by Mary Lide
Philippa had dreaded the king’s decision, unable to avoid comparison with her own life. She guessed that he would never change his mind. Man-like he would beat down all argument, just as her stepfather had done. And just as her stepfather had shown no mercy, nor would he for all his professed love of his sister. Nor, if he should recognize Philippa again, would he be merciful to her. Nevertheless, out of a feeling of sympathy, out of pity and good will, and from some sense of fate perhaps, Philippa was among the princess’s little group who joined the court that day, feeling much as she had done when she confronted her stepfather in a similar way.
They say that to think of the devil is sometimes to conjure him. Perhaps it was simply coincidence again; perhaps Philippa should have known that her stepfather was not one to leave well alone and would find ways to present his case; perhaps he had hoped that she was dead.
For his part, revelling in his new marriage and anxious to cut a figure for himself, maybe he brought his new wife to court to present her to the fashionable world. Most likely, hearing even in his rural Devon of the king’s good will, and his open audience, Master Higham seized the chance to vent his wrongs without cost to him. It was his bad luck that he chose to bring a suit that dealt with dowry rights and disputed marriage contracts and female disobedience on the very day the king was confronting them in his own life.
Philippa recognized Master Higham and his wife at once. They were in the forefront of a group of suppliants who came pouring into the audience chamber (although she knew they could not see her where she stood behind the princess). Their clothes alone would have made her step-parents conspicuous, not one part of their person seemingly unadorned, their garments embossed with gold, with braid, with jewels (most of which were paste). Aware of the need of catching the king’s eye, Master Higham strutted importantly, not averse to reminding the king’s chamberlains of the urgency of his request, and beginning to rehearse his speech aloud.
The king had been playing at chance, a game called ‘cents’ and was in an especially good mood (if happiness means winning money from one’s friends). The arrival of the common crowds had caused a momentary fluster which he chose to ignore. If earlier, the princess’s downcast face or the queen’s aggrieved one had vexed him, he had put that thought aside and concentrated on counting his winnings. He was seated behind a small table, dressed in new French style, rich velvet and silk, multi-coloured. His hair was long, in need of cutting, and his face was flushed with too much wine. When Master Higham took the floor he was probably only half listening, but his later ‘What, what?’ should have alerted any normal man to be quiet. But full of himself and his wrongs, Master Higham misunderstood. He bleated on louder than before, in the mistaken idea that the king had heard nothing, rather than having heard too much. When he began to re-explain how his ungrateful stepdaughter had fled from home, refusing to obey him; and how he himself, as guardian of her lands for many years, wished to have full right to them, the king reared up, glowering from him to the princess.
It is possible that Henry thought there was some collusion between the princess and this preposterous Devonshire squireling. He may even have pretended to himself that this little country bumpkin was a threat to him. Most likely his conscience pricked and he felt the need to excuse himself. At any rate he bawled his answer to the one as if it was meant for the other. ‘She’ll do as I say,’ he shouted, red in the face. ‘I have full rights over her,’ an ambiguity which startled his petitioner, and terrified the princess half to death.
In this domestic crisis, perhaps the king missed the duke and felt a rush of petulance with the princess whom he blamed as the cause of the duke’s enforced exile. So his sudden snort, ‘You’ll not have him, miss, not if you live to be a hundred,’ was not so unconnected as it seemed. ‘He belongs to me, the duke,’ he snarled next, ‘not you,’ as if they were in the nursery and the duke was a disputed plaything. And he jutted his head forward like a lion in his menagerie.
My duke. There lay the crux of the quarrel between the royal siblings. The princess of course understood what her brother meant. So did Philippa and the rest of the court. The petitioners however were stunned, thinking the king had gone mad, and Master Higham’s peroration ground to a halt.
Philippa had been listening to this exchange with her hands pressed against her mouth. Her stepfather’s appearance had shattered her composure, just as his recital of her ‘misdeeds’ had burned like red hot brands, making her feel ashamed. And perhaps the princess felt the same way. Suddenly summoning up her strength she gave Philippa a violent push. ‘Tell him all the things you felt,’ she blurted out. ‘Tell him that I have rights; that I am too young to be buried in a tomb; that, as he loved me once, he should not treat me thus.’ And, cowering behind Philippa, she used her as a shield.
