felt the king’s hard stare boring into the top of my head. The sensation seemed to continue for a very long time, although I suppose it lasted less than a minute. Only when I was certain he had lost interest did I dare look up.
I breathed a sigh of relief. His Grace had engaged his cousin, the Countess of Salisbury, in low-voiced conversation. I told myself I was being fanciful. The king had no reason to take any notice of me.
The king, the queen, and the princess soon adjourned to a more private chamber to continue their reunion. The rest of us were left to our own devices. I was examining a particularly fine tapestry in the presence chamber assigned to Princess Mary when I was ordered to present myself to Their Graces.
The king and queen were seated in comfortable chairs with atable between them. The princess, her legs curled beneath her, sat on a cushion at her mother’s feet. There were at least a dozen courtiers and servants in the chamber, but they stayed well in the background.
“You are Daggett’s girl, are you not?” the king asked when I rose from yet another curtsey.
His abrupt question caught me off guard. I wanted to deny that the odious Sir Lionel had any connection to me, but in the sense His Grace meant, I was his “girl.”
“Sir Lionel Daggett is my guardian, Your Majesty.” Together with all the princess’s ladies, I had been forewarned by Lady Catherine that King Henry preferred this form of address to “Your Highness” or “Your Grace.”
“Has he arranged a marriage for you?”
“If he has, Sire, he has not told me of it.” I could not quite keep the tartness out of my reply but, to my relief, the king only smiled.
“I would not wish to lose Mistress Lodge from my service, Father,” Princess Mary said. “She tells the most wonderful stories and entertains us better than any bard.”
Queen Catherine frowned. “These are improving tales, I trust?”
Because the king and queen sat behind their daughter, they could not see the twinkle in the young princess’s eyes. “Oh, yes, Madre. Tamsin comes from Glastonbury. She knows all about the holy relics that are kept there.”
I remained silent, for I doubted that the queen would approve of some of the stories I’d related to her daughter. My father had been widely read and had seen no reason to censor the tales he told me. I’d repeated these as closely as I could remember them, and I had a very good memory. In doing so, I had never considered their content. Faced with the princess’s protective mother, I now had belated second thoughts. The Squire of Low Degree, in which a king’sdaughter falls in love with a lowly squire, was unlikely to meet with Queen Catherine’s approval. Even worse was William of Palerne, a tale featuring an evil queen of Spain as the villain—she turns the hero into a werewolf by the use of sorcery.
“We must hear one of these stories someday,” the king said.
Then he dismissed me.
Feeling a trifle dazed and most certainly dazzled, I backed out of the chamber. It was my intention to retire to the tent that had been set up in the garden as temporary housing for the princess’s maids of honor, since Langley was a simple manor house that did not have indoor accommodation for everyone who’d accompanied the king and queen, and now the princess, on their summer progress.
I got no farther than the outer chamber.
A man emerged from among the crowd of men and women, local people and courtiers alike, who were awaiting their opportunity to present petitions to the king. It had been a little more than a year since I’d last seen Sir Lionel Daggett, but I had no difficulty recognizing him. I stopped dead and stared, an unreasoning dread rendering my limbs incapable of movement.
He made me only the most cursory of bows. “Mistress Thomasine. You are well, I trust.”
I dropped into an equally brief curtsey. “Sir Lionel.” His name came out as a croak. “I am as you see me.”
He smiled, but the
I breathed a sigh of relief. His Grace had engaged his cousin, the Countess of Salisbury, in low-voiced conversation. I told myself I was being fanciful. The king had no reason to take any notice of me.
The king, the queen, and the princess soon adjourned to a more private chamber to continue their reunion. The rest of us were left to our own devices. I was examining a particularly fine tapestry in the presence chamber assigned to Princess Mary when I was ordered to present myself to Their Graces.
The king and queen were seated in comfortable chairs with atable between them. The princess, her legs curled beneath her, sat on a cushion at her mother’s feet. There were at least a dozen courtiers and servants in the chamber, but they stayed well in the background.
“You are Daggett’s girl, are you not?” the king asked when I rose from yet another curtsey.
His abrupt question caught me off guard. I wanted to deny that the odious Sir Lionel had any connection to me, but in the sense His Grace meant, I was his “girl.”
“Sir Lionel Daggett is my guardian, Your Majesty.” Together with all the princess’s ladies, I had been forewarned by Lady Catherine that King Henry preferred this form of address to “Your Highness” or “Your Grace.”
“Has he arranged a marriage for you?”
“If he has, Sire, he has not told me of it.” I could not quite keep the tartness out of my reply but, to my relief, the king only smiled.
“I would not wish to lose Mistress Lodge from my service, Father,” Princess Mary said. “She tells the most wonderful stories and entertains us better than any bard.”
Queen Catherine frowned. “These are improving tales, I trust?”
Because the king and queen sat behind their daughter, they could not see the twinkle in the young princess’s eyes. “Oh, yes, Madre. Tamsin comes from Glastonbury. She knows all about the holy relics that are kept there.”
I remained silent, for I doubted that the queen would approve of some of the stories I’d related to her daughter. My father had been widely read and had seen no reason to censor the tales he told me. I’d repeated these as closely as I could remember them, and I had a very good memory. In doing so, I had never considered their content. Faced with the princess’s protective mother, I now had belated second thoughts. The Squire of Low Degree, in which a king’sdaughter falls in love with a lowly squire, was unlikely to meet with Queen Catherine’s approval. Even worse was William of Palerne, a tale featuring an evil queen of Spain as the villain—she turns the hero into a werewolf by the use of sorcery.
“We must hear one of these stories someday,” the king said.
Then he dismissed me.
Feeling a trifle dazed and most certainly dazzled, I backed out of the chamber. It was my intention to retire to the tent that had been set up in the garden as temporary housing for the princess’s maids of honor, since Langley was a simple manor house that did not have indoor accommodation for everyone who’d accompanied the king and queen, and now the princess, on their summer progress.
I got no farther than the outer chamber.
A man emerged from among the crowd of men and women, local people and courtiers alike, who were awaiting their opportunity to present petitions to the king. It had been a little more than a year since I’d last seen Sir Lionel Daggett, but I had no difficulty recognizing him. I stopped dead and stared, an unreasoning dread rendering my limbs incapable of movement.
He made me only the most cursory of bows. “Mistress Thomasine. You are well, I trust.”
I dropped into an equally brief curtsey. “Sir Lionel.” His name came out as a croak. “I am as you see me.”
He smiled, but the
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