Rosamund (37 page)

“Do the French kings then brag on their mistresses?” Rosamund asked him, surprised. “What lady of decent moral character would want it known that she serviced her king like a ewe sheep services a ram?”

“My dear girl, the French consider it an honor to
service,
as you so quaintly put it, their king. Why, even sisters have been known to share a monarch’s favor,” Lord Cambridge replied. “And their allies, our neighbors to the north, are as bad. The Stuart kings are considered the most
loving men in all of the known world. There is scarcely a family in Scotland that they have not mingled their blood with, I am told. Why, the current King James could not be brought to wed with our own Princess Margaret until someone in his court, with more sense than the king himself, poisoned his longtime mistress, Maggie Drummond. Only after Mistress Drummond and her sisters who were at breakfast together were murdered, did James Stuart honor his contract with England. But he is known to have several other ladies in his favor as well, although it was the Drummond girl who had his heart, they say. No. Kings have mistresses the world over, but here in England we attempt to keep it as circumspect as we possibly can.”

“For a man who doesn’t love women you have a great understanding of them and of human nature, cousin. Perhaps I should be better off going home to my brazen Scot,” Rosamund said with a small smile.

He smiled back at her, then replied, “The die is now cast, cousin. Aye, you can refuse the king, but you will suffer the consequences if you do. You must try to see his advances in another light, dear girl. If you are very discreet and beg the king to be doubly so, it is unlikely anyone will find out about your naughtiness. Who would believe that the king would approach you, a widow of an unimportant family, and no connections? And given the debacle of last spring, the king will certainly be looking to be very,
very
discreet.” Lord Cambridge chuckled. “So it is unlikely that anyone will learn of your misstep along the road of virtue. The king is young, and he is handsome. He is known to be both passionate and kind. He can be generous, and you have three daughters you will need respectable husbands for one day, my dear. You are a widow and will bring no shame on your husband or his family name, unlike the Duke of Buckingham’s bawdy sisters. And in his whole life Henry Tudor has never been known to forget a favor done him.”

“You reason like a whoremaster, cousin,” Rosamund told him.

Thomas Bolton laughed. “You are not a virgin, Rosamund,” he reminded her with a rather wicked grin.

“You are shameless, Tom!” she scolded, but she was smiling.

“And would you like to be?” he teased her back.

“Aye,” she said, surprising him. “I think I would. My whole life I have done exactly what was expected of me, even when I didn’t want to, cousin. Still, my conscience is troubled, for I love the queen.”

“Your conscience will always trouble you in this matter, my dear girl,” he said wisely, “but there is no help for it, I fear. Henry Tudor should not have married Katherine of Aragon. He should have taken a little more time, but she was convenient, she was there, and he has always been an impatient man. His father meant him for the church until poor Arthur died. Henry would have never made a good priest.”

“Not with his passion for women,” Rosamund observed. “Is it just Katherine, or would he have been unfaithful with another wife, Tom? I don’t understand it.”

“It is his nature to take whatever he desires, be it a sweetmeat or a woman,” Lord Cambridge replied. “Now, dear girl, I have had enough of this subject. You know what you will do, must do. What I want to know is what you have chosen to wear today?”

“The Tudor-green silk,” she responded. “Somehow it now seems even more appropriate now than when I first chose it.”

He nodded. “Go along then and prepare yourself,” he advised her, but Lord Cambridge remained seated upon the bench overlooking the river Thames considering all he had heard. He knew, if Rosamund didn’t, that the king, having approached her this morning, would of course seek to have her as soon as possible. And wishing to be cautious he would probably visit her here at Bolton Greenwich. And soon. And the king’s nature being what it was, the affair would last no longer than summer’s end, if then. Aye, he would encourage Rosamund to beg the queen’s leave to go home to Friarsgate in late summer, to leave the progress somewhere in the midlands and travel south to Cumbria. It would be better for all concerned.

