Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set

5

Rumors also flew in the days following the arrival of the French prisoners of war, but most had to do with Scotland, not France. A Scots army had invaded England. It was variously reported to be forty thousand, sixty thousand, even one hundred thousand strong.

However great the Scottish force, it had to be stopped. Queen Catherine was spurred on by the memory of her late mother, Queen Isabella of Castile, who had personally led the army that drove the Moors out of Spain. Catherine set herself to rally the people to defend the realm. She rode north at the head of a band of citizens of London and gentlemen and yeomen from the home counties to join the army already defending northern England. The cannon from the Tower went with her.

The Lady Mary and her household stayed behind, taking up residence in the royal apartments in the Tower of London for safety. The duc de Longueville and the other French prisoners were thus temporarily displaced and reassigned other quarters nearby. Our move to the Tower pleased me greatly. I was eager to question Guy further. And I had no objection to seeing more of the handsome duke.

“It is difficult to remember that you have not always lived here at court, Jane,” the Lady Mary remarked when I asked her permission to visit Guy Dunois, “but how do you know one of the duke’s men?”

“We were children together before I came to England. Guy’s mother’s house was but a stone’s throw from the one my mother leased whenever the French court was at Amboise.” No royal court stayed in one place long. The French king moved from château to château along the Loire and made occasional visits to Paris and other cities.

Mary pondered for a moment, then sent one of her quick, sunny smiles in my direction. “It is only polite that I entertain the duc de Longueville in the queen’s absence. I will invite him to walk with me after dinner in the gallery my father built. And I will bid him bring Master Guy Dunois, his servant, so that you may spend time with him.”

I said, “As you wish, Your Grace,” but inwardly I sighed in frustration. Although the Lady Mary treated me as a friend and confidante, I could never forget that she was a king’s daughter and I was not. Mary took for granted that she would be obeyed. She did not always take other people’s feelings into consideration, not even mine. That is the way it is with royalty.

I had hoped to converse with Guy in private. The presence of both the princess and the duke would make it difficult to ask questions. I was not certain why I did not want the Lady Mary to hear about those false rumors of my death, but anything to do with France while we were at war was sensitive and I thought it wise to be cautious.

The timber-framed gallery to which we repaired that afternoon had been built less than a decade earlier atop the curtain wall that ran from the King’s Tower across a gateway to Julius Caesar’s Tower. It had been designed to give a splendid view of the privy garden below—rampant lions and crouching dragons fashioned out of shrubbery; roses and woodbine growing on trellises; and several unusual species of tree, each planted in the center of a raised bed. I had been told one was a fig, one a mulberry, and one a Glastonbury thorn, but I did not know which was which.

In September, the garden was not as colorful as in summer, but in any season the shapes were pleasing to the eye. The center of the garden was filled with turf, and stone benches were scattered here and there around the perimeter of this expanse of green. The view should have instilled a sense of peace in the beholder. Instead, as we waited for the two French prisoners to join us in the gallery, it provoked the disconcerting realization that, like those trees, I had been transplanted on a royal whim.

It was not the first time I had been plagued by such thoughts. Usually, I managed to suppress them. I was happy at court. I had a busy, fulfilling life. I had friends. Unlike that Glastonbury thorn, I was not just decorative.

I was, however, still an oddity. I winced, remembering how I’d once wondered if King Henry VII had collected me, as he did his curiosities. I found consolation in reminding myself that at least I did not require a keeper!

My position at the English court was out of the ordinary. I had always known that, although I did not like to dwell on the subject. I told myself that there was no reason to be troubled by it. I was fed and clothed and entertained and all I had to do in return was wait on a girl-child of great beauty—and only a few unpleasant habits.

I glanced at the Lady Mary. She had the family temper and a self-centered outlook—those were drawbacks, indeed. But she rarely unleashed her fury on me. There were times when I thought that she looked upon me as the next thing to a second older sister.

But I was not her sister. I was not her maid of honor or one of her ladies-in-waiting either. Mary had appointed me “keeper of the princess’s jewels,” but the title carried no stipend. Unlike others in the royal household, I was paid nothing for my services. I had a small annuity, granted by the seventh King Henry, but it was not enough to live on.

