Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set

8

I never thought the duc de Longueville loved me. I was not such a fool. Nor did I love him, except in the carnal sense. I had known all along that he would not be mine to keep. But I had believed that the man I’d called my Coriander had a certain fondness for me, as I did for him. I had thought the intimacies we shared meant more to him than a convenient means of physical release.

I should have known better.

Had I learned nothing in more than fifteen years at court?

Men took their pleasure where they found it. One woman was the same as another. Even when they married where they wished, choosing mutual affection over a rich dowry or a powerful alliance, it was the rare husband who remained faithful.

The king himself was proof of that. He had wed Catherine of Aragon because he had panted after her like a puppy dog for years. They’d been enraptured with each other at first, but less than a year had passed before he’d betrayed his wedding vows with one of his wife’s married ladies. He had certainly not been faithful to her while he was away at war. According to Harry, King Henry had found himself a Flemish mistress named Étienne de la Baume during his visit to Archduchess Margaret’s court at Lille.

I made my way back toward the barn in a state of mingled anger and distress. Longueville’s words had hurt me beyond measure. How dare he offer me, like a bauble or a joint of beef, to another man, even if that man was the king!

At first I tried to pretend nothing was amiss. I joined Harry Guildford and Richard Gibson, his deputy master of revels, in a discussion of how best to make our small version of the White Tower of the Tower of London more impressive. Carpenters and painters had devoted the better part of the last three days to constructing the lightweight wooden frame of a castle that resembled the keep. With my own hands, I had helped cover it with gilt paper that would shimmer in candlelight. At the time, I had thought to create a spectacular setting in which to show myself off to my lover.

That hope aside, we were all painfully aware that the spectacle would fall far short of the usual court masque. “It is no Golden Arbor of Pleasure,” Harry lamented, citing one of his greatest successes, a masque performed some two or three years back.

“Aye, that was most memorable.” Master Gibson chuckled to himself. “Do you recall? We constructed that pageant wagon at the bishop of Hertford’s place in London and it was so heavy that it broke right through the floor. I was obliged to apply for additional funds to make repairs.”

Master Gibson, a tall, lanky fellow with thinning straw-colored hair, had been leader of the King’s Players in the last reign. A yeoman tailor by profession, he’d become principal costume designer and producer of court entertainments under Harry Guildford. Whenever a disguising was to be staged, it was Gibson who requested material from the wardrobes, rented houses to serve as workshops, and hired carpenters, scene painters, and tailors. For the last Twelfth Night pageant he had built the Rich Mount, a set piece that had taken nearly a month to construct.

I had first come to know Master Gibson when he made my costume to play Maid Marian in the king’s dawn raid on his wife’s bedchamber. He had not had much notice beforehand and had coped surpassing well, but presenting a masque at Havering-atte-Bower on the spur of the moment presented a far greater challenge, one that could not be overcome with a few yards of green cloth.

The queen’s manor was located inland, making it difficult to transport set pieces and machines to the location. They were customarily conveyed by barge from workshop to palace along the Thames, roads being unsuited to the movement of such large objects. Deprived of easy access to existing structures, we were left with no choice but to build our own scenery.

It was some time after my return from the bower before I became aware that both Harry and Master Gibson were staring at me. “What ails you, Jane?” Harry demanded. “I have asked you the same question three times over.”

“I do beg your pardon, Harry. I-I was thinking.” I squared my shoulders, prepared for opposition. “I do not wish to participate in the disguising.”

“But there is no time for anyone else to learn your part,” Master Gibson objected. “And Purity is an important role in the masque.”

A hand clamped down hard on my arm. As Master Gibson shook his head, no doubt lamenting the flightiness of waiting gentlewomen, and resumed work on the pageant wagon, Harry pulled me aside.

“This is not like you, Jane. Why have you changed your mind?”

“I do not wish to call attention to myself tonight. Do not fret. I will find someone else to wear my costume. Mistress Blount is about my size.” She was also the most lively of the queen’s younger maids of honor, quick witted and agile. She would have no difficulty mastering my part in the evening’s entertainment.

“But why?” Confusion and concern warred with irritation in Harry’s voice.

I looked away, reluctant to explain that the substitution would allow me to avoid dancing with the duc de Longueville at the end of the masque.

After a moment, he released me. “Go on, then. Teach her the lines and the steps and pray she is a quick study. Both the king and the queen expect this entertainment to run smoothly.”

