Chapter 16
T he king would make no treaty excluding France with his wife’s nephew. Henry Tudor preferred to keep all his options open. He did agree to meet again with Charles at Gravelines, which was imperial territory, after his meeting with King Francois. The young emperor left for Sandwich on Tuesday evening, the twenty-ninth of May. The following morning, the king and the court departed for Dover where they embarked in a fleet of twenty-seven vessels led by his majesty’s own personal ship, Henri Grace à Dieu, more familiarly known as the Great Harry. It took nine hundred sailors to manage the huge vessel, which had been built seven years earlier to the king’s exact specifications by over a hundred carpenters and shipwrights.
Newly refitted for this summer progress, the Great Harry had magnificent cloth of gold sails that billowed perfectly in the summer breezes. There was not a mast that did not fly a beautiful banner or exquisite pennant. The king knew the French had nothing like this incredible ship. And while he was sorry his rival king would not be at Calais to see it, he knew that everything about the vessel would be reported in minute detail to Francois. Only his late brother-in-law’s the Great Michael could have come close to the sumptuousness of the Great Harry. But James IV of Scotland was dead, and his ship lost but to memory.
Three thousand nine hundred and ninety-seven persons made up the king’s retinue. There were peers and bishops; the king’s personal secretary, Richard Pace; twelve chaplains; and the entire staff of the Chapel Royal. There were heralds, two hundred guards, seventy grooms of the chamber, and two hundred sixty-six household officers, each with their own servants. The queen’s party totaled eleven hundred and seventy-five persons, all of whom traveled with their servants. Philippa and Lucy were counted among them. Cardinal Wolsey had a train of gentlemen, among them the earl of Witton, chaplains, and two hundred thirty-seven servants. The duke of Buckingham and Archbishop Warham were not allowed as many retainers as was Wolsey All in all, five thousand one hundred seventy-two people and two thousand eight hundred sixty-five horses traveled to France.
The great royal summer progress departed Dover just before dawn on the morning of May thirty-first. By noon they had sailed across the gentle seas to arrive at Calais. The earl and countess of Witton had taken with them in their private ship six of the queen’s ladies and their servants. Among them was Thomas Boleyn’s eldest daughter, Mary, who had spent time at the French court when Mary Tudor had been France’s queen. She seemed pleasant enough to Philippa, but Crispin was not pleased to have her aboard his transport.
“She has a bad reputation,” he told his wife.
“The queen asked me to take her,” Philippa answered her husband. “I could not refuse her, could I? She seems a quiet girl, my lord. What do you hear of her?”
“That she whores easily,” he replied.
“I would assume most whores do so easily, else they would not be whores,” Philippa responded. “Was she ever your whore?”
“Damn it, Philippa!” he swore softly. “No! I have never been eager to travel a road so well used.”
“Is the king traveling that road now?” Philippa asked. “Perhaps that is why the queen wanted me to take her. She must put up with much, but even a queen is entitled to a respite now and again. This is a hard trip for her. She prefers her summers at Woodstock these days. She says the quiet there reminds her of a convent, and allows her to concentrate on her prayers.”
“There are rumors, aye,” the earl said. “Now that Bessie Blount is gone, and the queen pronounced barren of future children, he is restless. Mary Boleyn is of easy virtue, and not apt to seek to outshine or insult the queen.”
“How tragic that the king’s only son should be bastard-born,” Philippa remarked.
“The king is young, and can marry again,” the earl said.
“He is married,” Philippa said sharply.
“He will eventually find a way to dispose of his old queen, and take a new, fecund one,” the earl answered quietly. “There is precedent for this, Philippa, and Henry Tudor will have his son. He does not mean the Tudor dynasty his father sought to build to end with him. Any husband Princess Mary takes one day will have to be equal to her in rank. This means a king to her queen. England will not want a foreign-born king ruling them.”
“Such a thing will never happen,” Philippa said firmly.
They remained upon their vessel until June third, when the great train began its departure for Guisnes, where the summit was to be held. Philippa was awestruck by the small city that had been constructed to house the two kings and their retinues. Bishop Fisher, however, was appalled by the abundance of extravagance. He shook his head at the excess, among the few to notice the gathering of beggars surrounding the encampment in hopes of receiving alms.