As we waited in the gallery, I thought back to my first meeting with the late king. Henry VII had made me welcome and assured me that I would always have a home at court. But now a long-buried question had come back to haunt me: Why had I, of all the French-speaking girls in the world, been the one selected to join the children of honor at Eltham?

Everyone around me knew exactly who they were and where they belonged. Family connections and marriage alliances—some going back many generations—defined them. All I had was an uncle, Sir Rowland Velville, who barely acknowledged my existence. At the moment, he was off fighting the French with King Henry, but he had never been part of my life. Watching him compete in tournaments over the years had been as close as I’d ever come to spending time with him.

“Those clouds look most threatening,” the Lady Mary murmured.

I heard the edge of fear in her voice and promptly banished other considerations from my mind. Even as a small child, the princess had been deathly afraid of thunderstorms.

“Do you wish to retire to your chamber?” I asked. Among the relics she kept there was a small gilded box, a reliquary that contained a saint’s tooth reputed to have the power to ward off lightning strikes.

She made a visible effort to steady herself. “You have been looking forward to speaking with your former countryman. I would not wish to deprive you of the opportunity.”

“That is most considerate of you, Your Grace, but another time will serve as well.”

I could sense her inner struggle as she cast another nervous glance toward the lowering sky. “I have women enough to wait on me without requiring your services, Jane. Stay and make my excuses to the duke.”

Ignoring my expressions of gratitude, she sped away, delaying only long enough to give orders to the yeomen of the guard that the prisoners had her permission to enter the gallery.

Left alone, I turned again toward the windows. It was not yet twilight, but the world beyond the panes was already murky. Eerie shadows played on the expensive imported glass.

In an instant, a blinding glare of lightning flashed so close that I jumped. Then thunder crashed, pulsing like a living thing. I pulsed, too.

In normal circumstances I would have been alert for the sound of leather shoes slapping against the stone floor. This time the only warning I had was the smell of ambergris. The expensive scent emanated from the duc de Longueville, wafting out from the pomander ball he wore at his waist to block out disagreeable odors. Both Guy and the boy Ivo followed a few paces behind him.

“Have I come too early to my rendezvous with Her Grace?” The duke’s expression was somber and his voice grave. He squinted to see me in the dimness. Only a few candles illuminated the gallery, but that was sufficient for him to recognize me. “You are Mistress Popyncourt, I believe.”

I made the obeisance due to one of his rank. I spoke, as he had, in French. “Yes, My Lord. I am Jane Popyncourt.”

“I had thought to find your mistress here.”

He did not sound disappointed by her absence, which secretly pleased me. Keeping my gaze firmly on the juniper and wormwood-laced rushes at our feet, I explained that the princess had a fear of storms.

The duke made a tsking sound. He seemed amused, but I was at a loss to know why. “Are you not afraid?” he asked.

“No, Your Grace.” Although my heart was racing, I was determined to appear composed. I’d had a good deal of practice at this in fifteen years of living at the English court.

Then Longueville unleashed the full force of his smile. I felt heat rise in my cheeks and had to fight the urge to stare at my toes again. He was, as I had thought from my first good look at him, a most well-favored man.

The next bolt of lightning bathed his face with an eerie glow, giving it an almost demonic cast. I told myself it was the storm that made me shiver, but in my heart I knew better. It was a different sort of thrill that shot through me as the rumble of thunder followed a few seconds after the flash. The full fury of the tempest would soon begin to fade, but inside the gallery a new kind of storm was brewing.

“I admire bravery in a woman, Mistress Popyncourt, especially one so beautiful as you.” The look of approval on the duke’s face made my heart race. I barely noticed that Guy and Ivo had retreated to the far end of the gallery, or that the guards, too, had moved out of earshot.

“Storms fill the air with excitement, Your Grace.” My voice sounded a trifle unsteady. We stood side by side at the south-facing window and watched a distant bolt of lighting streak across the sky.

“And danger?”

“And danger,” I agreed.

“It is the violence,” he said, and slid an arm around my waist.

Over the tops of trees and bushes bent by the wind, we could just glimpse the choppy waters of the Thames. I smiled to myself, remembering another storm and another man. I had stood just this way at a window in Pleasure Palace, looking out at the Thames with Charles Brandon. Then I had been driven by curiosity to sample my first real kiss. Now something more intense stirred in me, generated by nothing more than the touch of the duke’s hand resting on my hip.

