by Mary Lide
Wolsey understood the king, and the king understood him. Both knew the purpose of the game, to make the punishment fit the crime. What Wolsey knew that Henry did not, was that each time the king indulged himself, his satisfaction was less; each time he was driven to greater excess, until in the end there would be little left of the ‘jovial Hal’ whom the people loved. But that was a risk that Henry took. Except perhaps the king did not yet know how great the risk and what in the end he stood to lose. And Wolsey also knew one other thing: that of the two he still was master of the art. And so in the end Wolsey too played his part.
Not changing the king’s orders, for not even he could do that, not showing, by one flicker of those deepset eyes, what he intended, he had the king’s writ sent forward at once, and copies made to distribute to the king’s men to acquaint them of the king’s change of plan. In secret, he added a mark of his own beside Philippa’s name. He did not care what Henry’s trumped up crime was, nor whether she languished for it in a Calais gaol.
He had recognized her name himself and, not underestimating all of Henry’s work, he at once knew who she was and more about her than Henry did. For, not withstanding Henry’s claims, he knew, as Henry did not, who her lover was, and what her lover had done to his men. And he had a use for her. Fate which hitherto had stood aside, now was to play its part.
First came a storm. The master mariner’s warnings had been correct. Hardly had the flagship cleared the bay when the sky had clouded and the morning breeze had stiffened to a gale. Before the rest of the fleet had time to turn back, the rain had come driving from the east, lashing the sea to foam. The ship upon which Philippa found herself held in front of it, running with full sail. What a moaning now rose from the wedding group, in an instant merriment replaced by seasickness. The gentlemen cowered on deck trying to duck beneath the spray. Down below, the ladies screamed at each surge and pitch, their fears of piracy or monsters changed to a more real threat of drowning. The fleet was scattered, blown off course, so that, when at last the skies cleared again, the ocean stretched as blue and empty as it had been on the day God created it.
Some of the ships were lost of course; most finally limped to shore, their paintwork damaged, their flags torn. The princess, pale green with sickness, could barely crawl on deck, and had to be carried through the surf like a sack of wheat, so much for Henry’s triumph. (Although the young man who carried her was rewarded on the spot with title and rank, a fat prize for getting his feet wet.) Philippa’s ship, the one she had hoped would bring her to safety and happiness, was one of the luckless ones. Driven this way and that, caught in a fog, its rigging gone, its sails cut loose, it drifted with the tide, almost back to where it had started from. And fate now-played its second trick.
The storm had not frightened Philippa at first as much as Henry’s anger. Who seeing his face that day would not have felt afraid? Perhaps the sea was in her blood after all along with her uncle’s sea-faring skills. Her heart beat with excitement as she felt the suck and roar of the waves. Free, free, free, is what she thought, free of Henry and his court, free to find Dick Montacune, free to marry him. But after days of storm, of rain in sheets and fog so thick that visibility was reduced to a hand’s length, she too yearned for land, any land, as long as she could stand upright on it. When the sixth day broke, calm at last, almost warm, but so mist-enshrouded as to make navigation impossible, she felt only gratitude at still being alive.
The captain thought so too. All he could do was cut the tangle of spars and ropes, place lookouts on the bowsprit to sound for depth, and trust that luck would bring them safe to port, even one controlled by the Emperor Charles. Charles would have loved to get his hands on any part of the princess’s royal escort. Aware of this possibility the courtiers put seasickness aside, forgot their ruined clothes, donned their armour, and unsheathed their swords, preparing to evade capture. And while the sailors bent their backs trying to make the ship answer to the helm, the ladies, on their knees, alternately baled water from the leaking hold, and prayed. The ship, like some wounded bird, crept along, until, within a hundred yards of land, the fog suddenly lifted.
There were no rocks, praise God for that, no high cliffs, only an innocent stretch of beach curving into a bay, where waves broke steadily on the shingle. But where that beach was, on whose territory, still remained a mystery and the courtiers leaned over the ship’s rails, gripping their swords nervously. The arrival of several fishing smacks, rowed round the headland by burly fishermen, resolved their dilemma. The boats served to ferry passengers and crew; the fishermen’s speech, albeit crude, was obviously some English dialect from southeastern Kent, and there on shore, armed men appeared, standing guard. All on board cheered with relief. Except for Philippa. For although the guards were there to help, they spoke and acted in the king’s name, and their coats were Wolsey red.
