Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set

15

I considered trying to arrange a rendezvous with the king during a pavane or a galliard, but the movements brought partners together only briefly before drawing them apart again, making conversation difficult. I would flirt, then, I decided, but save my more devious machinations for the bowling green.

King Henry was fond of tennis, loved to joust, and excelled at games of chance, but he was also an enthusiastic bowler. The bowling alley was a turf-covered area bounded by hedges. Ladies usually watched the play from a gallery, but I chose to cross the close-shaven grass to a vantage point much nearer the players. I stood in the shadow of the tiltyard wall to observe the king and three of his companions play at bowls. The steady clack of wood on wood and the occasional bursts of applause were interspersed with sounds of low conversation and laughter from the players.

Stooping, the king balanced the first of two heavy, highly polished wooden balls called “bowls” on his palm and sighted the stake at the far end of the alley. His target was called a “mistress.” Dipping his right knee, he made his cast. A cheer went up from the spectators when it came to rest a scant inch from where he’d aimed it.

Charles Brandon bowled next, then Will Compton and Ned Neville, who were on the opposing team. All four of them took turns casting while Nick Carew kept score on a tablet and awarded points based on whose bowls ended up closest to the mistress.

After the first match, which the king won handily, I stepped into the alley. “Your Grace, your game is dull.”

King Henry turned, glowering. “Dull, mistress? When your king is playing?”

“Ah, me—I misspoke. What I meant to say is that it could be made much more interesting.” I sidled closer to him and daringly brushed one hand across his sleeve. I could feel the other players, the scorekeeper, and the pages who handed out the bowls all staring at me, but I ignored them, just as I ignored those few courtiers and ladies in the gallery. The queen was not among them. I had made sure of that before I began my play.

“Interesting in what way?” King Henry asked. He was more intrigued than irritated now, as I’d hoped he would be.

“You might make use of a real mistress,” I suggested, glancing toward the stake that bore that name, then back up at the king through lowered lashes.

Charles Brandon caught my meaning first and responded with a burst of ribald laughter. “A worthy target indeed!” he declared, slapping his thigh as he chortled. “And also, mayhap, the prize for the winner.”

“I am told that at some foreign courts noblemen play chess with courtiers as the pieces,” I said when King Henry’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “Would it not be a fine new game to substitute a living woman for a mistress made of wood?” Sauntering casually down the length of the alley, I positioned myself in front of the far stake.

Inside, I was shaking like a leaf in a windstorm, but that only made me try harder to maintain a surface calm. I could afford no hesitation, no appearance of second thoughts. I put my hands on my hips and called out, “Come, gentlemen. Send your balls my way.”

In appreciation of the risqué invitation, all four players responded with good-natured laughter. The king obliged me. His first cast was a good one and the second bowl very nearly struck my foot. When Brandon took his turn, I moved at the last moment, distracting him, and his first bowl skimmed past me and into a hedge. The second curled around to lie next to the king’s two attempts.

“A kiss for the winner,” I called, and I managed to affect Ned’s aim by lifting my skirts above my ankles. His cast went wildly astray.

Will Compton glowered at me as he prepared to take his turn. I was beginning to enjoy myself. For the rest of the match, I kept up a steady flow of banter, using as many words with double meanings as I dared. I had always known that the king had a low sense of humor, but I had never catered to it before.

When the game was over, it came as no surprise that His Grace had won. He advanced upon me to claim his prize. “Come share a kiss, Your Majesty,” I called, and smiled invitingly. I grasped his broad shoulders as our lips met and clung to them afterward to keep him close while I whispered in his ear. “If we were in private,” I promised, “I would be willing to share so much more.”

I meant the idea I’d had to spy on the French, but I knew full well that was not how the king interpreted my words. From the look in his eyes, he would soon send for me.

“WILL, WAIT! YOU go too fast.”

Slowing his long strides, Will Compton cast a contemptuous look over his shoulder. “You were the one in a great hurry only a few hours ago. You set out to capture the king’s attention and now you have it. I wish you joy of it!”

Although I winced at the acid in his tone, it was far too late to change my mind. We were already in the privy gallery. At the far end lay the door that led to the king’s bedchamber.