The river was so roiled up by the storm that the few boats foolish enough to be out on its surface were tossed about as if they were no heavier than bits of kindling. At the sight, another shiver ran through me.

“Are you cold, mistress?” Longueville whipped off the velvet cloak he wore and wrapped it around my shoulders. “We might retire to a less drafty spot.” His intense gaze left me in no doubt that he had somewhere much more private in mind.

The heavy, richly embroidered fabric enclosed me in a protective cocoon, but I was already much too warm. “I am quite comfortable as I am,” I assured him, shrugging out of the garment and handing it back to him.

He flung it carelessly behind him, trusting that one of his servants would be there to catch it before it landed. The duke’s faith was justified, and for just a moment my eyes locked with Guy’s in the dim light. The message was unmistakable—beware the duke!

I knew the dangers well enough, but never before had a man attracted me so strongly. The sight of him, the smell of him, the sound of his deep, resonant voice—all these drew me to him. For the first time ever, I wanted to experience this fascinating man with all my senses.

“I have been lonely in my captivity,” he murmured, dipping his head close to mine.

“Mayhap you need a pet,” I teased. He had said he admired bravery. I would be more than brave. I would be bold. I had been at ease with kings and princes since childhood. What did I have to fear from a mere duke?

His laugh charmed me. “What do you suggest, Mistress Jane? A bird, perhaps? A dog?”

“Oh, no, Your Grace. Only a monkey will do.”

The startled expression on his face made me smile. He did not seem to know whether to laugh or be insulted.

“The late King Henry had a spider monkey,” I explained, remembering Jot with fondness. “He loved the creature dearly. Why, once His Grace even forgave it for destroying a little book full of notes and memorials, writ in his own hand.”

“That cannot be true,” Longueville protested. “A king’s rage at the loss of such an important possession should have been exceedingly great.”

“So one would think, Your Grace. And the members of the royal family are far from temperate when something displeases them. But in this instance the king only laughed.”

He still looked skeptical.

Anxious to convince him that I spoke truly, I added more, something no one had dared speak of at the time. “It is said a groom of the king’s privy chamber egged the creature on. The courtiers all hated His Grace’s habit of recording their every failing in that little book.”

Longueville’s laughter burst forth again. “Animals can be the very devil. I once had a hunting dog that could track any game, but he developed an unfortunate addiction to tallow candles.”

“You do not mean—?”

“Oh, yes. He ate all he could find. We feared there would not be a light left in the castle if he continued as he was.”

“What did you do?” I feared I was about to hear that he’d had the dog put down, but the duke surprised me.

“He was the best hunter I had. I ordered extra candles made for him, with drippings from the game he’d caught himself.”

“I fear I am not fond of dogs,” I confessed. “Some of the Lady Mary’s women keep spaniels and I cannot abide their yapping.”

“Lapdogs. They can scarcely be considered dogs at all. Why, such creatures are as annoying as ferrets, and less useful.” He winked, surprising a laugh out of me. We both knew why some people wore pet ferrets wrapped around their necks like a ruff—ferrets ate lice.

While we had been talking, the storm had passed. Pinpoints of light now dotted the early evening sky as stars began to come out. “I should have returned long since to the princess,” I murmured.

“It is early yet. Stay awhile. Do you ride, Mistress Popyncourt? Last year I purchased a splendid courser and two brood mares from Francesco Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua. He is famous as a breeder of horses. Never have I owned better-trained animals.”

“I enjoyed riding when I was younger,” I told him, “but now Queen Catherine insists that we ladies use Spanish sidesaddles.” I made a face. Shaped like chairs, these saddles did not permit much freedom of movement.

His voice deepened. “King Henry treated me well when I was brought to him as a prisoner, but his queen seems disinclined to follow his lead.”

“She is Spanish. She is suspicious of anyone born in France.”

“Except for you, Mistress Popyncourt,” he said. “Why is that, do you suppose?”

“I was born in Brittany, not France.”

“Ah,” he said, understanding the distinction at once.

