Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set

9

The court made frequent moves from one palace to another even in winter. We were at Richmond again in time for the New Year’s Day giving of gifts. Some said the tradition went back to pagan days. It did not, in spite of the name, mark the start of the new year. The year of our Lord fifteen hundred and fourteen would not officially begin until Lady Day, the twenty-fifth of March.

On the morning of the first of January, I was on duty as one of the Lady Mary’s attendants. My first task was to deliver her New Year’s gift to the king. Members of the royal household crowded the presence chamber, waiting for their names to be called, but as the representative of the second lady in the land, I was passed directly through to the privy chamber. Only Sir Thomas Bryan, the queen’s vice-chamberlain, was ahead of me. He had brought Her Grace’s gift to the king, her husband.

Sir Thomas glanced at me then quickly away, but not before I caught a glimpse of his disapproving expression. I repressed a sigh. He knew. And if he knew, so did his daughter, Meg Guildford, and Meg would have lost no time in telling Harry. I had no idea how my old friend would react to the news that I had given myself to a French prisoner of war, but I suspected he would not be pleased.

A fanfare sounded, breaking in on my gloomy thoughts. The usher of the chamber waved Sir Thomas forward and called out the customary words: “Sire, here is a New Year’s gift coming from the queen. Let it come in, Sire.”

When the door to the royal bedchamber opened, I caught a glimpse of the king. Fully dressed, he sat at the foot of his bed. His father had followed the same practice, waiting there to receive gifts from every member of the court. They were presented in order of rank, from the queen through the noblemen through the lords and ladies of lesser titles. Even those courtiers who were away from court sent gifts through representatives.

My own present for King Henry would be a pair of gloves I had embroidered myself. The gift was similar to those I had given him in years past. He always seemed pleased. I was the one who wished I could afford better. This year in particular, I regretted that I did not have the funds to give him a truly memorable gift.

A clerk stood to one side of the bedchamber, writing down the description and value of each offering. All the gifts would afterward be displayed in the presence chamber—jewelry and money, clothing, and gold and silver plate. And, after each gift had been presented with due ceremony, the king’s servants handed out gifts of plate in return. Cups and bowls chased with the royal cipher were each weighed according to rank. Each person at court, even the most menial kitchen wench, received something.

When the usher of the chamber announced the Lady Mary’s gift, I entered the bedchamber and walked toward the enormous royal bed. I felt unaccountably nervous, in part because there was a strange look on the king’s face as he watched me approach. When I stood directly in front of him, His Grace waved the clerk out of earshot.

“Come closer, Jane.”

Obeying, I made a deep obeisance and held out a jeweled and enameled pin for the king’s hat, together with a matching ring.

King Henry barely glanced at them. His voice low and intense, he demanded to know why I had learned nothing of importance as yet from the duc de Longueville.

A chill went through me at his tone. When I dared peek at his face through my lashes, I wished I had not. His small eyes had narrowed to slits. There was no affection, no benevolence in that expression. He was angry…at me.

“Sire, I cannot conjure intelligence out of nothing. The duke does not speak to me of such things. I doubt he knows what King Louis intends. He tells me he has never spent much time at the French court.”

The king’s growl cut me off. My head bowed, I held my silence, hoping this storm would pass. After a moment, King Henry gave a gusty sigh. “The war with France continues, Jane. Persuade Longueville to talk to you of the battle in which he was captured. Mayhap that will loosen his tongue about other matters.”

“There may be another way,” I said hesitantly, “but I am loath to try without Your Grace’s permission.”

“Explain.” I could hear the eagerness in his voice as he leaned closer.

We were surrounded by his attendants. I could only hope no one was close enough to catch my whispered words. “If I were to express a desire to return with him to France when he is ransomed, he might believe it safe to confide in me.”

Scarcely daring to breathe, I waited for a reaction. I had lied to the king before, but never to this degree. What if he should guess my real reason for making such a bold suggestion? I had restrained myself for weeks…months, asking no more questions about my mother, but that did not mean I had given up my quest to learn all I could about her. I wanted to go to France with the duke and stay there long enough to discover the truth about Maman’s sudden decision to flee with me to England.

Pondering my suggestion, the king hesitated so long that I wondered if he was building up steam to boil over. I did not dare look at him. The volatile temper of the Tudors was legendary.