COLOR AND NOISE assaulted me as I moved through the crowd that evening. Courtiers and ladies garbed in white, green, and yellow satin engaged in spirited conversations while musicians added to the tumult. I caught a glimpse of the queen at the far side of the room, brilliant as a jewel in silver damask. Her ladies drifted like bright flowers around her feet, some in white cloth-of-gold and others in violet satin. The Lady Mary was in popinjay blue.

Nearby were the king and the Duke of Longueville. Having no desire to come to the notice of either of them, I sought the very edge of the crowd. The rich crimsons, yellows, and greens of a Venetian tapestry showing St. George defeating the dragon gleamed dully in the light cast by hundreds of wax tapers. Wearing pale green slashed with yellow myself, I attempted to blend into that background.

A fanfare sounded and the room stilled. The doors at the far end of the great hall opened and six burly yeomen of the guard, presently out of uniform and dressed as wild men in saffron kilts and braided hair, towed in the pageant wagon on which our castle had been built.

This set piece was far smaller than the scenes and machines constructed for disguisings at Greenwich or Windsor or Westminster Palace, but it seemed surpassing large in the hall at Havering-atte-Bower. I studied the structure with a critical eye and was pleased with what I observed. No hint showed of what, or rather who, was concealed within.

On the outside, four veiled women clad all in white perched on little ledges around the sides of the towers. Once the pageant wagon was in position, the first woman spoke, revealing that each of them represented a virtue. She was kindness. I suppressed a smile. Kindness was portrayed by Meg Guildford, Harry’s wife, who had become almost as notorious for her sharp tongue as his mother was.

At least she was fond of him, I thought, and he of her. She still did not greatly care for me. Harry said she was jealous of my long friendship with him. I suspected she still believed we’d been lovers.

When Meg finished her speech, Patience, Temperance, and Gentleness took their turns. Then there was a stir in the crowd. Several people gasped and one woman giggled as four black-cloaked men emerged from hiding places scattered around the hall. They stormed the castle, flinging off their outer garments when they reached it to reveal apparel of crimson satin embroidered with gold and pearls. Even their caps and visors matched.

Murmurs rose from the audience as people tried to guess the identity of this veiled lady or that masked man. “That tall one on the far left does much resemble the king,” said a woman standing near me.

“The king is over there, with the queen and that French duke,” her companion replied, “so the gentleman laying siege to the castle must be Ned Neville.”

From a distance, Ned did bear a strong resemblance to King Henry, but I knew him too well ever to be deceived. When he’d been a young boy and one of the children of honor at Eltham, his likeness to his royal master had been so marked that some speculated he might be King Henry VII’s by-blow. Speculation was all it was. Unlike the eighth Henry, the seventh had been faithful to his queen.

After many calls for the ladies to surrender, each of the four lords made an impassioned speech in which he revealed his identity. One was Nobility, another Loyalty, one Honor, and the last, predictably, Pleasure.

They were rewarded with a rain of dates and oranges thrown down from the towers. When the ladies had done pelting their besiegers with fruit, they sent a shower of rose water over their heads. A hail of comfits came next. I joined in the laughter and applause echoing through the hall.

The show of resistance by the castle’s defenders over, the lords scaled the pageant wagon. Each lifted a lady down from her perch. Some lords were welcomed more exuberantly than others. Meg Guildford tumbled happily into Harry’s embrace, greeting him with kisses.

To exclamations of surprise and delight, the front of the castle now began to open. When it stood wide, yet another lady in white was revealed. Unlike the others, Bessie Blount’s features were not hidden by either visor or veil. Her golden curls tumbled free, long enough to reach her waist, and her own sweet innocence shone so bright that she was instantly recognizable as Purity.

I smiled wryly to myself. Bessie and I might have been able to fit into the same costume, but I would never have been able to appear so innocent.

I held my breath as she began to speak. Her part in the disguising, which I had written for myself, was short but crucial. Sweet, loud, and clear, the words rang out. Her flawless delivery commanded everyone’s attention as she explained that virtues united were stronger than those kept apart.

The masque ended with a ceremony that joined the participants together in the service of His Most Gracious Majesty, King Henry of England. The lords and ladies, now allegorically wed, assisted Bessie from her castle. As the wall closed behind her, she called for music. Everyone who had participated in the disguising went forth to select partners from among the spectators. Meg Guildford approached the duc de Longueville, while her younger sister Elizabeth boldly asked the king to partner her.