Here then was peril, doubly primed. The soldiers stood in a group on a small breakwater built of stone, their horses tethered behind them. They chatted among themselves, keeping a close watch as each boat returned. Then they hastened forward to help the ladies through the surf, saluting the gentlemen with rough courtesy, ensuring that the boats were turned to make another run. For it was clear the fishermen would have cheerfully tipped courtiers and all into the water to get at what really interested them. And that was loot, all those boxes in the hold, those crates and barrels and casks holding the princess’s wedding gifts. The sea is a hard taskmaster, and those who live by it seize what they can. Their lack of welcome paled in comparison with what Philippa faced.
The sergeant of the troops was an arrogant man, of middling age, rough complexioned, sandy-haired, hardeyed in a handsome sort of way, as were most of Wolsey’s guards (a scandal, the ladies now whispered behind their hands, for what do churchmen want with male beauty?). He wore his badge of office over his red padded coat with an air of authority and greeted the ladies in his master’s name with impatient restraint, showing a coarse sort of charm when he called the youngest one, little Nan Bullen, a ‘Venus’ risen from the foam (although she tittered and said she looked more like a half-drowned rat)! He kept a scrivener by his side who could read as well as write, a plum-pudding of a man, as roly-poly as the sergeant was lean. His task was a simple one, to intone aloud from Wolsey’s lists, accounting for both passengers and goods, this storm like to lose most of the queen’s retinue, to say nothing of all of Henry’s dowry gifts.
The scrivener himself was cross, half-asleep in the mid-day sun, pressed into service against his will, and feeling himself ill-used that of all the miles of English coast this was the one the ship had chosen to come aground. He therefore read the names in a bored but fulsome voice, as if picking plums, in no mood to quibble over details, anxious to get home to his own dinner. He would have by-passed Philippa’s name without a qualm, even though the list he used was the one to which Wolsey had added his mark, had not a gust of wind, flapping the parchment, brought it to the sergeant’s attention.
Sensing danger, aware there was little she could do to avoid detection and yet not certain of being sought, Philippa had waited to the very end to be brought to land. The sergeant was thorough. ‘Your name, mistress?’ he asked again, when she had mumbled it, low-voiced. He did not look at her but took the sheaf of notes from the scrivener who was still fumbling with them, and leafed through them (although as a professional soldier he might not have been able to read). Perhaps not, but he could recognize the king’s seal. And he knew better than most the secret mark his own master had made, without the king’s knowledge.
‘Well, well, very well,’ he said, whistling between his teeth, and tapping his thumb against the seal. ‘So here is a catch after all.’ When he looked up there was a glint in his sharp grey eyes that suggested he knew exactly what catch he had been looking for. And when he seized Philippa’s arm to stare at her she knew so too. He made her repeat her name, louder, for the sheer satisfaction of hearing it, meanwhile signalling one of his men to bring
up horses and sending another ahead as messenger. ‘Philippa de Verne,’ he cried after this was done. ‘Why, that’s a name to remember, without reading it. All of England is searching for you.’ And he smiled, a self-satisfied smile.
Philippa could have lied of course. She could have claimed he had made a mistake; she could have given any one of a hundred names. That shrewd grey glance warned her that the sergeant was as careful as his master was. Worse, a silence now behind her back from her former companions warned that they too would not tolerate untruths. Why should they help her? There had never been much loyalty from the start. So while they warmed themselves with this new scandal (which they swore they had always suspected) and while the soldiers had those crates and boxes dragged along the shore, the sergeant mounted her on one horse, tied the reins about his wrist and started off in a cloud of dust. He did not tell her where they went, nor why, nor even what was the cause of her arrest; certainly he did not discuss the preference of his loyalties. If it came to a choice between the king and the king’s Archbishop, he knew which one to choose. And Philippa rode with him as if she had guessed all along this was what was meant for her.