A nearby candle guttered, throwing the gallery into deeper shadow. I sensed the duc de Longueville bending toward me and felt a delicious prickle of anticipation at the center of my being. His lips—soft, full lips—lightly brushed my mouth.

From behind us came the sound of a throat clearing. Loudly. It was Guy. The yeoman of the guard would not have dared hint that a nobleman had overstepped the bounds of propriety. Longueville stepped back so abruptly that I felt chilled.

“Your Grace?”

“I have kept you here far too long, Mistress Popyncourt, but I am certain we will meet again…if you so desire.” He lifted my hand to his mouth and I felt the imprint of his lips through the thin leather of my glove.

I stared blankly after the duke until he and Ivo had gone. Guy stayed behind. Belatedly, I remembered that my original intention had been to speak privately with him. I frowned, recalling the look my childhood friend had given me.

“You are not my keeper, Guy Dunois,” I said.

“That does not mean you do not need one.”

“I have lived at court for many years. I am accustomed to flirting with courtiers, noblemen and gentlemen alike.”

“Not French noblemen,” Guy muttered.

I saw no reason to be alarmed by the duke’s interest in me. Neither did I want to quarrel. “It was you I wanted to talk to, Guy.”

“You have an odd way of showing it.”

The sound of shuffling feet told me that the remaining guard grew impatient. He had waited to escort Guy back to his quarters. The prisoners of war were confined in considerable luxury, but they were still prisoners.

“It is late.” More time than I’d realized had passed while I engaged in pleasant conversation with the duke. “Mayhap we should talk another time.”

He sketched a mocking bow. “As my lady wishes.”

THE FOLLOWING DAY, I sought Guy in the duc de Longueville’s lodgings in one of the many towers that made up the Tower of London. I encountered Ivo first. A gangly youth not yet grown into his feet, he directed me to a small inner chamber. When his voice broke halfway through this short speech, splotches of color stained his pale face.

In the room Ivo had indicated, I found Guy hard at work scribbling numbers in a ledger at a writing table. Papers were strewn across the table’s surface along with a scattering of quills and bottles of ink.

“Are you a clerk, then?” I asked.

Guy looked up in annoyance. Tiny spectacles slid down his nose. He removed them, closed the account book, and set the spectacles on top of it. “I serve as His Grace’s steward. I manage his estates when we are at home. And my own.”

“You have done well for yourself?”

“Well enough. What is it you want, Jeanne?”

“Jane.”

“His Grace is at the tennis play,” he said. Then he lapsed into a disapproving silence.

“I did not come here looking for the duke.”

I glanced around the antechamber. Ivo had left and no one else had come in. If I wanted to learn more about the rumors Guy had heard of my demise, this was the time to ask. Yet now Guy seemed strangely unapproachable.

“Are you wroth with me?” I blurted out.

He shrugged. “I have seen too many women enthralled by an excellent physique and a surfeit of charm. My half brother has a wife and children back in France. He has naught that is honorable to offer you.”

Nettled by his words, I spoke without thinking. “Have you not heard of courtly love? A woman may derive great pleasure simply from being in a man’s company.”

“That is not the kind of pleasure the duc de Longueville has in mind. Be careful, Jane, lest you end up as his plaything.”

I scowled at Guy, pretending to be insulted. At the same time, my heart beat a little faster and a heady excitement began to build inside me. Had the duke spoken of me? One part of me knew I should heed Guy’s warning. Another urged me to seize the chance, mayhap my only chance, to step out into a storm of passion.

For years I had avoided engaging in anything more than mild flirtation with the men of King Henry’s court. Charles Brandon’s abrupt loss of interest in me had been proof that none of them would take me to wife without a dowry, and I’d had no interest in becoming some English courtier’s mistress.

This was different. Longueville was a nobleman, his rank high enough to protect me from the scorn that might otherwise come my way. That he had a wife did not trouble me. I was never likely to meet her. What mattered was that I was drawn to him, as I had not been to any other man I’d met. And he, if Guy’s intimations were to be believed, returned my interest.

Curiosity and lust are a potent combination. I started to speak, then thought better of it. Longueville was England’s enemy, a prisoner of war. He would return to France as soon as he was ransomed.

So would Guy.