The French had put up four hundred tents by the side of a river bordering the village of Ardres, while the English pitched two thousand eight hundred tents by the village of Guisnes. The French king had a tent made from cloth of gold. Its canvas roof was painted with astrological signs and stars. Its interior entrance was filled with young trees and pots of ivy. A great gilt statue of Saint Michael sat in the entry’s center, reflecting the sunlight that touched it through the wide opening of the pavilion.
The English king, however, more than equaled his fellow monarch. Six thousand carpenters, masons, brick-layers, and others had spent months building an Italianate palace for Henry Tudor and his guests. It had been fashioned of stone and brick, and was embellished with battlements and crenellations. There was much ornamental tile work, fan-shaped stone and ironwork ornamentations, and life-size statues of famous heroes filling every niche. From the comers of the roofs sprang heraldic animals of stone. From the center of the palace sprang a six-sided cupola topped with more fantastic beasts, and a life-size gilt angel. Long arched windows of glass lined the upper floor of Henry Tudor’s temporary summer palace.
Inside, all the windows were edged in gold inlay. The most precious rugs, tapestries, silk hangings, furniture, and ornaments had been transported to France from Greenwich and Richmond palaces in order to furnish this fairy-tale castle. There was a little chapel with altar cloths of gold tissue embroidered with pearls and other gemstones. The candlesticks and the chalices had been brought from Westminster Abbey for the occasion. There were gold statues of the twelve apostles half the size of a grown man. But most amazing of all were the two fountains in the open planted courtyard of this castle. One poured forth claret, or hippocras, and the other ran with beer or ale for any and all who cared to drink.
The earl and countess of Witton were rather relieved to find their tent set up on the edge of the English area between the queen’s and the cardinal’s sections. Lord Cambridge had arranged a fine canvas tent, with an awning before it where the horses might be sheltered. Inside, the tent was divided into two sections, one for sleeping and the other for eating or entertaining. Lucy would sleep in the main section. Peter would bed with the horses outside so they would not be stolen. The earl’s man had made a small fire outside their pavilion, and set braziers with burning coals in each of the tent’s two rooms to take the dampness and chill from the air inside. There was a table and several chairs in the front of their accommodation, and a pallet for Lucy in the far comer. In the back chamber of the tent their trunks had been set out along with a bed, a chair, and a small table. Peter had cleverly strung a line in this back room, and Lucy was already laying out her mistress’s gowns across it.
They had barely gotten themselves settled when they had a visitor. A gentleman of medium height, dressed in splendid garments, and just faintly resembling Crispin St. Claire, entered their pavilion. He looked about and then, spotting the earl, cried, “Mon chou! It is you! I was not certain you were still in service to Monsieur le Cardinal!”
“Guy-Paul,” the earl said, coming to greet their guest. “And I am no longer in the cardinal’s service, but my wife is one of the queen’s women.”
“Wife? You have taken a wife, Crispin?”
“Do you not think it was about time, Guy-Paul? Philippa, this is my cousin, Guy-Paul St. Claire, the comte de Renard. Cousin, my wife.”
Philippa held out her hand to the count. “Monsieur le comte,” she said politely.
“Madame la comtesse,” he said, his blue eyes sweeping over her. He kissed her hand and then, taking her by the shoulders, kissed both of her cheeks. Then setting her back he said admiringly, “Mon cher Crispin, you have a most beautiful wife.”
“How charming of you to say it, though it be not true, monsieur le comte,” Philippa quickly spoke up for herself. “I will admit to being a pretty woman, but nothing more.” She smiled at him, moving back just slightly. “However, you will find among our court several great beauties.”
Guy-Paul St. Claire looked slightly surprised by her words, but then he grinned. “I can see, madame la comtesse, that I shall not win you over with my charm.”
“Only a little bit,” Philippa returned. “Please, will you not sit?” She turned to her husband. “I will fetch wine, my lord.” She moved away to a table along the side of the tent where a tray with decanters and goblets had been set up.
The two men sat, and the Frenchman asked, “How long have you had this wife, cousin? I do not remember you having a wife the last time we met.”
“We were wed the last day of April,” came the answer.
“She is rich?” The question was blunt, but fair.
“She had a piece of property I desired, and came with a good-sized dowry as well,” the earl replied.
“But not of a noble family,” the comte said.
The earl shook his head. “She was an excellent bargain nonetheless, and her connections cannot be faulted. Her mother is a friend of the queen, and Philippa has been in service to Katherine for four years. The queen is most fond of my wife.”