“It is a good plan, Jane.”

If I had not been holding myself so stiffly, I would have sagged with relief. “I have leave to deceive him, then? Your Grace will not believe the tale if there are rumors of my disloyalty?”

“Do and say whatever you must. Your sovereign can tell truth from lies.”

Dipping my head again, I prayed he could not, but I left the royal bedchamber with a lighter heart.

AT YULETIDE MORE than any other time of year, the households of the king, the queen, and the princess mingled at court. The twelve days of Christmas began at sundown on the twenty-fourth day of December and continued until the beginning of Epiphany on the sixth of January. The period from sundown on the fifth through the day of the sixth was Twelfth Night and celebrated with a banquet and mumming.

We were all in our finest apparel, even the liveried servants, who had been given new garments for the new year. The queen’s pages wore gold brocade and crimson satin in checkers while her adult male attendants were dressed in gray broadcloth and gray, white, and scarlet kersey. The king’s yeomen of the guard had new scarlet livery, replacing the green and white coats they had worn in the old king’s reign.

The gentlewomen and ladies of the court vied with each other to dress in their finest. That they were exempt from the sumptuary laws meant their excesses knew no bounds save the good sense not to outshine the king and queen. In honor of Twelfth Night, the duc de Longueville wore a short doublet of blue and crimson velvet slashed with cloth-of-gold.

I sighed as I looked around the great hall.

“What is it, my pet?” Longueville asked.

“Alongside all this splendor, I look very plain indeed.” I wore the best that I had—dark green velvet, the sleeves puffed and slashed to show yellow silk beneath. In any other company, I would have looked very grand.

His eyes sparkled as he flashed me a smile. “Perhaps this will help.”

I felt him slide something onto my finger and when I looked down, I was wearing a ruby ring. I wondered how he had obtained it, knowing as I did the state of his finances, but I did not ask. I held my hand out, admiring the way the stone reflected the light from the candles.

“It is beautiful, Louis. You are most generous.” I was not too proud to accept the expensive gift. Indeed, if I did not live up to the king’s expectations and was not allowed to return to France with my lover, the sale of such a bauble might be all I had to provide for myself.

He lifted my fingers to his lips and kissed them. “I would shower you with such jewels if I could.”

The ring was soon remarked upon…in whispers. Such an expensive gift proclaimed louder than words that the duke had staked his claim on me. Anyone who had not previously suspected that I was his mistress would know it now.

As the evening wore on, one after another the queen’s ladies snubbed me. Even the princess’s gentlewomen pointedly avoided my company. Only young Bessie Blount, naturally friendly as a puppy, braved the censure of the others to exchange greetings with me.

If I had not had the Lady Mary’s friendship and the king’s support, I might well have kept to my lodgings. As it was, I knew I must be brazen and pretend nothing had changed. I lifted my chin, pasted a smile on my face, and attempted to enjoy the festivities. I was saddened, but not surprised, when Harry Guildford also stayed well away from me.

Everyone rose as the lord steward carried a cup full of spiced ale into the torchlit presence chamber. He called out the traditional greeting: “Wassail, wassail, wassail!” and then presented the cup to the king. King Henry sipped and handed the cup to the queen, who looked fine indeed, wearing her long hair loose over her shoulders, as only queens and unmarried girls are permitted to do. The king’s blue-gray eyes sparkled as he watched her pass the wassail cup to his sister. After that, all the courtiers in attendance took their turns while the Children of the Chapel sang.

As soon as the wassail cup had made its rounds, confections and spices of all sorts were served, first to the king and queen and then to the rest of the court. In the past there had been as many as a hundred dishes at a Twelfth Night banquet. Last to be served was always the cake made of flour, honey, spices, and dried fruit. By that time, I no longer had any appetite. I toyed with the slice in front of me, mangling the pastry.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” Guy gestured toward the cake. Once again we had been seated together, as befit our station. To sit next to Longueville, given his rank, would have been a breach of protocol.

I looked down and there, lying in the ruins of the cake, was a bean. The bean. I stared at it in horror. Whoever found this prize became King or Queen of the Bean for the rest of the evening and the last thing I desired was more notoriety.

