“I would assume most whores do so easily, else they would not be whores,” Philippa responded. “Was she ever your whore?”
“Damn it, Philippa!” he swore softly. “No! I have never been eager to travel a road so well used.”
“Is the king traveling that road now?” Philippa asked. “Perhaps that is why the queen wanted me to take her. She must put up with much, but even a queen is entitled to a respite now and again. This is a hard trip for her. She prefers her summers at Woodstock these days. She says the quiet there reminds her of a convent, and allows her to concentrate on her prayers.”
“There are rumors, aye,” the earl said. “Now that Bessie Blount is gone, and the queen pronounced barren of future children, he is restless. Mary Boleyn is of easy virtue, and not apt to seek to outshine or insult the queen.”
“How tragic that the king’s only son should be bastard-born,” Philippa remarked.
“The king is young, and can marry again,” the earl said.
“He is married,” Philippa said sharply.
“He will eventually find a way to dispose of his old queen, and take a new, fecund one,” the earl answered quietly. “There is precedent for this, Philippa, and Henry Tudor will have his son. He does not mean the Tudor dynasty his father sought to build to end with him. Any husband Princess Mary takes one day will have to be equal to her in rank. This means a king to her queen. England will not want a foreign-born king ruling them.”
“Such a thing will never happen,” Philippa said firmly.
They remained upon their vessel until June third, when the great train began its departure for Guisnes, where the summit was to be held. Philippa was awestruck by the small city that had been constructed to house the two kings and their retinues. Bishop Fisher, however, was appalled by the abundance of extravagance. He shook his head at the excess, among the few to notice the gathering of beggars surrounding the encampment in hopes of receiving alms.
The French had put up four hundred tents by the side of a river bordering the village of Ardres, while the English pitched two thousand eight hundred tents by the village of Guisnes. The French king had a tent made from cloth of gold. Its canvas roof was painted with astrological signs and stars. Its interior entrance was filled with young trees and pots of ivy. A great gilt statue of Saint Michael sat in the entry’s center, reflecting the sunlight that touched it through the wide opening of the pavilion.
The English king, however, more than equaled his fellow monarch. Six thousand carpenters, masons, brick-layers, and others had spent months building an Italianate palace for Henry Tudor and his guests. It had been fashioned of stone and brick, and was embellished with battlements and crenellations. There was much ornamental tile work, fan-shaped stone and ironwork ornamentations, and life-size statues of famous heroes filling every niche. From the comers of the roofs sprang heraldic animals of stone. From the center of the palace sprang a six-sided cupola topped with more fantastic beasts, and a life-size gilt angel. Long arched windows of glass lined the upper floor of Henry Tudor’s temporary summer palace.
Inside, all the windows were edged in gold inlay. The most precious rugs, tapestries, silk hangings, furniture, and ornaments had been transported to France from Greenwich and Richmond palaces in order to furnish this fairy-tale castle. There was a little chapel with altar cloths of gold tissue embroidered with pearls and other gemstones. The candlesticks and the chalices had been brought from Westminster Abbey for the occasion. There were gold statues of the twelve apostles half the size of a grown man. But most amazing of all were the two fountains in the open planted courtyard of this castle. One poured forth claret, or hippocras, and the other ran with beer or ale for any and all who cared to drink.
The earl and countess of Witton were rather relieved to find their tent set up on the edge of the English area between the queen’s and the cardinal’s sections. Lord Cambridge had arranged a fine canvas tent, with an awning before it where the horses might be sheltered. Inside, the tent was divided into two sections, one for sleeping and the other for eating or entertaining. Lucy would sleep in the main section. Peter would bed with the horses outside so they would not be stolen. The earl’s man had made a small fire outside their pavilion, and set braziers with burning coals in each of the tent’s two rooms to take the dampness and chill from the air inside. There was a table and several chairs in the front of their accommodation, and a pallet for Lucy in the far comer. In the back chamber of the tent their trunks had been set out along with a bed, a chair, and a small table. Peter had cleverly strung a line in this back room, and Lucy was already laying out her mistress’s gowns across it.
They had barely gotten themselves settled when they had a visitor. A gentleman of medium height, dressed in splendid garments, and just faintly resembling Crispin St. Claire, entered their pavilion. He looked about and then, spotting the earl, cried,“Monchou! It is you! I was not certain you were still in service to Monsieur le Cardinal!”
“Guy-Paul,” the earl said, coming to greet their guest. “And I am no longer in the cardinal’s service, but my wife is one of the queen’s women.”
“Wife? You have taken a wife, Crispin?”
“Do you not think it was about time, Guy-Paul? Philippa, this is my cousin, Guy-Paul St. Claire, the comte de Renard. Cousin, my wife.”
Philippa held out her hand to the count. “Monsieur le comte,” she said politely.
“Madame la comtesse,” he said, his blue eyes sweeping over her. He kissed her hand and then, taking her by the shoulders, kissed both of her cheeks. Then setting her back he said admiringly,“Moncher Crispin, you have a most beautiful wife.”
“How charming of you to say it, though it be not true, monsieur le comte,” Philippa quickly spoke up for herself. “I will admit to being a pretty woman, but nothing more.” She smiled at him, moving back just slightly. “However, you will find among our court several great beauties.”
Guy-Paul St. Claire looked slightly surprised by her words, but then he grinned. “I can see, madame la comtesse, that I shall not win you over with my charm.”
“Only a little bit,” Philippa returned. “Please, will you not sit?” She turned to her husband. “I will fetch wine, my lord.” She moved away to a table along the side of the tent where a tray with decanters and goblets had been set up.
The two men sat, and the Frenchman asked, “How long have you had this wife, cousin? I do not remember you having a wife the last time we met.”
“We were wed the last day of April,” came the answer.
“She is rich?” The question was blunt, but fair.
“She had a piece of property I desired, and came with a good-sized dowry as well,” the earl replied.
“But not of a noble family,” the comte said.
The earl shook his head. “She was an excellent bargain nonetheless, and her connections cannot be faulted. Her mother is a friend of the queen, and Philippa has been in service to Katherine for four years. The queen is most fond of my wife.”
Guy-Paul St. Claire nodded. “It is good every few generations to wed a woman from a slightly lower class. It strengthens the blood,” he observed. “I must consider it myself one of these days. The family is becoming most demanding, I fear. My sister says I shall have no seed for sons left if I keep having bastards.” He chuckled.