Guy-Paul St. Claire nodded. “It is good every few generations to wed a woman from a slightly lower class. It strengthens the blood,” he observed. “I must consider it myself one of these days. The family is becoming most demanding, I fear. My sister says I shall have no seed for sons left if I keep having bastards.” He chuckled.
“How many now?” his cousin inquired.
The comte considered thoughtfully. “I think it is eight sons, and four daughters.”
“You have always been a man to do things in the grand manner,” the earl responded. “But it is time, Guy-Paul, to take a wife. I recommend it. And you are two years older than I am, after all.”
“Wine, my lords,” Philippa said, holding out a tray. She had listened carefully, and overheard everything the two men had said.
“Sit down and join us, chérie,” the comte invited her, and she did.
“I was not aware my husband had relations in France,” she murmured, and sipped at her own wine. There was so much she didn’t know about Crispin, other than the fact they had a great deal of enjoyment from each other in their bedsport.
“The common ancestor had two sons,” the comte told her. “The eldest, of course, was his heir. The younger went with Duke William of Normandy when he claimed England. He was rewarded for his service with lands there.”
“But,” the earl took up the tale, “the two branches of the family have never grown apart. We have fought on opposite sides against one another in the service of our kings. We have fought side by side on crusade. I spent two summers as a boy here in France with the St. Claires, and Guy-Paul spent two summers in England with me. Our women have married their cousins now and again. Each generation corresponds.”
Philippa nodded. “I like that your families have always kept in contact with each other. Once my mother’s family had a similar situation, but they did not remain close. Only a fortunate coincidence brought us back together again.”
“You are one of the queen’s women, Crispin tells me,” the comte said.
“I have been a maid of honor for four years,” Philippa responded. “When we return to England, however, the queen has said she is dismissing me so I may do my duty as my husband’s wife, and give him heirs. She did not do so sooner because she knows how very much I wanted to come to France with her, and how I will miss my service.”
“Then you like this court of your King Henry,” he replied.
“It is the finest court in all the world!” Philippa said enthusiastically.
“How shall you bear not being a part of it?” he asked slyly.
“I cannot, but I will,” Philippa responded. “My father was in service to the Tudors from the time he was six years of age. My mother has husbanded a large estate, and made it more profitable since she was three years of age. Duty, monsieur le comte, has been bred into me. While I shall miss being with the queen, my duty now is to my husband, and I have never failed in my duty.”
Guy-Paul St. Claire was slightly taken aback by Philippa’s statement. She looked so young. So delicious. So female. To learn she was of far sterner stuff than she appeared was quite surprising. More interesting, his cousin looked happy and pleased by his young wife’s words. “Madame, I salute you,” he said, “and Crispin, I believe I shall envy you, which I have certainly never done before.”
Philippa arose from her chair. “My lords,” she said, “I shall leave you to renew your acquaintance. I am quite fatigued with all our travels. Lucy, attend me,” she called to her tiring woman. Then she curtseyed to the two men and moved through the brocade curtain that separated the two halves of the pavilion.
“She is so young, but so fierce,” the Frenchman noted. “Is she as fierce in your bed, cousin? If you answer oui I shall indeed be envious.” He grinned.
“Oui,” the earl said, returning the grin.
The comte de Renard looked pained. “It is intolerable,” he said. “Tell me how you gained such a lovely little treasure, cousin.”
The earl explained, and when he had finished his relative shook his head, but Crispin St. Claire only chuckled. “If you would seek among the wealthy bourgeois you could probably find just such a wife, Guy-Paul, but I suspect you are too lazy to even try. Still you will have to eventually, mon cousin.”
“Perhaps after this spectacle has run its course, mon chou,” the comte replied. “I have no duties other than to be amusing, which is why I am here. Francois has brought half the people your king has. I suppose being the superior, he feels he need not try as hard as your king Henry.”
The earl laughed. “Do not say such a thing aloud again, Guy-Paul. Any other Englishman hearing you would take umbrage and challenge you to a duel, which you would, of course, win, and then there would be merry hell to pay. All my king has done he has done in order to impress upon your king and the French that he is the superior one. Remember that one day his daughter will be France’s queen.”
The comte de Renard shrugged. “I wonder if that will indeed happen, or if the English queen will get her way to see her daughter wed to Spain. These betrothals are but pieces on a game board, cousin, and you know it as well as I do.”