Nick Carew, seated on my other side, had not touched his cake. He was preoccupied with sending longing glances at Elizabeth, Meg Guildford’s beautiful, chestnut-haired sister. I plucked the bean from my crumbs and shoved it into the center of his portion of cake. Moments later, Nick discovered the prize. He made a most excellent King of the Bean. His first act was to call for the evening’s entertainment to begin.

There were no great set pieces required for this revel, although Master Gibson had made the costumes and sent them to Richmond from London by barge. He’d dressed six gentlemen in white jackets and black gowns and minstrels and a fool in yellow sarcenet painted with hearts and wings of silver. But the centerpiece of the spectacle consisted of two women clad in silver—Meg and her sister—who represented the goddesses Venus and Beauty.

There was less story than usual to this piece, but the servants and ordinary folk seated on benches around the outside of the chamber were enthralled when the gentlemen performed a Morris dance. There followed an interlude performed by the Children of the Chapel and then Venus and Beauty sang to the accompaniment of a lute. By the last verse, everyone was familiar enough with the chorus to join in, even Guy, who did not understand a word of it.

“‘Bow you down,’” we sang, “‘and do your duty, to Venus and the goddess Beauty. We triumph high over all. Kings attend when we do call.’”

Bowing down to kings, I thought, was a much wiser course for the rest of us.

A second interlude was performed by the King’s Players, but it was overlong. There were restless stirrings in the crowd and the king left before the end of it. The queen departed soon after.

Nick Carew, as King of the Bean, and Master Wynnsbury, who was Lord of Misrule for this one last night, called for dancing. I looked wistfully back over my shoulder as I slipped out of the hall, but I had no real desire to execute intricate steps while hostile glares bored into my back.

A WEEK LATER, a somber-faced Guy interrupted my intimate supper with the duc de Longueville. “A special messenger has just arrived from the French court.” He handed the duke a sealed letter.

Longueville broke the seal and read. For just a moment, he had the self-satisfied look of a cat with a mouse, but he hastily rearranged his features into solemn lines before he told us what the letter contained. “Anne of Brittany, queen of France, is dead.”

An overwhelming sadness filled me. Queen Anne had been much admired, even loved, by my mother. I felt her loss on a deep and personal level.

“This provides a great opportunity.” Longueville assessed me with a long, hard look. “The English king has two sisters, does he not?”

“You know he does.”

“The younger is very dear to him, the flower of his court, and promised to Charles of Castile. But the elder, Margaret, is newly the widow of the king of Scotland. What could be more providential than that? Tell me all you know about her, Jane.”

“She is regent of Scotland. Her young son is the king.”

“Is she comely?”

“She was pretty as a girl, but I have not seen her for six years.” A woman quickly lost her looks when she began bearing children.

“Was she as beautiful as her younger sister?”

“She had…a different sort of beauty.” Margaret had been stocky as a girl. I suspected she’d grown heavier with age. Mary was a sylph and likely always would be. “Your Grace, you cannot think to marry Queen Margaret to the king of France.”

“Why not? Alliances are formed by royal marriages, are they not? This one could bring peace for generations to come.”

“But she has a duty to Scotland. She is regent.”

He dismissed those responsibilities with a careless wave of the hand. “Some suitable Scots nobleman will be found to fill the post.”

“Her son cannot leave Scotland. Would you deprive him of his mother?” Such separations were common, but that did not make them any less painful for those involved.

“She will have other children. King Louis’ children.”

“I should think,” I said stiffly, “that you might give them each time to mourn before you force them into another marriage.”

Incredulous, Longueville laughed at the very idea. “You are softhearted, sweeting. Let them commiserate with each other if they must grieve, but I would be surprised if that were necessary. Their earlier marriages were made for political reasons, and so will this one be.” His words held no hint of sympathy for his bereaved monarch, his own distant cousin, let alone for my erstwhile playfellow Margaret Tudor.

“King James of Scotland was young and handsome, or so I have heard.” I had also heard reports that he and Margaret had never taken to each other, that she’d been too strong willed to suit him, but saw no need to tell Longueville that.

“Until he was brutally slain by English troops at the Battle of Flodden,” the duke said. Irritated, he rose from the table and walked to the coffer where he kept quills, ink, and parchment.

I had yet to follow the suggestion that I ask Longueville about his own experiences in battle. I did not think it would improve his temper to remind him of the ignominious defeat the French troops had suffered at what the English called the Battle of the Spurs. That, Harry had told me, had been all they’d seen of the French cavalry as they galloped away across the field at Guingates in an attempt to escape the victorious troops led by King Henry and his allies.

