‘To laugh, to lie, to flatter, to face: Four ways in court to win men’s grace. Ascham will like her. I think I shall entrust her classical training to Ascham,’ said Sir Henry. ‘The voyage we are embarked on will demand the cunning and strength of the ancients before winter is over.’
*
On 30 November, the Sidneys’ first child was born; a son named, with resignation, Philip after the current King-consort. Shortly afterwards Philippa with serving-woman and escort rode the thirty-five miles north to London to enter the bridal court of the middle-aged Queen, with the badger’s nose and faded red hair and small, anchorite’s body within the stiff, quarried case of her costume.
There were no eunuchs at the door of Westminster, or black pages, or cool fountains playing. Philippa made the same curtsey to her Queen as she had to Roxelana Sultan; but in a wainscoted room hung with tapestries, before a canopied chair of state embodying the royal arms of England and Spain, and surrounded, on stools, on cushions, on fringed velvet chairs, by extremely plain women.
All except one. Lady Margaret Douglas, Countess of Lennox, First Lady and Mistress of Robes to Queen Mary her cousin, was thirty-nine and still handsome despite ten years of child-bearing, and a lifetime during which she had found herself by turn heir to the throne, bastard, and maid of honour to three of her uncle’s six wives.
She watched Philippa from her place by the Queen, her back straight, her eyes open, her hands still on the silver bone-lace of her kirtle, and the expression on her blonde, big-featured face showed nothing but faint, well-bred boredom. She said, ‘The daughter of Gideon Somerville, who served your grace well in the north, and was once an officer of my own household. Now your grace has two Scots in your service.’
Philippa, who was wearing a great many jewels, rose from her curtsey and, with an effort equally invisible, refrained from replying.
‘What child: no disclaimer?’ said a strong, masculine voice. The Queen extended her hand, the broad wedding band sparkling on the unremarkable fingers. ‘Lady Lennox is born of a Scot, and her lord is another: yet there beats no more true English heart here than hers.’
Philippa kissed the square hand and stepped backwards, her lips glazed with cold incense. She said, ‘Forgive me, your grace. I believed her ladyship to be jesting. For I have no Scottish blood, and no marriage at all but on paper.’ She did not look at Lady Lennox.
‘It is a strange tale we have been told,’ said the Queen. ‘But your union was made, we understand, of necessity and without that blessing of divine and uxorious love with which God sometimes rewards selfless action. Does your husband worship as you do?’
Faultlessly groomed, Philippa’s eyes lost focus slightly. She felt her sponsor, old Lady Dormer, shift slightly behind her, and cast her eyes downwards. ‘The rites of Holy Church attended our marriage,’ she said. ‘We parted soon afterwards.’
‘And the bastard boy whom you brought back to Scotland,’ said Lady Lennox with interest. ‘Is he being reared as a true son of the Church?’ She leaned across to the Queen. ‘The child is not, of course, Mistress Philippa’s own.’
Philippa’s face was perfectly winsome. ‘The child is in England,’ she answered, ‘being taught his duty by my own mother.’
‘And when your union is severed?’ said Margaret Lennox.
‘The child will remain at Flaw Valleys,’ Philippa said.
The Queen’s small mouth, the mouth of Catherine of Aragon, curled in a swift smile. ‘So we have drawn one Scotsman whole to our kingdom,’ she said. ‘And I trust that one day you will give us many stout Englishmen from your true marriage bed. When you are rid of this marriage, we shall look to your fortunes.’
The cadence was one of dismissal. Philippa curtseyed, thinking of her true marriage bed not at all; but of the thin, bolstered figure before her with the broad Flemish features, worn with anxiety.
How goes my daughter’s belly? had asked the Emperor Charles, who had been betrothed to this same Queen thirty years ago, sitting under his nightcap in the small Brussels house in the park, listening to the night-long ticking tread of his clocks. Benedicta inter mulieres, the new Papal Legate had said, et benedictus fructus ventris tui. If the Queen died childless, the Catholics said, her sister Elizabeth with French help would inherit the throne, and the kingdom return once more to heresy. If the Queen had a son, the Protestants said, it would prove no more than the conduit by which the rats of Rome might creep into the stronghold. And there had been a placard nailed to the door of the Palace, everyone whispered. Shall we be such fools, noble English, as to think that our Queen will give birth to anything, except it be a marmot or a puppy?
