Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set

13

Bracing myself, I slipped into the room that had been intended for a nursery. The queen was just as I had seen her last, as if she had not slept or eaten or even prayed, although I knew she had. She had aged a decade in mere days and she was already nearly six years older than the king. Still as a statue, she sat by an empty cradle, head bowed, hands clasped in her lap. A week earlier, she had been delivered of a tiny scrap of a son who had lived only a few hours.

As I approached, she spoke, but not to me. “You must love me, Lord, to confer upon me the privilege of so much sorrow.” Her eyes were closed, but tears leaked out at the corners.

When King Henry and Queen Catherine had last lost a son, the entire court had gone into mourning. This time, King Henry made no show of grief. He seemed utterly unaffected by the loss, treating it like another miscarriage. Discounting his wife’s suffering, he acted as if the child’s premature birth was her fault. Her father’s betrayal had altered his devotion, and her failure to give him a living son now widened the divide between them.

The king ordered that preparations for Yuletide go forward as if nothing had happened. He continued to welcome Bessie into his bed, only now he did not seem to care who knew. Evenings were filled with music and dance, and the king’s boon companions organized snowball fights to pass the daylight hours.

By the time New Year’s Eve was nigh, however, the queen’s state of mind had begun to concern even the most insensitive of courtiers. “The king must renew relations with her,” Charles Brandon said bluntly. “He needs a son.”

“Queen Catherine would never turn him away from her bed,” I said stiffly. No matter how callous his behavior toward her had been!

“Nevertheless,” Harry Guildford said, “Charles here thinks we need a special disguising, one that will both surprise and please the queen. We have devised a night of revelry designed to win Her Grace’s favor and lighten her spirits.”

I regarded Brandon’s participation with skepticism. He was all but illiterate in his letter writing and had no talent as a poet. I’d read one poor attempt he’d sent to the Lady Mary. A child of seven could have done better. The king, at seven, had.

But Brandon surprised me by suggesting several clever ideas for the queen’s entertainment. In the end, I agreed to act as a go-between to the queen’s steward and chamberlain to make certain that all would go smoothly.

On New Year’s Eve, word was sent to Queen Catherine that the evening’s festivities required her presence. Never one to shirk her duty, she allowed herself to be dressed in her finest clothing and sat down to sup with a better appetite than she had shown since she lost her child. If she was disappointed that the king did not share the meal with her, she gave no sign, but whether that was from indifference or stoicism was impossible to tell.

I slipped out of her bedchamber while she ate and hurriedly assumed my costume, an intricate garment of blue velvet in the Savoyard fashion, worn with a bonnet of burnished gold. As soon as food and table both had been cleared away, the queen’s steward announced that a troupe of poor players had come to her door and craved her indulgence that they might perform for her. After a slight hesitation, she gave her permission and the great double doors swung open.

Minstrels and drummers entered first, all clad in colorful motley. Next came four gentlemen dressed as knights of Portugal and, last, four ladies, faces hidden by elaborate masks.

“Such strange apparel!” The queen seemed much taken with our costumes. If she recognized the tallest of the knights as her husband, she did not let on.

When the music began, we danced, performing intricate steps to delight the queen and her ladies. The chamber was lit only by torchlight, adding to the romance of the performance. A pity I was paired with Charles Brandon. Harry and Nick Carew danced with their wives and the king partnered Bessie Blount.

“It has been a long time since I held you in my arms, Mistress Popyncourt,” Brandon whispered in my ear.

“I do not recall that we ever danced together,” I lied, unwilling to be reminded that once I had found him appealing. “But then I danced with all the young men at court, so I suppose you were one of them.”

“Ah, Jane, such a pity you did not turn out to be wealthy.”

“Would you have wed me for my money, then?”

“I thought to marry you for your powerful kin, but it was not to be.” What sounded like genuine regret in his voice distracted me for a moment from the words themselves. When I comprehended what he had said, I frowned.

“Sir Rowland Velville is scarcely a great magnate and seems unlikely ever to be one. Only you appear capable of rising so far and so fast.”