I saw Harry Guildford look around for me just as the pageant wagon passed by on its way out of the room. Its bulk obscured me from his view, but only for a moment. In Harry’s second sweep of the chamber, his lynx-eyed gaze picked me out against the background of the tapestry.

“Hiding, Jane?” he asked as he made a leg. “By the saints, that will not do.”

He was right. I would only make myself more conspicuous if I tried to avoid being seen. We danced.

“Another success, Harry. You are a superb master of revels.”

“Wait until you see what I have planned for Christmas at Pleasure Palace.”

We exchanged a private smile at his use of the name I had coined so long ago. Then his expression changed to one of consternation, but it was already too late to avoid the other couple bearing down on us. With as deft a maneuver as I have ever seen, Meg executed a trade, dancing off partnered by her husband and leaving me to finish the pavane with the duc de Longueville.

“Sweeting, I have missed you,” he murmured close to my ear.

We stepped apart, but that low, sensual tone had already had an effect. In spite of everything I had heard at the bower, in spite of the hurt and anger that had simmered inside me in all the hours since, I still felt a flutter of desire deep within.

I forced myself to smile when the dance brought us face-to-face once more. Even if I dared reveal that I had been listening when he offered me to the king, I could scarce berate him for what he’d done. Even in private it would be folly for a mere gentlewoman to take a duke to task.

Each casual brush of his hand against mine weakened my resolve to avoid him. In spite of his betrayal, my traitorous body longed to lie with him.

Unpalatable as it was, I could not deny the truth: I still craved his touch.

A daring thought came to me. He had used me for his pleasure. Could I use him for mine? I needed time to think. Forcing my lips into a smile, I parted from him at the end of the dance. “There are others who would claim you as a partner, my lord,” I told him, and all but shoved him into Elizabeth Bryan’s arms.

Meg’s sister was happy to have him. He was an excellent dancer and his skill would allow her to show off her own agility. While they capered, I retreated into a window alcove, one shielded by a curtain partway drawn across to keep out drafts. There I hid, catching my breath and gathering my composure while I contemplated stealing away to my lodgings.

When a shadow fell across my skirts, I looked up, bracing myself to meet Longueville’s black-eyed gaze. Instead King Henry stood there, so big and solid that he blocked all the light from the hall, and at the same time cut off any hope of escape.

“Your Grace!” I tried to make an obeisance, but there was no room for the maneuver.

He stayed my pitiful effort with a gesture and moved closer. The smell of musk, rose water, ambergris, and civet, the combination he preferred as a scent, was nearly overwhelming in the confined space.

“An excellent entertainment, Jane. Harry tells me you wrote some of the speeches.”

“I am glad my poor attempts pleased you, Your Grace.”

“You always please me, Jane.”

My heart stuttered in my chest. For one terrible moment I was afraid the king’s talk with Longueville had piqued his interest in me. He had said he’d “take another look” after the duke had been ransomed and returned to France. What if he had decided not to wait?

“Do you fancy yourself in love with the duc de Longueville?” The king posed his question casually, but I was certain it was not prompted by idle curiosity. King Henry did nothing without purpose.

It came to me in that moment that what I’d felt for Longueville all along had been exactly what I’d thought it was when I’d first seen him—lust. If I’d been a man, I would not have hesitated to say that to His Grace. How unfortunate that the king held those of my sex to a different standard. By royal decree, “lewd women” were not permitted in the royal household.

“I was intrigued by him, Your Grace,” I said carefully, “and interested to hear his stories about life in France.”

The king’s round, almost cherubic face knit into a frown, but it vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared. “You are Velville’s niece. I had forgot.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“He’s sworn allegiance to England. Can you say the same?”

“I have always been loyal to the Crown, Your Grace, from the moment your father first took me in.” I did not remind him that I had been his father’s ward and now was his. As my guardian, he might decide to exercise even more control over my actions.

He pondered my statement, his blue-gray eyes as serious as I’d ever seen them.

Although the king’s big body obscured most of my view, I caught a glimpse of the queen when he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. She did not look pleased to see her husband conversing with me. If we remained in the alcove much longer, she would think the worst.

“I cannot say I was pleased to learn you had become Longueville’s mistress,” King Henry mused aloud. “When I sent orders to make him welcome in England, I did not intend to go so far.”

At his comment, my stomach tied itself into knots, but I forced myself to offer an excuse. “I was swept away by passions I did not understand.”

