Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (3 page)

“You have your mother’s eyes,” he said to Maman, speaking in French.

“Thank you, Sire,” she said. “I wish I could remember her more clearly, but I have always been told that she was a most beautiful woman.”

This was the first that I had heard of my grandmother’s beauty. Maman rarely spoke of her parents. I knew only that her mother had died when she was a very young girl and that afterward her father had sent her to the ducal court of Brittany to enter the service of the duke’s daughter, Anne.

“I was sorry to hear of the death of your husband,” the king said.

“Johannes was a good man, Your Grace.”

“A Fleming, was he not?”

“He was. A merchant.”

There was a small, awkward silence. Maman was of gentle birth. She had married beneath her. I knew a little of the story. Maman had wed at fifteen and given birth to me the following January. Then she had returned to the Breton court. The following year, when Duchess Anne married King Charles, she had become part of the new French queen’s entourage. Papa had often shared the houses she found for me near the court, but sometimes he had to go away to attend to business. He imported fine fabrics to clothe courtiers and kings.

“Plague?” the king asked, suggesting a likely cause for my father’s death.

Maman shook her head. “He had purchased a new ship for a trading venture. It proved unseaworthy and sank when he was aboard. He drowned.”

“A great pity. Did he leave you sufficient to live upon?”

Maman’s reply was too low for me to hear. When they continued their conversation in quiet voices, I heard their words only as a gentle whisper in the background.

My gaze wandered around the room. The chamber boasted no tapestries and had no gilded chests or chairs, but it did contain a free-standing steel looking glass. I longed to peer at my own face,
but I did not dare move from where I stood. On a table next to the looking glass, a coffer overflowed with jewels. I also noticed books. I had never seen so many of them in one place before.

The restless movements of King Henry’s fingers, continually twisting the fabric of the narrow silk scarf he wore knotted around his waist, brought my attention back to the king. I strained to hear what he and my mother were saying, but I could only catch a word or two. The king said, “my wife” and then, “my protection.”

King Henry glanced my way and deliberately raised his voice. “It is well that you are here. I give you my word that you will have a place at court as long as you both shall live.” A slow smile overspread his features. For some reason, he seemed mightily pleased that my mother and I had come to England.

“On the morrow,” the king said, addressing me directly, “you will be taken to the royal nursery at Eltham Palace. Henceforth you will be one of the children of honor. Your duties will be both simple and agreeable—you are to engage my two young daughters, the Lady Margaret and the Lady Mary, in daily conversation in French so that they will become fluent in that language. Margaret is only a few weeks older than you are, Jane,” the king added. “Mary is just three.”

“I will do my best to serve them, Your Grace,” I promised.

“I am certain that you will,” he said, and with that the audience was over.

We spent that night in the great palace of Westminster, sharing a bed in a tiny, out-of-the-way chamber. I was certain good fortune had smiled upon us. I believed Maman and I would be together, serving in the same royal household. It was not until the next day, when I was about to board one of the royal barges for the trip downriver, that I learned the truth. Maman could not accompany me to Eltham. King Henry had made arrangements for her to
remain at Westminster Palace. Like Lady Catherine Gordon, she was to be a lady-in-waiting to his wife, Queen Elizabeth of York.

“We will see each other often,” Maman promised as she kissed me farewell. “Queen Elizabeth is said to be devoted to her children. I am told she pays many visits to Eltham and that her sons and daughters regularly come to court.”

I clung to this reassurance as I was sent off on my own, speaking no English and knowing no one. My uncle, who had his own lodgings at court, escorted me to my new home, but he did not tarry. As quickly as he could, he scurried back to Westminster Palace.

A
T THE TIME
I entered royal service at Eltham Palace, the king had four children. Arthur, the Prince of Wales and the heir to the throne, lived elsewhere. He was not quite twelve years old. Shortly before I arrived, King Henry’s second son, also Henry, who was seven and held the title Duke of York, had been given his own household staff within the larger establishment at Eltham. Nurses and governess had been dismissed. Male tutors had taken charge of the young prince’s education.