He took my comment as a compliment and I had sense enough to say no more. If he held me a little too tightly when we came together in the movements of the dance, forcing my body to rub against his, I pretended not to notice.

When at last it was time to remove our masks, the king approached his wife with cap in hand and threw off his visor with a flourish. A look of genuine surprise on her face, the queen rose from her chair, clapping her hands in delight.

“You have given me much pleasure,” she said, speaking to him alone, “in this goodly pastime.” Taking his face in both hands she kissed him full on the lips.

The courtiers cheered and applauded.

Laughing, Queen Catherine, arm linked through her husband’s, came down off her dais to thank each of us for entertaining her. She affected further surprise as each dancer in turn unmasked. Her smile faltered a bit when she recognized me. I had never been one of her favorites. But when she came to Bessie Blount, I saw something else, something far more ominous, flicker in her eyes.

Face taut, she managed a graceful compliment and passed on to Elizabeth Carew. Bessie shot a panicked glance my way. The queen knew.

That night and the next and the next, King Henry slept with his queen, leaving Bessie to sob into her pillow, convinced that His Majesty was through with her. “She pleases him better than I do,” she wailed.

“He needs a son, Bessie. That is all it is. If you want him, he’ll come back to you. Be patient, and above all do not rail at him for his neglect. He cannot bear to be criticized.”

WE HAD BARELY settled in at Eltham, where we were to celebrate Twelfth Night, when word came from France that King Louis was dead.

My first reaction was relief. I no longer had to fear for my life if I left the safety of the English court. Even better, with a new king on the throne in France, the prohibition against my journeying to that country could be lifted. I knew little about the new king, François I, except that he was young and yet another Longueville cousin, but I thought I might even find myself welcome at the French court.

I did not rush straight to King Henry to ask permission to leave England. It would be at least six weeks before the French succession was settled. By custom, the widowed queen must spend that length of time in seclusion. If, at the end of it, it was certain that Mary was not with child by the late king, her brother would doubtless demand that she return to England. If she was carrying Louis’ heir and gave birth to a boy…clearly it was too soon to make any plans.

A memorial service was held for King Louis at St. Paul’s, in London. That was the extent of royal mourning in England. In fact, King Henry commanded that The Pavilion on the Place Perilous, the masque we had been rehearsing for Twelfth Night, go on as planned…with one change. Bessie Blount’s role was given to another.

Once again, I consoled my bedfellow while she wept.

“He is through with me, Jane. I know it! He has taken away my part in the pageant to please the queen.”

“Perhaps, but not for the reason you imagine. Your part has been given to the imperial ambassador’s wife.”

“What difference does that make?”

“Think, Bessie. Why include her? She’s nobody.”

“She’s married to an ambassador.” Bessie sat up and dried her eyes. “You think the king is trying to sweeten him?”

“King Henry must already be thinking of new alliances he can make by using his sister as a pawn. The Imperial ambassador is the ideal candidate to act as a go-between to reopen negotiations for Charles of Castile.” So much for Henry’s promise that Mary might choose her own husband when Louis died!

I was certain my interpretation of the king’s motives was correct when the Imperial ambassador himself was also invited to participate in the masque, replacing Harry Guildford. Teaching two foreigners their roles was a challenge. By the time the pageant wagon, carrying a pavilion made of crimson and blue damask surmounted by a gold crown and a rosebush, rolled into the hall, I felt as nervous as if this were my first disguising.

We ladies were hidden behind the draperies while the “lords,” portrayed by the ambassador, Nick Carew, Charles Brandon, and the king, manned brickwork towers at each corner. Six minstrels perched on the stage as well, and more armed knights—members of the King’s Players—marched alongside. Two of the Children of the Chapel preceded the pageant wagon and by means of musical verses explained what was to come.

It was an ambitious endeavor. Never before had anyone attempted to hold a tourney indoors. Granted, it was a small one, but it still required a show of skill extraordinary in the extreme. The four knights were attacked by six “wild men” appareled in “moss” made of green silk. Master Gibson had created strange and ominous-looking weapons for them to carry and I had painted their faces so that when they scowled they showed most terrible visages.