The king nodded, as though I had said something profound. “Would you end it with him if I asked you to?”

“Your wish is my command, Sire.”

“I said ask, Jane, not order.”

“My loyalty is to you and the queen and the Lady Mary. No other will ever come before you in my heart or in my mind.”

“A pretty speech, but I believe you are sincere. I am pleased, Jane, and will be even more so if you will allow me to take advantage of the situation.”

“In what way, Your Grace?” Grateful as I was to have been spared either anger or censure, something about the purpose of this conversation eluded me.

“I want you to continue to bed the duke for the duration of his stay in England. During that time, as my loyal subject, you will report to me anything Longueville confides in you, no matter how trivial it seems.”

“You…you want me to spy on him?”

“I do. You are a clever creature, Jane. Persuade him to talk to you of French troops, French politics, even old King Louis himself. We are still at war with France. If Longueville plots against me, I must know his plans.” He put one heavy hand on my shoulder. “I am generous with my rewards for loyal service, Jane.”

“It is enough reward just to serve you, Your Grace.” And it would scarcely be a hardship to do as he asked.

AFTER THE MASQUE at Havering there could be no more such entertainments until Christmas Eve. Advent, encompassing the four Sundays before Christmas, was a time for fasting and prayer, and for forsaking all frivolity.

That did not include entertainments of a private nature. With the duke and his entourage now living at court, I came into daily contact with both Longueville and his half brother, Guy. It was difficult at first to make myself smile and laugh, flirt and entice, to pretend I did not know how little my lover thought of me. But I was so often in his company and he was so constant in his attentions to me, that it was not long before I was on the verge of forgetting everything I had overheard him say to the king.

“I have missed you, Jane.” He whispered the words in my ear as we strolled together toward a table set up for card play. His warm breath sent a rush of heat straight through me. “Will you not visit me later tonight?”

“I must remain with the Lady Mary, my lord.”

His chuckle was low and sensual. “It is not your turn to be on duty, my sweet. Others are assigned to see her off to bed and guard her through the night.”

I did not ask how he knew what schedule the princess’s attendants followed. Such information was not difficult to come by in a place where everyone accepted bribes. Instead I sent what I hoped was an enigmatic smile his way and busied myself arranging my skirts as I sat down.

The game was honors, which I had played since childhood. With pleasure, I saw that Longueville and I were matched against Harry Guildford and his wife. My smile faded at the hostile look in Meg’s dark brown eyes.

“You shall teach me this game, yes?” The duke’s tone made it obvious to all three of us that this was a command, not a request. As usual, he spoke in French, and Harry and I replied in that language. Meg Guildford, having only English, had to rely on her husband for translation. The necessity did not make her look any more kindly upon my presence.

“In honors, forty-eight cards are dealt,” I explained, trying hard to ignore the glares from the other side of the gaming table. “All the twos are discarded.”

When Harry had dealt twelve cards to each of us, he turned over the last one he’d given himself, revealing the five of spades. “That is trump,” I told Longueville and gave a little cry of delight when I saw that I had the ace. “I have the honor,” I said, producing it. “Have ye?”

He blinked at me in confusion. I switched to French. “You are my partner. I am asking if you have any of the other honor cards in spades. If we have three of the four—ace, king, queen, or jack—we score one point. If we have all four, we score two points.”

“Ah,” he said, sending me a smile so intimate it turned my insides liquid. “Alas, I have none.”

“Then play commences with you, since you sit to the dealer’s left. You must lead a card and the rest of us will follow suit, if we are able. A player who cannot may play any card. We win the trick by playing the highest card, either the highest in the suit that is led or the highest trump. The winner of each trick leads the next. One point is awarded for every trick taken over six tricks. The first team to score nine points wins the game.”

He frowned at me over his cards. “But if I understand you correctly, it is only possible to score eight points in a single hand.”

I beamed back at him, pleased that he’d caught on so quickly. “And so we must play at least two hands. Lead a card, if you please, Your Grace.”

By the time we had bested the Guildfords three times, we were in charity with each other. We were also considerably richer, as it was the custom to wager on the outcome of every game. And because the duke’s servant, young Ivo, had refilled our cups with wine before ever they could be emptied, I felt deliciously light-headed when we left the card table.

I made no protest when the duke steered me toward the spacious lodgings King Henry had assigned to him at court. The rooms were very grand. To the casual observer, these would seem the lodgings of an honored guest rather than an enemy prisoner of war.