The longer I remained Longueville’s mistress, the more I realized that he was no gallant knight and had never been. He might be kind to me, gentle with me, but he’d give me away in a heartbeat if he saw an advantage in it. If I did end up traveling with him to France, I would do well to remember that.

“Is Queen Margaret as unpredictable as her brother?” Longueville asked.

Mayhap I was concerned for her without reason, I thought. All I had to do to discourage the match was to tell the truth. “She is, and she has the Tudor temper, too. I remember once, when she was already styled queen of Scotland, although she had not yet gone north to consummate the marriage, she flew into a rage over a pair of sleeves.”

At his lifted eyebrow, I explained.

“All the Tudors love fine clothing. You have seen that for yourself. After the death of Arthur, Prince of Wales, the entire family wore black, but as that summer wore on, the princesses were allowed a bit of color in their wardrobe. Princess Margaret acquired two sets of sleeves, one of white sarcenet and another pair in orange sarcenet. The orange sleeves were her favorite item of dress, and when they were accidentally left behind when the court moved from Baynard’s Castle to Westminster, nothing would do but that Queen Elizabeth’s page of robes be sent back to fetch them. He was rewarded for doing so, but first he had to endure a tirade of abuse for forgetting them in the first place. A Tudor in a temper is a formidable sight, terrifying and ludicrous all at once.”

“Even the Lady Mary has this failing?”

I nodded, though it felt disloyal to make the admission. “Even she. The princess has been known to scream and throw things in a manner more suited to a two-year-old child than a woman in her eighteenth year.”

I hoped such tales might make the duke reconsider, but he seemed more set on his matchmaking than ever. I had, however, regained his goodwill. He asked for additional stories about Margaret’s early life and in return spoke more freely in front of me, outlining his plan to approach King Henry to ask for his help in marrying off his widowed sister.

When I left the duke’s lodgings, I went directly to the great hall. Word of Queen Anne’s death had already spread among the courtiers but had created only a minor stir. Had the king of France died, that would have caused consternation. Since Louis was still alive, life went on unchanged. The dancing and dicing and games of cards continued, unaffected by the news from France.

I found Will Compton without difficulty, and relayed my information in a hurried whisper. He scarce seemed to hear me. He kept glancing toward the doorway, as if he expected someone to make an entrance.

“Will? Is aught amiss?”

He shook his head, but I did not believe him. A sense of foreboding settled over me when I saw Dr. John Chambre arrive. Even if I had not recognized his hawk nose and his habitually grim expression, he would have been marked as one of the king’s physicians by his long, furred gown in royal livery colors.

He made his way directly to Will, but nodded to me in polite greeting. “Mistress Popyncourt. You look well.”

Impressed that he’d remembered who I was, I thanked him for the compliment. When he started to follow Will from the presence chamber, I was struck by a sudden thought. I caught at his trailing sleeve. “Sir, a moment? May I speak with you privily?”

Here was one more person who might know something about my lady mother.

“You must wait and talk to him later,” Will said, and hurried the doctor away.

I soon understood why they had been so distracted. The king had fallen ill again. For two weeks, as Dr. Chambre hovered and the queen set herself the task of nursing her husband back to health, the duc de Longueville could get nowhere near His Grace. His plan to negotiate for Queen Margaret’s hand on behalf of King Louis fell into abeyance.

I shared his frustration, but not for the same reason. Now that I had remembered Dr. Chambre, I was anxious to speak with the royal physician but he was much too busy with his patient to have time for me. It was nearly a week later, after the king was well on his way to recovery, that the respected physician remembered my request and found his way to my lodgings.

Although Nan was a slow-witted girl, just bright enough to carry out her duties as my maid, I sent her away as soon as the doctor appeared. I had learned to be careful what I said when others might overhear.

He frowned. “It is customary to keep another female about during an examination, but I suppose you wish this kept secret.” My blank expression had him narrowing his eyes. “You did wish to consult me on a private matter?”

Obviously he thought I was pregnant. Or worse, diseased. Heat crept up my neck and into my face. “It is not…I did not…I only wanted to ask you if you tended my mother during her last illness!”