The two princesses, Margaret and Mary, shared a household staff. They also shared some of Prince Henry’s tutors, so that all the children of honor, boys and girls, came in daily contact with each other. That was why, within a few days of joining their ranks, I was one of a dozen students being taught how to dance the pavane.

“Is all your dress fastened in place?” the Italian dancing master asked.

For my benefit, he repeated the question in French.

Most of the boys in Prince Henry’s entourage had been taught French and spoke it fairly well, if with a peculiar accent. I turned to a
boy named Harry Guildford, who had been assigned as my partner, and whispered, “Why is he so concerned about our clothing?”

Harry Guildford was an affable lad a year my senior. His round face was remarkable for its large nose, the cleft in his chin, and his ready smile. The twinkle in his eyes reminded me of my friend in Amboise, Guy Dunois, except that Harry’s eyes were gray instead of blue-green.

“All manner of clothing can drop onto the floor in the course of a dance, if the movements are too energetic. That is why we must always check our points before we begin.”

By points, he meant the laces that tied sleeves to bodices, breeches to doublets, and various other garments to each other. I could not imagine why anyone would be careless in fastening them in the first place, but I tugged at my sleeves and skirt to make sure all was secure. I had been given a white damask gown with crimson velvet sleeves, as well as gold chains and a circlet—a sort of livery.

“It is particularly vulgar for a lady to drop a glove while dancing,” our tutor continued, “as it causes gentlemen to bestir themselves and run like a flock of starlings to pick it up.”

“Do starlings run?” I whispered to Harry. “I should have thought they flew.”

He thought my remark amusing and translated it for those who did not understand the French language. I had begun to pick up a little English, but I only realized that I’d said something clever when Prince Henry smiled at me.

At seven he was a chubby child with small, blue-gray eyes and bright golden curls. He had a very fair complexion, almost girlish, and he already knew how to be charming. I smiled back.

The dancing master clapped his hands to signal the musicians to play. Then he watched with hawklike intensity as we went through our paces. Most of his attention was on Prince Henry and
Princess Margaret, but as soon as I began to dance backward, he shrieked my name.

“Mademoiselle Jane! It is bad manners for a lady to lift her train with her hands. You must sway in such a way as to shift the train out of the way before you step back.”

Frowning in concentration, I tried to follow his instructions, but there was so much to remember. What if I tripped on my own gown and tumbled to the floor? Everyone would laugh at me.

My heart was in my throat as Harry and I continued to execute the gliding, swaying steps of the pavane. I felt a little more confident after he squeezed my hand and gave me a reassuring smile. Somehow, I managed to finish the dance without calling further attention to myself.

“Merci,”
I said when the music ceased. “I am most grateful for your help.”

Harry executed a courtly bow. “My pleasure, mademoiselle.”

B
Y
A
UGUST, WHEN
I had been at Eltham for some six weeks, I could converse much more easily in English, although I still had trouble with some words. I spent several hours every morning in the nursery, playing with the Lady Mary and speaking with her in French. She was an exceptionally pretty child with blue eyes and delicate features. Slender, she gave promise of being tall when she grew to womanhood. Her hair was golden, with a reddish tinge.

In the afternoons, I attended the Lady Margaret, conversing with her in both French and English. Unlike her little sister, Margaret was dark eyed, with a round face and a thick, sturdy body. Her best features were her fresh complexion and her auburn hair.

Both royal princesses seemed to like me, although the other girls among the children of honor regarded me with suspicion because I did not speak their language. Margaret was sometimes
temperamental and had a tendency to pout, and Mary was prone to tantrums. But I quickly learned how to avoid being the object of their wrath. The other girls resented me for that, too.

I also learned to play the lute and the virginals and to ride. One day we rode as far as another of King Henry’s palaces on the Thames. It was only a few miles from Eltham.

“What is this place?” I asked, looking across an expanse of overgrown gardens to a huge complex of buildings. Scaffolding rose up in several places. Busy workmen swarmed like bees over one tower.

“It is called Pleasance,” the Lady Margaret said.

“Pleasure Palace?”