I told myself I was returning to Longueville’s bed only out of a sense of duty, but in the one small section of my mind not fogged by wine I knew that was not entirely true. The duke was a skilled lover and I wanted to enjoy his embraces again. When we were both naked, I opened my arms, welcoming him into my eager embrace. Enraptured by the heat of our passion, I put out of my mind the insulting offer I had overheard him make to the king.

But I never again called him Coriander.

Hours later, I lay awake, sated but unable to sleep. My conscience had begun to trouble me. If I was in the duke’s bed on the king’s orders, should I have enjoyed myself so thoroughly? The only one I could ask was my confessor, and I did not think I wanted to hear his answer.

It was not as if I had any choice in the matter, I told myself. Had I not already considered using the duke to bring me pleasure?

Would he also bring me information? That was a more complicated question. We had talked together, laughed together when he was a prisoner in the Tower, but he had rarely spoken of military matters or of posts he’d held in King Louis’ government. He had not even told me how he’d come to be captured.

What if the king was not satisfied? If I was no use to him as a spy, would I be banished from court after all? I would starve to death if I had to survive on nothing but my tiny annuity.

Troubled, I rose and dressed as best I could without a tiring maid, anxious to return to my own room before my bedmates became too curious. No doubt they’d already guessed I had a lover. Secrets were nearly impossible to keep at court.

I slipped out of the duke’s bedchamber and almost tripped over Guy. He lay stretched across the doorway on his sleeping pallet. He rose at once and I saw that he was fully dressed.

“I will escort you.”

“There is no need.” I backed away from him, more anxious than ever to be gone.

“There is every need. There is much drunkenness and lechery at any royal court and this one is no exception. I will see you safely to your door.”

I accepted his wise advice and his company, but we did not speak. The scene in the bower at Havering came back to me in a rush. Guy had heard the duke’s offer, just as I had. That he might now regard me as little more than Longueville’s whore, a commodity to be given away on a whim, distressed me out of all proportion.

Why, I wondered, did it matter so much what Guy Dunois thought of me?

I HAVE ALWAYS loved Yuletide, the more so because the king customarily spends part of the season at Greenwich. As night fell on Christmas Eve, the entire court gathered to help decorate the palace with holly, ivy, and bay, and whatsoever else the season afforded that was green. The distinctive smells of those plants filled the palace.

As soon as an enormous Yule log was set to burning in the presence chamber, King Henry officially appointed William Wynnsbury as his Lord of Misrule. Wynnsbury had held the title every year, going back into old King Henry’s reign. For the whole of the Yuletide season, the Lord of Misrule would be accompanied everywhere by a train of heralds, jesters, acrobats, dancing children, and men who did conjuring tricks.

“As Master of Merry Disports,” the king declared in ringing tones, “you are charged to produce goodly and gorgeous mummeries.”

Under cover of cheers and applause, Will Compton came up beside me and took my arm, tugging gently. His sharp-sighted hazel eyes and the nose that had been broken during that fall in the tournament dominated a face given to frequent smiles. But his expression now was grim. “Come with me, Jane.”

He gave me no choice in the matter, sliding his hand from my forearm to my waist and tightening his grip. He steered me out through a service door while everyone else was distracted by the Lord of Misrule’s antics.

Sudden panic had me digging in my heels on the rush matting. This pitiful effort to slow Will down did nothing but make him more irritable. He stopped, but only to lift me right off the ground until my face was only inches from his. “Cooperate or I will shake you till your bones rattle!”

“Where are we bound in such a rush?” I meant to sound annoyed, but my voice did not cooperate. I sounded as frightened as I felt.

“God’s bones, Jane! Stop fighting me. I have been sent by the king.” For all the frustration behind them, his words were no more than a whisper of sound.

“Then stop hauling me about as if I were a sack of grain!”

Slowly, he lowered me, holding me so tightly against him that I could feel the bulge of his codpiece against my belly, even through the many layers of my skirts. His hands slid from my waist up to my shoulders. “His Grace awaits your report.”

Fear replaced, momentarily, by fury, I stomped hard on his foot, then kicked him in the shin.

He released me and stepped back. His face was still set in a scowl, but a hint of amusement lit his eyes. “I assure you, Jane, that you do not in the least resemble a sack of grain.”

Frowning, I started to speak, but he held one finger to his lips. “Not here. Follow me.”