Philippa saw the king’s full hot stare light on her. The other time, in the darkened hall, where smoke and gloom had hidden her, where the great black mask had kept him concealed, she had never really taken full stock of him, and in the same way he had never had a good look at her. Now she was in the open and there could be no more hiding. Her stepfather saw her too, and recognized her. As if a spark had jumped from the fire he stamped his feet whilst his wife cried out, ‘Harlot, whore, where have you been?’ Goaded out of common sense, goaded into reply, Philippa said the first thing that came into her head. ‘All have rights to content and love,’ she cried. ‘Those rights are found in happy marriages. Without them none can be said to live. And no one can force another to marry unhappily.’
She might have been speaking for herself; she might have been speaking for the princess; she might have been answering all those fathers, brothers, husbands who force their womenfolk to knuckle under to their will. She certainly was speaking to the king, and an appalled silence followed.
Henry recovered first. ‘By God,’ he cried, ‘who are you to bandy words with me?’ He seized her arm as if she were a balky horse. Some thought stopped him. He stood still, stared at her again, stooped to snatch a tablecloth from underneath his winnings. ‘Speak,’ he countermanded himself. ‘Now walk, turn here, turn there.’ He held the cloth in front of her to cover up part of her face so her voice came muffled through its folds. When he threw the cloth down and put his arms about her waist as if to lead her in a dance, she felt a sinking in her heart that was worse than fear. ‘So lady,’ the king said almost triumphantly, speaking rapidly, ignoring princess and queen, court and commoners, turning his great stare on her. ‘Here you are. I have been looking for you for the longest time. Where the devil have you been that you jump up now to threaten me? And who are you to stand between me and mine? You owe me something.’ And before she could turn her head, he kissed her upon the lips, a great resounding smack. ‘There,’ he said, ‘I deserved that.’
Still holding her by the waist he made a gesture which could have meant anything but which his attendants interpreted rightly. One by one they filed out, shooing courtiers and petitioners in front of them. The last sight Philippa had of Master Higham was his shocked look of dismay, while by his side, his new wife marched along, berating him. And she and Henry were left alone.
Henry’s mood turned jovial. He rubbed his hands, glancing at Philippa from time to time as if to convince himself she was still there. Plainer than words his expression revealed his satisfaction and delight. She thought, he has me now for sure unless I can outwit him. And she felt a tingle to her fingertips.
She made no move to retreat. There was nowhere to go, the door already closing softly after the last man, the guards retired outside, the thick walls made to keep sounds in.
‘My lord king,’ she said, keeping her voice neutral. ‘You flatter me. I thought our meeting forgotten long ago. I have not forgotten,’ she added truthfully enough.
He grunted. She felt those small eyes’ fierceness encompassing her. There might have been a flicker of amusement behind their intent, as if he saw through her little speech. He flatter her! That was a clever reverse of the more usual stat
e of things. She could feel him beginning to relish her. He had liked her last time when she had sparred with him. And he must have thought that in the end she would surrender, as the others did. It was just a question of waiting and he was prepared to wait.
Facing him, she knew she was no match for him, but half his size, a pygmy to a giant. And he was young, the young Tudor king, not yet a monster and she recognized his charm which all the Tudors knew how to exert when they wanted to. It was as much to put those thoughts aside as to prevent his trying to use his strength that she began to speak. But what she stammered out surprised herself. ‘My lord king, I have come here with a purpose. And I should tell you it.’
She watched him move towards her, one fast step, snatching at her in the familiar cruel grip, drawing her down with him in his chair, pulling her upon his lap. ‘Of course you have,’ he grinned. ‘Nothing new in that. So do half the ladies of my court. But they do not all win me as prize.’