“I have no notion who your mother was.”

“She was Mistress Popyncourt. Joan Popyncourt. She joined Queen Elizabeth’s household in June of the thirteenth year of the reign of King Henry the Seventh and traveled with the court into East Anglia on progress. I am told she died that September at Collyweston.”

“I was not yet at court then,” Dr. Chambre said.

My spirits sank.

“Collyweston, you say?” He rubbed his chin as he considered. “That was the home of the Countess of Richmond, King Henry the Seventh’s mother. The physician who attended your mother was most likely Philip Morgan. At least he was the doctor who looked after the countess during her final years.”

The Countess of Richmond had been a force to be reckoned with in my youth. She had written the rules and regulations by which the royal nursery functioned. By the time I arrived at Eltham, she’d only rarely visited, but I could remember how she’d swoop down on her grandchildren, a scrawny figure in unrelieved black. She had been very pious, always muttering prayers. And she had not liked me. Once I had overheard her telling Mother Guildford that I should be sent away to a nunnery.

“Do you know where I might find Doctor Morgan?” I asked.

“In his grave, most like. Or mayhap he returned to his native Wales.” Dr. Chambre chuckled. “Some would say those two fates are the same.”

“I have been told my mother was ill before she ever came to court.”

His interest sharpened. “What ailed her?”

“Mother Guildford told me it was a wasting sickness, mayhap consumption.” The disease was common enough. It had killed King Henry VII and some thought it had been the cause of Prince Arthur’s death, as well.

I thought I saw a spark of pity in the doctor’s eyes, but it was gone too quickly to be certain.

“She was Sir Rowland Velville’s twin sister,” I added.

“Ah. I know Sir Rowland. But I fear I cannot help you, mistress. I was still a student when your mother died.”

Dr. Chambre had already reached the door when I thought of one last question. “If it was the Countess of Richmond’s physician who cared for my mother, would it have been the countess’s confessor who gave her last rites?”

He paused, looking thoughtful. “I suppose it must have been.”

“Do you remember who he was?”

A short bark of laughter answered me. “Oh, yes, Mistress Popyncourt. He went on to greater things. The countess’s confessor was John Fisher. He’s bishop of Rochester now.”

My hopes of being able to question the priest dashed—one did not gain audiences with bishops easily, even minor ones—I thanked the doctor for his time. When he had gone I sank down on my luxurious bed, disconsolate. Even if I did convince the bishop of Rochester to speak with me in private, he would not tell me anything. He was not permitted to speak of what he heard in the confessional.

With that realization, I began to despair of ever learning more about my mother’s time in England or her reason for bringing us here. Those few people who had come in close contact with her all seemed to be dead or in distant parts…or suffer from passing-poor memories.

To me she remained vivid. I could not understand why she had not made a deeper impression on all those who had met her. Even if she had been dying—a thing I still found difficult to accept—she should have been memorable. Especially if she’d been ill. If the other ladies had shunned her, fearing infection, surely they should recall doing so.

Unless she had deliberately effaced herself.

The air soughed out of my lungs. It appeared that there were only two people left to approach who might know something—my uncle and Lady Catherine Strangeways. To talk to either of them, I would have to arrange for an extended absence from court.

Although I was not sure why, I was reluctant to put my questions in writing. Even if both of them could read and did not need to share the contents with a secretary or a priest—something of which I was not certain even in my uncle’s case—it was far too easy for letters to fall into the wrong hands.

Counseling myself to be patient, I continued to spend my days with the Lady Mary and my nights with the duc de Longueville.

THE COURT HAD moved on to Greenwich Palace by the time the next emissary arrived from France. The duc de Longueville met with him and returned to his lodgings in an expansive mood. I had been sitting near the window with my embroidery while Guy idly played the lute. We both sprang to our feet when the duke came in.

“What news, my lord?” Guy asked. Even though the two men were brothers, Guy never used the duke’s first name. I rarely did myself, and Longueville seemed content to be deferred to.

“The most excellent kind. The new envoy is here to arrange my ransom. Talks have already begun with King Henry’s representatives.”

“Will matters be settled quickly, then?” I asked.

“That will depend upon our success at negotiating another matter.”

“A marriage,” I guessed.

“A marriage…between King Louis the Twelfth of France and the Lady Mary.”

I sat down hard on the window seat, momentarily robbed of speech.