“I cannot run in these shoes,” I protested when Will resumed his brisk pace. The cork-soled crimson velvet pantoufles on my feet were backless slippers more decorative than sturdy.

“Kick them off, then.” Radiating impatience, he stopped to glare at me. “You were wont to go about in stocking feet when we were younger.”

“Why are you so wroth with me?” Hands on hips, I stood my ground on the rush matting that covered the floor of the privy gallery. “It is not as if the king has never before sent for a woman, nor are you unaccustomed to escorting such females to him.”

“God’s bones, Jane! Have you no shame? Had you not thrown yourself in his path, the king would be with the queen this night, as he should be, endeavoring to get a son on her.”

“It is barely twelve weeks since his daughter’s birth,” I protested. “The king always turns to other women when his wife is with child and, as you well know, it is customary to allow a highborn lady several months to recover after she is delivered of a living child.”

We had stopped beneath a portrait of Henry VII. The bright green-and-gold-striped silk curtain usually drawn in front of portraits to keep the paint from fading had been pulled back to reveal a frame of black ebony garnished with silver and the canvas it contained. Will gestured toward it. “He’d be ashamed of you, Jane. He treated you as another daughter, favoring you above all the other gentlewomen at court.”

“And he died without making provision for me.” Staring at the portrait, I found it difficult to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

It was a good likeness, better than the one at Richmond. It had been painted before illness inscribed lines of pain into my grandfather’s face. The artist had accurately depicted the unsmiling lips, the pronounced cheekbones, and the straight, thin, high-bridged nose. He’d also given him the same autocratic air he’d so often exhibited in life. The portrait showed the unusual blue-gray color of the king’s eyes, as well, as large and deep set as I remembered them. For a moment I imagined a look of stern disapproval in his gaze.

Hastily looking away, I caught sight of a peculiar expression on Will Compton’s face. Lips pursed, brow furrowed, eyes troubled, his earlier irritation had been replaced by confusion. “What are you up to, Jane?”

“Why do you care?”

“I should like to make sense of your behavior. After all, if it is only that you miss having a man in your bed, that lack might easily have been remedied, and in ways that would have given you more pleasure than a few nights as the king’s mistress.”

“The pleasures of Pleasure Palace?” I quipped.

Will’s lips twitched.

I had taken pleasure at Greenwich with the duc de Longueville. He had been my first lover, my only lover. I glanced apprehensively toward the door to the king’s bedchamber.

Taking a deep breath in an attempt to quell the fluttering sensation in the pit of my stomach, I managed a tentative smile. Will had been an ally in the past. A friend. We had known each other for eighteen years. He could help me now, or hinder me. I could allow him to believe me wanton, even promise to share my favors with him…or I could tell him as much of the truth as I dared.

“I have need to speak privily with him, Will,” I blurted out. “That is all I want, just to talk.”

He frowned.

“This was the only way I could think of to arrange a private meeting given my standing. I had to pretend I wanted him to bed me.”

Will’s frown rearranged itself into an expression rife with suspicion. For a moment I feared he would call the guards. He was responsible for the king’s safety. If he perceived me as a threat—

“He expects to swive you, Jane. He does not take kindly to being thwarted.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Will was still my friend. His concern was for my well-being.

“You need not remind me of His Grace’s temper. I will be careful.”

We covered the remaining distance to the end of the privy gallery without further speech. A yeoman usher, resplendent in scarlet livery, stood waiting to open the door. I hesitated on the threshold. What if I had miscalculated? Would the king insist upon taking me to bed even if I was not willing?

I repressed a shudder at the thought—in light of our blood relationship.

The door opened and I passed through.

Henry was waiting for me, a light in his eyes that told me Will’s concern was well founded. “Ah, Jane.” He opened his arms and the loose robe he wore gaped open, too.

Averting my eyes from the nakedness beneath, I kept my gaze on his face. My uncle’s face, I reminded myself. Younger than I he might be, but he was my grandfather’s son, just as Sir Rowland Velville was.

“I have thought of this often, Jane,” the king murmured.

