We promenaded along Eltham’s tiled floors, pausing to gaze out the glazed windows toward the forested deer park that surrounded the place. We laughed and talked of inconsequential things. By mutual consent, we avoided visiting the tiltyard.
Early on a morning in mid-June, we three rode from Eltham to Greenwich together. There Longueville and Guy went aboard the barge already occupied by the king, the queen, and the princess. King Henry was a splendid sight in breeches and vest of cloth-of-gold and scarlet hose. He wore a whistle on a gold chain around his neck, the insignia of supreme commander of the navy. Beside him stood Queen Catherine, visibly pregnant.
I boarded a smaller barge, along with the lesser ladies of the court.
Even a small royal barge offered every comfort, from bread and cheese to stave off hunger to soft cushions to sit upon. The chatter of the other gentlewomen was loud and good humored as we set off for Erith, a village located on the Thames between Greenwich and Gravesend. It was home to a royal dockyard. Soon barges filled the river from one bank to the other, creating a magnificent pageant. The weather was perfect for such an expedition and for the launching of His Grace’s great warship, the thousand-ton Henry Grace à Dieu.
“See that man standing with the king?” I overheard Meg Guildford ask her sister, Elizabeth. “He is the new ambassador from King Louis.”
“Another one?”
“A significant one,” Meg said. “Harry says he’s too important to have been sent just to arrange a ransom, even for a duke.”
“Why is he here, then?”
Meg whispered her answer, but I could guess what she’d said when Elizabeth gave a little squeal of excitement.
I moved away, standing apart so that I could watch the two sisters and also the men on the king’s barge. The creak and slap of twenty-four oars and the steady drumbeat that kept the rowers’ rhythm smooth and steady momentary blocked out the rise and fall of feminine voices. Small waves broke against the side of the barge as we moved through the water.
I had met the new ambassador from France earlier that morning. Meg was correct. He had not come to negotiate Longueville’s ransom. He was in England to make a formal offer for the Lady Mary.
The negotiations had been conducted in secret for months, offer and counteroffer. The last I’d heard from Longueville, King Henry held firm, saying he would not sign a peace treaty or seal it with his sister’s hand in marriage for less than 1,500,000 gold crowns; English control of Thérouanne, Tournai, and Saint-Quentin; and an annual pension of 50,000 ecus. King Louis had balked at those demands.
Carried on the freshening breeze, a female voice I did not recognize said, “I heard the king said he’d accept an offer of 100,000 crowns per annum if King Louis would take the older sister instead of the younger.”
So, the “secret” was out. I wondered if the king himself had leaked the news in order to gauge reaction at court. Skirting the brazier where sweet herbs burned to mask the most offensive of the odors wafting up from the water’s surface, I moved closer to Meg, hoping to hear what else was generally known.
A gust of wind caught at my skirts, making them billow perilously close to the embers. I had to twitch the fabric out of danger and sidestep, but neither sister noticed.
“I hear the queen of Scotland is not only willing but eager for the match,” Meg said.
Elizabeth smirked. “I hear she’s grown stout and coarse featured living in that heathen land.”
“All the more reason not to be choosy,” one of the queen’s maids of honor chimed in. Several of them clustered close, a flock of brightly colored birds pecking at the crumbs of rumor.
“King Louis should have no cause to complain of her were she big as a sow,” Meg said. “He is an old man, gouty and toothless.”
“He is a man,” Elizabeth countered. “He’ll want the Lady Mary.”
“But will she want him?”
“What does that matter? She will do her duty and wed as her brother wills. And why should she object to becoming a queen of France? France is a much more important place than Castile.”
A gasp from one of the queen’s damsels reminded Elizabeth that Catherine of Aragon’s mother and then her sister Juana had been queens of Castile. To belittle them insulted the queen of England. Elizabeth flushed becomingly.
Meg simply surveyed the company aboard the barge to assure herself that none of the Spanish-born members of the queen’s household was aboard. Her gaze rested briefly on me, then moved on. “The Lady Mary will do the king’s bidding,” she asserted.
“But will she not mind being bedded by a man old enough to be her grandfather?” It was the irrepressible, golden-haired Bessie Blount who asked. Together with the chestnut-haired Elizabeth Bryan, they outshone every other woman at court for beauty, saving only the Lady Mary herself.
“If she does, she will be clever enough to conceal her distaste. Besides, being so old and infirm means he will die all the sooner,” Meg added callously, unknowingly echoing the Lady Mary’s own philosophy. “Then she will be free.”
I said nothing, but still I had my doubts about how much freedom the princess would have. Widowhood had not made Queen Margaret free, not when her name could still be bandied about as it had been during negotiations with France. A princess was a matrimonial prize and little more. I supposed all women were. Someone’s daughter. Someone’s wife. Someone’s mistress. Our connection to men defined all of us.
“Is the king of France a grandfather in truth?” Bessie had sidled closer to whisper her question to me.
“Queen Anne could produce no living sons for either of her royal husbands, but she gave Louis two daughters. The eldest, several years younger than the Lady Mary, has just been married off to François d’Angoulême, King Louis’ heir. He is the king’s cousin.”
“I do not understand. If King Louis has a daughter, should she not rule after him? England had a queen once. Matilda. Or was it Maud?”
“Not in France.” Overhearing the question, Meg broke in, happy to have the opportunity to parrot back another of the history lessons she’d learned from Harry. “Only kings are allowed to rule there and only sons can inherit a noble title.”
Bessie glanced at me for confirmation. I nodded. In truth, matters were scarce better in England. A girl might inherit both lands and a title, but either her father or her guardian decided who she married and, once wed, her husband took control of both.
A short time later, we reached Erith and the Henry Grace à Dieu. We boarded the ship and were taken on a tour by the king himself. After we’d admired all five decks, High Mass was celebrated onboard. Festivities followed.
“The most magnificent pageant ever seen on the Thames,” Guy said, joining me at the rail some time later. “That’s what they are saying about our journey here today.”
“I do not doubt it. I can never remember another time when every royal barge was on the water at the same time.”
“And now the king has another vessel fit to wage war. She carries more than two hundred bronze and iron cannon. Remarkable,” Guy said.
A sidelong look at his face revealed nothing but a bland countenance. “Surely peace is at hand.”
“Is it? The king just let slip—intentionally, I am sure—that an English fleet set sail for Cherbourg last week. Their orders were to retaliate for the burning of Brighton,” he added.