grant her a personal audience on her commission.”
And then, half limping, the king of England made his way the length of Westminster Hall, walking alongside Thomas Cromwell, the chief minister he would now make Earl of Essex.
7
I ’ve never seen a woman accomplish anything like that in my life,” said Master Thomas Culpepper. “And, now that I think on it, I’ve never seen a man accomplish such a feat either.”
I had not remained in Westminster to witness the elevation of Cromwell. After the king spoke favorably to me, it was Culpepper who surged forward to escort “Mistress Stafford, the king’s kin” to Whitehall, keeping up the pretense I had begun that we did not know each other.
“We need not dwell on what happened in there,” I said.
“You don’t think the entire court will dwell on it soon enough?” Culpepper asked. After thanking me for the story I concocted for coming to Westminster, a story that had removed him completely, he could not stop rejoicing in my “cleverness.”
I rubbed my forehead as I returned to Whitehall with Thomas Culpepper. Two men cut their way in front of us, leading a string of white greyhounds, their pink noses sniffing with derision. The dogs were headed for the open park, away from the palace. How I longed to join them.
Just a few hours ago, I had been part of the throng of the obscure, milling in front of the Whitehall gatehouse. Now the most powerful men of the land were more aware of my existence than ever before. And, according to Culpepper, my words to the king, born of desperation, would award me fame throughout the court. Fame was the last thing I sought for a myriad reasons, among them that now I would be an easier target for an assailant to find.
As if he’d read my thoughts, Culpepper’s smile faded. “I shall make all my inquiries with discretion,” he promised me. “This business shall be dealt with straight away. There is a lord who serves the chamberlain, the master of pages, I shall begin by inquiring of him which of His Majesty’s pages fit the description of the man who attacked you.”
“I beg of you, exercise every caution,” I said. “He is a most dangerous man.”
“Mistress, I can manage an errant page, I assure you.”
I did not tell him of the suspicion that formed within me while I was in that small room of Westminster: that the page waited for me to arrive, in order to lure me to a carefully selected room, where he would attack, perhaps even kill me. But now, as I walked on this path with Culpepper, the late-afternoon sun slanting on the radiant stone walls of the palace, such a conspiracy began to seem too fantastical. How could a royal page be recruited to harm me? Someone must have said my name aloud at the gatehouse without my hearing; was not the area noisy and chaotic? The attack was one of depravity, nothing more.
Nor did I tell Culpepper the whole truth about Thomas Cromwell. The only person who knew that he’d withdrawn into that room to give way to his own fear and distress was me. My instinct was to keep it that way.
With the assurance of a man who knows his master well, Culpepper told me that Henry VIIIdesired a court built on chivalry. “You’ve done Cromwell a great service today, to prompt the king to think that he wanted only to be of service to a lost lady,” he said.
I must pin my hope on Cromwell’s wanting to retain that gracious image of himself. Perhaps then he would not move against me after all.
“My problem is what to do with you for the next hour,” continued Culpepper as we stood at the entranceway to the palace. “The king says he shall have an audience with you, and he may wish it before nightfall—or it could be tomorrow. When I attend on him later, I will find out. But in the interim, you cannot be left amongthe men. A lady belongs with other ladies, but there is only one place at Whitehall where they can be found. I don’t suppose you are acquainted with the Queen of England? Nothing
And then, half limping, the king of England made his way the length of Westminster Hall, walking alongside Thomas Cromwell, the chief minister he would now make Earl of Essex.
7
I ’ve never seen a woman accomplish anything like that in my life,” said Master Thomas Culpepper. “And, now that I think on it, I’ve never seen a man accomplish such a feat either.”
I had not remained in Westminster to witness the elevation of Cromwell. After the king spoke favorably to me, it was Culpepper who surged forward to escort “Mistress Stafford, the king’s kin” to Whitehall, keeping up the pretense I had begun that we did not know each other.
“We need not dwell on what happened in there,” I said.
“You don’t think the entire court will dwell on it soon enough?” Culpepper asked. After thanking me for the story I concocted for coming to Westminster, a story that had removed him completely, he could not stop rejoicing in my “cleverness.”
I rubbed my forehead as I returned to Whitehall with Thomas Culpepper. Two men cut their way in front of us, leading a string of white greyhounds, their pink noses sniffing with derision. The dogs were headed for the open park, away from the palace. How I longed to join them.
Just a few hours ago, I had been part of the throng of the obscure, milling in front of the Whitehall gatehouse. Now the most powerful men of the land were more aware of my existence than ever before. And, according to Culpepper, my words to the king, born of desperation, would award me fame throughout the court. Fame was the last thing I sought for a myriad reasons, among them that now I would be an easier target for an assailant to find.
As if he’d read my thoughts, Culpepper’s smile faded. “I shall make all my inquiries with discretion,” he promised me. “This business shall be dealt with straight away. There is a lord who serves the chamberlain, the master of pages, I shall begin by inquiring of him which of His Majesty’s pages fit the description of the man who attacked you.”
“I beg of you, exercise every caution,” I said. “He is a most dangerous man.”
“Mistress, I can manage an errant page, I assure you.”
I did not tell him of the suspicion that formed within me while I was in that small room of Westminster: that the page waited for me to arrive, in order to lure me to a carefully selected room, where he would attack, perhaps even kill me. But now, as I walked on this path with Culpepper, the late-afternoon sun slanting on the radiant stone walls of the palace, such a conspiracy began to seem too fantastical. How could a royal page be recruited to harm me? Someone must have said my name aloud at the gatehouse without my hearing; was not the area noisy and chaotic? The attack was one of depravity, nothing more.
Nor did I tell Culpepper the whole truth about Thomas Cromwell. The only person who knew that he’d withdrawn into that room to give way to his own fear and distress was me. My instinct was to keep it that way.
With the assurance of a man who knows his master well, Culpepper told me that Henry VIIIdesired a court built on chivalry. “You’ve done Cromwell a great service today, to prompt the king to think that he wanted only to be of service to a lost lady,” he said.
I must pin my hope on Cromwell’s wanting to retain that gracious image of himself. Perhaps then he would not move against me after all.
“My problem is what to do with you for the next hour,” continued Culpepper as we stood at the entranceway to the palace. “The king says he shall have an audience with you, and he may wish it before nightfall—or it could be tomorrow. When I attend on him later, I will find out. But in the interim, you cannot be left amongthe men. A lady belongs with other ladies, but there is only one place at Whitehall where they can be found. I don’t suppose you are acquainted with the Queen of England? Nothing
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