“Indeed, but for now the princess Mary and the young Dauphin are matched,” the earl noted. “England and France are lovers.”
“With Spain waiting eagerly in the wings,” the comte said.
“Charles must wed long before our little princess is ready for marriage,” the earl responded. “His responsibilities are great.”
The two men continued to speak back and forth for some time before they finally parted, agreeing to meet again. The meeting of the two kings, which was the summer’s first great event, would not occur for another two days. It was a choreographed event that had been carefully planned. The two kings spoke through their messengers. Cardinal Wolsey was the king’s emissary. Each time he rode out he was accompanied by fifty mounted gentlemen in crimson velvet with fifty ushers bearing gold maces. His gold cross with its bejeweled crucifix went ahead of Cardinal Wolsey, who rode upon a magnificently caparisoned mule, surrounded by his priests. One hundred mounted archers brought up the rear of his train. The cardinal’s great entourage was much talked about.
Though the French had attempted to prevent and discourage it, many spectators came to drink the English king’s wine and to gawk at the great assemblage of royalty and its two courts. Beggars and peddlers appeared at the tents of the courtiers. The earl’s Peter had to hire two young men from the nearby village to guard his master’s belongings. He was not pleased, for he could not be certain that they would not steal from the earl and his wife in the end.
Finally the day of the first meeting came. It was June seventh, the feast of Corpus Christi. Artificial hills had been erected at either end of the entrances to the val d’ore , or golden valley, as it was called. In late afternoon the trumpets sounded. The English rode out from their encampment, the French from theirs. Each king was accompanied by a party of his courtiers. Henry wore cloth of gold and silver. It was heavily bejeweled. He had a black feathered bonnet and his Order of the Garter collar. His bay stallion was hung with golden bells that tinkled, and he was attended by his Yeomen of the Guard. The French king, not to be outdone, was as splendid in jewel-encrusted cloth of gold and silver. He wore white boots on his large feet, and a black cap. The French monarch was escorted by his Swiss Guards.
Reaching the top of their respective hillocks at the entrance to the valley, each king stopped. At the sound of trumpets and sackbuts they galloped down the mounts and into the valley towards each other. Taking their caps off with a grand flourish, Henry and Francois embraced each other, still a-horse, although the English bay danced nervously, bringing the embrace to a quick close. Then, dismounting, arm in arm they entered a small pavilion that had been set up for their meeting, thus avoiding the sticky issue of which king should go first. Inside there were chairs, cushions, and refreshments. Once inside, the two kings were joined by Cardinal Wolsey and the French admiral Bonnivet. The articles of the meeting were read out, as were Henry’s titles, including King of France.
Henry Tudor laughed. “I fear that the presence of mon frère Francois would invalidate that particular title,” he said, clapping his French counterpart on the back jovially. “And one day our children will make this ancient argument between England and France a moot point, eh?” And he laughed heartily once again.
The two men sat for some time drinking and talking. Finally they arose, went outside once again to the cheers of both parties of onlookers, embraced several more times, and parted, each to return to his own encampment. The sounds of the English oboes and sackbuts and the French flutes and drums filled the air as they went. And for the next few weeks there was feasting and jousting such as few had ever seen.
Philippa barely saw her husband during this time, for her place was with the queen. She hardly slept in their own comfortable pavilion, as she was expected to remain in the queen’s great tent at her mistress’s command. She returned to change her clothes, and among all the English ladies she was the best dressed, according to Guy-Paul St. Claire.
She would have been considered well dressed among the French, he declared gallantly. The English thought the French ladies’ gowns, with their open, low necklines, immodest. The ambassadors from Venice and Mantua thought the French more elegant with few exceptions, but much admired the beautiful gold chains that all of the English ladies seemed to possess. They also remarked that the English ladies drank too much.
On the tenth day of June, the king of France came to pay his respects to Queen Katherine. A banquet was given in his honor, and the choir from the Chapel Royal entertained the guests. Philippa had chosen to wear a gown of green and gold brocade with full sleeves of gold tissue that ended at the wrists in tight bejeweled bands. Her neckline was as fashionable as any French woman’s, and caused some whispering among the other women. The countess of Witton smiled to herself, well pleased. Her hair had been fashioned into a chignon at the nape of her neck, and was decorated with fresh flowers. Not even the French could match her daring style. Upon her head she wore a small gold tissue cap that was sewn with pearls.