In silence, I did so. I had no doubt that Will was telling the truth. As the king’s chief gentleman of the bedchamber and groom of the stole, he was the most trusted of royal servants. He was also the one who escorted women to the king’s bedchamber, should His Grace wish to bed someone other than the queen. He was the king’s keeper of secrets. It made sense that he should be the one sent to question me.

Unfortunately, I had nothing to tell him.

In a small private closet fitted out as a study with a stool, table, and shelf for books, he paced while I sat. “You are the duke’s mistress, that we know.”

I nodded. Although our coupling remained most enjoyable, the sense of magic that had always been present when we were in the Tower of London was absent. After the first few nights back in Longueville’s bed, it had been determination that had kept me returning to lie with him. If not for the king’s command, I’d have weaned myself of my craving for his lovemaking ere now.

“Well?” Will sounded impatient.

I spread my hands wide. “I cannot help it if he is more interested in pleasure than policy. He talks about the color of my eyes and the softness of my skin. He does not prattle of battle plans in bed.”

“You are a clever wench. Convince him that you are fascinated by such things.” Will reached down to pinch me on the cheek. “You can cozen secrets out of him if you put your mind to it. Be subtle, but persist. You should have no difficulty. You are comely enough. I have always thought so.”

“You never paid the slightest bit of attention to me at Eltham,” I shot back, annoyed. When he reached for me again, I slapped his hand away. “Go home to your wife, Will Compton!”

“Whatever for?”

I looked pointedly at his codpiece, one nearly as gaudily decorated as the king’s. He laughed and gave up what had been, after all, only a halfhearted attempt on my virtue. “Come along, Jane. The king has arranged a surprise for you, an early New Year’s gift.”

More puzzled than wary, and no longer fearful, I accompanied him through passages and along corridors lit by torches. I knew Greenwich so well that I had no difficulty recognizing the way to the duc de Longueville’s apartments. Will led me to a nearby double lodging in which a wax taper in a latten candlestick had been left burning and a fire had already been lit in a fireplace of the sort built flush with the wall.

This outer room was furnished with an oak chest carved with panels that showed various sorts of foliage, a table with two stools, and a cabinet for storing food. A small but attractive tapestry showing a hunting scene adorned one wall. Lavender had been added to the rushes on the floor to make the place fragrant.

“Should you, or a guest, feel hungry late at night, as His Grace sometimes does,” Will said, indicating the food press, “you have been provided with a few provisions.”

I opened the pierced door to find not only comfits and suckets but also a supply of aleberry, the bread pudding flavored with ale that the king himself favored as a treat. I did not share his taste for it, but thought it politic not to say so. “His Grace is most kind,” I murmured, and then was struck by a sudden thought. “Does he plan to visit me here?”

“I do much doubt it.” Will parted the curtains that had hidden the inner room from view.

Plucking up the candle, I went through the doorway. Here, too, a welcoming fire had been lit in the hearth, and all my belongings had been moved to these, my new quarters. My traveling chest sat next to a tester bed with a heavy wooden frame and wooden boards to support the mattress. It was richly furnished with pillows, bolsters, and blankets.

“And who is to occupy that?” I asked, pointing to the truckle bed tucked beneath the larger one. “I have no maid of my own.”

“You do now. The girl whose services you have been sharing with your bedfellows, if you want her. She packed for you and can be sent for to take up her new duties tonight.”

I winced. “Then no doubt she has already carried stories back to the servants’ hall.” I worried my lower lip. “Are you certain the king wishes to call so much attention to me?”

He looked at me askance.

“Your pardon. I should have known better than to ask.” None of the king’s men did anything unless it was at His Grace’s express command. For whatever reason, King Henry now wished the entire court to know that the duc de Longueville had taken me for his mistress.

A mirror lay upon a small table, next to a coffer meant to hold jewelry. I picked it up and stared at my reflection in the polished steel surface. I looked the same as I always had—pale skin, brown eyes, brown hair, and a small nose set in a narrow face. I was no great beauty. How was it that I had suddenly become the object of so much male interest?

Abandoning the looking glass, I moved on to my traveling chest, reaching down to run one hand over the familiar curved top. It was a sturdy piece with a leather exterior that had been soaked in oil to make it waterproof. The iron fittings included a lock. I frowned. The key still hung from my waist, as it always did, even though I kept nothing more valuable than my clothing and a few bits of jewelry inside the trunk. That had been no barrier when the king wanted my possessions moved. There was a lesson there, I thought. A warning.