Many stout Englishmen would that uncompromising vessel of King Harry’s majesty need.
On duty, Philippa was to sleep with Jane Dormer in the Queen’s privy chambers. She had a modest chest taken there: the rest of her London clothes she had left at the Dormer lodging in the Savoy. She learned, with unqualified regret, of Queen Mary’s habitual timetable, which from tomorrow henceforth she would share. The Queen rose at daybreak: she heard Mass in private before plunging straight into business, which she transacted without pause till past midnight: she never touched food before two o’clock.
‘Like her mother, the sainted Queen Catherine,’ said Lady Dormer that afternoon, steering both girls firmly into the throng of the antechamber. ‘… So many well-bred young gentlemen!… who rose at five, having wakened at midnight for the Matins of the Religious, and who fasted each Friday and Saturday and all Eves of our Blessed Lady. Who believed, poor Lady, that time lost which was spent dressing herself.’
‘She was not permitted, dear grandmother,’ Jane Dormer said, ‘the joys which we celebrate.’
‘That is so.’ Arrested, Lady Dormer raised a delicate hand. ‘The Cardinal Legate, restored to us after twenty years’ banishment. The coming to this land of trouble of the greatest of princes on earth, to be spouse and son, as of old, to this Virgin …’
‘With his disciples around him,’ said Philippa. A man with black eyes and earrings smiled at her.
‘… and the return of England, triumphant, to the See Apostolic upon the devoted petition of Parliament … Don Alfonso.’
‘My Lady Dormer,’ said the man with black eyes, smiling at Lady Dormer. ‘May I assist you? You wish to pass to the royal apartments?’
On principle, Jane’s formidable grandmother never spoke Spanish. ‘There is no need, I thank you,’ she said, her old eyes surveying, in one level stare, all the extravagances of Spanish high fashion. ‘Mistress Jane is not yet due for her service, and Mistress Philippa is here to become acquainted with those more familiar at Court.’ She turned to Philippa, and Philippa met the black eyes, her own well-drilled brown ones quite blank. ‘Let me present Don Alfonso Derronda, secretary to the Prince of Melito. Mistress Philippa Crawford.’
The young Spanish gentleman, recovering from his bow to Jane Dormer, bestowed an even more convolute gesture on Philippa. He floated upright with his rosy lips open. ‘But a coincidence!’ he cried. ‘Mistress Crawford! I have been required to present her to the Prince at the first opportunity.’
The hooded eyes studied him. ‘The first opportunity has not yet occurred,’ said Lady Dormer. ‘When it does, I shall present her.’ Through the chatter of high English voices and the flow of Spanish, halting and fluent, her voice sounded cold. Someone near broke into laughter and a string consort, playing unseen in the fretted room high in the screen, embarked on a galliard. The long room was too crowded for dancing, but the conversation, as if in sympathy, quickened and sparkled. A voice, recently heard, said to Don Alfonso, ‘Let me present her. The Prince of Melito is standing just over there.’
Lady Lennox had appeared beside Philippa. In two more skilful minutes, she and Don Alfonso were pressing through the bright crowd, with Philippa captured between them. At the far end of the room, smiling, Lady Lennox came to a halt, her furred oversleeves swinging, and the young Spaniard laughed and lifted his ey
ebrows. ‘I see no Don Ruy Gomez de Silva.’
Margaret Lennox allowed her fine eyes to rest first on the Spaniard and then on Philippa Somerville. ‘Because he is changing his costume for cane-play, as you well know, Don Alfonso. You also know that my poor Lady Dormer dislikes him.’
‘She thinks him a cynic,’ Don Alfonso said.
‘As he is,’ said Lady Lennox.
‘A realist,’ said the young Spaniard. ‘Upon the devoted petition of Parliament! How impartial, one wonders, were the recent elections to Parliament, and is it not a coincidence that barely a member inimical to Holy Church and the Queen’s will was returned? Has this stiff-necked people, one asks oneself, really been led back so soon to the obedience of the Church? Last year they denied the Sacrament and married their clergy. This year, as they tell me, all their beliefs have been altered. Can it be true that, as Cotswold lions, the people of England follow the faith of their King: Judaism or Mahometism—it is all one to them? Does Parliament really represent the wish of the people?’