The French king had spotted Philippa immediately, and asked among his attendants who she was.
“She is the countess of Witton,” Guy-Paul St. Claire told his master. “She is my English cousin’s new wife, sire.”
“Is she French-born?” Francois asked.
“Non. Indeed she is from the far north of England,” the comte de Renard said.
“Mon Dieu!” Francois exclaimed. “How did such a lovely girl gain such style?”
“I could not tell you, sire,” the comte answered. “I have only just met her myself.”
“I should like to meet her,” the king said, his black eyes narrowing speculatively.
“I think I could arrange it,” Guy-Paul St. Claire murmured. “I am certain that madame la comtesse would be honored, sire.” Now here was a stroke of good fortune, he thought to himself. He did not believe that Crispin’s wife was foolish enough to allow herself to be seduced by his king, but he could certainly gain a small social credit with the king by introducing them. What happened afterward would happen. And Francois was known to be very persuasive where the ladies were concerned. Mayhap he could seduce her. Whatever transpired, it was unlikely the lady would escape totally unscathed. There were many women eager to be seduced by the king of France. One who refused his king would present a challenge, and the comte de Renard knew Francois loved a challenge. But either way, the king would enjoy himself.
“Do so then,” his master replied; then he turned away to smile at his hostess who was even now saying she should like to present her ladies to him. Francois nodded pleasantly, and greeted each of the one hundred and thirty women brought before him with the traditional French dual kiss. Among those ladies was the lovely countess of Witton who curtseyed deeply, revealing a pair of quite magnificent breasts to his eye as she did so. His hands on her shoulders as he kissed her lingered perhaps just a trifle too long. But he also considered that Anne Chambers, another of the queen’s ladies, was quite lovely.
Philippa moved away and found herself in the company of her husband’s cousin once more.
“Cousine.” He smiled toothily at her. “How lovely you are today. My master the king was even now remarking upon it. Would you like to be introduced to him, chérie?”
“I have already been presented by the queen,” Philippa said. She was considering if she liked Crispin’s cousin or not.
“Non, non,” the comte de Renard replied. “My master indeed remarked upon your beauty to me, wondering who you were. Fortunately I was able to enlighten him since you are my cousin’s wife. He has expressed his interest in spending a private moment with you.”
“Amid all this hubbub?” Philippa looked disbelieving. “What you mean, mon cher Guy-Paul, is that your king would like to seduce me. His reputation precedes him, I fear, and I have been a courtier far too long not to know when a man is bent upon seduction. Were I still a maid the answer would be no. However, even though I be a married woman, the answer is still no.” And she laughed. “Do not look so disappointed, mon brave. Did you really believe I should accept such an invitation?” No, she decided, she did not like Guy-Paul St. Claire, but she would be polite to him for Crispin’s sake.
He looked downcast for a moment, but then he said, “Since you are more than aware of my king’s behavior, chérie, you should be in no danger. Crispin tells me that your mama is a good friend of both your king and your queen. Would it not be of value to you to make a friend of France’s king?”
Philippa laughed. “To what purpose, Guy-Paul? If I do not allow myself to be seduced I shall offend King Francois. And I most certainly would not allow myself to be tempted by any man other than my husband, who is your cousin. Do you think that Crispin would approve of your pandering his wife to the king of France?”
The comte de Renard looked deeply offended at her words. “One never knows, madame,” he said, “when one will need a friend in high places. If not for yourself, then for your family. You will have children one day. And Crispin tells me that your mother is involved quite successfully in the merchant trade. Are not your friends her friends? Could having a king of France as an acquaintance not be of help to you one day?”
“I would say you speak wisdom, were I not suspicious of your motives, Guy-Paul. Why on earth would the king of France want to meet me except for the purpose of seduction? And why would you offer up your cousin’s wife to him?”Yet, Philippa thought, if she could make a friend of this king without compromising her virtue it might be of value to her family one day Would it really hurt to attempt such a thing? She didn’t have to succumb to a seduction, after all.
“Madame, you are far too suspicious of me, and I am hurt that you would be. I offer you, an English country girl if the truth be known, the opportunity to meet a king of great renown. What stories you will have to tell your children and your grandchildren one day. That a king of France admired you. That he sought to seduce you, and you resisted, yet kept his friendship. And yes, my king will owe me a small debt for bringing him the beautiful woman he admired. But he would never put your refusal at my door. He is not that kind of man. And you, I believe, are clever enough to keep his amity and goodwill, which cannot do harm to Crispin.”