After a heroic struggle, long enough to have everyone in the hall cheering for their champions, the four knights drove the wild men away and it was time for the ladies to descend from the pavilion to dance with them. Once again, masks were the order of the day, but we wore our hair long and loose. Bessie’s beautiful golden tresses would have been immediately recognizable. I took note of the queen’s quietly satisfied smile as she realized that her rival was not among the dancers.

Bessie, by her own choice, had remained in our lodgings. If she could not dance with the king, she said, she did not want to join in the revels at all.

We unmasked after several dances and, as usual, everyone affected to be surprised that the king was one of the knights. In short order after that, we all returned to the pavilion—four ladies and four knights—to be conveyed out of the hall.

Once the silken draperies were drawn closed, the quarters were cramped. I was unsurprised when Charles Brandon took advantage of the enforced intimacy to run his hands over my breasts. I ignored the overture.

When the pageant wagon came to a halt some distance outside the great hall, we all climbed off. Meg and her sister had been delegated to escort the ambassador and his wife back to the queen’s presence, and I meant to go with them, but as I straightened from smoothing my skirts I realized that Brandon had taken the king aside. They seemed to be arguing.

Curious, I lingered, pretending that I had a rush caught on my shoe.

“I swear on my life,” I heard Brandon say, “that if you send me after her, I will do no more than bring her home to you.”

“On your life be it,” replied the king. Impatience, and mayhap some stronger emotion, creased his face into a frown. He waved Brandon away, looked around for the yeomen of the guard assigned to him, and saw me instead. “Jane.”

“Your Grace.” I hastened to make my obeisance.

He studied my face. He had caught me off guard and I had no time to conceal what I’d been thinking. “My sister…confided in you? You know what man it is she wishes to wed?”

Keeping my eyes averted, I nodded.

“Brandon?”

“Yes.” I wavered, then whispered, “She will be most distressed if you do him any harm.”

A beringed hand appeared in front of me. I took it and he lifted me up, obliging me to meet his troubled gaze. “She was always a great one for reading the romances,” he murmured. “The Romaunt of the Rose, The Romance of Bertrand—”

“The Canterbury Tales. Ogier the Dane,” I contributed, hoping to lighten his mood. “Legenda Sanctorum.” The last was a collection of saints’ lives, translated into English. The Lady Mary’s copy, which had come to her from her grandmother, was bound in red velvet with a silver clasp.

A reluctant smile blossomed on the king’s ruddy face. “You always were quick witted, Jane. It is no wonder my sister is so fond of you. You will be glad of it when she returns, I have no doubt.”

“I will, Your Grace.” Of that much, at least, I was certain.

IN LATE FEBRUARY, word reached the English court from Paris that the widowed queen of France had married Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk.

The king was furious. The king of England, that is. The new king of France, François, had not only approved of the match but facilitated it, mayhap in part to tweak the nose of a fellow monarch.

For months after that no one knew for certain if King Henry would allow his sister and the man who had been one of his closest friends to return to England, or what kind of reception they would receive if they did. I suspected the king’s anger stemmed not so much from being outmaneuvered as because he had lost a marriage pawn. He truly loved his sister, and his admiration of Brandon went back to the days when his father was still king. I could not imagine that even Henry Tudor would hold this grudge forever.

In the interim, however, those around him kept their opinions to themselves. It was not a good time for me to ask permission to travel to France.

By May Day, matters seemed to have resolved themselves. The Duke and Duchess of Suffolk were on their way home and would arrive within the week. The entire court was in high spirits as we rode out from Greenwich, the queen’s ladies all mounted on white palfreys. We traveled two miles into the country early on May Day morning. “Robin Hood” had invited the king and queen to a banquet in the greenwood.

After some pageantry and an archery contest, we adjourned to a special arbor fashioned of boughs and covered with flowers and sweet herbs. It was large enough to contain a hall, a great chamber, and an inner chamber, and in this setting, the “outlaws” and their ladies served a breakfast of venison and other game washed down with wine.