I shall go with her,
Lord Cambridge decided. While Friarsgate was primitive by his standards, it was nonetheless a comfortable house. He would remain through the autumn and return home to Bolton House for the Christmas festivities. Having settled his calendar for the remainder of the year, Tom Bolton got up and returned to the house where he prepared to escort his cousin back to the palace in the afternoon.

Several hours later, ready to depart, the cousins admired each other’s costumes. Rosamund’s gown was of Tudor-green silk with a split skirt showing an embroidered and quilted underskirt of a deeper green and white brocade. The low square neckline of her dress was embroidered with gold thread and tiny pearls. Her deep cuffs on the sleeves of the gown were also embroidered in gold and pearls. Her chemise was so sheer that it was almost invisible above her bodice but for its delicate round neckline which was sewn with small pearls. The banded cuffs of the chemise’s full sleeves which showed beneath her gown sleeves were also decorated with pearls. A simple veil, held with a wreath of flowers, topped her auburn head.

“It is perfect,” Lord Cambridge said, delighted with her costume.

“You also, cousin,” Rosamund replied as she considered his dress this day. His white silk hose were decorated with embroidered gold leaves and vines. He wore a short, full, pleated coat of Tudor-green silk damask with full puffed embroidered and slashed sleeves. The high stand collar of his shirt was pleated and showed above his coat just enough to be admired. The exaggerated codpiece he wore was decorated with multicolored jewels and pearls. His gloves were gold velvet with pearl embroidery on the cuffs. His square-toed shoes were of a fine soft black leather, and on his head he wore a hat with a silk taffeta crown and a stiff flat brim. It was green and sported a white ostrich plume.

Sir Thomas preened for Rosamund, posing and displaying his rather handsome legs. “Well?” he demanded.

“I am at a loss for words, Tom, for I have never seen you so decked out,” she told him.

“It is May Day, and the king’s favorite holiday,” was his answer. Then he smiled. “Shall we go, dear cousin?”

Because it was more convenient, they decided to walk from Bolton Greenwich through its garden and into the king’s park to the palace. The hunt was over. It had been successful, and several deer were now being butchered and hung for future meals. The king and his companions had decided to stage a small tournament with jousting for everyone’s amusement. The winner of the tourney would choose the queen of the May.
Rosamund and her cousin took their places in the stands with the rest of the court, Rosamund positioning herself among the queen’s women while Lord Cambridge joined some friends.

The knights were brave and bold. One by one they found themselves unhorsed until only the king and Charles Brandon were remaining. Brandon was a worthy opponent for the king. Time and time again they clashed, their lances ringing loudly against their shields. But finally the king’s horse stumbled slightly, and Brandon’s lance sent Henry Tudor from his mount. A cry went up from the stands, and Brandon was immediately off his horse and running to the king’s side.

The king struggled to his feet, laughing as he pulled off his helmet. “Well played, Charles,” he said, graciously acknowledging his defeat. Then he looked around and said, “It would appear that my horse threw his shoe, but then that is the luck of the joust.” He waved a groom forward and instructed him to see the horse was cared for, the shoe restored, and to make certain that the beast had not been injured in the accident. Turning again, he announced, “I declare Charles Brandon the winner of this May Day Tourney, and say it is his duty to choose the queen of the May for us now.”

Charles Brandon stood before the royal box. “Your majesty,” he said to Katherine, “it would not be seemly for me to ask you, already a queen, to be this festival’s queen. I ask your royal permission to choose from among the ladies with you.”

“You have my permission,” the queen replied, smiling.

“Then I would choose the Princess Mary,” Brandon answered without a moment’s hesitation.

The king’s fifteen-year-old sister stepped forward and received the delicate silver and gold wreath of the May Queen from Charles Brandon. “I am honored to be your queen, Charles Brandon,” she said.

The king’s eyes narrowed speculatively. Mary was young, and she was a romantic little fool. He had other plans for her, and he did not think he wanted Charles Brandon, for all their friendship, interfering with those plans or meddling with his sister. But the king looked benevolently on this scene as his sister smiled at his opponent. He must see that from now
on they did not spend any time together. Then, as he looked briefly at the ladies surrounding his wife, he saw the fair Rosamund. How beautiful she looked, he thought. She was the perfect English rose. Then he smiled and bowed to his wife and her ladies. Aye, the fair Rosamund was a delicate treat, and he intended to have her.