The ride was not far, inland, through a pleasant stretch of countryside known as the ‘Garden’ because of its orchards and fields. The villagers were preoccupied with the harvest, and the air was rich with the ripe scent of apples and pears. People had no time for staring after a soldier and a lady, although the lady’s dress was water-stained, and she swayed in the saddle like a ship at sea. The sergeant rode ahead, not turning round, still humming complacently, pleased with himself as perhaps he had reason to be. Bad luck was something he knew about, after all, her bad luck would prove his good. He knew also that a search was being made, a specific one for a specific wedding guest, on both sides of the Channel coast. A price upon her head, why should he not benefit? And since she had come to shore so close to where Wolsey was, he had decided to take her there himself. A mile or so further down or up the coast, where men’s loyalties were first to the king, Philippa would have found a different welcome. Although for better or worse, fate does not judge differences.
The sun beat down as if there never had been rain or wind. Philippa soon was parched, thirst drying her mouth where the seawater had crusted to salt. Her skin, her hair, her clothes, were caked with grit, as if she had been rolled in sand, and at every jolt she lurched in the saddle as if to fall off. When she asked to drink, warm brandy from the sergeant’s flask made her retch. ‘By God,’ he said, watching her, leaning on his saddle, chewing a blade of grass. ‘You look a sad sack. Who would have thought you worth so much?’
But when he swung down to fetch her some water from a nearby stream, she came alive, tried to kick the horse into a gallop. It reared and fought, until she slid off to run on foot, weaving in and out of the currant bushes which grew wild along the banks. Her feet sank into the sandy soil, and her legs seemed curiously stiff, as if she could not bend them, but for a moment she thought she had outrun him. Then she heard him laugh. As she skidded to a stop he pounced on her from behind a bush, catching her fast by the waist and throwing her to the ground, jarring her breath. But when she still tried to bargain with him, through gasps telling him she had friends who would pay him well, ‘So say all prisoners,’ he grinned. ‘They all have “friends”. But how am I to know what their price is?’ He was crouching on his heels, his red coat covered with dust and she was pinioned half under him. He pulled her round to face him and grinned again, a wolf-like grin, showing a line of yellow teeth. ‘My master’s credit is good,’ he said, not taking his hard stare from her, ‘and he pays me double for you alive. He did not say he would mind if I enjoyed you first.’
And he put down his mouth to cover hers.
She bit him. She felt the blood puddle and run down his chin as, with an oath he jerked back, his hand raised instinctively to strike. ‘Touch me again,’ she cried, ‘and I tell him. What would he say to that?’
He wiped his face slowly, still eyeing her as a wolf does when it is circling for a kill but with a kind of wariness that suggested caution. Caution won. He gave a cruel laugh. ‘My master couldn’t care less,’ he told her, his voice gravel harsh. ‘Mostly he prefer boys, and so do I. But he needs you; otherwise I’d not bother to take you alive.’
He scrambled to his feet, brushing his jacket down. ‘Get up,’ he said. ‘You’ve wasted enough time.’ He looked at her menacingly. ‘I’m no priest,’ he suddenly told her. ‘How do I know what my master wants? But as he’s waiting for you in a nunnery, perhaps he means to keep you there. Perhaps you’re one of those new heretics, buried in the king’s court like a tick. Perhaps my master intends to root you out, as he does most heretics, and a nunnery’ll be the place for you. Locked up there you’d do no harm. But,’ and now his voice took on an even harder quality, as hard as his agate eyes, ‘if by chance you get out again, then look for me. I’ve a bone to pick with you.’ He watched her pale. ‘No, two bones,’ he said. He leaned forward and pointed at his chin. ‘One, for this. And two, for what happened at Westminster.’ He bared his teeth again in imitation of a grin. ‘I had two friends I buried there,’ he told her. ‘And there’s been a man I’ve been a-hunting since. If by chance you know him or his whereabouts, perhaps you’ll lead me to him. I have a debt to pay with him. First him, then you. That would please me very well.’
And after that there was no point in saying anything.
