“Yes,” Philippa replied with a smile, “I can.”
“Who taught you?” the princess demanded to know.
“A man named Patrick Leslie, who is earl of Glenkirk,” Philippa answered.
“Where?” the child questioned.
“In a lake on my mother’s lands,” Philippa said. “He taught my sisters Banon and Bessie too. We thought our lake cold, but he said the lochs of Scotland were far more chill. I went to Scotland once, but I never swam in a loch.”
“My auntie Meg is the queen of Scotland,” little Mary said.
“Not any longer,” Philippa corrected the princess. “As a widow who has remarried she is now known as the king’s mother. But I visited her court with my mother when she was queen. It was quite a fine court.”
“Better than my papa’s court?” the princess inquired slyly.
“There is no court as grand as King Henry’s,” Philippa quickly answered. “You know very well, your highness, that your papa is the grandest and the handsomest prince in all of Christendom.”
“Such delightful flattery!” the king said, coming up to them.
Philippa curtseyed low, her cheeks pink with her blush.
“Papa!” Mary Tudor cried, laughing as he swept her up into his embrace.
“And how is the most beautiful princess in all the wide world?” the king inquired of his daughter, bussing her heartily upon her rosy cheek.
The child giggled happily even as the king’s eye turned to Philippa.
“You are Rosamund Bolton’s daughter, are you not, mistress?” God’s wounds, how her pretty and innocent face took him back.
“Aye, your majesty, I am.” Philippa did not look directly at him. It was not polite to stare at the king, and he was known to dislike it.
The king reached out, and tipped Philippa’s face up with his index finger. “You are every bit as lovely as your mother was at your age. I knew her then, you know.”
“Aye, your majesty, she has told me.” And then Philippa giggled, unable to help herself. She quickly bit her lip to contain her laughter.
But the king chuckled, a deep, rich sound that rumbled up from the broad chest beneath his rich jewel-encrusted velvet doublet. “Ahhh,” he said, “then you know all. But of course I was a lad then, and filled with mischief.”
“And there was a wager involved as well,” Philippa replied mischievously.
“Ahah! Hah! Hah!” the king chortled. “Indeed there was, Mistress Philippa, and my grandmother collected the ante, which she put in the poor box at Westminster. I learned then never to allow my pride to dictate a wager.” He set his daughter down. “I have heard that Renfrew’s younger son has decided to take holy orders. I am sorry.”
Philippa actually felt the tears welling up in her eyes, and hastily she brushed them away. “It is obviously God’s will,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction, and the king heard it.
“If I can be of help, Mistress Philippa,” Henry Tudor said quietly. “I still count your mother among my friends, for all she married a wild Scot.”
“Thank you, your majesty,” Philippa replied, curtseying. “But I would not have you think ill of my stepfather. Logan Hepburn is a good man.”
The king nodded. “Take my daughter back to her mother now. Then go and join your friends so you may have some fun, Philippa Meredith. That is a royal command!” And he smiled down at her. “I remember your father also, my girl. He, too, was a good man, and as loyal a servant as the house of Tudor ever had. His children have my friendship. Remember that, Philippa Meredith. Now, run along! ’Tis the last of May, and the day is for divertissements.”
“Yes, your majesty,” Philippa responded, and she curtseyed once more. Then taking little Mary’s hand she moved off in the direction of Queen Katherine.
The king watched her go. Was it possible that Rosamund Bolton’s daughter was that old now? Old enough to marry, and have her heart broken. And there were two other Meredith girls, and his sister had said there were sons by her Scotsman. And what did he have? One little daughter, and a wife who was too old to bear him the boys he needed. The queen had lost a child six months ago. When she carried a babe to term it was born dead, or lingered but a few days before dying as they all had but for Mary. Something was very wrong. The physicians said she could have no more children. Was God trying to tell him something? He looked across the lawns to where his wife sat. Her once fine skin was sallow now, and her beautiful hair was faded. She was spending more and more time on her knees in prayer, and less and less time on her back doing her duty. And surrounding herself with such pretty girls did little to make her enticing.
His eyes swept the bevy of maids keeping the queen company. It lingered on Montjoy’s cousin, the delicious Elizabeth Blount. Petite and round where a woman should be round. Blond and blue-eyed. And she was the finest dancer next to his sister, Mary, that he had ever encountered. And she sang like an angel. She was quite a favorite with his closest friends, for she had a quick wit. Yet she was also docile in the face of authority, he remembered Montjoy saying. Bessie, Montjoy once remarked, would make the most perfect wife. The king’s small blue eyes narrowed. Bessie Blount. She would make a wonderful armful, and being an obedient lass by nature if Montjoy was to be believed, she would yield to her sovereign’s passion. Henry Tudor smiled. What a lovely summer lay ahead of them. If, of course, the plague and sweating sickness did not strike again this year. He moved across the lawns greeting his guests jovially.
Philippa returned with the little princess to the queen’s side. “We have had a fine walk, your highness. The princess wanted to go on the river, but I did not think it wise.”
“Nay,” the queen agreed, “you were right, my child.”