If he had been anyone but who he was, I might have been tempted. It had been a long time since I had enjoyed a man’s embraces. He poured wine and offered me the cup, spoke gently and in a coaxing tone. And in his eyes, I could see the spark of genuine interest. I was not just any female body. He knew who I was and he wanted me.

“Your Grace—”

“It must be Henry when we are private like this. I like to hear my name whispered soft and sweet.”

But I shook my head. Setting aside the goblet, a beautiful thing of crystal chased with gold, I faced him. “I have deceived you, Your Grace. I came to you under false pretenses.”

Brow knit in consternation, eyes narrowing, he regarded me warily. “What are you saying, Jane?”

“Forgive me, Sire. I could think of no other way that would allow me to speak with you in absolute privacy.” I went down on my knees before him, head bowed, praying that he would not throw me out of his bedchamber before I could plead my case.

He seized me by both elbows and jerked me upward. My head whipped back but I ignored the sharp flash of pain in my neck and the even more agonizing ache from his grip on my barely healed arm. My eyes met his angry gaze and held there. I knew I had only seconds to explain myself.

“Let me go to France!” I blurted out. “I will gather intelligence for you and warn you of King François’ plans.”

His already ruddy skin flamed redder. At any moment I expected his eyes to shoot flames as he gave me a hard shake.

“P-please, Your Grace! Hear me out! I have an excuse to go, one no one will question. My mother left the court at Amboise, and France, under mysterious circumstances. My inquiries into her past will allow me to move freely, to stay as long as you need me to—”

He released me so suddenly that I stumbled. To prevent a fall, I caught myself on a nearby cupboard, using my left hand and jarring the newly healed bone once again. For a moment the pain was so intense that I could not speak.

I saw the king’s brow furrow and realized he had forgotten that I had been injured. For a breathless moment we stared at each other. Then he turned his back on me. I did not need to see his face to know that he was still angry. The set of his massive shoulders told me that.

“Leave now,” he ordered as he stalked away.

Backing toward the door, I strove to control my emotions. I wanted to rail at him. I feared I was about to burst into tears. My head was bowed, eyes on the floor, but I heard the swish of fabric when he turned.

“Wait.”

I froze. Slowly, I lifted my head to look at him. He was still furious with me, but there was something else in his eyes, something that made me shiver with dread.

“You deceived me, Jane.”

His voice had gentled, but I was not fooled into thinking he had mellowed toward me. “I crave your pardon, Your Majesty.” I dropped my gaze again, but it was too late.

His ornate, gilded slippers appeared on the rush mat in front of me. He lifted my chin using the side of one hand. Candlelight reflected off the big ruby he wore on the second finger and I stared at it, noticing for the first time that the gold band was etched with dragons. Why had I never realized what that meant? Mother’s pendant, the one thing she had left behind for me, had been crafted in the shape of that same royal emblem—the red dragon of Wales. I wondered if the pendant had been a gift to her from her father.

“You might persuade me to change my mind,” the king murmured.

His tone left no doubt about how I might do so. He was still irritated with me, but he’d remembered why he’d ordered me brought to him in the first place.

“I cannot do that, Your Grace.”

“Cannot? Or will not?” Before I could answer, he shot more questions at me. “Do you fancy yourself in love with the duc de Longueville? Is that the real reason you want to leave England?”

“No, Your Grace, I do not love him, nor do I pine for him. Indeed, I have had no communication whatsoever with him since he left England.”

His hard stare bored into me, but I had told him the truth and he could see that. A slow smile overspread his features and I swallowed convulsively. This interview had not gone at all the way I’d planned and I had a feeling matters were about to get worse.

“Then you are free to share your favors with whatever man you choose.” The king all but purred the words. “Come, Jane, we will—”

“I cannot.” To reinforce my refusal, I took a step back.

Before I could retreat farther, he caught my right arm in a bruising grip. Once again his voice went cold while his eyes filled with the heat of anger. “You dare deny your king?”

“I must deny my kinsman!”

He dropped his hand as if touching me had burnt him. “Explain yourself.”

“We cannot become lovers, Your Grace. It would be a sin.” His implacable expression prevented me from stopping there. With a sinking heart, I told him the rest. “You are my uncle, Sire. My mother was your half sister.”

