Philippa had dressed carefully this afternoon. She was more fortunate than most of the maids of honor in that she had her uncle Thomas’s London house in which she might store a larger than usual wardrobe for herself, as the queen’s maids had but minimal space for their possessions, which had to be packed up at a moment’s notice and moved to the next royal dwelling in which Katherine would take up residence. Philippa was generous enough to share this luxury with her friends, Cecily, Maggie Radcliffe, Jane Hawkins, and Anne Chambers. Her own tiring woman, Lucy, would be sent to fetch whatever was needed when it was needed.
Philippa had chosen to wear a pale peach-colored silk brocade gown. It had a low square neckline edged with a band of gold embroidery, and a bell-shaped skirt. The upper sleeves of the gown were fitted; the lower sleeve was a wide, deep cuff of peach satin, lined in the peach-colored silk brocade, and beneath which could be seen a full false undersleeve of the sheerest natural-colored silk with a ruffled cuff at the wrist. From Philippa’s waist a little silk brocade purse hung on a long gold cord. On her head Philippa wore a little French hood, of the style made popular by Mary Tudor, edged in pearls, with a small sheer veil that hung down her back. Her long auburn hair was visible beneath the veil, and was so long it actually hung below it. About her neck Philippa wore a fine gold chain with a pendant made from the diamond and emerald brooch the king’s grandmother had sent her when she had been born.
“You are not wearing a high-necked chemise,” Cecily noted, seeing no contrasting fabric beneath her friend’s gown.
“No,” Philippa said with a mischievous smile. “I am not.”
“But your breasts are quite visible,” Cecily continued nervously.
“I need bait sufficient if I am going hunting,” Philippa returned wickedly.
Cecily’s eyes widened, and then she giggled nervously. “Oh, please, remember your reputation, Philippa! I know Giles hurt your feelings, but losing your good name is no way to get back at him. I suspect no man is worth a woman’s losing her character.”
“Frankly, from my little talk with Giles I am certain he would not care what happened to me, Cecily. He never loved me at all or he would have treated me with more kindness. If the church means more to him than marriage to me, so be it. But he did not consider the difficult position into which he was thrusting me. He thought only of himself. And that I cannot forgive,” Philippa said. “I have kept myself chaste for marriage. I have never even allowed a boy to kiss me, as you well know, although others have. You have! Soon enough my mother will find some propertied squire, or my stepfather will bring forth the son of one of his Scots friends. I shall have to marry, and I shall have had no fun at all! And worse, I shall have to leave court. So what if I am a little bit naughty now. What matter if I gain a slight reputation for myself. The squire or the Scot will never know. I will retain my virginity for my husband, whoever he may be.”
“Well,” Cecily allowed, “you have really been far better than the rest of us. And now that the king’s minions are out of favor thanks to Cardinal Wolsey, I suppose it is safe to trifle with a few of the young men here at court.”
“Starting with Millicent’s Sir Walter,” Philippa replied. “I shall teach the little bitch to talk behind my back. And the best part is that while she will be angry at Sir Walter, she will still have to wed him, and she will want to for the prestige such a marriage will bring her.” Philippa chuckled.
“Poor Sir Walter,” kindhearted Cecily said. “He is marrying a shrew.”
“I do not feel sorry for him at all,” Philippa responded. “He is in the midst of a negotiation to marry, yet he will be easily tempted by just a glimpse of my breasts. I do not think him an honorable fellow at all. He and Millicent deserve each other. I expect they shall be extremely unhappy together.”
“Have you no pity then?” Cecily asked.
Philippa shook her head. “None. If a man cannot be honorable, then what is there? My father, they say, was an honorable and gentil knight. So is my relation, Lord Cambridge, and my stepfather, Logan Hepburn. I would certainly not settle for anything less in a man.”
“You have become hard,” Cecily responded.
Philippa shook her head. “Nay, I have always been exactly what I am.”
Chapter 2
“Come, my girls,” called the assistant mistress of the maids, Lady Brentwood. “The picnic is beginning. The queen has said you may wander at will this afternoon as long as two or three of you remain by her side. You will take turns, of course, to be fair.”
The queen’s maids of honor hurried from the Maidens’ Chamber chattering and laughing. A picnic by the river was a wonderful treat, and the formality of the court was always dispensed with on such an occasion. The day was a beautiful one. The skies were blue, and there was just the tiniest of breezes ruffling the flowers in the gardens. It was much too early to execute her plan, and so Philippa volunteered to remain by the queen for a time. She did not see Sir Walter yet, and she would want him to be just slightly drunk.
“How pretty you look, my child,” the queen told Philippa. “I am quite reminded of your mother when we were girls.” She held her squirming daughter in her lap, for the little princess had been brought forth from her nursery to join the festivities. “Mary, sit still, poppet. Papa will not be pleased.”
“Would you like me to take her for a walk, your highness?” Philippa inquired politely. “And I can play with her for a short time. I always helped mama look after my sisters and little brothers.”
The queen looked relieved. “Oh, Philippa, would you? The French ambassador is coming this afternoon to see her that he may write his master, King Francois, of Mary’s progress. Now that she is betrothed to the Dauphin the French watch her. I should prefer she be wed to my nephew, Charles. Yes, take her away, and try and keep her clean.”
Philippa curtseyed. “I will do my best, madame.” Then she held out her hand to the little princess. “Come, your highness. We shall walk about and admire all the lovely costumes that people are wearing today.”
Mary Tudor, thirty-nine months of age, slipped from her mother’s lap, and dutifully took Philippa Meredith’s outstretched hand. She was a pretty child with auburn hair much like Philippa’s, and serious eyes. She was dressed in a miniature gown that matched her mother’s royal garb. “Your gown is pretty,” she told Philippa. She was extremely intelligent, and despite her youth she could now carry on simple conversations in both English and Latin.
“Thank you, your highness,” Philippa said.
They walked down by the river, and the little girl pointed to the punts. “Go!” she told Philippa. “I want to go in the boat.”
Philippa shook her head. “Can you swim, your highness?”
“No,” little Mary responded.
“Then you cannot go into the punt. You must be able to swim if you go in the punts,” Philippa explained.
“Can you swim?” The oddly adult eyes looked at her.