The Convent of the Holy Sepulchre where he took her was large, as became the home of a nun being groomed for sainthood. It stood outside the town of Canterbury, surrounded by meadows and fields which the sisters owned. Like the convent, these farms showed signs of neglect, the fields run wild, the weeds high where once cattle and sheep had grazed. The surrounding walls and iron-barred gates gave tribute to its former power, and once perhaps, long ago, it had been powerful, occupied by ladies of high quality and filled with bustling life. Now, the cracked stones, the peeling plaster, the very listing of the chapel roof, were signs of neglect and poverty, and the diminished numbers of the sisterhood suggested spiritual decay. (All reasons, malice whispered, why the Nun of Kent was so important; what better way to restore fame than gain a saint, and what better saint than one alive, twice the value of one dead!)
The sergeant left Philippa in a nun’s charge, in front of a small door that led to an even smaller room, like a prison. It had bare walls, hung with one plain tapestry. The floors were bare, with a wooden table and stool set in the stark centre, nothing else, except a wooden crucifix, no wonder Philippa did not recognize this as a place where visitors were meant to wait. She could not know that behind the tapestry was another room entered by a grating, through which the inmates used to speak to their guests. Nor could she know that the nun who brought her there was breaking every holy rule by speaking with her face to face. But then, this nun had special gifts that set her outside the law.
She threw off her veils as if glad to be free of them, pushing back the wisps of mouse-grey hair. Round of face, her country origins were so pronounced that no elaborate robes could hide them, and she plumped herself down upon the stool as if afraid Philippa would claim it first. The bands around her forehead had left red weals which she continued to rub absent-mindedly, meanwhile staring at Philippa with undisguised curiosity like a child. ‘God’s my life,’ she said after a while, her natural speech resembling the fishermen’s down to the very vowels. ‘So this be the wench they’ve been looking for. You’ve brought warm weather for October after all these storms. But they might have fed you along the way, you do look half starved.’ And clapping her hands importantly she ordered wine and bread and fruit; then settled down to their drinking and eating as to the manner born, although in truth she might have been better suited doing the serving. ‘I did know they’d find you,’ she said. ‘I asked God and He told me so.’ She leaned back, crossing her arms upon her breast and belched, with a childish sort of glee. ‘God told me so,’ she repeated more sharply, used to ad
miration and awe, and uneasy perhaps when they were withheld. ‘And God did tell me He’d send a storm to have you disgorged from the sea.’ She stumbled over this last phrase, the word ‘disgorged’ not in her vocabulary, and again settled back waiting to be praised, as if praise had become her due (which, since the success of her first royal prophecy and the French victory, was not unreasonable). The truth was the Nun Elizabeth was in a fair way to be spoiled; what once had come welling up of its own accord, was now prompted by outsiders’ advice and taught her, by rote. Nor was she completely at ease with this new role, as she now showed, lapsing back into her country speech as if glad to be finished with the other.
‘You do seem too young to be a traitor,’ she said, biting into a peach until the juice ran down her chin. ‘But if you are, God pity you. A traitor’s death is not nice; rather you than me.’
There was a stirring behind the grille, a masculine scrape of boots, a cough, such as churchmen use in the confessional, hurrying penitents to conclusion. These sounds recalled the Nun Elizabeth to her task. Hastily she put down the peach, wiped her mouth, and began again, in the manner that she had first perfected in her royal interview. ‘It is your duty to repent. A traitor is an affront to God, and whatever penance is imposed on you, you must obey, to wipe away that treason’s curse. Our great king’s will is God’s will on earth, one and the same.’ She blinked twice, uncrossed her fingers as children do, trying to recite their catechism. ‘And when it isn’t,’ she added, as an afterthought, ‘why then God’ll punish him as well.’
She must have misspoken her lines, as a second angry cough reminded her. She jumped up, flustered, trying to catch hold of Philippa. ‘There,’ she said, almost crossly, ‘why didn’t ’ee listen to me the first time? I was supposed to say you do risk your soul if you refuse. A soul’s a special thing,’ she went on earnestly. "Tis not a thing to cast aside. ’Tis, well ’tis like the pip inside this peach; attached to you under the skin; no way to get at it unless you bite through. Now, I do peel a peach to eat,’ she added ingenuously, ‘but peeling you’d be a different thing. And you’re too young to die; why, youth do sit on you full bloom. Make the most of it, says I. Do what my master says.’