If I wanted answers about my past, I must ask my questions while I had the chance. I placed both hands on the table and leaned forward until we were quite close. “I want to speak to you of days gone by.”

His expression gave nothing away. “As you wish.”

I cleared my throat, still oddly hesitant to begin. “Have you all you need to be comfortable here?” I asked instead.

“All save the duke’s ransom.” He indicated the closed ledger. “We are housed in luxury but your king allots us only forty shillings a week to live on.”

I was surprised by the paltry amount and said so.

He shrugged. “Prisoners are expected to augment that sum from their own funds, but the duke’s only recourse would be to sell off his wardrobe and jewels, and that he will not do. We are reduced to living on pottage, brown bread, and cheese.”

“When the king returns, you will be given accommodations at court until the duke’s ransom is arranged. That will entitle you to three cooked meals a day.”

“You will pardon me if I remain skeptical.”

“The duke has been permitted to keep six servants,” I reminded him.

“With funds barely sufficient to keep one in food and candles. The constable of the Tower tells me that stipends for prisoners have not been increased in decades.”

Guilt assailed me. As one of the Lady Mary’s attendants I regularly had my choice among dishes of beef, mutton, veal, capon, cony, pheasant, pigeon, lamb, and chicken, not to mention a plentiful supply of butter and fruit and pastries. “I wish I could help, but I receive no stipend at all, only a tiny annuity scarce sufficient to purchase New Year’s gifts for the members of the royal family.”

That silenced Guy’s complaints about money and all else. He rose and offered me his stool. I shook my head and we stood facing each other.

I met his steady gaze with my own. “Do you wish that the duke had left you behind when he went off to war? You might be free now. If not for your half brother, you might be riding through your own fields, supervising the harvest.”

Guy smiled slightly. His sea green eyes lost their forbidding look. “I was the one who persuaded Longueville that he should take me along on campaign instead of another of our father’s bastards, our brother Jacques. I wanted an adventure. Still, I cannot regret coming here. How else should I have found you again?”

“Was I truly supposed to be dead?”

“I fear so.” He took both my hands in his and his eyes twinkled in a way I remembered well from our shared childhood. “But I am beyond pleased to have found you alive and well.”

Tentatively, I smiled back. “It is a great mystery to me why anyone should have thought my mother and I had died.”

“That was the story on everyone’s lips. There was no reason to doubt it. You and your mother had gone off without a proper escort. No guards. No servants. I supposed that you had been killed by outlaws bent on robbing you.”

“You said there were other rumors.”

Guy released me to move to the window and stand staring out at the White Tower, the oldest part of the castle, and the temporary buildings erected in front of it to house court officials in need of work space after a fire the year before at Westminster Palace had destroyed their offices.

I crossed to him and placed my gloved hand on his arm. “Maman died shortly after we arrived in England. She never told me why we left France.”

I remembered her words to me that day at the inn in London: I will explain everything in good time. But she had not lived long enough to keep that promise.

For the present it is best that you do not know too much. She had said that, too. I had not known what she meant then and did not now. But now it seemed important that I find out.

“Tell me what people said about us, Guy. I have a right to know.”

“I do not want to upset you.” Turning, he placed his hand over mine. His grip was firm and somehow comforting, even if his words were not. “I remember how you adored your mother.”

I felt queasy but ignored the sensation. “Nothing you tell me will change my love for her or erase my fond memories.”

Reluctance writ large upon his face, he stared at our joined hands, thus avoiding meeting my eyes while he gathered his thoughts. “On the day after you disappeared, members of the royal guard—the gens d’armes—came to the house where you lived in Amboise.”

Inhaling sharply, I felt as if I had taken a blow. This news did not bode well.

“When they found only your servants in residence, they took your governess away with them.”

I struggled to recall the woman, but she had only been employed to look after me for only a short time. I could not bring to mind either her name or her face. “Why did they arrest her? And where did they take her?”

“No one knew. That is why there was so much speculation. Coming so hard upon King Charles’s death in the château above the town, there were some who said the two events must be connected.”

I stared at him, not only unwilling but unable to form the words to ask the next logical question.

Guy took pity on me. “That was sheer foolishness, I am certain. The king’s death was sudden, but it was an accident. He struck his head on a lintel. He was surpassing tall and the doorway was very low.”