When he had eaten, the king rose and moved among his guests, stopping near me to engage a member of the new Venetian embassy in conversation. “Talk with me awhile,” the king invited, speaking in French. “I am told that you have met the new king of France. Is he as tall as I am?”

The ambassador seemed taken aback by the question but recovered quickly. “There is but little difference, Sire.”

“Is he as stout?”

“No, he is not.”

“What sort of legs has he?”

“Spare, Your Majesty.”

“Hah!” The king, pleased by this answer, pulled aside the skirt of his doublet and slapped a hand on his thigh. “Look here! I have also a good calf to my leg.”

Curious as to what that had been about, I sought out Will Compton and repeated the conversation I had overheard. “Is there some reason he singled out the Venetian?” I asked.

“The best of reasons. The fellow leaves on the morrow for France. He can now be counted upon to tell the new French king what he has observed in England, in particular the splendor of the court and the physical prowess of King Henry.”

“I would have thought King François knew all that already. He has met any number of English noblemen, including the Duke of Suffolk.” The sour expression on Will’s face reminded me that he had never been fond of Charles Brandon. “Is there any word yet of when the king’s sister will reach England?”

“Any day now.”

“And what reception will she be given?”

Will made a derisive sound. “What sort do you imagine? She has already sent all the jewelry she got from old King Louis to her brother as a bribe and Brandon has agreed to pay a huge fine for marrying her out of hand. They’ll be welcomed back with open arms.”

“JANE!” THERE WAS no mistaking the delight in Mary Tudor’s voice as she entered the room I shared with Bessie Blount. She rushed into my arms and hugged me tight. “Is it not wonderful! I have my Charles at last.”

As Will had predicted, in the end there was little trouble over the clandestine marriage. The queen of France and her new husband arrived in Dover and were escorted to a private meeting with King Henry at the royal manor of Barking in Essex. Then they came to Greenwich to be remarried by an English priest.

“I am delighted to see you so happy, Your Grace.” Both Bessie and Nan, the tiring maid we shared, slipped out of the room, leaving me privacy for our reunion.

“Do not be so formal with me, Jane. We are old friends, you and I. And although I will always bear the title Queen of France, I now think of myself as plain Lady Suffolk. Why, we are very nearly equals.”

“Scarcely that.”

“Nevertheless, you are my dearest Jane and from now on I command you to call me Mary when we are alone.”

“I would be pleased to, and even more pleased if you will allow me to rejoin your household.”

At once her smile dimmed. “Charles is…we—” She broke off with a rueful laugh. “We are poor, Jane. Almost everything we own is now pledged to the king. We will have to go to Charles’s country house in Lincolnshire when the court leaves on its summer progress because we can live there more cheaply. It would not be fair to take you in when I must dismiss so many others.”

Seeing my crestfallen look, she took my hands in hers. “We are friends, Jane. And I am certain you do not wish to leave the court. I do not wish to myself. Only having my dear Charles with me will make our exile to the country bearable.”

Hiding my disappointment, I changed the subject. We talked for hours. I told her about pageants and petty rivalries at court. She recounted her adventures as queen of France, skimming over her marital duties and the long days of solitude after King Louis’ death. Those weeks shut up in a dark room, wearing white and expected to keep to her bed had nearly driven her mad, but her only respite had proven nearly as nerve-wracking as the isolation.

“The new king visited me,” she confided. “He is a handsome fellow, except for that huge nose of his, and he knows it. He tried to take liberties.”

“I thought he was newly wed.”

“So he is, to a lumpish girl named Claude, my stepdaughter. And he has a mistress, the young wife of an elderly Paris barrister.” She gave a light laugh, but it conveyed no pleasure.

I shifted closer to her on the padded bench we shared and helped myself to a slice of candied apple from the bowl she held in her lap. The treat had been a gift to Bessie from the king. “How did you deal with him?”

