Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (30 page)

I found the queen of France examining the contents of a golden coffer that stood open on a table in her bedchamber. A faint frown marred the perfection of her features. Mary Tudor might be accounted the most beautiful princess in Christendom—long golden hair, lively blue eyes, pale complexion, all flattered by a gown of blue velvet over a kirtle of tawny-colored damask—but just at present she was clearly out of sorts and still a little pale and wan from her reaction to the previous night’s thunderstorm.

“Leave us,” she ordered, dismissing the ladies-in-waiting hovering in the background. They left with ill grace. Sisters, wives, and daughters of noblemen all, they shot baleful glances my way in passing.

I ignored them, pretending to focus on the scattered contents of a small, ornately carved jewel chest. I was still accorded the
courtesy title “keeper of jewels” and from force of habit counted two thick ropes of pearls, four brooches, three rings, and a diamond and ruby carcanet.

Only after the door closed with a solid thunk did I realize that Queen Mary had something to say to me that she wished to keep private. That did not bode well. “Your Grace?”

She heaved a heartfelt sigh, then took both my hands in hers. “There is no easy way to tell you this, Jane. It is hard news for both of us.”

“What is, Your Grace?”

“You have been forbidden to travel with me into France. You must stay behind in England.”

This announcement was so unexpected that at first I could think of nothing to say. I felt as if time had stopped, as if all my senses were wrapped in wool. Only after a long silence did I manage to stammer out a question. “But why, Your Grace?”

“The list of my attendants was sent to King Louis for approval. He crossed through your name.”

Struggling to comprehend the enormity of this setback, and to conceal how badly it rattled me, I asked who else he had rejected.

“Only you, Jane.” She squeezed my hands once and let go.

Bereft of that small comfort, the full impact of her words hit me with the force of a battle-ax. If I could not go to France with the queen, I might never discover the truth about my mother. I would be left behind, adrift and friendless. I would never see Guy again.

“I do not understand,” I whispered.

“Nor do I.” Mary spread her hands wide. “Henry thinks someone must have let slip that you were the duc de Longueville’s mistress while Longueville was in England.”

Although I allowed my outward demeanor to show little of my
reaction, beneath the surface my emotions continued to be chaotic. The numbness that had engulfed me upon first hearing the news had worn off. In rapid succession I felt a rush of helplessness, a wave of frustration, and, finally, the welcome surge of anger. I ruthlessly suppressed any sign of this last. It was all well and good for one of the Tudors to make a display of temper. A lowly waiting gentlewoman did not have that luxury.

I hid my distress as best I could. There was nothing I could do to change what had happened. All Longueville’s fine designs for me, all my plans to investigate my past, had come to naught. And I would never see Guy again. I hastily pushed that thought away, and with it the deep sense of loss thinking it produced.

Taking my exterior calm at face value, the queen offered up what else she knew. “The king of France sounded most particular in his dislike of you, Jane. Has he any reason to mistrust you or your family?”

Surprised by the question, I almost blurted out what Guy had told me about the
gens d’armes
who had come looking for my mother. I caught myself in time. “I can think of none, Your Grace.”

“It is what King Louis
said
when he struck your name off the list that makes me wonder. By one account, his words were these: ‘If the king of England ordered Mistress Popyncourt to be burnt, it would be a good deed.’ And then he claimed that you would be an evil influence on me and said you should not be allowed in my company.”

“Burnt,” I whispered. Everything inside me turned to ice at the word. The king of France did not just want me to stay in England. He wanted me dead.

“A second witness reports that King Louis told Henry’s ambassador this: ‘As you love me, speak of her no more. I would she were
burnt.’ Then the king claimed he acted only out of concern for my welfare and crossed out your name.” Mary gave a disdainful sniff. With complete lack of concern for their value, she began to toss the scattered bits of jewelry back into the open coffer.