I blinked at him, confused. I had never thought to ask how the king of France had died…or why my mother had left court immediately after his death. “He died of a blow to the head?”

Frowning, Guy released my hand and turned away. He stared out at the White Tower again, his thoughts clearly far away. “The accident brought on an apoplexy, or so I have been told. King Charles did not collapse at once. It was several hours before he fell unconscious and could not be revived.”

I was certain there was more to the story but I was hesitant to ask outright. I waited in an agony of suspense for him to continue. After a few moments, he did, his voice so low I could only just make out his words.

“He had eaten an orange that morning. Some said it was poisoned.”

My breath hitched. “P-p-poison?”

Of a sudden, I felt light-headed. I did not need to hear the words to know that the gens d’armes might have come looking for Maman because they thought she’d had something to do with the king’s death. She had been there in the château, in attendance on Queen Anne. I could not imagine why suspicion would fall on her, but clearly it had. Then an alternate explanation occurred to me.

“Mayhap Queen Anne sent the guards because she was concerned for Maman’s well-being.”

“I do not think so, Jane. Remember that it is the custom in France for a royal widow to lie in bed for six weeks in a darkened room lit only by candles, cut off from the rest of the world. Queen Anne was already in seclusion on the day after King Charles’s death and in no position to give orders.”

“Then perhaps it was the governess they sought all along and not Maman.”

But Guy shook his head. “They asked all the neighbors if they had seen your mother. She was the object of their search, Jane. There is no doubt about that.”

“But why? Maman was a good person. She’d never have harmed anyone.” Whatever I had thought to learn from Guy, this was not it.

He glanced at the curtained doorway to make certain there was no one in the next room before he spoke again. Even though we were alone, he kept his voice low. “You know what royal courts are like. Ambition and intrigue abound. I cannot say for certain, but it is likely your mother had some connection to Louis d’Orléans.”

“Louis d’Orléans? The duc de Longueville?” I was truly confused now, and again felt light-headed.

“Two men bore that name in those days.”

Guy guided me to the stool and left me there while he went to a nearby cabinet. The screech of hinges in need of oiling made me jump, and I gave a nervous, embarrassed laugh. When Guy produced a cup and a bottle of wine, I accepted a drink without demur.

“The Louis d’Orléans I mean is not the duc de Longueville, but rather Louis the Twelfth, king of France. Shortly before King Charles’s death, Charles was investigating his cousin Louis d’Orléans for certain actions he took as governor of Normandy. They were at odds, too, because Louis had refused to lead Charles’s army to Asti in a renewal of the French campaign against the Italian city-states. It seemed as if Louis was waiting for Charles to die, as if he remained close so he could more easily seize the throne.”

“Was he not the rightful heir?”

“He was one of them. François d’Angoulême had as good a claim, but he was a child of three at the time and no one wanted another regency.”

A few sips of wine had revived me and helped me think more calmly. “How do you come to know all this?” I asked. “You were scarce older than I was back then.”

“I kept my ear to the ground.” His gaze locked for an instant with mine. “And I wanted to know what had happened to you.”

“My mother had naught to do with King Louis, and naught to do with King Charles’s death.”

“Are you certain?”

“Did rumors suggest my mother acted on behalf of Louis d’Orléans?”

Guy winced at my sharp tone of voice. “I’ve told you as much. All manner of stories were bandied about. Most died away as fast as they sprang up, but Louis was nearby, at Blois.” He shrugged.

In my agitation, I stood and began to pace. Maman must have known Louis would be the next king. When she fled from court, had she been running from him? Had she somehow known he poisoned King Charles?

But no. That made no sense. Queen Anne had gone on to marry her late husband’s successor. She was married to him still.

“When did word come to Amboise that Maman and I were dead?”

Guy ran one hand over a face that suddenly looked more weary than his years. The dark stubble shadowing his jaw made him seem more soldier than courtier and his eyes were sad. “It was perhaps a month after you disappeared.”

“Where did the rumors say we died? And of what cause?”

Guy shook his head. “No one knew any details. Although I was still a child, I asked. Then I grieved for you…as my friend.” Another shrug. “Soon afterward I left Amboise to enter the service of my half brother.”