Philippa was forced to laugh. “You are, I think, a very bad man, Guy-Paul St. Claire. You reason as well as Thomas More, although he is far more godly than you are or will ever be. If I agreed to meet King Francois, when and where would it be?”
The comte de Renard struggled to contain his glee. He had believed that by appealing to her intellect and her devotion to her family he would eventually bring her around to his way of thinking. Yet there was a moment he thought she might refuse him.
“I will not meet him at night,” Philippa quickly said. “And it must be sometime when Crispin is otherwise occupied. He would forbid me, as you are well aware. Then I would be angry, and probably do something foolish,” she finished with a small smile. “Better I tell him after the fact than before it that I have met your king. And he might be angry at you, Guy-Paul. Have you considered that?”
“Perhaps one afternoon after the jousting, and before the evening’s entertainment,” the comte suggested helpfully. He ignored her other words.
“Aye, that would be a good time,” Philippa answered him. “Crispin is usually with his gentlemen friends then.”
“I shall arrange everything,” Guy-Paul said smoothly. He quickly took her hand and kissed it. “Be as charming with him as you have been with me, and King Francois will be enchanted by you, ma chère cousine.”
“I do not wish him to be enchanted,” Philippa said. “I shall meet your king privately, say the right things, and then remove myself from his presence lest he gain the wrong idea of why I am with him. Now go away, for the queen, I can see, is curious as to why we have been in conversation so long. I can hardly repeat our words, now can I?”
While the French king had been visiting Queen Katherine, King Henry had gone to visit the French queen, Claude. He was equally amused, diverted, and dined. Returning home, he met Francois along the way. The two kings stopped for a few moments, each praising the other’s wife, and saying how well they had been treated during their visit. Then, embracing, they continued on their way.
More banquets followed, with Henry celebrating the French knights and Francois entertaining the English knights. One night the two kings dined together in a hall lined in rose-pink silk brocade. On another night Cardinal Wolsey hosted a great feast in honor of the French queen dowager, Louise of Savoy. She was actually far more powerful at the French court than her quiet daughter-in-law, Queen Claude. When the French king was not jousting, or feasting, or flirting with other beautiful women, he was with his mother. He greatly valued her judgment. She considered him a Caesar for this age in which they were now living, and spurred him on in all his ambitions.
The banquets were lavish, with a huge variety of fresh foods and excellent French and Italian wines. The Venetian ambassador was quite shocked by the great capacity that the English women seemed to have for wine. The royal cooks on both sides of the valley worked hard to outdo one another in their menus. Those at the high board, however, usually dined before arriving at these banquets in order that they might talk among themselves during the meal while their courtiers feasted.
Each day was filled with jousting upon a great field that had been created for just this event. It measured nine hundred feet by three hundred and twenty feet in size. On either side of the field grandstands for the royalty and their guests had been built. Two trees of honor, one bearing the hawthorn emblem of King Henry and the other the raspberry leaf emblem of King Francois, were set up. Each of these delusory trees stood thirty-four feet high. Each day the knights entering the lists hung their shields upon these trees, with each king’s shield hung at exactly the same level to show their equality. The rules of protocol had been agreed upon by a council of French and English knights. Swords and lances would be blunted. Even the style of armor was agreed to beforehand.
Stablemen, armorers, and blacksmiths were in the employ of both sides of combatants. They were kept busy repairing the damaged swords and broken lances of the knights who tilted and jousted each day. And in between these jousts, the knights and their squires engaged in all manner of games. By some miracle there was no violence between the English and the French except on the playing field.
It was agreed that the two kings would run the same number of courses and break the same number of lances, although it was decided before the games began that Henry and Francois would not compete against each other. The jousting was so wild and turbulent that at one point sparks flew off of King Henry’s armor. He sprained his hand, and a horse died under him. King Francois managed to get a black eye in his own fray.
Diplomacy was almost lost on the afternoon of June thirteenth when, at a wrestling match between men from the Yeomen of the Guard and some Bretons, Henry challenged Francois to a similar bout. He was thrown by the French king, and while honor demanded that Francois offer Henry another round, his own courtiers wisely prevented it. Henry, however, regained his dignity that afternoon, besting his French rival several times during an archery contest. Francois was no archer, but Henry was quite expert at the sport. Still Francois was aware that Henry, while smiling and charming, was not placated quite yet. Accompanied by two of his own gentlemen, he arrived at the king’s tent several days later before Henry arose, and offered to serve his fellow monarch as valet.