My innocent mistake in translation produced immoderate laughter, especially from the two oldest children of honor, Ned Neville and Will Compton, and from Goose, Prince Henry’s fool.

“It was named Pleasance because of its pleasing prospect,” Will said, “but there is pleasure to be had within those walls, too, no doubt of that.”

“I was born here,” Prince Henry said. “It is my favorite palace. I wish Father and Mother had not gone on progress. If they had come here, we could visit them.”

“They cannot stay at Pleasance until the renovations are finished,” Margaret said.

Translating this exchange, I frowned. I had not seen my mother since we parted at Westminster on the morning after our meeting with the king. “What does going on progress mean?” I asked, unfamiliar with the English word.

“The entire court moves from manor house to castle to palace, visiting different parts of the realm,” Harry Guildford explained.

“Sometimes they take us with them.” The Lady Margaret sounded wistful.

“Not this year,” Prince Henry said. “And they will not be back at Westminster Palace until the end of October.”

That meant I would not see Maman again for some time. Resigned, I dedicated myself to perfecting my English and mastering music, dance, and horseback riding. In September we all moved to Hatfield House, a palatial brick manor house in Hertfordshire, so that Eltham Palace could be cleaned and aired.

On a crisp, cloudless day a week later, when I had been one of the children of honor for nearly three months, the Lady Margaret and I strolled in the garden while we held our daily conversation.

“I was frightened for my life,” she confided, speaking of her reaction to the great fire at Sheen, another of her father’s palaces, the previous Yuletide. The entire royal family had been in residence at the time. They had been fortunate to escape unhurt.

“Fire is terrifying,” I agreed. “A house burned down in Amboise once when I was living there. Everyone was afraid that the sparks would ignite the entire town. All the men formed a line and passed buckets of water along to douse the flames. My friend Guy helped, too, for all that he was only a very little boy at the time.”

It had been weeks since I had thought of Guy, or any of my other friends in France. A little ripple of guilt flowed over me. Had they forgotten me, as well?

Deep in thought, I rounded a bit of topiary work trimmed to resemble a dragon, one of King Henry’s emblems. A few steps ahead of me, the princess stopped in her tracks. “What man is that?” She squinted at a figure just emerging from a doorway, her vision hampered by the distance.

My eyesight being more acute, I immediately recognized my uncle, Sir Rowland Velville. He strode rapidly toward us along the graveled path.

“Your Grace,” he greeted the Lady Margaret, bowing so low that his nose nearly touched the toe of her shoe. “I beg your leave for a word in private with my niece.”

“You may speak with her, but in our hearing,” Margaret said in an autocratic voice.

My uncle bowed a second time. “As you wish, Your Grace.” He turned to me, still as formal as he had been with the Lady Margaret. “Your mother, my beloved sister, has died, dear Jane.” He showed not a trace of emotion as he delivered his devastating news. “It happened suddenly, while she was on progress with the court.”

Stunned, I gaped at him, at first unable to form words, almost unable to think. The enormity of what he’d said was too much for me to grasp.

As if from a great distance, I heard the Lady Margaret speak. “Of what did she die, Sir Rowland?”

“A fever of some sort. I cannot say for certain. I had gone on to Drayton, in Leicestershire, with the king, while the women remained where they were for a few days longer.”

Fighting a great blackness that threatened to swallow me, I sank down onto a nearby stone bench. I suppose that the sun shone as brightly as ever, but for me its light had dimmed. “No,” I whispered. “No. She cannot be dead. You must be mistaken.”

“I assure you, I am not. I was present when she was buried at Collyweston.”

Tears flowed unchecked down my cheeks, but I scarcely felt them. I was only dimly aware that the Lady Margaret had left us. “No,” I said again.

“The king himself bade me bring this news to you, Jane.” I could hear a slight impatience in his voice. “Why would I lie to you?”

“You…you would not.” I accepted the handkerchief he proffered.

“I brought you this.” He gave me the small, enameled pendant that had been Maman’s favorite piece of jewelry. Like the topiary work, it was in the shape of a dragon. I sobbed harder.