Pressing my fingers to my brow, I tried to think, tried to remember the details of our departure from Amboise and our journey to Calais. Those weeks of travel remained a blur, although I knew we had avoided the main roads and waterways. But my first clear recollections were of Calais and crossing the Narrow Seas and arriving in England.

“Maman must have feared pursuit,” I murmured. “We did not stay with friends. And I had to promise not to speak to anyone on the journey. She would not even let me say farewell to you, Guy.”

I tried to tell myself that Maman had been frightened away by the fear of false accusations, that she’d fled because she could so easily have been blamed for something she had not done. Mayhap she had started the rumors of her death herself. There was irony in that, seeing as she did die not many months later.

“I want to know the truth, no matter how terrible it is.”

“That may never be possible.” Guy’s arms came around me. “It was all a long time ago,” he whispered. “Fifteen years. What can any of it possibly matter now?”

WHEN KING HENRY VII was alive, he enjoyed no sport better than tennis, not even a good tournament. He built tennis plays at all his principal residences and until a few years before his death was as enthusiastic a player as he was a spectator. A game was already in progress when the Lady Mary’s entourage arrived at that free-standing structure in the Tower of London.

Once the princess was settled in the upper gallery, furnished with cloth-of-gold cushions and a chair under a canopy of estate, I approached the window overlooking the covered tennis court and peered down at the players.

The duc de Longueville looked up at me, his black eyes alight with pleasure. He acknowledged the Lady Mary’s presence by sketching a bow before the game resumed. The duke served a small, hard, white-kid-covered ball, sending it winging across the fringed cord that divided the court in two.

I could not stop myself from staring at him. His shirt, dampened by perspiration, clung to his broad chest. As was common with most men when they played tennis, he wore only silk drawers ornamented with gold cord. From their hem to his soft, square-toed shoes, his excellently shaped legs were bare.

So absorbed was I in assessing his figure that I barely recognized Longueville’s opponent as Guy Dunois, similarly attired. To return a ball, Guy threw himself into the air, nearly crashing into a wall. The ball flew straight into a window frame on the opposite side of the court.

Although I had watched tennis matches for years, I still did not understand the game. The rules are complicated—a deliberate attempt, I suspect, to assure that only educated men can play. I did know that when one player failed to return the ball, points were scored according to how far from the center cord that ball had come to rest.

I leaned forward in order to see better. When the ball struck the wire mesh directly in front of me with a resounding twang, I jumped back.

The Lady Mary whooped with laughter. She was in a jovial mood that put me in mind of her brother the king. “Shall we wager on the outcome?” she asked when she had her mirth under control. That, too, smacked of King Henry.

I held my hands spread wide. “I have no money with which to gamble, Your Grace.”

“Risk something you value, then. Your pendant.” She pointed to the tiny enameled dragon I wore suspended from my waist.

Most people did not notice it alongside my rosary and my pomander ball. But the Lady Mary knew it was there, and she knew what it meant to me. The bit of jewelry was one of the few things I had by which to remember my mother. I clasped a protective hand around the little dragon, feeling the edges bite into my palm through my glove.

Caught up in the match, Mary did not notice my distress. “I wager ten pounds against your bauble,” she said, “on the duc de Longueville to win.”

A sudden tightness in my chest left me fighting tears. Certain that I would lose, I ran one finger over the small keepsake, caressing the smoothly cold surface of the tiny dragon body, feeling the protuberances of its head and wings and feet. Then my hand moved to the rosary beside it and I murmured a brief prayer.

Since my conversation with Guy, I had been unable to stop thinking about my mother and how little I knew of her. She had married at fifteen. I remembered her telling me that when Papa died only a few months before we left France. And she had married for love. She had told me that, too, for Papa was not a Breton, nor even a landowner, but rather a Flemish merchant who did business in both Brittany and France.

Maman had been raised in the household of Duchess Anne of Brittany, later Queen Anne of France, after her own mother died. If she ever spent much time with relatives on either side of her family, she had never spoken of it to me. After I met my uncle, Sir Rowland, I pictured the rest of the Velvilles as distant as he was.

As play continued, I focused on Guy. If he had been Longueville’s companion for fifteen years, surely he would have received training in jousting, hunting, hawking, and all other sports. The duke had been the captain of a company comprised of a hundred gentlemen of the French king’s horse at the time he was taken prisoner. Since Guy was here with him, he must have been one of that hundred. A soldier, then.