Guy voiced what I was thinking: “I thought Queen Margaret—”

“King Louis has heard that Mary is the most beautiful princess in Christendom. He sees no reason to settle for second best.”

Heard from Longueville himself, I thought.

“Have you forgotten?” I asked. “The Lady Mary already has a husband. She was married by proxy years ago to Charles of Castile.”

He dismissed that ceremony with a careless wave of one hand. “They have not taken final vows, nor has their marriage been consummated.” The latter was what sealed the bargain. Until husband and wife slept together, they were wedded only on paper. With the cooperation of the church, such alliances—at least among princes—could easily be severed.

“What makes you think King Henry will go along with this plan?” I asked.

To my surprise, he told me.

More than an hour passed before I could leave the duke’s apartments without arousing suspicion. When I did escape, I headed straight for the king’s lodgings.

Hindered by long skirts, it took longer than I wished to race across one of Greenwich’s three courtyards and reenter the palace through a side door to the great hall. Still, the shortcut had saved me some time. I paused only long enough to brush snow from my face and headdress and catch my breath.

A body stitchet of boiled leather is not designed to permit rapid movement of any kind, and mine was tightly laced. As soon as I had recovered sufficiently, I sped up the stairs that led to the king’s apartments. I did not slow down as I passed through the great watching chamber and I ignored the guards standing at attention at regular intervals around the room. I all but ran through the curtained door that led into the king’s presence chamber.

Seeing neither the king nor Will Compton, I slowed my pace only a little and advanced on the door to the privy chamber. A halberd appeared in front of me just before I could open the door, barring my way.

“You have no business in there, mistress.”

I did not know the young man assigned to keep intruders out of the king’s inner rooms. Frustration had my fingers curling into fists and my lips thinning into a flat, tight line. Nothing I could say would persuade him to let me in. It was his duty to regulate access to King Henry.

Forcing myself to smile, I removed the little dragon pendant my mother had given me so long ago and handed it him. “Give this to Sir William Compton and bid him come to me as soon as he may.”

He held the small piece of jewelry up to examine it. “This is one of the king’s emblems,” he said. “A Welsh dragon.”

That was exactly why I offered it. Outside of the royal family, few people had pieces of jewelry like it. Only my old friends from Eltham would know at once that a message sent with this little dragon had come from me and no other.

“What it is does not concern you, sirrah. Only that you deliver it to Sir William.”

“I cannot leave my post, mistress.” He returned the bauble to me.

I stamped my foot. He lifted an eyebrow, but did not relent.

I turned and surveyed the presence chamber, searching for any familiar face. There must be someone who could fetch Will out to me. I caught sight of Charles Brandon, recently elevated in the peerage to Duke of Suffolk, but doubted he would help. He was too full of himself.

During the campaign in France, the king and Brandon had become even closer than they had been before. Back in England again, King Henry had rewarded his boon companion with a title. The other gentlemen—Harry, Will, Ned, and the rest—were still high in the king’s favor, but none of them had received any honors beyond a knighthood. There was now understandable tension between Brandon and the rest.

I considered asking Ned Neville or Nick Carew for help. Then my gaze settled on Harry Guildford. Although we had not spoken in weeks, I did not hesitate to approach him. I waited until he finished speaking with a gentleman in lawyer’s robes before I tapped him on the shoulder.

“Jane!” Pleasure lit his face…until he remembered. His expression closed and he took a step back instead of greeting me with the customary kiss. “What do you want?”

Schooling my features to conceal how much his disdain wounded me, I asked if he would take a message to Will.

“Looking to couple with him now? I admit he’s a well-set-up fellow, but I’d have thought you’d prefer Brandon. After all, he’s a duke, too.”

Harry’s comment could not have been more hurtful. It was as if he had slapped me. I bit back a cry of pain and simply stared at him, eyes swimming with unshed tears.

“You brought ill feeling on yourself, Jane! How do you expect people to react when you fraternize with the enemy?” He glared at me, but our gazes locked for only a few seconds before he looked away. Ashamed of himself? I hoped so, but I did not count on it.

I longed to tell Harry the truth, but I did not dare. Bad enough he thought me a whore without adding spy to the list of my sins. Besides, I was sworn to secrecy. No one but Will and the king were supposed to know what I was about.