The English king was well pleased by this seeming mark of respect. He complimented Francois, saying the Frenchman had shown him the kind of trust that they should both have in each other. He gifted his fellow monarch with a great collar of bloodred rubies, and received in return a bracelet of diamonds worth at least double. Everyone’s feelings were now well and properly soothed.
The weather had turned unusually hot for mid-June, and on several days the winds blew fiercely. The uninvited were beginning to cause problems, wandering drunkenly about the English encampment, vomiting their surfeit of wine, and collapsing by the fountain from which it poured. The crowds coming to watch the jousting every day grew huge, numbering over ten thousand at one point. It was a dangerous situation, but the provost marshal of the field was unable to control it.
It was on one of those fearsome hot afternoons that Guy-Paul St. Claire greeted Philippa as she stepped from the grandstand where the English sat. “Are you free to walk with me?” he asked her cordially
“Your highness, this is my husband’s cousin, Monsieur le Comte de Renard,” Philippa said to the queen. “If you do not need me I would stroll with him.”
“Of course, my child,” the queen replied. Her eyes briefly touched the Frenchman, and she barely nodded. “I will see you at the banquet tonight.”
Philippa curtseyed. “Thank you, your highness,” she replied, and then taking Guy-Paul’s arm, she moved off with him.
“I wonder if the earl of Witton knows he has a French cousin,” one of the queen’s women said meanly. “He is well named, for he looks like a fox.”
The other women laughed.
“He is indeed the earl’s cousin,” the queen said quietly. “Philippa has told me of him. She was not aware of her husband’s French relations until they arrived here. I think, Alice, that you need to spend more time at prayer asking God and his blessed Mother to help you in curbing your wicked tongue. Of all the ladies who have ever served in my household, only two can be said to be truly virtuous, and one of them is Philippa Meredith. Confess your sin to one of the priests, and do penance, Alice, before you come into my presence again.” Then the queen turned her back on the woman.
Philippa meanwhile found herself escorted through the crowds that had come to watch today’s contests. Her companion discreetly ushered her into the tent the French king used to prepare for the jousts. There Francois, bare-chested and in his haut-de-chausses, was being sponged down by a servant as he sat upon a three-legged stool. He looked up as they entered, smiling somewhat toothily, Philippa thought.
“Madame la comtesse, it is kind of you to come and visit me,” he said. He stood up, and the water sluiced down his broad chest. He was very, very tall. Very masculine.
Philippa took a step back. “Monseigneur le roi.” She curtseyed. “You fought well today, and I see the eye is healing nicely.” Out of the comer of her own eye she could see that Guy-Paul had disappeared, and she knew that she had been foolish to allow him to goad her into coming. What had she been thinking? She knew better than to expect that a brief rendezvous with anyone could be of value to her or her family. Now she stood in danger of doing damage to herself and her husband. She had allowed Guy-Paul to taunt her into this foolishness, and now she must find a way out of the situation.
The French king waved his servant away and took Philippa’s hand in his, raising it slowly to his lips, kissing it, but not releasing it. “I singled you out that day at the queen’s banquet. Of all the English ladies you were the most elegant. Why do your countrywomen dress so dowdily? Do they not wish to be admired?” His black eyes plunged into the shadowed valley between her breasts.
Philippa felt almost violated by the look. She could feel the heat in it, but she knew better than to disclose her feelings. “I have been fortunate in having a relation who has a great flair for style. He has taught me how to dress, although he says I have the proper instincts for garb and for color. I do not know what I should do without the good counsel of my uncle Thomas. Few women could wear this particular shade of yellow.”
“And this oncle has also taught you about jewelry?” He touched the pearls she was wearing. “These are most fine, madame la comtesse.” And his fingers casually brushed the tops of her breasts, lingering just a moment too long.
“Uncle Thomas says I have an instinct for good jewels as well,” she said with charming understatement, fighting back a shudder of distaste. This king repelled her.
The French king laughed. “And what other instincts do you have, madame?” he purred at her, as his arm snaked out to draw her against him.
