess. We think,’ and now he did hiss in her ear, young and earnest and loyal, ‘that the duke is sent to Lille to keep him out of the way, and is made to dally there simply because he wants to come home. His wife is dead. She died but recently, while he was away. That makes him eligible to marry again. Why should he not return to court as a suitor to someone?’ He put his finger to his lips, and nodded, as if to say, ‘And you know who.’
‘But until this comes to pass, not a word. And until Dick Montacune returns, he sends you this in courtesy.’ He ended his story with a flourish that said much for his oratorical skills (although the kiss he planted on her cheek was entirely of his own invention).
She did not push him away with pretence of modesty, or complain that he was an insolent varlet, as many ladies might have done, feigning displeasure at what secretly pleased them. She merely smiled her full and luminous smile and curtsied to him as if, as her lover’s messenger, it was only right that he should give her all that her lover was entitled to. Her smile, her grave acceptance of what was due, won Edmund Bryce’s heart, although then he did not realize it. Then, he felt only that he had done the right thing and had unexpectedly blossomed into a man of tact and grace.
In the days that followed, Philippa was to see for herself how Edmund’s news fermented gossip, like wine in a vat. Some of the courtiers still placed confidence in the Emperor and made bets on him. Others, remembering the story of the Nun of Kent, dredged up those former Kentish tales and began to list the French advantages as Edmund Bryce had. A third group claimed that the duke’s absence was a subterfuge, and that all the stories of his flirtatious wooing abroad were lies, told to discredit him. The return of the king whipped that gossip to boiling point.
Henry arrived as became a triumphant general, with his carts of prisoners, his sacks of loot, his fawning sycophants. He was swollen with pride, so full of himself that he had Te Deums sung and Masses said until he almost bored himself. He never said a word about those marriage plans; never a word about the exiled duke in Lille, never spoke in private or public to his sister to explain or console, keeping everyone guessing. But in secret it was whispered that he continued his negotiations with the French, keeping his messengers on the trot, to and fro from Richmond to Paris, as if he were playing a tennis game and all of Europe was his tennis court. In the New Year he made up his mind. His decision came as a surprise to everyone, a French marriage indeed, to keep the peace and make a new ally, but not a marriage to the young French heir. The Nun of Kent must have been gratified at her success and Wolsey doubly pleased at a coup that kept his rival out of sight and brought himself such renown! For when in January the old French king lost his wife, Henry fixed his sights on him.
Now among Henry’s messengers in this international marriage game both Richard Montacune, and his friend, Edmund Bryce, would have agreed that there were diplomatic reasons for Henry’s choice. ‘King Louis of France is more than old,’ Richard would have said. ‘He is so infirm that his late wife once prepared a burial for him, thinking him dead. Having outlived her he wants a new lease of life. What if the princess is a third his age, and he is riddled with disease, racked with gout, given to fainting fits, all legacies of a life of ill repute? Thought of marriage refires his blood. And he still hopes for a son.’
‘Especially since he and his present heir do not agree,’ Edmund Bryce would have added. ‘His heir, Francis, is a scoundrel, even more lascivious than Louis once was, with an ambitious mother who is a shrew, determined that her son shall be king. Louis would love to thwart their plans. Besides, Louis is afraid of Henry. The French king is used to enemies, but none has ever claimed all of France before.’ These explanations were diplomatic ones. The English court had other, personal ones that were even more convincing.
Their explanation revolved around the king and queen. Since Henry had returned from France, they said he had had more than victory in mind. Vowing to his friends that youth was too short to waste, boasting he had learned more in France than martial skills, he began to show off his amorous ones. Far from hiding his lechery, as he had in the past, now he openly pursued the ladies of his court, without the help or connivance of his former friend, the duke (although it was also claimed that he seemed to take dark pleasure in repentance afterwards which Charles Brandon certainly never had). If Henry looked for a masked girl he had left behind or if he wanted to beget an heir out of wedlock (being so unsuccessful within it!) his courtiers did not specify. And if, in the absence of the duke, he fell more and more under Wolsey’s influence, they whispered that might be because Wolsey persuaded him what he was doing was justified. ‘A barren wife is barren,’ Wolsey was supposed to have soothed. ‘God’s will be done. But,’ and all the cunning of the world was in that ‘but’, ‘God does not prevent us from helping ourselves and a curse can be put aside. As can a wife.’
Queen Catherine could not avoid these rumours, and she was not one to endure humiliation quietly. Making her displeasure felt, she complained of Henry’s philandering to everyone. Among her relatives was that boy Charles, who was already smarting from Henry’s treatment. He was the queen’s nephew. He took up his aunt’s cause avidly. In turn Henry, feeling threatened, sought the French alliance, all the more because it shocked the other European powers. A twisted story then, this marriage bid, of lust and greed, political manoeuvring and personal betrayal. So that when at last the contract was agreed Henry felt obliged to justify it to his own family. And to the world in general.
As Richard had explained, like all Tudors, Henry was sensitive to public opinion, and he basked in public approval. Public good will had first given his father the crown and in the end would help him keep it. Henry had always been generous with his time, granting his subjects access to his court. Now he began a series of open audiences, allowing free airing of the people’s wrongs,
in the hope of glossing over his. And on the day of the marriage settlement he ordered his family to be present, with all their retinues and friends, to uphold that impression of harmonious family life that he felt was important.
As for the princess, who was the object of all this manoeuvring, for the first time in her life she became a victim. No longer did the king have converse with her, being too busy with his new ideas. Ladies who might have flocked to join her entourage thought of excuses to stay away and the queen, lost now in her own griefs, had scant time for her. This neglect drove the princess wild, the more so that the duke remained abroad, never sending word to her. Philippa, to the contrary, welcomed it. She had no wish to see the king nor to be party to his plans. But come the day when the French marriage was confirmed, she sensed that whether she would or not, she would be drawn into this matrimonial controversy.
That day, the princess’s misery broke out at its most pitiful. She lay down on the floor, weeping that she would rather die than be sacrificed. In vain her womenfolk tried to pacify her; tried to dress her in her most sumptuous clothes, arranging her hair, her jewels, as if she already were a queen. ‘Help me,’ she screamed at each one. ‘Stand by me. Tell him I refuse to come. Tell him he is killing me.’
But to Philippa she showed her worst side, catching hold of her and pleading with her. ‘You can out-talk him,’ she cried. ‘You did so once, you can again. And you escaped from a marriage plan. You owe me this much gratitude.’ Proof not only of her growing dependency upon Philippa, but also of her desire to manipulate her friend.