Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set
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Authors: Kate Emerson
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Contents
At the King's Pleasure teaser intro
SECRETS OF THE TUDOR COURT
The Pleasure Palace
Pocket Books
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Kathy Lynn Emerson
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department,
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Emerson, Kate.
Secrets of the Tudor court: the pleasure palace / Kate Emerson.—1st
Pocket Books trade pbk. ed.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-8358-5
ISBN-10: 1-4165-8358-0
1. Popincourt, Jane—Fiction. 2. Mistresses—Great Britain—Fiction. 3. Henry VIII, King of England, 1491–1547—Fiction. 4. Great Britain—Kings and rulers—Paramours—Fiction. 5. Great Britain—Court and courtiers—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3555.M414S43 2009
813'.54—dc22 2008030455
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F
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HRISTINA
Contents
A WHO’S WHO OF THE EARLY TUDOR COURT
1
I
was a child of eight in April of the year of our Lord fourteen hundred and ninety-eight. I lived in a pretty, rural town on the south bank of the Loire River, where a fortified château faced with white stone graced the hill above. This castle had been much restored by France’s King Charles VIII, and his court spent a good part of every year in residence there. Both the town and the château were called Amboise.
My mother, Jeanne Popyncourt, for whom I was named, served as a lady-in-waiting to the queen of France. My father, until his death six months earlier, followed the court from place to place, taking lodgings in nearby towns so that Maman could visit us whenever she was not in attendance on Queen Anne. We had a modest house in Amboise and several servants to see to our needs. After Papa died, Maman added a governess to the household to look after me.
I was so often in Amboise that I had become friends with some of the neighborhood children. I spent a great deal of time with one in particular, a boy of my own years named Guy Dunois. Guy taught me how to play card games and climb trees, and he made me laugh by crossing his eyes. They were a bright blue-green and always full of mischief.
Then everything changed when King Charles died. When word of it spread throughout Amboise, people went out into the street just to stare up at the château. Some had tears in their eyes. Madame Andrée, my governess, told me to stay in my bedchamber, but from my window I could see that she and everyone else in the household was outside. Guy and his mother were out there, too. I was just about to disobey Madame’s orders and join them when a cloaked and hooded figure burst into the room. I let out a yelp. Then I recognized my mother.
“We must leave at once on a long journey,” Maman announced.
Surprised by my mother’s disguise, I was nonetheless elated by the prospect of a great adventure, I clapped my hands in delight. I treasured the hours I spent in my mother’s company, the more so since the loss of my father. For the most part, Maman and I could only be together when she did not have duties at court. As she was one of Queen Anne’s favorite ladies, she was rarely free.
“Where are we going? When do we leave? What shall I pack?”
“No questions, Jeanne, I beg you.”
“But I must say farewell to Guy and my other friends, else they will wonder what became of me.”
“There is no time.” She had already stuffed my newest, finest garments into the leather pannier she’d brought. “Don your cloak, and change those shoes for your sturdiest pair of boots.”
When I’d done as she asked, I held out a poppet I treasured, a
cloth baby with yarn for hair and a bright red dress. Maman looked sad, but she shook her head. “There is no room.”
She left behind my comb and brush and my slate and my prayer book, too. With one last look around the chamber to assure that she’d packed everything she thought necessary, she grasped my hand and towed me after her to the stable.
A horse waited there, already saddled and carrying a second bulging pannier. I looked around for a groom, but no one was in sight, nor had Maman hired any guards to escort and protect us.
Many people were leaving Amboise in the wake of the king’s death. “Where are they all going in such a hurry?” I asked as I rode on a pillion behind Maman, clinging tightly to her waist.
“To Blois, to the new king.”
“Is that where we are going?”
“No, my darling. Please be silent, Jeanne.”
She was my mother, and she sounded as if she might be about to cry, so I obeyed her.
Once free of the town, she avoided the main roads. When I’d made journeys with my father in the past, we’d spend our nights in private houses, mostly the country manors belonging to his friends. But Maman chose to take rooms in obscure inns, or lodge in the guest quarters of religious houses. It was not as pleasant a way to travel. The beds were often lumpy and sometimes full of fleas.
Maman said I must not speak to anyone, and she rarely did so herself. We both wore plain wool cloaks with the hoods pulled up to hide our faces. It was almost as if she feared being recognized as a lady of the French court.
Our journey took two months, but at last we reached the Pale of Calais, on the north coast of France. Maman reined in our horse and breathed an audible sigh. “We are on English soil now, Jeanne. This land belongs to King Henry the Seventh of England.” I was
puzzled by her obvious relief at having left our country, but I dared not ask why.
A few days later, we had a rough sail across the treacherous body of water the English called the Narrow Seas, finally arriving in the town of Dover. It was the twelfth day of June, two days after Trinity Sunday, and the English port was in an uproar. The authorities were searching for an escaped prisoner who had been held under light guard at the English king’s palace of Westminster. His name was Perkin Warbeck—and he was a pretender to the throne.
My mother was much troubled by this news. She had met Perkin Warbeck years before when he visited the French court of King Charles. At the time he claimed to be the true king of England and had been seeking help from our king to overthrow England’s Henry VII.
Although I was by nature a curious child, I had little interest in the furious search for Warbeck. I was too caught up in the novel sights and sounds of our trip as we traveled overland to London. Everything was new and different—the language, the clothes, even the crops. We traveled for the better part of three days through the English countryside before we reached the city.