His body was damp. His male scent filled her nostrils. His dark eyes were mesmerizing, and her own eyes widened at his quick attempt at seduction. Philippa suddenly felt like a little rabbit cornered by a rather large hound. She swallowed hard and then, putting her palms against the king of France’s bare chest, she pushed him gently but firmly away. “Oh, monseigneur,” she said, “you are so strong, and I am but a weak woman. Yet I am newly wed, and I would not shame my husband. Forgive me!” She quickly fell to her knees and looked up at him, her hands held out imploringly. “I should not have come, but the honor of having been noticed by your majesty rendered me, I fear, foolish. I am really just a country girl, monseigneur. And I am ashamed that I shall have to confess my wicked behavior to my mistress, the queen’s, priest.” Her head drooped, and she managed to squeeze a tear from her eyes.
“But not to your husband?” Francois murmured, amused.
“Ohh, I dare not!” Philippa cried. “He would surely beat me.”
“If you were mine, madame la comtesse, and looked at another man, I think I should beat you too,” the king remarked. Then he raised her. “Go back to your husband, madame, but rest easy that your unfortunate inclination towards chastity has kept you from any real sin. I have never found it necessary to force a woman.” He kissed her lips quickly, chuckling at her surprise. “I could not resist, chérie, and I shall claim a dance from you tonight as compensation for my great disappointment.” He bowed to her.
Philippa curtseyed prettily and fled the tent, silently thanking her lucky stars that she had been able to escape him unscathed. What a little fool she had been to even consider a tête-à-tête with the French king. The man’s reputation as a lover more than preceded him. But Guy-Paul had been correct. She was clever, and her little performance had indeed fooled the king. She had escaped with her virtue still intact. And then she stopped. Where was she? She hadn’t paid a great deal of attention to where they were going when Guy-Paul brought her from the spectator’s seat. She was lost. And although it was late afternoon and the sun would not set for several more hours, the light between the tents was not strong. And the wind was blowing the dust up again, making it nearly impossible to see where she was going.
Well, she thought, if she walked to the end of the row of tents surely she would be able to see the field, and then she might find her way back to the English side. The line of tents seemed to go on forever. She came to the end of the row only to find another row before her, and the path straight before her ended. Should she go right? Or should she go left? She tried to remember in which direction the camps had been placed. The English camp was set to the west. She turned left, and continued walking. When she came to the end of this corridor of tents she was faced once again with the decision of which way to turn. She stopped to consider it very carefully. This was worse than any garden maze. Right! She should turn to the right. She could hear the noise of the crowds still milling about the field, and all she wanted to do was reach that field. These damned tents couldn’t go on forever even if it seemed they did. She was a woman alone, in the opposite camp. Damn Guy-Paul! He should have waited for her, but then he had thought his master would be successful in his seduction. She would never speak to him again! But she would have to, if she was to keep this unfortunate incident she had created from her husband’s knowledge. But should she? God’s bloody wounds! Where was the jousting field? What if it got dark? How would she find her way then?
Finally she saw the field ahead of her, and relief poured through her veins. But there was a group of knights standing talking to one another. Caution bade her move over just one row in order to avoid passing them. They were French, and she didn’t choose to place herself in the position of being accosted by a group of ordinary knights. Especially when she had just turned down their king, Philippa considered with a small chuckle. Then she saw a smaller group of men ahead of her. They were clustered in a small knot, but they were not knights. She wondered if she should consider them dangerous. She thought she should be safe, especially with the knights just a row over. The wind was higher now, and the dust began to blow. Philippa had to stop, for she could see nothing ahead of her now in the yellow brown haze. She knew she was practically upon the men ahead, yet she was suddenly fearful of moving forward under the circumstances.
And then her brain focused, shocked at the conversation she overheard. They were planning to kill someone. They were planning to kill Henry Tudor! She froze, terrified, for a long moment. What had she stumbled upon, and what could she do about it? And then Philippa realized that she was in the gravest danger of being killed herself. She would have to be extremely clever to extricate herself from this dangerous situation.
Her throat was so tight she didn’t think she could swallow. She was in fact barely breathing. Her legs felt like jelly beneath her. Philippa forced herself to be perfectly still, and then she drew a long, deep breath. And another. And another. Her aching throat eased and opened, allowing her to swallow. She had to be brave if she was to get through this and warn the king. Pressing herself back into the shadows of the tent, Philippa listened carefully.