“I ... hic ... hate Cumbria!” Philippa declared. “Let’s dice, and see who will win my skirts. Or perhaps I can win back my bodice from you, Hal Standish.” She threw the bones, and then sighed, disappointed. “Well, have my skirt then. What is a bodice without its skirt?” She stood, and struggled with the garment’s tapes again. The skirt fell about her ankles.
“What the hell is going on up here?” a familiar voice roared, and the king stepped out onto the roof with Charles Brandon. His outraged glance swept the quintet of young courtiers. “Mildmay! Standish! Parker! Explain yourselves immediately.”
“We’re dicing, your majesty,” Philippa said tipsily. “And I can’t seem to win back my clothing. Luck is against me tonight, I fear. Hic!” And then she giggled.
Charles Brandon swallowed back his laughter. The girl was obviously drunk as a lord. “Hardly the proper young lady her mama was, eh, Hal?” he murmured low.
The king scowled. “Mistress Blount. You will help your companion back on with her garments, and then see that she goes to bed. And you will bring her to my privy chamber tomorrow morning after the mass. Is that understood?”
Elizabeth Blount was pale, and suddenly very sober. “Yes, your majesty,” she whispered low. She began gathering up Philippa’s discarded clothing and aiding her to dress, but Philippa was very drunk now. She began to sing about the cowherd and the milkmaid once again.
The king looked horrified. The three young men, also shocked into sobriety, struggled to restrain their hilarity, but when Charles Brandon burst into hearty guffaws they were unable to do so. The masculine laughter rang in the deepening twilight as it finally slipped into night. But when Philippa, hastily but fully clothed now, was pulled to her feet by Bessie Blount her legs gave way beneath her, and she slowly sank into a heap at the king’s feet, her auburn head using his boots as her pillow.
“So tired,” she murmured. “Tired. Hic!” And then in the sudden silence her actions had brought about they heard her begin to softly snore.
After a long moment in which no one seemed to be breathing, the king said in a weary voice, “Mildmay, take the little wench to her bed. Standish, you and Parker carry her down the stairs, then give her to Sir Roger. Mistress Blount, escort them, and you are both to remain in the Maidens’ Chamber until you bring Mistress Meredith to me in the morning. As for the three of you young gentlemen, you will return here where I will give you a lecture on the stars that can be seen tonight from this tower top. That way I can be certain that you are not in the Maidens’ Chamber. Mistress Blount, you will bar your door and I shall check it when I come down again. Do you all understand me? There will be no more nonsense here tonight. And as for you three gentlemen, I will expect you to be gone back to your own estates within the next two days. I am going to Esher, and you are not invited. Is that understood?”
“Yes, your majesty,” the trio chorused as one, looking very chastened already.
“You may come back at Christmas if you will,” the king continued, “but I do not wish to see you until then.”
“Yes, your majesty,” they said again. Then Lord Parker and Lord Standish picked Philippa up, one taking her feet, the other her shoulders. Followed by Sir Roger and Elizabeth Blount, they descended the Canted Tower with their burden.
Charles Brandon laughed again when one of the young men was heard to complain, “Jesu! The wench weighs more than I would have thought.” And another voice said, “ ’Tis deadweight, you fool!” The duke of Suffolk turned to his brother-in-law. “By God, Hal, Rosamund Bolton would have a fit if she knew how badly her daughter has behaved. What are you going to do?”
“The poor girl is heartbroken over the damned FitzHugh boy,” the king said. “And then Renfrew and his wife would not let her come to their daughter’s wedding for fear the Meredith lass’s sadness would spoil Cecily FitzHugh’s day, yet the two girls are the best of friends. I never expected that she would react in such a lewd manner. I must speak with the queen, although I believe I know what must be done.”
“And will you really make certain the Maidens’ Chamber is bolted and barred?” Charles Brandon teased the king.
“I will!” the king replied.
“Mistress Blount is a charming girl, isn’t she?” the duke of Suffolk noted.
“Aye,” the king answered him, and his gaze was thoughtful.
In the morning Philippa awoke with the worst headache she had ever had in all of her life. The morning light was hurtful. Her temples throbbed unbearably. She could barely move, but Bessie forced her from her bed. “I am going to die,” she insisted.
“Nay, you are going to get dressed, and we are going to mass. It is not like it is when all the girls and the other ladies are here. The queen will miss us if we do not appear. She can count those near to her right now on one hand.”
“What happened?” Philippa asked. “How did I get to bed, and in my shift?”
“Don’t you remember?” Bessie replied, grinning.
“Nay,” Philippa said, groaning faintly as she shook her head.
“You were gambling with your garments when you ran out of coins,” Bessie began. “Your luck was not running well last night. You lost your slippers and stockings. Both of your sleeves and your bodice. We sang bawdy songs, and drank a great deal. And then you lost your skirts as well.”
“I was only in my chemise?” Philippa looked horrified. “Oh, Jesu!”
“That was not the worst of it,” Bessie continued cheerfully. “The king came up to the roof of the Canted Tower with the duke of Suffolk to explore the heavens. He caught us. You sang him the same bawdy song with which you had earlier entertained us. He had me clothe you properly, and then before we might take our leave you collapsed, and fell asleep on his boots, snoring.”
“Ohh, sweet Mother Mary,” Philippa moaned. “I am ruined!” Her complexion looked almost pale green. “What happened next?” she asked nervously.
“The king had you carried downstairs to the Maidens’ Chamber. He told Roger and the others they were to go home and not come back until Christmas. He wants to see you after the mass in his privy chamber. I am to escort you there.”
“I am going to be sick,” Philippa said suddenly.
Bessie grabbed an empty chamber pot and, giving it to the younger girl, turned away as the sound of Philippa’s retching was heard. When it seemed as if all was well again she turned about. “We’re going to be late for the mass,” she said. “Rinse your mouth with rose water, and let us go. But whatever you do don’t drink any water right now. It will only make you vomit again. I’ll get you some wine later.”