Lady Lennox did not wince, nor move as much as would stir the folds of black velvet laid under her jewel-sewn head-dress. She said, ‘How can you doubt it? What else are we assisting their Majesties to celebrate?’
‘The slicking down,’ said Don Alfonso, ‘of the thread of rebellion.’ Margaret Lennox laughed. ‘Gloomy Spaniard! Will it stay down, do you think?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Don Alfonso. ‘Or perhaps, looking again, we shall see not a single frayed thread, but a yawning black hell-hole of heresy.… If Mistress Crawford permits, might your humble servant take her to the cane-play?’
Philippa switched her obedient gaze to Lady Lennox, who smiled and laid a splendid ringed hand on her shoulder. ‘Mistress Crawford, I am sure, would prefer to be called Mistress Philippa. Her marriage is soon to be null: perhaps Lady Dormer omitted to tell you. And yes, I am convinced that cane-play would appeal to her much more than the troubles of government. Although I do not suggest negligence in study. Master Elder, my son Darnley’s tutor, has told me today that he would be happy, Mistress Philippa, to make you his pupil. A touch of the Latin tongue is advantageous in the household of princes.’
‘How kind you are,’ Philippa said. ‘If my readings with Mr Ascham allow it, I should be privileged to study with Mr Elder as well.’
There was an elegant silence. Then Margaret Lennox smiled and touched the warm, scented surface of Philippa’s cheek. ‘I have offended you. Don’t hold it against me. I am merely anxious to help. Don Alfonso, take good care of her. I suspect she is a mine of accomplishments.’
‘So you are not afraid of her,’ said Don Alfonso, after the Countess had gone. ‘Although she is a formidable lady. You know, I suppose, that John Elder and Roger Ascham love each other as do God and the Devil?’
‘Yes,’ said Philippa.
‘And if the Queen’s Latin secretary will take you, then you must be a pupil of promise indeed.’
‘My Latin is promising,’ Philippa said, ‘but my English not necessarily so.’
‘Then we shall converse in Latin,’ said her new conquest promptly. ‘Although not in the hearing of Lady Lennox.’
Lady Lennox had half crossed the hall when a man she did not know, from the privy clerk’s office, hurried after her and asked if she would repeat the name of the lady to whom she had been speaking. Lady Lennox did so, with courteous precision, and asked him his own, which was Bartholomew Lychpole.
Chapter 7
The cane-play was an artistic disaster. To the thud of kettle-drum and fluting of trumpets the six quadrilles of riders wove through the long hall at Westminster and re-created with exquisite horsemanship the delicate tilting with reeds brought to Castile long before by the Arabs. The audience chattered.
Watching from the gallery, Philippa was pained, and said so. The bands of the Duke of Alva, Ruy Gomez de Silva and Don Diego de Acevedo moved forward, in a shimmer of tissue and a glow of deep-coloured velvets. ‘It was worse the last time,’ said Don Alfonso beside her. ‘Last time your English friends laughed. They prefer something coarser, with blood in it. Have you distinguished King Philip?’
The shields glanced; the canes with their long streamers arched through the air. Protected by tapestried barriers, the Queen sat with her ladies, dressed at King Philip’s expense, like a box of great nodding peonies. Jane, now on duty, looked grave in purple velvet banded with silver. On the other hand, Jane suited purple. Philippa said, ‘Which is the King?’
‘Opposite Ruy Gomez. In purple and silver, in the band led by Don Diego de Cordova,’ said Ruy Gomez’s secretary. Since he had discovered she also spoke Spanish, his black eyes, to her mild alarm, had outshone even his earrings.
‘Oh,’ said Philippa. Bearing the royal shield was the very high and mighty Prince Philip, sole heir to the realms and dominions of Spain, whose father had thrust upon him the titles of Naples and Sicily in time to call him King at his marriage. A widower, with a nine-year-old son, married to his aunt, twelve years older. A man of twenty-seven, small, bearded and colourless, with thick lips and a narrow, aquiline nose who was far, Philippa noted with regret, from being a natural-born athlete.