The sound of the lid slamming shut echoed in the stone chamber. It resounded in my thoughts, as well, and with a snap almost as loud, a piece of the puzzle fell into place. My name, in French, was the same as my mother’s. Had Maman lived, she would be a woman barely forty, not yet too old to take a man of the duke’s age into her bed. Had King Louis mistaken me for her?

“It appears I have been wedded to a tiresome old prude who meddles in the love affairs of his nobles,” Mary grumbled.

I said nothing. My thoughts were still spinning. Mistress Popyncourt should be burnt? Lust did not lead to execution. The nobility of France were far more likely to honor long-term mistresses with important household posts than banish them.

I would she were burnt.

Burning was not the punishment for harlotry. It was a fate reserved for heretics, for witches, for wives who murdered their husbands…and for servants who killed their masters.

I felt myself blanch. A lady-in-waiting who poisoned her king fit into that last category all too well. I was certain I was right. King Louis had me confused with my mother, and he believed the rumor that she had poisoned King Charles.

I frowned. Louis had benefited from Charles’s death. Why should he drive Maman out of France? Why would he wish to keep her away?

A logical reason was not so very difficult to imagine. He would do both if Maman was a threat to him, if she knew, mayhap, that
he
had poisoned King Charles. Had he tried, all those years ago, to blame her for his crime?

“If I please King Louis sufficiently, perhaps he will allow me to send for you later.” Mary’s expression brightened at the thought.

“I will pray for that outcome, Your Grace, but I think it most unlikely that the king will change his mind.”

Even if he realized that I was not my mother, he would never allow me to set foot in France. He could not take the risk that Maman had confided in me.

12

M
ary Tudor, queen of France, left England without me at four o’clock on a chilly early October morning. During a brief respite from the wind and rain, the English fleet caught the early tide. I watched them sail away, numb from more than the cold. I do not know how long I stood there, but when I turned away, the king was watching me.

Our paths crossed again later that same day. He stopped to glower down at me as I made my obeisance. He spoke in a voice too low for the courtiers hovering nearby to hear. “You disappointed me, Jane. I had hoped you would remain with my sister and send reports back from France.”

“Your Grace?”

When he continued on, I took several steps in pursuit. He stopped, looking back at me over his shoulder. His face was
terrifying easy to read—annoyance, impatience…and the promise of retribution if I angered him further.

“I have no place at court now that your sister is gone, and nowhere else to go.”

Until that moment, he had given no thought to my plight. A speculative light came into his eyes as he looked me up and down. It was the same look I’d seen on his face when he’d first examined some Mantuan horses he’d been sent as a gift.

He was assessing the benefits of
acquiring
me!

In haste, I dropped my gaze. I had only moments to think of a way to divert his attention before he proposed something I did not want to agree to. He always strayed when the queen was great with child…and he always sent his mistresses away as soon as he was allowed back into his wife’s bed. If I was not to go to France, I wanted to
stay
at court. What other home did I have?

Inspiration obliged me. I managed a credible sniffle, then a sob.

The king gaped at me. “Are you crying? Stop it at once.”

Pretending to struggle against my emotions, I spoke in a choked voice. “I cannot help myself, Your Grace. I have served you loyally and well. I sent word to you of everything the duke said. But I…
care
for him. We were to be together in France. He would have treated me with honor.”

Plainly discomfited by the notion, King Henry gave my shoulder a few awkward pats.

“I do not mean to trouble you with this, Your Majesty. You have so many more important things to do. Perhaps I should go to my uncle, my only living relative. Surely he will take me in.”

“To Velville? In Wales?”

“We…we are not close. He has never shown any particular affection toward me. But he is all the kin I have.” I let my voice trail off and tried to look pathetic.

“That will not do.” The king’s smile was magnanimous. “You must stay here. Forthwith, you will enter the queen’s service.”

T
HE COURT WAS
at Eltham Palace throughout October. Catherine of Aragon believed in keeping her attendants busy and I was glad of it. If she resented having me thrust upon her, she did not show it. That made adjusting to my changed circumstances easier, as did Bessie Blount’s friendship. I invited her to share the double lodgings the king had generously allowed me to keep.