“I told him the truth, that I loved Charles and wished to wed him. Then I burst into tears and said that I did not trust my brother to keep his promise. It was not at all difficult after that to convince the king of France to help us. It was a chance, you see, for him to score points against Henry. They are like little boys, the two of them, setting themselves up as rivals.”

“Little boys with great power,” I reminded her. “If you had returned unwed, your brother would have found some way to thwart your plans.”

Color flooded Mary’s face and her hands curled into fists. “Henry will not make decisions for me ever again!” I caught the bowl just as she was about to hurl it across the room.

When her temper cooled, I asked after the duc de Longueville.

“Oh, Jane, what you must think of me!” She fumbled in the purse suspended from her belt and produced a letter. This time the seal was unbroken.

I waited until I was alone to read Guy’s missive. It was short and to the point and written on Longueville’s behalf: Should I choose to leave England, King François had no objection to my presence in France.

SEVERAL DAYS PASSED before I found an opportunity to speak privily with King Henry. It was evening and, as usual, there was music and dancing. The king partnered me in a pavane. I waited until the dance was done, then placed one hand on his forearm when he tried to take his leave.

“Jane?” Mild annoyance shimmered just beneath the curiosity in his voice.

“Sire, I have a boon to ask.” I spoke quickly, fearing we’d be interrupted. The music had already started up again.

Thunderclouds darkened his expression before I was halfway through my request. My heart sank. I had been too hasty. I should have waited longer. And I should have approached him through channels, perhaps recruiting Will or Harry to speak on my behalf.

“You wish to go to France?” His voice was dangerously quiet.

“A visit only, Your Grace. I lived there once, you know.”

Mentally kicking myself for reminding him that I was not a native Englishwoman, I clamped my lips tightly together. To say more would only make matters worse.

“Do you still miss your lover?” Again the silken tone was deceptive, but I knew how I must answer that question.

“No, Your Grace. I do not.” It was, after all, the truth.

The king shook his head, his eyes full of suspicion. I did not dare remind him that when Mary was wed to King Louis he had wanted me to go to France.

“You are forbidden to leave England,” King Henry said. “You will not go to France or to any foreign land unless I give you leave.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Repressing a sigh, I made my obeisance and backed away. Tears swam in my eyes but I refused to let them fall.

EVERY SUMMER THE king went on progress. The route varied so that he could visit different subjects each time. The houses he would stay in were announced well in advance. When I realized that the upcoming progress would pass near Fyfield, the house belonging to James Strangeways and his wife, I made plans of my own. Not all the answers I sought were to be found in France.

James Strangeways’s wife had been born Lady Catherine Gordon, the daughter of a Scottish nobleman, and had been married off by King James IV—the same James who later married Margaret Tudor, the same James killed at Flodden Field—to the pretender, Perkin Warbeck, in the belief that he was the rightful heir to the English throne. Lady Catherine had accompanied her first husband when he invaded England and had been captured. Instead of being imprisoned, however, she had become one of Queen Elizabeth of York’s ladies, just as my mother had.

She and my mother, so I had been told, had befriended each other.

I had seen Lady Catherine at court when I was a child, and she had assisted with the preparations for Princess Margaret’s wedding to the Scots king, but I did not think I had ever spoken to her. Certainly she had never sought me out. Still, I hoped she would agree to talk to me.

I was curious about her, aside from her connection to my mother. As I recalled the story, she had been kept apart from her husband, but otherwise well treated. She’d stayed at court even after Warbeck’s execution. Following Queen Elizabeth’s death, she had married Strangeways, a gentleman usher to the king, and been granted the rural manor of Fyfield in Berkshire. Since then, Lady Catherine had remained in the country.

To leave the progress and travel to Fyfield, I was obliged to ask permission from the queen’s chamberlain to visit “an old friend.” To my relief, he made no difficulty about my going. As far as the chamberlain was concerned, my absence meant he had one less body to provide with food and shelter. I borrowed a groom and horses for Nan and myself from Harry Guildford and set out over wretched rural roads.