He was shorter than the duke—only a few inches taller than I—and had a slighter, more wiry build than his half brother. As I watched, Guy leapt halfway across the court to return the ball, scoring a point. For a moment I let myself hope he might prevail, but despite Guy’s considerable athletic prowess, the duke far outshone him.

Longueville handled his racquet as if he had been born holding one. Moreover, he was a nobleman and Guy’s master. I knew too well how unwise it was to try to outshine the sun. No matter how much energy Guy exerted, he was unlikely to win the match. In the end, he would not even try to emerge victorious. He would give the duke a good game but make certain Longueville won.

When the match reached its inevitable conclusion, the Lady Mary beckoned to me, commanding my presence at her side. She looked well pleased with the outcome until she glimpsed my face. She caught my hand before I could finish unclasping my pendant.

“This wager was a foolish impulse on my part. I would never deprive you of something you treasure so dearly.”

“Then I am in your debt, Your Grace.”

I might have said more, but her attention had already shifted to the court below. “He is a most well-favored fellow,” she murmured.

Following her gaze, I felt again the fierce pull of desire. To prevent taking a chill, the duc de Longueville had donned a rumpled crimson velvet tennis coat decorated with strips of dark blue satin. His face, sweat streaked and glowing with health and vitality, lifted toward the royal box. Once again, he bowed to the Lady Mary.

The princess sent a sidelong glance my way. “I vow,” she murmured, “he is almost as toothsome as Charles Brandon.”

A mischievous little smile played around her mouth. Two years earlier, when Mary was sixteen and had admired Brandon’s prowess in a tournament, I had confided in her, telling her of his brief courtship of me when I was her age. I also told her I thought myself fortunate to have escaped the entanglement heart-whole.

She’d been fascinated by her brother’s friend ever since.

Longueville and Guy had just left to wash and change their clothing when a great shout went up outside the tennis play. A messenger in the queen’s livery appeared a moment later, bearing a letter to the Lady Mary from Queen Catherine. She did not have to read it to know there had been an English victory. All around us people were cheering as the news spread.

“Our army engaged the Scots at a place called Flodden,” Mary said as she skimmed the letter. “Queen Catherine herself was not on the battlefield, but she claims the triumph as her own.”

We’d heard already how Catherine had inspired the troops. Soldiers had joined her cavalcade all along the way north, swelling ranks that had once been outnumbered by the Scottish invaders. Pride in my countrymen and my queen filled me with a fierce joy…until I saw Mary’s face change. Tears welled in her eyes, although she did not permit them to fall.

“What is it?” I stepped closer, shielding her from prying eyes.

“King James the Fourth of Scotland is dead.”

I thought at once of Margaret, Mary’s sister and my one-time playfellow. The king of Scotland was her husband. His death left her a widow at twenty-three. Would she grieve for him? Given what I knew of Margaret, and the reports that had come out of Scotland over the years, she would be as upset by her loss of influence as by James’s death. Scotland had a new king now, James V, Margaret’s son. The boy was still an infant. The country would have to be ruled by a regent for many years to come.

Mary’s breath caught as she read on. “Catherine lists half the nobility of Scotland here.”

“Prisoners?”

“Dead. Killed in the battle.”

I stared at her in shock. Noblemen were supposed to be captured and held for ransom. I’d believed that the French admiral who had butchered Lord Edward was an exception, but it seemed the English generals could be just as brutal.

“Catherine has ordered James’s body embalmed and sent to Richmond Palace,” Mary whispered. “She writes that she plans to send James’s blood-stained coat to Henry as proof of how good a steward she has been for his realm in his absence.”

I could imagine King Henry’s reaction to that. He’d think she was trying to belittle his own accomplishment. She’d killed a king—his sister’s husband. All he’d done was capture a duke.

Sickened by the reports of carnage, and by the pleasure most people seemed to take in them, I wanted nothing more than to retreat from public view. It was not to be. The Lady Mary was expected to speak to the crowd gathered within the Tower precincts. She and all her household had to appear to rejoice at the news of England’s great victory over the Scots.