The blank, unblinking stare that greeted this news frightened me far more than his earlier show of temper. I did not know whether to say more or hold my tongue. Either course seemed full of risk. In a whisper, I added, “Your father sired bastards, Your Grace, during his exile in Brittany.”

Abruptly, the blue eyes came into focus again. “Bastards? More than one?”

“Twins, Your Majesty.”

“Velville,” the king muttered, and I knew he must be making the same comparisons I had, seeing his father’s features in my uncle’s face.

King Henry sank into an upholstered chair and waved me onto a nearby stool. For a long moment he simply stared at my face, looking there for the heritage I’d claimed. Whatever he found, it made him contemplative.

For the moment, his anger seemed to have passed, but I did not trust his uncertain temper. I waited for him to speak first.

“So, Jane, you are my niece, even though you are older than I am.” It was not a question. He had accepted my claim.

I answered him anyway. “So I am told, Your Grace.”

“By whom?”

“Sir Rowland Velville, my mother’s twin brother.” I related the tale as my uncle had told it to me, omitting only Uncle’s speculations about my mother’s murder.

When I had finished the story, the king sat thoughtfully stroking a recently barbered chin. I waited in an agony of suspense, knowing I had taken a huge risk. I’d had no choice but to confess, but that was little consolation when my own life, and that of my uncle, would be forfeit if King Henry decided we were a threat to his throne.

“You went to Wales with my sister’s connivance.” This seemed to amuse him.

“She knows nothing of—”

A wave of his hand cut short my attempt to defend the Duchess of Suffolk. “I know full well you would not have told her. You never meant to tell me.”

“No, Your Grace. And my uncle would not have shared his secret had he not been in his cups.”

A derisive snort greeted that comment.

“I never guessed, although your father was always kind to me,” I said. “He treated me more like family than a servant, but I never thought to ask why.”

A sudden change in his expression silenced me. I bit my lip. Had I said too much?

Then he rose and with a cold stare and steely voice said, “You will never speak of this again. Swear it, Jane. On your life.”

“I swear.” With all the courage I could muster, I looked up at him, letting him see the sincerity in my eyes.

His gaze bored into mine, assessing, weighing, judging. The smile that blossomed on his face had nothing of humor in it. “You will do one more thing for me, Jane.”

“Anything, Your Grace.”

“You will say nothing at all of this night. Ever. If the rest of the court believes that you gave yourself to me, you will not disabuse them of that notion.”

THAT LAST PROMISE cost me dearly. Those among the queen’s ladies who had been friendly no longer spoke to me. Even Bessie Blount, when she returned to court just before Queen Margaret’s arrival, believed that I had replaced her in the king’s bed. The look of reproach in her eyes made me think of a puppy that had been kicked by a heartless master.

Harry Guildford’s scorn was the hardest to bear, but I kept my word to the king. How could I not? He held my very life in his hands. In the end, I was replaced with Bessie Blount in the masque. Before I had the chance to renew my acquaintance with Margaret Tudor, Queen Catherine dismissed me from her service. I packed up all my belongings—pitifully few for a life spent at court—and sought shelter at Suffolk Place. Even there, news of my folly preceded me.

“Charles informs me that you have bedded my brother,” Mary said when I was shown into her presence. I could not tell if she was horrified or amused. Her expression gave nothing away.

“I cannot speak of it.”

Her brows lifted.

“I cannot, Mary. I beg you, do not ask me about the king.”

“How disappointing.” Her smile was rueful. “I had hoped for details.”

The next few days passed pleasantly enough, often in the nursery of Mary’s young son, another Henry. I had not given up the hope that I might be allowed to leave England, but if I tried to cross the Narrow Seas without permission, I knew that the attempt would most assuredly lead to my arrest. Instead, I once again broached the subject of a place in the Suffolk household. My request was met by silence. I looked up from my embroidery to find that Mary was avoiding my gaze.

“Charles says we must retire to the country again after the entertainments to welcome Margaret are done. We spent more money than we should have to celebrate our son’s christening.”

I waited, but I could guess what was coming.