I had not written to say I was coming. I was not certain Lady Catherine could read, and I wanted my business kept private. That meant I could not be certain she would be at home when I arrived. I could, at least, be certain of her hospitality. Country landowners always kept open house for gently born travelers. I was made welcome as soon as I identified myself, and within an hour of my arrival was sitting in the parlor with my hostess.

Lady Catherine’s slender figure had become plump since I’d last seen her, but she was still pretty, and she had an air of placid contentment about her. She waved me toward a stool near her chair and ordered her hovering maidservant to bring barley water and comfits.

“It is rare that anyone from court comes to visit me here at Fyfield,” she remarked.

“The king is on progress and staying nearby.”

She chuckled. “Not so very close or I should have been obliged to house excess courtiers.”

I smiled at her observation, thinking it must be a great imposition to have the king visit. No one would dare tell him they did not want his company, but being his host entailed considerable expense. There was food and drink and entertainment while the king was in residence and then the cost to clean up the mess the court left behind.

“Is it curiosity that brought you to me, Mistress Popyncourt? Did you wish to see what had become of me?”

“Curiosity, yes, but not about you. Or, not only about you.”

“Mistress Popyncourt,” Lady Catherine repeated, abandoning a piece of fine embroidery for the collar of a shirt to peer into my face. “I remember you now. You serve the Lady Mary, do you not?”

“I did, madam, but when she went to France to marry King Louis, I became one of the queen’s maids of honor.”

Her eyebrows, already arched, shot higher. “A bit long in the tooth for a maid, are you not?”

“And you, madam, are much younger than I expected.” She could have been no more than fifteen or sixteen when she wed Perkin Warbeck. Either that or the country air was exceptionally beneficial to preserving a youthful appearance.

“You left the progress to travel here on your own,” she observed. “Why?”

“You knew my mother. Lady Lovell told me that you befriended her when she first came to England.”

“Say rather that she befriended me.” Lady Catherine’s unlined face showed no emotion, but her eyes lost their welcoming gleam. “You were a child in those days, but you must have known how incensed the court was by my first husband’s ingratitude. He’d dared try to escape his velvet shackles.”

Uncertain how to respond, I held my silence. I had seen Perkin Warbeck after his capture. I remembered that he’d tried to escape a second time and had been executed for it. Even if she had not loved him, he had been her husband. She’d shared his defeat and his disgrace.

After a moment, Lady Catherine continued speaking. “My first marriage lasted four years. I wed in good faith, and Richard, as I called him, believing he was the prince he claimed to be, was a gentle and loving husband. I accepted that we could never live again as man and wife after our capture. I even understood the reasons when King Henry ordered his death. But there was always a part of me that wondered what my life would have been like had he been what he claimed, if he had won the support of his people and deposed the upstart Tudor king.”

“You would have been queen of England.”

Her smile was sad. “Most of the time, I am convinced I had a lucky escape.”

“There do seem to be…drawbacks to being wedded to a king.” Thinking of the Lady Mary, of the Lady Margaret, and of Queen Catherine of Aragon, I sighed.

The maid returned bearing a heavy tray.

“The queen is again with child,” I said as she set out food and drink. “A babe that, God willing, will be born in February.” King Henry had already taken Bessie Blount back into his bed.

The door closed behind the servant with a solid thunk. Lady Catherine reached for a seed cake. Our eyes met as she took the first bite. She chewed thoughtfully, then took another. “What do you want to know about your mother?”

“She died only months after coming to court. I had been separated from her, sent to the royal nursery at Eltham. No one I have talked to seems to have known her well enough to tell me how she spent her last days.”

“And you want to learn more.” She pondered this, consuming the second seed cake. “Well, I will tell you what I can recall, but I do not believe it will be of much help to you.”

“I understand that it was a long time ago, that memories—”

“Oh, I recall that year well enough! How could I not. Everyone regarded me with suspicion, and yet I was obliged to go along on progress with the rest of the court.”

“Maman died at Collyweston.”

