He laughed. “You are not an easy woman,” he told her.
Philippa had wondered if the princess Mary would travel to France with her parents to meet the Dauphin, her betrothed, but learned she would not. The little princess would remain in England keeping royal state at Richmond Palace under the eye of the duke of Norfolk and Bishop Foxe, who would share responsibility for the government as well. She had bid her parents good-bye at Greenwich, going from there to Richmond while her parents had moved towards the coast, staying at Leeds Castle on the twenty-second of May. The king and queen reached Canterbury late in the afternoon of the twenty-fourth of May. Two days later Emperor Charles V arrived with his fleet to a welcoming cannonade from the English fleet awaiting his arrival in the straits of Dover.
Crispin and Philippa had ridden to Dover upon learning that Cardinal Wolsey had been informed of the emperor’s impending arrival. They stood in the crowds on the waterfront watching as Charles V came ashore beneath a cloth of gold canopy that had his badge, a black eagle, upon it. The plump and haughty cardinal in his scarlet robes came forward to meet the emperor, bowing obsequiously, a smile on his lips. They could not hear his words for the noise of the crowds. They knew that Cardinal Wolsey would escort the emperor to Dover Castle where he was to spend the night.
The next day was Whitsunday. The king, having not been informed of his nephew’s arrival as quickly as the cardinal, made a hasty and very early departure for Dover. He was there to greet Charles V as the young emperor descended the staircase that morning. Henry then escorted him back to Canterbury. All along their route the English gathered to cheer both the emperor and their king. They did not like the French.
Upon their arrival in Canterbury the two men entered the cathedral for a high mass of thanksgiving celebrating not simply the church holiday itself, but the emperor’s safe arrival as well. Afterwards Henry showed Charles the shrine of St. Thomas à Becket. The holy relics were displayed: the hair shirt; the saintly archbishop’s cracked skull; the weapon that had done the damage. These, along with several other relics, the king and the emperor kissed devoutly. Then they moved on to Archbishop Warham’s palace where the royal party was staying so that Charles V might at last meet his aunt.
The earl of Witton moved discreetly among the cardinal’s party. His wife was among the queen’s ladies. They made a pretty show hurrying from the hallway to greet the king and the emperor at the palace door. It had, of course, all been planned that way. The ladies then escorted the gentlemen inside and back down the corridor, which was lined with twenty of the queen’s pages garbed in gold brocade and crimson satin. Finally reaching a wide marble staircase, the emperor looked up. There the queen sat, halfway up the marble steps upon a landing, waiting to greet him. She was gowned in ermine-lined cloth of gold robes, and about her neck were several strands of fat pearls. Katherine smiled in welcome. She had not his mother, Joanna’s, beauty. Indeed at this point in her life Katherine of Aragon was plump, matronly. But she was his nearest blood relation next to his mother and his sisters. Reaching her, he took the outstretched hands in his and kissed them lovingly. Katherine wept openly with her joy even as she took him to her heart, and he reciprocated.
The young emperor was not an attractive man by any stretch of the imagination. Philippa overheard several of the woman remarking on it, and hoped the queen did not. Charles V was twenty. He had a large misshapen jaw that was the most prominent feature of his face. His eyes were a watery blue, and his skin the white of a fish’s belly. His teeth were irregular in a large mouth, and it affected his speech somewhat. But he had grown a handsome beard to help disguise some of his deficiencies. He was nonetheless an intelligent and amusing man. As the lord of the Low Countries he was important to English trade, and while England had always been his firm and fast ally, this sudden attempt at harmony with France concerned the emperor enough that he felt a visit to England, however brief, was necessary. He did not think for one moment that he could change Henry Tudor’s plans, but he knew the French would be very annoyed by his meeting with the English king, even as he knew that Henry was extremely pleased by his visit. The royals and their immediate family adjourned for a private dinner, leaving the members of the court to wander about and find their own meal and entertainment.
Later that day the beautiful dowager queen of Aragon, Germaine de Foix, widow of Katherine’s father, Ferdinand, arrived with sixty of her ladies. That evening there was a large banquet for the court. The king, the emperor, and the three queens, Katherine, Germaine, and Mary Tudor, who had been France’s queen and was now the wife of Charles Brandon, the duke of Suffolk, sat at the high board. The food was lavish, the wine never stopped flowing, and a merry time was had by all in attendance.
One Spanish count became enamored of one of the queen’s ladies, and wooed her so vigorously with poetry and song that he at last fainted away and was carried from the room. The old duke of Alba, a charming gentleman, demonstrated with others in his party some Spanish dancing. The king, who loved to dance, now led his sister, Mary, onto the floor, and of course the others followed. Philippa defied convention by dancing with her husband first, but the king saw her, and having enjoyed dancing with her previously, took her for his partner for one of the dances.
“My dear countess,” he said with a grin. “Are you used to being called that yet, Philippa?” He lifted her high, and she laughed down into his handsome face.
“Nay, sire, I am not, but I expect in time it will become familiar,” she told him as he placed her back on the floor, and lifting her skirts she pranced by his side.
“How is your mother?” He twirled her about.
“I have heard naught since I learned she birthed twin sons, your majesty,” Philippa answered, dipping and then pirouetting.
“How many lads is that now?” He lifted her up again and swung her about.
“Four, sire,” Philippa replied, dancing gracefully by his side.
“May God grant your husband that you prove as good a breeder,” the king said, and she saw his eyes were troubled.
When the dance was over the king led Philippa to where the queen sat with her nephew. “Kate, my dear, perhaps you will introduce the countess to the emperor.” He kissed Philippa’s hand and moved off to dance again with his sister.
Philippa curtseyed low, her deep blue and silver skirts belling out as she did so.
“I have written to you of the kindness of Rosamund Bolton, Carlos,” the queen began. “This is her eldest daughter, Philippa, countess of Witton. She has served me loyally for the past four years but will retire after the summer progress, for she is newly married, and her duty now is to give her husband’s family heirs. Philippa, my child, may I present the emperor to you.”
Philippa curtseyed once again. “Your majesty,” she said softly.
“Your madre is well, countess?” the emperor asked politely.
“She is, your majesty, and will be honored that you asked,” Philippa responded.
“She is from the north of this country?” the emperor queried.
“Aye, your majesty. She is a landowner and along with Lord Cambridge, a relation, involved in the merchant trade with the Low Countries. Perhaps you have heard of our Friarsgate Blue wool. It is the finest cloth,” Philippa found herself saying.
“It is a very difficult commodity to obtain,” the emperor surprised her by saying. “I have had complaints about that, for it is much in demand, countess.”
“Aye, they control its distribution in order to keep the price high,” Philippa returned. He knew of her mother’s wool. Wait until she told them that at Friarsgate come the autumn!
“Your mother, it would appear, is a clever woman,” the emperor said.
“She is indeed, Carlos,” the queen agreed. Then she said to Philippa in a gentle gesture of dismissal, “I think I see the earl, your husband, seeking for you, my child.”
Philippa curtseyed once more. “Thank you, your highness. Your majesty.” And then she backed away, finally turning about to look for Crispin. She was suddenly aware of her new status. She was no longer plain Mistress Meredith, the queen’s maid of honor. She was the countess of Witton, worthy of being introduced to an emperor. It was quite a revelation.
And then Crispin was at her elbow. “You met the emperor,” he said, and she heard the pride in his voice.