A cane, hurled a little awry, was deftly caught and retained by an anonymous English spectator in another part of the gallery. There was a small derisive cheer from his companions. The rider waited a moment, head upturned; then, as it was not thrown back, turned his horse into its pattern again. Another cane was passed to him. ‘I am told,’ Philippa said, ‘that unlike Henri of France, King Philip doesn’t care for pageants or field sports or chivalry.’
Don Alfonso raised his black eyebrows, sneezed, and apologized. ‘It is the climate,’ he said. ‘We are sick with the rheum. First the rolling at sea; then the rain at the wedding. No, he dislikes physical games. His father writes him, For the love of God, appear to be pleased, for there is nothing that could be of greater effect in the service of God, or against France.’ Another cane flew in the air. ‘For what return? His favours would soften stones. He has given pensions of nearly sixty thousand gold crowns to the Queen’s Council alone. He well knows how to pass over those fields of fleshly experience where your good Queen is not gifted: he treats her so deferentially as to appear her son, and the Prince heard him almost use love-talk last week.… For what? His coronation is delayed. They laugh at him. They write tasteless ballads and satires. You heard of the polled cat hung up dead like a priest, with a note like a singing-cake stuck in its paws?’
‘Yes,’ said Philippa. The King had lost his cane and someone had thrown him one from the gallery, slightly misaimed. He dropped it.
‘And always the threat of rebellion. We daren’t leave Spain for months because of it, and even then only with disguised soldiers for servants, and our chests full of hackbuts. The English do not speak to us, except to pick quarrels. We are warned to stay in after dark for the robbers. We move among these people like animals, trying not to notice them, and they likewise with us. He was not going to a marriage feast, Philip said, but to a fight. As soon as his Highness was King of England, they said, we should be masters of France. And here we are. Decisions are taken, armies are directed by women without us, and so long as Parliament sits, we dare not leave England.’ He sneezed, with violence. ‘England: a Paradise inhabited by devils.’
Philippa said, ‘You need bed and a hot drink and a little less fluent self-pity. Is Spain so wonderful?’
‘Bed?’ said Don Alfonso, and nearly captured her hand, before she slid it away. ‘That, I do not deny, is a condition I greatly desire. Spain? It is wonderful, yes. For King Philip, his splendid Doña Isabel de Osario and their family. For me, I do not deny, a pretty face here and there. But in Spain our ladies do not kiss their friends on the lips in the streets, or dine with them unescorted, or show so much leg as they ride. When may I see you again?’
Below, on a ground strewn with half-broken rods, the cane-play was ending. The gallery had lost interest, although one or two canes were still bei
ng thrown: As Philippa watched, another sprang through the air and pricked King Philip’s horse, sliding past before he could catch it. He reined in, looking upwards. ‘Did you hear,’ said Don Alfonso, ‘of the baiting on the Bankside? A blind bear got loose, and bit a man on the leg. That is the kind of sport, they say, that we should provide for the English.’
‘If you are sure,’ Philippa said, ‘that the man won’t bite back.’
*
The following day, Philippa entered the service of Mary Tudor, this small, quick-spoken woman who prayed and worked with such alarming single-mindedness: who played the lute, through sheer force of practice, better than all of her ladies, yet had no eye for what would enhance her appearance: who hung her walls with goldwork on her tapestries, and her person with stiff, long-trained dresses paved with old-fashioned jewels. The jewels which her father’s second wife Anne Boleyn had sent to wrest from her mother, and which her mentor the Countess of Salisbury had refused to give up. But Mary’s mother had not lived long after that, and Lady Salisbury had been beheaded, and Mary to save her own life had signed the three articles King Henry demanded: that she submitted to her father the King. That she recognized him as the head of the church in England. And that the marriage between the King and his first wife her mother was by God’s law and man’s law incestuous and unlawful, thus making a bastard of herself and a princess of her sister Elizabeth.
Small wonder, thought Philippa, that after the degradation, the poverty, the humiliation of that, one’s first act on becoming Queen was to repeal one’s father’s unnatural laws, thus making oneself legitimate and bastardizing one’s sister. And the second, to wear all one’s rightful regalia and a pair of breeches if necessary, to show that, woman or not, here was the heir blessed by God under whom the kingdom would flourish.
The Ringed Castle: Fifth in the Legendary Lymond Chronicles Page 12