He was covering her face again, squeezing her like a starving man, thrusting his tongue into her mouth as if to drain it dry. He planted embraces on every piece of skin, trying to pull down the neckline of her square-cut gown, trying to stuff his hand beneath the bodice. But he did all this with a coarseness that was new, with a roughness that perhaps he mistook for French technique and his fumblings seemed both lewd and pathetic now that she had something to compare them with. She might have felt sorry for all that lust, imprisoned in that huge heavy body. Yet she herself remained cool and remote, and when he paused for breath she said in a voice that was also cool and rational, ‘How do you know what I want? You do not even knew who I am.’
Inflamed in earnest now, obsessed with his own desire, he scarcely heard her, or if he did, he mistook her words for some vestige of maidenly modesty, certainly not for refusal.
‘Tell me then,’ he was blowing in her ear, breathing down the cleft between her breasts, tearing at her clothes, tearing at his, like a man on fire. ‘Tell me all your secrets. I will keep them safe.’
She did not give him his titles but spoke to him straight, woman to man. ‘If I tell you, then what will you promise me?’
The elaborate fastenings of her clothes were thwarting him. He could not get at them and he was buckled into his own, as if belted into armour plate. Her lack of assistance puzzled him. By now she should have been moaning in his arms, limp with ecstasy, not passively niggling him with demands. When she saw him naked, his golden body naked like a god, when he had her naked, she would grow hot for him.
She felt him harden beneath her lap, potent like a bull, heard her protest torn out of her, as his hand went up her skirts, gripping her as if to wedge her legs apart, forcing her to straddle him. ‘Anything you ask,’ she heard him muttering, ‘I promise, as a king and gentleman. Just give yourself to me.’
He was thrusting up at her, snuffling, blowing, in such haste that she felt him hurting her through the folds of cloth. He had only to throw her to the floor with himself on top, that royal rape would have easily been achieved. But he could not wait. He surged up at her, snatching at what he had, in his haste unable to hold himself back, crying out again, ‘Yes, yes, yes’ the words pouring out of him in great gouts, until he could cry no more.
She sat astride him, face to face, his small eyes clouded with desire, his loose indulged mouth only inches below her own. She felt him slack beneath, and she cool above and she watched him subside, collapsing back into himself. For good or evil what she had been waiting for had begun, and, for good or evil, the king had responded in his own way. Slowly and clearly so that there was no mistake, she told what she had been rehearsing in her mind since she had left home.
‘My name is Philippa. That man out there was my stepfather. He covets my lands. But I want them for my father’s sake.’ And she thought, God pardon him for using me in this shameful way; God forgive me, for using him for my own design. And may his wife forgive us both.
He said softly at first, as if exhausted, ‘What promise?’ Then more quickly, with a sharpness beginning to reveal itself, as if the world were coming back into focus. ‘Christ’s mercy, but you gave me little to demand so much. What stepfather, what marriage plan, what lands?’
He heaved himself out from under her, turning from her to straighten himself, beginning to concentrate. Left sitting, feet dangling in the big oak chair she felt drained, a rag doll that he had tossed aside. ‘You asked me for something,’ he said. He shot a glance at her. ‘What father?’ he repeated. ‘How were his lands lost, that your stepfather claims them first?’ He suddenly grinned, that secret grin which hid malice underneath. ‘And,’ the sharpness defined now, like a dagger point, ‘you have not told me all your name.’
You cannot win. She heard Richard’s voice warning her. You play with a king whose appetite is endless. Perhaps, she answered him, but I am sworn to try. She made herself go on, no way back for her. ‘I am a de Verne,’ she told the king, with the same touch of pride that Richard Montacune had observed. ‘And it is my father’s memory I seek to clear; it is de Verne lands that I claim.’
‘De Verne, de Verne.’ He turned the name over thoughtfully. ‘There was a de Verne once,’ he said abruptly, ‘a west-country man.’ He looked at her, comprehension suddenly narrowing his eyes to slits. Then, as abruptly he looked away; she could not tell what he thought, but his silence was ominous.
He said, his face suddenly grim, as impenetrable a mask as that black one he had worn. ‘It is the asking that destroys the gift; giving is easy. Had you not asked for anything I might have given it in any case. I thought you different, Philippa de Verne. I thought, God forgive, that we were in tune, you and I, and that you were worthy of me.’