“The Countess of Richmond’s house.” Lady Catherine nodded, looking thoughtful. “Oh, yes. I remember the king’s mother well. She traveled with the court most of that summer. We left London in late July, as I recall, and stopped first at Stratford Abbey.”

She closed her eyes, the better to let her mind drift back to that time.

“We visited Havering, and were at Sir James Tyrell’s house, and at Mr. Bardwell’s. Those were in Essex.” She frowned. “One or two fine old castles, and then on to Bury St. Edmunds. Thetford. Buckingham Castle. Norwich. Sir William Boleyn’s place in Norfolk. Blickling Hall, I believe it is called. Then Walsingham and King’s Lynn. We visited Sir Edmund Bedingfield’s widow at Oxburgh Hall. Newmarket. Ely. Cambridge. Huntingdon. Peterborough.” She ticked the towns off on her fingers, one by one.

“You have an excellent memory.” Impatient, I fought the urge to tell her to skip ahead to Collyweston.

“At times I think memories are all I have left to me.” Her eyes popped open and she trilled a light, self-deprecating laugh. “You must not feel pity for me. I am quite content to live in the country. Here I am ruler of my own little domain.” She reached for a third seed cake.

“What of Collyweston?” I prompted her.

“That was the next stop. The king stayed three days, then went on to Drayton in Leicestershire and one or two other places. Queen Elizabeth and her ladies remained at the Countess of Richmond’s house for two more days before joining King Henry at Great Harrowden in Northamptonshire.”

“And my mother succumbed to her illness during that five-day stay?”

“Your mother fell ill and died right after the king left his mother’s house.”

My breath caught in my throat. My surprise must have shown on my face, because Lady Catherine narrowed her eyes at me. “You were told something different,” she murmured. “What was it?”

“That my mother was dying even before she came to England, wasting away from some illness no one could cure.”

“Nonsense. There was nothing wrong with her that I could see. She was cheerful and energetic in spite of the rigors of being on a royal progress. She had begun to make friends with some of the other ladies, and she even seemed to have won the approval of the king’s mother.”

“The Countess of Richmond took note of her?”

“She did, and was most distressed when your mother died.” Lady Catherine frowned. “A bad mushroom, someone said. Food poisoning.” She shrugged.

“Did anyone else fall ill?”

“Not that I recall, but then the English are not overly fond of mushrooms. The French dote on them, or so I am told.”

“Maman was not French,” I murmured. “She was Breton.”

Lady Catherine did not seem to be listening. “No doubt your mother gathered the mushrooms herself and mistook one for another. That happens all too often in the country. I am obliged to take the utmost care that I do not mix in the wrong herb by accident when I prepare medicines in my stillroom.”

I HAD MUCH to think about when I rejoined the royal progress. Lady Catherine’s account of my mother’s death was vastly different from Mother Guildford’s, but I could think of no reason why Mother Guildford should try to prevent me from learning the truth…unless Maman’s sudden illness and death had not been a case of accidental poisoning.

When the progress ended and the court was once more at Greenwich, near enough to London that I could consider confronting Harry’s mother with what I had learned, I found myself strangely reluctant to do so. I wished I had someone to confide in, someone with whom I could discuss what to do next, but the habit of secrecy was strong, as was my fear of trusting the wrong person. What if I was right? By revealing my suspicion, I might alert the killer, and I might be the next to die.

Foolish imaginings! I told myself that I’d thought of murder only because Maman had been accused of poisoning King Charles. Lady Catherine had not questioned the cause of my mother’s death. The refusal of other ladies to tell me what they could recall likely stemmed from guilt over the shabby way they’d treated a newcomer. They’d not have wanted to remember that! And Mother Guildford’s lie? Well, she had been raised in the Countess of Richmond’s household. Could I believe this just an example of misguided loyalty? Rather than let the slightest blame fall on the king’s mother for a death that had occurred at her house at Collyweston, Mother Guildford might have invented the tale of a wasting sickness, thinking that would cause less consternation.

I was not altogether satisfied with this explanation, but in the end it had to suffice. The queen’s new pregnancy was a difficult one. She kept all her attendants fully occupied in the months that followed the progress…right up until the birth of a daughter the king named Mary, after his sister.