In the middle of the month, King Henry received a letter from his sister. She complained bitterly about her new husband. King Louis had dismissed all of her English ladies and menservants except for a few of the youngest maids of honor. In particular Mary lamented the loss of Mother Guildford.

What the king replied to this I do not know. I was not in his confidence. I took heart, however, from the fact that a number of English gentlemen would soon be in a position to see for themselves that their princess was well treated. A great tournament was to be held in Paris to celebrate Queen Mary’s coronation. The Dauphin had issued a challenge to English knights to come and fight. Harry Guildford had already left, leading a detachment of yeomen of the guard. So had Charles Brandon. Of the king’s closest friends, only Will Compton remained in England.

Will had wanted to go. He had been prevented by the sudden onset of pains in his legs, a condition that manifested itself just before the knights were to leave from Dover. He had been unable to walk for a week.

“Some say Compton was bewitched,” Bessie confided in a whisper as we sat side by side in the queen’s presence chamber to work on yet another altar cloth.

“What nonsense,” I replied.

She cast a wary eye on the other ladies in the circle, then lowered her voice even more. “Elizabeth Bryan told me that her sister, Meg Guildford, heard a rumor that the Duke of Suffolk used sorcery to prevent Compton from traveling to France. They are great rivals, as you well know, and equally impressive in a tournament.”

“What nonsense,” I said again. “And how foolish of someone to spread such a story at court.” The talk might cause trouble for Charles Brandon, but as Duke of Suffolk he was a very powerful man. Accusations against him would likely cause even greater difficulty for the person who invented the tale, if he—or she—were ever identified.

My next stitch went askew. My mother must once have been in a similar situation. The accusation that she’d poisoned King Charles might have been difficult to prove, but it would have been even more difficult to refute, especially for someone who possessed neither title nor wealth as protection.

O
N THE LAST
day of October, I returned to my lodgings a little earlier than usual. I had been excused from my duties with the queen in order that I might pack for the next day’s move to Greenwich Palace. We were scheduled to remain there for the remainder of the year. When I entered the outer chamber, I made no particular effort to be silent, but my footfalls made no sound on the rushes. The two people in the inner room remained unaware of my presence. I heard Bessie’s soft laugh and a murmured response that was clearly masculine.

I started to back out as quietly as I had come in, but froze when Bessie’s guest spoke a bit more loudly and I recognized his voice. It was the king. I knew I should leave, and quickly, but surprise held me immobile.

“Say you will come to me when I send for you, sweet Bessie.
Mere kisses are not enough for me any longer. I must have all of you.”

Her reply was too faint for me to make out, but I doubted she was refusing him. I heard a rustle of fabric, then silence.

“Oh, Your Grace,” Bessie cried. “You must not. Not here. Jane could come in at any moment!”

“Jane will not betray us, my little love.”

No, Jane would not, I thought bitterly. Not when Bessie was the only one who had never reviled me for giving myself to a foreign duke. And not when King Henry provided everything I had.

Was this why he had allowed me to stay at court? Did King Henry think Bessie Blount would benefit from having someone older and wiser to guide her in the art of being a great man’s mistress?

Slowly, I backed out of our lodgings and settled myself on a nearby window seat to wait for the king to leave. He did so a few minutes later.

“Bessie?” I called, entering our rooms once again.

“Here.”

I found her on the bed, lying on her back and staring up at the ceiler.

“The king wants you,” I said.

Her pink cheeks flamed rose red. “You saw him leave.”

“I heard you talking just before that.” I climbed up onto the high bed and sat beside her, tucking my legs beneath me.

“What am I to do, Jane? He says he will send Sir William Compton to fetch me. That all I have to do is follow where Compton leads. But, Jane—I do not know how to…what to…I am a
virgin
!” The last word emerged on a wail of distress.

“Do you wish to lie with the king?” I asked.

“Oh, yes!” She sat up, a dreamy look in her eyes and a shy smile tilting up the corners of her rosebud mouth.