“I cannot take you with us, Jane. Nothing has changed in that regard. But I will write to the king on your behalf, reminding him of all your years of service to our family. He must settle an annuity on you. I shall tell him so.”

She was as good as her promise and within the week King Henry sent word that I was to go to Will Compton’s house in Thames Street at a certain day and time. Without much enthusiasm, I caught a wherry from the quay at Suffolk Place and bade the boatman take me across the river to Compton’s water gate. A servant let me in and conducted me to the same chamber where Bessie had first bedded the king. My spirits dropped even lower as I entered. I wondered if Will was about to ruin what little was left of our friendship with an offer to set me up as his mistress. I stopped short when I realized that the room’s only occupant was not Will Compton.

“Your Grace.” I made the deepest obeisance I could manage.

“Jane. Rise.”

King Henry was smiling. I did not trust that look. He gestured toward a stool while he settled into a chair. There were comfits set out on the table between us and he selected a sugared almond while I sat and arranged my skirts. When he offered the box to me, I shook my head.

“Will you take these, then?” He offered me two papers.

At first I did not understand the significance of either. Then I realized that one was a letter of credit, such as travelers use to convey money from one country to another. The amount was £100, a goodly sum. My heart began to beat a little faster. I’d heard that the king’s council had finally talked him out of his plan to invade France, that peace was again a possibility, but I had not dared let myself hope he would change his mind about letting me leave England.

I looked at the second document. “This is written in Latin. I cannot read it.”

“It is a ‘protection,’ issued for one year under the privy seal at Greenwich—a form of letter of passport designed to give the bearer free passage between London and Calais. I have reconsidered your offer, Jane. If you still wish to journey into France, you have leave to go. In return I expect regular intelligence about King François. Your friend the duc de Longueville can provide you with entry to the French court. You parted on good terms, did you not?”

I remembered Longueville’s promise to set me up as his mistress at Beaugency. “We did, Your Grace.”

“Then you should have no difficulty persuading him to help you.” His tone of voice and the wink that went with it told me plainly that he expected me to bribe the duke with my body.

Bitterness welled up inside me, but on the surface I was careful to display only what King Henry expected to see: gratitude and submission. “Of course, Your Grace.”

“If you allow the rumor that you were my mistress to spread, that may smooth your way to higher things.” There was a sly look in his eyes as he made the suggestion.

“Yes, Your Grace. No doubt it will.” The bitterness turned to simmering anger. Rumors of King François’ satyrlike appetites had reached the English court within a few months of King Louis’ death. “How am I to deliver the intelligence I gather for you?”

“It will be only natural that you speak, from time to time, with the English ambassador. In addition, you may write to your good friend the queen of France.” Seeing my momentary confusion, he chuckled. “My sister Mary, not Queen Claude. What would be more natural than for you to share your experiences with your former mistress? Compton will supply a code for you to use.”

Although I thought it doubtful the king of France would confide in me, even if I did gain access to his court, I told King Henry what he wanted to hear. Then I asked where King François was at present.

“Still in Lyons.”

I had no intention of going there, for it was a goodly distance from Amboise, but King Henry’s next words changed my mind.

“The duc de Longueville is also in Lyons,” he said, “along with a bastard brother.”

He claimed he did not know which one.

THREE WEEKS LATER I arrived in Lyons. I traveled there in the retinue of a Genoese merchant, Master di Grimaldo, who had been visiting a cousin in London—the elderly banker Francesca de Carceres had married. Now di Grimaldo had business with the king of France. I did not inquire into its nature. I was too happy to have found an escort for my journey.

The last part of the trek was through mountainous terrain that seemed most foreign to me. Master di Grimaldo held the opposite opinion. “This countryside reminds me of parts of my beautiful Italy,” he told me, “and surely Lyons is the most lovely of all French cities.”

It did boast fine stone houses, well-ordered streets, and bustling businesses. Built on a strip of land between two rivers, it was a natural center of commerce.

Master di Grimaldo had been more than kind to me on the journey. He had provided me with food, shelter, and lessons in the workings of the French court. The organization of the royal household was similar to what I was familiar with in England, but not exactly the same.

