“Did anyone else fall ill?”
“Not that I recall, but then the English are not overly fond of mushrooms. The French dote on them, or so I am told.”
“Maman was not French,” I murmured. “She was Breton.”
Lady Catherine did not seem to be listening. “No doubt your mother gathered the mushrooms herself and mistook one for another. That happens all too often in the country. I am obliged to take the utmost care that I do not mix in the wrong herb by accident when I prepare medicines in my stillroom.”
I HAD MUCH to think about when I rejoined the royal progress. Lady Catherine’s account of my mother’s death was vastly different from Mother Guildford’s, but I could think of no reason why Mother Guildford should try to prevent me from learning the truth…unless Maman’s sudden illness and death had not been a case of accidental poisoning.
When the progress ended and the court was once more at Greenwich, near enough to London that I could consider confronting Harry’s mother with what I had learned, I found myself strangely reluctant to do so. I wished I had someone to confide in, someone with whom I could discuss what to do next, but the habit of secrecy was strong, as was my fear of trusting the wrong person. What if I was right? By revealing my suspicion, I might alert the killer, and I might be the next to die.
Foolish imaginings! I told myself that I’d thought of murder only because Maman had been accused of poisoning King Charles. Lady Catherine had not questioned the cause of my mother’s death. The refusal of other ladies to tell me what they could recall likely stemmed from guilt over the shabby way they’d treated a newcomer. They’d not have wanted to remember that! And Mother Guildford’s lie? Well, she had been raised in the Countess of Richmond’s household. Could I believe this just an example of misguided loyalty? Rather than let the slightest blame fall on the king’s mother for a death that had occurred at her house at Collyweston, Mother Guildford might have invented the tale of a wasting sickness, thinking that would cause less consternation.
I was not altogether satisfied with this explanation, but in the end it had to suffice. The queen’s new pregnancy was a difficult one. She kept all her attendants fully occupied in the months that followed the progress…right up until the birth of a daughter the king named Mary, after his sister.
The Duke and Duchess of Suffolk had been forgiven for their clandestine marriage. King Henry now directed all his anger at King François instead. He had been even more furious when he heard that his rival had won a great military victory at Marignano, near Milan. The French, taking advantage of the peace with England and Spain, had invaded Italy.
On the twenty-first day of February, the three-day-old princess was christened. I did not attend the ceremony. Instead I traveled to Suffolk Place in Southwark, where Mary had taken up residence to await the birth of her own child. The mansion faced the Thames and had its own private quay, but the winter had been a brutal one and the river had once again frozen solid. I rode across the ice, then made my way to the house on foot, passing two gardens and a maze en route.
I entered the great hall by way of a goodly porch of timberwork hung with cloth of arras without and cloth-of-gold within. The hall boasted fireplaces in every corner and twenty-four torches in wall sconces—I counted them. But only three were lit and the hearths were cold. I shivered in spite of my fur-lined cloak and three wool underskirts.
Mary Tudor awaited me in her bedchamber, where a cheerful fire blazed in the hearth. Great with child, she sat on a cushioned window seat, warmly wrapped in furs against the draft.
“How does my new niece?” she demanded as soon as she saw me.
“Even now she is being carried to the font, the silver one brought from Canterbury.”
Mary’s hand drifted to her swollen belly. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, but I could not tell if the high color came from fever or excitement. Her child was due in less than a month. “Tell me what she looks like.”
“The princess is but three days old. She looks like most other infants at that age.”
“Charles says her hair is red.”
“That is true, but what other color could it be, given her parentage?”
We shared a smile, and Mary reached up to touch one of her own red-gold locks. “Will my child take after me, I wonder, or have dark hair? Oh, it does not matter. I will love him either way, but I do wish he would hurry up and be born!”
“You must be patient.”
“You were always better at that than I,” she lamented.
If only she knew! Ever since the king’s refusal to let me visit France, I’d behaved as ever I had, joining in the dancing and revelry, waiting on my royal mistress, passing the rest of the time with card games and dice and fancy needlework. But beneath my calm demeanor my frustration had built to the screaming point.
“I find little pleasure these days in planning wardrobes or listening to music,” I said, “or even in helping Harry and Master Gibson with the disguisings.”
“I would be happy to be able to join in any of those pastimes.” Mary’s peevish tone reminded me that, in spite of her avowed desire for my friendship, she had no wish to listen to anyone else’s troubles, not even mine.
“Forgive me. I am out of sorts.” I stared out the window behind her at the Thames, striving for calm. Boats being useless on ice, people had taken their horses and carts out onto the frozen river. A few enterprising souls had even set up booths to sell food, and dozens of children had bound animal shinbones to their shoes with leather thongs to go sliding on the ice. Some used iron-shod poles to help them stay upright.
“Has there been any further news from France?” Mary asked.
“Nothing.” I had learned that the duc de Longueville had fought at the great battle of Marignano, but I had received no direct word from Guy or of him. Had he survived the tournament only to be slain in a French war? I could only pray that he had not been one of the five thousand Frenchmen who had lost their lives to achieve King François’s great victory.
“What word at court of my sister?”
“Nothing new. Queen Margaret is still in Northumberland.”
The queen of Scotland had been obliged to flee from that country the previous September after unwisely choosing a second husband for herself. Her marriage to the Earl of Angus, a Scot with dynastic ambitions, had turned the other noblemen of Scotland against her. They’d taken away her regency and her children and had been keeping her a virtual prisoner in Edinburgh until she’d managed to escape.
“I heard Margaret almost died giving birth to a daughter.”
“So I am told, but she is recovering. She has sent word to your brother that she wishes to come to court.”
“And will he allow it?”
“Who is to say? King Henry is not happy about her marriage. He talks of having it set aside.”
Mary started to speak, then fell silent. If her sister’s marriage could be annulled, even after the birth of a child to that union, then so could her own. It was a fear that must always haunt her.
14
In his role as Master of Revels, Harry Guildford brought together his usual lieutenants to plan Queen Margaret’s entertainment. Officially, Master Gibson was his second in command but, as he had so often in the past, Harry asked for my suggestions. Once again, I was to play an active, if unacknowledged part in the proceedings.
“We have until the first of May,” Harry Guildford announced one morning several weeks after my visit to the Duchess of Suffolk. “Queen Margaret will not travel south until then. When she does, her brother wishes to give visible proof of his affection and forgiveness. I am inclined toward gentlemen dressed in Turkey fashion and carrying scimitars.”