She had felt his eyes lingering on her but the briefest moment. She had not looked at him, nor appeared to notice. Whatever happened she must never give hurt to the queen. And once again, as she had so often these past months, she wished that she were safe at home at Friarsgate. Edmund kept her informed on a regular basis with his letters. Everything was fine, he assured. Her daughters thrived, and other than Philippa, gave little indication that they missed her. The ewes had birthed an unusual number of lambs this season with more double births than he had seen in many a year, Edmund reported. The planting was done. Henry had not visited. All was exactly as it should be. It was somewhat unsettling to think that everything was all right at Friarsgate and she was not a part of it.

They had left the stands, and the ladies chosen to dance about the maypole now went to take their places. The music played, and the dance began. Each lady held a different-colored ribbon silk. The colors were red, deep blue, green, yellow, violet, pink, sky blue, lavender, gold, and silver. The ten women danced a seemingly simple step as they moved about the pole, weaving their ribbons into an intricate design as they sang about the month of May and all its beauties. Finally the dance came to an end. The pole was decorated, the ribbon ends fluttering in the gentle late-afternoon breeze.

A feast was now held. In keeping with the beautiful spring day, tables had been set up on the lawns of the palace, and as the guests found their seats the servants were already running back and forth from the kitchens with platters and bowls. Pits had been dug where sides of beef packed in rock salt were being roasted slowly on enormous iron spits. Each side had four young lads serving as turnspits. There were barrels of oysters that were cracked open and served raw. Platters of trout, salmon, and prawns were offered. There were any number of roasted birds, ducks, capons, and swans. There were meat pies filled with rabbit, small game birds, and
venison. There were stuffed piglings, lamprey eels in a spicy sauce; black-manger, which was a chicken dish made with rice, almonds, and sugar; artichokes that had been steamed in white wine; braised lettuces; new peas; breads and butter and several varieties of cheeses.

By tradition all the food should have been green in honor of the day, but the queen had put her foot down though the king protested. Only the trenchers of bread that were used had been dyed green. Since the trenchers were hollowed out to serve as dishes it didn’t make a great deal of difference as they simply looked like green pottery. To the delight of many, old-fashioned mead was served on this holiday, along with the wine and ale. The court ate, and it ate, yet when the subtleties were finally served they were as eagerly devoured as if the guests had eaten nothing before them.

Archery butts had been set up on the lawns. The men competed at shooting, the king winning the competition. They played at bowls until the twilight made it difficult to see the pins and the balls. Torches were set out. The musicians played as the court danced in line, or in a circle. Eventually the king danced for them all, leaping high, twirling his sister Mary about, as she laughed, both encouraging and taunting him to even greater jumps. No one, it was honestly said, could dance as well as King Henry Tudor. Finally the queen withdrew, taking her women with her. She was tired, and she knew that the king would visit her bed again tonight, for he had already made his intentions known to her earlier. She was not yet pregnant, and while the little prince was yet mourned, a live heir was desperately needed.

“Will you remain here tonight, Rosamund?” Inez asked.

“Nay, I am not required,” Rosamund replied, “and one of the benefits of coming to Greenwich is that my cousin’s house is next door to the palace. I have my chamber there. If you need a sleeping place, Inez, I could accommodate you.”

“Nay,” Inez replied, “but I thank you for the offer. Maria has a little room of her very own, and I sleep with my sister.”

“Then I will bid you good night,” Rosamund told her, and departed the queen’s apartments. She saw Tom speaking with the king’s friend, Will Compton, and he waved at her. She waved back, and continued on her
way into the darkening park and through the trees to the brick garden wall that separated Tom’s house from the king’s palace. Finding the latch in the almost dark she hurried through into the gardens of Bolton Greenwich, thinking suddenly how convenient it was that this garden was identical to the one at Bolton House. She had no need of light for she knew exactly where she was going.