Will’s hand settled on my shoulder. “Discover useful information, Jane, and His Grace will be in your debt. He can be most generous. If the information you provide has sufficient value, you will be able to name your own reward.”

I AWOKE ON Christmas morning uncertain where to go or what to do. Was I still to attend upon the princess? I knew she would hear Mass in private with the king and queen, then walk in procession with them to the chapel for Matins. The entire court would join them there, both to worship and to watch the king participate in the service. I doubted that anyone would notice if I was absent. Except, perhaps, Will Compton.

I sighed and wrapped myself more tightly in the sinfully thick and warm coverlet that graced my bed. I ran my hand over the soft fur from which it had been made and wondered what animal’s pelt I stroked. That made me think of the spaniels some ladies in waiting kept at court. Although in general I detested the little beasts, I thought perhaps I should acquire one. I was not accustomed to sleeping alone.

Always before I had shared my bed with someone. I was not certain I liked having the entire expanse of mattress to myself. On the other hand, I did not miss my most recent bedfellows, two of the Lady Mary’s attendants who thought themselves my betters simply because their fathers had been knighted.

I tried to imagine the expressions on their faces when they heard about my luxurious new quarters. They would speak disdainfully of my morals, but secretly they would envy me.

Drowsing in my warm little cocoon, indulging myself in pleasant fantasies, I was startled by the sound of the outer door opening. I cowered behind the bed hangings, uncertain what to do. A moment later, two servants entered the inner chamber. They seemed surprised to find me peering out at them from the gap in the bed curtains.

“What do you want?” I was relieved to hear no tremor in my voice.

“We come to collect all the unfinished candle stubs and the torches, mistress.”

“Why?” Genuinely curious, I pulled the coverlet around myself and leaned out into the chamber. They had a large basket with them, into which they’d put the remains of candles.

“They are melted down and made into new, if it please you, lady.”

“You collect these every day?”

Two heads bobbed in unison. “Aye, mistress.” They looked anxious, as if they feared I would call a guard.

“Away with you, then. Go about your business.”

They scurried out like mice pursued by a cat and left me to wonder what else went on in the royal household that I had never noticed. Even on Christmas, I supposed, close stools must be emptied, candles replaced, and meals cooked.

That made me wonder where Nan was. Nan Lister, the maidservant who was now all mine to command, should have brought washing water to the chamber by now. It was her job, too, to keep the brazier—the fireplace, I corrected myself—fueled, in addition to mending tears in clothing and serving as my tiring woman.

What else did she do, when her work was done? Was she well compensated for her services? A wry smile made my lips quirk at the thought that her wages per annum might be greater than my paltry stipend. It was fortunate indeed that I was not responsible for paying her.

She should have slept on the truckle bed. Stepping through the hangings, still wrapped in my coverlet, I almost tripped over the narrow, wheeled bed, but of Nan there was no trace. I shoved it into place beneath the larger bed, noticing as I did so that a bunch of mulberry twigs had been tied to the underside to keep fleas at bay.

Had Nan declined to serve a French nobleman’s mistress? That seemed an unlikely explanation. What servant would dare refuse an order from the king? But why else did I have no one here to wait upon me?

I was alone.

Abandoned.

I shook off the sense of disquiet that shivered through me. I told myself I should be glad of the privacy, a rare and precious thing at court. In truth, I could not remember ever being so completely solitary before, save for once when, as a child, I wandered off into the woods near Amboise and was lost for the better part of an hour. I had been terrified then. Now I was merely ill at ease.

Trailing the coverlet, I approached the clothes press. It contained new garments in the Flemish fashion. Unfortunately, I would need help to assume any of them. Every piece—sleeves, bodice, kirtle, and partlet—required fastening together with points. It was a physical impossibility to dress myself.

Would anyone notice if I did not attend one of the greatest feasts of the year? My stomach growled at the thought of all that food. To begin the first course, a boar’s head was always carried in on a platter decorated with rosemary and bay. Seethed brawn made from spiced boar was a traditional Christmas treat. There would be roast swan, as well. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of other dishes would follow. The best never reached the lower tables, but there was plenty enough for all to dine well, and no sooner would dinner be complete, than we would sup. This year the king had planned a banquet, too, a rich offering of sweets and fruits after supper.

