On the day King Philip was to arrive, a few of us went out onto the battlements of the Round Tower, the oldest part of the castle, to watch for him. The view was spectacular, encompassing the countryside for miles around as well as both the upper and lower wards of Windsor Castle itself.
“They will be here soon.” The Lady Mary pointed toward the southwest. “See—they are coming this way.”
The king had ridden out to meet his royal guest, who had been escorted for the last part of his journey by the Prince of Wales. From my tower perch, I had a clear view of King Henry in miniature, mounted on his favorite bay mare, surrounded by the greater part of the nobility of the realm. Colorful as peacocks, they made a bright splash on the landscape. At a distance of a half mile, the figures of the two kings and the Prince of Wales were tiny, but I could see them move through the formalities of greeting.
Queen Juana had been left behind at Wolverton Manor. She was to join her husband at Windsor, but not for a week or more. It was cruel to make her wait, I thought. Juana of Castile was Catherine of Aragon’s sister, and they had not seen each other for many years.
I was distracted by a harsh wind that whipped our cloaks hard against our ankles and threatened to carry away our headdresses. It seemed to gust around me with malevolent intent. I burrowed deeper into my fur-lined cloak, pulling the collar up to cover my nose, and tried not to think about the frost forming on my toes.
Francesca de Carceres, one of Catherine of Aragon’s Spanish ladies, sidled up to me. Curious, I slanted a glance in her direction. We both wore new headdresses, but while the black velvet of mine was decorated with pearls, hers was unrelieved by any light touches. The ebony hue of headdress and cloak combined made her olive complexion look sallow. There would be no improvement in her looks when she removed the outer garment either. Beneath it was more black, and despite a contraption of hoops called a verdugado that all the Spanish ladies wore to make their skirts fall from waist to toes in the shape of a bell, she was extremely thin. I’d often heard the expression “all skin and bones,” but until I met Francesca I’d never met anyone who personified that description.
“They are riding this way,” she said.
After their brief exchange in the open air, the two kings had remounted. They approached the castle with King Henry in the middle, between his son and heir and King Philip of Castile, who was also archduke of Flanders. They led a huge contingent more than five hundred strong. Trumpets and sackbuts sounded as the cavalcade reached the gatehouse.
The yeomen of the guard were lined up just outside the castle. They had been the first to receive new livery. Ordinarily they wore their own shirts with sleeveless white-and-green-striped tunics made of plain cloth. For the occasion of King Philip’s visit, however, King Henry had given them shirts, hose, and bonnets, all in a particular shade of rose vermillion. He’d supplied new sword belts, scabbards, and shoes of black leather. Their new tunics were of damask, with stripes that counterchanged at the waistline. Embroidered on both front and back were round garlands of vine branches, decorated with silver and gilt spangles. In the middle of the design was a red rose beaten in goldsmith’s work. When each man was armed with halberd, bow and arrows, and sword, they looked very fine indeed.
I strained to see King Philip. I had heard him called “Philip the Handsome,” and sometimes “Philip the Fair,” and in French, “Philippe le Beau.” At first glance, he did not impress me as particularly imposing. He was only of medium height and heavily built. He was also shrouded in black—hood, gown, even harness, were all of that color, as were the garments of the dozen or so noblemen he’d brought with him.
“So that is the king.” I let my disappointment show.
“He is a very important man,” Francesca protested. “He is heir to the Holy Roman Empire and ruler in his own right of many Austrian possessions along the Danube and of the lands he inherited from his mother in the Netherlands. He is not just king of Castile, but Archduke of Austria, Duke of Burgundy, and Count of Flanders.”
Then he should dress in a more regal fashion, I thought. In contrast to King Philip’s unrelenting black, King Henry wore a purple velvet gown and hood. His heavy gold chain had a diamond pendant that reflected the pale winter light.
“I wonder what courtiers he has brought with him,” Francesca murmured, leaning out at a precarious angle in an attempt to see them better.
“What does it matter who they are? They will not stay long.” King Henry had many entertainments planned, but even if King Philip attended every event, the festivities were unlikely to go on for more than a few weeks. If nothing else stopped them, they would cease at the beginning of Lent. This year, Ash Wednesday fell on the twenty-fifth day of February.
Francesca lowered her voice. “Have you ever suffered misfortune, Mistress Popyncourt?”
I frowned. “Have you?”
Her nod was so vigorous that it almost dislodged her headdress. “Like you, I was chosen to serve royalty and my family was glad of it, thinking that a rich marriage would be sure to follow.”
I did not disabuse her of the notion that we shared this particular background.
“The death of Prince Arthur was a great blow to my mistress.”
“As it was to us all.”
Francesca directed a wary glance at Catherine of Aragon, who stood next to the Lady Mary to watch the spectacle below. Catherine and Mary looked more like sisters by birth than sisters by marriage. Catherine, too, had red-gold hair and was no taller than ten-year-old Mary. Black velvet flattered her rosy complexion and gray eyes.
Reassured that the princess dowager was paying no attention to us, Francesca leaned so close to me that I could smell the lavender scent she’d used to perfume her body. “Her Grace cannot provide for her ladies as she should. Her father, King Ferdinand, refuses to release the remainder of her dowry to King Henry, and your king has been so miserly with our upkeep that we have been forced to live in poverty. We wear rags on our backs and have no hope of escape back to Spain.”
“You are scarcely in rags now.” I gave Francesca’s headdress and cloak a significant look. Although the gown beneath might be plainly cut, it was made of expensive velvet.
But I could not help but feel sorry for her. Under my cloak—pale gray with rabbit-fur trim—my velvet gown was a flattering peach color with close-fitting undersleeves, cut and slashed at the wrist, and long, wide oversleeves decorated with bands of embroidery. The skirt was long and loose, with a comfortable kirtle and chemise beneath, and it flattered my waist and hips as one of those stiff verdugados could never hope to. It was the most beautiful garment I had ever owned, and I knew I looked very fine in it.
“Our good fortune will not last,” Francesca predicted with gloomy certainty. “I know what will happen to Princess Catherine when King Philip goes away again. She will be forgotten. She and her ladies will be worse off than before.”
“Why do you confide in me?” I asked, afraid she was about to criticize King Henry again. It was dangerous to speak so frankly and almost as unwise to listen to such sentiments.
“You have the king’s ear,” Francesca said. “You can persuade him to treat us better.”
“I have no influence over King Henry. I am like a poor relation, tolerated in a gentleman’s home out of charity.” Unsettled, I pretended great interest in the scene below, hoping she would say no more of this.
“Ah,” Francesca murmured. “Not unlike the princess dowager.” To my great relief, she walked away.
In the lower ward, minstrels played as gloriously attired courtiers rode into the castle. They’d spared no expense to make a grand display. There were splendid jewels and bright colors—gold and crimson and blue predominated. The members of the king’s household added to the sparkle. Livery badges with golden letters hung suspended from their long green-and-white-striped sleeves and reflected the sun almost as brilliantly as did the jewels.