“I must talk to Will, Harry. It is important. Please. Tell him to come to my lodgings as soon as he can.”

I’d thought he could hold himself no more stiffly, but I’d been wrong. He stared down his nose at me, aloof and condescending, but he agreed to deliver the message.

On my way out of the presence chamber I felt as if every eye was fixed upon me, censorious or, worse, speculative. I returned to my rooms, sent Nan away, and felt my lower lip start to quiver. Before I knew it, I was sobbing as if my heart had broken.

Guy found me like that, sitting on the floor, tears streaming down my cheeks, almost incoherent. He fell to his knees beside me and gathered me into his arms. I do not know what he said to me. His voice was simply a comforting murmur that slowly brought me back to myself.

“You are the only old friend I have left,” I wailed, burying my face against his shoulder. I would have to go to France with Longueville. There was nothing for me here anymore.

“Shhh, Jeanne. It is not so bad as all that.”

“It is. Everyone h-hates me for being with the duke. Even you do not approve.”

“I do not hate you. I cannot.” Very gently, he pressed his lips to mine.

It started out as a comforting kiss, but the moment he slid his arms around my waist and tugged me against him it became something quite different, something…magical.

My entire body tingled as I arched toward him, seeking to press closer. I returned his kiss, enraptured by the way his lips moved on mine. Longueville had never made me feel like this.

Abruptly, we both went still. He pulled back, slowly releasing me and helping me to my feet. “That should not have happened.”

“No.”

“I cannot regret that it did. I have dreamed of kissing you.”

“Oh.” I pressed my hands to my burning cheeks. “You should not be saying this to me.”

He heaved a gusty sigh. “We will not speak of it again. My brother has the prior claim. Neither one of us wishes to betray him.”

If only he knew! “We must pretend this never happened. Guy, I do not want to lose your friendship.” I would be left with none save a half-wit maid and a self-absorbed princess if that happened.

“Friend is perhaps not the best word for what we have between us,” Guy said, “but I do not want to lose you either. We will pretend.” His mouth twisted into a wry grimace. “We are both good at that.”

I took a step toward him, then stopped, shaking my head. “You should go now.”

“I should.”

Only moments after he’d left, Will Compton arrived. “This had better be important,” he said by way of greeting. “King Louis’ ransom envoy has arrived in England and talks have commenced to negotiate Longueville’s release.”

“Do you think I do not know that? Sit down. I will tell you what I have learned.”

Will gave a low whistle when I’d completed my report. “The French want a marriage between the Lady Mary and King Louis? Impossible! She is already married to Charles of Castile and will be sent to his court as soon as the final details are worked out.”

“Before King Henry fell ill, it was his sister Margaret’s name the duc de Longueville meant to propose as King Louis’ bride, but now Louis wants Mary. She is younger. Prettier.” I shrugged. “And perhaps he has heard of Margaret’s temper.”

“No one can deny that Mary is beautiful.” Will helped himself to wine from my supply and filled two goblets, handing one to me. “But why would the French king think such a marriage might be possible?”

I hesitated, sipped the wine—a fine Canary—choosing my words with care. Longueville had given me a reason. “King Ferdinand of Spain is about to make a separate peace with France.”

Will’s breath hissed out on a curse. King Henry had gone to war against France with King Ferdinand, Queen Catherine’s father and Charles of Castile’s grandfather, as his ally. The negotiations for peace were supposed to be conducted jointly.

When Will began to pace, I understood his agitation. What I had just told him was not news anyone would wish to deliver to the king of England. Word that King Ferdinand had secretly changed sides would be a severe blow to King Henry’s consequence. It would also affect his ability to secure favorable terms in his own peace with France. I did not need to say that it was the duc de Longueville’s hope that King Henry would be so enraged by King Ferdinand’s duplicity that he would rush into an agreement to marry his sister to King Louis. To jilt Ferdinand’s grandson would be certain to strike Henry as the perfect revenge.

That the Lady Mary would be bartered to someone, no different from the king’s goods or chattels, was not something I could stop, no matter how much I cared for her. There was little to choose, to my mind, between marriage to young Charles and old Louis…except that if my mistress was sent to France. I could accompany her there. While Will continued to pace and sputter in indignation, I let my mind drift. When all was said and done, perhaps a French marriage would suit me very well indeed.