The whole court would feast, I thought miserably, while I starved to death for want of a maid to lace me into my clothing. Would anyone notice I was missing? Harry Guildford might, but only if he needed my help. For weeks he had been preoccupied with organizing the revels to be presented for Twelfth Night, neglecting both wife and friends to supervise every detail. I sighed. Even if he realized I had vanished, he would have no notion where to look for me.

I was dressed only in a chemise and half in and half out of a new kirtle when my rescuer arrived. The tentative scratching at the outer door was accompanied by a soft voice calling my name. Guy’s voice.

Clasping the sleeves and bodice to my bosom, I let him in.

“Jesu, Jane!” His eyes widened as he took in my disheveled state.

Heat flooded into my face, and with it, no doubt, high color. I did not dare glance at my reflection in the looking glass. My loose, uncombed hair was better suited to the role of wild woman than waiting gentlewoman.

“Compton sent word to the duke only this morning of your new accommodations. When I noticed you were not in chapel, I thought I should come and find you.”

“It is well you did. I appear to have lost my new maidservant.” I made a helpless gesture with one hand, almost losing my grip on my clothing as I did so.

Guy hesitated. “I will go in search of her.”

“Far simpler to tie my laces yourself.” Straightening my spine, I turned my back on him, dropped the sleeves, and hoisted the kirtle. “The points at my waist first, if you please.”

Once again, Guy proved more than adequate as a tiring maid. I began to suspect that, in common with the duke, he might have had considerable practice dressing—or rather, undressing—women in court dress.

When I was suitably attired for the Christmas Day festivities, we went together to the great hall. We separated there, Guy to sit with the duke’s men, while I joined the Lady Mary’s other attendants. I pretended not to notice the intense scrutiny I received.

That day seemed interminable. I held my head high and ignored the countless conversations that abruptly ended as I approached and the whispers that began as soon as I’d passed by. That it was Christmas made it a little easier to endure the snubs. Rank perforce gave place to revelry, and there was a good deal going on to distract the court’s attention from speculation about me.

Master Wynnsbury was in rare form. In common with the king’s fools, the Lord of Misrule could say what he would to anyone, even the king. He was wise enough not to abuse the privilege, but he knew King Henry’s taste. He kept up a steady stream of ribald tales and jokes about bodily functions, fare that would not ordinarily have been approved of in the presence of the queen and princess. Both royal ladies showed great forbearance and endured the tasteless jests without demur. The king roared with laughter at every one.

The king’s banquet was the last event of a long day. There was only one table, set up in the shape of an inverted U with Longueville, the queen, the king, and the Lady Mary seated at the top. A select group of courtiers occupied the two long sides, each man paired with a lady. To my relief, I was seated between Guy Dunois and Ned Neville.

“Your maidservant has been located,” Guy whispered as we were served the first of twenty different sorts of jellies sculpted into the shapes of animals and castles. It was more common at banquets to dismiss the servants and serve ourselves, but I suspected King Henry was attempting to impress the duke.

“I am in your debt.” I waved the jelly away, knowing there would be more delectable selections ahead.

“She says she became lost among the passageways.”

“That is more than possible. Pleasure Palace is a maze if one does not know it well.”

He lifted his eyebrows at the name and I found myself flushing as I explained why I’d called it that.

“She was a child and knew no better.” Already well on his way to being cup-shot, Ned leaned in front of me to grin at Guy.

My color deepened. He made it sound as if I had been someone’s mistress even then. I covered my embarrassment by biting into a sweet biscuit.

Out of consideration for me, Guy ignored Ned’s comments as well as his boisterous behavior. He seemed set on putting me at my ease—a good thing, since we sat at table for hours. Every sort of wine from Burgundy to Canary was served, along with confections in animal shapes, marchpane, “kissing comfits” of sugar fondant, fruits dipped in sugar and eaten with special sucket spoons, and the mounds of syllabub called Spanish paps. Servants brought in bowls of water in which to wash our hands between courses, but after enough wine, it was more fun to lick the excess sugar off our fingers.

At last the hippocras and wafers were served, signaling the end of the banquet. Scarcely a caraway-seed-covered apple was left by the time the king finally rose to call for dancing. Stifling groans, the members of his court joined in. The musicians played tune after lively tune, and it was dawn before anyone escaped to bed.

By then, I welcomed the solitude of my lodgings. I slept the whole day through, and if servants crept in to collect the candle stubs that morning, I was blissfully unaware of their presence.