I did not plan to seek an audience with King François. In truth, I hoped to avoid him entirely. But to locate the duc de Longueville and, I hoped, Guy Dunois, I knew I would have to brave the court.

That prospect seemed daunting at first. The maison du roi included more than five hundred individuals and the queen’s household over two hundred. The king’s mother also had her own retinue, as did the one child Queen Claude had so far produced, a girl named Louise. The princess had been born at Amboise the previous August, only a few days after her father won the great battle at Marignano.

More unsettling than the sheer numbers was the presence of hundreds of men of a military bent. From the Garde Écossaise to the companies of archers, to the gentilhommes de l’hôtel, uniforms and armament were everywhere at the French court. So were the prévôt de l’hôtel and his staff. With his three lieutenants and thirty archers, the prévôt was the one responsible for investigating and punishing crimes committed within a five-mile radius of the king’s person. The gens d’armes who had searched for my mother and arrested my old governess had likely been members of this band. Until I had talked to Guy, I was wary of coming to the attention of the current prévôt.

I had convinced myself that Guy was still alive. In all the months since Ivo Jumelle had told me that one of the duke’s half brothers had been killed at Marignano, I had clung to this belief, but now that I had reached Lyons, doubts niggled at me. Had I come all this way for nothing? Would I end up obliged to spy for King Henry after all?

Access to the royal court proved surprisingly easy. It appeared that anyone who was decently dressed—and I wore my finest clothing for the occasion—was allowed in. When I accosted an archer, he directed me to the rooms the duc de Longueville used to conduct business connected to his post as governor of the province of Dauphiné.

The antechamber reminded me of Guy’s workplace in the Tower of London, even to the smell of the marjoram flowers and woodruff leaves in the rushes. Several gentlemen were assembled there, apparently awaiting the duke’s arrival. Only one displayed any interest in me, and then only after I told the duke’s secretary my name. Such a startled look crossed the fellow’s long, horselike face that I might have pursued the matter had the curtains behind the secretary not been pushed apart at just that moment.

Guy Dunois appeared in the opening. My awareness of everything and everyone else faded away. My world narrowed until it included only one other person. My eyes locked with Guy’s, and I saw in those blue-green depths a reflection of my own longing, my own dreams.

I do not remember leaving the antechamber, but by the time I found my voice, we were in the inner room with the curtains closed behind us.

“I feared you were dead,” I whispered as Guy drew me into his arms. “We heard the duke had lost one of his half brothers.”

“Jacques.”

Before I could tell him I was sorry for his loss, he was kissing me—deep, drugging kisses that left me in no doubt about how he felt. “I’d have come for you,” he whispered, holding me closer. “I’d have found a way to return to England. I’ve been here at court seeking a place in the next embassy.”

“No need now.” I touched my fingertips to his lips, cutting off any further explanations. “I came to you.”

He lowered his head, as if to kiss me again, then stopped. “How? Why?” His voice was hoarse, choked with emotion, but before I could reply, it changed. His next words were accusing: “I heard you ask for the duke.”

“How else was I to find you?” I broke free and backed away, but I knew he had no reason to believe me. We had been separated a long time. He’d had no communication from me. I’d had no way to acknowledge those two brief messages he had sent to me.

Letters singularly lacking in any hint of deeper feelings for me, I reminded myself. I should be the suspicious one. In all the time we had been apart, anything could have happened. He might even have acquired a wife.

I took a deep breath and looked away from him. The chamber was sparsely furnished—a bench, a table, a chair. Papers sat in neat stacks on the tabletop, with quills and ink near at hand for the secretary. I thought of the petitioners waiting just beyond the curtain. Clearly the duke was expected.

“I do not want to see Longueville,” I said.

“You planned to come to him. He promised to establish you at Beaugency.”

“You know the only reason I wanted to visit France back then. I wanted to learn the truth about my mother.”

“Then?” he echoed. “And now?”

“I came to find you.”

A slow, satisfied smile overspread his features. It lasted but a moment before consternation replaced it. “You cannot stay here, not if you truly wish to avoid Longueville.”

“I do.”

“Then come with me.”