The Duke and Duchess of Suffolk had been forgiven for their clandestine marriage. King Henry now directed all his anger at King François instead. He had been even more furious when he heard that his rival had won a great military victory at Marignano, near Milan. The French, taking advantage of the peace with England and Spain, had invaded Italy.

On the twenty-first day of February, the three-day-old princess was christened. I did not attend the ceremony. Instead I traveled to Suffolk Place in Southwark, where Mary had taken up residence to await the birth of her own child. The mansion faced the Thames and had its own private quay, but the winter had been a brutal one and the river had once again frozen solid. I rode across the ice, then made my way to the house on foot, passing two gardens and a maze en route.

I entered the great hall by way of a goodly porch of timberwork hung with cloth of arras without and cloth-of-gold within. The hall boasted fireplaces in every corner and twenty-four torches in wall sconces—I counted them. But only three were lit and the hearths were cold. I shivered in spite of my fur-lined cloak and three wool underskirts.

Mary Tudor awaited me in her bedchamber, where a cheerful fire blazed in the hearth. Great with child, she sat on a cushioned window seat, warmly wrapped in furs against the draft.

“How does my new niece?” she demanded as soon as she saw me.

“Even now she is being carried to the font, the silver one brought from Canterbury.”

Mary’s hand drifted to her swollen belly. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, but I could not tell if the high color came from fever or excitement. Her child was due in less than a month. “Tell me what she looks like.”

“The princess is but three days old. She looks like most other infants at that age.”

“Charles says her hair is red.”

“That is true, but what other color could it be, given her parentage?”

We shared a smile, and Mary reached up to touch one of her own red-gold locks. “Will my child take after me, I wonder, or have dark hair? Oh, it does not matter. I will love him either way, but I do wish he would hurry up and be born!”

“You must be patient.”

“You were always better at that than I,” she lamented.

If only she knew! Ever since the king’s refusal to let me visit France, I’d behaved as ever I had, joining in the dancing and revelry, waiting on my royal mistress, passing the rest of the time with card games and dice and fancy needlework. But beneath my calm demeanor my frustration had built to the screaming point.

“I find little pleasure these days in planning wardrobes or listening to music,” I said, “or even in helping Harry and Master Gibson with the disguisings.”

“I would be happy to be able to join in any of those pastimes.” Mary’s peevish tone reminded me that, in spite of her avowed desire for my friendship, she had no wish to listen to anyone else’s troubles, not even mine.

“Forgive me. I am out of sorts.” I stared out the window behind her at the Thames, striving for calm. Boats being useless on ice, people had taken their horses and carts out onto the frozen river. A few enterprising souls had even set up booths to sell food, and dozens of children had bound animal shinbones to their shoes with leather thongs to go sliding on the ice. Some used iron-shod poles to help them stay upright.

“Has there been any further news from France?” Mary asked.

“Nothing.” I had learned that the duc de Longueville had fought at the great battle of Marignano, but I had received no direct word from Guy or of him. Had he survived the tournament only to be slain in a French war? I could only pray that he had not been one of the five thousand Frenchmen who had lost their lives to achieve King François’s great victory.

“What word at court of my sister?”

“Nothing new. Queen Margaret is still in Northumberland.”

The queen of Scotland had been obliged to flee from that country the previous September after unwisely choosing a second husband for herself. Her marriage to the Earl of Angus, a Scot with dynastic ambitions, had turned the other noblemen of Scotland against her. They’d taken away her regency and her children and had been keeping her a virtual prisoner in Edinburgh until she’d managed to escape.

“I heard Margaret almost died giving birth to a daughter.”

“So I am told, but she is recovering. She has sent word to your brother that she wishes to come to court.”

“And will he allow it?”

“Who is to say? King Henry is not happy about her marriage. He talks of having it set aside.”

Mary started to speak, then fell silent. If her sister’s marriage could be annulled, even after the birth of a child to that union, then so could her own. It was a fear that must always haunt her.