He sounded both arrogant and guileless, almost sad. ‘Had you been that someone else,’ he went on, ‘we might have enjoyed ourselves. There would have been a future for us.’ He shrugged. ‘As for promises, we may not meet again so how will I know what you want another time, and how will you know if I give it you? You can tell the princess that if she survives this marriage she can have her freedom to try again. And you can try with her.’ He looked at her, his face like stone. ‘As for de Verne lands,’ he said, suddenly beginning to stride away, pausing at the door, to throw a malicious backward glance, ‘why, you can expect them back, in the same way your father forfeited them.’
He was gone. She heard his braying laugh outside, his loud boasting, seemingly not caring what his queen thought. Ashamed for him, ashamed for herself, left with the wreckage of her hopes, she crept back to the princess’s chambers, her feet carrying her there despite herself. She found the princess in a cheerful mood. ‘What did he say?’ she cried. ‘What did he agree to?’ Intent upon her own concerns she spared not a thought for Philippa, nor for her sister-in-law, although Catherine had certainly been more generous to her. ‘There,’ the princess cried. ‘I said that he would listen to you, and he did. I had hoped for more, but this is better than nothing. So I shall pray for the French king’s death.’ She added in her ingenuous way. ‘That cannot be a sin, since God has already spared him to be so old. And when we are in France you shall see your young man. For,’ and now her eyes did grow hard, ‘I insist you come with me.’
Philippa thought, God forgive me that I wish my name and quest had been other than they are. God forgive me for my father’s curse. God forgive me for the wrong done today, even to the poor queen who did no harm to anyone. And God grant the princess true love one day, as He gives me my true love back.
God grants all prayers in His own way and time, not looking for advice how or when. And so the ladies and their lovers were to discover in due course.
CHAPTER 9
——
As the feverish wedding preparations began, Philippa found the queen remarkably forgiving, never speaking of this incident, as if she had put it out of mind. The princess herself alternately preened or sulked. Only Henry, who like many men professed no interest in these feminine concerns and used them as an excuse to absent hi
mself, only he seemed determined not to forget.
Even when he was not there, Philippa felt his presence like an overhanging shadow, never completely eradicated from her consciousness. And when he returned from hunt or ride, or from one of his progressions through the countryside, basking in his subjects’ cheers, the ‘jovial Hal’ who had revived their pride and made England the greatest nation in the world, when he was back at Richmond, she felt his brooding look fixed griffin-like upon her, turning her to stone. She feared another sexual encounter with him, but it was not things sexual he was thinking of. His obsession had become completely political.
He had recognized her name and who her father was.
The Tudors have long memories, especially for those who had done them wrong. He also knew that treachery was like mud; throw it once, it befouls all it touches. Even if he had not met Philippa in the way he had, his suspicions would have been aroused. Now, feeling himself unmanned, angered that she had tried to best him at his own game, he let his suspicions run riot. How had she come to court? Who had helped her? Who had presented her? Most of all, what was her relationship to the princess? All these were simple questions with simple answers. But Henry was not interested in simplicity. Systematically reviewing all the details of the old de Verne plot, he set out to uncover a new one.
He hid his intentions of course, having no desire to seem more of a fool than he had been, nor yet a knave, fabricating evidence where there was none. Even he could not accuse without some proof, although to his own mind he needed none. By Tudor law a man was guilty merely by accusation, the burden of innocence falling upon the victim—whose guilt of course would make him deny the charge (a masterpiece of legal sophistry)! Since obvious proof of treachery was lacking, Henry had to invent some. To do this he relied on spies.
Since his return from France, and perhaps before, Henry had begun to be suspicious of everything and everyone. Now, it was whispered, he had planted informants even in his own household, easy enough these days when so many newcomers arrived to join the princess’s train. Perhaps he had learned this trick from the French court, where such underhand methods were commonplace. Perhaps he merely copied the example of Wolsey, whose spying in church matters was notorious. But such was Henry’s desire to be proved right, that he came to believe in his own lies.