I went willingly and a short time later found myself in a tiny cubicle of a room that was clearly Guy’s bedchamber. The only place to sit was on the camp bed.

“I do not know where to begin,” I said. “I have so many questions.”

“I can guess some of them.” Guy produced a bottle of wine and two cups from a chest and poured generous portions, then sat beside me. “You want to know what happened when Longueville and I returned home, and why you were not permitted to accompany the new bride to France.”

“I know why. Or rather, I think I do. I believe King Louis confused me with my mother. She and I shared the same name.”

“Jeanne,” Guy murmured. I liked the way it sounded when he said it. “It is possible. Longueville asked for an explanation, but the king never gave him a satisfactory answer, only some nonsense about his fondness for the Duchess of Longueville. King Louis said it was not meet for the duke to set his English mistress up at court when his wife was already there.”

“Longueville never intended to do so. He meant to establish me at Beaugency.”

Guy shrugged. “And I do not believe that King Louis was particularly concerned about Longueville’s wife or how she would feel about your presence in France. But it is pointless to argue with a king.”

In other words, Longueville had not cared enough to risk the king’s displeasure. I was not surprised. I doubted that the duke had ever thought of me as more than a convenience.

“Have you learned any more about why my mother left France?” I asked abruptly. “There must have been some reason King Louis did not want her to return.”

“Nothing. It was a long time ago. Even though King François has kept many of King Louis’ retainers, few of them were also at court so long ago as King Charles’s reign. I went to Amboise, but no one there could tell me anything about Sylvie Andrée.” At my blank look, he added, “She was the governess the gens d’armes took away.

“Perhaps the prévôt—”

“He is new. He knows nothing of Sylvie Andrée or Jeanne Popyncourt.”

I sighed.

“Will you return to England once you are convinced there is nothing more for you to discover here?”

I set my cup on the floor amid the woodruff-scented rushes and sent a slow smile his way. “That was not my only reason for the journey. I also wanted to know if you…if we—”

He cut short my stumbling effort to ask him if he loved me by pulling me into his arms and kissing me again. His cup fell to the floor, spilling its contents, but neither of us noticed.

“There is so much I have to tell you,” I gasped when he allowed me to come up for air.

“Later.”

We did not speak again for a long time.

Unlike his half brother, Guy was a considerate lover. He made sure of my pleasure before he took his own. And when we were spent and lying naked together in his narrow bed, I felt no shame, no confusion, only wonderment.

“It would be best if no one at court knew you were here,” he said when we finally rose and began to dress. Once again he assumed the role of my tiring maid.

“Do you plan to keep me hidden?”

He did not smile at my teasing. I felt a flash of alarm when I saw a look of concern cloud the clear blue-green of his eyes.

“I will not go back to the duke. You need have no fear of that!”

“It is not the duke alone who would threaten our happiness. This court is a dangerous place for any woman. Have you somewhere to stay in Lyons until I can arrange to leave Longueville’s service?”

“Master di Grimaldo has offered me lodging and I accepted for a night or two, being uncertain what I would find at court. He is a respectable gentleman,” I added as Guy’s eyes narrowed, “and looking forward to returning to his wife and seven children in Genoa.”

Satisfied, Guy spirited me away from court by a series of back ways and escorted me to Master di Grimaldo’s lodgings. Only when we were in sight of the place did he tell me the one thing he had been holding back. “I did discover something odd during my inquiries, Jane.”

“Information about my mother?”

He shook his head. “This matter concerned your father. He owned land between Orléans and Salbris. I was able to visit the region only briefly. I had scarcely arrived when I was ordered away to join the duke’s forces in support of the king’s effort to conquer Milan.”

“Papa owned property in France? Neither he nor Maman ever spoke of it.”

“It is possible your mother did not know. From what I was able to learn, the purchase was made with a business partner only a few months before your father’s death.”

I frowned at that. “I wonder if Papa made a poor investment, spending his fortune on land that could not turn a profit. That might explain why Maman and I were obliged to accept charity from King Henry.”

“We will find out,” Guy promised. “As soon I can make arrangements, I will take you there. We will visit your father’s estate on our way to Amboise.”